by
Nosbert
* * *
CHAPTER
TEN - Pigalle
The following morning, at
sometime around nine o’clock when the offices of a well known travel agency
opened, I was on the phone and arranging tickets to Paris via Eurostar.
With a bit of persuasion and a
sense of urgency, I managed to get a train leaving Waterloo Station at 1:30pm
that afternoon. I also got a hotel booked for three nights in Paris. To be
quite honest I only wanted two nights, but when I was told that I could have
the third night free, I took up the offer. Furthermore, the hotel, I was
informed, was not far from the station, and to make the whole operation even
simpler, the travel agency arranged for the tickets and travellers cheques to
be collected at one of their offices close to Waterloo Station. What a service!
That took me just fifteen minutes to organise, and that was the easy part.
After that I had to explain everything to Sandy and Anthea.
I phoned my cottage first and
got no reply. I then tried Sandy’s mobile. Anthea answered. “Hello,” she said
simply.
From the background drone of
an engine, and the occasional squealing of tyres, I figured they were already
on their way and with Sandy at the wheel. I took comfort from the fact that my
car was still mobile. But when the tyres squealed again I was wondering for how
much longer? Anyway, I tried not to think about it. Having made contact I now
had some smooth talking to do. “Hi sweetheart,” I said in my most tender of
voices. “How you doing?”
There was crackle and static
on the line and the poor reception suggested they were still out in the country
somewhere, possibly not far from home. “Hello darling, we’ve just left and
we’re on our way,” Anthea explained.
I smiled. I’d reasoned
correctly, and ‘just left’ told me they were a good five, maybe six hours away.
With Sandy’s weak bladder it could be even longer. It was all dependent on how
many stops they had to make. Anyway, by the time they arrived, the truth was,
I’d be over on the other side of the Channel and hurtling towards Paris. “Look
sweetheart, I’m not going to be here when you arrive,” I told her. “But I’ve
booked you a room at a hotel. It’s at ‘The Elms’, it’s right on the corner
before you get to Hendry’s. Can you make your way there?”
There was hesitation. I knew
Anthea wasn’t the best in the world at navigating, nor for that matter finding
anything. Even locating her slippers in the morning was a problem. But it was
no use explaining to Sandy. She’d never been to Hendry’s so wouldn’t have a
clue. “I think I know the place,” Anthea said hesitantly.
I didn’t want to push the
matter. She could always ask a policeman. “Good,” I told her, “Now listen,
there’s something I want you to do for me and it’s most important.”
“What’s that then Woody?” she
asked.
I had a plan of sorts worked
out, something I couldn’t do by myself, and I put it to Anthea. “I want you to
get friendly with Fernando. Super friendly like. Bonk the pants off him if need
be. I want you to find out what makes the guy tick. I’ve never seen him
involved in bondage or male domination, and he’s recently took on a resident
dominatrix at the club. Perhaps he’s bent that way? Anyway, I want you to find
out what turns him on, and do it without me being around. That’s important.
Will you do that for me sweetheart?” I asked, and reiterating: “It’s most
important.”
There was further hesitation.
I swear I could hear the cogs whirring inside her head. “Yes,” she answered
cautiously, “but where will you be Woody? why are you keeping out of the way?”
This was the bit I dreaded.
The last thing I wanted to tell her was that I was off to Paris without either
her or Sandy. “Top secret,” I told her, “but I promise I’ll tell you all about
it later. I should only be away a few of days. I’ll be back on Friday for
certain.”
Again a delay. “All right
Woody,” she agreed, “we’ll find the hotel and wait for you there, and I’ll get
flirty with Fernando for you. But what about Sandy? What does she do?”
To be quite honest I’d not considered
Sandy anywhere in my plans. I thought quickly. “Tell you what sweetheart,” I
said, “introduce her to the club. She’s not been there before. Maybe she can
earn a bob or two. It might be a good way of introducing yourselves to Fernando
without me being involved. Try it and see anyway.”
“Mmmm,” replied Anthea, “so I
take Sandy along to Hendry’s, get to see Fernando and then see what I can find
out about the guy? Find out whether he’s either AC or DC, dominant or
submissive, that sort of thing, and fuck him if necessary?” she queried.
I had to smile. How many girls
could you talk to that would be willing to drop their knickers to anyone just
for a favour? I tell you, Anthea is something special. “That’s it sweetheart,
the whole works. I need to know,” I confirmed. “Do that for me and when I get
back I’ll tie you to the bed and keep fucking you until you shout stop!”
Anthea laughed. “You’ve
promised me that before and it’s never happened yet,” she giggled.
I know it hadn’t. Stop wasn’t
a word in Anthea’s vocabulary. “Well this time I will,” I told her.
There was another giggle.
“We’ll see big boy,” she said.
I decided to leave the
conversion there. I was doing all right, and there’d been no mention of Paris.
However, there was one final thing I needed to say. “Oh, and sweetheart,” I
told her. “You two are booked into the hotel as my wife and her sister. There’s
a double room and a single room booked in my name. Try not to disillusion the
dear old lady who runs the place. She’s a bit frail and probably won’t stand
too many shocks. You decide who’s wife and who’s sister, and try to act the
parts.”
Anthea laughed. “She won’t
like to find us sleeping in the same bed then?” she suggested.
I laughed, but I had a
different image in mind. “I was thinking more like finding one of you tied to
the bedposts next morning,” I told her, “so be careful what you’re up to.”
Anthea chuckled at the
thought. “Would we ever do a thing like that?” she said jokingly.
I decided to end the
conversation whilst we were still both laughing. It seemed the best thing to do
before anymore awkward questions could be asked. “Bye then sweetheart, give my
love to Sandy as well, and I’ll see you in a couple of days time,” I said then
switched off my mobile. After that I packed my travel bag and called a taxi to
take me to Waterloo Station.
* * *
Boarding Eurostar was a bit
like boarding a plane. There were Passports and Immigration Controls, Customs
and Security Checks, and even machines to X-ray your baggage. But right on time
the train was there to board, and dead on the dot we pulled silently out of the
station. I was impressed by the quietness and smoothness of the ride. I also
had my own carriage and seat number identified by my ticket, so I had no
problem in that department either. I settled down, relaxed and decided this was
the only way to travel to Paris.
About an hour later we stopped
at Ashford in Kent where further passengers got on. We then set off again. Soon
afterwards we were passing through the Channel Tunnel. I must say I didn’t
notice until everything went black outside. For half an hour you’re travelling
in the dark. It’s just like travelling at night really. Then all of a sudden
you’re back in daylight again. After that things really start to hot up. The
lines over on the French side of the Channel are designed for high speed, and
soon you are travelling at 300 kilometres per hour. (Almost 200 miles per
hour.) For long stretches the railway lines follow a motorway. I can tell you
the traffic looks stationary when you’re going over 100 miles an hour faster.
From London to Paris took just
three hours, but you have to add on one more hour for Central European Time. It
was 5:30pm, Paris time when I stepped off the train at the Gare Du Nord. After
that I was lost and I just drifted along with the milling crowd. I ended up in
a taxi rank and found myself queuing along with hundreds of other people. I
estimated I had at least thirty minutes wait before it was my turn, so I decided
this was not for me and pulled out of the queue. I then drifted on back into
the station where I found an unoccupied bench and sat down.
Along with all my travel
documents I’d received a complimentary street map of Paris. I took it out and
began to familiarise myself with a city I’d always wanted to visit but never
actually got around to seeing. On my previous case I’d actually reached the
outskirts of Paris when staying at a hotel with Sandy, but that was closest I’d
ever got. (See Submissive Work.) Anyway, I was buzzing with excitement.
Having worked out the location
of my hotel and in which direction to head, I set off walking at a gentle pace.
I was travelling light anyway and only had enough clothes in my travel bag for
three nights.
Outside the station the sun
was shining and the sky above me blue. The temperature was also several degrees
warmer than London. It was at this point I had my first encounter with Paris
traffic. Without a care in the world I came to a road junction controlled by
traffic lights. Like the good citizen I am, I waited for the green man to
appear then stepped out into the road. It was at this point I had a rude
awakening. I heard the squeal of tyres, jumped back, and it was a good thing I
did too. For just two inches away from my kneecap was the front bumper of a
car. Immediately I leapt back on the pavement and felt my heart pounding. I
watched the man in the car remonstrate to me, and I think I even said sorry,
despite seeing the green man still visible over on the other side of the
crossing. Anyway, after waving his arms about a lot and slapping his forehead,
the man drove off. I then gave him two fingers.
The next time the green man
came round I’d worked out a different strategy. This time I ran for all I was
worth, and I must say I got to the other side just in time. It was a bus on
this occasion that nearly got me. I decided from then on to remain on my side
of the road, and treat the opposite side as some distant foreign land that was
impossible to reach.
I found my hotel and booked
in. It was down a one-way back street. The room was small but there was only me
so it didn’t matter. I showered and shaved, then, after a slight rest on the
bed, I set off again.
The time was about seven
o’clock in the evening when I stepped out of my hotel. The late summer sun was
still shining brightly and the weather quite warm.
I had two reasons for visiting
Paris. One was to check out the manufacturer of that chair. The other was to
glean a little bit more information on the shipping agents that transported
that chair to London. I didn’t expect the chair manufacturer to be a major
player in this intrigue. However the trail from Paris to London by the shipping
agents, ‘Europa Container Transport’, was of great interest to me. I was
beginning to think my earlier visit to Dundee pretty unfruitful until I saw
that van turn up at Hendry’s. It could have been pure coincidence that two
delivery vans, both from the same Company, turn up outside the ‘Pilliwinks’ in
Dundee and Hendry’s in London, but somehow I doubted it. In the detective game
you get these feelings, and I was playing the ‘the law of averages’ game. There
were too many ‘pure coincidences’ to be a coincidence, if you see what I
mean!
Anyway, the address of the
chair manufacturer was to the south of the city and I had plans to visit this
place tomorrow. So this evening, with time on my hands, I decided to go out and
enjoy the Parisian night life.
* * *
I walked for while, and even
though I was down a back street I found myself at a bustling five-way junction.
There was a restaurant on one of the corners, so I took a vacant seat at a
small round table outside. There were many restaurants about and I could have
opted for any one of them. But I must admit I chose this one because I liked
the views and not particularly the fine fare being served up. For over an hour
I sat outside, ate my meal, supped a bottle of wine and watched the world go
by.
Feeling replete I set off
again. The time would be about 8:30 pm by now. After a while and wondering
exactly where I was, I took out my trusty street map and checked the road names
about me. To my surprise, and you’ve got to believe me here, I discovered that
I was no more than stone’s throw away from the Pigalle district of Paris. Being
one not to miss a golden opportunity, I set off in that general direction. Ten
minutes later I found myself right in the heart of this notorious red-light
district.
At this time in August there
was still some daylight left, but the sun was setting fast by now and I knew it
to be dark soon. I took advantage of the last of the daylight and took a stroll
around. The Pigalle district is an interesting place. It’s a lively, bustling
area full of ordinary shops, bars and restaurants all intermingled with the sex
trade. There’s a greengrocers next to a shop that sells sex toys, a mini
supermarket next to a revue bar and even an Internet café next to a shop that
sells sex magazines and videos. However, one street worthy of a special mention
is the ‘Boulevard de Clichy’, where both sides of the road are lined with
erotica shops and striptease parlours.
I strolled around for some
while, just looking, observing and feeling like a tourist. Famous places I’d
heard of flashed their bright neon signs at me. Trendy night-spots such as the
‘Moulin Rouge’, ‘La Locomotive’ and ‘Elysee Montmartre’ came into view, and at
each I stopped to read the notices and look at the pictures outside.
One other establishment worthy
of a mention here is the ‘Musee de l’Erotisme’. It’s big building on seven
levels and full of things like - and I quote from a brochure here - stimulating
sexual aids from days gone by. In all it boasts some 2000 titillating objects
including erotic art both antique and new from all corners of the world. I was
tempted to go inside, but without Sandy and Anthea with me to enjoy the
experience, I just picked up a leaflet from outside and moved on.
Eventually I found myself
walking up a back street with a very steep climb. (At this point in Paris you
are not very far away from Montmartre and the Sacre-Coeur, and that is right on
top of a very steep hill.) Anyway, I guess I was about halfway up when I came
to stand outside a strip-joint that could be best described as a little less
upmarket than those establishments at the bottom of the hill.
For a while I stood and looked
at the pictures outside. They were blatantly advertising ‘Kinky Sex’, something
you could never find in London where everything has to be kept discreet. That’s
the difference between our two cultures. The French are open and honest about
these things, whilst we in Britain try to keep everything under wraps. Such a
pity really, but until some government decides to grasp the nettle and do
something about it, then I guess we’re stuck with all the restrictive
legislation that throttles our own sex industry.
Anyway, once outside, I
continued to do the same thing I’d been doing all evening. I stopped to look at
a collection of photographs in a glass display frame. It was here I noticed
something interesting. I found myself staring at one photograph in particular.
It was a bit like a scene from the film ‘Cabaret’, with the Master of
Ceremonies (Joel Grey I think!) dressed in a bowler hat, striped waistcoat and
a heavily made up face, and behind him stood a group of eight girls all in
various degrees of undress. Not very interesting I hear you say, but let me
tell you, that man at the front looked very much like Pierre Renard. The
trouble was, with all that dreadful makeup and a photograph faded by the sun, I
could quite easily have been mistaken. I studied more closely, but still could
not be sure. If this was Pierre, then it was an awfully young Pierre.
I looked to my watch. The time
was about half past nine by now. Up until this point I’d had no intention of
going inside anywhere. But now, having seen that photograph, I’m afraid my
curiosity got the better of me. I straightened up my necktie, brushed down my
suit then walked in through the doors.
I was greeted by a man in a
black suit complete with the mandatory dickie bow. It’s funny really, but
before I’d even opened my mouth the guy had worked out that I was English. “Sir
is looking for a good time?” he queried.
I nodded my head. “If this is
the sort of place I’m looking for, then I am,” I replied.
The man smiled. “You want good
company? A nice girl,” he asked.
I nodded again. “Preferably
one that speaks English,” I put to him.
The man moved to behind a
small reception desk close to the door. “We have girls that speak English, that
is no problem sir,” he confirmed, then got down to talking money. “Admission is
eighty Euros.”
That’s about fifty pounds,
which I assumed reasonable even though I didn’t know what I was getting. Before
leaving my hotel I’d cashed all my travellers cheques, so I opened up my wallet
and took out a one-hundred Euro note. I then noticed, along with a pile of
leaflets on the counter, the club was selling postcards. I thumbed through them
fast and came to the one in the display case outside. I put it to one side.
“How much are these?” I asked.
“Five Euros each,” answered
the man.
I quickly sorted out another
three. “I’ll take these four,” I told him, then handed him my one hundred Euro
note.
The man cashed the money then
gestured with his hands for me to follow him through a set of double doors. I
put the postcards in an inside pocket and set off behind him.
I found myself in a smoke
filled room. French tobacco smells different. It’s much stronger than English
and the smoke seems to hang about in the air without thinning. I cut my way
through the smog and found myself being directed to a small bar in one corner.
As I passed a line of tables I could see that they were all occupied by
couples, mainly ageing men accompanied by scantily dressed females twenty years
their younger. Then I guess I saw the funny side. In all probability I was
about to join them.
I was taken to a stool next to
the bar and asked to sit down. “If sir waits here I will get someone who speaks
English to see you,” he informed me. “In the meantime you enjoy a drink
please.”
I looked behind the bar. There
were no optics but I could see a bottle of Famous Grouse whisky on a shelf.
“Fine, thank you,” I said. “I will enjoy a whisky whilst I wait.”
The man gave a knowing smile,
nodded his head then did a little bow. He then disappeared into the swirling
blue haze that filled the dimly lit room. About five minutes later a woman
drifted up to my side. Her hair was blonde, but the dark roots suggested this
was not her natural colour. She was also getting on a bit. I put her in her
mid-thirties, but all the same she was blessed with good looks and a fine body.
She was wearing a dressing gown and very little else. At least the way the gown
was provocatively open at the front suggested that she was only wearing bra and
panties underneath. She sat down on a stool next to mine, lit up a cigarette,
blew smoke in the air, then gave me a smile. “Sir is looking for someone that
speaks English?” she queried.
I nodded my head. “It helps if
I can communicate,” I told her.
The woman blew another puff of
smoke into the air, then collected a drink from the bar which the barman had
just poured. It looked like a Martini with ice and a slice of lemon hooked on
the side. Suddenly I had visions of a French Anthea. I turned to face the
barman. He was looking at me and I realised he was waiting to get paid. I
tested out my French. “Combien, s’il vous plait?” I asked.
There, you see, I do know a
little bit of French, even though on this occasion it wasn’t really necessary.
From my earlier encounter with the barman, when I ordered my whisky, I was well
aware that he spoke perfectly good English. I’d also not paid him anything as
yet, so I guess he was wanting to collect the money before I ran up a massive
bill. “That will be twenty Euros Sir,” he informed me.
I tried not to smile. Twenty
Euros was about fifteen pounds, and this, compared with Hendry’s was cheap. The
identical round - that’s a double whisky and a Martini with ice and lemon -
back in England, would have cost me twenty pounds. I paid the man then got to
talking with my allotted companion for the evening.
I found out that her name was
Angelique and that she originated from Provence, which is French Department
down south somewhere close to the Mediterranean, and had come to the big city
to seek her fortune when she was just sixteen. She didn’t say twenty years ago,
but I guessed that was about the time scale she was alluding to.
One other interesting fact to
emerge was that she’d been working at this club for most of that time, and she
was quite open about why she had been doing so. Basically it paid the rent. She
was forthcoming too about her relationship with me. I was offered sex, kinky or
straight and the charge was dependant on what services I had. She rattled off a
list of charges; hand job so many Euros, blow job something else, right up to
full sex where anything goes including bondage and whipping. This apparently
was how she and all the other girls at this establishment made their money.
There were rooms upstairs where she would take me.
Now I wasn’t exactly rushing
for anything on offer. What I really wanted was a little bit of information as
regards a certain photograph pinned to the board outside. I extracted the
postcards from my pocket and showed them Angelique. “I bought these tonight,” I
told her, “do you know any of these people?”
Angelique looked through all
four photographs then nodded her head slowly. She pointed to a face on a
photograph. “This one is me,” she replied and turning the photo round so that I
could see.
To my surprise I found her
pointing to a youthful looking girl stood just behind the man in a striped
waistcoat and bowler hat. To be quite honest I didn’t recognise her. It was
only when she pointed herself out did I see any resemblance. I pointed to the
man at the front of the picture. “And this man?” I said. “Who is he?”
Angelique stared hard at the
photograph. “He worked here once,” she told me, “but he is gone now.”
What I was fishing for was a
name, and possibly where he might be found. I’d done a little bit of
calculating. Angelique and Pierre were about the same age; both in their
mid-thirties. I estimated this photograph was taken when Angelique was in her
early twenties, and that is what I found most interesting, for the man in the
picture also appeared to be of a similar age, which strengthened my belief that
this was Pierre.
I looked to Angelique as if
waiting for a little more information to be forthcoming, but nothing came. In
the end she handed the four postcards back to me. I could tell that she had
been struggling to think back that far. You often get these mental blocks when
interviewing in the police force and there are techniques for helping the
memory return. The trouble was, when sitting on a barstool with the barman
listening in on the conversation, these were not the ideal conditions to
conduct such an interview. So I put away the postcards in my pocket and made a
decision. “Shall we go to a room?” I asked.
Angelique looked relieved and
slid down from her stool. “Oui,” she answered, then rattled off something in
French to the barman.
I guess we’d spent half an
hour together with no money changing hands, and that must have been bad for
business. Anyway, out of all the words spoken to the barman, the name champagne
stuck out as the one word I recognised. I looked on as an ice bucket appeared,
then the ice, and followed by a bottle of bubbly. The bucket was then pushed
towards me along with two champagne glasses. “That will be eighty Euros Sir,” I
was told. That’s something like fifty pounds for a bottle of champagne. But I
didn’t grumble, I was getting used to club prices by now. I paid the man.
Angelique collected the glasses, I carried the ice bucket, and we set off for a
private room of our own.
* * *
The rooms were on the floor
above. Basically we’d entered a bedroom with a double bed, a single chair and
chest of drawers, and that was about all there was. Furthermore, the windows
were open and there weren’t any curtains. I could hear the drone of cars and
the hubbub of people talking from out on the street below. But it wasn’t the
activity down below I was worried about, it was the windows across the street.
There were lights on and people moving about. I placed the ice bucket on the
chest of drawers and popped open the champagne. Angelique slid the two glasses
alongside and I filled them to the top. I then offered a glass to Angelique,
and we touched glasses and toasted.
I took a sip of my champagne
then looked about the room. As I mentioned before, there wasn’t much to see,
just a few sparse pieces of furniture, and the only evidence of bondage were a
couple of white ropes hung over the headboard of the bed. There was also one of
those feather dusters with a short cane and bright pink feathers resting on the
top of the bed. In my naïvety, and possibly because my mind was on other things
at the time, I assumed someone had been tidying the room and dusting cobwebs
from the corners before we arrived.
Trying to think how best to
handle the situation, I moved to the top of the bed and absent-mindedly picked
up the feather duster. I then proceeded to dust the headboard. Angelique
giggled and I gave a look that suggested I needed to be let into the secret.
She let me know. “You are into
tickling? Oui?” she asked.
Suddenly the penny dropped. I
told you I wasn’t thinking. “Tickling? That is what this is for?” I asked in
return.
Angelique nodded her head. “My
previous client. It is what he likes. To be tied up and tickled. It is what you
say… a fetish… Oui?” she explained.
I had an idea. I wasn’t after
sex, I was looking for information. I wasn’t into being tickled either, but
with the roles reversed, then I could see great possibilities. I decided to put
this on a commercial basis. After all, that is what we were here for. I nodded
my head. “A fetish, yes, that is what we say in English, and I’m into it. But
not to me, but to you. How much for me to tie you up and tickle you?” I asked.
Angelique rubbed her chin
thoughtfully. I guess she was considering how much she could take me for, not
whether she was willing to let it happen. “Two hundred Euros,” she told me
after giving the matter some thought.
As ever I did a quick
calculation. She was asking for something like one-hundred and twenty pounds.
It seemed a bit steep to me, but really I had no option other than accept. I
nodded my head. “That’s fine by me,” I told her.
Angelique held out a hand to
get paid. I guess money up front was the way things were handled in this trade,
so I opened up my wallet and handed her two crisp one-hundred Euro notes. She
slid the money firstly into a small purse, then deposited it into the top
drawer of the chest of drawers. She then turned to me. “How do you want me
then?” she asked.
I collected the two lengths of
rope from off the headboard and ran them through my hands. “On the bed,” I told
her.
Angelique undid the belt of
her dressing gown to reveal a lacy black bra and matching panties. “You want me
with my clothes off? Oui?” she asked.
I nodded my head. If I was
paying two-hundred Euros to tickle her all over, then I wanted my money’s
worth. “Yes please,” I agreed, then waited.
Angelique removed what little
else she wore, then stood upright so that we faced each other across the bed.
For a few seconds I just stood to enjoy the view. A trim figure, two well
rounded and firm breasts, and a little mound of black curly hair greeted me.
Even though I’d suspected all along, the fact that she was not a natural blonde
became obvious to me now.
I pulled myself together and
told myself this was business not pleasure. “Sit down on the bed please, and
face the other way, then put your hands behind your back,” I told her.
She did as she was told. I
then leant across the bed and used one of the pieces of rope to bind her wrists
together. It was a fairly lengthy piece of rope and I applied several turns
before finishing off with a tight knot. “Now lie down on the bed,” I told her.
Angelique did as instructed
and moved to lie down on the bed with her head resting on the pillow. She
shuffled about a bit until she felt comfortable with her arms tied beneath her.
I then used the second piece of rope to bind her ankles. Once more the rope was
long and it took many turns before it was all used up. I then knotted the two
ends tightly together. Afterwards I let her settle and get comfortable on the
bed before I started.
Armed with my feather duster,
I started in the middle, Angelique’s belly-button being the initial target. I
then spread outwards in every increasing circles until the lower parts of the
breasts and that little mound of black pubic hairs were reached. I then
concentrated on the tits and nipples. By the look on Angelique’s face I got the
impression that she was enjoying the sensation. At least there were no signs of
anguish or pain.
After a while I traced a line
down the centre of her body and then along the legs until I came upon the toes.
First contact with the soles of the feet revealed Angelique’s weakness. She
writhed at the touch and her face became distorted. There was also the hint of
a little French giggle in there somewhere. “Is this the spot?” I asked and
giving her some more grief with the duster.
This time she did giggle.
“You’re tickling me!” she exclaimed.
True, I was; and now that I’d
found the spot I was ready. They reckon tickling is a form of Chinese torture.
Well I was about to test out that theory. I wanted a bit of information and I
wasn’t going to let up until I got it. “I’m going to play a little game now,” I
told her.
Angelique looked bemused, so I
went on to explain. I took the four postcards from out of my inside pocket and
showed her the one with the Master of Ceremonies at the front. “Downstairs you
were telling me about this photograph,” I put to her, “you were saying you were
this girl stood at the back. Now if you want to stop being tickled, then I want
you to tell me about this gentleman at the front. You said that he’d left, that
he no longer worked here. That’s fine, but I want you to tell me his name and
where he went to from here. So think hard and try to remember, and perhaps this
might help you think.”
And with that I started to
concentrate on the soles of her feet. Angelique writhed and giggled as the pink
feathers got to work. I wasn’t sure whether this ruse was going to work. It’s
not exactly text book interrogation, but I was pursuing a line that suggested I
was simply doing it for a bit of fun. I was considering the fall-out
afterwards. If Angelique passed on details of what went on between us to
someone in the trade, it might get into the wrong hands and people would start
asking questions?
Anyway, I don’t think any of
the intrigue was necessary, thirty seconds of intense tickling made her focus
her mind. “Pierre,” she bleated, “his name was Pierre. But he left a long time
ago.”
I smiled. Pierre was the name
I was looking for. But I needed a little more information yet. “And his second
name? You must remember that?” I urged with an added flurry of activity with
the duster.
Angelique wriggled on the bed
in an effort to avoid the feathers, but I persisted and had no intention of
relinquishing now. “His second name?” I asked again.
“Err… errr…. Ren… Ren… Renard…
I think,” she told me between goggles.
For a moment I stopped
tickling and took stock. I’d suspected this all along, but somehow I just
didn’t expect the answer. Pierre possibly, people tended to retain their
Christian names. But why had he not changed his Surname and taken up some sort
of alias? This puzzled me, especially now that he was part of the French Secret
Service. I would have thought it was the first thing they would have done.
I took up the tickling once
more. A little more intensely now. There was one more piece of information I
thought might prove useful. Somewhere along the line Pierre must have moved on
to join the Police Force, or the Army, or Special Branch, or something similar.
It would have been a logical career move towards the position he now held. As
far as I was concerned, that would clear him, and I could concentrate on what
really took place on the night Fatima was kidnapped.
“Good,” I praised, then with
an added flurry of activity with the duster, I asked: “Now where did he go to
from here? Can you remember?”
Angelique writhed and giggled
some more. I wasn’t certain that it was the sort of thing she would remember.
Especially since the incident must have occurred some fifteen years beforehand.
“I think… I think…,” she said, “I think he went to Spain… I think it was
Barcelona.”
I stopped tickling and stood
rigid. This revelation I certainly was not expecting and I was shocked. But
then on further reflection, perhaps it did make some sense after all. But I
wasn’t thinking about that possible career move anymore, I was thinking more in
the lines of a chain of safe houses that spread from the North African coast
right up to Dundee in Scotland.
After that I tickled some
more, but my heart wasn’t in it, and I didn’t get anymore useful information
out of her.
Eventually I untied her and we
sat on the bed together finishing off the bottle of champagne. I must admit I
liked Angelique. I think I mentioned before, I saw reflections of Anthea in
her. I think if I’d have been born French, then our paths were destined to meet
anyway.
I left her with a big kiss and
an extra two-hundred Euros for her troubles. Just call me a big softy if you
like.
* * *
I walked back to my hotel
wondering just what I’d achieved, and whether any of the information gathered
was relevant. After seeing Pierre perform so well on stage, and comparing it
with my own ham performance at Hugo’s, I’d always knew that he must have gained
his vast experience from somewhere: And now I knew: That experience started
right here, in a seedy Paris night club, some fifteen years beforehand. But
what intrigued me more was the fact that he had forsaken Paris for Barcelona.
As I walked the City streets
in search of my hotel, I kept asking myself, was it possible Pierre ended up at
the ‘El Calabozo’ BDSM club in Barcelona? And, over the last fifteen years,
could he have moved up through the ranks and gone on to much bigger things?
Things like running and organising a very elaborate Submissive Trade operation?
It was a possibility, but like everything else in this case, I had no proof. To
add to my problems, Pierre was the one person in this entire affair with the
perfect alibi, which made it all the more complicated to unravel. Somehow that
missing fifteen minutes on the night of Fatima’s abduction kept coming back to
haunt me.
When I eventually found my
hotel, I spent most of the night staring up at the ceiling and trying to piece
together all the little bits of information I’d gathered thus far.
In the end I concluded that I
was no nearer solving the mystery than I was before. The answer still lay in
those unaccounted for fifteen minutes. Solve that riddle and I would have the
answer.
* * *
End of Chapter Ten