There was barely four feet between them; so had it not been for John he would certainly have been shot. But,
as he had struck out at Christina, John had swung round on his other side, run in, and struck at him. The blow landed squarely on the side of his face. He was already slightly off balance and it sent him spinning. Christina's third shot sang harmlessly over his shoulder.
Jules was standing near the table on which was the tray of drinks. Snatching up a bottle of Dubonnet bythe neck, he flung it at Christina. The cork came out as it flew through the air, and the sticky liquid splashed all over her face and neck, but the bottle missed her.
Letting out a scream of rage, she ran towards him, firing as she went. With extraordinary agility he flung himself aside, pirouetted like a ballet dancer and kicked her on the thigh. She went over with a crash and the pistol exploded for the fifth .time. Her fourth shot had missed Jules, but the fifth paid an unexpected dividend. At that moment the door by which the valet had left the room opened, and he poked his head in. The bullet fired at random splintered the woodwork within an inch of his chin. His eyes popping with fright, he jerked back his head and slammed the door shut again.
As Christina measured her length on the floor Jules ran at her, but John was in the act of rushing at him. They collided. John's rush had carried him half across the room, so there was more force behind it. Jules went over backward, striking his head hard on the parquet floor. He rolled away, then struggled to his knees, but remained there grasping a chair with one hand and swaying from side to side, temporarily incapable of further action.
Christina was up again, the automatic still clutched in her hand. The Marquis had also staggered to his feet, and with his sound arm was clutching a silken bell rope. As he jerked it up and down a bell could be heard clanging in the distance. Christina had pitched forward to within a few feet of him. No sooner was she up than she pointed her gun at his heart. Only just in time to stop her from committing murder, John knocked it aside. The bullet shattered the centre panel of a cabinet displaying a beautiful Sevres dinner service.
The tinkle of glass and china merged into the thunder of
feet charging across the parquet. As John and Christina stood together Upson was coming at them from behind
with a chair raised above his head. They swung round to
face him. For a second it seemed certain that it must fell one, or both, of them.
There was no time to step aside; no time even for Christina to bring up her pistol. John gave her a push that sent her reeling back on to a chaise longue. Lowering his head he went right in under the chair and butted the airman in the stomach. Upson lost his grip on the chair; it crashed to the floor behind John's back. He managed to keep his feet, but Upson went over backwards, the breath driven from his body, and lay writhing in agony.
From the time Christina had fired her fires shot, not one of these violent, kaleidoscopic actions had occupied more than ten seconds; yet in this bare minute or two the crack of the shots and the clanging of the bell had roused the house. The sound of running feet could be heard pounding along a corridor somewhere beyond the door through which the valet had poked his head.
As Christina pushed herself up from the chaise longue on to which John had thrust her, he grasped her arm, turned her towards the double doors by which they had been brought in, and cried
`Quick! The servants are coming! This way, or they'll catch us!'
Still clutching the pistol, she ran through into the hall. He darted after her, but as he slammed the door behind him he had the presence of mind to swing round and turn the big ornate key that protruded from the lock. In three strides he reached the head of the short flight of stone stairs. Christina was halfway down them. Suddenly she lurched sideways, let out a yell, and fell sprawling the last few steps to bring up against the terminal post at the bottom of their curved wrought iron balustrade.
`You hurt?' he panted, helping her to her feet.
She took a couple of steps and screwed up her face with pain. `It's my ankle. It twisted under me.'
The little automatic had been dashed from her hand, but had not exploded. John stooped, grabbed it up, put on the safety catch and slipped it into his pocket as he cried anxiously, `Will it bear you? Can you possibly manage to run?'
`It has got to,' she gasped, her eyes flashing with determination.
`Well done! Here, lean on my shoulder.'
She flung an arm round his neck, and together they trotted across the stone flags to the outer door. On emerging from it they could hear loud banging on the doors of the salon, and excited shouts. Jules was yelling for the servants `Marcel ! Henri ! Frederick ! Where the devil are you?'
As the fugitives ran out into the garden, by contrast with the brightly lit interior of the chateau it seemed pitch black. The moon had, now set and the stars gave only a pale light in the open spaces between the trees. Their instinct was to take the way they had come and head down the broad walk for the harbour. But no help was to be expected there, and, after a second, John realised that they would stand a better chance of getting away if they could find a side entrance to the grounds. Swerving to the right, he ran Christina along under the terrace till they got to the end of the building. A wall continued from it, in which there was a tall arch with a wrought iron gate leading to a stable yard.
By the time they reached the arch, the windows of the salon had been flung open and several people had run out on to the terrace. Jules was shouting to the servants, `Get out into the garden. Quick now! Quick!'
John pushed open the iron gate. As he did so a furious barking started and a big wolfhound came bounding from a kennel towards him. Christina screamed and he swiftly pulled the gate shut. At that instant two men ran out from the main door of the house. Hearing the barking and the scream, they swerved to the right and came racing towards the stables.
The second John had the gate shut, he and Christina made a dash for a path that led down the side wall of the garden. It was screened from the chateau by a belt of trees and thick shrubs which hid it in almost total darkness. Fifty feet along it he came upon the thing he had been hoping so desperately to find a postern gate. As his hand grasped the latch he prayed frantically that it would not be locked. His prayer was answered : at the first pull it flew open. With Christina still leaning on him, he stepped through it.
One glance in each direction, and his heart sank with dismay. It gave on to the road leading up from the harbour to the carriage entrance of the chateau, and on, inland. On its far side was a steep bank topped by another wall, which ran unbroken both ways as far as he could see. Behind them they could hear the flying feet of their pursuers nearing the stables. Christina was moaning with pain, and the tears were running down her face. The road between the two walls was like a long, curved corridor, and in it there was no scrap of cover. Once, out on it, the stars would give enough light for them to be seen. However game Christina's effort, within two hundred yards they must be run down and caught.
Pulling her back, John whispered, `we must hide: it's our only chance.'
Leaving the postern door wide open, he drew her swiftly with him down the path. Fifty feet farther on he pushed her in among the bushes and they stood there with their hearts pounding, trying to still the rasping of their breath.
It was none too soon. Jules' men had found the iron gate to the stable yard still shut and the hound baying on its far side. Realising that the fugitives could not have gone that way, they darted towards the path. Fifty feet along it they came upon the open postern. As John had hoped, they ran through it. He gave them a minute, fearing that, seeing no one up or down the road, they might come back. Then, after a mutter of voices, he heard their running steps again as they headed towards the nearest bend, which lay up the slope.