Twelve Red Herrings

“Meanwhile, the police on either side of the Channel stop all the trains going in either direction. So, our train is now stranded in the tunnel on its own—there would normally be twenty trains traveling in either direction between London and Paris at any one time.” He paused to sip his coffee.

“Is that so?” I asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.

“It certainly is,” Duncan said. “I’ve done my research thoroughly.”

A glass of deep red port was being poured for Christabel. I glanced at the label: Taylor’s ’55. This was something I had never had the privilege of tasting. Christabel indicated that the bottle should be left on the table. The waiter nodded, and Christabel immediately poured me a glass, without asking if I wanted it. Meanwhile, the maitre d’ clipped a cigar for Duncan that he hadn’t requested.

“In chapter twelve we discover the terrorists’ purpose,” continued Duncan. “Namely, blowing up the train as a publicity stunt, guaranteed to get their cause onto every front page in the world. But the passengers who have remained on the train, led by the American father, are planning a counteroffensive.”

The maître d’ lit a match and Duncan automatically picked up the cigar and put it in his mouth. It silenced him …

“The self-made millionaire might feel he’s the natural leader,” I suggested.

… but only for a moment. “He’s a Greek. If I’m going to make any money out of this project, it’s the American market I have to aim for. And don’t forget the film rights,” Duncan said, jabbing the air with his cigar.

I couldn’t fault his logic.

“Can I have the check?” Duncan asked as the maître d’ passed by our table.

“Certainly, sir,” he replied, not even breaking his stride.

“Now, my trouble is going to be the ending …” began Duncan as Christabel suddenly, if somewhat unsteadily, rose from her chair.

She turned to face me and said, “I’m afraid the time has come for me to leave. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, although I have a feeling we won’t be seeing each other again. I’d just like to say how much I enjoyed your latest novel. Such an original idea. It deserved to be number one.”

I stood, kissed her hand and thanked her, feeling more guilty than ever.

“Goodbye, Duncan,” she said, turning to face her former lover, but he didn’t even bother to look up. “Don’t worry yourself,” she added. “I’ll be out of the apartment by the time you get back.”

She proceeded to negotiate a rather wobbly route across the restaurant, eventually reaching the door that led out onto the street. The maître d’ held it open for her and bowed low.

“I can’t pretend I’m sorry to see her go,” said Duncan, puffing away on his cigar. “Fantastic body, great between the sheets, but she’s totally lacking in imagination.”

The maitre d’ reappeared by Duncan’s side, this time to place a small black leather folder in front of him.

“Well, the critics were certainly right about this place,” I commented. Duncan nodded his agreement.

The maître d’ bowed, but not quite as low as before.

“Now, my trouble, as I was trying to explain before Christabel decided to make her exit,” continued Duncan, “is that I’ve done the outline, completed the research, but I still don’t have an ending. Any ideas?” he asked, as a middle-aged woman rose from a nearby table and began walking determinedly toward us.

Duncan flicked open the leather cover, and stared in disbelief at the bill.

The woman came to a halt beside our table. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your new book,” she said in a loud

voice.

Other diners turned around to see what was going on.

“Thank you,” I said somewhat curtly, hoping to prevent her from adding to my discomfort.

Duncan’s eyes were still fixed on the bill.

“And the ending,” she said. “So clever! I would never have guessed how you were going to get the American family out of the tunnel alive …”

SHOESHINE BOY

Ted Barker was one of those members of Parliament who never sought high office. He’d had what was described by his fellow officers as a “good war”—in which he was awarded the Military Cross and reached the rank of major. After being demobbed in November 1945, he was happy to return to his wife Hazel and their home in Suffolk.