'What did she mean by that?' asked Peregrine as she drove away. Glodstone heaved himself over
a gate into a field.
'She was joking,' he said hopefully and lay down in the grass.
'I still think ' said Peregrine.
'Shut up!'
Three miles further on the Countess pulled off the road again and spent some time stuffing the
gold bars down behind the back seat. Then she changed into a summer frock and put on sunglasses.
All the time her mind was busy considering possibilities. They could still be nabbed but, having
come so far without being stopped, it seemed unlikely an alert was out for two men and a woman in
a vintage Bentley. To be on the safe side, she took two of the little bars out and, making sure
no one was in sight, hid them in the hedge behind a telephone pole.
An hour later she was back. The tank was full, she'd bought all the food they'd need, plus
some very black coffee in a thermos, and a trowel. With this she dug a hole beside the hedge and
buried the two gold bars. If the Customs found the others she wanted something to fall back on;
if not she could always pick them up later. But best of all, as she drove on to where Glodstone
was asleep and Peregrine still suspicious, two motor-cycle cops passed without more than a glance
at her.
'Back on the trail, boys,' she said, 'We've nothing to worry about. The flics aren't looking
for us. I've just seen two. No problems.' She poured Glodstone a mug of coffee laced with sugar.
'Keep a sloth awake for a week it's so strong, and you can eat as we go.'
'I'm not going to be able to make Calais all the same,' said Glodstone, 'not today.'
'We're heading for Cherbourg and you will.'
By midnight they were in the car-park outside the Ferry Terminal and Glodstone was asleep at
the wheel. The Countess shook him awake. 'Galahad and I will cross as foot-passengers tonight,'
she said, 'you come over the first boat in the morning. Right?' Glodstone nodded.
'We'll be waiting for you,' she went on, and got out with Peregrine and crossed to the
booking-office. But it was another two hours before she passed through Customs and Immigration on
an American passport in which she was named as Mrs Natalie Wallcott. Ahead of her, a youth called
William Barnes settled himself in the cafeteria and ordered a Coke. He too was asleep when they
sailed. The Countess bought a bottle of Scotch at the Duty-Free shop and went up on deck with the
plastic bag and leant over the rail with it. When she came down again the bag and the bottle and
any documents that might have suggested she had been the Countess de Montcon or Anita Blanche
Wanderby were sinking with the Scotch towards the bottom of the Channel. By tomorrow she would be
Constance Sugg once more. By today. She must be getting tired.
Slymne wasn't. He had passed through the exhaustion barrier into a new dimension of
light-headedness in which he wasn't sure if he was asleep or awake. Certainly the questions being
put to him by the two detectives who sat opposite him suggested the former. They were put quite
nicely, but the questions themselves were horrible. The contrast made him feel even more unreal.
'I am not a member of any subversive organization, and anyway the British Secret Service isn't
subversive,' he said.
'Then you admit you belong to a branch of it?'
'No,' said Slymne.
The two men gave him another cup of coffee, and consulted a file on the table. 'Monsieur
Slymne, on 12 April you arrived and on the 22nd you left again. On the 27th you came once more
and departed 3rd August. The night before last you returned and drove 900 kilometres without
resting. It will help if you explain.'
Slymne tended to agree but a seemingly distant portion of his mind took over. 'I teach
geography and I like France. Naturally I come frequently on visits.'
'Which is presumably why you speak our language so fluently,' said Inspector Roudhon with a
smile.
'That's different. I'm not very good at languages.'
'But an incredible student of geography to investigate the country for 900 kilometres without
stopping. And at night too. Unless...' He paused and lit a cigarette. The room stank of stale
tobacco. 'Unless, Monsieur Slymne, and I merely hypothesize, you understand, you were already in
France and someone provided you with an alibi by booking a crossing to Calais in your name.'
'An alibi? What would they do that for?' said Slymne, trying to keep his eyes in focus. The
situation was getting madder every moment.
'That is for you to tell us. You know what you have been here for. What mission you and Major
Fetherington are on.'
'Can't,' said Slymne, 'because we aren't on one. Ask the Major.'
'We have. And he has had the good sense to tell us.'
'Tell you? What's he told you?' Slymne was wide awake now.
'You really want to know?'
Slymne did, desperately. The detective left the room and returned with a signed statement a
few minutes later.
'Major Fetherington admits to being a member of the Special Air Services. He was parachuted
into the forest near Brive from a light aircraft...'
'From a light aircraft?' said Slymne in the grip of galloping insanity.
'Yes, monsieur, as you well know. He has even named the type and the airfield from which he
flew. It was a Gloster Gladiator and left from Bagshot at 0400 hours Tuesday morning '
'But...but they haven't made Gladiators since God knows when,' said Slymne. What on earth was
the Major up to? And there couldn't be an airfield near Bagshot. The man must have gone off his
rocker.
'On landing he hurt his back but buried his parachute and made his way to the road above
Colonges where you picked him up,' continued the detective. 'You were to give him his
orders...'
'His orders?' squawked Slymne. 'What orders, for Lord's sake?'
The detective smiled. 'That is for you to tell us, monsieur.'
Slymne looked desperately round the room. Major Fetherington had landed him up to his eyeballs
in it now. Talk about passing the buck. 'I don't know what you're on about,' he muttered. 'I
haven't been anywhere near Brive and...' He gave up.
'If you will take my advice, Monsieur Slymne,' said the Inspector, 'you will tell us now what
you know. It will save you from meeting certain gentlemen from Paris. They are not of the police,
you understand, and they use different methods. I haven't met such men myself and I hope I never
have dealings with them. I believe they are not very nice.'
Slymne cracked. But when, an hour later, he signed the statement and the Inspector left the
room, he was still denied the sleep he so desperately wanted. Commissaire Ficard wasn't having
it.
'Does the clown think we're mentally deficient?' he shouted. 'We have the assassination of one
of America's top political theorists and the mutilation of a Soviet delegate and he asks us to
believe that some English schoolmaster is responsible? And the other one has already admitted
being SAS. Oh, no, I am not satisfied. The Minister is not satisfied. The American Ambassador is
demanding immediate action and the Russian too and we have this buffoon telling us...' The phone
rang. 'No, I will say nothing more to the Press. And I'd like to know who leaked the story
yesterday. The media is crawling all over the ground in helicopters. What do you mean they can't
crawl in 'copters? They land in them and then...' He slammed the phone down and lumbered to his
feet. 'Just let me lay my hands on this English turd. I'll squeeze the truth out of him if it has
to come out of his arsehole.'
'Monsieur le Commissaire, we have already told him some special agents are coming from Paris,'
said the Inspector.
'They needn't bother. By the time I'm through with him there'll be nothing left for them to
play with.'
Major Fetherington lay on his stomach with his head turned sideways and contemplated the wall
uncertainly. Like everyone else in the Boosat gendarmerie, he hadn't the foggiest notion what had
really happened at the Château Carmagnac but for the moment he'd spared himself the ordeal Slymne
was quite clearly going through. To the Major it sounded like an advanced form of hell and he
thanked God he'd given the sods what they'd wanted a load of codswallop. And in another way it
was satisfying. Old Gloddie must have done something pretty gruesome to have warranted
roadblocks, helicopters and accusations that he and Slymne were agents of the Secret Service, and
good luck to him. The Major had never had much time for the French and Gloddie had given it to
them where it hurt and got away with it. And he wasn't sneaking on the old ass to a lot of Frog
cops who were doing whatever they were doing (the Major preferred not to think about it) to
Slymne. Reaching over the side of the bed he found his socks and tried to block his ears with
them and had partially succeeded when Slymne stopped yelling and the cell door opened.
'What about my clothes?' asked the Major with a quaver as they dragged him to his feet.
Commissaire Roudhon studied his stained Y-fronts with disgust.
'You're not going to need any where you're going,' he said softly. 'You may require shoes
though. Give him a blanket.'
'What's happening?' said the Major, now thoroughly frightened.
'You're taking us to the spot where you buried that parachute.'
'Oh, my God,' whimpered the Major. He could see now he'd made a terrible mistake.
The Countess sat in the coffee-lounge in Weymouth waiting for the Bentley to come through
Customs. She had sent Peregrine along to the statue of George III and would have made herself
scarce too if it hadn't been for the gold bars. She had bought the Daily Telegraph and had learnt
that the assassination of Professor Botwyk was already causing an international furore. Like
Slymne, she knew the efficiency of the French police and she was lumbered with two halfwits.
Without her to think for them they'd end up in the hands of Scotland Yard and with the American
government now involved the FBI would backtrack her to California and through her various aliases
to her arrival in the States and Miss Surrey and finally to Selsdon Road and Constance Sugg. She
could see how easily it would be done. Anthony at Groxbourne, the missing revolvers she'd made a
terrible mistake mere Glodstone's account of her 'letters' and Peregrine's pride in being such a
good shot...Worst of all, whoever had set her up had done a spectacular job.
Once again she cursed men. All her life she had had to fight to maintain her independence and
now just when she had it all made to be her quiet surburban self she was being forced to think
ruthlessly. And think she did. By the time the Bentley nosed off the ferry, she had made up her
mind. She got up and walked down the road where Glodstone could see her and waited for him. 'No
problems with Customs?' she enquired as she climbed in behind him.
'No,' said Glodstone glumly. 'Where's Peregrine?'
'By the statue. He can wait. You and me is going to have a quiet talk.'
'What about?'
'This,' said the Countess and put the newspaper on his lap.
'What's it say?' said Glodstone, almost killing a pedestrian on a zebra crossing in his
anxiety to get away.
'Nothing much. Just that the French government have assured the State Department that the
killers of Professor Botwyk will be caught and brought to justice. The Russians appear to be
taking a dim view too. Apparently your boyfriend shot their delegate as well, which must confuse
the issue more than somewhat.'
'Oh my God,' said Glodstone and turned down a side street and stopped. 'What on earth
possessed you to write those bloody letters?'
'Keep moving. I'll tell you when to stop.'
'Yes, but...'
'No buts. You do what I say or I'm cutting loose and calling the first cop I spot and you and
Master C-B will be facing an extradition order inside a week. Turn right here. There's a parking
lot round the corner.'
Glodstone pulled in and switched off and looked at her haggardly.
'Firstly I didn't write those letters,' said the Countess, 'and I want to see them. Where did
you stash them?'
'Stash them? I didn't. You told me to burn them and that's what I did.'
The Countess breathed a sigh of relief. But she wasn't showing it. 'So you've no proof they
ever existed?'
Glodstone shook his head. He was almost too tired and frightened to speak.
'Well, get this straight. You can think what you like but if you seriously imagine I needed
rescuing you've got to be insane. Right now, you're the one in need of a rescue operation and
with what you've got between the ears that's not going to be easy. Every cop in Europe is going
to be hot on your trail before the day is out.'
Glodstone dragged his mind out of its stupor. 'But no one knows we were at the Château
and...'
'Whoever wrote those letters does, doesn't he just. You've been set up, and a little anonymous
call to the police is all it's going to take to have you in the net. You haven't a plastic bag's
hope in hell of getting away. One glass eye, this old banger and a youth with an IQ of fifty. You
were made for identification and if you ask me that's why you were chosen.'
Glodstone gazed at a bowling green and saw only policemen, court rooms, lawyers and judges and
the rest of his life in a French prison. 'What do you suggest we do?' he asked.
'You do. Count me out. I don't mind thinking for you but that's as far as it goes. First off,
I'd say your best bet is to do a Lord Lucan but I don't suppose you've got the money or the
friends. And anyway that still leaves that juvenile mobster on the loose. What's his background?'
Glodstone told her.
'Then one eminent solicitor is in for a very nasty shock,' said the Countess when he'd
finished, 'though from what I've seen of his offspring I'd say he'd been cuckolded or his wife
had a craving for lumps of lead when she was pregnant. Doesn't make your situation any cosier. Mr
Clyde-Browne's going to have his son plead insanity and hurl the book at you.'