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Mallory lit a cigarette and stood on deck in the quiet rain. Perhaps five minutes later he heard the sound of an outboard motor passing along the main channel. It moved into the distance, muffled by the fog, and then there was only silence.

As Guyon went through the reeds a curlew whistled hauntingly somewhere to the left and wildfowl called as they lifted from the water, disturbed by his passing. He came out on higher ground, checked the compass and ran forward, alone in a land of shining mudflats, lonely creeks and everywhere the reeds.

He came to the end of solid ground and waded across a narrow creek, his feet sinking into soft mud. He could taste the salt on his lips and it stung his eyes painfully, but he kept on moving, pushing through the reeds into the grey shroud.

Gradually the ground became firmer again until he was able to run across sand and coarse marsh-grass. A few moments later he stood on the banks of a shallow lake and the house loomed out of the fog on its island fifty yards away.

The evil, scum-covered waters reached out to meet him as he moved forward, and he took out the revolver and held it above his head. It was not likely that the water would affect it, but there was no point in taking chances.

It was surprisingly easy going, the mud giving way to hard sand, and he was soon moving up on to dry land again. As he ran towards the single-storeyed house a narrow wooden jetty loomed out of the fog and he paused abruptly. No boat was moored there, not even a marsh punt. He stood there, a frown on his face, considering the fact, then turned and went towards the house.

He could smell wood smoke and saw it lifting in a blue tracer from the rough stone chimney. He went up rickety wooden steps to the porch, opened the door and went in.

The room was furnished simply but comfortably, loose 160 rugs scattered across the polished wooden floor. There were several bookcases, all filled, a sofa and two easy chairs in front of the fireplace.

Logs smouldered fitfully on the stone hearth, heavily banked with ashes that they might not burn too quickly. They told Guyon all he needed to know. Henri Granville and his wife were not there. But, then, they should have always counted on that as a possibility.

Ornithology was the old man’s great hobby. He had even written a book on the subject. It was quite obvious that at this moment he and his wife were sitting in their boat somewhere among the reeds which covered so many square miles of the marshes, probably even in some bird-hide since dawn taking photos.

He moved outside and went down to the jetty. Faintly, through the mist, came the sound of an outboard motor. Jacaud and his men. For them the solution would be obvious. They would simply wait for Granville to put in an appearance. No need even to go looking for him.

There was only one answer to the problem and Guyon waded into the lake and pushed towards the other side. He moved up on to high ground and ran along the shore towards the sound of the motor.

In spite of the clammy cold of the marshes sweat trickled from Feelings armpits. Ever since that first moment of shock when Fleur de Lys had passed them in the mouth of the estuary he had felt sick and frightened. And then de Beaumont’s message over the radio, the mind numbing as the operator decoded it.

The message was quite plain. Under the circumstances they were to return at once. But that hadn’t been good enough for Jacaud. He had insisted on going on into the marsh and Fenelon had wilted under his cold fury.

The reeds lifted like pale ghosts on either hand, the only sound the steady rattle of the outboard motor. He sat in the stern at the tiller, two sailors in the centre with rifles. Jacaud sat on the edge of the rounded prow, his sub-machine-gun slung around his neck as he gazed into the fog like some great bird of prey.

He turned, his granite, brutal face running with moisture. “We must be almost there. Cut the motor. We’ll start paddling.”

“You’re wasting your time, Jacaud,” Guyon called gaily. “I beat you to it. By now Henri Granville and his wife are well on their way out of here.”

As the dinghy drifted forward, a sandbank reached out from the reeds like a pointing finger. Guyon stood on a small hillock at the far end. His hand swung up and he fired twice. One of the sailors groaned and went over the side, still clutching his rifle.

Jacaud slipped the sub-machine-gun over his head. It came up in a long, stuttering burst of fire, slicing through the reeds. He was too late. Guyon had disappeared like a ghost into the fog. He laughed mockingly somewhere near at hand and then there was silence.

The remaining sailor leaned over the side to pull in his comrade. Jacaud turned and struck up his arm. “Leave him. We haven’t time.”

The sailor recoiled from the killing fury, the devil’s face that confronted him. The curious thing was that when Jacaud spoke his voice was quite calm.

“Back to L'Alouette and give that motor everything it’s got. Mallory’s got to return to lie de Roc. He’s no choice. His girl-friend’s still there. If we’re lucky we can catch them on their way out to sea.”

To Mallory the rattle of gunfire in the distance was like a physical blow and he walked the deck in impotent fury, hoping desperately that whatever had gone wrong Guyon had been able to handle it. Perhaps ten minutes later he heard the sound of the outboard motor returning along the creek. He stood very still, one foot on the rail, listening as it passed downstream.

He clambered on top of the wheelhouse and looked towards the west, straining into the fog. It was a good fifteen minutes before he heard the sound of brent geese calling bitterly as they lifted from the reeds. As the beating of their wings subsided, he was aware of movement towards the left.

He took a chance, cupped his hands and called: “Raoul! Over here!”

A couple of minutes later Guyon emerged from the fog and stumbled across the sandbank. Mallory ran to the prow and hauled him on board. Guyon was soaked to the skin and bitterly cold, his face pale and drawn.

“Have they passed yet?”

Mallory nodded. “What happened?”

Guyon explained briefly, shivering repeatedly as the wind cut through his damp clothes. “What do we do now?”

“Get to hell out of here and fast,” Mallory said. “Unless I’m very much mistaken Jacaud will wait for us at the estuary. If we can get down there fast enough we might stand a chance of getting out to sea before they’re ready.”

“And back to lie de Roc?”

“That’s the general idea. You’d better go below. Find yourself some dry clothes and a drink. I’ll get things moving up here.1

He went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. When he put them into reverse Fleur de Lys parted easily from the soft mud and he swung the wheel hard over, bringing her prow round until she pointed towards the wall of reeds that barred them from the creek.

He took her forward with a burst of speed, repeating his earlier manoeuvre. Once again it proved successful. The reeds parted protestingly and the boat burst into the creek. He turned the wheel to starboard and she swung round, grazing the mud of the opposite bank.

He took her downstream slowly, the engines a murmur in the rain. Guyon came up from the saloon wearing khaki slacks, rubber boots and a heavy- white sweater with a turtle collar. In one hand he carried a bottle of brandy, in the other a tin mug.

“How do you feel?” Mallory said.,

Guyon grinned and held up the brandy. “How would you expect? It’s Gourvoisier. Like some?”

“I certainly would.”

Mallory took the brandy down in two quick gulps. As a warm glow started to seep through his entire body he took out the packet of Gauloise that Marcel had given them and threw them to Guyon.

“Better have one while the going’s good. Things might get pretty warm within the next ten minutes.”

He took one himself and opened the window of the wheelhouse. Rain kicked into his face and there was a slight wind blowing in from the sea across the marshes, lifting the fog into weird shapes.