It was Glodstone's turn to panic. 'Now wait a minute,' he said, wishing to hell he hadn't boasted about swimming across so readily, 'I've sprained my ankle rescuing you. I can't go back into...'
'Ankle yankle,' shouted Botwyk, 'you think I care about ankles in my fucking condition, you've got to be crazy. Somebody is for sure.'
'Oh well, if you feel like that about it,' said Glodstone rather huffily only to be stopped by Botwyk.
'Feel?' he yelled. 'You use that fucking word again and someone's going to be sorry.'
'Sorry,' said Glodstone, 'All the same...'
'Listen, bud,' said Botwyk, 'It's not all the same. Not to me it isn't. Your ankle and my spine are in two different categories, right?'
'I suppose they'd have to be,' said Glodstone.
'You don't need a fucking ankle to get it up and feel and all. Well, it's not that way with spines. Not the way I read it. So lay off the feeling part.'
'Yes,' said Glodstone, not too sure now if he'd been wise to raise the issue in the first place. 'All the same...'
'Don't,' said Botwyk menacingly.
'I was going to say...'
'I know what you were going to say. And I've answered that one already. It's not the fucking same. Same is out, same as feel is.'
'Even so,' said Glodstone after a pause in which he had searched for a phrase which wouldn't infuriate the blighter, 'for all we know there may be nothing the matter with your spine. The way to find out is to...'
'Take my fucking shoes off like you did just now,' said Botwyk, 'I've got news for you...'
But whatever he was about to impart was drowned by the sound of sirens. A car followed by an ambulance hurtled along the road opposite and turned over the bridge to the Château.
'For hell's sake do something,' yelled Botwyk, 'We've got to get their attention.'
But Glodstone was too preoccupied to answer. Whatever Peregrine had done had included more than dumping this foul-mouthed swine over the cliff and if he was caught...The notion horrified him. In the meantime, he had better keep on good terms, or as near good as he could get, with the sod.
'Did you notice that?' he enquired, jabbing his finger into the sole of Botwyk's foot when the professor had stopped shouting.
Botwyk sat bolt upright. 'Of course I fucking did,' he snarled, 'What do you expect me to fucking notice if you do a thing like that? I've got sensitive feet for Chrissake.'
'That's a relief,' said Glodstone, 'for a while there I thought you'd really broken your back.'
'Jesus,' said Botwyk, and sank back speechless on the rock.
Chapter 15
He was not alone in this. Mr Hodgson, the scrap-iron merchant who had been dying for a slash and had been the recipient of one of Major Fetherington's Specials, was still incapable of doing more than scribble that he'd been the victim of an attack by one of those damned foreigners and the sooner he got home to Huddersfield the safer he'd feel. Dimitri Abnekov's opinion, also given in writing, was that a deliberate attempt had been made by a CIA hit-team to silence the Soviet delegate and was a violation of the UN Charter and the Helsinki Agreement as regards the freedom of speech. Signor Badiglioni, having been subjected to Dr Keister's clinical approach to what she called 'reciprocated sensuality' and he didn't, wasn't prepared to say anything. And Sir Arnold Brymay preferred not to. Professor Zukas had been too engaged in a polemic with the Mexican delegate on the question of Trotsky's murder and the failure of the Mexican government to collectivize farms it had already distributed to the peasants to remember anything so contemporary as his encounter with Peregrine. Finally, Mrs Rutherby and Mr Coombe, once they have been extricated from one another by Dr Voisin, were blaming their agonizing ordeal on Mrs Branscombe, the bull terrier judge, who denied that she made a habit of entering other people's bedrooms to indulge her latent lesbianism by hurling buckets of water over heterosexual couples.
Only Pastor Laudenbach approached the problem at all rationally. 'The question we must ask ourselves is why a young man should want so desperately to find a countess. It is a phenomenon not easily explicable. Particularly when he was obviously British.'
'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' said Sir Arnold, who could see an extremely awkward international incident heading his way.
'I would,' said Dr Grenoy, the French delegate. He had slept through the whole affair but the honour of France was at stake and in any case he was looking for an opportunity to divert the symposium away from his country's role in Central Africa. On the other hand, he was anxious to prevent the scandal reaching the media. 'I am sure mere is a simple hooliganistic explanation for this regrettable occurrence,' he continued. 'The essential factor is that while we have all been put to some inconvenience, no one has actually been hurt. In the morning, you may rest assured that adequate protective measures will have been taken. I myself will guarantee it. For the moment, I suggest we return to our rooms and...'
The Soviet delegate was protesting. 'Where is the American Botwyk?' he whispered, 'In the name of the Union of '
'Let's not get too excited,' pleaded Dr Grenoy, now as anxious as Sir Arnold to avoid an international incident. 'The Professor's absence is doubtless due to a comprehensible prudence on his part. If someone will go to his room...'
Pastor Laudenbach volunteered but returned in a few minutes to announce that Professor Botwyk's room was empty and that his bed had not been slept in.
'What did I say?' said Dr Abnekov, 'There has been a deliberate conspiracy to destabilize the conference by elements...'
'Oh Lord,' said Sir Arnold, appealing uncharacteristically to his French counterpart, 'can't someone bring an element of common-sense to this trivial affair? If that damned Yank had instigated anything he wouldn't have been idiotic enough to disappear. Anyway, there were no political implications. The lunatic simply wanted to know where some Countess was. I told him she was in Antibes. He's probably pushed off there by now.'
'Countess? Countess? Mere subterfuge,' said Dr Abnekov, finding his voice. 'Typical imperialistic tactics to obscure the real issue. There are no Countesses here.'
Dr Grenoy coughed uncomfortably. 'I am afraid to announce that there are,' he said, 'The proprietor of the Château...' He shrugged. The name Montcon was not one he wished to announce to the world.
'There you are,' said Sir Arnold more cheerfully, 'The woman has some lover...'
He was interrupted by the arrival of one of the ambulance drivers.
'There appears to be an explanation to the disappearance of Professor Botwyk,' Dr Grenoy announced after a whispered consultation with the man. 'He has been found on a rock in the river.'
'Dead?' asked Dr Abnekov hopefully.
'No. In the company of another man. The Emergency Services have been alerted and they should be rescued at any moment.'
The delegates trooped out onto the terraces to watch. Behind them Dr Grenoy and Sir Arnold consulted one another on the need to reestablish Franco-British collaboration, at least for the time being.
'You keep the British out of this and I won't spread the word about Madame de Montcon,' said Sir Arnold.
'It's the wretched American I'm worried about,' said Dr Grenoy. 'He may demand an enormous security operation. Thank God we don't have a representative from Libya.'
They went out onto the terrace in time to see Professor Botwyk and Glodstone being ferried across the river by several frogmen with an inflatable dinghy.
'I just hope he doesn't insist on holding a press conference,' said Sir Arnold, 'Americans make such a song and dance about these things.'
Beside him Dr Grenoy made a mental note to see that the State-controlled French television refused facilities.