Midnight Plus One

by Gavin Lyall

  He wore square glasses with thick black rims, a bronze-coloured raincoat of very simple cut, and his arms were folded across his chest showing a square wristwatch and a pair of angular gold cuff-links by one of those Scandinavian designers who can make stainless steel look like a million dollars and gold look like fifty cents.

  The girl, Miss Jarman, was something else.

  Her face was both innocent and haughty, which isn’t a rare combination, but which rarely looks as good as it did on her. The face was a pure oval, rather pale, with thin arched eyebrows that were mostly pencilwork. Long brown hair in Garbo’s Queen Christina cut, curled in under the chin. She was fast asleep, but doing it without letting her mouth come unbuttoned.

  She didn’t fit at all with Maganhard – or maybe she did, in a way. At least you could see why he wanted her in the front office, and somehow I was pretty sure that was the only place he did want her. She’d be very good at telling minor millionaires to go climb a tree without hurting their feelings. From her, they’d take it.

  This had earned her a dark shaved-sealskin coat, probably on Maganhard’s money but certainly not his design. It was a casual -wrap-around job held with a loose tie belt, as if it was just another coat. Under it, a white blouse.

  I glanced at Harvey, twisted the mirror back, and went back to watching the road. We ran into Angers at about six o’clock. Despite the good road, our speed had dropped in overtaking thecamions, We drifted down the broad empty streets, past tall old houses with blind, shuttered windows. When a French town goes to sleep, it dies. It was like sneaking a short cut through the graveyard. I kept the speed down, the car as quiet as I could.

  From here to Tours I had a choice of routes: the main road looping north or the tourist route alongside the river. In the end I reckoned that there’d be morecamions on the north route than tourists on the river at this time of day. We stayed alongside the Loire.

  ‘We’re stopping for petrol soon,’ I announced, ‘and fromnow on we may be meeting people. Cafés and so on. Better decide what parts we play.’

  Harvey asked: ‘You passing as French?’

  ‘Unless anyone asks for my passport. I can do it. ‘ The French are so convinced that nobody else can speak the language properly, that once you know it well it never occurs to them that you could. be a foreigner. Useful.

  Harvey said: ‘My accent isn’t good enough. So maybe I won’t know any at all. Just a little old tourist from Moose Droppings, Iowa. First trip to Europe. Sure is a quaint little old place.’

  I gave him a look, then asked the back seat: ‘How about you, Mr Maganhard? What passport do you carry?’

  ‘I am an Austrian citizen resident in Switzerland.’

  ‘The passport’s in your own name?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I hadn’t expected much else, but there still seemed to be a disturbing amount of honesty going on.

  ‘You’d better speak English,’ I said. His accent wasn’t perfect, and he didn’t look particularly English – at least to me. But he was probably convincing enough for a French caféproprietor. I added: ‘But if you have to show your passport, don’t speak any English or French at all. Not knowing any languages’ll make you seem rather smalltime.’

  He grunted. I wasn’t sure he liked the idea of seeming smalltime, but he must have seen the sense of it.

  ‘Miss Jarman?’ I asked.

  ‘I have an English passport, of course, but I believe I can speak French well enough.’

  ‘I’d rather you stayed English. You look it. And act as upper-class as you like. If they’re looking for a secretary they won’t expect a Duchess. Be really snooty.’

  T will behave as I want to behave, Mr Cane.’ And the voice came from a lot farther off than just the back seat.

  I nodded. That’s perfect.’

  Which left us as an English businessman, his upper-crust girl friend, an American tourist, and a French friend doing the driving. It wasn’t particularly logical, but it was some distance from a couple of hired hands taking an Austrian businessman and secretary on a trip to Liechtenstein.

  Probably none of it would help at all. But it was practice at remembering that we only needed to make one mistake to bring the ceiling down on us.

  For the same reason, I reversed in a side road and turnedso as to come up to a petrol station from the East, as if we were going from Paris to the Atlantic coast.

  I asked for forty-five litres, and the attendant wandered off round the back, still half asleep. I got out and stretched. Harvey slid out of his door and took a fast look round, then propped himself on the road side of the car.

  I walked round the car, getting my first daylight look at it. As far as I could tell it hadn’t got any scrapes or dents, and the tyres were nearly new Michelin X’s – so no trouble there.

  As I came back Harvey said: ‘Sure a mighty pretty little place, this France of yours. Only trouble is the Goddamned fancy cooking. What I’d give now for a real deep-frozen chicken and some shrivelled-up black-eye peas. Yes, sir.”

  I gave him a look that should have sliced his head off, then had to go through with the joke; the attendant was looking at us.

  I spread my hands. ‘You are – making the pleasantry -yes? Or really you are -que dites vouz? – are homesick for your little town in Iowa?’

  ‘Where my dear old pappy sits rockin’ on his porch and figurin’ new ways to cheat the Indians out of their oil-wells. You bet.’

  I leered at the attendant and nodded at Harvey.‘Américain… Il n’aime pas beaucoup la cuisine française.’

  The attendant stared at Harvey as if he had escaped from the Insect House at the Zoo, then shrugged at me.‘Quarante six.’

  I dealt him fifty francs, and hopped into the car. We’d only fooled a sleepy garage hand, but at least it was a start.

  I turned into a side road, did a swing round behind the garage and rejoined the main road east of it. The time was six-thirty-five, and the eastern sky was a mass of dirty ragged clouds ^with a tepid yellow light somewhere behind it. We hadn’t seen the sun yet.

  The road was a series of fast, gentle curves with just a wall on the right to keep the river off the road and me out of the river. The fields were green and lush; this is some of the finest French farmland.

  We passed a couple of US Army trucks keeping nonunion hours and the first sign of Tours, a big Eiffel Tower-shaped power pylon, loomed up. Then the twin towers of the cathedral and the tall blocks of modern flats. Then I was stuck in a swarm of early workers on autocycles, buzzing like bees all over the road.

  ‘Where are we eating?’ Harvey asked.

  ‘We’ll find a place down by the market; they’ll have been open for hours.’

  I took the first bridge, weaved through more autocyclists, and went straight across into the old town. It was jammed with fruit and fish lorries. Just before the Place des Halles, I turned off into a side street and parked.

  Harvey bounced out on to the pavement, holding up his left hand to stop Maganhard and Miss Jarman moving until he’d approved of the view. There were quite a number of people about.

  ‘I could have done without the crowd,’ he said quietly.

  I shrugged. ‘Or it could be protection.’

  ‘I’mthe protection. Let’s not make it a habit, hey?’

  Maganhard and the girl got out and I locked up.

  We were in a small, cramped square made of blank, scruffy flat-faced buildings, decorated with the gaudy tatters of last year’s circus posters. On the far side of the square there was a small caféthat looked like standing room only. I led the way round the corner.

  After a few yards, we found another café: small, dark, but warm and busy. We edged past a group of characters in smudged blue overalls or leather aprons talking about racing and drinking cognac, and found a table in the corner. The waiter zoomed up, bent an ear at me without looking at us, took an order for four coffees and croissants, and vanished.

  Miss Jarman said: ‘I’d’v
e preferred mine white.’

  ‘Sorry. It seemed to be a choice between quick service and no service.’ I handed round my cigarettes; she took one, Harvey shook his head and went on keeping an inconspicuous watch on the door. Without me noticing it, he’d shunted us into the best pattern: himself with his back against the corner, facing the door, Maganhard on his right, me blocking the line from the door to Maganhard, the girl clear of the line.

  Maganhard asked: ‘What route are we going now?’

  ‘Geneva, as direct as we can. We’ve done about four hundred and fifty kilometres; we’ve got nearly six hundred to go to the Swiss border.’

  ‘What time will I be in Liech-‘

  ‘Don’t! Not that name out loud, please.’

  His mouth twitched. ‘Aren’t you being rather overcautious, Mr Cane?’

  ‘How do we know? You can’t tell me what trouble we’ll meet, or where. I’m just trying to cover everything.’ I looked at my watch. ‘We should be there by nine or ten tonight – if nothing else happens.’

  SEVEN

  The waiter weaved through the crowd and dealt four large cups of black coffee and a plastic bowl of croissants. I asked for cream for Mademoiselle. He jerked his eyebrows to show how hard I was trying his patience, then asked if I was quite sure we didn’t want cognacs as well.

  I could have used a real drink; I’d been awake and active a lot longer than any of the market porters in the café. But I reckoned that if Harvey could stay off it, the least I could do was stay with him.

  I glanced round the table. The girl shook her head. Maganhard didn’t bother to look at me. Harvey said: ‘Not for me, thanks. But you have one.’

  I told the waiter No, thanks.

  We sipped at the coffee and tore up the croissants, which were fresh and warm. Somebody at the next table had a transistor radio pumping out information on the day’s racing, and a keen audience crowded around commenting on the three-leggedness of the runners.

  Miss Jarman asked: ‘Why didn’t you choose a more northerly route – Orleans, Dijon, and Neuchatel?’

  ‘Because I like this route.’

  The radio said:‘Maganhard.’

  ‘I froze. The radio said: ‘… grand yacht de luxe appartenant à un financier international a été arrêté par une frégate de guerre auprès de la côte…’

  Somebody turned the radio off.

  I looked at Maganhard: ‘Oh, you bloody nit,’ I said. ‘You hadn’t even got the sense to stay outside the three-mile limit – and now your crew’s singing the whole story in Brest.’

  Harvey said: ‘I mean let’s not start fighting out loud in here, hey?’

  I took a deep breath and a firm hold on my common sense. ‘That’s right. Nobody heard it, okay? We’re still just tourists.’

  The waiter banged the cream jug down in front of Miss Jarman.

  Harvey said casually: ‘So what’s the new plan?’

  ‘We have to assume the crew talked. So they know Maganhard’s ashore, probably where he’s heading. They’ll know you’re with him-‘ I nodded at the girl. ‘Would they know who we are?’

  Maganhard said: ‘I don’t believe so.’

  Harvey asked: ‘What about the car – want to try and switch it?’

  I thought about that, then shook my head. ‘I don’t think they’ll have the car number yet. It’ll take them a few hours to establish it’s missing and get that on the teleprinters. We can’t hire a car without showing a passport, and if we pinch one, they’re likely to havethatnumber as soon as they get the Citroën’s. Particularly since we’d have to dump the Citroen. No, we’ll just keep on. But’ – I turned to Maganhard -‘you can forget any idea of being in L. tonight. We’re on side roads from here on.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t think local cops will worry us. They’ll get the news slowly, and they won’t take it seriously. A village policeman won’texpect to catch an international businessman, so he won’t really look. It’s the Sûreté Nationalethat’ll be looking for us. They’re good – but they stick to the main roads. So if we keep off theroutes nationaleswe should be clear. But we’ll be slow.’

  Maganhard stared at the last of his coffee, then looked up at me, totally without expression. ‘All right. If I can send a message some time today, I can waste another night.’

  Harvey said: ‘Let’s go, then.’

  I had enough change to cover the bill, so I left it on the table, picked up my briefcase, and we strolled out. We dropped almost naturally into pairs: Maganhard, with Harvey on his outside, then me and Miss Jarman following.

  There were more cars parked in the square by now. A grey Mercedes just behind the Citroen, and a little green Renault 4L just in front. Harvey and Maganhard reached the car a couple of yards ahead of us – and kept going-. Then I saw why. I slid an arm round Miss Jarman’s shoulders, smiled into her face, and said: ‘Just keep walking. We’re in trouble here.’

  We went round the corner, and the one after that. Harvey and Maganhard were waiting for us, Maganhard tucked into a doorway.

  Harvey said: ‘You’re jammed by those two cars, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. And they’ve both got Paris numbers.’

  He nodded. ‘So no accident. What now?’

  ‘It can’t be the cops: they wouldn’t do it that way. So it’s our business friends. They’ll be waiting somewhere with a view of the cars.’

  ‘That caféin the square.’

  ‘That’s my guess.’

  Harvey stretched his fingers and then clenched them. ‘Okay,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s go suggest they shift their cars.’ He turned to Maganhard. ‘I don’t like leaving you alone, but we don’t have a choice. You stick here and we’ll pick you up. Okay, Cane?’

  I stuck the briefcase in the doorway, blocked the view with my body, and slipped the Mauser under my raincoat and into my waistband. It was about as comfortable as walking around in an iron lung, but not quite as obvious.

  We walked back round the first corner. Without needing to talk it over, we went past the street leading to the square, and turned at the next, to come up beside the caféwithout showing ourselves to its windows.

  As we reached the square again, Harvey stopped and looked carefully around. A couple of workmen ambled out of sight past the parked cars on the other side of the square.

  I looked over my shoulder into the street we’d come up. It was narrow, shadowed, and nobody seemed to be using it to go anywhere. ‘You know, if I was wanting a quiet talk about borrowing some car keys, I’d take it here rather than in the café.’

  Harvey moved his head in a very faint nod, and led the way.

  We hadn’t expected any trouble in finding them, and there wasn’t any: in that crowd of market workers, the three of them stood out like crocodiles in a goldfish pond. And they were where they had to be: at a table alongside the window, near the door, with a little stack of francs beside their coffee cups so that they could dive out at any time without the waiter chasing them for payment.

  Harvey looked them over and chose the leader: a fat man in his late forties, wearing last year’s raincoat and yesterday’s beard. Harvey leant down so that his mac hung open to shield his right hand from the rest of the café.

  ‘Venez faire une promenade, mes enfants?‘he suggested quietly.

  The fat man went very still and just rolled his yellowish eyes sideways at Harvey. I moved up between the other two, giving them a confident smile and a good look at the big Mauser in my waistband. Then I faded back out of reach to keep an eye on the cafécrowd.

  Nobody had noticed us yet; the waiter was out of sight and the rest were chattering busily.

  Harvey said:‘Marchez’

  The fat man suddenly jabbed both hands against the table to shove himself clear. There was a silver flash and a thump, and his fat face twisted in silent pain. He moved his left hand slowly to comfort his right, still flat on the table edge and beginning to bleed a little.

  Harvey drew back the Smith
and Wesson close to his body and slowly thumbed the hammer back to full cock. The click was lost in the noise of the cafébehind us. The fat man opened his eyes and watched sombrely. Harvey turned the gun towards him and pulled the trigger. He was Still holding back the hammer, so it didn’t fire; the fat man made a gulping sound.

  Now anything that dislodged Harvey’s thumb would fire the gun: it was about as safe as a grenade with a half-second fuse. No sane man believes he can knock aside a gun in that condition; all he believes is that he can get himself shot accidentally by making too sudden a movement.

  We seemed to have been there a long time; the waiter was going to pop up and ask what we wanted – and find out. I began to sweat. But the fat man was sweating a lot harder.

  Then he frowned once, just for his own self-respect, and made a very small gesture to show he was ready to get up. Harvey stood back. The five of us marched out in a close line like five trucks on a freight train.

  We went round the corner and past a bend that put the square out of sight from our side of the street. Harvey halted the procession and held out his left hand:‘Les clefs de la Mercedes et la Renault.’

  The fat man leant against the wall and started to explain that they weren’t his cars and, anyway, what the Devil-Harvey just smiled. He had the sort of face for that sort of smile. It made me think of other walls, pitted with bullet marks, and blindfolds and firing squads. Then he pulled out his gun again, and this time you could hear the click.

  He got the keys, and held them up over his shoulder to me.

  I moved behind him to take them. ‘I’ll need about a minute to get the Mercedes clear.’

  ‘Take all the time you want.’

  I reached for the keys.

  So far, all I knew of our new acquaintances was that they’d set up a situation with the parked cars which could easily have resulted in a gun-battle in the middle of Tours. Which made them fairly stupid, to my mind. But stupid or not, their teamwork was good.