| General Fiction posted October 31, 2018 | Chapters: |
...21 22 -23- 24... 
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Chapter 23: At Helen's apartment
A chapter in the book The French Letter
A Lightbulb Moment
by tfawcus
| Background Now that Helen and Madame Durand have been rescued by Charles, they set off together to pick up Helen's journal before going into hiding. |
Continued from Chapter 22
"It sounds as though that journal of yours could be an important document, Helen. Where is it now?"
"I have it hidden in the apartment, Charles. It's quite safe."
Although they had now both moved to the next room, I could hear Jeanne saying, "I hope so - because it contains material that the Mafia would go to any lengths to suppress. If it ever fell into their hands..."
"It won't. You can be certain of that."
"I hope you're right, but to be sure, we should go by way of your apartment and pick it up."
Chapter 23
Jeanne didn't take long to pack a few things. However, I saw that she walked with a slight limp, and noticed her wince with pain as she bent to open a drawer.
Helen sprang to her feet. "Here, let me help you with that."
It occurred to me that it was less than a week since she had been knocked down leaving the café. The squeal of brakes and the dull thud flashed through my mind, as did her apparent lifelessness, and the awkward angle of her limbs as she lay on the pavement. She might easily still be suffering the after-effects of concussion, and I wondered how much of a liability she would be if we needed to move quickly.
Glancing at the wall clock, I realised we had already wasted too much time. "I'll go out ahead of you, and get the car."
The first thing I set eyes on as I left the building was the Mafiosi's old Citroen, still parked opposite. I was wishing I had time to let down its other two tyres when I spotted an apple lying in the gutter. A single small bite on one side suggested that some ragamuffin had surreptitiously discarded it when his mother wasn't looking. Not all children share their parents' enthusiasm for healthy eating.
I picked it up and rammed as much of it as I could into the Citroen's exhaust pipe. That may buy us a little extra time, I thought. Smiling to myself, I imagined how thrilled the lad would be, if he knew how he'd helped to foil the bad guys. His mother, perhaps, less so.
My two passengers were already out on the pavement when I drew up at the entrance. Helen yanked the door open. "What kept you, Batman?"
"Robin and I have been busy foiling the opposition."
"He has these delusions, Jeanne. Seems to think he's some kind of superhero. You'll get used to it."
She took Jeanne's small case, and leaned over to put it on the back seat, then squeezed in after it, giving a good impression of the last sardine being squashed into a can. "Weren't there any cars with four doors in Gotham City this morning, for my beloved Caped Crusader?"
I felt it was time I scored a point in this one-sided game. "Sorry, Catwoman. You, of all people, should know Batmobiles only have two."
As soon as Jeanne was aboard, I gunned the engine and surged away down the street with a squeal of tortured rubber. "Let's go, team. The Joker is after us!"
Jeanne maintained a look of sangfroid throughout this inane exchange, and gave what can only be described as a Gallic shrug. "I do not understand your English humour. Perhaps you underestimate the danger we're in."
I changed gear, slowing down for the intersection. "Helen isn't actually English, but never mind."
"In point of fact, I am half-English, Charles. My father was English."
Jeanne glanced at Helen in the rear-view mirror. "That is not the half of your parentage that interests Monsieur Bellini and his apes, my dear."
"I do wish you'd stop calling Helen 'my dear' - it sounds so patronising."
Jeanne stiffened slightly. "I thought you would have had more manners, Monsieur Brandon, than to insult me with a remark like that."
"Je m'excuse, Madame Durand. Je m'excuse." My heavy-handed repetition was not lost on her.
The rest of the journey took place in frosty silence. I spent the time continuing to wonder why Mme Durand had paid Helen's airfare to Paris, and then put her up indefinitely in a rent-free apartment. My experience of the publishing industry suggested that magazine publishers were not that generous - especially with unknown writers, no matter how good they might be. Jeanne Durand did not strike me as an exception to the general rule.
I parked, as I had done before, in the side street next to Café Gabrielle.
"You stay here and keep a lookout, Monsieur, while I go up to the apartment with Helen."
"Au contraire, Madame. You stay here, while I go with Helen."
"I think Charles is right, Jeanne. We'll be quicker. There are two flights of stairs to be negotiated, and your leg is not yet healed."
I have often heard the expression, 'she looked daggers'. However, this was the first time I'd experienced it so sharply, face-to-face. 'If looks could kill' was another cliché that sprang to my mind. Before she could say anything more, I took Helen's hand and dragged her across the road, dodging through the traffic as best we could.
Glancing back as we reached the door of her apartment, I saw Mme Durand at one of the outside tables. She was placing her order with the same young waiter who had served me. Somehow, I doubted she'd be tipping him as generously as I had done.
When we reached the apartment, I put my ear to the door. Rather pointless really. I have no idea what I expected to hear. Helen pushed me to one side, slipped her key into the lock, and walked in.
I followed her, and saw a maelstrom of papers and clothes on the floor. "Oh, Jesus! It looks as though a tornado's been through."
"How rude, Charles. I know I can be a bit untidy at times, but I don't usually leave the place like this - except on the odd occasions when I'm being abducted."
I scratched my ear thoughtfully, ignoring her retort. "Now that is strange. Why didn't I think of it before?"
"Think of what, Sherlock? Please let me in on your lightbulb moment, so I can record it for posterity."
"Well, if Monsieur Bellini and his mobsters really wanted your journal, wouldn't this morning have been the ideal time for them to get hold of it? I mean to say, they had you here at their mercy, and could have forced you to reveal its whereabouts before carting you off to the Durand place on Rue Paul whatever-his-name-was."
I thought Helen looked impressed, but wasn't sure.
"Did it ever occur to you that it might be your friend, Jeanne, who is eager to get her hands on it again? Perhaps, when you showed it to her, she saw something that she didn't want made public. Something that might incriminate her. After all, what could a diary of yours possibly contain that would be of interest to the Mafia?"
"I think you may be right, Charles. Perhaps it would be best if you took charge of the journal for the time being."
I nodded thoughtfully, strolled across to the window, and looked out. There was no longer any sign of Madame Durand across the street.
I beckoned to Helen. "Come over here. It looks as though Poison Ivy has done a bunk."
"It sounds as though that journal of yours could be an important document, Helen. Where is it now?"
"I have it hidden in the apartment, Charles. It's quite safe."
Although they had now both moved to the next room, I could hear Jeanne saying, "I hope so - because it contains material that the Mafia would go to any lengths to suppress. If it ever fell into their hands..."
"It won't. You can be certain of that."
"I hope you're right, but to be sure, we should go by way of your apartment and pick it up."
Chapter 23
Jeanne didn't take long to pack a few things. However, I saw that she walked with a slight limp, and noticed her wince with pain as she bent to open a drawer.
Helen sprang to her feet. "Here, let me help you with that."
It occurred to me that it was less than a week since she had been knocked down leaving the café. The squeal of brakes and the dull thud flashed through my mind, as did her apparent lifelessness, and the awkward angle of her limbs as she lay on the pavement. She might easily still be suffering the after-effects of concussion, and I wondered how much of a liability she would be if we needed to move quickly.
Glancing at the wall clock, I realised we had already wasted too much time. "I'll go out ahead of you, and get the car."
The first thing I set eyes on as I left the building was the Mafiosi's old Citroen, still parked opposite. I was wishing I had time to let down its other two tyres when I spotted an apple lying in the gutter. A single small bite on one side suggested that some ragamuffin had surreptitiously discarded it when his mother wasn't looking. Not all children share their parents' enthusiasm for healthy eating.
I picked it up and rammed as much of it as I could into the Citroen's exhaust pipe. That may buy us a little extra time, I thought. Smiling to myself, I imagined how thrilled the lad would be, if he knew how he'd helped to foil the bad guys. His mother, perhaps, less so.
My two passengers were already out on the pavement when I drew up at the entrance. Helen yanked the door open. "What kept you, Batman?"
"Robin and I have been busy foiling the opposition."
"He has these delusions, Jeanne. Seems to think he's some kind of superhero. You'll get used to it."
She took Jeanne's small case, and leaned over to put it on the back seat, then squeezed in after it, giving a good impression of the last sardine being squashed into a can. "Weren't there any cars with four doors in Gotham City this morning, for my beloved Caped Crusader?"
I felt it was time I scored a point in this one-sided game. "Sorry, Catwoman. You, of all people, should know Batmobiles only have two."
As soon as Jeanne was aboard, I gunned the engine and surged away down the street with a squeal of tortured rubber. "Let's go, team. The Joker is after us!"
Jeanne maintained a look of sangfroid throughout this inane exchange, and gave what can only be described as a Gallic shrug. "I do not understand your English humour. Perhaps you underestimate the danger we're in."
I changed gear, slowing down for the intersection. "Helen isn't actually English, but never mind."
"In point of fact, I am half-English, Charles. My father was English."
Jeanne glanced at Helen in the rear-view mirror. "That is not the half of your parentage that interests Monsieur Bellini and his apes, my dear."
"I do wish you'd stop calling Helen 'my dear' - it sounds so patronising."
Jeanne stiffened slightly. "I thought you would have had more manners, Monsieur Brandon, than to insult me with a remark like that."
"Je m'excuse, Madame Durand. Je m'excuse." My heavy-handed repetition was not lost on her.
The rest of the journey took place in frosty silence. I spent the time continuing to wonder why Mme Durand had paid Helen's airfare to Paris, and then put her up indefinitely in a rent-free apartment. My experience of the publishing industry suggested that magazine publishers were not that generous - especially with unknown writers, no matter how good they might be. Jeanne Durand did not strike me as an exception to the general rule.
I parked, as I had done before, in the side street next to Café Gabrielle.
"You stay here and keep a lookout, Monsieur, while I go up to the apartment with Helen."
"Au contraire, Madame. You stay here, while I go with Helen."
"I think Charles is right, Jeanne. We'll be quicker. There are two flights of stairs to be negotiated, and your leg is not yet healed."
I have often heard the expression, 'she looked daggers'. However, this was the first time I'd experienced it so sharply, face-to-face. 'If looks could kill' was another cliché that sprang to my mind. Before she could say anything more, I took Helen's hand and dragged her across the road, dodging through the traffic as best we could.
Glancing back as we reached the door of her apartment, I saw Mme Durand at one of the outside tables. She was placing her order with the same young waiter who had served me. Somehow, I doubted she'd be tipping him as generously as I had done.
When we reached the apartment, I put my ear to the door. Rather pointless really. I have no idea what I expected to hear. Helen pushed me to one side, slipped her key into the lock, and walked in.
I followed her, and saw a maelstrom of papers and clothes on the floor. "Oh, Jesus! It looks as though a tornado's been through."
"How rude, Charles. I know I can be a bit untidy at times, but I don't usually leave the place like this - except on the odd occasions when I'm being abducted."
I scratched my ear thoughtfully, ignoring her retort. "Now that is strange. Why didn't I think of it before?"
"Think of what, Sherlock? Please let me in on your lightbulb moment, so I can record it for posterity."
"Well, if Monsieur Bellini and his mobsters really wanted your journal, wouldn't this morning have been the ideal time for them to get hold of it? I mean to say, they had you here at their mercy, and could have forced you to reveal its whereabouts before carting you off to the Durand place on Rue Paul whatever-his-name-was."
I thought Helen looked impressed, but wasn't sure.
"Did it ever occur to you that it might be your friend, Jeanne, who is eager to get her hands on it again? Perhaps, when you showed it to her, she saw something that she didn't want made public. Something that might incriminate her. After all, what could a diary of yours possibly contain that would be of interest to the Mafia?"
"I think you may be right, Charles. Perhaps it would be best if you took charge of the journal for the time being."
I nodded thoughtfully, strolled across to the window, and looked out. There was no longer any sign of Madame Durand across the street.
I beckoned to Helen. "Come over here. It looks as though Poison Ivy has done a bunk."
 Recognized |
|
For those of you who weren't brought up on DC Comics, Batman (alias The Caped Crusader) is the archetypal superhero, who kept crime off the streets of Gotham City. Robin was his sidekick. Catwoman was introduced in later episodes as his girlfriend (possibly to scotch the growing rumour that Batman and Robin were in a homosexual relationship). The Joker was his nemesis, and Poison Ivy was also a force that he had to reckon with.
Perhaps Helen should have refrained from mixing her metaphors by adding the reference to Sherlock Holmes, who was a hero of a different ilk. Possibly, having been brought up in the Hindu Kush, she knew no better. Sad, really.
List of characters:
Charles Brandon: The narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Helen Culverson: A woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, who seems to be becoming Charles's girlfriend.
Kayla Culverson: Her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok.
Madame Jeanne Durand: A French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with the Mafia in some way.
Monsieur Bellini - a Mafia boss.
Dr. Laurent: A veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix, vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre: An old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Francoise Gaudin: An intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles.
Alain Gaudin: brother of Francoise.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased]: mother of Francoise and Alain
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased]: Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Perhaps Helen should have refrained from mixing her metaphors by adding the reference to Sherlock Holmes, who was a hero of a different ilk. Possibly, having been brought up in the Hindu Kush, she knew no better. Sad, really.
List of characters:
Charles Brandon: The narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Helen Culverson: A woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, who seems to be becoming Charles's girlfriend.
Kayla Culverson: Her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok.
Madame Jeanne Durand: A French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with the Mafia in some way.
Monsieur Bellini - a Mafia boss.
Dr. Laurent: A veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix, vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre: An old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Francoise Gaudin: An intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles.
Alain Gaudin: brother of Francoise.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased]: mother of Francoise and Alain
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased]: Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
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