Blotto, Twinks and the Rodents of the Riviera

by Simon Brett

‘I have reason to believe, milord, that you have been the victim of attempted sabotage.’

  ‘Well, yes, I agree that it was rather a close call with Dimpsy Wickett—’

  ‘No, milord. I refer to the attempted sabotage of your lordship’s Lagonda.’

  ‘What!’ The colour drained from Blotto’s face. It was as if someone had threatened his precious cricket bat … or Mephistopheles. ‘What’s the damage?’ he asked tersely.

  ‘Fortunately none, milord …’ The chauffeur coughed quietly before continuing, ‘thanks to my vigilance.’

  ‘You’re not a man, you’re a god, Corky! Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Well, milord, as you know, I am not billeted here in the Hôtel de Crillon.’

  ‘Yes, hope the gaff they’ve put you up in ticks the clock for you.’

  ‘It is perfectly adequate, milord … for someone of my standing. I have encountered the odd bug in the bed, the sanitary arrangements are of the “Crouch and Hope” variety, and the food is very … er, French, but these privations count as nothing against the knowledge that I am serving you, milord.’

  ‘Good ticket, Corky. Hope you haven’t been bitten too much by the little pinkers.’

  ‘No, milord. I have fortunately not been attacked by the bed bugs … because I have not been sleeping in the bed.’

  ‘Why not, for the love of strawberries?’

  ‘Milord, during the last major European dust-up, I fought in France.’

  ‘I know you did, Corky. And bear the scars to prove it.’

  ‘Yes, milord. And I have no regrets about any of those scars … or indeed about any of the large number of enemy soldiers I was fortunate enough to kill.’

  ‘Hoopee-doopee, Corky.’

  ‘However, milord, in the course of that conflict, I did find myself in close proximity to many representatives of the French soldiery.’

  ‘Well, you would have done. You were on the same side as them.’

  Corky Froggett’s upper lip curled, also curling the white moustache that stood to attention above it. ‘Yes, on the same side, but with rather different priorities.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The fact is, milord, that no French soldier will ever have the fighting qualities of his English equivalent.’

  ‘Well, of course they won’t, Corky. That’s been common knowledge for centuries. Ancestor of mine made the same observation at Agincourt.’

  ‘Yes …’ The chauffeur was silent for a moment. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, milord, I don’t trust the French.’

  ‘Very right and proper, Corky.’

  ‘So for that reason I have not been sleeping in the accommodation provided for me by the Hôtel de Crillon … preferring to make up my camp bed down in the hotel’s garages … where I can keep an eye on your lordship’s Lagonda.’

  ‘Good thinking, Corky. You’re a Grade A foundation stone.’

  ‘The vehicle is safe during the day, milord, because a lot of mechanics and chauffeurs are coming and going, but I had a hunch it needed guarding through the hours of darkness.’

  ‘And did your hunch prove correct?’

  ‘I’m afraid it did, milord. Last night, I regret to say, at about three in the morning I was guilty of falling asleep.’

  ‘Don’t boff yourself on the bonce about that, Corky. We all need our snore-time.’

  ‘Yes, the fact is, I had perhaps been over-enjoying the pleasures of Paris. But I swear I only slept for a few moments, milord.’

  ‘On the garage floor was this?’

  ‘No, milord. On the back seat of the Lagonda.’ And, in case this might be regarded as a form of lèse-majesté towards the car, the chauffeur was quick to explain, ‘After considerable experimentation, I found that to be the optimum position for surveillance, milord. Were I on the garage floor or in the front seat, I might have been seen by potential malefactors and thus frightened them off … whereas from the back seat I would be in the perfect location to surprise anyone who entered through the driver’s door of the Lagonda – and garotte them.’

  ‘Good ticket, Corky.’

  ‘And I was indeed woken from my brief slumber by the sound of someone getting into the car.’

  ‘The stencher!’ said Blotto. ‘Was he trying to steal it?’

  ‘I don’t believe so, milord. I think, as I mentioned earlier, their intention was sabotage.’

  ‘“Their”? You mean there was more than one of the lumps of toadspawn?’

  ‘There were two. And they displayed striking ignorance of the specifications of the Lagonda. In fact, milord, I would go so far as to say that they’d never seen one before.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘They clearly had no knowledge of how to open the car’s bonnet.’

  ‘Didn’t they? What pot-brained pineapples!’

  ‘I thought exactly the same myself, milord. The little rat who entered the car did so in the belief that there might be some bonnet release on the inside.’

  Master and servant both had a good laugh at that, before Blotto asked, ‘So why did they want to get inside the bonnet of the Lag?’

  ‘One of the lily-livered cheesemongers had a pair of metal snips with him. It is my belief that he planned to cut through the Lagonda’s brake cables.’

  ‘The four-faced thimble-jiggler!’ cried Blotto. It wasn’t his habit to use such strong language, but when someone threatened his Lag … well, he felt rather the way a mother sheep is reputed to feel towards her ewe lamb.

  ‘I did of course frustrate their schemes. Suddenly making my presence known, I was able to surprise the bounder inside the car – though sadly he managed to wriggle out of my grasp before I could garotte him.’

  ‘Oh well, you can’t have everything, Corky. And it may have been for the best. Explaining a garotted corpse in the garage of the Hôtel de Crillon might prompt a few awkward questions for you from the local gendarmerie.’

  ‘Yes, milord, but that wouldn’t worry me. You know I’d be happy to go to the gallows, so long as I was doing it in your service.’

  ‘What a Grade A foundation stone you are, Corky. But, by the way, I’ve a feeling they don’t have gallows here in France. They use the … what’s the word? Guillemot?’

  ‘I think you will find, milord, with respect, that the guillemot is a kind of seabird.’

  ‘Is it, by Denzil?’

  ‘I believe so, milord. The French device used for the meting out of capital punishment is called the guillotine.’ A note of awe came into Corky Froggett’s voice as he continued, ‘A very fine piece of engineering, milord. Possibly the most efficient and finest method of ending a man’s life. Were the local gendarmerie to arrest me for the garotting of someone in the garage of the Hôtel de Crillon, I would regard it as an honour to be decapitated by a machine as fine as the guillotine.’

  ‘Well, that just shows what a fine block of English granite you are, Corky. Fortunately, however, you didn’t manage to garotte anyone in the garage of the Hôtel de Crillon, so you’re currently not on any decapitation list.’

  ‘No.’ The chauffeur could not keep an edge of disappointment out of his voice. His main aspiration, the fulfilment of his whole life, would be that moment when he was allowed to lay down his life for his young master. It wasn’t a matter of whether that event happened, it was simply a matter of when. But clearly, for the time being, the apotheosis of Corky Froggett was deferred.

  ‘Anyway, did you get a look at these stenchers? Would you recognize them again? If they were in an identity parade?’

  ‘They were very distinctive figures, milord. Notable chiefly for their height.’

  ‘Tall boddos, eh?’

  ‘No, milord. Rather the reverse. They were both of very diminutive stature.’

  ‘How diminutive?’

  ‘Neither of them would have come up any higher than my waist.’

  ‘Toad-in-the-hole!’

  ‘It is to that fact that I put down my failure to garotte the one inside the car. His n
eck was rather lower down in the seat than I had anticipated.’

  ‘Never mind, Corky. You can’t win a coconut every time.’

  ‘That, milord, is sadly true.’

  Blotto was thoughtful. ‘They really are masters of disguise, you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, milord. I do not know to whom you are referring.’

  ‘The couple who snaffled the Ruperts from Tawcester Towers. Disguised then as the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Sales-Malincourt. Disguised when I met them this morning as the Maharajah and Rani of Pranjipur. And disguised in the early hours of last night in the garage here as a pair of midgets. As I say, they really are masters of disguise.’

  Corky Froggett was about to say he thought it unlikely that a normal-sized man and woman could pass themselves off as two male midgets, but he thought better of it. He was wary of uttering anything that might be construed as criticism of his master.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Blotto, ‘nice innings, Corky. You saved the Lag, so give that pony a rosette.’

  ‘Thank you very much, milord.’

  ‘Erm … one thing?’

  ‘Yes, milord?’

  ‘You spoke a few minutes back of “over-enjoying the pleasures of Paris” …’

  ‘I did indeed, milord, and I apologize for taking advantage of—’

  ‘No, don’t worry about that, Corky. All I want to know is: are there any “pleasures of Paris”?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, milord.’

  ‘Because I’m afraid I haven’t come across them. Well, I suppose the wine’s tolerable, but they ruin all the food by smothering it with sauces. Then they add this filth-fingering guff called garlic to everything. And I went to a swamphole this morning called the Louvre which had nothing in it but spoffing great paintings. I mean, what do people come here to Paris for?’

  ‘A lot of people come for the nightlife, milord.’

  ‘“Nightlife”? Have you been enjoying the nightlife, Corky?’

  ‘I have to confess I have.’

  ‘What, lying on the garage floor of the—?’

  ‘No, milord.’ Then, thinking this might suggest some dereliction of his duty, the chauffeur quickly asserted that, though he had spent much of his time in the garage, he had also managed to fit in a few hours of nightlife.

  ‘So what is the attraction of the nightlife?’

  Corky Froggett coughed discreetly before replying, ‘The women, milord.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Paris is famous for its women, milord.’

  Blotto looked puzzled. ‘But I don’t seem to have seen any more women in Paris than one might in London.’

  ‘It is not the number of women that distinguishes Paris, milord, it is their nature. English women in my experience, milord, lack a certain generosity …’

  ‘Do they? I wouldn’t have said that. I mean, the mater always stumps up some kind of present for me at Christmas, pair of socks, that kind of rombooley, and I—’

  ‘No, milord. I was referring to generosity of a more … intimate nature.’ Blotto looked totally bewildered. ‘Paris is the home of the poule de luxe.’

  Blotto’s brow cleared. ‘Oh yes, I think I had that in the restaurant downstairs. Again, covered with far too many sauces and that ghastly garlic and—’

  ‘No, milord, I am speaking of a … “lady of the night”. Do you understand that expression?’

  ‘Of course. I had one at Tawcester Towers.’

  ‘Did you, milord?’ This was opening up a whole new dimension in the chauffeur’s knowledge of his master’s character.

  ‘Yes. Mind you, she was called a night nurse. And I was very young at the time.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Anyway, Corky, do you think I should have a go at this nightlife business then?’

  ‘It would be a pity for any gentleman to come to Paris without tasting it, milord.’

  ‘Then taste it I shall. When shall I start?’

  ‘Will you be free this evening, milord?’

  Blotto thought about it. It was that evening that Twinks was busy with her rendezvous (and possible entrapment) at Notre-Dame. ‘Yes, of course I’m free.’

  ‘In that case, milord, I will have pleasure in driving you in the Lagonda to Montmartre … where I will introduce you to the delights of … the Folies Bergère!’

  12

  A Dangerous Rendezvous

  Larksissimo, thought Twinks as she crossed the Pont Neuf on her way to the Île de la Cité. She couldn’t help admitting to herself that she was enjoying sitting for Blocque and Tacquelle, and she knew she was enjoying it for all the wrong reasons. For one of the rare occasions in his life, Blotto had been right. The idea of being immortalized as the muse of the chef d’oeuvre of the Trianguliste Movement had really fired her ambition.

  Because, if you were the Right Honourable Honoria Lyminster, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Tawcester, brought up at Tawcester Towers, you didn’t really have many ambitions. Some girls in her situation might have wished that they were more beautiful, but without false modesty Twinks knew she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Some might have wished for greater sporting prowess, but Twinks knew she could beat anyone at any game they chose to challenge her at. Some might have wished for greater bravery, but Twinks didn’t know the meaning of the word fear. (This was something she had in common with her brother. Mind you, there were quite a lot of words Blotto didn’t know the meaning of.)

  And when it came to brainpower … well, actually very few girls of Twinks’s upbringing would have been too bothered about that, but she was quietly confident that the world boasted very few people who could match her intellectual capacity. Professor Erasmus Holofernes might possibly have the edge on her there, but then he’d had the advantage of an education at most of the world’s best universities, whereas Twinks was self-taught. She had had a sequence of governesses when she was a child at Tawcester Towers, but in most cases she ended up teaching them. And she’d done the same to the nuns at St Wilhelmina’s.

  The other thing that preoccupied the ambitions of many girls was men. To feel fulfilled they needed to know they could inspire blind adoration in the male gender. But there again, Twinks had grown up secure in the knowledge that a man had no more than to look at her before he began protesting his undying love. Indeed, the exception would be the man who didn’t immediately fall for her like an anchor from a liner.

  So it was hardly surprising that a young woman so starved of unrealized ambitions should be attracted by the idea of gaining enduring fame as an artist’s muse.

  As to which artist it was, she didn’t mind. Blocque and Tacquelle seemed to her to be almost interchangeable as personalities. They both still coughed a lot as they transformed her contours into triangles, and neither would let any of their sessions end without another attempt to lure her into his unsavoury bed. But she could brush off such advances with ease – as she had brushed off so many before them.

  Anyway, having the two of them working on rival portrayals of her she thought of as a kind of insurance policy. Posterity could decide whether it was Blocque or Tacquelle who had produced the chef d’oeuvre of the Trianguliste Movement. Either way the subject would be her.

  So Twinks had no desire to leave Paris until the paintings were both finished. She did feel marginally guilty about this. She knew she should be concentrating on the investigation that she and Blotto had taken on. She could no longer convince herself that she was actually getting useful information from Blocque and Tacquelle about the criminal side of the Parisian art world.

  Still, in his own idiosyncratic way, Blotto was getting somewhere. Though his encounter with the Maharajah and Rani of Pranjipur had been engineered by them rather than him, it had at least advanced the investigation. Finally they were making progress. The message had duly come to the Hôtel de Crillon, which was why Twinks was on her way to Notre-Dame, walking into what was almost certainly a trap.

  What more could a girl want than to be on her way, protected only
by her silver-fox-fur coat and the contents of her reticule, to a rendezvous at the top of a tall building with people of criminal – and very possibly homicidal – tendencies? Yes, the whole situation was pure creamy éclair. Once again Twinks thought to herself, larksissimo.

  The larger key had no problem opening the small door at the foot of Notre-Dame’s South Tower. She didn’t relock it, covering herself in case she needed a quick getaway. The vast interior of the cathedral was spectrally quiet. If there was anyone inside, they were not drawing attention to themselves. The only light came from some votive candles that had been lit to expiate God alone knew what sins committed by the citizens of Paris.

  On another occasion Twinks would have paused to take in the beauties of the spectacular vaulted interior. Unlike her brother, she did have a refined appreciation of the arts. But that particular evening there were more pressing demands on her time.

  The smaller key also did its business and, leaving the second door unlocked as well, Twinks was soon climbing up a narrow spiral staircase. She had contemplated leaving the door open to let in some light, but decided that might alert any nightwatchmen (assuming the cathedral employed some). Anyway, an open door would only have illuminated the first few steps before they twisted away into the darkness above. The air in the staircase was very cold. She wrapped her silver fox fur around her.

  Twinks kept her right hand against the cold stone of the wall as she corkscrewed her way upwards. The only sound, unnaturally loud in her head, was the slight rasp of her own breathing. The steps and the darkness seemed to go on for ever.

  Just as she was beginning to feel she must be higher than the tip of Notre-Dame’s topmost extremity, she was aware of a slight glow of light above her. As she climbed closer, it grew brighter. Still not bright, it was only candlelight, but brighter.

  She emerged on to a narrow wood-floored gallery, which ran all the way round the interior of the tower-top. The thirteen-ton bulk of the Emmanuel bourdon bell loomed beside her.

  But she had no eyes for bells, no eyes for anything except what she saw in the corner ahead of her. Propped casually against the wall, illuminated by two candles in holders in front of them, stood the two Ruperts. She had found the Tawcester Towers Gainsborough and Reynolds! Mission accomplished!