Chapter 91: MAINTENANT!
The next morning
An undisclosed location
The blackness fell away, and Thomas opened his eyes. He slammed them shut against the brightness of the day. He wanted water to sooth his throat, but he could not free himself from his bedclothes. He cursed and squinted to focus his eyes, and they landed on two Goliaths peering at him.
"Who the hell are you?" Thomas croaked.
"Silence!" snapped the smaller of the two in that way the French pronounce it.
"What are you doing in my room?" Thomas demanded.
The larger of the two mimicked Thomas in French. Thomas could not mistake his shrill nasal voice. These were the two who had caused the disturbance at the Dingo last night. He could remember Jimmie pouring champagne; he could remember these two behemoths fighting; he could remember touching glasses with Giroux and drinking. That was all he could remember.
The fog left Thomas' brain. He was not in his comfortable bed in his comfortable room at Maison de Bennett with Brouette only a bell-pull away. Rather he was tied with rough twine to a wooden chair in the corner of what seemed to be a cramped hotel room.
The larger man placed his booted foot on the chair seat between Thomas' legs and tilted the chair backward. Thomas pulled his head forward so it would not hit the floor when the chair fell. The man removed his foot, and the chair fell forward with a thud.
Thomas shouted for help. The larger man made a fist and brought it down sharply on top of Thomas' head. He did not hit with all his strength, but it was enough to shut Thomas up. The smaller man retrieved a pistol and brought it to Thomas' nose. The consequence of shouting was well-communicated.
In as mild a manner as Thomas could manage, he asked, "Do you speak English?"
"L'anglais?" The two men guffawed, and the smaller Goliath, still holding the gun to Thomas' nose, gave the chair a kick. He said something which Thomas gathered was not particularly flattering to the British.
Much to Thomas' relief, the two men left him and sat down to a card game. Judging by the empty wine bottles scattered about and the half-eaten baguettes and charcuterie, the men had been playing for some time. While the two played, Thomas tested his restraints. His arms had been tied securely to the sides of the chair and his hands along the back legs. He could not budge so much as a finger. He looked about the room and saw Lord Bennett's evening links and his wallet, still fat with Lady Bennett's money, sitting on the chest of drawers. His ladies did not know his circumstances. So far as they knew, he had simply disappeared. Would they think he had betrayed their trust?
The day creeped along. Thomas listened to the two men banter. He deduced that the larger man's name was Guy and the smaller man's name was Roch. Guy and Roch played cards, read and argued over the newspaper, and took turns napping. Every so often the telephone rang, and Guy always answered and spoke in a business-like manner. The two men ordered food and wine by telephone and paid the delivery boy with Lady Bennett's money. They shared none of their bounty with Thomas. Roch made a point of dragging over a chair and stuffing his mouth almost nose-to-nose with Thomas.
As the sun was setting, Guy began to check the clock on the mantle. When the clock reached the designated hour, he nodded to Roch, who stood in front of Thomas with a grin and the pistol. Guy picked up the phone and flirted with the operator. Once he was connected to his party, his tone turned stony. After a few sharp words, he brought the handset to Thomas. "Parle!" he commanded and punctuated his message with a rough slap.
Thomas nodded. "Hullo? This is Thomas Barrow. Who's this?"
"Thomas, thank heavens! Have they hurt you?" There was no mistaking the Dowager's voice.
"No, but ..." Thomas wanted to warn the Dowager to be suspicious of Giroux, but Guy was too fast for him and yanked the phone away. The Dowager's voice had never sounded so sweet, but Thomas was determined not to let his emotions get the better of him.
Night became day and then night again. One of the men always remained awake with the pistol nearby. The summer heat never left the room, and Thomas' clothes were stuck to him, and his skin itched. Guy and Roch lounged about in their underclothes but did not permit Thomas to remove even his coat.
The only time Thomas was released from his chair was to use the WC. Initially, Roch wanted to refuse Thomas the privilege, but Guy gave the situation some consideration. He spoke quietly to Roch and grimaced. Perhaps he was suggesting that if their captive were to wet or soil himself, then the room would become disagreeable for the two of them.
Thomas had hoped for a window in the WC, but there was none. At least there was a sink. Each time he was permitted a visit, he cupped his hands under the running water and tried to quench his thirst. Afterward, he was ushered back to the hard chair with the pistol at his back and tied with fresh twine. He tried not to wince as the twine cut into his raw wrists.
It was late the second night when the phone rang. The call excited Guy. He conveyed the conversation to Roch, and they congratulated each other and sang a French song that Thomas did not know. They placed an order over the phone, and this time the delivery included two bottles of cognac. They ate little and drank heavily while Thomas sat in the corner willing himself to be invisible. Who knew what these two might do in their drunken state. Eventually, the two men blacked out, first Roch on the bed and then Guy in the WC. Thomas could see Guy's legs protruding from the door. Thomas was not convinced of his good fortune until he heard their vigorous snores. It was the first time Roch and Guy had left him unsupervised.
Yelling for help was not an option. There was too great a chance it would rouse the snoring men. Thomas had another idea. He leaned far forward in his chair so that his feet were firmly planted on the floor but the chair legs were in the air. He had thought of working his way to the door. He was certain that he could press the handle down with his chin, but he had seen Roch latch the door after paying the delivery boy. The latch was affixed too high for Thomas to reach.
Instead, Thomas inched his way towards the telephone. Two days of captivity had left Thomas in a miserable state. He had to set down the chair every so often to rest. He could not see the clock, but he guessed it had taken him thirty minutes to work his way the short distance to the phone. It took several more minutes for him to position himself so that he could crane his neck and take hold of the handset with his teeth and lips. He made three attempts before he was certain that his grip was tight enough. If he were to drop the handset on the floor, it would the end of him. He removed the handset from the cradle and set it on the table. He set back in his chair and rested a moment before craning his neck again to tap the switch hook. He hoped the hotel operator was on duty all night.
A man's voice came over the handset. "Réception."
"Do you speak English?" Thomas asked in a hushed voice.
"No, Monsieur."
Thomas remembered the phrase, "Je voudrai". Customers at restaurants and bars always began their requests with that phrase. "Je voudrai the police," he begged.
"La police, Monsieur?" The reception clerk matched Thomas' muted voice.
"Oui! La police! I'm Thomas Barrow. Thomas BĂ-row. Hurry! Please, help me! Uh ... Maintenant!" Thomas had heard that word yelled in Paris, always with impatience. He hoped it meant what he thought it did.
"Oui, Monsieur. Thomas Barrow. La police. Maintenant!"
The clerk ended the call, and Thomas took hold of the handset in his mouth and carefully returned it to the cradle. It was not sitting right, but Guy would probably think that was how he left it. Thomas began to work his way back to the corner. He breathed more easily now that the police were on their way. Then a dreadful thought occurred to him. What if the reception clerk did not know from what room he had telephoned? How many rooms were in this hotel? Thomas sat back to rest, and his chair tapped the edge of the table. Three wine bottles rolled off the table in quick succession and exploded on the hard floor. Thomas froze, but the two men did not move.
Thomas redoubled his efforts to reclaim his corner. He was wondering if the police would take the trouble to search the entire hotel in the middle of the night. He was preparing to manoeuvre himself into his corner when he felt a hand grab a fistful of his hair.
Another Undisclosed Location
Bates knew nothing of sailing, but he had to find Thomas and refused to dwell on the difficulties of the situation. He looked up and saw that the sail was flapping in the breeze. No, that was no sail; it was Rose! She was hanging onto the mast with both hands, her long hair and gown rippling in the breeze. Bates cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Rose, come down! I need you!"
Bates watched as the breeze died and Rose wrapped her legs around the mast and slid down to the deck. "That was fun, John! Come do it with me!"
"Not now, Rose. I have to tell you something."
"We can do both," Rose assured him.
In a blink, Bates and Rose were both holding onto the mast. They both fluttered in the wind. Bates felt elated as the wind sent his troubles flying. But he did have troubles; of that, he was certain. He forced himself to grab hold of the mast with his legs (his legs always worked well when he was with Rose), and he slid down the mast. That was exhilarating, too.
Rose followed Bates to the deck. "Why did you stop?"
Bates' mind was blank. "I can't remember, but it was a matter of life and death."
Rose showered Bates with her musical laugh. "Life and death? That's our song, John."
Bates laughed. Rose always made him happy.
"What are you doing on this boat, John?"
Bates purpose came back to him, and the weight of it was almost too much for him. "Rose, I've done something terrible. I've lost Thomas."
Rose came closer. Bates thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Her voice had the haunting sound of an oboe. "I gave you my son, and you lost him?"
"He's a grown man, Rose. I can't be with him every minute."
"It's not the grown man who concerns me, John. You love the man; I love the boy."
"What do you mean? They're the same person."
"John! Listen to me!" The wind began to pick up, and Rose billowed, growing larger as her gown filled with air. "Save the boy or the man won't survive."
"Rose, I don't understand."
"You have time. Figure it out."
"I don't have time! Thomas could be dead."
He's not dead, John. I promise."
"How do you know?"
"If he were dead, he'd be with me!" Rose floated towards the sky.
Bates cupped his hands again and shouted. "Rose, where do I look? Rose! Rose!" He jumped and tried to grasp a corner of her gown. His entire body jerked, and he opened his eyes.
Bates had fallen asleep reading a book from Lady Bennett's library. Waiting for news of Thomas had been unbearable, and until that moment, sleep had evaded him. Thank god for Brouette. As amends for her unwitting role in Thomas' kidnapping, Lady Bennett was allowing Brouette to devote his time to Bates. They had spent hours playing cards, talking nonsense, and taking walks. They never walked far from the house in case there was news.
Bates slipped his reading glasses into his breast pocket. Save the boy or the man won't survive. What the hell does that mean? He walked to the bathroom and washed his face. Perhaps Rose was right. Perhaps Thomas was alive, but he could be suffering. Even if he were alive, there was no guarantee he would remain alive. Inspector Martel had pulled Bates aside that first day and said that the longer Thomas was missing the less likely they would find him alive.
Bates felt hot tears run down his cheeks, and he washed his face again. An urgent knock called him from the bathroom. "Monsieur Bates?" Brouette stuck his head in the door. "Monsieur Bates, the police telephoned. They may have found him."
