'But an incredible student of geography to investigate the country for 900 kilometres without stopping. And at night too. Unless...' He paused and lit a cigarette. The room stank of stale tobacco. 'Unless, Monsieur Slymne, and I merely hypothesize, you understand, you were already in France and someone provided you with an alibi by booking a crossing to Calais in your name.'
'An alibi? What would they do that for?' said Slymne, trying to keep his eyes in focus. The situation was getting madder every moment.
'That is for you to tell us. You know what you have been here for. What mission you and Major Fetherington are on.'
'Can't,' said Slymne, 'because we aren't on one. Ask the Major.'
'We have. And he has had the good sense to tell us.'
'Tell you? What's he told you?' Slymne was wide awake now.
'You really want to know?'
Slymne did, desperately. The detective left the room and returned with a signed statement a few minutes later.
'Major Fetherington admits to being a member of the Special Air Services. He was parachuted into the forest near Brive from a light aircraft...'
'From a light aircraft?' said Slymne in the grip of galloping insanity.
'Yes, monsieur, as you well know. He has even named the type and the airfield from which he flew. It was a Gloster Gladiator and left from Bagshot at 0400 hours Tuesday morning '
'But...but they haven't made Gladiators since God knows when,' said Slymne. What on earth was the Major up to? And there couldn't be an airfield near Bagshot. The man must have gone off his rocker.
'On landing he hurt his back but buried his parachute and made his way to the road above Colonges where you picked him up,' continued the detective. 'You were to give him his orders...'
'His orders?' squawked Slymne. 'What orders, for Lord's sake?'
The detective smiled. 'That is for you to tell us, monsieur.'
Slymne looked desperately round the room. Major Fetherington had landed him up to his eyeballs in it now. Talk about passing the buck. 'I don't know what you're on about,' he muttered. 'I haven't been anywhere near Brive and...' He gave up.
'If you will take my advice, Monsieur Slymne,' said the Inspector, 'you will tell us now what you know. It will save you from meeting certain gentlemen from Paris. They are not of the police, you understand, and they use different methods. I haven't met such men myself and I hope I never have dealings with them. I believe they are not very nice.'
Slymne cracked. But when, an hour later, he signed the statement and the Inspector left the room, he was still denied the sleep he so desperately wanted. Commissaire Ficard wasn't having it.
'Does the clown think we're mentally deficient?' he shouted. 'We have the assassination of one of America's top political theorists and the mutilation of a Soviet delegate and he asks us to believe that some English schoolmaster is responsible? And the other one has already admitted being SAS. Oh, no, I am not satisfied. The Minister is not satisfied. The American Ambassador is demanding immediate action and the Russian too and we have this buffoon telling us...' The phone rang. 'No, I will say nothing more to the Press. And I'd like to know who leaked the story yesterday. The media is crawling all over the ground in helicopters. What do you mean they can't crawl in 'copters? They land in them and then...' He slammed the phone down and lumbered to his feet. 'Just let me lay my hands on this English turd. I'll squeeze the truth out of him if it has to come out of his arsehole.'
'Monsieur le Commissaire, we have already told him some special agents are coming from Paris,' said the Inspector.
'They needn't bother. By the time I'm through with him there'll be nothing left for them to play with.'
Major Fetherington lay on his stomach with his head turned sideways and contemplated the wall uncertainly. Like everyone else in the Boosat gendarmerie, he hadn't the foggiest notion what had really happened at the Château Carmagnac but for the moment he'd spared himself the ordeal Slymne was quite clearly going through. To the Major it sounded like an advanced form of hell and he thanked God he'd given the sods what they'd wanted a load of codswallop. And in another way it was satisfying. Old Gloddie must have done something pretty gruesome to have warranted roadblocks, helicopters and accusations that he and Slymne were agents of the Secret Service, and good luck to him. The Major had never had much time for the French and Gloddie had given it to them where it hurt and got away with it. And he wasn't sneaking on the old ass to a lot of Frog cops who were doing whatever they were doing (the Major preferred not to think about it) to Slymne. Reaching over the side of the bed he found his socks and tried to block his ears with them and had partially succeeded when Slymne stopped yelling and the cell door opened.
'What about my clothes?' asked the Major with a quaver as they dragged him to his feet. Commissaire Roudhon studied his stained Y-fronts with disgust.
'You're not going to need any where you're going,' he said softly. 'You may require shoes though. Give him a blanket.'
'What's happening?' said the Major, now thoroughly frightened.
'You're taking us to the spot where you buried that parachute.'
'Oh, my God,' whimpered the Major. He could see now he'd made a terrible mistake.
Chapter 22
The Countess sat in the coffee-lounge in Weymouth waiting for the Bentley to come through Customs. She had sent Peregrine along to the statue of George III and would have made herself scarce too if it hadn't been for the gold bars. She had bought the Daily Telegraph and had learnt that the assassination of Professor Botwyk was already causing an international furore. Like Slymne, she knew the efficiency of the French police and she was lumbered with two halfwits. Without her to think for them they'd end up in the hands of Scotland Yard and with the American government now involved the FBI would backtrack her to California and through her various aliases to her arrival in the States and Miss Surrey and finally to Selsdon Road and Constance Sugg. She could see how easily it would be done. Anthony at Groxbourne, the missing revolvers she'd made a terrible mistake mere Glodstone's account of her 'letters' and Peregrine's pride in being such a good shot...Worst of all, whoever had set her up had done a spectacular job.
Once again she cursed men. All her life she had had to fight to maintain her independence and now just when she had it all made to be her quiet surburban self she was being forced to think ruthlessly. And think she did. By the time the Bentley nosed off the ferry, she had made up her mind. She got up and walked down the road where Glodstone could see her and waited for him. 'No problems with Customs?' she enquired as she climbed in behind him.
'No,' said Glodstone glumly. 'Where's Peregrine?'
'By the statue. He can wait. You and me is going to have a quiet talk.'
'What about?'
'This,' said the Countess and put the newspaper on his lap.
'What's it say?' said Glodstone, almost killing a pedestrian on a zebra crossing in his anxiety to get away.
'Nothing much. Just that the French government have assured the State Department that the killers of Professor Botwyk will be caught and brought to justice. The Russians appear to be taking a dim view too. Apparently your boyfriend shot their delegate as well, which must confuse the issue more than somewhat.'
'Oh my God,' said Glodstone and turned down a side street and stopped. 'What on earth possessed you to write those bloody letters?'
'Keep moving. I'll tell you when to stop.'
'Yes, but...'
'No buts. You do what I say or I'm cutting loose and calling the first cop I spot and you and Master C-B will be facing an extradition order inside a week. Turn right here. There's a parking lot round the corner.'