We flew to Paris.

While in Marrakesh, Dr Peter Mencher and I had eventually presented ourselves at a bank where we were interviewed by its manager.

My credit card was approved though only after staff had consulted a huge book that should have been entitled The Book of Credit Cards That This Bank Accepts and What They Look Like (except that the originals were in colour and those illustrated in the book were not). That’s how they did it in those days.

As I had paid for Marrakesh, Peter said Paris would be on he, “the whole thing, Joe”… which was fine by me as capital cities in Europe are a good deal more expensive than those in North Africa.

We enjoyed Paris. As my girl friend lived there I had special reason to. She was blond and gorgeous, and she could tap dance and laugh (sometimes at the same time) and was a constant joy and furthermore, she had a sister.

Peter, it must be said, was a very fast operator (probably because he knew he had so little time or probably because having done time he knew how doing time could take up so much time) and within 3 days he had proposed to her. She accepted …..extraordinarily. He even gave her a diamond – though it was probably zircon – ring which she wore with surprise.

Early on, in Paris, Peter had ‘been to the bank’ and funded up. “It’s on me remember.” He flashed the cash with gay abandon. He arranged for a car and chauffer to be at our beck and call, on a daily basis, which would take us around town and out to the country to the most expensive restaurants he could fine.

I was very impressed with all this – though it was far too rich for me – until one morning, I woke up, literally and figuratively. Peter had done a runner and had taken, while I had had little use for them, my passport, my driving license, my cheque book and my ticket back to London… oh yes, and a favourite pale blue jacket.

I found out at from the hotel concierge that he had bought a ticket – in my name – and was heading for the airport. I rang my girl friend whose father had been part of the French Resistance during the Second World War and who still knew ‘certain’ people. He was able to have the Authorities put a ‘detain if caught’ order on ‘Mencher’ which much impressed me. But it was all too late. Passport control had already recorded him (me) as having gone through to air side and he had flown to greener grass.

Then there was the police to see. They thought I was in union with Mencher until I slapped a metal ruler down, hard, on the Captain’s desk making him jump, sit up and think otherwise.

And of course, there was the owner of the car hire firm.

Short, greased of hair, swarthy of complexion and flashy of wear – the lining of his coat was pink and lime I noticed – he did not take kindly to having been scammed (for when ‘Mencher’ had ordered the car, he had made sure the contract was in his name, not mine) and he was in a exceedingly evil temper.

He was like a Marseilles hood. A man you would seriously believe could send in the boys and that, as a result, you’d be left drinking soft food for a long time through a straw held by a nurse because your arms were immovable.

“Monsieur, you will wait here now while I ring my partner in London to tell him, indeed to warn him, of you, and what a piece of merde you are.”

He pulled the hotel phone over and dialed London.

“ello. Henri here.”

“Hello, Henri. Paddy here,”

“Paddy, I have just been cheated out of a lot of money. There is a man here who I am sure has something to do with it. His name is Joe Hepworth.”

“Joe Hepworth?”

“Oui.”

“Well, well. Know him and his father really well. Have done for many years. Fine family. How extraordinary. And he’s there?”

“Oui.”

“Put him on.”

Henri, very, very, very reluctantly and frightening malice in his eyes, did so.

“Joe, hello. Don’t bother about him. How’s your dad?”

“Very well indeed, thank you.”

My Angel was astonished. He was also in pain having had to execute so sharp a U-turn.

P.S. ‘Peter’ was eventually arrested in Greece – having given Amsterdam a going over – for general theft, impersonation and duplicity, where he was jailed. The car he drove in Morocco belonged to the real Doctor Mencher, whose passport and other identification he had also stolen.

C 2010 J Hepworth Snorban UK Ltd.