Cold Midnight In Vieux Quebec – Eric Wilson

“Well, I. . . .” Tom laughed. “Michelle’s invited me to Mardi Gras. There’s a seven-course dinner.” “Don’t drink from the fingerbowl.” Dietmar looked at a wooden platform above their heads. “That thing’s just been built. I love the smell of new lumber.” His eyes travelled along an enclosed walkway which connected the platform to the city wall.

“I wonder what that’s for?” “See the windows of those rooms built into the city wall? Some VIPs are going to wait in a room, out of the cold, until the parade approaches. Then they’ll go to the review stand.” “By the way, where are we going today? You haven’t told me.” “I’m looking for a place called Le Tatouage.” “What’s that mean?” Tom shrugged.

“Tattoo, something like that.” He looked down a narrow street, where really old houses lined the sidewalks. “British cannonballs once rained down on these very streets, Oban. Imagine—we’re a part of history.” “Did you just say tattoo? As in tattoo parlour?” “Yeah.” Tom arranged his face in an innocent expres¬ sion. “Why?” “Because I suspect you’re manipulating me into another investigation. Well, listen really carefully. I refuse to visit any tattoo parlour. Absolutely refuse. Are you receiving my message?” “Michelle’s got a sister. Care to meet her?”

X t • • • “We’re talking major cute here, Oban. I bet she’d like that jade-green jacket you’re wearing.” Dietmar sighed. “Okay, Austen, I’ll go to the tattoo parlour. I can’t guarantee I’ll go inside.” Tom looked at his map. “We’re almost there.” He swallowed. “Nothing can go wrong. Trust me.” “What a hollow promise.” They began walking cautiously down a dark alley. Nei¬ ther boy said a word. The alley ended at a courtyard, where white twisters of snow blew down from the roofs of surrounding buildings.

An outdoor staircase led up to a door with a sign that read Le Tatouage. Slowly Tom and Dietmar climbed the icy stairs, their breath steaming in the cold air. Tom opened the door and stepped inside. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, making him squint and cough; displayed on the walls were such popular tattoo designs as snakes and skulls.

Behind a shabby counter stood a man with a bony nose, and long hair fringing a balding head. He wore a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, dirty jeans and a leather vest. “Ouais! Qu’est-ce que vous voulez, les gaminsT’ 44 Uh. . . Tom went closer to the counter. His mouth was dry. “Je le regrette mais … we don’t speak.

. . .” He thumbed his dictionary. “Quand. . “Austen.” Dietmar was standing in the doorway. “I don’t like this idea. He looks like a middle-aged Nazi.” The man glanced at him. “I speak English.” Dietmar disappeared down the stairs. As he did, Tom looked at a big appointment calendar lying on the counter.

Other books by Eric Wilson The Tom and Liz Austen Mysteries 1. Murder on The Canadian 2. Vancouver Nightmare 3. The Ghost of Lunenburg Manor 4. Disneyland Hostage 5. The Kootenay Kidnapper 6. Vampires of Ottawa 7. Spirit in the Rainforest 8. The Green Gables Detectives 9. Code Red at the Supermall Also available by Eric Wilson Summer of Discovery The Unmasking of ’Ksan The author describes many real places and events in this book, but the story and the characters come entirely from his imagination.

First published in 1989 by Harper & Collins Publishers Ltd. Suite 2900, Hazelton Lanes 55 Avenue Road Toronto, Ontario M5R 3L2 Copyright © 1989 by Eric Hamilton Wilson All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publisher.

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data Wilson, Eric Cold midnight in vieux Quebec ISBN 0-00-223495-5 I. Title. PS8595.I58C64 1989 jC813′.54 C89-094844-5 PZ7.W55Co 1989 Printed and bound in Canada This book is dedicated to my uncles, Bruce Wilson and Cayley Wilson, who lost their lives in the Second World War Etienne’s Tom Austen leaned into a cold wind.

He was in Baie St-Paul, a small town in rural Quebec. It was night-time, and snow gusted down a street that seemed hundreds of years old. Wooden houses with big porches stood along the winding road, their yards full of trees with bare branches. But one thing didn’t fit. A small, white car had just passed Tom, its wheels crunching along the icy street. The car windows were smokey-black, hiding its occu¬ pants inside, and there was an aerial for a cellular phone. The car slowed as it passed Tom.

He could sense eyes staring at him, then the car moved away. At the same time, Tom saw a woman in a red ski jacket and jeans 2 coming out of the night, walking toward a telephone booth. Again, the car slowed down while passing her, then crossed a small bridge and stopped at a gas station that was closed for the night. The headlights went off and the car became something that was watching.

The woman didn’t seem to notice. She dropped her cigarette in the snow, took out a slip of paper, then punched at the phone buttons. As Tom passed the booth, heading into the confectionary beside it, he could hear her speaking. “Listen. . . .” Her voice was determined. “I gave you 12 hours to agree to an interview. You haven’t come through. No interview, so now I break the story.

Your name is about to be mud.” Tom glanced at the woman as he entered the store. She was about 45, with a narrow face and small eyes behind thick horn-rimmed glasses.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

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• Title: –
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• ISBN: 0002234955
• Pages: 137
• Language: English (en)

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