M. Vert

M. VERT....by Russell Dupont

“Monsieur Vert. Thank you coming.” He was wearing one of those heavy artichoke-colored winter coats, the ones with the toggle buttons and pinned a few inches under the collar on the left side of the coat was a small shamrock. He shook my hand and gave a slight bow.

“S’il vous . . .,” he started and then paused and closed his eyes for moment. “Please,” he said, “no ‘Monsieur’. You may call me Basil. My full name is Basil O. Vert.” He paused once again and then slowly pronounced his middle name for me. “The ‘O’, is for . . Oliv - er.”

I then explained to him the pickle we were in. “We,” meaning the town of Greenfield. Some weeks ago we were hit with a deluge of forged greenbacks and, since I’m a green horn dealing with things like this, I was happy to discover that the renowned French detective Monsieur Vert had come to our town.

“I hope you are enjoying your visit,” I said, as I ushered him into my office.

“Non. No, no,” he answered, shaking his head. “No visite. J'ai l’intention . . . pardon. I am not visiting. I have come to your country to live and have applied for . . . what you call, a ‘green card’.” He continued. “And, until I can find something, what is the word? Permanent. Oui, permanent. Until, I am staying with friends over in Colrain. They have a beautiful little house that is right on the edge of the Green River. Perhaps you know them? Moss and Myrtle Green?”

I shook my head and then explained why I had asked for his sage advice. “I must admit,” I said to M. Vert, “that I am green with envy when it comes to your knowledge and experience with counterfeit greenbacks. The only experience I’ve had goes back some years when the local green-grocer was plagued with an influx of phony green stamps.”

He grunted and looked around the office. Then grunted again. Feeling a bit uncomfortable, I cleared my throat and attempted to continue the conversation.

“So,” I began, “you’re French. Where in France were you born, Monsieur Vert . . . ah, Basil?”

“Non. Non.” He frowned and shook his head. “Je ne suis.....” He paused when he saw my puzzled expression. “Pardon. I forget where I am. I was born in Greenland. We came to Paris when I was still quite ... ah, jejune....um, young. As you say here, still ‘green behind the ears’.” He went on. “We settled in Metz, a beautiful place. It is known as ‘La Ville Jardin’ because of it’s beautiful gardens and . . . how do you say . . . ‘leafy promenades’.”

He guffawed loudly at his joke.

“Have you always been a detective?” I asked.

“Non, non,” he shook his head. “I come to the detective work a little late. You see, I wanted to be an actor. But......” He shrugged. “I only get part in one movie. Maybe you see it? Soylent Green. It was about a detective in the future and that was what made me want to become one, too. So......” He hunched his shoulders. “And what about you?” he asked. “What is it that brought you to this....” he spread his arms wide, “... this verdant little town? Did you always want to be a policeman?”

“A writer. That’s what I wanted to be. Ever since I read Ernest Hemingway. Especially his second book.”

“And what was that?”

“The Green Hills of Africa.” As the words came from my mouth, I felt the usual deep sadness rise inside me that occurred whenever I thought of how much I regretted not pursuing a writing career. M. Vert noticed.

“You are ok?” he asked, a concerned look on his face. “You, if I may say, look a little green around the gills....almost a smaragdine color.”

“I’m fine,” I responded. “My diet has been off. Too much meat. Not enough greens.”

M. Vert nodded. “If only green vegetable smelled as good as bacon.” He smiled and I immediately wondered about his health since there was a leafy tone to his teeth, a sure sign that he was not flossing or brushing enough. I offered him a cup of green tea but, he refused and, before I could say anything else, Vert, um, Basil, cleared his throat and said, “Maintenant, I must have look at these …..” he gave a little chuckle . . . “ these counterfeit pieces of lettuce you say are flooding Greenfield.”

He picked up one stack of bills and flipped through them, pausing occasionally to study a particular one. I had left the radio on in the other room and as I watched him examine the bills, the haunting lyrics of Simon & Garfunkel’s Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme floated into the room.

M. Vert grunted.

“Arg. You see.” He raised a bill up to my eye level and paused before breathing out a “mon Dieu”.

“What?” I asked.

“Your eyes,” he said, tipping his head to the side and staring straight at me. “Please. Do not take me wrong. The color. Such a beautiful shade of . . .” he leaned in closer and squinted . . . “almost a sea-foam color . . . so tranquil . . . so . . . ah . . . ambient.”

He stepped back, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “And what is that wonderful scent that is permeating your office?” He held up his finger before I could speak. “Pine,” he said. “The scent of a pine forest.” I smiled and nodded, reached over to the sill behind my desk and held up the green bottle of pine air freshener.

He smiled and then his gaze returned to the bills in his hand and, as he examined each one, he occasionally let out a consistent, soft and organic hum that almost mimicked the rustling of leaves, what we might refer to as “green noise”.

As he studied the bills, I reached into my desk drawer, took out a bottle of Chartreuse, two glasses and poured us each a drink. As he reached for the glass, his eyes sparkled. He took a sip and let out a long and joyful “Ahhhhh. I have heard it said that Chartreuse is ‘the only liqueur so good they named a colour after it.’”

He placed the glass on my desk and straightened up. “Maintenant,” he said. “I have discovered a clue as to where these bills may have come from. But first, I need to know . . . In this town, this Greenfield, do you have a greenskeeper?”

[TO BE CONTINUED....well, maybe not]