Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (13 page)

  Serge was jubilant as he climbed back in beside me and banged his good hand enthusiastically on the dashboard as we drove through the gate and followed Bruno's car across rolling parklands, through a small wood to emerge on a track crossing a rambling, overgrown garden. There were pitted pathways sprouting weeds and broken stone urns and unkempt rose bowers. And standing overlooking it all, alone and dishevelled like some hopeless, bedraggled aristocrat awaiting the guillotine, was a run-down eighteenth-century chateau. We pulled up on the potholed drive and looked up at the flaking stucco, smashed windows and dilapidated shutters.

  'This is the place, all right,' said Serge. 'Bruno's mate the estate agent has sold it to some English people. The owner wanted to sell the chateau with all its contents and the English are paying such an overblown price for the place that Bruno's mate was able to convince the owner they'd bought the contents as well. Bruno's mate told the English people the price they were paying was for the empty chateau without the contents. So the owner thinks he's selling it full and the English think they've bought it empty. So that leaves a load of furniture and stuff all alone with no home to go to. Isn't that a shame, eh? And that's where we come in. Bruno's estate agent pal has asked us to remove the contents and split the value with him fifty-fifty. So then everyone's happy. The English are happy, Bruno's mate's happy, and we're happy.' He grinned at me.

  It sounded like a clear case of fraud to me. But one that might be hard to prove.

  I climbed out reluctantly and followed the pair of them round the crumbling building. It seemed cold and aloof as if it considered us unwelcome intruders. The only sound was the distant cawing of rooks and the crunch of our feet on the gravel. I could see we had arrived by the tradesmen's entrance because the main drive ran off in the distance through an avenue of towering poplar trees.

  Bruno hammered on a side door, a pointless exercise, I thought, as no one could possibly be living in such a place. The noise echoed eerily and as we stood waiting and listening I half expected Herman Munster to appear and invite us in.

  Then we heard shuffling and the clank of bolts being drawn back, and the door was opened by a snaggle-toothed woman with lank, greasy hair and nicotine-stained fingers. She was wearing a black Johnny Hallyday T-shirt, green leatherette miniskirt and carpet slippers.

  She must have been expecting us because she ushered us straight in and led us down a dank corridor into an open hallway and through to a vast living room. Light shone through tattered pieces of blue plastic hanging over the broken windows and cast a cold glow on the dustsheet-covered furniture.

  'Would you like anything?' she asked, throwing us a crooked smile. 'Something to drink, perhaps?'

  'Later,' said Bruno brusquely, yanking off a dustsheet to reveal a settee covered in torn red plastic. He tried another and exposed a battered armchair in a similar state of repair.

  'Holy mother of Jesus! This junk is going to need some sorting out.'

  As we removed the rest of the dustsheets it became clear that any antique furniture the chateau had once boasted had been either stolen or sold off long ago. What we had here was an assortment of cheap crap; old chairs and tables that had been brought in to serve the building's various occupants. In every room it was the same story; junk only fit for carting up to the tip. Serge got excited briefly when he discovered a sixties-style cane chair hanging from a chain in a bedroom. But Bruno was unimpressed and left us to it saying he was going to check out the attic.

  'Never mind,' said Serge. 'I thought it was too good to be true. Who would ever offer Bruno the chance to clear a chateau full of valuable antiques? You know, sometimes, Johnny, it doesn't do to be over-optimistic in life. This is no more than I expected. Maybe we can salvage something out of all this stuff. That hanging cane chair has got to be worth a few euros for a start.'

  We had started to pile up all the bits and pieces Serge judged to be of any value in the hallway ready to load into the van, when Bruno reappeared on the stairs with a carrier bag in his hand.

  'Hey, what have you got there then?' asked Serge. 'Anything good?'

  'It's just some junk,' said Bruno pushing past.

  'Come on, don't be shy. Let's have a look.' Serge followed him trying to get a glimpse inside.

  'Hey, it looks like a lamp!' yelled Serge. 'Let's see it.'

  'It's nothing, just a
pompe,
that's all.'

  When Serge made a grab at it Bruno swung round and went to push him off. '
Putain!
Look out, you stupid idiot. You'll break it!'

  'If it's only a fake then why are you so worried if it gets broken?'

  'I'm not,' said Bruno. 'Here, see for yourself.' He placed the bag on the floor and allowed Serge to look in it.

  'This is no
pompe!'
yelled Serge in disbelief. He lifted out an orange and blue lamp, turning it in the light, examining the glass. 'Look, it's signed Gallé just here. It's worth a small fortune.'

  'Yeah, well it was hidden under some junk.' Bruno took it purposely from Serge's hands and replaced it carefully in the bag. 'It's only a fake, but you know – finders keepers.' He picked it up and headed out for his car, followed closely by Serge.

  'Any idiot could tell it's a genuine Gallé,' said Serge. 'You agreed to share and share alike.'

  Bruno opened the boot, placed the bag inside, shut the lid and went impassively round to get in the front of his car. Serge grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back.

  'Bruno, I'm your friend. You can't treat me like this.' He was pleading now. 'There's plenty of profit in the lamp for both of us. Let's split it down the middle.' I couldn't help noticing that Bruno's estate agent pal and myself had been instantly cut out of the deal.

  Bruno went to open his car door but Serge gripped him tightly round the waist trying to pull him back. This developed into a scuffle. Bruno pushed Serge violently in the chest, sending him sprawling onto the driveway.

  I helped Serge up and we stood silently as Bruno climbed in the Merc and slowly wound down the window, grim-faced.

  'Like I told you, I found the lamp so it belongs to
me
. I'm warning you, Serge, if you ever try to attack me like that again, you won't get off so lightly.'

  He turned to me. 'And as for you, Rosbif…' His voice was like ice. 'I'm giving you fair warning, too. Don't you get any funny ideas.' I got a vision of all those guns he had at his disposal. He doubtless had a lethal weapon to hand in his car to blow me away if he felt like it.

  He started the Merc, gunned the motor and accelerated off at speed, leaving behind a couple of deep wheel marks in the drive.

  Serge stood up, dusting himself down and picking bits of gravel out of his arm.

  '
Putain
, the filthy
con!
I don't like to tell you this, Johnny, but that lamp was worth a hell of a lot.'

  'If it was a genuine Gallé…' I said.

  'Oh, it was genuine, all right. It was easily worth the price of a brand new car. I can't believe Bruno would do something like this to me.'

  I thought he was getting worked up over nothing and there was no way that was a real Gallé. Even to my untrained eye it looked like a clumsy imitation. But nothing I could have said would have persuaded Serge otherwise. And I wasn't surprised by Bruno the Basque's behaviour either. I was glad to be rid of him. He was welcome to the bloody lamp as far as I was concerned.

  We watched the Merc disappearing up the avenue of poplar trees.

  'Are you moving into the chateau today?'

  We turned to see a miniature man dressed in seventies checked trousers, a floral shirt and tie, purple tank top and built-up shoes. My first thought was that we had slipped into another dimension and this was a leprechaun.

  'You're the English people, aren't you? I'd be glad to give you a hand.'

  I looked at Serge. He seemed dazed, as if he was still trying to come to terms with Bruno's betrayal and wasn't yet ready for any sudden surprises.

  The little man cocked his head on one side. He had tomato pips stuck to his tie and a childlike smile.

  'No, we're not moving in,' I said. 'I am English, but no, we're not moving in.'

  This seemed to puzzle him. He frowned, trying to work it out.

  'You are English though?'

  'Yes.'

  'But you're not moving into the chateau?'

  'No.'

  He frowned some more and then gave up.

  'I live over there,' he said. He waved towards the avenue of poplar trees. 'Do you want to come and see my house?'

  Did I want to come and see his house? No, not really.

  'I've got cake,' he said. And then he winked, as if cake were an illicit substance and I'd find the offer irresistibly exciting. He waited expectantly.

  'Let's go and see his house,' said Serge, coming to life. 'It can't do any harm.'

  He turned to the little man. 'Cake, you say? Have you got any Ricard, by any chance?'

We followed the little man on foot through the shady avenue of poplar trees where the reek of Bruno's car exhaust still hung heavy in the air. Just before the main gate he turned off onto a weed-covered gravel path which led us along the boundary wall and up to a modest stone house with tiny shuttered windows and a small rounded wooden front door.

  We stopped outside and evaluated the place, noting the missing tiles and stained and crumbling rendering. There was a plastic table surrounded by garden chairs out front and a small blow-up paddling pool with rubber ducks floating in the grassy water.

  Serge caught my eye and pulled a face.

  'My, what a sweet little place you have here!' he exclaimed melodramatically, holding his hands up in mock amazement. The shock of Bruno's unexpected betrayal seemed to have temporarily unbalanced him. He clapped his hands as if delighted.

  'Yes, and I don't live all alone here either,' said the little man, oblivious to the irony. He felt in the pocket of his check trousers and produced an outsized key which he pushed into the keyhole in the little door.

  He turned back to me and smiled. 'Now for that cake, eh?'

  He swung back the door and stood aside for us to enter. I looked at Serge but he just shrugged, past caring. The little chap seemed harmless enough. He didn't look anything like my imagined profile of a serial killer. I threw caution to the wind and went in.

  Inside it was dark and cold. I took a couple of steps and stopped, feeling around with my feet, afraid I might trip and fall headlong. I heard the little man go past me and the rattle of metal bolts. He threw back the shutters and the light streamed in.

  As my eyes adjusted I saw we were standing in a long, low room that ran the whole length of the house. The walls were draped with an odd assortment of old bedspreads and rugs and the floor was covered in bright red lino. At the far end was a kitchenette with a sink, gas stove and Formica-topped table. He invited us to sit down at it while he busied himself boiling a saucepan of water and laying out plates, cups and saucers. He opened a cupboard and produced an octagonal tin box which he placed on the table. When the water boiled he spooned instant coffee and sugar into our cups and topped them up.

  Serge looked disappointed. 'I believe there was some mention of Ricard. Is that not on the cards then?'

  'I'm afraid not,' he said, opening the tin and taking out a large chocolate cake. The icing looked as if it had been put on with a builder's trowel.

  'I made this myself,' he announced. 'I think you'll like it.'

  He cut two large slices, placed them on our plates and stood watching us.

  We sat silently staring at them.

  'But you've got no Ricard?' said Serge.

  'None, I'm sorry.'

  'No wine or beer or anything like that?'

  'No, nothing like that at all I'm afraid.'

  'You're sure?'

  'Absolutely.'

  'Just this coffee and cake?'

  'Yes.'

  I took a sip of my coffee. 'Mmm, it's good,' I said.

  The little man smiled, encouraged. He looked at Serge, waiting for his verdict.

  'Bit hot for me,' said Serge. 'Would you have any cold water perhaps?'

  The little man took his cup and went to the sink. While his back was turned Serge waved his forefinger in circles round his temple and gave me a tight grin. The bloke was bonkers.

  I sipped at my coffee, looking round the room, postponing the moment when I was going to have to bite into my cake.