by Robert Thier
Blast!
Île Marbeau
I wanted to step back, run away, anything, but Mr Ambrose’s hand closed around my arm like a vice, holding me in place.
‘Don’t move!’ His voice was barely audible. ‘We’re wearing our uniforms. He might take us for one of theirs!’
Slowly, the man started forward again. His eyes travelled from me to Mr Ambrose, and back again. Finally, he bowed.
Bowed? To us?
‘Bonjour, Messieurs,’ he proclaimed. ‘Puis-je vous offrir un verre de limonade glacée?’
I swallowed convulsively.
‘What is he saying?’ I whispered. ‘Is he telling us that we are going to get shot?’
‘No. He is asking whether we want a glass of iced lemonade.’
‘What?’ I stared at the man, nonplussed. Only now did I notice that he was wearing a white waiter’s jacket. ‘What does he mean?’
‘He means to offer us a drink,’ Mr Ambrose told me coolly, as if he had expected all along to be greeted in Lord Dalgliesh’s secret abode of evil by waiters wielding glasses of lemonade. He turned to the man in the white jacket. ‘Non, merci. Je suis assez frais comme ça.’
This, whatever it meant, didn’t seem to deter the fellow. He smiled a broad smile under his pointy moustache and gave another bow. ‘Une tasse de café, peut-être? Ou un repas léger? Messieurs, vous avez l’air un peu pâle.’
‘Non. Mais pourriez-vous nous indiquer le bâtiment principal? Il semblerait que nous avons perdu notre chemin.’
The waiter beamed and bowed once more. ‘Bien sûr, Monsieur. Suivez-moi, s'il vous plaît.’
And he marched off.
‘What did you say to him?’ I demanded.
‘I asked him to direct us to the main building.’ Mr Ambrose set off after the waiter with long, determined strides that didn’t give a hint of his having been cooped up in a wooden crate for most of the night. I hobbled after him, cursing my burning and itching muscles.
‘The main building to what?’
‘I have no idea, Mr Linton. I’ve never been here, remember?’
‘But that means this fellow could be leading us right into Lord Dalgliesh’s headquarters!’
‘I doubt that will happen. Not unless Lord Dalgliesh has started using French waiters to guard his perimeter, which I consider a remote possibility.’
We followed the mysterious waiter along a path thickly lined with ferns, trees and other flora, down a gently sloping hill. The trees were of a rugged beauty - maltreated so severely by the ceaseless wind blowing in from the sea that they were almost bent double, but still stubbornly standing. They were grouped so closely that we could not see anything on either side of the path for some time. Yet suddenly, the flora retreated, and I looked on a sight such as I had never seen before. A horror beyond all the horrors I could have imagined seeing in this stronghold of evil. A terrified gasp escaped my mouth.
‘That… can’t be!’ I whispered.
Mr Ambrose looked on the spectacle for a moment, then nodded gravely. ‘Yes. Here, in foreign countries, such practices are not considered… reproachable.’
‘But… they are doing it together! Everyone, in plain sight of each other!’
‘Yes. As I said, you are in England no longer, Mr Linton.’
Wide-eyed, I gazed down onto the beach in front of us, where multitudes of people were laughing, running about, and swimming in the water. People of both sexes! Very well I remembered the bathing places in England where, when women wanted to bathe, they did it in the confines of a bathing machine - a marvellous contraption in the form of a horse-drawn carriage without a bottom, which was pulled into the sea and protected you from all prying eyes. Here, in the country of baguettes and revolutions, women seemed to have no inhibitions about letting the men see them in their swimwear. Moreover, unlike in England, this swimwear did not consist of several heavy, knee-length gowns and a giant hat, under which the woman could hardly be detected. Not only were the feet, calves and knees - yes, knees! - of every female on the beach clearly visible, so was pretty much everything else up to an area which, in England, ladies wouldn’t even have thought of, much less dared to mention!
I stared at the women for a good two minutes. Then, suddenly, a point of more immediate importance than French standards of morality occurred to me.
‘Why,’ I asked Mr Ambrose, ‘does Lord Dalgliesh have a crowd of bathers on the island that is supposed to be his secret hideout?’
‘That is a very good question, Mr Linton.’
‘And?’
‘And I do not have the answer. Come on. Our guide is getting impatient.’
Indeed, the waiter was already several steps ahead and gesturing for us to keep up. He seemed to find nothing strange about the sight down at the beach, which made my cheeks glow with heat. Frenchmen! Unbelievable…
I sneaked a quick glimpse at Mr Ambrose. He didn’t seem to find it unusual, either. Had he been at many such places? Had he seen a lot of female knees?
Quickly, I clamped down on the thought. We were here on a secret mission. Mr Ambrose’s bathing habits were none of my concern, and neither were any female knees he might have studied.
By now, the waiter had vanished around a corner. We followed him, and found him pointing up to a building rising up above us.
‘Voilà le bâtiment principal, Monsieur!’
It wasn’t the ruin of a castle.
I admit, my adventurous imagination might have run away with me a bit, imagining Lord Dalgliesh’s secret headquarters, but still, I hadn’t expected anything like this. The building was large, and painted in a brilliant white. Two rows of wooden supports, one stacked above the other, supported a raised veranda and balcony, and a pair of majestic white steps led up to the first floor. Rows of large windows glinted in the sun and, above the main entrance, words were painted in a cheerful blue:
Hôtel de la Mer azur
‘The Hotel of the Azure Sea,’ Mr Ambrose translated.
‘Thank you so much, Mr Ambrose, Sir. My French extends that far.’ I looked from the hotel to the crowd of happily gossiping people sitting on the veranda. ‘Do you think it is possible Lord Dalgliesh’s ship has landed on the wrong island?’
Silence.
When he hadn’t answered after a few more moments, I looked sideways at him. His eyes were glittering.
‘I don't think so,’ he murmured, and the glint in his dark eyes grew. ‘I don't think so at all. Oh, that man. He is a genius.’
A group of children ran by, laughing and screaming. They were not screams of pain. One of the little pests pointed at me and yelled: ‘Eh, regardez ce gars! N'a-t-il pas un chapeau totalement ridicule?’
And they burst into laughter.
‘What did he say?’ I hissed at Mr Ambrose.
‘He complimented you on your manly appearance, Mr Linton.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Focus, Mr Linton. The infant is of no importance.’
Putting a finger in each corner of its mouth, the ‘infant’ started pulling faces at me and dancing around me, chanting ‘Chapeau gaga, Chapeau gaga!’ French brats had a bloody strange way of showing their admiration. His little fiendish accomplices were cheering him on. I tried to chase them away, but I might as well have tried to chase away a swarm of hungry mosquitos.
‘This is insane!’ I growled.
‘On the contrary, Mr Linton.’ Mr Ambrose wasn’t paying the slightest attention to my fierce battle against the little fiends, but was instead studying the hotel and the beach with dark intensity. ‘This is brilliant. Dalgliesh’s style, executed to perfection. Blinding people with glamour - so perfect, and so him!’
Bending down, my little tormentor picked up an acorn and chucked it at my hat. I ducked just in time to prevent it being knocked off.
‘Glamour? To be honest, I can’t see what is glamorous here, Sir. You just wait, you little snot monster, till I get my hands on you!’
‘I beg your pardon, M
r Linton?’
‘Sorry, Sir. Wasn't talking to you, Sir.’
‘Focus, Mr Linton. Focus.’
‘Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. Come here, you bloody little blaggard!’
‘Mr Linton!’
‘Sorry, Sir. So sorry. What was that you said about Glamorgan?’
Mr Ambrose made an impatient gesture at our surroundings. ‘Glamour, Mr Linton, Glamour. This hotel, the tourists, the pretty beaches - all is a disguise for the real purpose of this island - to serve as a centre for some, if not all, of Lord Dalgliesh’s less-than-legal operations. That purpose is also the reason for the headquarters being on the French side of the Channel, i.e. outside British jurisdiction.’
He let his eyes wander over the scene before him, the glitter within them reminiscent of freshly fallen snow.
‘It is perfect. The perfect place. I must see whether I can persuade Dalgliesh to part with it somehow.’
I was so stunned I nearly didn’t manage to duck the next acorn that came flying at me. Had I heard right? Surely he did not mean that he, too, engaged in illegal operations for which he would need a place like this?
I took a look at his cool, granite profile, at the glitter in his dark eyes, and suddenly, I wasn’t so sure anymore.
Dear God… What manner of man did you get mixed up with, Lilly? And worse, you didn’t just get mixed up with him! You let him kiss-
But no! That had all been pure imagination.
An acorn hit me in the forehead, jerking me painfully from my thoughts.
‘Why, you darn little rug-rat…’
‘Excuse me, Mr Linton?’
‘Didn’t mean you, Sir! Sorry, Sir!’
‘Focus, Mr Linton. Focus.’
‘Yes, Sir. But let me respectfully point out that it is hard to focus while being pelted with missiles, Sir.’
‘It is simply a matter of concentration. Now listen closely, Mr Linton. We need to discuss our next move and coordinate our plans.’
‘Fine by me,’ I said, ducking the next acorn and making a grab for the brat’s sleeve. He danced away, cackling like the devil.
‘We need to split up. We need to gather as much information about this place as possible, and we can do that more quickly if we do it separately. I will go to the beach and ask questions there. You will go to the hotel, where the staff is likely to speak English. Our aim is to find out where exactly on this island Lord Dalgliesh’s headquarters is located. He will have to have privacy for his operations. Try to determine - unobtrusively, mind you - whether there is some place both locals and tourists avoid, or some place that is out of bounds for any reason. Such a spot would be the ideal centre for Dalgliesh’s operations. Understood?’
‘Yes, Sir. Only, Sir…’ I ducked another acorn. ‘It will be rather difficult to make unobtrusive enquiries with this little beast on my tail.’
‘Is that all?’
Mr Ambrose turned his attention towards the brat a few feet away from him. Only now did I realize that the little snot-monster had so far only chosen me as a target for his missiles, not aiming a single one at His Mightiness, Ambrose the Icy. I didn’t have long to ponder the reason for this. Mr Ambrose advanced on the child until he was standing right in front of it. Slowly, he bent down, until his face was on one level with the child. The little brat’s fist, already holding the next acorn, slowly sank down until it hung loosely at his side. He made a mistake and met Mr Ambrose’s dark gaze. The fist opened, and the acorn fell to the ground.
‘Toi.’ Mr Ambrose said, his voice calm and cold as the Antarctic. ‘Va-t'en. Maintenant.’
The brat gave a little rat-like squeak and whirled around, scampering off as fast as its feet would carry him. I stared after him in disbelief.
‘So,’ Mr Ambrose announced. ‘That’s taken care of.’
‘What in heaven’s name did you say to that little beast?’ I demanded.
Straightening, Mr Ambrose shook his head. ‘I never disclose my secrets, Mr Linton.’
With that, he left me standing and turned away, off to gather information among the laughing crowds of people on the beach. Thank the Lord he was wearing the uniform, and not his black tailcoat. In his usual attire he would have stuck out like a crow in a flock of popinjays, but in his fake uniform, he fit in quite well with all the officers walking around the hotel in uniforms of different nationalities. In fact, he looked the handsomest of them all.
Quickly, I shook my head, ridding myself of that strange thought. What was it doing in my mind? I had a task to accomplish!
Free of the acorn-throwing fiend, I started up the path to the hotel. But I hadn’t gone half a dozen steps when, around the corner of the hotel, I glimpsed another veranda. On this one, several small tables stood, looking very decorative, with white lace tablecloths and vases of yellow iris in the middle. At the end of the veranda hung a sign which, in large blue letters, said: Café.
At the tables, people were drinking tea and eating. Delicious smells wafted over, carried by the morning breeze. I hesitated. My eyes wandered between the café, and the entrance to the hotel. I had a duty to perform in there. But then… I also had a pretty pressing duty to my stomach. It gave a big rumble, reminding me of just how long it was since it had been properly filled.
Bad Lilly! Bad! You have work to do!
Yes. My stomach could wait a little longer. I was no ravenous animal. I was a rational, strong, independent lady, and I could resist…
Suddenly, among all the other smells wafting over from the café, I caught one that I hadn’t detected before. A smell I would have recognised anywhere in the world: the delicious, mind-boggling odour of chocolate. My feet started moving, and before I realized it, I was across the veranda, inside the café, and in front of a counter with so many delicacies displayed on it that I hardly knew what to choose first.
Bugger! Well, who needs to be a strong woman on an empty stomach, anyway?
Behind the counter stood a broad man with a brilliant smile and a moustache that was so magnificently pointy you could have impaled somebody on it.
‘Um… excuse moi,’ I tried to unearth my few words of French. ‘Je vourais… Je…’
‘Oh, do not bother yourself, Monsieur,’ the man said, his smile lighting up even more brightly. ‘Me, I of course speak the language of the Englishmen. We have many Englishmen here, so it good for business, eh? And no worry about English money, either. Now, Monsieur…’ He pointed to the counter. ‘What would you like?’
*~*~**~*~*
Five minutes later, I sat at one of the little tables, chewing contentedly and sipping a cup of tea. The birds were singing, children were playing - at a safe distance -, the sky was blue, and for the first time in days I felt really content and relaxed. I was about half-finished with my meal, when the calm was disturbed by a cool voice at my ear.
‘I thought,’ he said, every syllable studded with shards of ice, ‘I told you to gather significant information.’
‘I have,’ I said, pointing to the crescent-shaped object in my hand, half of which I had already devoured. ‘For example, I found out that the French are fantastic bakers. They have invented this thing called a “chocolate croissant”, which is a kind of crescent shaped bun with chocolate mousse inside, and it tastes simply divine. Do you want to try?’
‘It appears,’ he said, his tone climbing a few more steps down on the thermometer, ‘that you and I have very different ideas of what constitutes significant information, Mr Linton.’
‘Probably, Sir.’
‘Unfortunately, I myself have not been able to ascertain anything useful about the island. People seemed not very inclined to engage in a conversation with me.’
‘In spite of your manner being so warm and friendly? Fancy that.’
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Be silent!’
‘As you wish, Sir.’ I took another bite of my croissant. ‘Hm… Something useful like… maybe the fact that there is a ferry service down
at the harbour on the other side of the island? Would you consider that useful?’
His eyes darkened. ‘How do you know that?’
I took another bite of my croissant and licked a bit of chocolate mousse off my thumb. Then, I jerked it over my shoulder at the smiling man with the pointy moustache, who was just now selling a piece of cake to a young lady in blue.
‘My friend over there mentioned it. It’s amazing what people tell you once you’ve bought a cup of tea and a chocolate croissant - for which you will have to pay, by the way. Did you know, for instance, that there is an abandoned salt mine up in the mountains? None of the locals or tourists dare to go there, because it’s supposed to be haunted. They know it’s haunted, because now and again, they see strange lights up there at night, and because the few people who did go up there, never came back.’
‘Indeed, Mr Linton?’
I licked another bit of chocolate mousse off my finger. Somehow, I managed to suppress a grin. ‘Yes, indeed, Sir.’
Raising his hand, Mr Ambrose stroked his chiselled chin thoughtfully. His gaze wandered to the mountains rising in the centre of the island. ‘Well, in that case, I think we'll have a look at this mine. I would like to meet a few of these ghosts.’
‘Can I have another chocolate croissant, first?’
‘Mr Linton!’
‘Coming, Sir! I’m coming!’
Mine and Yours
It only took me one look over the bush to be certain we were in the right place. Quickly, I ducked down again and whispered: ‘That’s it! Lord Dalgliesh is here!’
‘How do you know?’ Mr Ambrose enquired, not looking at me, but staring through a gap in the foliage at the man standing at the entrance to the abandoned mine. ‘That’s not Dalgliesh! I don't see him anywhere.’
‘Yes, but the guard at the entrance…!’
‘He’s wearing a French uniform. He’s not one of Dalgliesh’s men.’
‘Oh yes, he is! That’s just it! I recognized him the moment I saw him. He was one of the men on the ship, one of those who were on deck when I climbed aboard.’