And with this pleasing invention Glodstone drove the Bentley out into the road and turned sedately after the disappearing tail lights.
In the Forêt de Dreux, Slymne completed his preparations. He had chosen the end of a long straight with a tight corner on it for his ambush, had parked his car on a track well out of sight round the bend, and was ready to swill a can of oil on the road as soon as he saw the Bentley's headlights. It was a desperate measure but Slymne was a desperate and partially drunk man and the memory of being called Slimey had inspired him with a grim determination. Glodstone had to be stopped, and quickly. As he waited, Slymne made some further calculations. The Bentley would slow before the bend, would then hit the oil slick and skid. Slymne considered its next move and decided that a log in the road would help. He found a fallen branch and had just put it down when the headlights appeared. Slymne emptied the can of oil and crossed the road to be on the safe side. There he lay in the forest waiting for his man.
In the event, he was proved wrong. It was less a man than an entire family, Mr and Mrs Blowther from Cleethorpes and their two children, who were enjoying the privilege afforded by straight French roads of travelling at a hundred miles an hour in their brand-new Jaguar when they hit the oil slick. For a moment they continued on their way. It was a brief respite. A second later the car slewed sideways. Mr Blowther, under the misapprehension that both his front tyres had blown, slammed his foot on the brake. The Jaguar spun like a whirling dervish before encountering the branch and then somersaulted through the air. As it landed on its roof and with a crescendo of breaking glass and tearing metal shot upside down round the corner, Slymne knew he had made a ghastly mistake and was running for the car. Or trying to. After the brilliance of the now shattered headlights, the forest was pitch-black and filled with an extraordinary number of hollows, barbed bushes and invisible trees. As he came abreast of the wrecked car the Blowthers, still miraculously alive, were crawling from the windscreen and giving vent to their outraged feelings. Mr Blowther, convinced that the fallen branch had caused the catastrophe, was particularly vehement about fornicating French foresters and flaming firtrees, and only stopped when Mrs Blowther more maternally began moaning about saving the children.
'Save? Save?' yelled her husband still too deafened to hear at all clearly, 'Of course we'll have to save. It'll take ten years to save enough to buy another effing Jag. You don't think that crumpled conglomeration of craftsmanship was comprehensively covered? All we had was third-party insurance and for your beastly benefit, the only third party is that fractured flipping fir-tree.'
In the bushes the authentic third party shuddered. Not only had he wrecked the wrong car but he had just remembered the oil cans. He had left them in the wood and his fingerprints would be all over the things. Under cover of Mr Blowther's demented alliteration, Slymne slipped back into the forest rather more successfully now that his eyes weren't blinded by the headlights and had reached the cans when the Bentley appeared. Slymne slid into the undergrowth and prayed it would emulate the Jaguar. But his hopes were dashed by Mr Blowther who scampered round the corner and was endeavouring to flag down the Bentley when he encountered the oil slick. For a moment, he waved frantically before losing his foothold and slumping down on the road. By the time he had got to his feet four times, had fallen three and had rolled into the ditch, he was not a sight to inspire confidence. Even Slymne could see that. Glodstone could evidently see more. He brought the Bentley to a halt and stared at Mr Blowther suspiciously.
'Don't make another move,' he called out. 'You see we've got you covered.'
Mr Blowther took umbrage. 'Move?' he shouted. 'You must be out of your bleeding mind. I can't even shuffle without falling arse over elbow. And as for being covered, I don't know what you think I am now but the way it feels to me I'm a human Christmas tree. That flaming holly '
'That's enough of that,' shouted Glodstone, for whom Mr Blowther's North country accent was further proof that he was a gangster and the whole thing an elaborate trap. 'Now get your hands above your head and walk backwards. And remember, one false step and you're a dead man.'
Mr Blowther stared into the darkness behind the great headlamps incredulously. 'Listen, mate,' he said, 'If you think I'm going to stick my hands in the air and try to walk anywhere on this grease pan and not be a dead man, you've got another think coming.'
'I shall count to ten,' said Glodstone grimly, 'One, two...' But Mr Blowther had had enough. He had been through a terrible car crash and was now in the middle of a second inexplicable nightmare. He moved. To be precise he slid sideways and landed on his shoulder before rolling back into the ditch. As he went the Bentley started forward into the oil and, skidding this way and that, disappeared round the corner. Thanks to this veering and the erratic swing of the headlamps, Glodstone was spared the sight of the wrecked Jaguar among the trees and of the distraught Mrs Blowther searching in the debris for her handbag and a handkerchief with which to blow the nose of a little Blowther. All his energies were concentrated on keeping the Bentley on the road.
'By God,' he said, when the car finally steadied itself, 'that was a damned near thing. It only goes to show the sort of swine we're up against.'
'Do you think they'll come after us?' asked Peregrine hopefully, toying with a revolver.
'Certain to,' said Glodstone, 'But we'll give them a run for their money. There's a crossroads coming up and I'm going to go left. From now on we'll drive straight through the night.'
Behind them, Slymne was struggling with two empty oil cans and his conscience. From Mr Blowther's vehement opinions and Mrs Blowther's complaints about using foul language in front of the children, he had gathered that, although he had been responsible for wrecking a very fine motor car, the occupants had somehow managed to escape unhurt. It was small consolation. The police would undoubtedly be called to the scene and it would be extremely difficult to explain his presence there or his possession of the oil cans, two kilos of sugar and a large quantity of nails. Worse still, he had the crested notepaper and the notes he had made for Glodstone's premeditated adventure in his suitcase. In the circumstances it seemed wisest to make himself scarce as quickly as possible.
Under cover of the Blowthers' acrimony, he stumbled back to the Citroën, put the cans in the boot and, driving without lights, followed the road by the gap of night sky between the trees. Ten miles further on, he wiped the oil cans clean of fingerprints, dumped them over a bridge into the river and buried his handkerchief in a ditch. To make doubly sure, he poured the sugar into the river too and drove on another mile before disposing of the nails. Finally he burnt the rest of the notepaper and the envelopes, and drove back to Mantes considering extradition treaties. For the first time in his life, Slymne was definitely against them. He was also very much against remaining in France. Whatever Glodstone might find when he reached the Château and even if he still had the forged letters in his possessions, Slymne and no intention of spending time in a French prison for destroying a car and endangering life. It seemed best to leave the Citroën at the garage and drive like hell for Calais in his own Cortina. With any luck, he would be across the Channel and safely home in Ramsgate before the police had made any headway in their investigations. And so Slymne drove quietly into Mantes and spent the rest of the night trying to get some sleep in the forecourt of the rent-a-car garage. At eight that morning, he was on the road for Calais.