Page 22 of Tangled With the Wrong Guy
Ah, theirunderstandingagain. Their unspoken acknowledgement of his inner conflict. And yet, in his half-sleep, he’d knownexactlyhow to turn a woman on. What was going on with him? And her, for that matter.
‘Noir,’ she said, adding his words to the compliment treasure box.
Before she could think further on the clue, a shadow materialised out of the trees onto the moonlit path, a few metres ahead of them.
‘Oh, hello – it’s you again!’ said Chloe to the little black cat.
Le chat noir.
‘Noir,’ she said, staring at it.
‘It’s dark,’ said Joel. ‘Everything’snoir.’
‘True.’ The cat trotted off. ‘But we’ll follow it anyway.’
‘Why not?’ said Joel. ‘Normal rules clearly don’t apply.’
If only they didn’t.
‘On y va,’ she said, and they set off after the cat. It didn’t look back, walking quickly with its tail held high, turning down a wide lane to the left.
‘Where’s it going?’ said Joel as they hurried to keep up. ‘And why are we following it again?’
‘Not sure. Just a feeling.’
It vanished into the shadows between the graves, which were cheek by jowl here.
‘Damn, it’s gone!’ said Chloe, peering after it. ‘No, wait – there it is.’
The little cat was sitting on the effigy of a man – a dead man, lying on his back. In his hand was a top hat, and his long coat lay in deep folds around him, the shadows between them accentuated by the moonlight.
Chloe recognised him from an earlier visit. ‘Oh, I don’t believe it!’
The cat jumped down and disappeared again.
‘See ya, puss,’ said Joel. He looked at Chloe. ‘What don’t you believe?’
Chloe pointed to the name carved on the bronze plinth.
Joel bent down to read it. ‘What the fuck?Victor Noir?’
‘How odd,’ said Chloe. ‘Why did Monsieur le Security Guard want us to visit Victor Noir? I mean, I know why a lot of people do, but …’
‘Why do they?’
Then she saw it, in the spot wherele chat noirhad been sitting. ‘That’s … amazing. Look!’
Joel’s face broke into a huge grin. ‘A bloody key!’
‘And a torch! Monsieur le Security Guard,je t’aime,’ cried Chloe. He’d left them a clue, which had led them to the key, and now they’d be able to exit the cemetery without having to re-engage with the idiot boys.
There was no barrier around Victor Noir, who was pretty much a historical nonentity, Chloe remembered. A journalist who’d been killed in a duel, but who’d only remained famous after his death because of the bronze sculpture in front of them. It depicted Monsieur Noir as he’d fallen, flat on his back, arms by his sides, legs out straight. And for some reason unknown, the sculptor had given Monsieur Noir a prominent bulge in his trousers. This was now his claim to fame.
Over the years the effigy had taken on a matte, blue-green patina, with the exception of the bulge, which shone in all its bronze, oversized glory, thanks to being constantly rubbed by women. The local superstition was that doing so would help with fertility issues, or get you a husband or … hot sex.
‘Um …’
‘I know!’ said Chloe, giggling.
