Glodstone blushed. 'I couldn't leave you in the lurch,' he muttered. 'I mean I'd always
thought of you as a lady and, well...it's difficult to explain really.'
'And what do you think now? Am I still a "lady"?'
'You're certainly very nice,' said Glodstone judiciously. 'You'd have gone to the police if
you weren't.'
The Countess sighed. It still hadn't dawned on the poor dumb cluck that she'd have done just
that if she hadn't had something to hide. Like seven gold bars and a past that would make his
romantic hair stand on end. Talk about knight errant, operative word 'errant'. It was only in
Britain they made them so innocent. 'And you're nice too,' she said and patted his knee. 'It
wasn't your fault you were framed. So we can't let them take you to prison, can we?'
'Hopefully,' said Glodstone quivering with new devotion under the influence of the pat on the
knee and the baby-talk. Her next remark blew his mind.
'So we go back and get the Sundance Kid and put the bite on the Clyde-Brownes.'
'We do what?'
'Put the squeeze on them. You're going to need money, and if they're what you say they are,
and I think, they'll pay through the nose to keep themselves out of the media. I can't see Papa
C-B wanting to be thrown out of the Reform.'
'I won't do it,' said Glodstone. 'It wasn't Peregrine's fault that...'
'He's wanted by the police in every country this side of the Iron Curtain? And he did the
killing, not you. So Mr Clyde-Browne is going to have to work hard to pull both your irons out of
the fire. And he has got influence. I've looked him up and he reeks of it. His brother's Deputy
Under-Secretary at the Department of Trade and adviser to the EEC Commissioner for the
Regularization, Standardization and Uniformity of Processed Food Products. Meaning fish
fingers.'
'Good Lord, how did you find that out?'
'Holborn Public Library's latest copy of Who's Who. So we've got some muscle. And we're going
to use it tonight.'
'Tonight? But we'll never drive all the way to Virginia Water...I mean it'll be after midnight
by the time we get there.'
'I can't think of a better time to break the news,' said the Countess, and drove back to the
Amusement Park.
In fact it was almost 2 a.m. when they parked the car at the end of Pine Tree Lane and rang
the doorbell of The Cones. A light came on upstairs and presently the door opened on the chain
and Mr Clyde-Brown peered out. He'd had a hard evening listening to his wife argue that it was
time they called in the police, and had only managed to get to sleep with a cup of Horlicks laced
with yet more whisky and two Mogadons.
'Who is it?' he mumbled.
'Me, Dad,' said Peregrine stepping under the porchlight. For a moment Mr Clyde-Browne was prey
to the ghastly thought that two Mogadons and a quarter of a bottle of Scotch didn't mix too well.
Certainly he had to be hallucinating. The voice sounded horribly right but the face, and in
particular the hair, didn't gel with his memory of Peregrine. The last time he'd seen the lout
he'd been fair-haired and with a fresh complexion. Now he looked like something the Race
Relations...He stopped himself in time. There was a law about saying things like that.
'Where the hell have you been?' he asked instead, and undid the chain. 'Your mother's been at
her wit's end worrying about you. And who '
The Countess and Glodstone stepped through the doorway after Peregrine. 'Let's hit the
lounge,' said the Countess, 'Somewhere nice and private. We don't want the neighbours in on
this.'
Mr Clyde-Browne wasn't sure. The arrival of his son with black hair in the company of a woman
in dark glasses and a tall haggard man who looked vaguely familiar and definitely sinister, and
this at two in the morning, seemed to suggest he might need every neighbour within shouting
distance. The Countess's language didn't help. With the feeling that he had stepped into a Cagney
movie he went into the sitting-room and turned on the light.
'Now what's the meaning of this?' he demanded, trying to muster some authority.
'Tell him, baby,' said the Countess, checking the curtains were closed to unnerve Mr
Clyde-Browne still more.
'Well, it's like this, dad,' said Peregrine, 'I've been and gone and shot a professor.'
Mr Clyde-Browne's eyes bulged in his head. 'I'm not hearing right,' he muttered, 'It's those
fucking Mogadons. You've been and gone...Where the hell did you pick up that vulgar
expression?'
'His name was Botwyk and he was an American and we thought he was a gangster and I shot him
through the head,' said Peregrine. 'With a .38 from the School Armoury.'
Mr Clyde-Browne's knees buckled and he slumped into a chair. 'I don't believe it,' he moaned.
'This isn't happening.'
'No, not now,' said Peregrine. 'But it did. It's in all the papers. I shot a Russian too, but
he didn't die. At least, he hasn't yet.'
Mr Clyde-Browne shut his eyes in an attempt to convince himself that he was having a
nightmare. It failed. When he opened them again Peregrine and these two awful people were still
there. The Countess handed him a copy of The Times.
'I've ringed the latest piece,' she said. 'Right now they're looking for a terrorist. Well,
he's standing there in front of you.'
Mr Clyde-Brown hurled the paper aside. He'd read all about the murder on the train the day
before and had expressed his sense of outrage. With another sense of outrage he got to his feet.
'If this is some sort of fucking joke,' he yelled, 'I'll '
'Cool it, baby,' said the Countess. 'You want the cops in on this just keep bawling your head
off. That's your prerogative. Or you can phone them. I guess the number's still 999.'
'I know what the fucking number is,' shouted Mr Clyde-Browne rather more quietly.
'So he's your son. You want him up on a murder rap, call them up. It's no skin off my nose. I
don't go round bumping people off.'
Mr Clyde-Browne looked from her to Peregrine and back again. 'You're bluffing. He didn't shoot
anyone. It's all a lie. You're trying to blackmail me. Well, let me tell you '
'Oh sure. So go ahead and phone. Tell them you've got two blackmailers and a son who just
happens to be a murderer on your hands and you don't know what to do. We'll wait here for you. No
sweat.'
Beads of it broke out on Mr Clyde-Browne's forehead. 'Tell me you didn't do it,' he said to
Peregrine, 'I want you to say it and I want to hear it.'
'I shot a Professor, dad. I've told you that already.'
'I know you have...'
He was interrupted by the entrance of his wife. For a long moment she stood in the doorway
gazing at Peregrine.
'Oh, my poor boy,' she cried, rushing forward and gathering him to her. 'What have they done
to you?'
'Nothing, mum. Nothing at all.'
'But where've you been and why's your hair that colour?'
'That's part of the disguise. I've been to France...'
'And shot an American Professor. Through the head, didn't you say?' said Mr Clyde-Browne,
helping himself to more whisky. He didn't give a damn what the stuff did with Mogadons any
longer. A quiet death was preferable.
'Oh my poor darling,' said Mrs Clyde-Browne, who still hadn't got the message, 'I've been so
worried about you.'
In the corner Mr Clyde-Browne was heard to mutter something about her not knowing what worry
was. Yet.
The Countess got up and moved towards the door. Mr Clyde-Browne hit it first. 'Where do you
think you're fucking going?' he shouted.
Mrs Clyde-Browne turned on him. 'How dare you use that filthy word in my house!' she screamed.
'And in front of Peregrine and these...er...'
The Countess smiled sweetly. 'Let me introduce myself,' she said. 'My name's Deirdre, Countess
de Montcon. And please don't apologize for your husband's language. He's just a little
overwrought. And now if you'll excuse us...'
Mr Clyde-Browne didn't budge. 'You're not leaving this house until I've got to the bottom of
this...this...'
'Murder?' asked the Countess. 'And of course there's the little matter of kidnapping too but I
don't suppose that's so important.'
'I didn't kidnap you,' said Peregrine and blew his father's mind still further. If the sod was
prepared to deny kidnapping while openly admitting he'd murdered, he had to be telling the
truth.
'All right,' he said. 'How much do you want?'
The Countess hesitated and made up her mind not to go back to American slang. Kensington
English would hit Mrs Clyde-Browne's gentility harder. 'Really,' she said, 'if it weren't for the
obvious fact that you're not yourself I would find your attitude extremely sordid.'
'You would, would you? Well let me tell you I know sordidity when I see it and I know
blackmailers and add that lot to your calling yourself a countess and '
'But she is a countess,' said Peregrine as his father ran out of words, 'I saw her passport
and she lives in this jolly great Château. It's called Carmagnac and it's ever so nice. And it's
there I shot the professor.'
'Oh, you never did,' said Mrs Clyde-Browne reproachfully, 'you're making it up.'
'Christ!' said Mr Clyde-Browne, and downed his Scotch. 'Will you keep out of this. We've
enough...'
'I most certainly won't,' retorted Mrs Clyde-Browne, 'I'm his mother...'
'And he's a fucking murderer. M-U-R-D-'
'I know how to spell, thank you very much. And he's not, are you, darling?'
'No,' said Peregrine. 'All I did was shoot him. I didn't know he was '
'Know? Know? You wouldn't know mass murder from petty larceny,' shouted his father, and
grabbed the paper, 'well, the rest of the bloody world knows...'
'If I might just get a word in,' said the Countess. 'The rest of the world doesn't know...yet.
Of course, in time the French police will be in touch with Scotland Yard but if we could come to
some arrangement...'
'I've already asked you how much you're demanding, you blackmailing bitch. Now spit it
out.'
The Countess looked at him nastily but kept her cool. 'For a man supposedly at the top of your
profession you are really remarkably obtuse,' she said. 'The truism about the law applies. You
are an ass. And what's more, if you don't moderate your language I shall call the police
myself.'
'Oh, you mustn't,' wailed Mrs Clyde-Browne on whose dim intelligence it had slowly dawned that
Peregrine really was in danger. Mr Clyde-Browne edged onto a chair.
'All right,' he said, 'what are you suggesting?'
'Immunity,' she said simply. 'But first I would like a nice cup of tea. It's been a hard two
days getting your son out of France and '
'Get it,' Mr Clyde-Browne told his wife.
'But, Harold '
'I said get it and I meant get it. And stop blubbing, for God's sake. I want to hear what this
blo...this lady has to say.'
Still sobbing, Mrs Clyde-Browne left the room. By the time she returned with the tea-tray Mr
Clyde-Brown was staring at the Countess with something approaching respect. He was also drained
of all emotion except terror. In a life devoted to the belief that all women were an intellectual
sub-species whose sole purpose was to cook meals and have babies, he had never before come across
such a powerful intelligence. 'And what about that?' he asked, glaring with horror at
Glodstone.
'I have arranged his future,' said the Countess, 'I won't say where, though it may be in
Brazil...'
'But I don't want to go to Brazil,' squawked Glodstone, and was prompdy told to hold his
tongue.
'Or it may be somewhere else. The point is that Mr Glodstone is going to die.'
On the couch Glodstone whimpered. Mr Clyde-Browne perked up. This woman knew her onions. 'And
about time too,' he said.
'And isn't it time you phoned your brother?' asked the Countess. 'The sooner he can get the
ball rolling the sooner we can wrap this up. And now if you'll excuse us...'
This time Mr Clyde-Browne didn't try to stop her. He knew when he was beaten. 'How will I get
in touch with you if '
'You won't, honey,' said the Countess patting his ashen cheek, 'from now on in the ball's in
your court.'
'Well, really!' said Mrs Clyde-Browne, 'She didn't even touch her tea.'
'Bugger tea. Take that murderous bastard upstairs and bleach his hair back to normal.'
'But we haven't any peroxide and '
'Use whatever you pour down the lavatory. Even if his hair falls out it'll be better than
nothing.' And he hurried down the passage to the study and phoned his brother.
The Countess drove steadily towards London. She didn't want to be stopped by a patrol car and
she had to get back into the sprawl of the metropolis and anonymity in case Mr Clyde-Browne's
brother refused to cooperate.
'I've booked you a room at Heathrow,' she said.
'But I don't want to go to Brazil,' said Glodstone.
'So you're not going. You flew in on a Dan-Air Flight from Zimbabwe, arrival time 6 a.m., name
of Harrison. And you're not to be disturbed. It's all arranged. I'll pick you up around noon for
the funeral.'
'Funeral? What funeral?'
'Yours, sweetheart. Mr Glodstone's going to die. Officially. And don't take on so. You'll get
used to the after-life.'
Glodstone doubted it.
Slymne didn't. Given the choice he'd have willingly died. Once again he was being
interrogated. This time by three American agents from Frankfurt who were under the impression
that he had spent time in Libya. In another room Major Fetherington was getting the same
treatment. Unfortunately, he had.
'In the war,' he moaned, 'in the bloody war.'
'Yom Kippur or the Seven Days?'
'In the Eighth Army. A Desert Rat, for God's sake.'
'You can say that again, bud. You and Gaddafi both.'
'I'm talking about the war, the real war. The one against the Afrika Korps.'
'The who?' said one of the men who'd obviously never heard of any war before Vietnam.