Midnight Plus One

by Gavin Lyall

  I shook my head. ‘I’m not keen on it.’

  ‘Don’t you trust them?’

  ‘I trust them all right-‘

  ‘Then ring ‘em. They’ll have delivery trucks and jeeps and things – they can pick us up easy.’

  There’s a personal problem for me there.’

  He slanted his eyebrows. ‘Right here and now,’ he said quietly, ‘we have exactly four personal problems. And yours is a murder charge – same as mine. So if you trust these people-‘

  ‘All right.’ It was perfectly reasonable. I couldn’t argue. ‘All right. I’ll ring them.’

  That’s fine.’ He nodded. ‘And I have one more idea: don’t walk – run.’

  Miss Jarman and I reached the village in about ten minutes. The thirty-odd kilometres from Dinadan had made a big difference: now we were definitely in the south of France, and almost in summer. The farmyards were beginning to look dry and dusty, with roses blooming along the walls. The village itself was built of warm yellow southern stone, roofed with curly red tiles.

  There were three little rusty green tables planted outside a caféin the square; we sat down and I ordered coffee and a Pastis.

  When the waiter had gone, Miss Jarman said: ‘Are you really liable to be charged with murder?’

  ‘We killed a couple of people – intentionally. That’s murder, all right.’

  ‘But they were trying to kill us. Isn’t that self-defence?’

  ‘Self-defence is an excuse for killing, if you stand up in court and prove it. But, like somebody else you know well, we aren’t going to stick around and fight it. So it’ll stay on the books as murder.’

  ‘Rape and murder aren’t quite the same thing.’

  ‘No, especially when Maganhard didn’t rape anybody and – technically – we did murder somebody. But the big difference is that they don’t know who we are; they do know him.’

  ‘Will they find out about you?’

  I shrugged. ‘In the end, maybe. But as long as they can’t prove anything, we should be all right. There’s not going to be a public scandal about a couple of Paris gunmen getting killed. The cops won’t have much pressure on them to solve it.’

  The waiter brought her coffee and my Pastis and I asked about the times of buses to Vals-les-Bains, which was roughly in the opposite direction to where we wanted to go. As I’d hoped, there wouldn’t be one for hours. I asked if I could make a phone call.

  It took a little time to get through, then a man’s voice, cool and dry and old, answered: ‘Clos Pinel.’

  ‘Est il possible de parler à Madame la Comtesse?’

  ‘Qui est à l’appareil?’

  I hesitated, wondering what name I should give these days. Then something about the voice sank in.‘C’est vous, Maurice?’ I demanded. I’d somehow thought the old boy must have died or been pensioned off or something by now. I added:‘Ici Caneton.’

  This time he hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was a little warmer.‘Monsieur Caneton? Un moment…’

  After a moment, a woman’s voice said: ‘Is that really you, Louis?’

  ‘Ginette? Yes, I’m afraid it’s me.’

  ‘My dear Louis, when you decide to stay away, you bury yourself. Are you coming to see me now?’ Her English was nearly perfect; only her accent showed she hadn’t spoken it in England for a long time. But I wasn’t listening to the accent, only the husky gentle voice itself.

  ‘Ginette – I’m afraid I’m in trouble. There’s four of us. I hate asking – but can you help? Pick us up and move us along a bit? You don’t have to know what it’s about.’

  ‘So I don’t have to know?’

  She sounded both amused and reproachful. ‘What a thing to say, Louis. Where are you?’

  I told her the name of the village.

  Her voice got brisk. ‘A grey Citroen van with the name of the Château will meet you in one hour and a half. It will bring you here.’

  ‘Hell, you don’t need to involve the Château, Ginette. Just get us across the Rhône and we’ll-‘

  ‘This is still a safe house, Louis. For you.’

  I gave in. It’s not only bad manners to argue with the person making the arrangements – it’s also stupid. Particularly when they know the game as well as you ever did.

  ‘We’ll be just through the village, on the south road,’ I said.

  She rang off. I walked back to the table. ‘We’re okay.’ I looked at my watch. ‘We’ll be picked up at half past eleven.’

  Miss Jarman nodded, then asked. ‘Where is this château?’

  ‘Just across the Rhône from here.’

  ‘Who are the people there?’

  ‘Belonged to a man called the Comte de Maris. I knew him in the Resistance. But I read he was drowned three years ago. Yachting accident.’

  ‘Leaving the Comtesse? Was she the personal problem you mentioned?’

  I blew smoke into my Pastis. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t, necessarily, but I’d certainly think it first.’ She was smiling cheerfully.

  I scowled at her. ‘So let’s leave it at that.’

  But not her. ‘I suppose she was also in the Resistance? Was she the Comtesse then?’

  ‘No,’ I growled.

  ‘So she married him and not you. Well, so would anybody – if he had a title and a vineyard.’

  I winced. It was an idea I didn’t like thinking about.

  She added thoughtfully: ‘But I don’t suppose that was it. I’d think you must have been pretty unlovable when you were younger – and you must have been rather young, then. Was that why they called you Caneton – duckling? Or was it just a pun on your name?’

  There was a sudden squeal of tyres and a police jeep rushed into the square from the north road. And stopped.

  I said quickly: ‘Sit still and look interested. It’d be natural.’ She widened her eyes at me, then twisted to watch the jeep. It was a battered blue affair with flapping canvas and perspex doors. A sergeant zoomed out of it and rushed into the café. Three others jumped out of the back; one hurried off to the bottom of the square. The others stared busily around and then lit up cigarettes.

  I said quietly: ‘I think we can assume that somebody’s found the wrecked cars, and at least one body. They wouldn’t be running like this for a crashed car.’

  Her eyes were a hard, wide china-blue. ‘Have you got your gun? What do we do?’

  ‘No, I don’t have it – thank God. It’s a bit big for these social occasions. We just sit and wait.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Until it won’t look as if we’re running away.’

  The sergeant and the proprietor came out of the café, both talking fast and neither listening. I leant over and called:‘Qu’est-ce qui se passe?’

  The sergeant gave us a fast glance that probably didn’t even register what sexes we were, said a last word to the proprietor, and strode back to the jeep, yelling for his men.

  The proprietor came over and started explaining about how the bandits in the hills had had a battle this morning. A car shot up, at least one man killed. He stretched the ‘at least’ to suggest a platoon of undiscovered corpses.

  I made appreciative noises and said that odd things happened outside Paris. He swept Paris aside with one gesture; did I know that of the great crimes of the last decade not one had happened in Paris? They were getting feeble, there. Take theaffaire of the headless girl…

  The cop galloped up from the bottom of the square, got in the jeep, and they drove about thirty yards into the street leading south – the one we’d come up. Once more, they all jumped out again and started spreading spiked metal balls across the road to cripple any car trying to rush them. Then they brought out a couple of submachine guns, leaned against the jeep, and lit up again.

  I ordered another coffee and a Pastis. When the proprietor had gone, Miss Jarman said: ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Go on waiting.’

  ‘But they’r
e blocking the road. We’re cut off from Mr Maganhard-‘

  ‘I know. I’ll have to go round the back of the village and bring them up on to the north road. We’ll have to stop the Pinel van there. It shouldn’t be too bad; the cops aren’t being very serious.’

  ‘They aren’t? ‘ She looked at me incredulously.

  ‘They’re standing where the taxpayers can see them, not where they’ll do any good. Anybody coming down that road could see them at twice the range of their guns. But they still think they’re looking for local bandits who wouldn’t try to escape from the area, anyway. This blockade’s just for show. The trouble starts when anybody says the word “Maganhard”.’

  Two shots sounded, distant, but not too distant, and clearly the flat short snap of a pistol.

  Miss Jarman raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Or, of course, when your friend Harvey starts shooting.’

  THIRTEEN

  I swung round to look at the blockade. The cops were firmly behind the jeep by now, peering round it up the road to the south. There was nothing to see. I heard the proprietor come pounding out behind me.

  Then the sergeant came running back, yelling for the telephone. He looked more surprised than worried.

  The girl asked: ‘What will they do now?’

  ‘God knows. But probably get some more men in. We may have to move.’ I started working up a worried expression. It wasn’t difficult.

  When the proprietor and sergeant came out again I jumped up and started demanding police protection. I hadn’t come down here to get involved with bandits. The village was obviously about to be besieged. Where was safe?

  The sergeant sneered and told me I was safe where I was. I pointed out that only thirty yards away his own men were taking cover – was I expected to sit in the open? Were there any bandits downthat way? I pointed north.

  He said No, and if I wanted to go that way, he’d be glad to be rid of me. He ran back to the jeep.

  I paid up quickly, took Miss Jarman’s arm, and scuttled out of the square northwards. A last look over my shoulder showed a couple of cops, one with a submachine-gun, running back from the jeep and turning up a small alley past the cafétowards the stream, to start an outflanking movement.

  I hurried us on.

  When we were clear of the village, I found a stone wall leading across the fields towards the stream. I told the girl to stay there. The van shouldn’t be along for about half an hour. But if it comes, stop it. I don’t want it going into the village.’

  Then I took off, running in a crouch, down behind the wall.

  A few minutes of that convinced me that my running-crouched days were long past. I straightened up behind a tree, breathing fast and shallow, then went on more slowly. I had nearly a quarter of a mile in all to go to the stream, and I had to go that far to make sure I was clear of the farmland – and also to give me a sense of direction.

  I splashed across and into the trees, then turned and trotted south on the far bank. Through gaps in the trees I kept an eye on the church spire just over the slope. I knew I was safe until I got level with it; after that, there would be the two cops to worry about.

  When the spire was square on my left, I slowed down. Across the stream there were wide, lush green fields, separated by fat stone walls. The woods where Harvey and Maganhard were parked started about a quarter of a mile farther on. I didn’t think the cops would have crossed the stream but I thought they’d have come as far as it; it was an obvious natural boundary to any search area.

  But they might not be searching – just sitting, watching. Waiting for reinforcements. I slowed down even more, and started edging away from the stream, deeper into the trees.

  Something splashed in the water. I froze against a tree, then raised one eyebrow round it.

  One of the cops was lifting a wet foot and shaking it angrily. Then he pulled himself ashore on my side, sat down, and emptied his boot. After that he picked up his submachine-gun and started peering carefully at the soggy bank, looking for tracks.

  He was about thirty yards from me, and there wasn’t enough undergrowth for me to move without being seen.

  He took his time. He walked several yards along the bank, still looking at the ground, then looking for an easier place to cross back. Finally he crossed, climbed up into the field, and walked slowly away on a diagonal track towards the woods and the road. I took a deep breath and started running.

  A few minutes later I was level with the woods on the opposite bank and looking for the place where we’d first crossed, coming down from the car. Something glinted among the trees ahead. I moved cautiously, from tree to tree. Gradually it grew into a small light-green car, a Renault 4L, half buried in the low branches of a young fir.

  Then I remembered the proprietor talking aboutone car being shot up… I should have listened harder. The third man, the one who’d run away, had got one of the cars started and had trailed us. It wouldn’t have been difficult -he didn’t need to keep us in sight. We’d left a blood-trail of hydraulic fluid for anybody who knew where to look for it.

  And those first shots had been when he’d caught up with Harvey and Maganhard…

  I yanked open one of the buckled doors, in the desperate hope that there might be a spare gun lying around. There wasn’t of course.

  I ran down to the stream, crossed, and started up towards the road. The stream was closer to the road here; I reckoned I had only about two hundred yards to go. I knew just where I’d left Harvey and Maganhard – but they’d have moved when the shooting started. Where to? Were they still even alive? There’d been only two shots, and it’s just about impossible to kill two people for certain with just two pistol shots. So there must have been one shot from the new friend and one, in reply, from Harvey. Unless the first shothad killed Harvey, and the second had been a careful, aimed execution of Maganhard…

  I stopped and sank down to a crouch beside a tree. That sort of thinking was tying my brain in knots. All I really knew was that I was walking into a gunfight without a gun. Why the hell hadn’t I carried the Mauser? Because it was too big. So why hadn’t I picked up Bernard’s gun when I had the chance? – I could have carried that. No answer. I moved off again, bent double.

  I had about a hundred yards to go. There still wasn’t enough undergrowth to give any real cover for movement, but at least the ground was damp enough not to make any noise underfoot. I crept from tree to tree.

  Fifty yards. Now I could see a gleam of sky ahead through the trees, where they ended at the road. I stared into each low patch of grass or bramble, looking for the outline of a lying figure, the movement of a hand, the glint of a gun-barrel. I saw dozens, but none of them were there.

  Maybe I should call to Harvey. And maybe I should keep my head shut unless I wanted it blown off.

  Then I saw something, right ahead. A shape, a heap, in the open and not moving… It was the luggage. I started breathing again. But now was the time to speak or forever hold my peace. I slid down among the roots of the tree and said quietly: ‘Harvey – it’s Cane.’

  Something moved in the brambles over to my right. I jerked forward. A gun banged and chips of wood spattered around me. I threw myself into the clump of bushes in front. Too late, I saw somebody kneel up among them.

  Gunfire singed my face and battered in my ears. I lay flat, trying to work out if I were dead.

  Harvey said: ‘Davey Crockett, I presume? Welcome to the Alamo. I was hoping you’d come along and tempt him out of cover.’

  ‘Any time. ‘ I started unwrapping myself from the bushes. A few yards over to my right, a man. was lying half out of the bramble patch. Harvey walked across to him. He walked stiffly, and then I saw a stained rip in his jacket over his left ribs. I yanked myself free and went after him.

  ‘Are you hurt bad?’

  ‘Not serious.’ His face was set hard as he tried to lift the man with his foot. He let him fall back, convinced he was dead.

  ‘I’d been stuck in cover about twenty minutes
waiting for him to make a move. What’s the news?’

  ‘Let me have a look.’ I started tearing open the bloodstained hole in his shirt. ‘The news is we’re being picked up, but the cops have got a roadblock in the village. They heard the shooting and they’re out in the fields.’ I nodded over my shoulder. ‘It’s just a gash – but you’ll have to run with it Can you?’

  He nodded.

  I said: Then go round the village and up to the road.’

  Maganhard came up behind us, carrying my Mauser as delicately as he would a dead rat. I took it off him.

  Harvey said to him: ‘Liechtenstein’s now that way ‘ He pointed to the stream. ‘Get the luggage and run.’

  Maganhard said: ‘I do not mind about the luggage-‘

  ‘Imind,’ I said. ‘It’s evidence of who was here.’

  Maganhard went to fetch it. Harvey called after him: ‘Remember – the business you save may be your own.’ Then he looked at the dead man. ‘Though he’s a good piece of evidence himself. They won’t think he committed suicide.’

  A voice from the field shouted:‘Ai! Allons-y?’

  I said: ‘I may be able to fool them a bit. Stay across the stream and away from the bank: they’ll look for tracks there. Anddon’t come back for me, whatever you hear.’

  He crooked an eyebrow at me: ‘You aren’t going to be the boy on the burning deck, are you?’

  Maganhard went trundling past, carrying the two cases. I said: ‘I’ll be along.’

  He turned away, then back. ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever been hit,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘He came up behind me; got me by surprise.’

  ‘I’d assumedthat, for God’s sake.’

  He didn’t seem to hear me. ‘But it’s not an excuse really. People shouldn’t get up behind me and take me by surprise. My job.’ Then he loped off down the track, his left elbow pressed tight into his ribs, his Air France suitcase in his hand.

  I took a deep breath that was only partly because of the running and jumping I’d been doing recently, found the Mauser holster, and clipped it on as a shoulder-piece. Then I walked over to the dead man.