The words over the shops would go along a certain way with English but then they'd take a wrong turning, as with 'Fruiterie'. That or they'd stop some way short of their goal, as for instance 'Tabac'. We passed under a sign in the form of a golden snail.
'They do eat snails, little Allan,' said Sampson, 'and they're proud of it.'
'Less cargo,' said Hopkins, walking along behind, and, when I looked back he gave one of his secret smiles.
Had he quite forgotten about the incident of the glasses?
A French dog came by. French dogs were different: nervous and unstrung, and they paid no mind to the food in the streets. Food was everywhere, spilling out of the shops and restaurants. The Frenchers were boiling up soup on street corners, standing guard over barrels of oysters, and it all called for a sight more than three meals a day.
We came to a stand outside some dining rooms.
Inside, it was like a lady's bedroom: mirrors, lace curtains, fancy, tangled lamps. We watched through the window. At a table just inside the door sat a man with big ears and a cigar and from sideways on, he looked like a cannon. Were the faces all different, or was it the difference of the place that made them seem so? At a table further in sat the real prize: a man who was the spit of Napoleon himself, with a beaky nose, puffed-up chest; scant hair pushed over to the side. Sampson said, 'I know this spot', as if the fact was just coming to him. He pushed open the door, we walked in and I looked straightaway at a little sign above a curtain: 'Telephone'.
We were shown to a table. Sampson said something, and then one of the clear bottles of wine was brought. Sampson knew the word for that, all right. We'd drunk it off before the menus were passed to us, and Sampson asked for another by saying: 'Encore.'
Outside the rain was falling more heavily, but the restaurant was bright and jolly There was a fireplace to one side of us, with a huge mantelshelf, on which sat giant, empty bottles of champagne which put me in mind somehow of the gas cylinders.
I looked again at the 'Telephone' sign, and saw that Napoleon was walking towards it, pushing back the curtain, giving me sight of the instrument. It looked nothing like the English ones.
Sampson, smoking a cigar, said: 'If they know you here, they put you in that back room,' and he pointed through to a part of the restaurant where the tablecloths and napkins were even whiter, the red wine redder, the lamps still more jungly and flower-like.
'But they don't know you, do they?' asked Hopkins.
"They do not,' said Sampson.
"Thank God for that,' said Hopkins, putting back more wine.
He turned to me and grinned, and I thought: he's going to rat on me now – let on about the glasses. But instead something beyond the window caught his eyes, and he was up and out into the street. He walked away to the left, out of sight, and returned a minute later, grinning fit to bust. At the table once more, he produced a pocketbook – a French one. There was a small paper inside, covered with tiny handwriting, and some of the colour-run notes.
'Bit of all right,' said Sampson.
'Real fag-ender, this was,' said Hopkins proudly, 'side pocket, sitting on top of a handkerchief with just the tip pointing up.'
'You saw that all from here?' I said.
'Lynx-eyed, en't he?' said Sampson, looking at me, and there was silence for a space, so that once again I thought the matter of the spectacles must come up, but instead the food arrived. It was the Plat du Jour (dish of the day) that Sampson had asked for and the turn-up was that it was sausage and onions, albeit of superior flavour. As Sampson called for more wine, Hopkins, who was tipsy by now, sat back in his chair and said: 'Tell you what, mates, I do miss the Garden Gate though.'
He just sat there grinning for a while, and I knew he'd made a plan of some sort.
Chapter Twenty-six
Half an hour later, we were walking by the river which came through the city in a stone channel. There were lines of flat barges, all covered up with tarpaulins as if to say: this is all French business, none of yours. We walked on into a park, where indoor chairs were placed outside. A man sat at one of them with an easel before him and an umbrella over his head; he was painting a fountain with stone horses set all around the edge. The design made it look as if the horses were trying to run away but were trapped by their hind legs; trapped by being painted. We sat on the chairs underneath a dripping tree, and I fished out of my pocket Paris and its Environs.
'Can I have a look at that, mate?' said Hopkins. He seemed in better spirits now. I handed him the book, and he fell to reading in the 'Language' section. 'Only two things you really need,' he said after a while: "Une biere, s'il vous plait", then "Ou sont les toilettes?'"
'What's "Would you like a fuck?'" said Sampson, who was watching a young woman sauntering under the trees. But Hopkins was now looking at some other part of the book.
'I tell you, I mean to have a ride tonight,' said Sampson.
There were many baby carriages being pushed about in the park, all going in different directions, each carrying a new human who would do the same in time. I could not bear to think of the wife. Had she decided that I'd skipped, taken fright at the thought of fatherhood? I dragged my thoughts in the direction of the seated artist, but his umbrella reminded me of Lund, the fellow who'd put me in this fix – it was all his doing. I looked to my right, and Sampson was asleep. Hopkins was looking at me: 'It must be done with the tread of a cat,' he was saying, and there was a new look to him: electrified. 'What must?' 'You are to take the left-luggage tickets from his pocket.' He was looking towards the area of Sampson's privates. 'No fear,' I said. 'But you must,' he said. 'That calls for your skill,' I said, 'you're born to it. You said yourself I'd never make a dip.' 'Don't argue,' he said, giving me one of his grins. 'I'm down to your game.' 'What game?' 'You don't do it… I tell him who you are.' 'And who am I?' Hopkins just stared at me. "The name's Appleby,' I said, 'Allan Appleby.' 'Is it fuck,' said Hopkins, and still the smile was there. 'It doesn't want doing just now,' he said, 'but later on, when he's had one or two more gallons of wine.' 'Later on,' I said, '… he'll take his trews off in any case, won't he?' Hopkins shook his head. 'He'll not,' he said. 'Not with tickets to nearly three grand in his pocket, and me hanging about.' The artist was packing up, defeated by the rain, or maybe the fading of light. 'See, you must do it,' Hopkins went on, 'because one word from me to him, and you're finished. You might think you can get up now and walk off, but no. I'll give him a poke in the ribs, and I'll let on, and he'll take out that gun of his and he'll fucking have you, right here in this fucking shar-dan.' 'You'll let on to what?' I said. 'What you are.' 'And what am I?' I wanted him to say it, and he did: 'You're a fucking copper, en't you?'
Chapter Twenty-seven
Night was coming down fast, along with the rain, and full dark found us wondering through empty streets. We were somewhat returned – having visited plenty of bars – in the direction of our hotel. There were big, blank churches about us, and trains running out of sight behind ranks of tall crumbling houses.
Now we were in another bar; it was the colour of illness, bright white and green. Another bottle was coming towards us; we were all smoking Sampson's cigars, and that gentry could by now barely speak English leave alone French. He had finally found his limit, but then I was at least half-cut too. As for being a copper, I'd denied it to the hilt until Sampson had woken in the park; and the question had not come up since. A train of ideas kept starting in my mind but I couldn't follow it out. One thing seemed pretty certain: the cart was about to come off the wheel, somehow or other.