Dump Jackson - Uncle_s awful urge

"Fontenay-aux-Roses," he said briskly, giving the driver the remainder of the address once he had settled himself into the back seat of the cab.

The driver began to argue in French, bemoaning his fate, telling Drew that it was too far to go and that he'd never pick up a return fare. Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, Drew pulled out a thick and no doubt impressive roll of French franc notes.

He waved them at the driver and with a muttered oath about rich Americans, the man sped out into the noontime traffic. Drew alternately dozed and looked out the window and about thirty to forty minutes later he stopped the driver just before the man began to pull the cab up a narrow gravel driveway.

An old and handsome looking house stood at the end of the drive, surrounded by well-landscaped bushes and shrubs. Not wanting to make a grand entrance, he paid the driver for his efforts tipped him handsomely and stood off in the shadows of an overhanging tree until the taxi had disappeared from sight around a bend in the road.

Then, he moved down the drive towards the front of the house, not able to detect any sounds, or any signs of life, for that matter. Yet he knew someone had to be hole, for there were two cars in the adjoining garage, a recent addition, for the house looked as if it dated from back around the turn of the century.

There was a low sleek sports car of a type he'd never seen in the States, as well as a more commonly seen Mercedes four-door hardtop. He lives well, that's for sure, he told himself once again, for there could be no doubt in his mind now that Rene Martinon was indeed quite well off able to afford two cars – if they were both his and Drew saw no reason not to believe they weren't – if they were both his, and Drew saw no reason not to believe they weren't – as well as two residences. An apartment in the city with its resident blonde-haired teenage seductress, as well as a handsome small estate in the country, perhaps still being occupied by a certain young American girl by the name of Amy Mitchell.

Needless to say, he hoped that was still the case.

He waited a moment in front of the old oak door and then lifted the knocker when he failed to see a doorbell. A moment later footsteps could be heard echoing from the other side of the door and the knob turned and the door swung open.

He found himself staring into the officious looking eyes of a young Frenchman, a man in his early twenties. "Yes?" he said in French asking Drew what his business was.

"I'm looking for M. Martinon," he replied, keeping a cool head, though he had an urge to knock the young man aside and storm into the house unannounced, thence to search every room until he found his niece.

"I'm looking for Mr. M. Martinon," he replied, keeping a cool head, though he had an urge to knock the young man aside and storm into the house unannounced, thence to search every room until he found his niece.

"M. Martinon is not here," the man said brusquely.

"In that case I'd like to have a few words with a friend of his, a certain young American girl by the name of Amy Mitchell," Drew went on, taking hope from the fact that the young man's eyes narrowed with a telltale motion as if the name indeed had meaning for him.

"I know of no one of that name," he finally replied, making a move to slam the door in Drew's face.

"The fuck you don't," Drew hissed, pushing the fellow aside and making his way into the house. But no sooner had he gained admittance when he suddenly felt himself careening forward, the back of his head seemingly crushed as one would break an eggshell. He threw up his arms, blinded with pain and the last thing he'd remembered was hearing a snicker, a nasty smirking laugh echoing painfully in his head.

How long he had remained unconscious was something he couldn't tell, for the crystal of his watch had smashed from the fall and the time stood at 12:47. He groaned and tried to sit up, not knowing where he was or what had happened.

And as his eyes adjusted to the light he stopped himself from moving, freezing as he found himself staring at the seated figure of a man, a man he knew without a shadow of a doubt to be none other than the mysterious Rene Martinon.

"Good evening, Mr. Livingston, so unfortunate that you didn't get a more hearty welcome," the man said in French-accented but otherwise flawless and precise English. "But my man is very suspicious about robbers and the like, hanging around this neighborhood. He had no choice, you see…"

"So I gather," Drew said ruefully, rubbing his hand over the back of his head and feeling the lump the other young man had given him. He still felt a little dizzy, but now he lifted himself and swung his legs over the side of the old canopy bed upon which he had been lying.

"Yes, most unfortunate accident it was. But I trust you've recovered," the man went on.

Drew pursed his lips together, not knowing if Martinon was being serious or sarcastic. He didn't like the looks of the man from head to toe, though he could see at a glance what his niece had found attractive. Martinon was the very figure of a playboy, down to the loosely tied silk cravat he wore around his neck.

Well-groomed to the extreme, he was nevertheless slimmer and far less burly than Drew, lighter on his feet perhaps, though certainly not lacking in physical strength. There was a wiriness about him that put Drew on his guard and Rene Martinon continued to sit across from him in a brocaded wing chair, idly tipping the ashes of his cigarette into a rose medallion tray.

"Where's my niece, Mr. Martinon?" Obviously, I didn't come all this distance for my health. It would seem that Paris, Fontenay especially, is not very therapeutic for my nerves, to and he rubbed his hand over the swelling on his head, trying to clear the cobwebs out of his brain.

"She's resting at the moment, Mr. Livingston. But I can assure you that at the earliest possible convenience you'll be able to see her once again today."

"And when would that be, may I be so bold as to inquire?" he snapped, wondering too at the same time how Martinon knew his name. Either they checked my wallet, or Amy saw what happened, or saw me when I was unconscious, he decided, waiting for the Frenchman to answer his last question.

"Shortly, at dinner in fact," Rene said at last, laughing good-naturedly. "But perhaps now you'd like to rest a little longer, until you've regained your strength, Mr. Livingston."

"I've regained it," Drew said sharply. "And I don't intend to wait around until you decide to let the canary out of the cage, if indeed she is in a cage, if this entire house is a cage, for that matter."

"A cage? Why my good man, your niece has never been more well cared for, I can promise you. But it would be most inopportune for her to be disturbed at the moment. So I've taken the liberty of preparing a little entertainment for you, to help pass the time away, as it were. I understand so many of you Americans are so impatient. You haven't learned our Gallic way of doing things, of taking one's time, of each thing in its place."

"No, I haven't," Drew replied, at a further loss for words. But before he could say anything else, Rene Martinon turned his angular and fox-like smooth-shaven face towards the door across from where Drew was sitting up on the bed. "Francoise!" he called out and Drew expected him to clap his hands like a sultan calling for his harem girls.

Instead, at the mention of that single name, the door swung open noiselessly and Drew's eyes opened wide as he found himself staring with obvious and immediate interest at the slim and fetching figure of a young French girl, dressed in what he thought was a traditional black and white-aproned changer or parlor-maid's uniform.

"Francoise will be most willing to amuse you for the next hour or sop, while your niece rests and then prepares herself for this… how shall I put it, gala family reunion," Rene told him as he got to his feet and the girl moved towards the foot of the bed, her eyes lowered and her ripe creamy-white bosom rising and falling with rhythmic and fluid surges.