She wasnt there, so he sat in a corner, ordered an aperitif and hummed quietly to himself, staring into space and trying to get his eyes back in full working order. A few minutes into his drink, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. He turned round with a welcoming smile.
Oh, good, youre back...
The words died on his lips. Standing next to him by the table was the man who had stolen his painting, who had tried to nobble Flavia and, he assumed, already had a murder or two to his credit. Hed read somewhere that if youve murdered once its easier the second time round. Third time round must be about as exciting as going to the supermarket. For some reason the thought didnt make him any happier.
Good evening, Mr Argyll, said this presence. Do you mind if I sit down?
Make yourself at home, he said a little nervously. Im afraid we havent been introduced, though.
Nor, it seemed, were they going to be. The man with the little scar settled himself awfully politely on the chair by the window, and looked apologetic.
Would you mind my asking when your, ah, friend will be returning? he said, very much, to Argylls mind, with the air of someone fully in charge of proceedings.
Why do you ask? Argyll said cautiously.
So that we can have a little conversation. We seem to have been running into each other so often that I thought it might be an idea to swap notes. So far, every time we meet, someone hits me. Frankly, Im getting a little tired of it.
Sorry about that.
Hmm. We also seem to share a common interest in a painting. Your interest I am beginning to find tiresome.
Are you, indeed? Why is that? Argyll said perkily, thinking that maybe it wasnt such a good idea to say it had been returned to its owner. If this man was going to such a lot of trouble to get it, he might be distinctly peeved to discover he was now, thanks to Argyll, back at square one again.
I think for the time being it would be best if I ask the questions.
Right-ho. Fire away.
You are an art dealer, is that correct?
Yes.
And your friend? What is her name?
Flavia. Di Stefano. Flavia di Stefano.
And there the conversation lapsed into a temporary silence, rather as with two people at a tea-party who feel constrained in each others presence. Argyll even found himself smiling encouragingly at the other, in the hope it might stimulate him to say something. It didnt. Maybe he was just concentrating on his injuries. Poor man. A bad bruising from Argylls tackle, then being kicked in the ribs and hit over the head by a bottle thanks to Flavia. He rubbed the plaster over his eye.
Guess what? said Flavia as she bounded through the door.
Do tell, said the Frenchman.
Oh shit, said Flavia.
One thing about her, nothing wrong with her reflexes. The moment she saw him, she swung round and hurled her handbag in his direction. She kept enough emergency rations in it to last a month, so the weight and speed were impressive. The bag hit the man on the temple and, in the few half-seconds he was off balance, Flavia picked up the tiny vase on the table and brought it crashing down on him. He groaned loudly and rolled on the floor, clutching his head. Flavia looked triumphantly at Argyll. Saved him again. What would he do without her?
Its like living with a Rottweiler, Argyll said, beginning to run out of the door of the café with her. He was being very peaceful, you know.
Follow me, she yelled back in high excitement as she disappeared into a milling throng of tourists. Not Germans, she thought as he elbowed his way after her. Too many to be Dutch, this would be about the entire country. Czechs, maybe. Whoever they were, they were very good at obscuring the couples tracks for them. Even though the pursuer was commendably quick, Flavia and Argyll emerged on the other side of the throng with a good five-second lead, and thundered off down what looked like a sort of pedestrianized street a good seventy metres ahead of him.
But he was in rather good shape, and made distinct gains: one of the sort who take care of their bodies. Exercise bikes. Neither Flavia nor Argyll were much into that sort of thing, and while both could put on a decent show of speed in bursts, keeping it up was another matter. Their pursuer kept on gaining.
Then he made his mistake. Police, he screamed. Stop them.
One of the most endearing things about the French is that they, especially adolescent Parisians, are so very public-spirited. The Revolutionary tradition of fraternity lives on in them. Policemen even pretend ones inspire particular feelings of dislike; no sooner had the man opened his mouth than the entire street was on the alert, watching what was going on, assessing the situation, seeing that the putative fugitives from justice were being steadily overtaken.
With that sense of brotherly concern which they seem to imbibe with their mothers milk, everybody in close proximity moved to assist. Flavia didnt see clearly, as she was otherwise engaged, but the snatched glance over her shoulder was just enough to reveal four different legs extending themselves to intercept their pursuer. He successfully leapt the first two but tripped on the third; the owner of the fourth, perhaps dismayed at being cheated, instead kicked him sharply in the ribs as he went down hard on the pavement.
But he was resilient, no doubt about that. He rolled over and was up almost immediately. Resuming the chase, he again began to gain ground.
There was one chance and Argyll, taking the lead once more, grabbed it and Flavia simultaneously. They were running through that part of Paris which once contained Les Halles, the most beautiful food market in Europe. But in the spirit that gave the world the Beaubourg Centre, this was flattened and replaced with a cheapjack and now increasingly tatty shopping mall which dives ever deeper into the damp and often putrid ground near the Seine. About as good a hiding-place as you can imagine; on the few occasions Argyll had ever ventured into its underground streets, he hadnt even been able to find himself, let alone anyone else.
And access was by escalators, which were edged by flat, smooth, shiny metal sections. The sort of thing that kids love to slide down, despite the best efforts of the authorities to stop them. Flavia had once accused Argyll of having an almost absurd tendency to indulge in childhood pleasures, and now he demonstrated that an infantile sense of fun could have its uses. He hopped on to the side of the escalator and let go, whistling down the incline several times faster than the stairs progressed. Had the situation not been so serious, he would have been tempted to let off a whoop of pleasure. He hadnt done that for years.
Flavia followed him down, thanking heaven she had chosen to wear jeans that morning, then ran with him to the escalator that took them down to the second level. By the time they got there, they were a good way ahead of their pursuer.
Where now? she asked.
Dont ask me. Where do you want to go?
Gloucestershire.
Where?
Its in England, she explained.
I know where... oh, never mind. Come on.
And they ran off down the corridor, turning left, right, left, taking short cuts through clothes stores and fast-food outlets, anything to confuse the scent.
It seemed to work. The ominous pounding of feet behind them was no more to be heard, and eventually, slowly coming to believe that they had shaken off the pursuit, they eased up to get their breath back.
Still puffing, but feeling much better, they rounded another corner and realized firstly that they were back where theyd started, and secondly that their pursuer was about six feet in front of them. He had an almost amused smile on his face as he began to run in their direction.
An abrupt about-turn and they disappeared down the next escalator, but this time they were followed closely; they started running again at the bottom with their lead cut to about a second.
It seemed they were in the Métro station; there were tunnels leading off at various places, and a bank of turnstiles directly in front of them. Flavia led the way this time. With the grace of an Olympic athlete in the 400-metres hurdles, she took the turnstile on the run, vaulting over its projecting metal arms with a stylishness that produced ironic cheers from a group of disreputable-looking youths in one corner and a loud protest from a ticket-inspector in another.
Argyll, less elegantly but just as effectively, followed half a second behind her, with the pursuer just behind him. Fortunately, it was at this stage that the forces of law and order decided they had had enough. There was not much to be done about the woman, who was already disappearing down a corridor on the far side of the barrier. The second culprit was heading in the same direction.
But three in as many seconds was too much. With a cry of triumph, the ticket-inspector leapt forward and fastened a powerful hand on the shoulder of the last miscreant, throwing him off balance and making him catch his foot on the stile.
As Argyll in turn vanished down the corridor, he heard the shouts of frustration and furious protest as their pursuer was placed under arrest for trying to avoid paying his 6 franc 20 centimes Métro fare.
In the two hours before the next boat-train left for England from the Gare du Nord, Argylls opinion of Flavia underwent a major revolution. Hed known her for years, after all, and tended to think of her as one of those upright citizens who keep on the right side of the law. Especially as, in most cases, she was its appointed embodiment and defender. She was, after all, someone who paid her taxes most of them, at least and didnt leave her car in no-parking zones unless there was really nowhere else to put it.
However, as Flavia pointed out, it was not her fault she was on the run from a bunch of lunatics. Or that Paris seemed a little too dangerous for them to contemplate with equanimity the prospect of remaining there. Or that this case very inconsiderately scattered its witnesses the length and breadth of Europe.
True enough, but she did seem to take to her new role with more relish than was seemly.
There was, for example, the problem of tickets, it being unreasonable to expect that both of them could get all the way to London without being asked to produce one at some stage. To buy a ticket you need money, and between them they had about thirty-five francs left. Argyll would have just whipped out his Visa card, but Flavia pointed out that the sign at the ticket-office clearly said that all tickets for the nine oclock departure were sold.