4.

Paul and I came back from La Mauvaise Réputation late that night. The rain had stopped, but it was still cold-either nights have got colder or I’ve begun to feel it more than I ever did in the old days-and I was impatient and bad-tempered. But the more impatient I got, the quieter Paul seemed to be, until we were each glowering at the other in silence, our breath puffing out in great billows of steam as we walked.

“That girl,” said Paul at last. His voice was quiet and reflective, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “She looked very young, didn’t she?”

I was annoyed by the seeming irrelevance. “What girl, for heaven’s sake?” I snapped. “I thought we were going to find a way to get rid of Dessanges and his grease wagon, not to give you an excuse to ogle girls.”

Paul ignored me. “She was sitting next to him,” he said slowly. “You’ll have seen her go in. Red dress, high heels. Comes to the wagon pretty often too.” As it happened I did remember her. I recalled a vague sulky blur of red mouth under a slice of black hair. One of Luc’s regulars from town.

“So?”

“That was Louis Ramondin’s daughter. Moved to Angers couple of years ago, you know, with her mother, Simone, after the divorce. You’ll remember them.” He nodded as if I’d given him a civil answer instead of a grunt. “Simone went back to her maiden name, Truriand. The girl would be fourteen, maybe fifteen, nowadays.”

“So?” I still couldn’t see the interest in this. I took out my key and fitted it into the front door.

Paul continued in his slow thoughtful way. “Certainly no older than fifteen, I’d say,” he repeated.

“All right,” I said tartly. “I’m glad you found something to liven up your evening. Pity you didn’t ask for her shoe size too, then you’d really have something to dream about.”

Paul gave his lazy smile. “You’re actually jealous,” he said.

“Not at all,” I said with dignity. “I just wish you’d go dribble on someone else’s carpet, you dirty old lecher.”

“Well, I was thinking,” said Paul slowly.

“Well done,” I said.

“I was thinking maybe Louis-being a gendarme and all-maybe he’d draw the line at his daughter being involved-at fifteen, maybe even fourteen-with a man-a married man-like Luc Dessanges.” He gave me a little look of triumph and amusement. “I mean, I know times have changed since you and I were young, but fathers and daughters, specially policemen-”

I yelped. “Paul!”

“Smokin‘ those sweet cigarettes too,” he added in the same reflective tone. “The kind they used to have in the jazz clubs, way back.”

I stared at him in awe. “Paul, this is almost intelligent.”

He shrugged modestly. “Been doing some asking round,” he said. “Thought something might come to me sooner or later.” He paused. “That’s why I took a little time in there,” he added. “Wasn’t sure if I’d be able to persuade Louis to come over and see for himself.”

I gaped. “You brought Louis? While I was waiting outside?”

Paul nodded.

“Pretended I’d had my wallet taken in the bar. Made sure he got an eyeful.” Another pause. “His daughter was kissing Dessanges,” he explained. “That helped a bit.”

“Paul,” I declared, “You can dribble over every carpet in the house if you want to. You have my full permission.”

“I’d rather dribble over you,” said Paul, with an extravagant leer.

“Dirty old man.”

5.

Luc arrived at the Snack-Wagon the next day to find Louis waiting for him. The gendarme was in full uniform, his usually vague and pleasant face wearing an expression of almost military indifference. There was an object in the grass beside the wagon, something that looked something like a child’s trolley.

“Watch this,” said Paul to me from the window.

I left my place at the stove, where the coffee was just beginning to boil.

“Just you watch this,” said Paul.

The window was open a crack, and I could smell the smoky Loire mist as it rolled over the fields. The scent was nostalgic as burning leaves.

“Hé là!” Luc’s voice was quite clear where we stood, and he walked with the carefree assurance of one who knows himself to be irresistible. Louis Ramondin just stared at him impassively.

“What’s that he’s got with him?” I asked Paul softly, with a gesture toward the machine on the grass. Paul grinned.

“Just watch,” he advised.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Luc reached in his pocket for his keys. “Must be in a hurry for breakfast, hein? Been waiting long?”

Louis just watched him without a word.

“Listen to this.” Luc made an expansive gesture. “Pancakes, farmhouse sausage, egg and bacon à l’anglaise. Le breakfast Dessanges. Plus a big pot of my very blackest, very meanest café noirissime, because I can tell you’ve had a rough night.” He laughed. “What was it, hein? Stakeout at the church bazaar? Someone molesting the local sheep? Or was it the other way around?”

Still Louis said nothing. He remained quite still, like a toy policeman, one hand on the handle of the trolley-thing in the grass.

Luc shrugged and opened the Snack-Wagon door.

“I guess you’ll be a bit more vocal when you’ve had my breakfast Dessanges.”

We watched for a few minutes as Luc brought out his awning and the pennants that advertised his daily menus. Louis stood stolidly beside the Snack-Wagon, seeming not to notice. Every now and again Luc sang out something cheerful at the waiting policeman. After a time I heard the sounds of music from the radio.

“What’s he waiting for?” I demanded impatiently. “Why doesn’t he say something?”

Paul grinned. “Give him time,” he advised. “Never quick on the uptake, the Ramondins, but once you get them going…”

Louis waited fully ten minutes. By that time Luc was still cheery but bewildered, and had all but abandoned any attempt at conversation. He had begun to heat the cooking plates for the pancakes, his paper hat tilted jauntily back from his forehead. Then, at last, Louis moved. Not far-he simply went to the back of the Snack-Wagon with his trolley and vanished from sight.

“What is that thing, anyway?” I asked.

“Hydraulic jack,” replied Paul, still smiling. “They use them in garages. Watch.”

And as we watched the Snack-Wagon began to tilt forward, ever so slowly. Almost imperceptibly at first, then with a sudden lurch that brought Dessanges out of his galley quicker than a ferret. He looked angry, but he looked scared too, taken off balance for the first time in the whole of this sorry game, and I liked that look just fine.

“What the fuck d’you think you’re doing!” he yelled at Ramondin, half incredulous. “What is this?”

Silence. I saw the wagon tilt again, just a little. Paul and I craned our necks to see what was going on.

Luc glanced briefly at the wagon to make sure it wasn’t damaged. The awning hung askew and the trailer had tilted drunkenly, like a shack built on sand. I saw the look of calculation come back into his face, the careful, sharp look of a man who not only has aces up his sleeve, but who believes he owns the whole pack.

“Had me going there for a minute,” he said in that cheery, relentless voice. “Hey, you really had me going. Knocked me sideways, you might say.”

We heard nothing from Louis, but thought we saw the wagon tilt a little more. Paul found that from the bedroom window we could see the rear of the Snack-Wagon, so we moved for a better view. Their voices were thin but audible in the cool morning air.

“Come on, man,” said Luc, a flicker of nerves in his voice now. “Joke over. Okay? Get the wagon back on its feet again and I’ll make you my breakfast special. On the house.”

Louis looked at him. “Certainly, sir,” he said pleasantly, but the wagon tipped a little farther forward anyway. Luc made a rapid gesture toward it, as if to steady it.