by JJ Zep
“History, I could tell you are thing or two about Ringo McCartney that will make your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth, mister. He’s a bad egg, an imp for hire, a scoundrel of the worst sort, you don’t want to know.”
“Well, Pandora’s put him on my case. He’s being following me around, watching my every move, even threatening me.”
“Like I said, a bad sort,” Jitterbug growled. “Tell me, is he still speaking in that fake Liverpool accent, he’s actually from Outer Pongolia you know.”
“Still speaking some mangled form of English anyway, and parading around in a soccer shirt and a yellow and black beanie.”
Jitterbug looked at me as though I’d just punched him in the gut.
“What did you just say?” he lisped.
“I said he speaks some kind of….”
“The middle bit, the middle bit,” he insisted, “the part about what he was wearing.”
“A soccer shirt and a yellow and black beanie.”
“Yellow and black stripes?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“That’s my bobbit!” Jitterbug screeched, in a voice so piercing that the glass of Ricard I was holding, shattered.
seize
“I’ll kill him! I’ll shred his guts like hamster bedding. I’ll use his spine for a pogo-stick, I’ll, I’ll…”
“Jit, you really do need to calm down.”
“Calm down! I’ll calm down when that son of a Tiberian trash merchant is pushing up the dandelions in Deadwood. The cheek of it! My bobbit. Like, oh yes, he went to Mandragora.”
“Mandragora?”
“An impish Ivy League school. That’s not important now, what is important is that Mr. Ringo McCartney’s goose is cooked, he’s toast, he’s…”
“And while you’re reading out the menu, he’s parading around in your bobbit.”
That seemed to get through to Jitterbug and he let out a long breath before saying, in a remarkably calm voice. “You’re right of course, Dexter. I shouldn’t let personal issues cloud my professional judgment.” He took in and released another breath, then suddenly screeched, “That bastard!” and set off on another tirade. This time I let him go. It was pointless trying to talk to him when he was in this mood.
When Jitterbug finally ranted himself out, I sat down with him and we went over what was to be done. “We can use the turnstile,” Jitterbug said. “Head back to 1789, and find those two scheming sleazebags. If Ringo is tracking you he’ll pick you up the minute you’re back in the same time zone. As soon as he shows up I’ll grab him and get my bobbit back. It’s almost too easy.”
“But what about the case? What about Commodus?” I said.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about Commie,” Jitterbug said. “I know exactly where he’ll be.”
“Where’s that?”
“No time now,” he said, then to Chantal, “Mon cher, you think you could give us a ride in that heap of yours?”
“You’re leaving, cherie?”
“Fraid so sugar-shanks, it’s been swell and all, but ol’ Jitterbug has places to go and bobbit-stealing imps to beat the ever-loving crap out of.”
“You’ll come back?”
“No telling, pussycat, but don’t fret, we’ll always have Paris.”
The drive back to Place de la Concorde was the exact opposite to my previous trip with Chantal. This time she piloted the vehicle with the deliberate decorum of a funeral hearse driver, and rather than throwing threats and curses, she confined herself to sighs and snivels. Eventually, we made the turn into the Place de la Concorde. Jitterbug told Chantal to stop the car and while they said their goodbyes, I stared out of the window towards the obelisk, where a man was doing some kind of mime routine.
“Bon voyage, Jit,” Chantal sobbed as we got out of the car. “Je’ taime, cherie.”
“Je’ taime to you too, toots,” Jitterbug said, then to me, “Let’s hustle, Blackwell, before this dame turns on the waterworks again.” He pulled his baseball cap down over his eyes and we quickly crossed the street and headed for the square where the mime act was still in progress.
“Here’s our man now,” Jitterbug said, as we got closer, ”Hey, Commie!”
For a moment I couldn’t understand what Jitterbug was talking about, and then I realized that the ‘mime’ was Claude Duval, and that he wasn’t doing any kind of performance at all, he was trailing his hands through the air, trying to find the turnstile.
dix-sept
“Hey Commie!” Jitterbug shouted, but Duval paid him no mind. Instead he continued his Marcel Marceau impression, patting at the air with his open palms and running his fingers along an imaginary ledge, trying to find a non-existent latch.
“Commie!” Jitterbug yelled again, but Duval ignored him.
“Claude!” I tried, and this time he did look in our direction, and his face formed into a caricature of relief.
“Monsieur Le Comte,” he sobbed, running towards me, “You have come for me. Oh thank you, monsieur, thanks be to God.” He held on to me like a man clinging to a life raft and planted sloppy kisses on both my cheeks.
“Calm down, Duval,” I said. “Calm down, now.”
“We must depart from his place immediately, monsieur,” Duval blurted. “There are angry roaring beasts roaming the streets and I have seen giant birds of iron and other dark magic. Mon dieu, what hell is this?”
“Cut the crap Commie,” Jitterbug said. “We know it’s you.”
“Que?” Duval said. He seemed confused.
“We know it’s you, you Italian ninny, so you can save your Oscar performance for Oprah.”
“I assure you monsieur… “ Duval started and then Jitterbug looked up and Duval saw his face.
“Le Satan!” Duval screamed and made a dash for the obelisk.
“No, you don’t, you Roman relic!” Jitterbug yelled and sprinted after him.
Duval reached the obelisk and rounded it with Jitterbug in close pursuit. “Come back, you pansy,” Jitterbug shouted. He made a grab for Duval, missing by inches.
“Spare me, monsieur!” Duval screamed and rounded the obelisk again.
“Come back here!” Jitterbug yelled.
“Mercy!” Duval shouted back.
Before long a crowd began to form, thinking perhaps that this was some kind of street theatre involving a midget in a devil suit chasing a man in period costume around an ancient Egyptian monument. Soon they were laughing and applauding and shouting out “attention!” and “allez!”
“Aren’t these the fellows that were arrested here earlier for vagrancy?” someone close to me said. “They’re actually quite good.”
“Allez!” the crowd cheered as Jitterbug made another grab for Duval and missed. I could now hear police sirens approaching again, which was not good news. I had a feeling that we wouldn’t get of as lightly the second time around, so I made a sideways turn and located the turnstile.
“Attention!” came the cry as Jitterbug almost snuck up on Duval.
“Au secours!” Duval screamed, as the chase resumed.
The sirens got louder and then stopped. Any minute now the gendarmes would be pushing their way through the crowd. I lifted my fingers to my lips and let out a shrill whistle as Duval rounded the obelisk for the umpteenth time. He looked in my direction and I called him towards me with a hand signal, just as Jitterbug appeared behind him. Duval sprinted towards me, straight into the portal, with Jitterbug in close pursuit. I stepped in after them as the crowd broke into raucous applause.
dix-huit
“Thought you could give me the slip did you, you caesarian crook.”
“Monsieur le Comte, I beg you,” Duval cried. “Dissuade this demon from devouring me.”
“I ain’t gonna eat ya Commie,” Jitterbug said. “I’m just going to bring your shaft-sneaking soul back to hell where it belongs.”
“Jitterbug, could we please focus on the matter at hand, getting off this turnstile in the right year.”<
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“Rats!” Jitterbug said.
“Rats? What do you mean rats?”
“I forgot to count.”
“What do you mean you forgot to count?”
“I forgot to start counting down the years.”
“You did what!”
“A simple mistake,” Jitterbug growled. “It was Commie’s fault actually, he…”
“Never mind that, are you telling me you have no idea where we are?”
“I know where we are,” he said. “I just don’t know when.”
“You impish idiot! What do we do now?”
“Ipso on the attitude there, Dexter. We need to get off this thing right now.”
“But we don’t even know what year we’re in.”
“Fine,” Jitterbug said. “Ride this train all the way back to the big bang if you like. I’m getting off.” He stepped through the wall and disappeared and I grabbed Claude Duval and followed.
It was dark on the other side of the turnstile but I knew immediately where we were. With the giant obelisk looming in front of us, we were quite obviously back in the Place de la Concorde.
“Jitterbug!” I whispered into the darkness. No reply. “Jitterbug,” I hissed, “quit fooling around.” Still there was no answer. If Jitterbug was around he was giving me the silent treatment.
“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry I called you an impish idiot, I admit that was uncalled for. But this is no time for fooling around, so why don’t you just quit sulking and let’s figure a way out of here.”
“Monsieur,” Duval said, pointing to where a light was on in one of the two identical buildings that stood north of the square. A red banner hung across the façade of the building. There was some kind of symbol on it, but it was difficult to make out at this distance.
I weighed up my options. I could continue searching for Jitterbug, but if the imp didn’t want to be found, and it appeared he didn’t, looking for him was pointless. I could step back into the turnstile, but with no idea when to get off, I might end up anywhere from pre-history to Armageddon. And besides, we might be in 1789 right now, for all I knew. The third option, the one that made most sense, was to walk to the building at the end of the square and try to find out what year this was.
I grabbed Duval by the arm and set off in that direction, walking quickly. We’d covered only a short distance when a voice rang out from the darkness.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
“Just a couple of peasants,” I said.
“What are you doing out at this time of night?”
“Err, out for a stroll,” I said.
“A stroll? Don’t you know there’s a curfew in effect? Step forward, and put your hands in the air.”
I did as I was told and saw Duval do the same. In the next moment a spotlight was turned on and a soldier stepped forward with a rifle pointed at us. In the bright light it was impossible to make out his features, but the shape of his helmet was unmistakable.
dix-neuf
“So, the resistance is dressing in period costume these days are they?”
The man questioning us was tall and thin, with slicked back blonde hair and wire-framed glasses that magnified his pale blue eyes. He wore a dark blue, double-breasted suit, with a small swastika pinned to his lapel.
“We were…”
“Silence!” the man shouted. “The question was rhetorical. I’ll tell you when I require an answer. Now, what were you doing out on the streets at this time of night? This question requires an answer.”
I opened my mouth to reply, not sure what I was going to say. Before I could speak, though, Duval cut in. “We were running from the growling beasts monsieur, and the birds of iron. Then a demon appeared and chased me around the monument several times. Monsieur le Comte here saved me by opening a door in the sky, but still the demon pursued us until we arrived here. Alas, I do not know where he is now, but my advice is to hide. He may return at any moment.”
“What!” our interrogator shouted, his voice taking on a hysterical high-pitched tone. “You dare to mock me?” He raised his hand to strike Duval.
“Forgive him, sir,” I said. “He’s just a simple peasant. No all that effective in the reasoning department, if you get my meaning. Sometimes he even thinks he’s the French Dick Turpin.”
“I am the French Dick Turpin,” Duvall said. “Scourge of the Paris-Reims line, blight of…”
“Silence!”
“See what I mean?”
A soldier entered the room, stamped to a halt and saluted. “We’ve searched the square, Herr Schicklgruber. There’s no one else out there.”
“Very well,” Schicklgruber said. “Heil Hitler.”
“Heil Hitler!” the soldier shouted back, then saluted and left the room.
“So,” Schicklgruber said. “Your accomplices have made good their escape, leaving you two to face the music. No matter, I’m sure you’ll be kind enough to provide me with their names and addresses.”
“I can do that,” I said.
“Have you no backbone, man? I haven’t even started torturing you yet.”
“No need for that,” I said. “We’re happy to co-operate. Aren’t we, Claude?
“Oh yes,” Duvall said. “As long as that demon is kept at bay.”
“This man is quite mad,” Schicklgruber said. “I’ll confine my questions to you.”
“No problem, boss. Anything I can do to help.”
“Right, names,” Schicklgruber said. “Who is your leader?”
“That’s an easy one,” I said. “Charles de Gaulle.”
“Is that some kind of a joke? De Gaulle ran to London with his tail between his legs like the mangy French dog he is. We in the Gestapo are not complete idiots you know.”
“Not complete, no,” I agreed.
“So, names. Begin with your own.”
“I’m Jacques Le Noir,” I said.
“Count Le Noir,” Duval added.
Schicklgruber ignored him. “And the name of your regional leader?” he said.
“That would be a feller by the name of Nicolas Sarkozy,” I said.
“Sounds Russian,” Schicklgruber said. “He a communist?”
“Centre-right,” I said, “Certainly not a commie.”
“The demon called me a commie,” Duvall added helpfully.
“And where do we find this Sarkozy?”
“Paris mainly, but he travels a lot.”
“That’s hardly helpful.”
“Sorry.”
“No matter. We are mostly interested in your local leadership. Who’s in charge of your cell?”
“ Gerard Depardieu.”
“And what’s his code name?”
“Code name?”
“Don’t play dumb with me Le Noir, we know that all you resistance people have code names. What’s this Gerard Depardieu’s code name?
“The Nose,” I said.
“Very good. This is useful information. Who is Depardieu’s second in command?”
“Brigitte Bardot, code name Ooh La La.”
“A woman?”
“Most definitely,” I said.
“And these people, where will we find them?”
“Here and there,” I said. “They move around a lot.”
“Can you be more specific?” Schicklgruber sneered.
“They’ve been known to hang out at the cinema.”
“They meet there?”
“They’ve been known to appear there, yes.”
“Thank you Herr Le Noir,” Schicklgruber said. “You’ve been most helpful. My only regret is that is that you have not given me the opportunity to employ some of the persuasion techniques in the new Gestapo handbook. Still, no matter, we execute you at dawn.”
vingt
After our session with Schicklgruber, we were marched down to the basement of the building where we were placed under guard. The basement was as secure as any medieval dungeon, with no windows and a stout oak door. Not that escape would
have done us any good, where were we going to go in Nazi-occupied Paris?
Our only way out was the turnstile, but without Jitterbug that was just too dangerous. And I had no idea where Jitterbug was, although I had a sneaky suspicion that he was in 1789 tracking Ringo and his beloved bobbit.
So we were for the firing squad at dawn, then. I knew, of course, that I would survive the bullets but I wasn’t so sure about Claude. Jitterbug was convinced that Claude was Commodus, but I had serious doubts about that. In fact, I was certain that Claude Duval was exactly who he appeared to be, a bumbling French peasant with dreams of being a highwayman.
I slept little that night, partly because of my concerns regarding our predicament and partly because Duval’s snoring was as thunderous as a RAF bombing raid.
In the morning we were taken upstairs where Schicklgruber was waiting. He wore an ankle length leather coat today, to go with his double-breasted suit. “Herr Le Noir,” he said. “I trust you have had a pleasant evening?”
“Comme-ci comme-ça,” I said. “The accommodations were adequate, if a tad dusty.”
“You French,” Schicklgruber said. “Always whining. You’ll be complaining about the caliber of bullets the firing squad uses next.”
We were marched towards the Place de la Concord by a squad of soldiers and brought to a halt on the north side of the obelisk. Up ahead I could see the fountain at the far end of the square, with the Eiffel Tower rising behind it. I hadn’t paid particular attention to the fountain before, but it really was quite spectacular, with its huge basin and six sea gods spouting water. Today, however, there was a seventh mythological creature at its center. Jitterbug stood at the highest point, his normally red skin taking on the blue green hue of the ironworks.
We were told to about face and the soldiers now retreated some twenty paces and stood facing us with their rifles at rest. The squad commander approached us with a couple of handkerchiefs in his hand.
“You require a blindfold?” he asked.
“Not me,” I said, “Perhaps my companion. Although I do have one request.”