He had seen hundreds of films where one man tails another, yet it was sadly, and very swiftly, clear to Richard that none of the finesse or techniques of such an enterprise had rubbed off on him. He turned quickly to face a shop window as Tex stopped to do the same thing farther down the street, albeit with less urgency. Richard immediately regretted his action as he came face to face with a young woman dressing a dummy on the other side of the glass. She was putting the finishing touches to a lingerie display and Richard’s sudden attention clearly marked him out as suspicious. He apologized and turned away up the road and across the pedestrianized street, tapping his rolled-up newspaper innocently on his thigh as he did so.
What was he doing?
He really wasn’t sure. The desire to follow Tex had been instinctive, but why? Tex was a butcher from Tours, so why follow him? Was it because he was Valérie’s ex-husband—was jealousy the reason? Possibly. Was it the coincidence of his appearance on the boat trip? Again, possibly. But what did the two add up to? Well, to him that was obvious, and it didn’t make him feel good about himself. The truth was that he didn’t entirely trust Valérie.
There was a large part of him that wanted to trust her. She was a beautiful woman who, in the space of three or four days, he was beginning to lose track, had turned his world upside down and given him, though he wouldn’t care to admit it, more excitement than he’d probably ever had. Certainly more than he ever thought he might have again. Even when he daydreamed and imagined that he was the gumshoe in one of “his” films, as Clare would have it, these things just didn’t happen to Richard, or people like him. They happened in books, in scripts, on the screen, they were fiction. And that, he realized, was exactly why he didn’t trust Valérie. It was because he was so unsure of himself, who he was and therefore wary of the world around him, to do so.
He turned around again, hoping that he hadn’t lost Tex in the meantime. Then again, although Richard was hanging back at a discreet distance, it would have been extremely difficult to lose sight of the man. A beanpole of six-foot-six wearing an absurdly large cowboy hat and meandering through a French high street was about as conspicuous as it gets. He stood out like, well, like that ridiculous sculpture of a rhinoceros outside McDonald’s near Central Tours station. Tex had even stopped to take a picture of it just like any other tourist would. Richard’s eyes narrowed. Just like any other tourist would. Not, then, like a butcher in his hometown.
He saw Tex look at his watch and apparently come to a decision. He turned back toward where Richard was loitering, who again found himself being stared at by the same window dresser, though he held his nerve this time and allowed Tex to pass by behind him. He was no longer the wandering tourist; he strode with purpose and with somewhere to go.
Richard followed him for a few minutes, as Tex looked at his phone for directions as he stood outside the modern Vinci Center International de Congrès. From there he turned left, back down the Heurteloup Boulevard, and waited by the bus stop. Richard’s heart sank. If he got on a bus, could he follow him? The truth was that as far as he knew Tex didn’t know him, but he couldn’t risk it by sitting on the same bus. He could grab one of the many bicycles that litter cities these days and follow the bus…then he told himself to get a grip. The last thing he needed was a heart attack from sudden exercise. Tex looked at his phone again, turned away from the bus stop and into Les Jardins de la Préfecture. Here he slowed down and Richard assumed that he’d reached his destination—surely a meeting place. He gave Tex a few moments’ grace and then scurried in, taking the opposite path, but keeping the cowboy mostly in view.
The tall man seemed quite taken with the place, as though city center greenery was new to him. The wide paths and the enormous, well-established plane trees meant peace and tranquility in a busy metropolis, and Tex had the air of a country bumpkin who had assumed that all towns were just concrete and noise. That he’d found a haven for himself. He kept looking at his watch, though. He was waiting for someone.
Richard found himself a bench as far away as possible from Tex’s own bench while still being in view, but he spread his newspaper out as extra security. He’d bought Le Monde because it was an old-fashioned broadsheet size and he sat, as inconspicuous as possible, peering over the top. Tex himself was obviously quite jumpy, sitting down one minute then leaping up and walking around the bench the next, looking out for whoever was to come. He didn’t have long to wait, though, and Richard nearly fell off his bench when he saw who it was.
Tex greeted the Rizzolis warmly as though they were old friends, shaking the young man’s hand heartily and stooping to kiss Signora Rizzoli on both cheeks. They laughed and joked about something and then Tex looked at his watch again, explaining something else, certainly animatedly, and the Rizzolis sat down. Richard’s heart was racing now and the newspaper shaking in his hands; deep down he knew who they were waiting for.
Valérie arrived carrying Passepartout and looking every inch the chic lady-about-town, dressed as elegantly as ever in yet another outfit. She must have a suitcase the size of the QE2 in that bedroom, thought Richard, trying to suppress how impressive he found her and concentrate on his rising anger instead. He felt used, mightily disappointed and betrayed. He also felt utterly clueless and couldn’t for the life of him understand what the hell was going on. Tex greeted her effusively, as he seemed to greet everyone effusively—something which annoyed Richard immensely, though he noticed Valérie was a little stiff in response. The Rizzolis stood up and Tex appeared to make the introductions. The Rizzolis didn’t smile and neither did Valérie as they all shook hands coldly. Tex sat down and Valérie put Passepartout next to him and between him and the Rizzolis, who resumed their seats, leaving Valérie to stand.
Richard wished he was in a position to hear what was going on, but thankfully Tex was like a bad film actor whose theater training was too ingrained for the cinema, his gestures and movements exaggerated and easy to read. Valérie and the Rizzolis weren’t quite as obvious. Tex spread his arms wide in a “well, how do we do this?” kind of way, though Richard had no idea what “this” could possibly be. He hoped it was that Tex would get a slap in his permanently grinning face, but he doubted it. The big man left his outspread arm above Passepartout’s bag, though, and the normally placid little animal leaped up and tried to take a lump out of his hand.
“Good for you!” Richard said to himself as Valérie patted the small dog’s head, also congratulating him.
This was obviously a tense meeting.
Valérie was talking now and clearly referencing Tex himself, pointing at him while sweeping her arms toward the Italian couple. This went on for a few moments with Tex pretending to be hurt, though still grinning, and pointing at himself in mock innocence. The Rizzolis both turned to him at the same time, and the stupid, big, toothy smirk disappeared slowly. He frowned darkly before standing up and remonstrating about something or other. When he stopped it was clear that everyone was weighing up what he’d just said, like a jury deciding on the accused. The Rizzolis both shook their heads, and Valérie turned slowly toward him once more. Tex tipped the brow of his hat back and shook his own head slowly, then the wide grin returned and he laughed and slapped his thigh. The man’s ludicrous. Richard shook his head, too. It’s cowboy by numbers, and it reminded him not so much of John Wayne, which was surely the intention, but of Doris Day as Calamity Jane. He also knew defeat when he saw it, and so, obviously, did Tex. He spread his arms wide again, went to stroke Passepartout’s head once more and got a snappy response for his troubles, did a kind of “so long” salute with the back of his hand and strode languidly out of the park.
Richard returned his watchful gaze to the three others; it felt like they were the remaining contestants in a game show. Signora Rizzoli had her hand out and was clearly asking for something, with Richard guessing it was their missing phone. Valérie, though, was shaking her head and ignoring the hand. She picked up Passepartout and held out her own hand to say goodbye. The meeting, conflab, showdown, whatever it was, was over. They all shook hands and Valérie left by the right-hand gate. A few seconds later the Rizzolis left by the left-hand gate. Richard folded his paper up and followed Valérie.
He was thankful that Passepartout was in a forward-facing bag, which meant that he wouldn’t see Richard skulking about, thirty meters or so behind. Richard had no idea what the dog would have done had he spotted him; he’d hitherto shown absolutely no sign even of his existence, just a haughty air which was reserved for the masses, though not for Valérie, or Tex, but he wouldn’t want to take the chance.
Valérie turned down the narrow Colbert Street and Richard tried to stick to the sides, which wasn’t easy as there were so many restaurant tables in the way. He kept telling himself he was doing well, but he was also aware that he was spending an awful amount of time apologizing to people, and in a very English way emptying tables that he bumped into, and was leaving something like a trail of vexation in his wake. He saw Valérie turn down an even narrower side street and sped up to get closer. It was little more than an alleyway, two rows of ancient buildings leaning toward the slim thoroughfare, all at slightly different angles like teeth in a wonky smile. Valérie walked elegantly, the only person on the road, and Richard darted to a shaded doorway, watching her.
He leaned back on the door to catch his breath and felt it give way, revealing a startled Chinese woman whose broom gave him short shrift, so he ran down the road and ducked into an alcove. He was now out of breath and took a few moments to gather himself. He looked out again, slowly putting his head out of the shadows, and he didn’t like what he saw.
About twenty yards down the road Valérie stood, feet apart. A few yards in front of her were the Rizzolis, slightly apart from each other and blocking her way. They stayed like that for a few moments, an angry triangle, before Valérie took Passepartout off her shoulder and placed his bag gently in a doorway. She then returned to her previous spot, feet apart, ready.
Signor Rizzoli advanced slowly, his hand outstretched, possibly one last entreaty for the return of their phone. Richard clenched his fists and told himself unconvincingly he was ready for action while bearing in mind what Valérie had said about the gun they’d found: “a back-up gun,” she’d said, “there’ll be others.”
The man stopped directly in front of Valérie while Signora Rizzoli folded her arms in faux boredom. Suddenly, Richard noticed, they didn’t look so young anymore. Passepartout gave out a shrill bark and the Italian turned to register a mocking grin at the attack dog. That was his first mistake. His second was trying to get up again a few seconds later having been poleaxed by a swift knee to the groin, and this time getting the same knee square on the chin and knocking him out cold. Signora Rizzoli looked unsurprised by her husband’s inadequacy and advanced slowly, pulling a flick knife out of her pocket. Valérie advanced, too, stepping over Signor Rizzoli, confident enough that he was no longer an issue.
Richard felt sweat drip from his brow and his hands were trembling. He had been ready to spring, if spring was the right word, to Valérie’s defense. To step in and do what he could to protect the lady. But it was now crystal clear that not only would he be in the way, but that she simply didn’t need him.
Signora Rizzoli crouched, the knife in her right hand and her face in a mocking sneer. Valérie remained standing ramrod straight, tense but swaying slightly on her toes, like a king cobra, ready to strike. Then she suddenly broke out into a fit of giggling, putting her hand to her mouth to try and suppress the urge. Signora Rizzoli, now within knife-striking distance, looked momentarily confused and came out of her crouching stance. That was her first mistake. In a flash Valérie had grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm, spinning her to the ground where she dropped her knife. Her second mistake was trying to reach for the knife. She got an expensively leathered boot to the chin, sending her reeling again, arching backward in the air briefly before she landed softly across her prostrate husband. Valérie gave it a few seconds, making sure they were both out of action, and then picked up Passepartout, thanked him for his patience with a few kisses to the head and walked serenely away.
Richard put his glasses on for wont of something better to do and said quietly, “Bloody hellfire.”