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  He saw a sign ‘L’Auberge du Moulin.’ It was too good to pass by.

  Chapter Nine – MARANS

  The Simca stood in wind-blown isolation on the Quai des Fusiliers Marins. Duncan leant on a time-worn bollard, watching an old lady in black, her head bent against the Atlantic wind, trudging, a Gaz cylinder behind her. She scarcely noticed the Englishman as she plodded homewards.

  The small corner café by the bridge looked promising and he entered to a blast of warm, Gitane-filled air. Heads bobbed in all directions to look at the foreigner as he ordered a cup of coffee in only passable French. He took a seat by two men who were enjoying a mid-afternoon glass of wine.

  As he waited for his coffee, he tried to eavesdrop but they spoke too quickly and with a strong accent. They were typical Bretons: heavy pullovers, denims and boots; parched, stubbled cheeks and watery blue eyes. The café was busy with people having something better to do than work. The inevitable football table was in use but the T.V. screen stared down blankly.

  There was a lull in the conversation at the next table. He eased his way into their afternoon by commenting in halting French on the view from the bridge. This led to a partly understood description of the town. The men had been fishermen but now ran a stall in Les Halles. They had given up the sea because of the French Government, who were regarded as Parisien bastards.

  Gently Duncan steered the conversation. “There’s a bit of a traffic problem,” he commented. The two men understood his French and looked at each other, signifying that they’d said the same thing themselves. Yes, it was the main road from Bordeaux to Nantes—some lorries even went right through to England.

  “Do any locals deliver to England?”

  “Jean Louis Bechaud,” one of the men said after a pause.

  “Oh yes!” Duncan commented. “Would I have seen one of his lorries near Vannes in Brittany? A red Volvo, with a white Trailer.” It was a shot in the dark.

  “Probably. That would be the quickest route from here to Roscoff, to the Plymouth ferry.”

  “I’ll order drinks and we’ll toast the Common Market,” Duncan promised. He was delighted. He had been worried that he might lose the lorry, when tailing it through Nantes but now he knew that the most likely route was the one which he had selected from the map.

  “Marans seems a funny place to run an international business,” Duncan laughed.

  “Yes, apparently the Company moved here from La Rochelle to cut down the driving time to the Channel. I don’t know why,” the man shrugged. It was a small point but could be interesting. Duncan thought that he knew why. After a little inconsequential chatter and a couple of toasts, Duncan waved his farewell. He decided to inspect the hauliers’ premises. They were unremarkable. Three lorries stood in the forecourt and to the rear was a large shed with its door closed. To the side was an expensive modern house, typical of the region, with a tile-hung roof and eyebrow windows. The yard overlooked an endless expanse of marshes. They were bleak, uninviting but ideal cover for a bit of spying tomorrow.

  He asked himself how he could find out if Bouchin would be driving the lorry. It was a problem which had to be resolved quickly. He knew the lorry was booked on the ferry. It was the identity of the driver which was important. It was a depressing problem but Marans in January had never warmed a cheering thought in living memory. He put his foot down and headed for La Rochelle. He hoped it was as good as its reputation.

  Chapter Ten – LA ROCHELLE

  Duncan’s Simca weaved through the traffic on the dual-carriageway. Industrial zones sprawled on each side of him. But when he got there the old town was magnificent—its harbour entrance guarded by a pair of distinctive towers. But the throng of traffic around the harbour prevented any leisurely enjoyment. A Citroën threatened to remove the Simca’s bonnet as the driver changed lanes without indicating. “Cochon!” Duncan shouted after him.

  At the Hotel du Commerce, a young maid showed him to a room full of clumsy furniture. The generously-proportioned bed looked wistfully at the Englishman. Or perhaps it was the other way round. Either way it was a cruel reminder to Duncan of something which was lacking.

  Alone, he swung open the windows. The grey shutters had long ago abandoned hope of being painted. You could just see the harbour but it meant defying gravity to do so. These rooms with sea views! Immediately he was back at the night in Hastings with Mrs Goodhart. He wondered what she was doing. Her bubble was going to burst horribly soon. But what the Hell! He hopped into a bath, humming the theme from Maigret. And then? A little bit of “je ne sais quoi”, he told himself. He was feeling lucky. La Rochelle was that sort of place!

  *

  The curving waterfront was lined with eye-catching restaurants and shops, which reflected La Mode for all things English. Duncan hurried past them, seeking out the traditional streets of the old town. And there he saw them! In abundance! A window full of caps and berets. He tried on the entire selection but none suited him. The most extraordinary was a huge tweed cap with earmuffs. Ideal for duck-shooting, he told himself. It was so absurd that he bought it. The choice of beret was easier. Outside the shop, to the startled amazement of an elderly lady, he doffed the absurd cap at her, before bursting into a verse of “Singing in the Rain” as he leapt nimbly across the cobbles. It was going to be a good evening! The cap and beret were ideal disguise for changing character as he followed the lorry to the Channel. The bravado wore off outside the restaurant and he tucked the cap in his pocket. The restaurant in Place Chaine was nearly full as he took his seat. Almost at once the Patron approached, with small, mincing steps. Behind him was an elegantly tall, slightly slim girl in her mid-twenties. Her round face was ringed by jet black hair, styled similarly to Mireille Matthieu. She was alone and was directed to the next table. As she studied the menu Duncan watched her. Complete self-assurance. She showed impeccable style as she questioned the waiter and made her selection. She was undoubtedly attractive. The hint of melancholy disappeared whenever she smiled. Her voice was gentle as she spoke with calm deliberation, which made it easy for Duncan to understand. Her chic told of a Paris upbringing or wealth—probably both.

  Her neck bore a small, red scarf, knotted at one side and she wore a black jumper which, while not tight in an obvious way, nevertheless, emphasised the mounds of her breasts. He could just see the calf-length skirt and suède boots to complete the image.

  With concern he found he was thinking more about her than about the delicate flavours of the meal, to which he had been looking forward. He poured more Chablis, hoping its coolness would bring order to his thoughts. It was absurd, he decided. This was a business trip. Don’t get distracted chatting up a French girl, he advised himself. Rubbish! Rotten advice! It was that boring old solicitor speaking again! Cut loose. Throw away your corset, he told himself. This is La Rochelle—not Hastings.

  The decision taken, he enjoyed the rest of his meal. He tried to catch her eye as he lit his new pipe. Soon it would be a good smoke and, even now, it saw off the pong of cheap French fags. It was as he ordered a cognac that he met the full powers of that smile for the first time. She’d avoided his gaze throughout the meal. He asked her to join him. She nodded assent. She’d enjoyed watching him watching her.

  “Qu’est ce que vous prenez, Mademoiselle?” Duncan asked as she sat down.

  “A Remy Martin,” she replied “and black coffee.” She laughed at the amazed look on Duncan’s face as she spoke English. Duncan ordered the drinks as they introduced themselves. Her name was Hélène. She worked for Fine Art dealers in Paris and had trained in London and New York. She’d concentrated on her English, for London was still accepted as the capital of the Fine Arts world. Her broken English accent made Duncan want to howl at the moon.

  “And why La Rochelle in January?”

  “I’m checking on some antiques which are coming to Paris soon. I must decide which items have international appeal.”

  “Like you, perhaps?” Duncan smiled at her. She lowered
her eyes. She was about to comment but changed her mind.

  “Are you working?”

  “Yes,” Duncan replied.

  “Let me guess what you are.” The waiter put cognacs and coffee in front of them. She made an exaggerated show of looking him up and down. “I think, peut-être, you are in the wine business, a buyer perhaps. Looking at the Muscadet cellars this morning, perhaps checking the pruning of the vines and now on your way to Bordeaux.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Oh, oh; you have the Establishment look. Isn’t that the word you use? Yes. I think it is,” she answered herself. “The pipe; expensive clothes; well turned out; obviously enjoying your meal. Oh yes; I was watching you. You picked your way through the wine list like a cat on a mantelpiece.” That smile again. “Was I right?”

  “I wish you were. Nothing so glamorous. I’m just a solicitor with a shiny bottomed suit, polished elbows and as lively as a fish’s eye.” He tapped out the ash from his new pipe. No pleasure from it yet. The roof of his mouth felt like an Arbroath Smokie.

  “Mais non!” She spread her arms in mock horror.

  “But it’s true, believe it or not.”

  “And you have a shiny bottom, yes?”

  “It has been known. Shines like a ship’s bell!”

  “And so, if I believe you, why are you in La Rochelle . . ?”

  “Work! Never worked so hard in all my life. Research for a court case.”

  “Murder?”

  “Wrong again.” He threw confidentiality to the wind and told her briefly about Goodhart’s claim.

  “And La Rochelle?” Her head tilted like a sparrow.

  “I’m watching, asking and listening. Finding out about this driver and his employers. He came from Marans just up the road.” He looked at his watch. It was not yet ten o’clock. “Do you know the town well? It seems early to call it a day.”

  “There’s a club at my hotel,” Hélène replied.

  “Let’s try it.” Duncan was enthusiastic. “Would you come with me?”

  “Bien sûr.”

  As they headed for the Rue Gambetta in her Peugeot, Hélène said “My hotel’s expensive. I’m very spoiled. I notice it when I’m at home. Cooking for one is tedious.” Duncan noted the remark. An unasked question had been answered. “And you? Are you a gourmet back home?”

  “I can’t deny it,” Duncan laughed. “My shoulders give me away.”

  “Your shoulders?” She pouted in the darkness.

  “They’re as square as a Michelin Guide.” They laughed.

  “And you cook for one too?”

  “Yes. Divorced and never remarried.”

  “Why?” The bluntness was disarming. Duncan thought about it. It was not a question which he cared to answer and he’d never been asked it before. But he knew the reason. The scars of the past had made him selfish for the future.

  “Aging solicitors don’t get many offers,” he bantered.

  “I see what you mean,” she replied, all matter of fact. “But don’t despair, some people prefer old men. Your chance may still come. Voila!” The car stopped abruptly outside her hotel.

  They were given a table close to the dimly-lit dance floor, on which perhaps a dozen smartly-dressed couples were smooching to a group, playing in the style of Oscar Petersen. Hélène studied her companion. She had joked about his age but she thought that he was probably about thirty-two, rugged, extrovert, twice the size of most Frenchmen, with thick, dark hair, slightly unruly. Quite long, too, for a professional man. It hid his ears and part of his forehead. The eyes and mouth seemed anxious to burst into smiles and laughter at the slightest excuse.

  “Shall we dance while the drinks are brought?” he asked. Her head reached just above his shoulder. There she rested it immediately against his neck, whilst their arms encircled each other. They shuffled around the floor till the music stopped. The drinks had arrived.

  “Here’s to a successful trip,” she said.

  “And to you too,” he replied. “Santé.”

  “It’s rare to find a stuffed-sheet solicitor in La Rochelle.”

  “Stuffed-shirt,” Duncan corrected her laughingly. Then he was serious. “My big worry is to make sure that I follow the right lorry. I must find out whether Bouchin is driving on Thursday. I don’t know him from Adam, you see.” They fell silent.

  It was Hélène who spoke. “Can I help? I could telephone the company on a pretext?” she suggested. Alistair Duncan agreed at once. Hélène could do what he could not do, without causing suspicion.

  “It’s too late to ring tonight. I’ll phone first thing in the morning and then ring you at your hotel.” She clasped her hands together, her face alight with excitement. “I can hardly wait. So much more exciting than antiques!”

  The dance floor was less crowded now but the room was still busy with close-headed couples, dimly seen amidst a haze of smoke. In the shadows of their own niche, Duncan reached across and placed his hand gently on hers. He held it there while they talked inconsequentially until the band finished. Hélène disappeared to the cloakroom. What now? he asked himself. What would she be thinking? A quick “goodnight” at the top of the stairs or something more exciting? He decided to tread softly.

  “I’ll drop you off at your hotel,” she said on her return.

  “Far too late for that. I’ll take a taxi.”

  “No. We’ll go by car.” She was insistent. They drove past the quay. The two towers could just be seen silhouetted against three thousand miles of Atlantic and sky. La Rochelle was at its best. A lone Alsatian wandered thoughtfully from bollard to bollard.

  “Shall we stop for a moment?” Hélène asked. Duncan agreed. The parking lots were empty. There was barely a soul about. She pulled up by the chains at the harbour wall. The smell of tar, of salty ropes and of the sea wafted through the window. She shivered slightly and Duncan protectively put his arm round her shoulders, drawing her close to him, until her cheek was next to his. And then, almost at once, their lips met, side by side at first, until Duncan turned to meet her full face and they were locked together in warmth and affection. Then they parted. Not a word was spoken. She sprawled across him, nuzzling into the massively reassuring security of his powerful frame.

  “I don’t suppose we shall ever see each other again.” He looked down and saw her eyes open and the lashes flutter. “Ships that pass in the night. Our paths won’t cross again.”

  She sat up. “C’est absurde. If you want to see me again, then our ships will collide. Tomorrow, if it were possible, but it isn’t. I must get back to Paris as soon as I have made this phone call.”

  “Let’s make it London, shall we?” Duncan whispered and was rewarded with a sigh.

  “Soon. Very soon, I hope.”

  Outside Duncan’s hotel she kissed him lightly. “I’ll ring you in the morning.”

  The solicitor sprinted the three flights of stairs regardless of the other guests. Perhaps he could manage one more season in the Firsts. His ego was sky high. But La Rochelle gets you that way.

  Chapter Eleven – STOKE MANDEVILLE—JANUARY

  Some five hundred miles away Roger Goodhart was having breakfast in his wheelchair. Mornings were always bad. It was the waking up and finding that it was not all a bad dream.

  For the rest of the day he would be thinking of two things only; what Alice was doing and how Alistair Duncan was getting on with the claim. He knew that the slender thread of his marriage would part unless he got heavy compensation. But there would always be the children. He’d be seeing them on Saturday. Alice had said nothing. It was what she didn’t say which told everything. He finished the last of his toast. If his marriage broke up he wouldn’t be alone. There were plenty around him facing the same problem. ‘In Sickness and in Health’ wears a bit thin with a wheelchair.

  Chapter Twelve – LA ROCHELLE—JANUARY

  “Yes!” said Hélène. “I spoke to a mechanic. Bouchin was out.”

  “What did yo
u say?”

  “Was Pierre likely to be in Marans on Friday. No? Oh, what a pity! I’m a friend . . . an old friend of his. Perhaps in the evening? No? Oh, he’ll be in England, will he? Quelle dommage! He leaves on Thursday, does he? I see. No, I’m afraid I can’t reach Marans by Thursday. My name? Now that would be telling! Just surprise dear old Pierre. Tell him the Black Cat telephoned!”

  Duncan laughed. “You’ve done marvellously. That’s the missing link.”

  “And now, I must dash. Don’t lose my address, will you?”

  “Never. Au revoir, chèrie.”

  Chapter Thirteen – MARANS—JANUARY

  In his room at the Beau Rivage Hotel, he ripped off his frozen, wet clothes and flopped into the bed, numb with cold, failure and faigue. He’d spent the afternoon on the salt flats with binoculars trained on the lorry depôt. He’d learnt nothing. He was out of humour. He decided to ring the office. But it proved to be a mistake.

  “Marilyn! Is Lucy in? No? McKay, then. Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Is that you, Mr Duncan?” McKay was defensive.

  “It’s not Giscard d’Estaing. Everything alright?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Mr O’Brien’s case was shunted into the Cardiff list at short notice. I briefed Harry Loxborough but forgot to tell Mr O’Brien that he had to attend. It was rather silly of me,” he finished lamely.

  “Silly! It was bloody daft! You’re not paid to be silly. Silliness ended when you stopped ragging in the dorm. It stopped when you threw away your boater! It stopped after your last visit to the tuckshop, old bean! So what happened?”

  “Mr Justice Proster was outraged, Silly, really.” McKay kicked himself for using that word again. “Made it a major issue. Said it was all your fault for leaving me in charge.” Duncan felt it was hard to disagree.