Midnight Plus One

'Will they find out about you?'

I shrugged. 'In the end, maybe. But as long as they can't prove anything, we should be all right. There's not going to be a public scandal about a couple of Paris gunmen getting killed. The cops won't have much pressure on them to solve it.'

The waiter brought her coffee and my Pastis and I asked about the times of buses to Vals-les-Bains, which was roughly in the opposite direction to where we wanted to go. As I'd hoped, there wouldn't be one for hours. I asked if I could make a phone call.

It took a little time to get through, then a man's voice, cool and dry and old, answered: 'Clos Pinel.'

'Est il possible de parler à Madame la Comtesse?'

'Qui est à l'appareil?'

I hesitated, wondering what name I should give these days. Then something about the voice sank in.'C'est vous, Maurice?' I demanded. I'd somehow thought the old boy must have died or been pensioned off or something by now. I added:'Ici Caneton.'

This time he hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was a little warmer.'Monsieur Caneton? Un moment…'

After a moment, a woman's voice said: 'Is that really you, Louis?'

'Ginette? Yes, I'm afraid it's me.'

'My dear Louis, when you decide to stay away, you bury yourself. Are you coming to see me now?' Her English was nearly perfect; only her accent showed she hadn't spoken it in England for a long time. But I wasn't listening to the accent, only the husky gentle voice itself.

'Ginette – I'm afraid I'm in trouble. There's four of us. I hate asking – but can you help? Pick us up and move us along a bit? You don't have to know what it's about.'

'So I don't have to know?'

She sounded both amused and reproachful. 'What a thing to say, Louis. Where are you?'

I told her the name of the village.

Her voice got brisk. 'A grey Citroen van with the name of the Château will meet you in one hour and a half. It will bring you here.'

'Hell, you don't need to involve the Château, Ginette. Just get us across the Rhône and we'll-'

'This is still a safe house, Louis. For you.'

I gave in. It's not only bad manners to argue with the person making the arrangements – it's also stupid. Particularly when they know the game as well as you ever did.

'We'll be just through the village, on the south road,' I said.

She rang off. I walked back to the table. 'We're okay.' I looked at my watch. 'We'll be picked up at half past eleven.'

Miss Jarman nodded, then asked. 'Where is this château?'

'Just across the Rhône from here.'

'Who are the people there?'

'Belonged to a man called the Comte de Maris. I knew him in the Resistance. But I read he was drowned three years ago. Yachting accident.'

'Leaving the Comtesse? Was she the personal problem you mentioned?'

I blew smoke into my Pastis. 'Why would you think that?'

'I wouldn't, necessarily, but I'd certainly think it first.' She was smiling cheerfully.

I scowled at her. 'So let's leave it at that.'

But not her. 'I suppose she was also in the Resistance? Was she the Comtesse then?'

'No,' I growled.

'So she married him and not you. Well, so would anybody – if he had a title and a vineyard.'

I winced. It was an idea I didn't like thinking about.

She added thoughtfully: 'But I don't suppose that was it. I'd think you must have been pretty unlovable when you were younger – and you must have been rather young, then. Was that why they called you Caneton – duckling? Or was it just a pun on your name?'

There was a sudden squeal of tyres and a police jeep rushed into the square from the north road. And stopped.

I said quickly: 'Sit still and look interested. It'd be natural.' She widened her eyes at me, then twisted to watch the jeep. It was a battered blue affair with flapping canvas and perspex doors. A sergeant zoomed out of it and rushed into the café. Three others jumped out of the back; one hurried off to the bottom of the square. The others stared busily around and then lit up cigarettes.

I said quietly: 'I think we can assume that somebody's found the wrecked cars, and at least one body. They wouldn't be running like this for a crashed car.'

Her eyes were a hard, wide china-blue. 'Have you got your gun? What do we do?'

'No, I don't have it – thank God. It's a bit big for these social occasions. We just sit and wait.'

'For how long?'

'Until it won't look as if we're running away.'

The sergeant and the proprietor came out of the café, both talking fast and neither listening. I leant over and called:'Qu'est-ce qui se passe?'

The sergeant gave us a fast glance that probably didn't even register what sexes we were, said a last word to the proprietor, and strode back to the jeep, yelling for his men.

The proprietor came over and started explaining about how the bandits in the hills had had a battle this morning. A car shot up, at least one man killed. He stretched the 'at least' to suggest a platoon of undiscovered corpses.

I made appreciative noises and said that odd things happened outside Paris. He swept Paris aside with one gesture; did I know that of the great crimes of the last decade not one had happened in Paris? They were getting feeble, there. Take theaffaire of the headless girl…

The cop galloped up from the bottom of the square, got in the jeep, and they drove about thirty yards into the street leading south – the one we'd come up. Once more, they all jumped out again and started spreading spiked metal balls across the road to cripple any car trying to rush them. Then they brought out a couple of sub-machine guns, leaned against the jeep, and lit up again.

I ordered another coffee and a Pastis. When the proprietor had gone, Miss Jarman said: 'What do we do now?'

'Go on waiting.'

'But they're blocking the road. We're cut off from Mr Maganhard-'

'I know. I'll have to go round the back of the village and bring them up on to the north road. We'll have to stop the Pinel van there. It shouldn't be too bad; the cops aren't being very serious.'

'They aren't? ' She looked at me incredulously.

'They're standing where the taxpayers can see them, not where they'll do any good. Anybody coming down that road could see them at twice the range of their guns. But they still think they're looking for local bandits who wouldn't try to escape from the area, anyway. This blockade's just for show. The trouble starts when anybody says the word "Maganhard".'

Two shots sounded, distant, but not too distant, and clearly the flat short snap of a pistol.

Miss Jarman raised her eyebrows at me. 'Or, of course, when your friend Harvey starts shooting.'

THIRTEEN

I swung round to look at the blockade. The cops were firmly behind the jeep by now, peering round it up the road to the south. There was nothing to see. I heard the proprietor come pounding out behind me.

Then the sergeant came running back, yelling for the telephone. He looked more surprised than worried.

The girl asked: 'What will they do now?'

'God knows. But probably get some more men in. We may have to move.' I started working up a worried expression. It wasn't difficult.

When the proprietor and sergeant came out again I jumped up and started demanding police protection. I hadn't come down here to get involved with bandits. The village was obviously about to be besieged. Where was safe?

The sergeant sneered and told me I was safe where I was. I pointed out that only thirty yards away his own men were taking cover – was I expected to sit in the open? Were there any bandits downthat way? I pointed north.

He said No, and if I wanted to go that way, he'd be glad to be rid of me. He ran back to the jeep.

I paid up quickly, took Miss Jarman's arm, and scuttled out of the square northwards. A last look over my shoulder showed a couple of cops, one with a sub-machine-gun, running back from the jeep and turning up a small alley past the cafétowards the stream, to start an outflanking movement.