by Mike Ripley
Their ad-lib performance had its run cut short rather smartly by their driver when he turned in his seat to assure his passengers, in perfect English, that the staff of the Hôtel de Paris were very understanding, and that lots of important men took their mistresses there. This was France, after all, a country where mistresses were appreciated. Perdita was later, much later, to say that after that, auditions held no fear for her. The rest of their journey into Monte Carlo, though, was conducted in silence.
Monsieur Bouilleau snapped his fingers and a waiter, seemingly poised and ready for the starting gun, shimmered across the Terrace bearing a tray of tall flutes of Kir Royale.
‘I insist you join me in an aperitif before you join me for dinner, Madame et M’sieur Campion.’
‘I would certainly enjoy a drink, but I do not think I am suitably dressed for dinner,’ Perdita said graciously.
‘Pah!’ breathed M. Bouilleau in the way only a Frenchman can. ‘We are very informal here in the hotel and you would be perfectly lovely however you dressed. That particular ensemble is très chic for the Riviera – perhaps a little more St Tropez than Monte Carlo this season, but no one here – absolutely no one – would be rude enough to point that out. Already three of my staff have decided you are a famous Hollywood star holidaying under an assumed name …’
‘Her name is perfectly legal,’ said Rupert rather coldly.
M. Bouilleau turned and appraised him for the first time.
‘I meant nothing untoward,’ said the Frenchman with a polite bow. ‘We often have movie stars staying here under assumed names. Yours is not only a legal name, it is a very honourable one and one which I will not have abused in my hotel; I owe your father much more than I can repay in one lifetime.’
‘Is that why we were able to obtain reservations at such short notice – and why you sent a car to the airport for us?’ asked Rupert, his tone warming.
‘I am neither embarrassed nor ashamed to say that this hotel, as long as I am in charge, will provide preferential treatment for honoured guests. If that offends any democratic or socialist principles you may have, then I will apologise, but it will not change things. You are my guests and I mean that literally; you will not be required to pay for anything at all whilst you are here on the Cote d’Azur.’
‘I assure you, M’sieur,’ said Perdita huskily, patting the Frenchman on the back of his hand, ‘we have absolutely no political or moral principles worth offending.’
‘You must forgive my wife, Monsieur Bouilleau,’ said Rupert in his version of French which, whilst better than Perdita’s, would not have outshone a third form schoolboy, ‘but we are not seeking charity.’
‘There is nothing to forgive, my young Campion,’ the hotelier replied in perfect English, ‘and charity does not enter into it when a debt of honour is being repaid.’
‘A debt of honour?’
‘Quite so, and I am not being overly dramatic, though I suspect you think that, being French, I must be. I learned my English during the war in England to which I escaped as a very young man in order to fight alongside Général de Gaulle.’ M. Bouilleau placed his right hand briefly over his heart. ‘It is difficult to believe that he is no longer our President and perhaps it is not a popular thing to admit one still admires him, but I do. So too, I think, did your father, for on many occasions his war work was done in alliance with the Free French forces and the Resistance operating within Occupied France.’
‘My father rarely talks of his wartime activities.’
‘He was asked not to. There are … reasons … and your father would have given his word and I respect that. All I can say is that your father extended the hand of friendship and the shield of protection to a foolish French boy who would have got himself killed five times over had it not been for having an angel on his shoulder. I can never repay that debt in kind, but I beg you, do not refuse the little I can do for my guardian angel’s son – and, of course, for his charming and beautiful wife.’
‘It would be churlish to refuse,’ Perdita smiled sweetly and this time her hand patted M. Bouilleau’s knee, a gesture he seemed all too comfortable with.
Rupert, determined not to show that he was far from comfortable, took a long swig of his Kir and asked: ‘So my father has been in touch with you?’
‘But of course; by telephone and telex. Indeed, he asked that I make our telex machine available to you, which of course I agreed to do.’
‘Why should we need a telex?’ asked Rupert, then to his wife: ‘Do you know how to send a telex?’
Perdita sat back in her seat, crossed her long bare legs and bobbed her blonde hair with her right hand, before stretching out her arm and examining the back of her hand, fingers splayed.
‘Ah’m shoo-er,’ she drawled in a voice reserved for Tennessee Williams productions, ‘Ah could never operate one of those infernal machines. Why, they play merry hell with a girl’s nails, don’t yer know?’
M. Bouilleau smiled at Perdita’s performance and clapped his hands softly, though it appeared to Rupert that the smiling Frenchman was applauding his wife’s legs.
‘The hotel machinist will, naturally, be at your disposal. All you need to do is write your reports in English and he will transmit them to M. Campion at his Cambridge college, where he says he has discovered they have a telex machine they did not know they possessed.’
‘Forgive me, M’sieur, but what reports?’
M. Bouilleau looked surprised.
‘Why, your daily progress reports of course. He said something about a daily report being far preferable to a postcard which only arrives after your return.’
‘I knew there’d be a catch,’ Rupert sighed.
‘Well, I don’t mind in the slightest,’ said his wife, preening herself. ‘After all, we film stars sometimes have to suffer for our art.’
Telex to: 8955509 SNTIG C
For: Mr Albert Campion
Dearly beloved Pa-in-Law,
I am doing report duty because your grumpy-pants son is having difficulty fitting in to the Riviera lifestyle. I, on the other hand, am being treated like the Hollywood star I will surely become and enjoying every minute of it. We have been royally greeted and treated by M. Bouilleau, who sends his regards and who has arranged for us to meet the local casino manager (I know that makes him sound like the neighbourhood postman) in the morning. He’s called (I think) Joseph Fleurey and has promised to show us something called ‘The Redcar Twist’, which sounds intriguing. I hope M. Fleurey is a friend of yours like M. Bouilleau, as that way we might get free chips for the casino as well as free board and lodging! And that is really all I have to report for our first day here. We’re off to dinner now – ten courses of haute cuisine at least. If not, I shall demand your money back!
All love and please try not to get shot again,
Perdita. X.
(and, I suppose, Rupert.)
Wrapped in her glittering starlet persona and sedated by a superb dinner without the slightest worry about paying the bill, Perdita did not give a moment’s thought to the telex she had dispatched, via a clunking machine which resembled an overweight typewriter and a role of tape peppered with lines of neat but meaningless holes. After an excellent night’s sleep and a breakfast (in bed) of freshly-squeezed orange juice, strong and pungent coffee and croissants as light as angels’ feathers, nothing could have been further from her mind.
By mid-morning, as she and Rupert, suitably dressed (for film stars travelling incognito) strolled over to the casino across from the hotel, a whisper of a memory of something about ‘free chips’ did perhaps ring a tiny bell in her brain, but if it did it faded as quickly as it had arrived.
Until, that was, the moment when the dashingly smart M. Fleurey, in the process of showing them around the main floor of the casino, happened to mention, in a manner which suggested that such things were perfectly routine, that ‘a sufficiency’ of gambling chips had been lodged for their use with the cashier and they could collect them
at their convenience.
‘Excuse me?’ exclaimed Perdita stopping dead in her dainty tracks and squeezing he husband’s hand with enough violence to provoke a loud intake of breath. ‘Did you just say that we get to gamble for free?’
M. Fleurey was both puzzled and apologetic.
‘Did I not make myself clear, Madame Campion? I know my English is not as good as that of Charles Bouilleau and you must feel liberated to correct me when I make a mistake.’
‘Your English is so superior to our French, we would presume to do no such thing,’ said Rupert, flexing his crushed hand and glaring at his spouse. ‘I think you gave my wife a surprise albeit a very pleasant one. May I ask if you have had some communication with my father?’
‘But naturally. Monsieur Albert arranged everything a long time ago. I see you are still bemused – that is not an insulting word I hope – and perhaps you would step into my office so that I may provide clarification.’
The couple followed M. Fleurey, Perdita with a definite skip in her step, through the obstacle course of tables offering roulette, baccarat and chemin-de-fer and chairs, all empty as the Casino had not yet officially opened for the day. No gamblers, tourists or envious sightseers were in evidence, only a platoon of cleaning ladies in smart black maids’ uniforms polishing and dusting with a determination which could only be explained by the manager being ‘on the floor’.
M. Fleurey lead the way, first to a glass-and-wire construction the size of a telephone box which was the domain of the Cassiers, the cashiers, who were, he assured his guests, ‘the most important people in the house’ as he made Rupert and Perdita stand in front of the cash window so that their faces could be imprinted on the mind of the man on duty behind the armoured glass. The man on duty registered Rupert’s face in two seconds, spent considerably longer on Perdita’s, then, without a word to either of them, went back to sorting round and oblong coloured chips into piles.
They then followed, at his very polite request, up an ornate, winding staircase to the first floor and it became clear, as he mounted the stairs two at a time, that this was an energetic, athletic Frenchman, the very opposite of the languid M. Bouilleau at the hotel. Panting slightly, they stood at the top of the staircase and surveyed the scene below them. Although empty save for the cleaners bustling between the gaming tables, it was still an impressive sight.
‘The view is even better from my office,’ M. Fleurey assured them.
And it was, because one entire wall of it was in fact made of tinted glass and offered a panoramic view over the whole of the floor below.
The junior Campions stared open-mouthed as if confronted by an impossible magic trick which, in a way, they had.
‘You did not notice my window on the world as you ascended the stairs, did you, my friends?’
‘There was a mirror …’ Perdita said hesitantly, ‘… but not this big.’
‘Madam is correct. It is a large two-way mirror but much of the mirror side is disguised by coatings of lacquer and a curved surface so that it reflects the bright lights from the casino floor and appears, from below, to be much smaller than it is. Do not ask me to explain the physics or the chemistry of it, for I could not in my own language let alone English, but this window allows me to see everything which goes on in the casino below.’
‘Oh but I would so want to be down there where the action is!’ gushed Perdita with girlish enthusiasm.
‘I do not think Madame would,’ said M. Fleurey. ‘Believe me, at three o’clock in the morning, the atmosphere down on the floor can be quite sickening, with the smoke and the sweat … and sometimes the winners perspire more than the losers! I prefer my air-conditioned office and from here, you will see what you came to see.’ He consulted an expensive, gold wristwatch. ‘And perhaps very soon; we may just have time to take coffee.’
A button on M. Fleurey’s desk was pressed and three large cappuccino coffees arrived, complete with grated chocolate sprinkled on their frothy domes. Perdita exclaimed ‘What a treat!’ and dived into hers headfirst, emerging unselfconsciously with a large dot of foamed milk on the end of her nose which she removed with the end of an impressive, and distinctly feline, tongue.
As they sat and sipped their coffee, M. Fleurey begged the permission of his two English guests to be allowed to explain his position to which the pair politely agreed, although Perdita asked quietly: ‘But we still get the free chips to gamble with?’ for which she received a scathing look from her husband.
M. Fleurey, who insisted they call him Joseph whilst in his office (though not, if they did not mind, in front of the casino staff), reassured them that a certain amount of chips were available for their use instantly. This had been due to the foresight of M. Albert Campion who, after an all-too-brief visit to the casino some four years before, had not taken his modest winnings in cash, but left them in the safe keeping of the casino, to be called upon at some future date. It had been almost as if M’sieur Albert had known that the British government would introduce currency restrictions which allowed travellers a mere £25 of ‘pocket money’ – if that was the correct expression.
‘Is that legal?’ Rupert asked him, avoiding an ankle-swipe from his wife.
‘In France it is not illegal to keep an account in credit. Unusual, yes, but not illegal. If it contradicts British travel laws in some way, then I would suggest your best course of action is not to win too much!’
‘I for one will try and disappoint you, M’sieur Fleurey,’ Perdita said with a sweet smile and a flutter of eyelids.
‘That would be impossible, Madame, unless you refuse to call me Joseph …’
‘Were you also a friend of my father’s in the war, Joseph?’ Rupert said, determined to change the subject.
‘Oh, I was far too young to do anything in the war except take chocolate from American soldiers when they finally arrived. It was my father, Étienne, who knew M. Campion and that was before the war. He was the manager of the Hôtel Beauregard in Mentone, along the coast. Do you know it?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘It is very famous with the English, for one of your national heroes is buried there.’
‘Really? Which one?’
‘William Webb Ellis of course, which is why the rugby football is popular in this area. We even have a team named after him in Mentone. You must try and spectate a game.’
‘I doubt we will have time, Joseph,’ said Rupert rather glad to see that Perdita’s eyes had wandered from the handsome Frenchman and back to the viewing panel of the eyrie that was the office. ‘We are not really here as tourists.’
‘Of course, forgive me. You are here to see the famous Redcar Twist Method in action.’ As he spoke, Joseph Fleurey’s eyes sparkled with amusement.
‘What the Dickens is a Redcar Twist?’ Perdita giggled. ‘Is it done to music?’
‘It is performed almost every morning at Roulette Table Number One,’ said Fleurey, ‘between the hours of eleven and twelve and it is quite, quite ridiculous. But see for yourself, for the Duchess of Lindsay Carfax has just entered the premises.’
Telex to: 8955509 SNTIG C
For: Mr Albert Campion
From your Special Correspondent lounging on the Riviera.
All the splendid hospitality shown by your French connections – M. Bouilleau for his most comfortable bed and excellent board and Joseph Fleurey for his close attention to Perdita’s every whim – did not prepare us for the first sight of the target you assigned us.
Lady Prunella – who is said locally to pass herself off as the Duchess of Lindsay Carfax! – made a distinctly regal entrance into the casino here this morning. We are told she does this every morning and it has become – as has she – something of a regular attraction on the Riviera tourist trail by which you could set your fob watch. (I think you still have one).
Lady P. is accompanied everywhere by a fierce assistant-driver-bodyguard called Frau Ulla Berger, who is thought to be Swiss. When Lady P. plays the roulet
te table, Frau Berger stands one pace behind her holding the royal handbag – presumably for the transportation of all Lady P’s winnings.
Everyone here seems to know them and knows that Lady P. plays to a system which has something to do with betting on a column of numbers and doubling the stake until she wins. (Joseph Fleurey will supply technical details if required). Some days she wins, others she loses, but the stakes are never very high. Her daily visits to the casino seem to be more to do with ritual than income.
Her method of betting has become known as The Redcar Twist. This has nothing to do with odds or strategies or set sequences of numbers. It is simply because when Lady P. wants to double her stake, she shouts (and I do mean shouts) ‘Twist’ and when she wants to stop playing she yells ‘Stick’.
The French think she is eccentric but harmless – in other words, English. The German, Italian and American visitors think she is quite mad and I am beginning to side with the majority voice.
So far we have only observed her from a safe distance. Tomorrow we will move in closer.
Wish us luck,
Rupert.
P.S.: Please make enquiries regarding prospective membership of Gamblers Anonymous for Perdita.
‘Campion? Did you say Campion? I knew a Campion once. That wasn’t his name of course. Haven’t seen him for years, though I could be related to him. I might even be his godmother. I’m not your godmother am I? Albert, did you say?’
I am talking to Lady Bracknell, thought Rupert. No, I am being lectured by Lady Bracknell. Her fashion sense may not be Victorian, for she wore steel-rimmed glasses rather than lorgnettes and did not carry a handbag, but it was Lady Bracknell, or at least a very good actress on her way to an audition.
‘Albert Campion is my father, Lady Prunella. My name is Rupert and this is my wife Perdita.’
‘I am sure I am delighted to meet you. Was I expecting you?’ Lady Prunella offered a gracious hand encased in a pink silk glove.
Rupert seemed at a loss as to whether to kiss or shake it and whether to bow whilst doing either. Perdita rode to the rescue.
‘We are here on honeymoon,’ she beamed. ‘Our second honeymoon actually, even though we haven’t been married long.’