with fingering through a leather notebook for an address. When the baggage handler came up, Mr. Poopendal carefully counted their six pieces of luggage and had them stowed on the rear of the vehicle.
Mr. Blatherbell finally found the address he was searching for. “La Reine de Coeur,” he ordered the driver as he climbed into the carriage, his two partners on his heels.
“Ce n'est pas encore ouvert, Monsieur.”
“I did not ask whether it was open or not,” snapped Mr. Blatherbell. “Just take us there.”
“Comment?” asked the driver, not understanding English.
“Rien. Allez.”
It was spring, and the ladies were out in all their finery, their gaily-colored parasols framing their bold glances, their bustled skirts sweeping within an inch of the sidewalks, the pigeons scurrying out of their way as their high-buttoned boots pattered on the flagstones. Even Mr. Blatherbell sat up straighter and his brows twitched as they started up Rue Lafayette and his eyes grew rounder as they passed the Eglise de la Trinite and rolled along Rue Blanche, where the coquettish looks were not the playful ones of Rue Lafayette but downright serious, seductive magnets which would require the payment of fifty francs to explore.
The carriage turned into a narrow street, and here were the true sights and sounds of Paris, a marketplace lined with stalls of scarves and stockings and caps, and crowded with push-carts and horse-drawn carts piled high with vegetables and meats and fruits and cheeses, and the owner of each cart vying with his neighbor as to who could shout the louder or drag a customer from the other, and the horses contentedly munching hay and pooping in the faces of all who passed by.
And here, too, were the ten-franc girls, leaning out of the first-floor windows and making signs spelling out in no uncertain terms what their darlings would receive for their money. Mr. Poopendal blushed and turned his eyes upward. Mr. Snoddergas’ tongue hung from his mouth and his ears stood out even further from his head. Mr. Blatherbell was busy computing ten francs into English pence.
Barely a block further on, the carriage came to a halt in front of a princely dancehall, its façade of white Italian marble, with wide, tiled steps leading to twin gilded doors, and three royal blue marquees gracing its entrance, one leading directly to the street and the others along the sidewalk for twenty paces in each direction, guarded at each end by a richly-uniformed doorman dressed in silk pants and knee-length stockings, patent-leather shoes, and a brocaded cape with a matching d’Artagnan hat.
Huge letters stretching from one side of the building to the other indicated that here one found ‘La Reine de Coeur’.
The doorman on the street sprang to attention as they stopped in front of his marquee, and with a flourish he whipped off his feathered hat, bowed low, opened the door of the carriage, and cried in English, “Welcome, your Lordships,” - all at the same time.
Mr. Blatherbell stepped down, waited until his partners had also alighted then leveled his cane at the driver, “Attendez-nous,” he ordered sternly.
“He will wait,” cried the doorman, holding his open hand closer to Mr. Blatherbell. “On the soul of my maitresse’s mother, I promise that not one article will disappear.” Mr. Blatherbell placed a coin in his hand and the doorman’s vast smile of bonhomie turned sour when he appraised its value.
“We are here to see…” he looked again at his notebook, “Mademoiselle Colette Potier. Is she here now?”
“Of course, Messieurs,” answered the doorman, forgetting for the moment that he had addressed them as ‘Your Lordships’ upon their arrival. “Follow me.”
Inside was a small, ornate stage faced by row after row of plush lounge chairs. The floor above consisted of a narrow balcony divided into luxurious boxes. The doorman led them around the chairs to a corridor leading to the rear of the stage. On one side of the corridor were several doors, and as they walked past one which was opened it revealed an opulent sitting-room containing silk-covered divans and lovers’ chairs, and walls decorated with silk cloth in which floral designs were woven, and fresh flowers standing on a centre table next to a bowl of fruit and a bottle of wine. At the rear of the room was another door, and this being open disclosed a vast, silk-covered bed resting under a brightly-lighted mirror fixed to the ceiling.
“Is this a hotel, too?” asked Mr. Poopendal of Mr. Snoddergas. Mr. Snoddergas had a sudden fit of coughing.
Finally they reached the rear of the stage and the doorman halted in front of a door and knocked. A maid put out her head.
“Three gentlemen to see La Flamme”.
“La Flamme is resting,” said the maid pettishly. “Furthermore, she never sees a man without first speaking with his banker. And three at one time! Well, I never! Such things have not been done since she stopped working…” Her voice faded away.
Mr. Blatherbell leaned forward. “Would you be kind enough to tell Mademoiselle Potier that we are here in connection with a Mr. Paul Sanderson.”
The door was abruptly pulled open, propelling the maid back into the room. Standing in front of them was a tall goddess, thick red hair falling to her waist, a startling-white face framing huge, deep-blue eyes and a wide, scarlet mouth, rounded shoulders that were being covered by a silk robe, but not before the dimple in each screamed to be kissed, and deep, white breasts, heavy and full as if bursting with sweet-tasting cream, a trim waist flaring into demanding hips touched by reddish-gold at the vortex. Actually, she had been naked when she wrenched open the door, and the three solicitors, their eyes racing down at break-neck speed, managed to get in a glimpse of nerve-shattering delights before the robe slammed shut.
Paul!” she screamed, dragging Mr. Blatherbell into the room. Her robe fell open, and Mr. Blatherbell grew pale at the sight of a large quivering nipple staring him directly in the face only a couple of inches away and at the exact height of his lips. He started to bite it, but reason prevailed and he shut his eyes tightly and began to recite to himself the preamble to the Magna Carta.
“Where is he?” screamed La Flamme.
He opened one eye tentatively and saw the nipple still there, now swelling and growing dark from the intensity of her emotion.
He snapped shut his eye and leaned forward to conceal the sudden bulge in his trousers.
“May we be seated, Madame?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Of course, of course,” shouted the excited woman. “Josette, chairs for the gentlemen, quickly.”
Mr. Blatherbell groped about until he found a chair, sat down cautiously, then opened his eyes towards the floor and worked them up slowly until he saw that La Flamme’s robe was closed again. He took a deep breath and looked into her face.
“Madame, we are solicitors from England. A relative of Lord... Mr. Sanderson has recently died and we are here to inform him of his great loss.”
La Flamme’s shoulders sagged. “Then you have no message from him for me?” she asked plaintively.
“No, Madame. We found a letter in his relative’s files in which he had asked for some mon… information of sorts, and your name in care of La Reine de Coeur was given as a forwarding address.”
“Paul, Paul,” whispered La Flamme, sitting down heavily.
“Do
