Davenport!”
“Yes, Monsieur,” to the cop. Except now I looked at him he began to look less and less like a bobby. “This is the man.”
“Of course I am
Waistcoat had not risen when La Fabien entered. I don’t like blokes this motionless. Blokes normally shuffle about, hitch, shift feet. We don’t stay frozen to spots, unless we’ve malice in mind.
“Lovejoy. You warned Miss Fabien against ramraiders.”
“Against who?” I asked, a puzzled innocent.
“You advised Miss Fabien to move her antiques, even into a pantechnicon.” The word came out stilted. “Why?”
“Ramraiders?” I wrinkled my brow, theatrically. Clear the brow and into, “You have them in France? Good heavens!”
“Very well.” This man didn’t waste time on prattlers or phoney excuses. He let me off his hook too easily. “To the English, crime is an amusing commodity. To the Germans a philosophical proposition. To the Americans a job.” I didn’t know whether I was to laugh or not, so did. “Monsieur. You ordered a large number of antiques for shipment from many antique dealers. Most spoke of your excellent choice. Payment was in cash, by two assistants. Could you please identify them for us?”
“Guy and Veronique Solon,” I said pleasantly enough and quickly. “I was hired by them. Met them in a motorway restaurant when hitchhiking through your lovely country.”
“How did that happen?”
“Oh,” I said, smiling apology at Claire Fabien, taking so long, soon clear up this misunderstanding, “we got talking antiques. Don’t exactly recall how. They were international buyers. I stopped off with them at one or two places, window-shopping. They admired what little skill I have. I agreed to do a bit of purchasing on their behalf.”
“Why France, Monsieur?” A pause to avoid smiling. “I believe like your poet, that it’s curiosity, not devotion, makes pilgrims.”
“Eh? You mean me? Just trying to find new sources of supply. I’d run into a shortage of stock. You know how it is.” His shrug made an elbow-room of silence. 1 said to Claire, “Did you get ramraided then?”
She glanced at Waistcoat. “It was very terrible. They drove cars in the shop and stole. They ruined many antiques.”
“Kell do madge,” I tried politely, shaking my head. If she’d windowed the ones I’d ignored, the world had only lost a few poor-quality fakes. I looked at her with interest. “You claimed on the insurance, Miss Fabien?”
Suddenly a little pinker than before. “Of course,” she said stiffly. So she was pulling the insurance scam. Had to, of course—or admit that her display was muchly fakes.
Was it that give-away that decided Waistcoat? He rose, thanked me profusely, and shook my hand. Deadest mitt I’d ever touched among the living. I began to wonder if I’d landed in the French equivalent of our Fraud mob. I had the sense not to ask.
“Your intentions, Monsieur?”
“Oh, I was just about to look round the Louvre des Antiquaires, Monsieur. I’ve heard of the
“Please do not believe all you read in the guidebooks, Monsieur. Though I am sure you require no assistance.”
“Thank you for your advice, Monsieur…?” I’d see this sod again, I felt uncomfortably.
“Pascal, Monsieur.” He didn’t smile. “Easy to remember, eh?”
“May I walk you to your emporium, Miss Fabien?” I asked, gallantry itself.
She recoiled, no, no. Well, win some, lose some. And that was how I came to be sitting alone in the cold wind of the little square where me and Lysette and one other had met up and talked over what we were going to do. And where I’d made the decision, shutting out the truth and causing a friend to be… well, made unable to continue living.
The coffee didn’t seem as good. I realized I’d ordered breakfast, this hour. I had it, then wanted soup and some other grub. The waitress was encouraged, brought a menu. I asked for more. She was pleased, said I could dine inside if I wanted. I realized I was the only one sitting in the square, everybody inside looking out. It must be perishing. A light dusting of snow was on the table. How long had I been there?
“It is too cold out here for your lady,” she said. A bonny lass, wanting humanity’s loose ends tidying up.
“No, ta,” I said. “I like fresh air.” I couldn’t take Lysette, not at this stage. Not even if she would give me a lift to the rotating mansion of Marimee’s syndicate where the great share-out would occur and I’d have something positive to do.
The waitress relaid the table and went in, disgruntled. She would have to brave the cool gale that fanned this glade with my next course. Cool gale? Some fragment of school poetry? What poet, Monsieur Pascal? She came across the square towards me. Overcoat now, I noticed, and different from a few minutes ago. I was shivering, but managed to stop it as she pulled the chair opposite me and arranged herself as they do.
“You will catch your death of cold, Lovejoy,” she said sternly.
“You’ll have had your tea.” The old Scotch joke I told you once: Edinburgh folk say hello like that, too mingy to offer any. Friendly Glaswegians give you tea without asking.
“Wrong city, Lovejoy.”
“Where’s the boyo?” I gave her, Welsh accent. “Sure to be near, eh,
