The Last Judgement

One of the most endearing things about the French is that they, especially adolescent Parisians, are so very public-spirited. The Revolutionary tradition of fraternity lives on in them. Policemen — even pretend ones — inspire particular feelings of dislike; no sooner had the man opened his mouth than the entire street was on the alert, watching what was going on, assessing the situation, seeing that the putative fugitives from justice were being steadily overtaken.

With that sense of brotherly concern which they seem to imbibe with their mother’s milk, everybody in close proximity moved to assist. Flavia didn’t see clearly, as she was otherwise engaged, but the snatched glance over her shoulder was just enough to reveal four different legs extending themselves to intercept their pursuer. He successfully leapt the first two but tripped on the third; the owner of the fourth, perhaps dismayed at being cheated, instead kicked him sharply in the ribs as he went down hard on the pavement.

But he was resilient, no doubt about that. He rolled over and was up almost immediately. Resuming the chase, he again began to gain ground.

There was one chance and Argyll, taking the lead once more, grabbed it and Flavia simultaneously. They were running through that part of Paris which once contained Les Halles, the most beautiful food market in Europe. But in the spirit that gave the world the Beaubourg Centre, this was flattened and replaced with a cheapjack and now increasingly tatty shopping mall which dives ever deeper into the damp and often putrid ground near the Seine. About as good a hiding-place as you can imagine; on the few occasions Argyll had ever ventured into its underground streets, he hadn’t even been able to find himself, let alone anyone else.

And access was by escalators, which were edged by flat, smooth, shiny metal sections. The sort of thing that kids love to slide down, despite the best efforts of the authorities to stop them. Flavia had once accused Argyll of having an almost absurd tendency to indulge in childhood pleasures, and now he demonstrated that an infantile sense of fun could have its uses. He hopped on to the side of the escalator and let go, whistling down the incline several times faster than the stairs progressed. Had the situation not been so serious, he would have been tempted to let off a whoop of pleasure. He hadn’t done that for years.

Flavia followed him down, thanking heaven she had chosen to wear jeans that morning, then ran with him to the escalator that took them down to the second level. By the time they got there, they were a good way ahead of their pursuer.

‘Where now?’ she asked.

‘Don’t ask me. Where do you want to go?’

‘Gloucestershire.’

‘Where?’

‘It’s in England,’ she explained.

‘I know where... oh, never mind. Come on.’

And they ran off down the corridor, turning left, right, left, taking short cuts through clothes stores and fast-food outlets, anything to confuse the scent.

It seemed to work. The ominous pounding of feet behind them was no more to be heard, and eventually, slowly coming to believe that they had shaken off the pursuit, they eased up to get their breath back.

Still puffing, but feeling much better, they rounded another corner and realized firstly that they were back where they’d started, and secondly that their pursuer was about six feet in front of them. He had an almost amused smile on his face as he began to run in their direction.

An abrupt about-turn and they disappeared down the next escalator, but this time they were followed closely; they started running again at the bottom with their lead cut to about a second.

It seemed they were in the Métro station; there were tunnels leading off at various places, and a bank of turnstiles directly in front of them. Flavia led the way this time. With the grace of an Olympic athlete in the 400-metres hurdles, she took the turnstile on the run, vaulting over its projecting metal arms with a stylishness that produced ironic cheers from a group of disreputable-looking youths in one corner and a loud protest from a ticket-inspector in another.

Argyll, less elegantly but just as effectively, followed half a second behind her, with the pursuer just behind him. Fortunately, it was at this stage that the forces of law and order decided they had had enough. There was not much to be done about the woman, who was already disappearing down a corridor on the far side of the barrier. The second culprit was heading in the same direction.

But three in as many seconds was too much. With a cry of triumph, the ticket-inspector leapt forward and fastened a powerful hand on the shoulder of the last miscreant, throwing him off balance and making him catch his foot on the stile.

As Argyll in turn vanished down the corridor, he heard the shouts of frustration and furious protest as their pursuer was placed under arrest for trying to avoid paying his 6 franc 20 centimes Métro fare.