by Tom Sharpe
‘Until we got to Ivry. There was another letter there saying we had to turn back or you were going to die.’
‘So you had to come on,’ said the Countess, shaking her head sadly. ‘And that was the only one that made sense.’
‘That night they tried to stop us by putting oil on the road in the forest. We could have been killed. As it was, a man tried to hold us up—’
‘Stop right there. Can you describe him?’
Glodstone visualized the figure of Mr Blowther covered in oil and leaves, and found it difficult.
‘But he was English? You’re sure of that?’
‘I suppose he was. He certainly sounded English. And there was another one at Calais who told the ferry people my wife had died. I don’t have a wife.’
‘I can believe it,’ said the Countess. ‘Which doesn’t help any. Whoever used my notepaper and knew my hand and posted the letters in France, booked you rooms in hotels, tried to stop you … No way they can’t be crazy. And how did they know you’d come? Come to that, why did you?’
Glodstone blushed. ‘I couldn’t leave you in the lurch,’ he muttered. ‘I mean, I’d always thought of you as a lady and, well … it’s difficult to explain really.’
‘And what do you think now? Am I still a “lady”?’
‘You’re certainly very nice,’ said Glodstone judiciously. ‘You’d have gone to the police if you weren’t.’
The Countess sighed. It still hadn’t dawned on the poor dumb cluck that she’d have done just that if she hadn’t had something to hide. Like seven gold bars and a past that would make his romantic hair stand on end. Talk about knight errant, operative word ‘errant’. It was only in Britain they made them so innocent. ‘And you’re nice too,’ she said, and patted his knee. ‘It wasn’t your fault you were framed. So we can’t let them take you to prison, can we?’
‘Hopefully,’ said Glodstone, quivering with new devotion under the influence of the pat on the knee and the baby-talk. Her next remark blew his mind.
‘So we go back and get the Sundance Kid and put the bite on the Clyde-Brownes.’
‘We do what?’
‘Put the squeeze on them. You’re going to need money, and if they’re what you say they are, and I think they are, they’ll pay through the nose to keep themselves out of the media. I can’t see Papa C-B wanting to be thrown out of the Reform.’
‘I won’t do it,’ said Glodstone. ‘It wasn’t Peregrine’s fault that …’
‘He’s wanted by the police in every country this side of the Iron Curtain? And he did the killing, not you. So Mr Clyde-Browne is going to have to work hard to pull both your irons out of the fire. And he has got influence. I’ve looked him up and he reeks of it. His brother’s Deputy Under-Secretary at the Department of Trade and adviser to the EEC Commissioner for the Regularization, Standardization and Uniformity of Processed Food Products. Meaning fish fingers.’
‘Good Lord, how did you find that out?’
‘Holborn Public Library’s latest copy of Who’s Who. So we’ve got some muscle. And we’re going to use it tonight.’
‘Tonight? But we’ll never drive all the way to Virginia Water … I mean it’ll be after midnight by the time we get there.’
‘I can’t think of a better time to break the news,’ said the Countess, and drove back to the amusement park.
23
In fact it was almost 2 a.m. when they parked the car at the end of Pinetree Lane and rang the doorbell of The Cones. A light came on upstairs and presently the door opened on the chain and Mr Clyde-Brown peered out. He’d had a hard evening listening to his wife argue that it was time they called in the police, and had only managed to get to sleep with a cup of Horlicks laced with yet more whisky and two Mogadons.
‘Who is it?’ he mumbled.
‘Me, Dad,’ said Peregrine, stepping under the porch-light. For a moment Mr Clyde-Browne was prey to the ghastly thought that two Mogadons and a quarter of a bottle of Scotch didn’t mix too well. Certainly he had to be hallucinating. The voice sounded horribly right but the face, and in particular the hair, didn’t gel with his memory of Peregrine. The last time he’d seen the lout he’d been fair-haired and with a fresh complexion. Now he looked like something the Race Relations … He stopped himself in time. There was a law about saying things like that.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he asked instead, and undid the chain. ‘Your mother’s been at her wit’s end worrying about you. And who—’
The Countess and Glodstone stepped through the doorway after Peregrine. ‘Let’s hit the lounge,’ said the Countess. ‘Somewhere nice and private. We don’t want the neighbours in on this.’
Mr Clyde-Browne wasn’t sure. The arrival of his son with black hair in the company of a woman in dark glasses and a tall haggard man who looked vaguely familiar and definitely sinister, and this at two in the morning, seemed to suggest he might need every neighbour within shouting distance. The Countess’s language didn’t help. With the feeling that he had stepped into a Cagney movie he went into the sitting room and turned on the light.
‘Now what’s the meaning of this?’ he demanded, trying to muster some authority.
‘Tell him, baby,’ said the Countess, checking the curtains were closed to unnerve Mr Clyde-Browne still more.
‘Well, it’s like this, Dad,’ said Peregrine, ‘I’ve been and gone and shot a professor.’
Mr Clyde-Browne’s eyes bulged in his head. ‘I’m not hearing right,’ he muttered. ‘It’s those fucking Mogadons. You’ve been and gone … Where the hell did you pick up that vulgar expression?’
‘His name was Botwyk and he was an American and we thought he was a gangster and I shot him through the head,’ said Peregrine. ‘With a .38 from the School Armoury.’
Mr Clyde-Browne’s knees buckled and he slumped into a chair. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he moaned. ‘This isn’t happening.’
‘No, not now,’ said Peregrine. ‘But it did. It’s in all the papers. I shot a Russian too, but he didn’t die. At least, he hasn’t yet.’
Mr Clyde-Browne shut his eyes in an attempt to convince himself that he was having a nightmare. It failed. When he opened them again Peregrine and these two awful people were still there. The Countess handed him a copy of The Times.
‘I’ve ringed the latest piece,’ she said. ‘Right now they’re looking for a terrorist. Well, he’s standing there in front of you.’
Mr Clyde-Brown hurled the paper aside. He’d read all about the murder on the train the day before and had expressed his sense of outrage. With another sense of outrage he got to his feet. ‘If this is some sort of fucking joke,’ he yelled, ‘I’ll—’
‘Cool it, baby,’ said the Countess. ‘You want the cops in on this just keep bawling your head off. That’s your prerogative. Or you can phone them. I guess the number’s still 999.’
‘I know what the fucking number is,’ shouted Mr Clyde-Browne rather more quietly.
‘So he’s your son. You want him up on a murder rap, call them up. It’s no skin off my nose. I don’t go round bumping people off.’
Mr Clyde-Browne looked from her to Peregrine and back again. ‘You’re bluffing. He didn’t shoot anyone. It’s all a lie. You’re trying to blackmail me. Well, let me tell you—’
‘Oh sure. So go ahead and phone. Tell them you’ve got two blackmailers and a son who just happens to be a murderer on your hands and you don’t know what to do. We’ll wait here for you. No sweat.’
Beads of it broke out on Mr Clyde-Browne’s forehead. ‘Tell me you didn’t do it,’ he said to Peregrine, ‘I want you to say it and I want to hear it.’
‘I shot a professor, Dad. I’ve told you that already.’
‘I know you have …’
He was interrupted by the entrance of his wife. For a long moment she stood in the doorway gazing at Peregrine.
‘Oh, my poor boy,’ she cried, rushing forward and gathering him to her. ‘What have they done to you?’
‘But where’ve you been and why’s your hair that colour?’
‘That’s part of the disguise. I’ve been to France …’
‘And shot an American professor. Through the head, didn’t you say?’ said Mr Clyde-Browne, helping himself to more whisky. He didn’t give a damn what the stuff did with Mogadons any longer. A quiet death was preferable.
‘Oh, my poor darling,’ said Mrs Clyde-Browne, who still hadn’t got the message, ‘I’ve been so worried about you.’
In the corner Mr Clyde-Browne was heard to mutter something about her not knowing what worry was. Yet.
The Countess got up and moved towards the door. Mr Clyde-Browne hit it first. ‘Where do you think you’re fucking going?’ he shouted.
Mrs Clyde-Browne turned on him. ‘How dare you use that filthy word in my house!’ she screamed. ‘And in front of Peregrine and these … er …’
The Countess smiled sweetly. ‘Let me introduce myself,’ she said. ‘My name’s Deirdre, Countess de Montcon. And please don’t apologize for your husband’s language. He’s just a little overwrought. And now if you’ll excuse us …’
Mr Clyde-Browne didn’t budge. ‘You’re not leaving this house until I’ve got to the bottom of this … this …’
‘Murder?’ asked the Countess. ‘And of course there’s the little matter of kidnapping too but I don’t suppose that’s so important.’
‘I didn’t kidnap you,’ said Peregrine, and blew his father’s mind still further. If the sod was prepared to deny kidnapping while openly admitting he’d murdered, he had to be telling the truth.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘How much do you want?’
The Countess hesitated and made up her mind not to go back to American slang. Kensington English would hit Mrs Clyde-Browne’s gentility harder. ‘Really,’ she said, ‘if it weren’t for the obvious fact that you’re not yourself I would find your attitude extremely sordid.’
‘You would, would you? Well let me tell you I know sordidity when I see it and I know blackmailers and add that lot to your calling yourself a countess and—’
‘But she is a countess,’ said Peregrine as his father ran out of words, ‘I saw her passport and she lives in this jolly great Château. It’s called Carmagnac and it’s ever so nice. And it’s there I shot the Professor.’
‘Oh, you never did,’ said Mrs Clyde-Browne reproachfully, ‘you’re making it up.’
‘Christ!’ said Mr Clyde-Browne, and downed his Scotch. ‘Will you keep out of this. We’ve enough …’
‘I most certainly won’t,’ retorted Mrs Clyde-Browne, ‘I’m his mother …’
‘And he’s a fucking murderer. M- U- R- D—’
‘I know how to spell, thank you very much. And he’s not, are you, darling?’
‘No,’ said Peregrine. ‘All I did was shoot him. I didn’t know he was—’
‘Know? Know? You wouldn’t know mass murder from petty larceny,’ shouted his father, and grabbed the paper, ‘well, the rest of the bloody world knows …’
‘If I might just get a word in,’ said the Countess. ‘The rest of the world doesn’t know … yet. Of course, in time the French police will be in touch with Scotland Yard but if we could come to some arrangement …’
‘I’ve already asked you how much you’re demanding, you blackmailing bitch. Now spit it out.’
The Countess looked at him nastily but kept her cool. ‘For a man supposedly at the top of your profession you are really remarkably obtuse,’ she said. ‘The truism about the law applies. You are an ass. And what’s more, if you don’t moderate your language I shall call the police myself.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t,’ wailed Mrs Clyde-Browne on whose dim intelligence it had slowly dawned that Peregrine really was in danger. Mr Clyde-Browne edged on to a chair.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘what are you suggesting?’
‘Immunity,’ she said simply. ‘But first I would like a nice cup of tea. It’s been a hard two days getting your son out of France and—’
‘Get it,’ Mr Clyde-Browne told his wife.
‘But, Oscar—’
‘I said get it and I meant get it. And stop blubbing, for God’s sake. I want to hear what this blo … this lady has to say.’
Still sobbing, Mrs Clyde-Browne left the room. By the time she returned with the tea tray Mr Clyde-Brown was staring at the Countess with something approaching respect. He was also drained of all emotion except terror. In a life devoted to the belief that all women were an intellectual sub-species whose sole purpose was to cook meals and have babies, he had never before come across such a powerful intelligence. ‘And what about that?’ he asked, glaring with horror at Glodstone.
‘I have arranged his future,’ said the Countess, ‘I won’t say where, though it may be in Brazil …’
‘But I don’t want to go to Brazil,’ squawked Glodstone, and was promptly told to hold his tongue.
‘Or it may be somewhere else. The point is that Mr Glodstone is going to die.’
On the couch Glodstone whimpered. Mr Clyde-Browne perked up. This woman knew her onions. ‘And about time too,’ he said.
‘And isn’t it time you phoned your brother?’ asked the Countess. ‘The sooner he can get the ball rolling the sooner we can wrap this up. And now if you’ll excuse us …’
This time Mr Clyde-Browne didn’t try to stop her. He knew when he was beaten. ‘How will I get in touch with you if—’
‘You won’t, honey,’ said the Countess, patting his ashen cheek, ‘from now on in the ball’s in your court.’
‘Well, really!’ said Mrs Clyde-Brown. ‘She didn’t even touch her tea.’
‘Bugger tea. Take that murderous bastard upstairs and bleach his hair back to normal.’
‘But we haven’t any peroxide and—’
‘Use whatever you pour down the lavatory. Even if his hair falls out it’ll be better than nothing.’ And he hurried down the passage to the study and phoned his brother.
*
The Countess drove steadily towards London. She didn’t want to be stopped by a patrol car and she had to get back into the sprawl of the metropolis and anonymity in case Mr Clyde-Browne’s brother refused to co-operate.
‘I’ve booked you a room at Heathrow,’ she said.
‘But I don’t want to go to Brazil,’ said Glodstone.
‘So you’re not going. You flew in on a Dan-Air flight from Zimbabwe, arrival time 6 a.m., name of Harrison. And you’re not to be disturbed. It’s all arranged. I’ll pick you up around noon for the funeral.’
‘Funeral? What funeral?’
‘Yours, sweetheart. Mr Glodstone’s going to die. Officially. And don’t take on so. You’ll get used to the afterlife.’
Glodstone doubted it.
*
Slymne didn’t. Given the choice he’d have willingly died. Once again he was being interrogated. This time by three American agents from Frankfurt who were under the impression that he had spent time in Libya. In another room Major Fetherington was getting the same treatment. Unfortunately, he had.
‘In the war,’ he moaned, ‘in the bloody war.’
‘Yom Kippur or the Seven Days?’
‘In the Eighth Army. A Desert Rat, for God’s sake.’
‘You can say that again, bud. You and Gaddafi both.’
‘I’m talking about the war, the real war. The one against the Afrika Korps.’
‘The who?’ said one of the men who’d obviously never heard of any war before Vietnam.
‘The Germans. You must know about Rommel.’
‘You tell us. He train you or something?’
‘Damned near killed me,’ said the Major, rather wishing he had.
‘So you were threatened into this, is that what you’re saying?’
‘No, I’m not. I’m not in this, whatever it is. I was sent down here by the Headmaster to try to find Clyde-Browne …’
‘Tell us something ne
w. We’ve been through that routine before.’
‘But there’s nothing else to tell. And what are you doing with that fucking hypodermic?’
In the passage outside Commissaire Ficard and the man from the Quai d’Orsay listened with interest.
‘The space shuttle and truth drugs and not an inkling of history,’ said Monsieur Laponce. ‘So much for the special relationship. The President will be pleased.’
‘Monsieur?’ said the Commissaire, who hadn’t a clue what the Foreign Office man was talking about.
‘Between London and Washington. We are standing at the end of an era.’
Commissaire Ficard looked up and down the passage. ‘If you say so, monsieur,’ he said. Eras meant nothing to him.
‘From now on Britain will be what she should always have been, a dependency of France,’ continued Monsieur Laponce, indulging his taste for rhetoric. ‘The idiots in Whitehall have played into our hands.’
‘You really think the British government sent these men?’
‘It is not what I think that matters, Commissaire. It is what those charming Americans in there report to Washington.’
‘But Gaddafi—’
‘—has nothing to do with this. Nor have the Red Brigade or any other terrorist group. It was a stratagem to worsen our relationship with the United States and it has failed.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said the Commissaire.
‘You will, Monsieur Ficard. From now on you will. Bear that in mind. And no press releases. You will simply tell the press that the affair is of too delicate a nature diplomatically to speak about since British Intelligence Officers … You will stop yourself there in some confusion and demand that what you have just said is not to be reported. Is that clear?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘If you fail in the duty, you will have failed France,’ said Monsieur Laponce. ‘Remember that. And now, to avoid listening to that terrible noise, I will report to the Minister.’
Inside the interrogation room Major Fetherington under the influence of the drugs he had been given was living up to Henry Ford’s dictum that history was bunk.