Arabella.
Under the broad sombrero, that luxuriant bandit moustache and the huge bulk of chins beneath were unmistakable. It was Descartes.
“Bonjour, Madame Tatenor,” he said softly. “You see, I could not bear the parting from you!”
He smiled expansively, but now, in these new surroundings, there was something menacing in that gold-fringed smile. Arabella struggled to grasp the situation.
“But what … what are you doing here?” she finally said. “I mean, what am I doing here?”
The black-clad lizard had put down his guitar, and now he came forward, hissing through wolfish white teeth, to favour Arabella with a close inspection.
“And who the hell are you!” she snapped without ceremony, disliking him on the instant, whoever he might be.
Descartes chuckled.
“Let me introduce my associates … Enrico Bernadotti, who arranged your little mechanical trouble. And your guide here,”—he inclined his head towards the blubbery-lipped man who had driven the truck—“Pancho Gomez. You may have observed, his conversational powers are limited. He is a deaf-mute.”
She glanced around as Descartes’ words registered.
“Arranged my breakdown? You seem to have been to a lot of trouble to get me here. What do you want?”
Descartes shifted his bulk in the chair, causing the huge convexity of his midriff to wobble noticeably.
“The answer to that, Madame Tatenor,” he said very sternly and seriously, “is simple.” Then more silkily: “I think you know already what we want.” And then his voice cracked through the air with whiplash force: “So let us get down to business!”
“What business?” she said calmly. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She might be putting a brave front on it; but the fact was that underneath the moderately composed exterior was an interior that was not only indignant but more than a little scared. This was certainly the first time in her life that anything of the kind had happened to her, and she didn’t at all like the way things were shaping up.
Descartes sighed impatiently.
“Madame Tatenor, please let us not play games. You are the widow of Charles Tatenor. The widow of our ex-partner in crime. Only that we knew him under another name.”
“Crime? Another name? What is all this? Are you people crazy?”
Descartes suddenly propelled himself towards her at speed on his castored chair.
“We want to know where is the gold!” he boomed, his large face reddening with anger. “Now does the little bell ring?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Arabella said firmly. “And now, I think I’d like to go home.”
Unexpectedly, his motion lithe and sudden as a cat’s, Bernadotti sprang forward and slapped her resoundingly across the face—sending her sprawling back, only to be caught by the lurking Gomez and shoved forward again.
“I think we should start all over again, Mrs widow-honey,” Bernadotti hissed in an oily Italian-American accent. “You gotta understand, we don’t mess around.”
Arabella was furious, almost murderous, but temporarily numbed into silence by the ferocity and suddenness of the blow from Bernadotti.
“Where is the money?” Descartes demanded.
“What money? What gold? Please … I don’t know. I don’t know about any money.”
“Our other associate, Monsieur Fournier as he was known, did finally locate our old partner Karl … your husband, Mrs Tatenor. But he died before he was able to tell us where to find the money, or the gold, if it remains as gold. If indeed he ever did extract the secret from your husband before he died … before they both died. We cannot now discover from Karl, from your Charles, where he secreted our mutual ill-gotten gains. Therefore, we must discover it from you.” Descartes paused and waggled a solemn forefinger at Arabella. “Be assured, you will tell us before a long time has passed. You might save yourself pain by telling us now.” He emphasised his final words with that
Under the broad sombrero, that luxuriant bandit moustache and the huge bulk of chins beneath were unmistakable. It was Descartes.
“Bonjour, Madame Tatenor,” he said softly. “You see, I could not bear the parting from you!”
He smiled expansively, but now, in these new surroundings, there was something menacing in that gold-fringed smile. Arabella struggled to grasp the situation.
“But what … what are you doing here?” she finally said. “I mean, what am I doing here?”
The black-clad lizard had put down his guitar, and now he came forward, hissing through wolfish white teeth, to favour Arabella with a close inspection.
“And who the hell are you!” she snapped without ceremony, disliking him on the instant, whoever he might be.
Descartes chuckled.
“Let me introduce my associates … Enrico Bernadotti, who arranged your little mechanical trouble. And your guide here,”—he inclined his head towards the blubbery-lipped man who had driven the truck—“Pancho Gomez. You may have observed, his conversational powers are limited. He is a deaf-mute.”
She glanced around as Descartes’ words registered.
“Arranged my breakdown? You seem to have been to a lot of trouble to get me here. What do you want?”
Descartes shifted his bulk in the chair, causing the huge convexity of his midriff to wobble noticeably.
“The answer to that, Madame Tatenor,” he said very sternly and seriously, “is simple.” Then more silkily: “I think you know already what we want.” And then his voice cracked through the air with whiplash force: “So let us get down to business!”
“What business?” she said calmly. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She might be putting a brave front on it; but the fact was that underneath the moderately composed exterior was an interior that was not only indignant but more than a little scared. This was certainly the first time in her life that anything of the kind had happened to her, and she didn’t at all like the way things were shaping up.
Descartes sighed impatiently.
“Madame Tatenor, please let us not play games. You are the widow of Charles Tatenor. The widow of our ex-partner in crime. Only that we knew him under another name.”
“Crime? Another name? What is all this? Are you people crazy?”
Descartes suddenly propelled himself towards her at speed on his castored chair.
“We want to know where is the gold!” he boomed, his large face reddening with anger. “Now does the little bell ring?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Arabella said firmly. “And now, I think I’d like to go home.”
Unexpectedly, his motion lithe and sudden as a cat’s, Bernadotti sprang forward and slapped her resoundingly across the face—sending her sprawling back, only to be caught by the lurking Gomez and shoved forward again.
“I think we should start all over again, Mrs widow-honey,” Bernadotti hissed in an oily Italian-American accent. “You gotta understand, we don’t mess around.”
Arabella was furious, almost murderous, but temporarily numbed into silence by the ferocity and suddenness of the blow from Bernadotti.
“Where is the money?” Descartes demanded.
“What money? What gold? Please … I don’t know. I don’t know about any money.”
“Our other associate, Monsieur Fournier as he was known, did finally locate our old partner Karl … your husband, Mrs Tatenor. But he died before he was able to tell us where to find the money, or the gold, if it remains as gold. If indeed he ever did extract the secret from your husband before he died … before they both died. We cannot now discover from Karl, from your Charles, where he secreted our mutual ill-gotten gains. Therefore, we must discover it from you.” Descartes paused and waggled a solemn forefinger at Arabella. “Be assured, you will tell us before a long time has passed. You might save yourself pain by telling us now.” He emphasised his final words with that
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