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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Flawed Plans

Before retiring I'd set the bedside alarm for seven o'clock the following morning.
It woke me up with one of those horrible buzzing noises. To my surprise I found Sandy sleeping with me in my bed. She was naked and it was all very cramped, but I'd not noticed. I don't even think we had sex. At least I don't recall having sex, and I never asked, I was in too much of a rush to get away.
We got dressed quickly then went downstairs for breakfast. It was just bread, jam and lots of strong French coffee to wake us up. We then packed our bags and were on our way. The time was ten minutes to eight o'clock in the morning as we drove away from the hotel.
Boris's car was still there in the car park as we left, and that is how I wanted it to be. I looked at it this way. I could see no point in tailing the German all the way through France when I already knew where he was going to be. My plan was to beat him to Toulouse and wait for him there.
Here's a few facts. The distance from Paris to Toulouse is just over 700 kilometres, that's about 440 miles in real terms, and it takes almost a full day to get there. Most of the journey is covered by motorway, but there are gaps where the network is not yet complete. These gaps are mainly down south and close to Toulouse, and here you have to contend with local traffic as well as those drivers trying to make their way either north or south. At a couple of towns there is forever chaos and long queues, and there is nothing you can do about it but crawl along with the flow until you get to the other side. A town called Cahors is particularly bad to negotiate.
I won't bore you with any more details, except to tell you my foot was down all the way whilst on the motorways, and we only stopped whenever it was absolutely necessary. Sandy, when not sleeping, was very good. She did very little complaining, and kept her legs locked together for long periods at a time.
On the last service area before reaching Toulouse I was able to purchase a detailed town map of the French city. Whilst supping coffee and waiting for Sandy to come out of the loos, I took out Boris's business card for the stonemasons and looked on the map for a certain industrial zone. I found its location. Luckily it was marked on the map. It was to the south of the city.
Afterwards, with Sandy navigating we found our way to the industrial zone, we then followed the large signs at the side of the road that directed us to our final destination. We got there just before five o'clock.
Explaining how we got to Toulouse in just these few paragraphs may make you think that it was all very easy, but I assure you, in reality, it was very hard work. For starters, quite naturally, the map, the signposts, everything we looked at, was all in French, and neither Sandy nor I were exactly fluent in the language.
Secondly, the weather was foul. Absolutely horrid. For most of the second half of our journey we were travelling through driving rain. The spray on the motorway cut visibility down to just a few yards and I had the wipers going flat out for most of the time.
It was still raining heavily when I pulled up alongside the stonemasons. It was getting close to five o'clock. It was also very dark and overcast. There was a building at the front with offices facing a small car park. Behind was a much bigger warehouse type building, and beyond that was an area ringed by chain fencing. I drove around the back and parked my car in a parking area to an adjoining factory. It looked like they'd all gone home since the car park was empty. I got out of the car, put on my raincoat and walked across the road to the chain link fencing.
Standing inside the perimeter fencing were a great number of statues. Some were of angels and cherubs, and such like, and obviously destined for graveyards. But there were a few out there that looked like Greek or Roman gods. The only trouble was, they looked incomplete. Most were without heads, arms, or had some other part of the body missing. Others were on their sides with the plinths missing.
I went back to the car to collect a pair of binoculars. Returning to the chain fence I focused in on the little group of unfinished masonry. I now had a better view and could see what was happening. There were hollows in the statues, either within the trunk of the body or within the limbs themselves. A row of plinths nearby also looked as if they'd been hollowed out.
I was starting to get the picture. Boris was shipping out hollow statues with drugs hidden inside. Hendry was the recipient. The Dover to Dunkirk run was probably how the goods were coming into the country, and someone was being paid a back hander to let them through. At least that was my theory. The trouble was, I only had little bits of evidence and had no way of proving anything. These were just hunches and nothing more.
I told myself not to get involved. I was being paid to find Judy Jones not solving Harry Bell's case for him, and that brought me back to Boris. Somehow everything seemed to be interlinked. I pondered further. If drugs were reaching Toulouse and being sealed away in statues, then it was a fair bet that those drugs were coming in from North Africa, and the nearest point between North Africa and Europe was Spain.
I began to consider whether Boris had any links with Spain. There was one clue there. I knew for a fact that the German was a frequent visitor to a certain BDSM club in Barcelona, he told me so himself. So I asked myself, was there a connection there?
I guess at this point my head was in a spin. All I had were a lot of pieces to a jigsaw, yet I had no picture to work to. Somehow Barcelona, Boris, Spain, drugs, Hendry, the commercial ferry crossing, and even Judy Jones's knowledge of Spanish and the Christmas card all seemed to be part of that jigsaw. All I had to do was fit all the pieces together. I just hoped that my theory was correct and that I was not out on a wild goose chase.
I got back in the car. I was soaking wet.
"Well? What do we do now?" Sandy asked as I shook water all over her.
"We wait," I told her. "We wait for Boris to arrive and listen to what he's got to say."
Boris did arrive and he was only some thirty minutes behind us. I was looking around the corner of the building at the time, and I was also getting soaking wet. I returned to the car, shook water all over Sandy once more, then got my receiver going. I also set the thing recording just in case it may be needed for future reference.
Eventual I heard Boris's voice and I was a relieved man. I wasn't sure whether he would take his briefcase into the building with him. But luckily for me he had.
Now tell me if you can spot the one gaping flaw in all this careful planning? Because there certainly is one here.
 Sandy and I listened to the conversation for the first couple of minutes and then stared blankly at each other. Dear old Boris had switched to talking in perfect French. I don't know why I hadn't thought of this before. It seemed so obvious afterwards.
"What's he saying?" asked Sandy.
I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head.
"I haven't a clue," I confessed.
Anyway, I kept the recorder going and taped most of what was said. Eventually the briefcase clicked shut and after that it was impossible to hear anything clearly.
I switched off the receiver and put everything away.
"Come on Sandy, let's get out of here," I told her.
"Where to?" she asked.
I considered for a moment.
"Spain," I told her.
Sandy got out the road atlas.
"Anywhere in particular?" she asked.
I nodded my head.
"Yes, Barcelona," I told her.
For a while Sandy studied the road atlas spread out across her legs. It was at this point our route to Spain was decided. Or at least decided for me.
"Can we go through Andorra please Woody?" she asked with a touch of excitement to her voice.
Let me explain. We were to the south of Toulouse when all this was happening. If you trace a direct route on the map between our position and Barcelona, then you find yourself going over a considerable mountain range. These are called the Pyrenees. The alternative, if you don't like mountains, is to return to the north of the city, then head east as far as the Mediterranean, and thereafter follow the coastal route down through Spain. This alternative route is probably twice the distance and it also involves considerable sums of money on the toll roads. Now comes the salient point. Nestling on the top of the Pyrenees and almost directly midway between Toulouse and Barcelona is a small Principality called Andorra. It's a tax free haven and a shoppers paradise.
Immediately I agreed. I was in no particular rush to get anywhere.
"Why not Sandy? Andorra it must be then," I told her, "and perhaps we can get a hotel there for the night."
We set off with Sandy navigating. I had a fresh plan in mind. It was time to leave Boris behind and head for Barcelona. There I intended to visit the 'El Calabozo' club. I don't know why, but something deep down inside of me was compelling me to go.
We drove on quite happily through small French villages until we came to the foothills of the mountain range that towered before us. It was still raining, but not so heavily now. It was also dark and with all the cloud around the tops of the mountains could not be seen.
As we started to climb I must admit I had no notion of what lay ahead. It was only as we got a little higher and the rain started to turn to sleet, and then finally to snow, that I began to realise that there was probably another little flaw to our plans.
Finally, with slushy snow on the roads by now, we came face to face with a barrier. It was down across the road. I realised now why no one was driving this way. For a while we read the big sign alongside. It was in several different languages so we were able to read it. It told us in English that if the barrier was down, then the road up ahead was blocked and there was no point in continuing any further.
I looked to Sandy. It was getting late. The time was something like eight o'clock, we'd been on the road for twelve hours, and I'd been driving for most of that time.
I turned the car round and started to head back down the hill.
"We'll see if we can book into the first hotel we find," I told Sandy. "Then I guess in the morning well have to head back to Toulouse and take the coastal route."
The first hotel we came across was in a small village just a few kilometres back down the road. I stopped the car and we went inside.
This was not a big hotel and looked like a family run business. I was greeted by a man at the reception desk. He was French but had a good command of English. He told me that we were not the only people booking in for the night because the barrier was down. He told me he always does a good trade when the mountain passes are blocked. He also apologised and said that he was full up except for one room right up in the attic. It was a room he only used in emergencies and was not aired. He offered an alternative. Apparently, some twenty kilometres further back down the road was a town called Foix that had several hotels. He was pretty sure there would be vacancies there. He even said that he would phone ahead and find me a room if I preferred.
I looked to Sandy. Personally I did not want to do any more driving. I was shagged out.
"What do you think?" I asked her.
She yawned.
"Let's stop here Woody," she told me.
I turned to the man.
"Well take the attic room," I told him.
And that was it. We'd found ourselves a room for the night.

* * *

Now you may be wondering if any of this is relevant?
I guess you're probably thinking, so what? Woody and Sandy have found themselves a place to stay for the night. They're going to have a good bonk and then go to sleep.
Well, you're probably right. At least those were my exact sentiments as we booked into the hotel. It was what happened afterwards that becomes important, and I must say probably the most embarrassing time of my life. I even shudder at the thought now as I am about to tell you all about it.

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The hotel was a building that faced the one road that ran through the centre of the village. It was bounded on either side by other buildings of  similar standing. The entire village seemed to have an alpine look about it. The hotel was probably just a big house when it was first constructed, and was at least a couple of hundred years old, if not more. The building was only two rooms wide but was very high and had plenty of stairs. There were black and white beams everywhere and there was a genuine real old feeling to the place. To get to the attic we had to scale at least four very long and testing flights of stairs. Laden down with our overnight bags, most of them creaked and groaned as we made our way to the top.
The man showed us to our room. It was a lot different from the one in Paris. It had a big double four-poster bed, a very large old fashioned wardrobe, an equally large and solid dressing table, and a great carved chest with a lid that must have weighed a ton.
I was also impressed by the floor. There was no carpet other than a small rug alongside the bed, and the rest of the floor consisted of highly polished oak floorboards. They also looked very old, with cracks between the boards and knots and holes everywhere.
The toilets and bathroom were next door just along the corridor. But seeing that we were the only people living this far up into the roof they could be considered private and for our use only.
The man apologised that the room was cold and not aired, and he turned the radiator on. It was one of those big cast-iron old fashion radiators that hissed and knocked for several minutes before any heat came through. But eventually it grew hot and heat began to percolate the room.
After thanking the man and making ourselves comfortable, we went downstairs and had ourselves a meal. It was good French fare and we were served by the landlady. She was big and buxom and looked like she enjoyed a good meal or two herself. I guessed that was why the food was so tasty.
Anyway, we returned to our room feeling more than a little replete. The room had also warmed up considerably whilst we were away, and had a comfortable feeling about it as we entered.
Now for that embarrassing moment.
I've been putting it off as long as possible, but I guess, in the end, I've just got to tell you all about it, otherwise something that happens in another chapter later on will not make a whole lot of sense.
It all started when Miss nosy Sandra Miller decided to have a peek in the great chest positioned against the wall at the bottom of the bed. I told her to leave everything alone, but oh no, she just had to see what was inside.
"Oooo! Look at this Woody!" she said as she opened up the lid.
I watched from the bed, my head on the pillow, as she bent down inside and started to lift something out.
I was expecting to see something old. Perhaps a crinoline dress or something, but it turned out to be something quite modern. At first all I could tell was that it was something black and shiny. Then I could see that it was made of rubber. My next impression was that it was a diving wet suit. But all that changed when I saw the separate head piece.
"Put it away," I told Sandy. "You shouldn't be messing about in there. Those kinky things must belong to someone around here. They're probably the landlady's. They probably come up here to have a good romp when they're not busy in the hotel."
Sandy pulled a face and held the rubber suit to her front.
"It's just my size, look," she told me. "It can't belong to the landlady. She's ten times fatter than me."
On that point I had to agree. But that still did not warrant poking your nose into something that did not belong to us.
Sandy started to strip.
"What you doing?" I asked as a pullover came up and over her head.
"I'm going to try it on," she informed me.
I remember putting my head in my hands. Was this really happening to me?
"Must you?" I said after counting to ten.
Sandy held the rubber suit up so that I could see it once more.
"Look Woody, it's got holes for the nipples and the zip at the back goes right down and beneath the crotch," she explained, and then holding up the hood separately, she pointed to another zip that went over the top of the head, and said: "What happens is, you put the hood on first, the neck part then fits inside the rubber suit, and you then lock the two zips together at the back of the neck with this small padlock."
I could see what happened without the explanation, and I shook my head in despair.
"Great Sandy," I told her, "now put it all away. You shouldn't be messing around with that."
Sandy pulled a face and held the rubber suit against her body once more. I could tell that she wasn't going to give in easily. Sandy can be very stubborn when she wants to.
At that point duty called. I rose from the bed and moved to the door. I think all that wine from dinner had worked its way through and I was bursting for a piss. Anyway I left her clinging on to the rubber suit, but with strict instructions to put everything back in the chest.
I must have been away ten minutes. I realise now that I should have been much quicker, and I think you've already guessed what sight greeted me on my return to the room.
You've got it! Sandy was wearing the rubber outfit.
Now let me tell you, the hood looked like one of those gas masks you see in World War One pictures. It had big round glass eyes and a piggy type breathing filter over the mouth and nose. Sandy was sitting on the bed and teasing her nipples to erection through the holes at the front as I opened the door. I think she wanted to look her best for me.
On seeing me enter, she rose from the bed and held a pose with arms out from her sides.
I gave a little applause.
"Great! Now take it off and put it away," I told her once more.
A muffled voice came from within the suit. It was like someone talking into a tin can.
"Unlock me then Woody. The key's on the bed," it sounded like.
I found the little key and Sandy turned her back to me. I could see the small padlock at the nape of the neck and I lifted up the key towards the lock.
And that is when it happened.
The key was small and fiddley, and as I tried to put it into the lock it turned and slipped from my fingers. I tried to snatch at it on the way down, but that only made matters worse and it bounced away. I watched in agony as the key skidded across the polished floorboards, touched the edge of the one and only carpet in the room, then disappeared down a crack.
"Oh shit!" I called, then turned to Sandy and asked: "Is there another key? I've just lost that one."
I could tell by the look on Sandy's eyes through those big round glass circles in the hood that I'd just lost the one and only key.
Sandy's head shook and a tinny echoing voice replied: "No, that's the only one."
"Oh fucking shit!" I relied.
I knelt down and peered through the crack in the floorboards at the point where the key had disappeared. There was just darkness down there. There must have been a gap between the beams of at least two feet or more. The only way I could see of retrieving the key was rip up a couple of floorboards.
I looked up to Sandy.
"We're in trouble," I told her, "deep fucking trouble."
For a while we sat down together on the bed, and I had a closer look at the little padlock and its moorings. The only conclusion I could come to was, that without destroying the suit there was no way out other than by removing the padlock.
I had to think how best to go about this. Basically I had two choices. I could either cut Sandy out with a pair of scissors, or raise up the floorboards and retrieve the key. Either way it needed the consent of the landlord. I didn't want to mutilate his best play suit or his floor without his permission, and I was willing to pay for either. There was also a third alternative. The landlord might have a spare key.
"It's no good," I told Sandy, "I've just got to go and tell the landlord."
I held Sandy's hand for a while for comfort, then gave her a kiss on the snout.
"Don't worry Sandy, I'll get you out of there one way or the other," I promised.
I found the landlord. He was just locking up and putting everything away. I asked him to come to my room. I didn't tell him why. I thought the sight of Sandy in her rubber suit would explain the predicament far better than I could ever put into words.
On entering the room I think the Landlord's mouth dropped and he stood silent and mesmerised for a few seconds. I didn't blame him. I think I would have done exactly the same thing under the circumstances.
"I've lost the key and I can't get her out," I explained in my meekest voice.
I think at the time I just wanted to curl up and die.
The man began to laugh as his own paralysis wore off.
"You have been in the chest?" he told me.
I nodded my head. Why do people always have to ask the most obvious questions?
"Afraid so," I told him with an inevitable shrug to my shoulders.
This was getting so embarrassing. If I had a gun I would have shot myself right there and then.
"And your lady has put the suit on?" he added.
I think that too was bleeding obvious, and I just shrugged my shoulders again. Why couldn't I just have a heart attack there and then and get it over with?
"Well, yes she did," I told him, and in my defence I added: "But I told her not to."
The man rubbed his chin and began to weigh up the situation.
"And you have lost the key?" he enquired.
I nodded my head. I just wanted to die.
"It's gone down a crack in the boards," I told him. "I was thinking you might have a spare key handy."
The man shook his head.
"Sorry, but the suit is not mine," he explained. "It was left behind by a couple that stayed here over a year ago now. My wife put it in the chest for safe keeping. But I don't think they will ever return."
Well that explained the ten sizes too small, but what it didn't do was get us out of the situation. Though it did open out one prospect. If no one claimed ownership of the suit, then mutilation was a definite starter.
"Have you got a big pair of scissors so that I can cut the suit away?" I asked.
The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. I guess he had, but he also had another idea.
"Where did the key go?" he asked.
I took him to the edge of the carpet and the crack that swallowed up the key.
"It went down just here," I told him.
The man nodded his head and stared at the crack in the floorboards.
"Then there is a possibility we might find the key," he told me.
I wondered just what he meant by that. Then looked on as he drew back the small carpet. I think my mouth dropped this time. There was a trap door beneath the rug.
"This was secret hideaway during the war," he explained as he lifted the trap. "The resistance used it to hide British pilots and escaped prisoners under here. That chest of drawers was on top at the time."
I moved in close and together we peered down into the blackness. There was a gap beneath the floorboards of about two feet. It was big enough for people to lie down in and hide.
I lay down on the floor and stuck my head right inside. If the key was to land anywhere, it would be somewhere close to the trap door. I weighed up where the crack was and scoured a spot directly underneath. It was very dusty down there, but what I could see was a little circle, something like a moon crater in the dust. I looked more closely, and I could see the key. It was right in the middle of the crater.
I leaned right inside and stretch out my hand. My fingers touched the key and I gathered it in.
I returned to the room with a smile on my face and clutching the key tightly. There was no way I was going to drop it again.
I stood up and the man returned the hatch. I thanked him madly. It's impossible to tell you just how relieved I was.
"Thank you," I said. "You just don't know how much this means to me."
The man repositioned the rug. He was smiling too.
"It was nothing," he told me.
I disagreed.
"It certainly was," I told him, "and I'll make sure she puts the suit back in the chest."
The man looked to Sandy sat on the edge of the bed. Her nipples were protruding through the holes and I started to feel embarrassed again. He turned to speak to her.
"If you like the suit that much my dear, then you may keep it," he told her. "I doubt whether the owners will ever come back for it, and if they do, then I'll tell them my wife got rid of it."
Speaking from inside the piggy shaped snout, I heard Sandy say: "Why thank you. I would love to take it with me."
"Then you must do that," the man agreed.
They actually shook hands on the deal. All I could do was stand alongside the bed with my head in my hands and wanting to disappear down a crack in the floorboards.
Anyway, after that the landlord left the room, but not before saying: "And try not to lose the key again. You might not be so lucky next time."
I think in reality he wanted to scuttle away and tell his wife. I was betting that by morning the whole of this small village would know what had gone on at his hotel.
I could hear them all muttering now: "English couple… in attic room… kinky rubber suit… lost key… had to ask landlord for help."
As the door closed I turned to Sandy and told her with a little urgency to my voice: "Let's get that padlock undone and get you out of there."
This time I did not drop the key and together we peeled the suit away.
Standing naked, and with a strong hint of rubber lingering on the skin, Sandy threw her arms about my neck and gave me a big kiss.
"Thanks Woody," she said as our lips parted.
I picked her up and dumped her on the bed.
"There's a much better way you can thank me," I told her.
Sandy was giggling as I dived down on top of her.

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End of Chapter Seventeen