“Never mind,” Ranklin told Corinna. “Later, if there’s time.”
He saw the indecision in her expression and said nothing. O’Gilroy had folded up the map, Jay had put down his cup and was putting on his charming-farewell smile. Berenice was sitting slumped with half a glass of something.
“Oh, bugger it,” Corinna said. “I didn’t come last time, I’m coming this one.”
“Look, I’m not-”
“Shut up. I was in on the first scene, I may as well be in on the last.”
Half an hour later they had passed through the Porte de Pantin and were speeding up along the Chalons-sur-Marne road, O’Gilroy driving. Ranklin had automatically let him do that, knowing the man believed in mechanical things, but Jay wasn’t so happy. He was prepared to defer to the back-street Irishman on back-street matters, but his family had owned motor-cars since they were invented. He sometimes doubted O’Gilroy’s family had owned so much as a bath.
But he had the sense to say nothing.
The taxi driver had been right: the map showed Meaux to be about forty kilometres by road, but the canal twisted around in the valley of the Marne itself and looked longer. There were locks, too, which should slow things up. They had no fear of the barge already being at Meaux: the question was where they should start looking. As a preliminary strategy they decided to divert and cross the canal wherever there was a bridge that might give a viewpoint.
Rut this wasn’t as good an idea as the map suggested: the canal was lined with trees, and although these were still mainly leafless, they blocked the view past the first bend, which could be no more than a hundred yards away. Anyway, O’Gilroy was the only one, apart from Berenice perhaps, who had seen the barge before, and it certainly wasn’t the only one on the canal. The one thing to set against this was that most of the rest were still horse-towed.
So they soon reverted to Plan A: find a bridge that the barge should have passed already, then unload O’Gilroy and Jay to cycle along the towpath while the motor-car jumped ahead and waited for them at another bridge. They did the unloading just outside Claye-Souilly, and went on about five road miles to a village called Trilbardou. There, the bridge was on a hill just before the village, and Ranklin and Corinna leant on the parapet in the still warmish evening air. Berenice stayed in the tourer, inert as a bundle of old clothes, perhaps thinking deep thoughts or possibly having an emotional overhaul, but in any case silent.
Corinna said: “What are you going to do when you find this barge?”
Ranklin took out a pipe and began to fill it carefully. Finally he said: “Pick some place to ambush it.”
“You could fell a tree so that it fell exactly across the canal.”
“With my penknife?” He sucked on the pipe to test its carburation. “If it were horse-drawn, we could shoo-we could hold up the horse.”
“There’s probably a tow-rope in the automobile; we could stretch that across.”
“That wouldn’t stop any of the barges we’ve seen.”
She said impatiently: “No, I mean so that it caught and fouled the propeller.”
“Would it?”
“Ha! If you knew anything about motor-boats you’d know they’re always fouling their own mooring-lines.”
So they routed and found a tow-rope – about twenty feet long. The canal was nearly twice that wide.
“I’ll take the automobile down to the village and see what I can buy,” Corinna announced.
“Will you find anything that thick?”
“It’s better if it isn’t. Clothes-line would do.”
A bit surprised that Corinna knew what a clothes-line was, Ranklin let her go.
Neither O’Gilroy nor Jay had ridden bicycles for some years; probably Jay hadn’t touched one since he was a boy. But at least a canal towpath has no hills and no motor traffic. Against this, it can have ruts and muddy patches and a sudden swerve could be literally dampening. When they met a horse towing a barge in the opposite direction, they dismounted and stood well clear in the grass beneath the trees. O’Gilroy lit a cigarette.
Impetuously, Jay said: “Did the Captain really want to kill this woman?”
O’Gilroy looked at him. But perhaps guessing that Jay had kept this bottled up for the past two hours, didn’t brush him off. He picked a shred of tobacco off his lip and said: “Goes back a long way. He was a good Gunner officer. He took me on in Ladysmith – that’s near fifteen years ago now – ’n taught me to be a gun number. Was good at that. Would teach ye something but giving ye a reason for it, then leave ye get on with it. Weren’t so many officers like him.”
He looked again at Jay, who had been – was still – an officer, though not in the Gun s. “Then they took all that away from him.”
“Wasn’t there something about his brother in the City and bankruptcy?”
“Never ye mind ’bout that. Point is, he wants to be a good spy, that’s the job he’s been given and he’s damn well going to do it the best he can, but mebbe he’s got more to forget than some of us. Mebbe we aren’t all honourable, straightforward fellers like hisself. Mebbe we’re more used to doing things sneaky and underhand. Jest sometimes, I mean, jest sometimes. But he reckons that’s the way he’s got to do things now – and it don’t come natural. So, natural enough, sometimes he mebbe goes a bit too far. And that’s where we help out. Jest like we did.”
He said it with a finality that suggested the subject had been explored, explained – and was now closed.
Nevertheless, Jay said: “What actually made him change his mind?”
“Never know, will we?” But O’Gilroy’s tone suggested he really meant: You’ll never know. He flicked the cigarette into the canal and got back on to his bicycle.
It was growing dark now, and when they passed a tiny village there were several barges tied up for the night, cabins glowing with light, stove-pipes whisping smoke and a couple of horses grazing on the edge of the path. After that, they saw nothing for over a mile and then heard the sudden but stuttering roar of an engine. They stopped.
Sound carries well over water; perhaps it bounces like a skimmed stone, but O’Gilroy had no grounding in physics, just an empirical understanding of technology.
“It’s an engine,” Jay said unnecessarily.
“Missing on one cylinder, sometimes two of’em. Running it up out of gear; ye’d never get them revs if it was turning a propeller.”
He started off again, slowly, and after a minute the gentle curve of the canal showed lights moving slowly over a dark shape against the bank ahead.
Jay asked: “Is it them?”
“Can’t tell. But probly. I’d best see if I can help get ’em moving again.”
“What? You can’t!”
“Why not? We don’t want ’em stuck here until the flics find ’em. And I don’t see us jumping ’em or getting Mrs Langhorn when ye can’t get the motor within half a mile. No, ye jest go on ’n find the Captain.”
Looked at tactically, Jay agreed that his stretch wasn’t ideal for an ambush. It was too open, giving those on the barge as much a view as the darkness allowed. O’Gilroy handed over his pistol and spare magazines – he was sure enough about the other things in his pockets, but he didn’t want a gun clonking around when he abandoned his jacket to get at the engine – and then started off again. Aware that his face might seem familiar from this morning’s carryings-on, Jay followed in O’Gilroy’s shadow.
When they reached the barge, one man was adjusting the bow mooring rope, while a second was waving an electric torch at the water near the stern, obviously hoping for some un-technical solution like finding a playful mermaid hanging on to the rudder. The engine was idling erratically.
The man swung the torch across the two cyclists. Jay kept going, screwing up his face apparently against the light, really to avoid recognition. O’Gilroy stopped. “Vous avez un probleme?”
“Je crois que c’est le moteur . . .”