Chapter Seventeen
We had a late lunch
aboard the Breton Belle, more a snack
than a full meal. Williamson rustled it up, straight out of a tin can, and it
tasted like it was better left in there. Surprisingly, I don’t think he
noticed.
In
different circumstances I would have bought some fresh local food, taken some
time over its preparation, savoured the eating of it, lingered over a good
French wine. Then I would have finished up with cognac and coffee: fresh ground
coffee and not the instant muck Williamson seemed to prefer. But I sensed that
there was something important to be learned from Cherie Dubois’ aunt and uncle,
something more important than good food. So I endured the tinned sausages,
baked beans and instant coffee.
“Had
enough, old boy?” Williamson asked. He was first to finish his snack and even
gave the impression he quite enjoyed it.
“More
than enough. Where did this stuff come from?”
“Found
it in the fridge in the kitchen.” He meant the ice box in the galley but I
didn’t argue.
“Leave
it there next time. Are you any good at real cooking?”
“Passable,
old chap. Why? What’s wrong with this?”
“If
you don’t know, it doesn’t matter.”
He
coughed, a small apologetic cough and smiled nervously. “Back at home the memsahib used to tackle all the kitchen
chores.”
“Good
for her. Double her pay when you get home.”
“She’s
no longer with us, old chap.” He raised his eyes upwards. “Gone to the great
kitchen in the sky, don’t you know. Miss her terribly at times.”
“I’m
sorry.” For a full minute I was at a loss for words, recalling disturbing
images of Penny. Then I asked him, “Do you work alone?”
“Pretty
much.” He twirled his moustache thoughtfully. “Had a partner once but we didn’t
exactly hit it off. Now I employ a woman to mind the office.”
“A
secretary?”
His
face lit up, the result of some sort of obtuse but pertinent happy thought.
“Yes, well, something like that. Pretty little slip of a thing, she is, but I
can’t afford to pay her too much.”
“So
she works more for love than money?”
“Depends
on how you look at it, old chap. She’s widowed, don’t you see, and she needs
the job.” He lowered his voice. “And the company.”
“Oh.”
I didn’t catch on immediately. Then the penny dropped, as the English say. “You
can’t afford to pay her much, so she works for love and money.”
“Yes… quite.
Dashed good of her to agree to the arrangement.” He drooled and a gob of
spittle stuck to his moustache. “Mrs Applebloom—that’s her name—she appreciates my fringe benefits.
Dashed cold feet though.”
“How
awkward.” I decided it would be prudent not to pursue the matter, but
Williamson was clearly less inhibited.
“Yes,”
he went on. “I used to take her with me on trips abroad, but the finances just won’t
stretch to it nowadays. Tax officials, you see. They’re dashed unsporting about
things like that. Time was, you could take your secretary with you and call her
your wife. Now they’ve changed the tax laws and it’s cheaper to take your wife
and call her your secretary.”
“How
interesting,” I said, although I saw no immediate application that would suit
my own circumstances. “And did you ever take Mrs Williamson with you on these
trips? As your secretary, I mean?”
“The memsahib? Good heavens, no, old boy.”
His eyebrows arched. “What are you thinking of?”
“Tax
deductions?”
“No
point in taking her. She couldn’t type at all, poor soul.”
“How
about warm feet at night?”
“No.”
He shook his head sadly. “Cold as Mrs Applebloom’s.”
“Oh.”
We
left the dirty dishes on the table and hurried out to collect Cherie. By now
I’d almost got over that ‘maybe I should just pack up and go home’ feeling. Not
that it ever really suited me anyway. I was too keen to find out just what
happened to Viola Bracewell, and who the hell did it. But there was still that
little niggly inclination in some deeper recess of my mind which said it would
be great to be back home in my own apartment, relaxing with a drink in my hand.
Feet up, television on, throat wet, mind dull.
One
thing I had discovered in the past few days was that although the English are,
generally speaking, much of a paradox to any right-thinking American, they’re
totally transparent compared with the French. To start with, a Frenchman
doesn’t so much talk to you as try to make love to you with words: words few
Americans are able to properly pronounce and which demand to be acted rather
than spoken. That’s the worry I had in mind as I set out with Williamson to
collect Cherie before meeting her aunt. Was there any real chance we would be
able to communicate with them? I’d learned that Williamson had more French
under his belt than me, but even he admitted to being at a loss when the words
came out thick and fast. Which they most often did in country areas like this.
Cherie
was waiting for us, now dressed in a very short white skirt and a revealing
cotton blouse which was tied loosely beneath her pendulous breasts. She was
sitting on the Playful Petunia’s front
cabin roof, one leg raised and bent at the knee. Her boyfriend was lounging in
the stateroom, nursing a glass of cognac and smoking one of those dreadful
French cigarettes. He didn’t seem at all concerned that his girlfriend was
making off with two older men.
Smiling
wickedly, Cherie jumped to her feet and led us the few hundred yards to the
apartment where her aunt and uncle lived.
“Your
own boat?” I asked as we walked away from the moorings. I nodded back towards
the Playful Petunia.
“Non. It belongs to my uncle, but he lets
me use it. He does not mind if I bring my friends to stay on the boat.” She
winked at me again and I was left wondering what hidden meaning it conveyed.
There were no illusions in my mind that she might possibly view me as a
potential sexual conquest. But I could have been wrong.
“Why
does it have an English name?”
“It
was an English boat. My uncle bought it from M’sieur Hassim. He had several boats, you know. This one came to
France from the River Thames, my uncle told me. It’s only a river boat, you
see, not like the Breton Belle.”
I
frowned. “Really? When did your uncle buy it?”
“A few
months ago.”
“I
see.” Things were beginning to make some sense. Hassim had been aware of his
impending financial collapse before anyone else cottoned on. He’d been
disposing of assets before they could be taken from him.
“Do
all the local people moor their boats here?”
A
slight shrug. “I do not live here,
M’sieur. But I imagine so.”
“You’ve
been here before, though?”
“Oui. I have stayed at the apartment of
my aunt and uncle many times. And I have stayed on the Playful Petunia several times. Also, I have seen your boat here
before. Does it not also belong also to M’sieur
Hassim?”
“Yes,
I does. We’re taking it down river for a friend of his.”
She
puckered up her cute little nose. “It is strange then that you have not met
him. I saw the boat once when he was bringing it up here to la Gacilly with
some of his friends. It was last summer, I think.”
“You
saw who was on board?”
“M’sieur Hassim, he was on board. I did
not know him then, but my aunt told me it was him. She was with me at the time.
I did not know the other people with him.”
“Could
there have been a young girl with him? About your age.”
“Oui.” She slipped her arm through mine
as we walked and I felt that old tingle begin to return. “There was a girl on
the boat. But I cannot remember much about her. It was so long ago.”
Cherie’s
face seemed to be perpetually lost behind that glowing smile. I slipped a
glance across to Williamson and saw what can best be described as a look of
extreme lust. There was simply no mistaking it and it told me the old fool was
human after all!
We
entered an old stone building which housed several small shops at street level.
It was typical of a number of buildings in the town. Cherie led us up two
flights to a landing off which were two apartments. It didn’t look too
luxurious from the outside, considering her uncle owned such an expensive
cruiser. The name tag on the aunt and uncle’s apartment told me their name was
Baudelot.
Cherie
rang the bell.
Uncle
Baudelot answered the door. He looked about fifty going on ninety. Fat in all
directions with a shiny bald head and tiny piggy eyes that peered from out of a
red bloated face. He was wearing worn denims which might have looked at home on
a cardboard city drop-out, but not on him. And this man owned the Playful Petunia? He probably had money
stuffed away in a mattress, I decided, and saw the boat as a safer investment
than a bank account.
Cherie
introduced us to her uncle in thick French running on full afterburner. When
Uncle Baudelot replied, it was at more at the pace of a leaking airship but
equally indecipherable. And it was acted as much as spoken.
Cherie
treated us to another helping of her smile and announced, “They are both at
home and will talk to you. Please, go inside.”
The
room was just as I expected it to be. Well decorated, carefully furnished and
lit by bright sunlight coming through big windows. Aunt Baudelot was sitting by
open French windows which led out onto a sunny balcony. She was just as old as Uncle,
dressed all in grey. Like Madame Defarge, she was endlessly knitting. But for
the knitting, she could have been a double for Whistler’s mother.
Again,
there were voluble introductions from Cherie while Uncle Baudelot went to a
sideboard and fetched a bottle of brandy and some glasses. He seemed keen to
talk to us. It was a pity he had no English. Aunt Baudelot, on the other hand,
could converse with us haltingly and she brightened up immeasurably when she
got going.
We
accepted the drinks from Uncle, took seats either side of Aunt Baudelot and
then Williamson got down to business. “We understand, Madame, that you have met Mr Hassim. From the Chateau.”
“Oui. I have met him.” She spoke with a
tiny, squeaky voice. It could have been a voice-over for a French Minnie Mouse.
“Most people here have seen him, but I have actually spoken to him. I used to
take perfume to his chateau for his wife before she died. Poor lady, she was
not well for many years, you know. Monsieur
Hassim bought perfume for her but he did not treat her well. The servants told
me that.”
It was
a start, a good start. I jumped in at that point. “We’re interested in knowing
more about Mr Hassim and we’d appreciate anything you can tell us.”
“You
are police?”
“Good
heavens, no. Far from it. Newspaper reporters.”
She
gave me a suspicious look and I hoped she didn’t know the difference between a
reporter and an outright liar.
I let
Williamson take up the threads again. “When was the last time you saw Mr
Hassim, Madame?”
“Not
long ago. He was at the factory buying perfume for a girl. The young girl who
was at the Chateau with him.”
“Young
girl? How young.”
“Nineteen.
Maybe eighteen. I cannot be sure.”
“What
was her name, Madame?”
She
screwed up her face. “I am not so good with remembering these days. I cannot be
sure…”
I
couldn’t contain myself. I asked, “Viola. Was she called Viola?”
“Non. It was a French name. Ah, I have
it. She was called Brigitte.”
I felt
Williamson jerk upright. “How long ago was this, Madame?” he asked.
“Not
long. A few weeks. Three or four maybe.”
“Why
was he buying her perfume?”
The
old lady winked. “It is amour, Monsieur. It does not have to
die in the older men. It can linger, waiting to be rekindled. The girl had
brought him comfort, you see. Since his wife died, poor woman.”
I
nodded. “So Mr Hassim had a young lady friend called Brigitte to comfort him?” There was no mistaking
what we both meant by comfort.
“Ah, Monsieur, you understand. Many people do
not. You have French blood in you, non?”
“No, Madame. But I do understand. Have you
seen Brigitte often?”
“But
of course. She has been Monsieur
Hassim’s companion for a while now. Since Madame
Hassim died. She once worked for him at the Chateau, you know.”
“Yes, Madame. I know.”
We
talked on for another half hour and then we were treated to coffee, the thick
gooey type which they serve in tiny cups. Rather like sludge in a thimble. When
I saw that there was nothing more to be learned, I diplomatically wound up the
visit and edged towards the door. Both Aunt and Uncle Baudelot followed us,
beaming as they waved us off the premises. They probably had visions of their
interview appearing in Paris Match.
It seemed a shame to fool them.
“Bon sejour a la Gacilly.” Aunt Baudelot
waved to us and remained at her door until we went out of sight down the
stairs.
Cherie
hung back to talk to her aunt and uncle.
We
went a few steps from the building, blinking in the bright sunshine, before I
spoke. “Seems like Hassim has been cheating on Viola. Stringing her along while
taking his sexual pleasure with Brigitte L’Orly. Lord Bracewell was right.”
“We
can’t be sure of that, old boy. He could have been with Brigitte for quite
innocent reasons.”
“Possibly.”
But I doubted it. Strongly doubted it. “Anyhow, it’s time we found out.”
We cut
short our speculations at that point when Cherie came running after us. She
fell in step beside me, again and slipped her arm in mine. “Did they tell you
enough?”
“Yes,
they did. Thank you for introducing us.”
“They
like you. Will you send them a copy of your story?”
“Of
course.” I coughed to hide my embarrassment and then turned to Williamson. “How
about we go up to the chateau tonight?”
Before
he could reply, Cherie cut in. “M’sieur
Hassim will not be at his chateau now. At least, I do not think so.”
“How’s
that?”
“I saw
him drive away this morning. They say in the town that he goes to St. Malo
often these days and does not get home until late.”
I
looked at Williamson. We both knew why.
“Thanks,
Cherie. In that case we’ll wait until the morning.” I undid her arm from mine
as we approached the boats at the pontoon. There was no knowing what sort of
person her boyfriend was, except that he was horny.
That
evening Williamson and I sat in a bar off the main street sampling the local
ale and discussing where we stood with Viola Bracewell’s murder. Apart from
that, they served better food than Williamson could rustle up. By the time we
got back to the boat it was late and we’d both downed a skinful. The Playful Petunia was in darkness but we
could hear the moans and gasps of pleasure coming from inside. Cherie’s
boyfriend was at it again and she was playing along with an appearance of
conviction.
The
next morning was just hot as ever. We collected the rental car and drove up to
the chateau with the aim of confronting Hassim on his own ground. It didn’t
take long to find the place: a big stretch of landscaped estate spread out
alongside a narrow country lane. The chateau wasn’t visible from the road, but
we knew we’d come to the right address. The main gates were closed against us,
so I parked the car nearby and we made our way inside through a small wrought
iron side gate.
Our
feet had barely touched the sacred soil of Hassim’s estate when a huge figure
stepped out of the bushes alongside the drive and planted himself firmly in our
path. I recognized him straight away. It was the elephant-size man who’d
insisted on searching the Breton Belle
when it was moored alongside the canal. All two hundred or more pounds of him,
complete with his dark blue sunglasses.
“Ha!
You are… the Anglais!”
“American,”
I replied. “I told you that once before, big boy.”
“Huh?
What… do you… want here?”
He had
recognized me straight away. That was probably why he broke immediately into
English. Unfortunately, English wasn’t exactly his strong suite.
“We
came to see Mr Hassim,” I said as calmly as I could manage. It seemed like a
good opener.
Big
Boy had other ideas. “You… go now.
Monsieur Hassim is… not here.”
“Oh,
come on, buddy. Just let us go on up to the house. Eh?”
He
advanced closer and I immediately dispelled ideas of any argument. Williamson
must have got the same idea because we backed off together. Big Boy kept
advancing until we were on opposite sides of the gate and then he just stood
staring at us. Belligerently, like he could make just one meal of both of us.
“Well,
that visit certainly didn’t last long,” I observed.
“Do
you believe him, old boy? That Hassim isn’t here.”
“Could
be. We know he’s been hopping off to St. Malo quite frequently.”
“Bit
of bad luck, what?”
“Yes.”
There
seemed to be no alternative, so we continued to back away. Big Boy watched us
closely as we made our way to the car. Probably didn’t trust us, and wisely so.
“What
now, old boy?”
I
scratched my chin. I hadn’t planned any clear strategy beyond getting past the
gate. “No point in wasting the use of the rental car, Charlie.” I got back
inside and reached for a road map. A sudden idea saved some small part of my
self respect. “We’ll drive to the L’Orly’s farm and have another chat with
Brigitte. There’s still a lot we can learn about her relationship with Hassim.”
Williamson
grimaced. “I get the impression, old chap, that you might have had more than a
nodding acquaintance with Brigitte yourself. Did she get the better of you on
that trip down river?”
“Better
or worse. She sure got something out of me.” I grinned straight back at him.
“Don’t get jealous on me, Charlie. I can’t help the odd spot of weakness.”
Once
I’d worked out the route, it didn’t take us long to motor back to the L’Orly
farm. As we came closer, I said, “You know, I get this strange feeling that
Viola may have stopped here at the farm deliberately. That time on the boat
when we moored close to the farm, she came up here. Could be, she had some real
reason other than fresh supplies.”
“You
think she went to the farm especially to see the L’Orlys?”
“Yeah.
Quite possible. She said she went to get some milk, but it could have been for
another reason. I have this inkling it probably was.”
“To
see Madame L’Orly. Or to see Brigitte?”
“Dunno.”
“And
why?”
“Dunno
that either. But I aim to find out.”
We were
getting close to the farm about then. That was the point when mama L’Orly’s car
passed us going fast in the other direction. We both ducked our heads, a bit
late as it happened, but it seemed a fair bet that she didn’t spot us. We
noticed a whole load of kids in the back seat and the chances were that she was
tied up with them.
Once
the car had gone past, Williamson raised himself in his seat. “Did you see
Brigitte in the car?”
“Nope.
Let’s hope she’s at home. At least we won’t have to deal with Mama L’Orly.”
“You
know what Madame L’Orly is like?” he asked with a wry look.
“I had
a brief encounter. It was enough.”
I
parked the car close to the farm and we went in along the front drive. There
was no answer to our knock on the door, so we made our way on round to the back
garden. That’s when we spotted Brigitte in the swimming pool, holding the baby
and splashing it in the water. The baby was squealing with delight. Both of
them were quite naked, but that was nothing unusual for Brigitte. She seemed to
spend more time out of her clothes than in them. No wonder old Hassim found her
so alluring.
There
was another, younger, girl also swimming in the pool. She was some yards off
swimming leisurely on her back with her eyes staring into the sky. I was pretty
certain she was a sister.
I
looked back to where Brigitte was cooing gently at the baby. There was no
denying that I felt more than a touch cheated by the certainty that the girl
had been sharing the bed of a wizened old fool who had been two-timing Viola
Bracewell. Had Brigitte seduced him the same way she had seduced me?
Williamson
filled his mouth with air and blew it out in one long, echoing sound. We both
stood watching the scene in the pool, both of us deeply affected by what we
saw. Major Charles Williamson, being an officer and a gentleman, was even more
taken aback than me. It seemed like adult women were one thing to the major,
but he still had a sense of morality towards youngsters like Brigitte. And here
were confronted by two young naked girls. Not the sort of thing an English
gentleman would normally expect to have to deal with. He began to hold back.
“Hang
it all, old chap,” he whispered, “Did you ever see the like?”
“Yes.
And I’m sure you did too in your army career.”
“Not
in this sort of circumstance. Not with kids that age, either. I did a spell in
India. We had a private swimming pool and there were one or two… well… anyway I
never ever saw the memsahib unwrapped
as far as that. Not outdoors.”
“How
long were you married, Charlie?”
“Twenty
eight years.” He said it with an air of pride. “Would have been longer except
that the poor soul died five years ago. Just as well she isn’t here to see
this. Wouldn’t stand for it, you know.”
“Well,
you just stand back and keep your hands in your pockets. Leave all the talking
to me.”
“Glad
to leave everything to you, old chap,” he said. And he obviously meant it.
As we
came closer, Brigitte turned to face us. She gave a short gasp of surprise, but
she made no attempt to cover her nudity. Her sister was a touch more
circumspect. She swam to the side and pulled a towel about herself as she
climbed out. She padded off towards the house leaving a trail of water behind
her.
“Hello
Brigitte.” I took a few steps closer to the pool.
“What
do you want with me?”
“Just
a few words.” I tried my best to sound cool. “That’s a fine healthy baby you
have. What’s his name?”
She
wrapped her arms tightly around the baby. “This is Pierre.”
I
smiled at her and then went to the edge of the pool where I knelt down to be
closer to her. “Your own baby, Brigitte?”
She
looked at the child and silently kissed its head. Then she compressed her lips
and nodded. “Oui. Pierre is my baby.
But it is none of your business. And you will not take him from me.”
I
tried to maintain as calm a manner as possible. I didn’t want to spook her. “We
don’t aim to. Just tell me, who is his father?”
“I do
not have to tell you that.”
“Jacques
Hassim, maybe?” I raised my brows questioningly. “Or perhaps it was Jacques’s
father, Ali Hassim?”
Brigitte
lowered her eyes and made no reply. I knew then I was spot on target. Ali
Hassim was the father of baby Pierre.
“Why
don’t you get out of the pool so that we can talk to you, Brigitte? We promise
we won’t try to take the baby from you. We only need to talk and find out what
Mr Hassim is doing.”
“It is
none of your business.” She sounded reluctant but, all the same, she set the
baby on the poolside and clambered out from the water. Then she clasped the
child once more to her chest. It was a protective mother act, and it looked quite
genuine.
The
water glistened on her body, bright in the warm sunshine. Even though he was
some yards away, Williamson took a step backwards, caught off guard by
Brigitte’s total lack of modesty.
“Why
did Viola come to speak to you?” I had to get down to details, I decided,
before I also succumbed to her physical charms.
“When?”
she asked.
“Don’t
play games with me, Brigitte.” There had been enough gentle lead-in, it was
time to start getting a shade rough. “The evening we moored the boat near your
farm, Viola came to see you. Why?”
“She
wanted milk.”
“Now,
just you stop playing games with me. What was the real reason she came here?
Was it something to do with money? A lot of money?”
There
was a short period of silence when Brigitte seemed to mentally wander off into
her own world. Then the child gurgled in her arms and that brought her back to
reality. She nodded. “She had a lot of money. She told me so.”
“And
you wanted to get your hands on it?”
“Non! Not me.” She snorted angrily. “It
was mama’s idea.”
“Mama
wanted the money?”
“Why
not? It was not rightly Viola Bracewell’s money. Besides, she was offering it
to me.”
“Viola?
Offering it to you?”
“Oui. She wanted my baby. She would give
me the money if I would let her adopt my baby.”
Adopt
the baby! What the hell…!
“Brigitte!”
The younger girl, now fully dressed, came trotting out from the house. She
called to her sister again and broke into a torrent of French. I cursed out
loud and took a few steps back. Damn! This really was putting all my bright ideas
out of phase.
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