The Nostradamus prophecies

27

‘ Putain! Look at this place. It must be worth a fucking fortune.’

Calque winced, but said nothing.

Macron hobbled out of the car. He stared out at the mass of Cap Camarat ahead of them and then at the wide crescent of clear blue water leading to the Cap de St-Tropez on their left. ‘It’s just the sort of place Brigitte Bardot would live in.’

‘Hardly,’ said Calque.

‘Well I think it is.’

A middle-aged woman in a tweed and cashmere twinset walked towards them from the house.

Calque gave a small inclination of the head. ‘Madame La Marquise?’

The woman smiled. ‘No. I am her private secretary. My name is Madame Mastigou. And Madame’s correct title is Madame la Comtesse. The Marquisate is considered the lesser title by the family.’

Macron flashed his teeth in a delighted grin behind Calque’s back. That would teach the snotty bastard. Serve him right to be such a snob. He always had to know everything about everything. And still he messed up.

‘Have you both been in a car accident? I notice your assistant is limping. And you, if I may say so, Captain, look as though you’ve come straight from the wars.’

Calque gave a rueful acknowledgement of his arm sling and of the tape still criss-crossing his newly-shaped nose. ‘That is just what happened, Madame. We were in pursuit of a criminal. A very vicious criminal. Which is why we are here today.’

‘You don’t expect to find him in the house, surely?’

‘No, Madame. We are investigating a pistol known to have been in his possession. This is why we wish to talk to your employer. The pistol may well have belonged to her father. We need to trace its itinerary over the past seventy-five years.’

‘Seventy-five years?’

‘Since its first registration in the early 1930s. Yes.’

‘It was registered in the 1930s?’

‘Yes. The early 1930s.’

‘Then it would have belonged to Madame la Comtesse’s husband. He is dead.’

‘I see.’ Calque could sense rather than see Macron rolling his eyes behind him. ‘Madame la Comtesse is a very elderly lady, then?’

‘Hardly, Monsieur. She was forty years younger than Monsieur le Comte when they married in the 1970s.’

‘Ah.’

‘But please. Come with me. Madame la Comtesse is expecting you.’

Calque followed Madame Mastigou towards the house, with Macron limping along behind. As they reached the front door, a hovering footman reached across and opened it.

‘This can’t be happening,’ whispered Macron. ‘This is a filmset. Or some sort of joke. People don’t live like this anymore.’

Calque pretended not to hear him. He allowed the footman to steady him up the front steps with only the lightest of touches on his uninjured arm. Secretly, he was rather grateful for the support, for he had been disguising from Macron just how fragile he really felt for fear of losing ground. Macron was a product of the bidonvilles – a street fighter – always on the lookout for weakness. Calque knew that his only real advantage lay in his brain and in the depth of his knowledge about the world and its history. Lose that edge and he was dead meat.

‘Madame la Comtesse is waiting for you in the library.’

Calque followed the footman’s outstretched arm. The secretary, or whatever she was, was already announcing them.

Here we go, he thought. Another wild goose chase. I should take the sport up professionally. At this rate, when we get back to Paris – and with Macron’s gleeful input around the office – I shall become the laughing stock of the entire 2eme arrondissement.