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deal.’
    ‘Some deal,’
said Martin scornfully. ‘You could have found out where that stupid restaurant
is without having to ask him.’
    ‘Oh, really? How?’
    ‘You could have
asked me.’
    ‘You? You don’t know where it is any more than I do.’
    Martin reached
into the pocket of his jacket and produced a small white card. He passed it
over to Charlie without a word. Charlie took it and held it up to the window,
ignoring the contorted face of the deputy outside, who was still desperately
waiting for him to move.
    At the top of
the card there was an heraldic emblem of wild boars,
embossed in gold, with the copperplate caption ‘Les Celestines’. Underneath
were the words ‘ Le Reposoir . Societe de la Cuisine Exceptionelle. 6633
Quassapaug Road, Alien’s Corners, CT.’
    Charlie turned
the card over. The reverse side carried the pencilled word ‘Pain’.
    ‘What the hell
is this?’ Charlie asked Martin. ‘First of all those geriatrics try to pretend that they’ve never heard of the place. Now you give
me this. Where did you get it, for Christ’s sake?
    And why the
hell didn’t you show it to me before?’
    The deputy
tapped on the window with his knuckles. ‘Sir,’ he mouthed, ‘will you please
move?’
    Charlie let
down his window and held up the card. ‘Is this the address? Sixty-six
thirty-three Quassapaug Road?’
    The deputy
stared at him. After all, if Charlie had known the address all along, why had
he kicked up such a fuss about it? ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
    Charlie said,
‘Okay. At least we’re making some progress.’ He was about to shift his car into
drive and pull away when the president of the First Litchfield Savings Bank
approached him – a tall, wide-shouldered, white-haired man with a head as large
as a lion. He bent down beside Charlie’s open window, and said, ‘Good
afternoon. I hope you don’t feel that I’m being autocratic here.’
    ‘Don’t worry
about it,’ Charlie replied. ‘I’m just about to pull out. My friend the deputy
tells me you have squatter’s rights on this parking space.’
    The bank
president stared at Charlie level-eyed, and then smiled. ‘You could call them
squatter’s rights, I suppose. My family have lived in
this town since 1845. We own most of it, and hold mortgages on the rest. So
you’ll forgive me if I tend to regard this parking space as private property.’
    ‘I’m only
passing through,’ Charlie told him.
    The bank
president’s pale grey eyes focused on Martin. ‘You and your
boy?’
    ‘That’s right. A single parent’s tour of hospitable New England.’
    ‘Listen, I
apologize,’ the bank president said. ‘You stay right there. I’ll have Clive
park my car for me. Alien’s Corners is a friendly town. I certainly don’t
expect its law officers to hassle visitors on my behalf.’
    He reached his
hand into the car, and said, ‘Walter Haxalt. Welcome to Alien’s Corners.’
    ‘Charlie
McLean. And this is Martin McLean.’
    ‘Happy to know
you,’ said Walter Haxalt. ‘Please feel free to stay here as long as you want.’
    ‘As a matter of
fact,’ we’re on our way to Quassapaug Road.’
    Walter Haxalt
glanced around at the deputy, then turned back to
Charlie. ‘I don’t know that there’s anything of interest to a tourist up there.
Quassapaug Road is just a road. Not much of a road for driving on, either. It’s
all hairpins from begining to end.’
    ‘We want to
visit Le Reposoir ,’ said Charlie. He
held up the card that Martin had given him.
    Walter Haxalt’s
expression went through a subtle but distinct change. It looked almost as if
his face had been modelled out of pink wax, and an oven door had been opened
close by, melting and shifting it. ‘I suppose Clive has told you that Le Reposoir is completely private.’
    Charlie reached
forward and switched off the Oldsmobile’s engine.
    ‘All right,’ he
said hotly. ‘Would somebody mind telling me what in the hell is going on?’
    ‘I’m sorry,