Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

There was an announcement from the loudspeaker on the train which said, ‘it will arrive at the station in four minutes’ – ‘that’s our cue,’ grinned the red headed woman, as she looked outside to see the station car park, where she could see that elegant limousine.

The red headed woman could also see those two gargoyles who had been skulking in the car park right by the wall, and now she was certain they would be able to get into the limo as usual, while Mr Cushing would open the rear door, as the two of them trundled to the end of the very long car.

Meanwhile, Mr Cushing and The Old One had been talking about movies, – ‘I did like a meaty role,’ explained Mr Cushing – ‘great actors, like Clouseau and Cato,’ as they both grinned.

‘Come on, we need to get off this train,’ said the red headed woman, as she grabbed her big bag and made her way to the exit doors; she smiled to the little girl who she’d met in the other coach, while saying, ‘thanks mate’, to the dad.

Scatty, Joan and Francis also followed as they all alighted from the train, as they made their way to the station car park; it seemed there was a mass of people around there, but there was no problem to find that gorgeous car.

‘Everyone in,’ smiled Mr Cushing, as he glanced back at all of them, ‘we’ll be flying soon (figuratively speaking, of course).

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Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

Mr Cushing had continued to drive, as a smallish town appeared; then The Old One said: ‘the signpost, look, that will be the station just down there, and next to it will be the station car park,’ -the Old One was still using his smartphone on GPS as he said, ‘take a left… indicate, now!’

Mr Cushing just raised one eyebrow a little, as he smoothly drove down to the station car park, while carefully looking in his rear mirror – still no gendarmes and no Inspector Clouseau, a small smile appeared.

Meanwhile, the red-headed woman had been using her own smartphone to ping to WhatsApp as another phone pinged back; she grinned as she started an important conversation.

And this is how it went, but using condensed words and useful emojis:-
I’m not sure that faith comes into this – not faith, just practical things, hmm, gems… diamonds – well I know what to do, I know a former jeweller who became a fence, he’s called Monsieur Bourbon, it’s near Montmartre, just a few streets from where I stay, as she winked and used a thumbs-up sign.

The red-headed woman pocketed her smartphone, as Scatty, Joan and Francis all looked at her with various very quizzical questions – who, what and why… and when?

She held up her hands with a radiant smile – ‘all of us, plus Mr Cushing, the Old One, and of course, those two who we know very well, we’ll be back in Paris, very, very soon – mark my words.’

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Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

Meanwhile, The Old One and Mr Cushing had managed to get across all those sheds without being noticed by those many gendarmes around that large farm, and they had a hairy time while that bumbling Inspector Clouseau had been laying across that gorgeous limo.

‘Outrageous,’ muttered Mr Cushing, as he clenched his teeth, while both of them hid in some bushes until Inspector Clouseau somehow or other managed to fall down to the ground from that very expensive car; he stood up rather quickly, as he moved away to catch up to all those gendarmes.

‘Now’s our chance,’ grinned The Old One, as Mr Cushing pulled out his keys; ‘no wishful thinking with this perfect purring car,’ as he gunned into reverse, and very, very quickly, he swung a right, and then put it onto drive, ‘zoom on, we’re on the move,’ as both of them grinned with glee, ‘what wits we are!’

They were racing through the countryside, Mr Cushing drove swiftly, while The Old One used his smartphone: ‘hear we are,’ he said, ‘I’ve the GPS, we can find them near the rails and then to the nearest station, hmm, excellent.’

Then The Old One started a soliloquy, almost like a fourth wall he thought to himself: ‘I think I might be a writer, I feel I should write my memoirs, but only the highlights,’ as he took out his posh pen and beautiful notebook.

Mr Cushing glanced at him, and said: ‘you’re going to be busy then.’

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