"The Affair of the Lavender Pussy Cat"
The sordid events in this latest episode in the eventful lives of our
globe-trotting trio began innocently enough with a request from a certain
government power...
Tim, Dix and Rowan had just finished planting a variety of herbs in the
kitchen garden of his new home and were contemplating the effect.
Rowan: "Are you sure that you're going to need that much rosemary? It
spreads like fungus once it gets started."
Dix: "We can always give cuttings away to the the Italian restaurant down the
street."
Tim: "The basil looks a bit fragile; hand me the Miracle-Gro."
Baldrick comes around the corner of the house, a small blue envelope in his
hand.
Baldrick: "A man in a dark cloak with his hat down over his eyes give me
this to give to you, my lord."
Rowan [taking the envelope resignedly] : "Bill collectors,--can't behave like
ordinary people,-oh no. Must play their inane little games." He tears open
the envelope. "Hmm, it's for you, Tim. Good."
Tim reads the brief message inside and passes it to Dix.
Dix: "Ah. La belle France, hmm? I'd better pack my chemises. And my
croissants."
Rowan: "This is very inconvenient. A jaunt to Frogland in mid-summer when
the merciless sun is beating down on all the ruddy snail-sucking
souffle-smacking simpering sailor's delights. Bugger."
Tim: "Au contraire,--'boogaire.'"
Rowan: "Aha! I suspected that you had French blood lurking in your family
tree, you big girl's blouse!"
Dix [automatically]: "Boys, fellows, garcons..."
* * *
And that is why our next scene opens at a quarter to midnight in one of the
lowest and dirtiest taverns in the depths of the Marseilles waterfront
district, The Lavender Pussy Cat.
Tim and Rowan are casually clad as French dock workers in dark denims,
striped skin-tight pullovers and colorful handkerchiefs knotted at their
throats. Dix is simply attired in gold lame slit conservatively to five
inches above the knee, her hair bleached to cornsilk blond and hanging over
one eye a la the late Veronica Lake. She is being bait.
Dix: "How many more pubs do we have to infest before that Grenadine character
contacts us? These spike heels are bloody uncomfortable and if we have to
leave suddenly, one of you is going to have to carry me."
Tim and Rowan together: "No problem."
Tim: "I'll see if the relief bartender has turned up yet. If this is the
right place, his name will be Marcel and he'll only have one ear and a scar
running from his lower lip over his chin, down his shoulder and ending at his
navel."
Dix: "Wonder what the other guy looked like? Hurry back,--I don't like the
way the animals are looking at me."
Tim saunters toward the end of the bar, making his way through a sullen group
of hard-looking Apache types who mumble obscenities in their colorful
untranslatable patois as he passes. Dix pretends to sip from her grimy glass
of lighter fluid passing for gin; Rowan, more direct, has knocked his glass
to the floor. "Oops."
A large near-human-looking man detaches himself from the crowd at the bar and
lurches over to Dix and Rowan. He wears an ensemble of filthy clothing that
looks as if he had been sleeping in it for months; Baldrick would be quite
jealous. His blood-shot eyes fasten on Dix and travel downwards; he reaches
for her shoulder...
Tim, hearing a commotion behind him followed by a rending crash of tables and
chairs, turns. The man who had accosted Dix is crumpled upside down against
the wall, looking very peaceful.
Tim: "What was that all about?"
Rowan: "Chap got fresh; Dix gave him a Singapore Sling. Very pretty."
Tim: "Can't hold his liquor, hmm?"
Rowan: "Not that kind. The one where you grasp the fellow's windpipe, fall
backwards and place your feet enthusiastically in his abdomen, letting go at
just the proper psychological moment."
Dix [looking down at her skirt, which is now slit to the waist]: "I vote that
our friend is obviously not going to turn up here tonight and I need to
change anyway. Let's,--"
The air is suddenly rent with the ear-piercing metallic sound of a whistle
and the customers start tumbling over each other in a rush for the door.
Rowan: "Ah. Les gendarmes, no doubt. Let us make ourselves scarce. Flee!"
* * *
Our dauntless adventurers [Rowan: "Speak for yourself. I daunt fairly
easily."], faced with the unacceptable scenario of being hauled off in a
French version of the Black Maria with a dark and overcrowded Bastille cell
yawning before them, cast about for a means of escape. The tavern's only
doorway is presently blocked by a struggling mass of drunken customers being
energetically rousted by baton-wielding flics...
Dix: "There must be a back entrance somewhere!"
An oily voice speaks softly in her ear: "Allons, mes amis,--follow quickly."
Rowan needs no urging. He grasps Dix by the waist and swings her to his
shoulder, swearing slightly, in a fireman's lift. Tim bringing up the rear
[Dix: "There are better ways to phrase that!"], they hurry to catch up with a
small ratlike figure who slips behind the bar and through a swinging door.
Their guide has led them to a dingy parlour room lighted only by a flickering
oil lamp. He pushes aside a grimy rug before a small stone fireplace and
pulls open a wooden trap door. Our friends look at each other, shrug and
follow him down into the dark depths below...
A few minutes later, ankle-deep in some glutinous foul-smelling muck, Tim
speaks thoughtfully: "We seem to spend more time wading through sewers than
the Phantom of the Opera. Is this going to be a lengthy trip, Marcel?"
Marcel, the oily one: "Non, monsieur, it is but a skip and a hop to the
bakery shop from here."
Dix: "Oh, good. Comic relief. And there goes my other shoe...no, please
don't bother to pick it up; I won't be wanting it ever again."
Rowan [staggering slightly:] "At least it lightened the load a bit."
Marcel has been lighting their way through the slimy tunnel with its wet
walls glistening with dripping moisture, by means of a small flashlight. Its
beams fall upon a set of rungs leading upward and he points the light ahead
cheerfully. A dead rat announces its presence and Tim, Dix and Rowan begin a
breath-holding contest as they climb precariously up the rungs. Marcel,
first in line, forces open the manhole cover above. Seconds later, our
bedraggled friends are shivering in the dark night air and Marcel is urging
them down a cobblestoned alley behind a row of small buildings where he
knocks six times on a back door that has a chalked X upon it.
The door creaks open and Marcel enters, followed by Rowan, who sets Dix down
immediately, and Tim. Before them, smiling sweetly, is the notorious
Grenadine.
Grenadine is a lady of considerable,..umm, Hollywood appeal: flaming red
hair cascades down her shoulders unimpeded by much in the way of clothing.
She wears a skin-tight black satin dress that stops some six inches above the
knees and quite a lot of gold jewelry. But Dix gives her only a cursory
glance as she has just had an opportunity to get a good look at Marcel.
Tim's description of him was accurate.
Marcel: "Ah, I see you 'ave notice my beauty marks, Mamzelle?" He preens and
turns so that his scars catch the light.
Dix: "Umm, my goodness."
Marcel: "They are the honourable wounds, nevertheless. My dear wife has the
sweet fluffy pussy cat, Honore', whose favourite pasttime it is to tease the
so-badtempered bulldog of our neighbor, who always retaliates by chasing her
up our chestnut tree. And it is I who bravely must assist her journey back
to the earth. These are the marks of her affection."
Rowan: "Good lord. Have you ever considered just leaving her up there? Or
shooting her down?"
Tim: "Wait a minute...I've just had a thought. Suppose someone were to
design a cat-removal item for just such situations,--there's a fortune in it!
I visualize a long pole with an adjustable ring arrangement at one end. One
would extend it up into the tree, loop it over the cat and tighten it,--"
Dix: "Around the neck, perhaps?"
Tim: "--I was thinking, around the ribcage. And then just retract it and
release the cat on the ground. At a nice safe distance, thereby avoiding
bloodshed on the part of the rescuer."
Rowan: "You may have something there. All my cat-fancying acquaintances may
be easily identified by the scars."
Grenadine [piqued at being ignored:] "I suppose that you then are not
interested in what I 'ave to sell?"
Tim: "Besides the obvious? That is, of course we wish to consult with you on
a certain matter..."
Grenadine sways slowly toward him and her perfume suddenly becomes very
evident. Our friends, who still are encumbered with sewer mud effluvia on
their shoes, find the combination nauseating.
Dix: "What is that scent you're using?"
Grenadine: "'Une Nuit d'Enfer'. It is made for me alone."
Rowan: "'A Night in Hell.' How very appropriate. And considering that soap
has yet to introduced into France, how necessary."
Grenadine steps forward resentfully and aims her fingernails at Rowan's face,
but Marcel intercedes quickly.
Marcel: "Give us the entry cards that we may pursue our mission,--else you
shall not have your fee."
Grenadine [craftily:] "'Entry cards'? But is it not that your friend has
already collected them? And paid me double the price?"
* * *
Our friends are somewhat taken aback at the information they have just
received from the tigerish Grenadine,--that she has already handed over the
mysterious "entry cards" to someone else.
Rowan: "Great wodges of cash, hmm? And just what does our friend look like,
so we can recognize him when we see him?"
Grenadine: "A little fellow cleverly disguised in filthy ill-smelling rags,
his hair hanging over his face. He gave me much money." (She reaches into
her bodice and draws forth a handful of francs.)
Tim: "Excuse me..." (he takes one of the notes, wets his finger and rubs it
on the paper. The color smears.) "A very cheap counterfeit. They must be
using water colours."
Grenadine is speechless, and it's probably just as well. Her eyes bulge and
she makes the choking sounds of a cocotte deprived of her fee.
Rowan: "And where did this little fellow say he would be going when he left
you?"
Dix: "And how long ago did he leave?"
Greandine: "[several naughty French expletives],--le sale cochon!! He was
here five minutes ago;--he say that he go to meet 'Cuddles,' I know not what
that is!"
Dix: "Hmmm. I know not either, but let's see if we can catch up with him."
* * *
Marcel, who knows the sleazy quarter of the district very well indeed, leads
our friends on a rapid tour of the back alleys in hopes of catching up with
the mysterious stranger. Having no luck, they decide to return to the Hotel
Lune d'Azure and get into some fresh clothing.
Dix: "This dress is awfully drafty since that incident in the bar...and the
cobblestones hurt my feet." She has stripped off her stockings which are not
worth saving since the sojourn in the sewers and looks up hopefully at Rowan,
who flinches.
Rowan: "I mustn't be greedy. It's Tim's turn to give you a piggyback ride."
Tim is about to take him up on it when he suddenly catches sight of a
familiar bundle of rags turning the corner a little way ahead of them.
Tim: "Baldrick!"
Rowan: "I thought he was safely stored in the left-luggage locker. Baldrick,
get over here!"
Baldrick joins them, smiling inanely. "Hello, my lord."
Rowan (aiming a blow at his head:) "Don't 'hello' me,--"
He is interrupted by a large dark hairy shape with long white fangs that
leaps for his throat...
Dix screams. Tim jumps forward and grasps the creature around the neck as
Rowan is bowled backward against the wall beside the street. The slavering
animal throws Tim off and starts to pounce on Rowan, but Dix has ripped off
the remainder of her skirt and loops it over the head of the beast, yanking
it away from Rowan.
Baldrick (excitedly:) "Cuddles!! Bad dog,--no turnip!!"
* * *
Our intrepid trio has just been introduced to "Cuddles," a large
wolfish-looking mongrel who is now cringing at Baldrick's feet. Dix is
trying vainly to wrap the remant of her gold lame' skirt around herself in
the interests of decency; Tim and Rowan are brushing their clothes off.
Tim [to Baldrick:] "Nice werewolf. Where did you get him? And why?!"
Baldrick: "He started following me when I gave him a turnip. He even ate the
stem." (Turning to Rowan:) "Please could I keep him, my lord?"
Rowan: "Over my dead but still incredibly attractive body."
Baldrick: "But he hasn't got a home..."
Rowan: "And he never will have as long as he continues to launch kamikaze
attacks on innocent passersby. Besides, Balders, you know what always
happens to your pets. At least Nigel the guinea pig made quite a useful
dishmop with the aid of that curtain rod."
Dix: "Remind me not to let you help with the dishes."
Tim: "Remind ME not to let him NEAR the kitchen."
Baldrick [reminiscently:] "Graham was my favourite. I almost had him
trained, too."
Rowan: "A dead slug, however painstakingly trained, will always encounter
obstacles in its way on the climb to the top of the entertainment ladder.
Memorize this information and stop collecting odd fragments of deceased
animal life."
Dix [sneezing:] "Not to change the subject, but why don't we hurry back to
the hotel so I can put some clothes on? This outfit is likely to either get
me arrested or attract a lucrative contract from the Folies Bergere."
* * *
Back in their rooms, after refreshing showers and a change of attire our
group takes stock of the situation.
Tim: "All right, Baldrick, hand over those entry cards."
Baldrick [shyly:] "You mean them little green papery things I got from the
nice lady?"
Rowan: "'Nice lady,' my derriere. You wouldn't recognize a femme de la
pavements if she walked over your recumbent body. Which isn't a bad idea and
one that I wouldn't hesitate to implement."
Dix: "And where did you get all the funny money, Baldrick?"
Baldrick: "A man give it to me for a tip. I carried his two big enormous
suitcases for him and he told me to take the money and not spend it in too
many places, or something."
Tim: "Oh, fine. We've been in France for twenty-four hours and your servant
has been recruited to pass counterfeit money."
Baldrick: "About the little green papery things...I needed them to clean up
after Cuddles. I didn't want him to get into trouble, especially 'cause he
left his card on the steps of the police station..."
Dix: "That tears it. We might as well go home. All in favour?"
Tim: "No...we have one more contact to try before we call it a day." (He
picks up the room phone and dials a number.) "Bon Nuit? This is A-9
reporting. Nothing to report. We could use a new set of entry cards,
however...(he holds the phone away from his ear as a crackling sound of
French scolding ensues)...I'll explain later. We'll be here overnight. Yes,
yes. No, no. Not likely. Oh, and give my love to Henriette and the
kiddies. A' bientot."
Dix: "Who was that?"
Tim: "Our contact, Goodnight."
Rowan: "And good night to you, too. It's been a long day and if I want to be
bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked in the morning, I require at least three hours'
slumber."
Tim: "No, his name is Goodnight,--Bon Nuit is his nom de guerre."
Dix: "Oh, fine. Now all we have to do is screw up this last contact somehow
and we can go home and see how our herb garden is doing. And I can revert to
my natural hair colour, Baldrick can kiss Cuddles goodbye and we'll all live
happily ever after,--"
SFX: A deafening gunshot suddenly blows out most of the glass from the
window overlooking the street and our friends all hit the floor
simultaneously. Cuddles, no fool, has disappeared under the couch in one
fluid movement.
* * *
There is silence in the room with the broken window, our friends having just
hit the deck after the mysterious gunshot had broken up their conversation.
Tim cleverly knocked over the floor lamp in his dive, thus dousing the only
light...
SFX: Heavy breathing, a few gasps and an unmistakable kissing sound.
Dix [breathlessly:] "Thanks, Tim, for gallantly shielding me with your
body..."
Rowan [from a couple of feet away:] "Hang on a minute...ah, there's no need
for Tim to risk his life. I have always been considered one of the best
body-shielders in the business, and I'll be delighted to relieve him."
Baldrick: "You could shield me, my lord."
Rowan: "Ever the little optimist, eh, Balders? Your body was intended
strictly for propping up against open windows to draw the enemy's fire, and
if it wasn't so confoundedly dark in here, that's precisely what it would be
doing."
Tim [sighing:] "This is lovely,--I mean, we probably should be preparing to
repel boarders. That shot was just a ploy to distract our
attention,...mmmmm."
Rowan: "Time! I suggest that we conserve our energies, etc., and concentrate
on setting up an ambush before it's too late,--"
The room door is banged open and a hand finds the light switch on the wall.
Rowan: "--as I was saying..."
He rises to his feet, raising his hands. Tim and Dix reluctantly disentangle
themselves and join him.
Four gun-bearing masked figures beckon our friends to precede them through
the doorway. Rowan, passing the table where Baldrick is just about to stand
up and follow, shoves Baldrick under it with a well-placed kick. Baldrick
subsides into his usual bundle-of-diseased-rags imitation.
One of the masked intruders glances under the table and moves in for a closer
look,--then withdraws, gasping.
Intruder: "Herr Gott!! Was ist sicher dreckhaufen?!"
Rowan [sotto voce to Dix:] "'Manure pile' is indeed le mot juste. But as a
defense mechanism, it's unbeatable."
Tim [to one of the other masked men:] "Sprechen sie Francais?" The man
grunts, and nudges Tim ungently with his pistol: "Vamos, Senor."
Tim: "Oh, fine, the League of Nations shall hear about this."
* * *
Our intrepid trio find themselves being hustled down one of Marseilles' many
dark alleys. This one ends at a dock and they are chivvied aboard a
sinister-looking fishing scow with a dingy green lantern at the bow casting
an evil flicker. The boat's name, in peeling paint, appears to be
Dix: "'Black Poison'' Odd name for a boat."
Tim: "'Poisson Noir,' the Black Fish."
Rowan: "I knew that you were part Frenchie."
The masked men open a hatch on the deck and gesture to Tim, Dix and Rowan to
go below...
As the hatch closes above their heads, they look around the unattractive
hold. It is dimly lighted by another pair of green lanterns that could use a
good cleaning. A few barrels, a coil of rope and some piles of sacking meet
their eyes. Also a thin grey rat who peers from behind a barrel, sighs and
whisks back into his hole.
Dix [taking a nail file out of her pocket kit:] "This hangnail has been
driving me crazy."
Rowan: "Good, a weapon. How fortunate that Baldrick isn't here; he would
have offered one of his cunning plans...probably the one about cutting all
our wrists and shamming dead, then after our weighted corpses had been dumped
overboard, being fortuitously picked up by a garbage scow and revived by the
stench..."
Tim: "You may have something there."
Rowan: "Where?" (Turning to look behind him.) "Have you gone stark staring
looney-tunes too? At least wait until we've been cooped up in here for a few
weeks before you begin to think like Baldrick. If that can be called
thinking."
Tim: "I think I have a cunning plan..."
* * *
While Dix and Rowan wait with well-justified apprehension for Tim to unfold
his "cunning plan," perhaps it would be well to see what the opposition is
doing in the meantime...
In the captain's cabin, which is almost as derelict a shambles as the noisome
hold, five men are assembled. The four masked men who had gathered in our
little band of adventurers have unmasked and are amusing themselves with a
hand of cutthroat poker. The leader, a grossly-large gentleman wearing a
soiled white suit that bulges at every seam, is fanning himself with a Panama
hat as he sits in the captain's chair (which he overflows so thoroughly that
it is completely concealed by his avoirdupois). He is Monsieur Sylvestre,
better known as "le Fromage Grand" or "The Big Cheese."
Sylvestre: "...and when you types have finished cheating each other, it will
be time to put the question to our guests. We must know the secret of le Bon
Nuit before nightfall or all our heads may answer for our failure."
Ragout [seedy-looking weasel-faced card player:] "We've done our bit just
getting those interfering pigs on board,--give it a rest!"
Pepito [one-eyed Spaniard with a breath that would stop Baldrick in his
tracks:] "Why not just kill them and drop them overboard?" He spits into the
corner where a spittoon should be, but isn't. "If we dispose of every agent
he sends, will he not run out of confederates at some time? Besides, I have
not killed anyone in the past three days and I grow restless; it is not
natural, this enforced idleness."
Toby [a Cockney pickpocket with many other bad habits:] "Too right. Let's
scrag 'em all." He takes a large sheath knife out of his pocket and begins
to fondle it, grinning with the few mismatched teeth he stll owns.
Hans [short, bald and Germanic:] "Fools!! Dummkopfs!! Is it that you know
not of the dread organization, Les Timbeaux? Would you unleash their
vengeance upon us,--of a schrecklichheit such as makes mere murderers tremble
in their boots?!"
Sylvestre: "Mon Dieu!! Tell me that you three bunglers have not kidnapped
the so-talented M'sieu Curry, toast of stage, screen and television,--and
impressionist extraordinaire!! I...I was in Tangiers at the time that the
Dorothy Chandlair Pavilion was razed to the ground by those
impossible-to-control hordes of his admirers, Les Timbeaux Dangeureuses!!!
Theose headlines in the papers,--the photographs of the mangled victims!!
And that was merely in celebration of his natal day...We are indeed doomed..."
As if to underscore his remarks, an ear-piercing scream suddenly reaches the
cabin. The cardplayers leap to their feet, trembling. Sylvestre, unable to
leap, quivers like a large unwieldly custard pudding. Another scream rings
out.
Very timidly with much pushing and shoving so as not to be first in line, our
villains make their way to the cabin door and thence down to the hold.
A ghastly sight greets their eyes: Tim and Rowan are lying sprawled on the
dirty boards, splashes of gore on their faces and ripped clothing. Large
discolored bruises on arms and throats and two bloodstained jagged barrel
staves tell a horrifying story. Dix, backed up against the wall, continues
to scream.
Sylvestre: "...Doomed...quickly,--carry them on deck. Mam'selle,--please to
compose yourself; I will give to you some brandy..."
The men carry the bodies forward and place them in the fo'c's'le, muttering
among themselves. Dix, who has slumped into a faint, is laid down beside
them.
The rather pale conspirators, at a sign from Sylvestre, follow him back to
the cabin.
Sylvestre: "We will wrap them in canvas, weight them, drop them several miles
off the coast and hope for the best. Me, I propose to change my name and go
into some other business."
Hans: "It matters not. Der Timbeaux vill hunt you down like eine hund."
* * *
When last seen, our intrepid trio was in a somewhat comatose condition: Tim
and Rowan, to all appearances extinct and Dix in a dead faint. Their captors
have more or less stacked the bodies in the fo'c's'le and retreated to the
captain's cabin to make plans for their own debatable future.
All is still on the deck of Le Poisson Noir, the only sounds the lapping of
small waves against the hull. The green lantern still flickering in the bow
casts a ghastly pallor over the forms of our friends and makes their ugly
wounds uglier still...
Dix cautiously raises her head and looks around. Then she reaches to touch
Tim and Rowan's shoulders.
Dix: "All clear. Let's haul our derrieres out of here."
Tim [opening his eyes:] "Perhaps we should capture the gang now, while we
have them all together like this."
Rowan [sitting up and rubbing some of the lipstick "blood" off his face:] "I
vote no. There are five of them, all armed to the teeth. Anyway, I would
like to savor the experience of for once participating in a cunning plan that
didn't go horribly wrong."
Dix: "Yes, that was an excellent idea of Tim's."
Tim [modestly:] "Helped greatly by the fact that you always seem to carry a
full makeup kit everywhere. That blue and purple eyeshadow made very
effective bruises. And the lipstick and nail polish were indispensable."
Dix: "Just wait until you try to get the nail polish OFF;--I don't have any
solvent with me."
As they speak, in low tones, our friends are tiptoing along the rail to the
gangplank. They leave the boat in silent single file and head back along the
dock.
A corner street light illuminates Tim and Rowan's faces; Dix shudders and
hands them each a bunch of cleansing tissues.
Dix: "Better try to get some of that off; you two look like the walking
dead..."
Rowan, scrubbing at his face with the tissues, suddenly starts sneezing.
Tim: "Uh-oh,--I think we've been trailed. That perfume can only be,--"
Grenadine [slipping into view from around the corner:] "Ah! So I have found
you! And this time, I think I would like a souvenir of your visit...YOU!"
She points to Tim, who is rather startled.
Tim: "Now just a moment..."
But Grenadine's hand has dipped into her purse and she is holding a revolver.
She gestures with it, smiling.
Rowan, who is nearer to her, notices something.
Rowan: "Not to worry,--she has a water pistol."
Grenadine [smiling nastily:] "But it is not filled with water, mon
vieux,--it has a full charge of my own signature perfume. And this perfume
does NOT wash off. It must wear off...in several weeks."
Tim: "You fiend!"
Dix [thoughtfully:] "And I suppose we would have to burn his clothes.
Bummer."
Grenadine glances her way gloatingly and Rowan seizes the opportunity to grab
the hand holding the pistol and direct it into the nearby alley...as
Grenadine squeezes the trigger.
SFX: A series of sneezes resounds from the darkness. Also a canine whimper
of anguish. Baldrick stumbles out, followed by Cuddles, both overcome by
perfume.
Dix [gagging:] "Go away!! Miles away!!"
Tim has taken charge of Grenadine and tossed the empty perfume gun away. He
is struck by a strange familiarity about the struggling woman, who isn't
actually struggling very hard...
Tim: "Christine?!"
Dix: "Oh, damn. Look, toss her off the dock and let's go about our business.
I thought that red hair was phony."
Christine: "Look who's talking, Blondie!"
Rowan: "Girls, ladies, fishwives..."
* * *
Our intrepid trio has just been augmented by one,-Christine Z. having turned
up unexpectedly in the guise of Grenadine, French working girl...
Dix: "'Unexpectedly' my left,--"
Tim: "Yes, yes, we know."
Rowan [placatingly:] "Nice work if you can get it."
Christine: "I just happened to be here in Marseilles...on, umm, vacation..."
Dix: "Right. Strange the way you seem to turn up whenever we have a mission
to perform. Are you sure you aren't working for the opposition?"
Christine: "How dare you! I'm 100% loyal,--to Tim!!"
Dix: "Oh, stop spinning your training wheels, you road-company Cleopatra."
Tim and Rowan have withdrawn a safe distance away, having watched Dix and
Christine in action before.
Christine: "Ha! I've forgotten more about (pretty euphemism) than you'll
ever know!"
Dix: "Since you've forgotten it, why don't you take up a new career,--in
public relations or something?"
Tim: "Don't encourage her!"
Rowan: "No, some few things are best kept private."
SFX: A peculiarly sweet song being whistled faintly in the distance.
Tim: "Listen..." He starts to sing softly:
"Aupres de ma blonde', Qui'l fait bon, fait bon, fait bon...Aupres de ma
blonde', Qui'l fait bon dormir..."
Dix: "How pretty. I've always wanted a translation of that lovely thing..."
Tim: "Roughly, it's 'Alongside of my blonde, how sweet it is to sleep.'"
Dix [stroking her shoulder-length newly-blonde hair:] "Mmm, how apt."
Christine yanks off her luxurious red wig and shakes out her own golden
waves: "Two can play at THAT game, you bleached siren!"
Rowan, with brilliant diplomacy and also because Baldrick has bumped into him
from behind, steps between the ladies barely in time to avert bloodshed.
Marcel, who has been doing the whistling, walks up and joins the party.
Marcel, straightening up and -- pulling off his full facial mask! -- reveals
himself as still another blond. A fabulously-handsome and eminently
shaggable blond...
Rowan: "Oh, God,--Flasheart!!"
Flasheart [ignoring him and zeroing in on Dix and Christine:] "Woof! All
right, you luscious little crepes suzettes,--who wants to get lucky first?"
* * *
Two hours later (words fail me at attempting to describe the previous scene;
you know how Flashy works...very fast), our little group is being ushered
into the warden's office at the local bastille. They have received word that
several hard cases are presently languishing in the cells there and have been
asked to identify their former abductors...
Yes, it's Sylvestre crouched gibbering in a corner of one cell, clothing
hanging in shreds, eyes blackened, saliva drooling from a corner of his
mouth. The four other gang members are also cowering on the floor in a
similar condition, whimpering abjectly.
Inspector Gerard: "All they say, over and over again, is 'Les Timbeaux,
quelle horreur', and beg to be taken out and guillotined..." He shrugs his
shoulders in the Gallic fashion. "Some form of mass insanity, perhaps?"
Dix [looking around nervously:] "Well, that's that,--you've rounded up the
gang, the counterfeit money is in storage,--time for us to head for home."
Tim [also looking around nervously:] "Yes...the Timbos may still be in the
vicinity and I only packed a small suitcase..."
Rowan: "I had the foresight to put on my steel mesh undies before we left
(yawning), but it might be as well to depart."
As they exit the police station, their worst fears are realized: Timbos
converging from all directions. Timbos in ripped clothing, displaying many
of their natural charms...Dix slips quickly back inside the door, grabs a
phone off the nearest desk and places an emergency call.
Even as Tim and Rowan are being forcibly fondled by dozens of warm friendly
Timbos, a long black limousine screeches to a stop at the curb. A man steps
out and raises his hands for attention.
Man: "Aaaaahhh, such a plentitude of pulchritude!! Mademoiselles, permit me
to introduce myself: I am Maurice LeBlanc, manager of Les Folies Bergere,
and it is my mission in life to present to our vast public the very flower of
magnificent feminity! I 'ave several contracts that await only your
signatures..."
As he distracts the Timbos, Dix, Tim and Rowan quickly enter the limousine,
followed closely by Baldrick and Cuddles. And with a roar of exhaust, they
disappear down the street to safety, home and the herb garden.
The End. For Now.
Y(back to normal auburn-haired adventuress)FT,
Dix