Paid and Loving Eyes

dragging him swiftly away. It was that clarinet tune that hit the charts practically in the Dark Ages, something about a carnival.

“Poor Paul.” Almira said. “Poor Cissie.”

“Yes.” Something felt very odd. That night bird whooped.

“Lovejoy.” She stood close, under a night sky fast clearing of scudding cloud. Stars were showing, and a moon they call a night moon where I come from, thin as a rind and reddish-tinged.

“Yes?”

“Cissie… It’s no reason for us to be any different, is it? She’d want us to live exactly as we are.”

“Would she?” Odd, strange, queer, weird.

“Yes.” Very vehement. “There’s very little holiday time left. Just let’s remember that, darling.”

There is something in this relief theory, that the misfortune of others shoots us so full of relieved thank-God- it’s-not-me sensations that we instantly go ape. That night Almira and me really did go over the top, cruelty melding passion and desire in a frenzy so near to madness there was no telling where lust began and delirium ended.

The night seemed to last a week. Which was just as well, because holiday time was over, and fighting time was come.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

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Good heavens! At last!” Almira cried from the terrace after breakfast.

I too expressed pleased surprise, the sort you see in those terrible old 1950s B films where rep-theatre acting glossed all emotions into mannerism. Being a genuine phoney’s easy.

Marc drove Almira’s motor up to the house and alighted with a flourish. He prattled something about having fought the garage to a standstill, demanding Madame’s voiture back immediatement. She was thrilled. I pretended I genuinely thought it had been driven from a nearby town instead of from Marc’s cottage two hundred yards off. Marc retired, proud with achievement.

We beamed assurance across the coffee cups. I played along. I mean we said practically everything. Almira had already wondered sadly how dear Cissie was this morning, and how Paulie was bearing up. What a pity there was no telephone! This odd nagging feeling returned, that I was being led towards a distant but quite safe destination. Everything above board, nothing hidden. Great, eh? Lucrative, with Troude’s assurances that money would flow in.

“Cissie told me about Paulie’s investments in an antiques project, darling,” she finally said, doing her bit. “You promised to help.”

“Mmmmh,” I concurred, doing mine.

She was ravishing, today in lemon yellow. “It’s Philippe Troude’s project, isn’t it?” She gave a half-laugh. “Well, with Monsieur Troude arranging everything, nothing can possibly go wrong. He’s a billionaire, Lovejoy!”

Over those curly bread things Madame Raybaud seemed to think were breakfast Almira seemed excited, under her thin disguise of transitory grief for Cissie. It’d be today. No woman can hide the delight of anticipation. It was there in her eyes, her moist lips, her showy manner. I’ve already told you about fraud. Remember the crop markings? And how that little fraud had become legitimate, even founded a whole new science? The only hassle came when it intruded into Poncho’s fraud, which had itself spawned other new frauds…

And guess what! A message came! A messenger on a Donk-type bike rode up, solemnly handed Almira an envelope, got his chit signed and offed.

“Not bad news I hope, dwoorlink?” I said anxiously as I could on half a grotty bun and a swig.

Almira read the note. “It’s from Paulie, darling. Philippe Troude is here. Can we meet them today, talk over the arrangements. Thank goodness it’s not bad news about Cissie!”

“Thank goodness!” I agreed. How lucky Almira’s motor was back in time, I thought but did not say. But as long as antiques loomed I’d be happy. You can trust antiques, the crossroads of loving, murder, deceit, forgery and corruption.

“Now that we have the motor, dwoorlink,” I suggested, knowing the answer, “have we time to look for an antique shop?”

“What a good idea!” she said brightly, telling herself she thought I’d never ask.

We hit the road. The keys were in the ignition. No concealment of direction, no angst over questions. Lovely chatter, pleasant talk about how she really admired the views, how much land France seemed to have, how much prettier France was than the Low Countries, don’t you think, darling? Which told me I wasn’t ever coming back to Madame Raybaud’s domain, or the shack by the waterside with the hunter in the woods.

Through quite mountainous countryside—though goose-pimples look hilly if you live in East Anglia—Almira drove with ease and accomplishment. Driving on the Continent you have to think hard every inch because they drive there on the wrong side of the road. Nothing wrong in that; it’s just their way. But Almira’s expertise showed she wasn’t new to these cack-handed roads. Nor did she need to inspect the signs, just casually notched them off.

Almira was quite at home here, thank you.

We avoided the big national highways. It seemed to me there’d only to come some sign promising a D, A or N road for Almira to cruise off down some rural snaker. I didn’t mind. Nice to see open air, towns and that. I felt the odd familiarity of a newcomer to France. Maybe it’s the names. Villiers I remember, because there was once a Villiers engine, now highly collectible on old motorbikes. And a river called Anglin, very appropriate unless I’ve got it wrong. We drove forty miles, then stopped for coffee at a tavern. Hills rose in the distance. No, Almira couldn’t tell