A Fine Night for Dying

by Jack Higgins

  She accepted his story completely and without any kind of query, which was bad, considering that it was so shot full of holes. She leaned back again and gradually her eyes closed. He reached for his trench coat and covered her. He was beginning to feel some kind of responsibility, which was really quite absurd. She was nothing to him—nothing at all. In any case, with any kind of luck, things would go through pretty smoothly once they reached St. Denise.

  But what would happen when they arrived on the English coast and Mallory acted on his information? She’d be on her way back to Bombay for good. They’d never allow her into the country again after an attempt at illegal entry. Life could be very difficult at times. Chavasse sighed, folded his arms and tried to get some sleep.

  THEY reached St. Brieuc just before five o’clock in the morning. The girl had slept peacefully throughout the night, and Chavasse awakened her just before they arrived. She disappeared along the corridor, and when she returned, her hair was combed neatly into place.

  “Any hot water down there?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I prefer cold in the morning. It freshens you up.”

  Chavasse ran a hand over the hard stubble on his chin and shook his head. “I’m not too fond of being skinned alive. I’ll shave later.”

  The train glided into St. Brieuc five minutes later. They were the only passengers to alight. It was cold and desolate and touched with that atmosphere peculiar to railway stations in the early hours of the morning the world over. It was as if everyone had just left.

  The ticket collector, well protected against the chill morning air by a heavy overcoat and muffler, looked ready for retirement. He was the kind of man who seemed indifferent to everything, even life itself, and the pallor of his skin, coupled with his constant, repetitive coughing, boded ill. He answered Chavasse with a kind of frigid civility, as if his attention was elsewhere.

  St. Denise? Yes, there was a bus to Dinard that would drop them within a mile of St. Denise. It left at nine o’clock from the square. They would find a café there that opened early for the market people. Monsieur Pinaud was not one to miss trade. He subsided once more into his own cheerless world, and they moved on.

  RAIN drifted across the square as they went down the steps and crossed to the lighted windows of the café. It was warm inside, but not busy. Chavasse left the girl at a table by the window and moved to the zinc-topped bar.

  A middle-aged balding man in striped shirt and white apron, presumably the Monsieur Pinaud referred to by the ticket collector, was reading a newspaper. He pushed it to one side and smiled. “Just off the train?”

  “That’s it.” Chavasse ordered coffee and rolls. “They tell me there’s a bus to Dinard at nine o’clock. That’s definitely the earliest?”

  Pinaud nodded as he poured the coffee. “You want to go to Dinard?”

  “No, Saint Denise.”

  The coffeepot froze in midair and the man glanced across warily. “Saint Denise? You want to go to Saint Denise?”

  His reaction was more than interesting and Chavasse smiled amiably. “That’s right. My girlfriend and I are spending a few days’ holiday there. I’ve arranged to stay at an inn called the Running Man with a Monsieur Jacaud. You know him?”

  “Perhaps, monsieur. A lot of people come in here.” He pushed the coffee and rolls across.

  Chavasse took the two cups and the plate of rolls across to the table. As he sat down, Pinaud wiped the zinc top of the bar carefully, then moved to a door that obviously led to the rear, and vanished.

  “I’ll only be a minute,” Chavasse told the girl, and went after him.

  He found himself in a deserted, stone-flagged corridor. A notice at the far end indicated the lavatory. There was no sign of Pinaud. Chavasse started forward cautiously and paused. A door on his right was slightly ajar. From the sound of it, Pinaud was on the telephone. The interesting thing was that he was speaking in Breton, which Chavasse, whose paternal grandfather still presided over the family farm near Vaux in spite of his eighty years, spoke himself like a native.

  “Hello, Jacaud. Those two packages you were expecting have arrived. The girl fits the description perfectly, but the man worries me. Speaks French like a Frenchman, or like a Frenchman should, if you follow me. Yes—okay. They’re waiting for the bus at nine.”

  Chavasse slipped back into the café. Famia was already on her second roll. “Hurry up,” she said. “Your coffee will be getting cold.”

  “Never mind. I’m just going across to the station to check on that bus time again. I won’t be long.”

  He went out into the rain without giving her a chance to reply and hurried across to the station. It was still deserted, but he quickly found what he was looking for, a series of metal lockers, each with its own key, where luggage might be left. He took out his wallet and also the extra money he had taken from Skiros. He pushed the whole lot well to the rear of the locker, closed it quickly and concealed the key beneath the insole of his right shoe.

  Famia was looking anxious when he returned to the café. He patted her hand reassuringly and went back to the counter.

  “I wondered what had happened to you,” Pinaud said.

  Chavasse shrugged. “I thought there might be a local train or something. It’s a hell of a time to wait.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” Pinaud gave him a big smile. “You just sit tight and have another coffee. Lots of farmers and market people are in and out of here at this time in the morning. I’ll get you a lift to Saint Denise. Someone is bound to be going that way.”

  “Very decent of you. Perhaps you’d join me in a cognac? It’s a cold morning.”

  “An excellent idea.” Pinaud reached for a bottle and a couple of glasses and filled them quickly. “Your good health, monsieur.” He raised his glass and smiled.

  Chavasse smiled right back. “And yours.”

  The brandy burned all the way down. He picked up his coffee and returned to the table to await events.

  PEOPLE came and went, mainly porters from the nearby market, and Chavasse bought the girl another coffee and waited. It was perhaps half an hour later when the old van turned out of a narrow street on the other side of the square.

  He watched it idly as it approached, and noticed a Renault emerge from the same street and halt at the curbside. The van came on and braked no more than a couple of yards from the café window. Jacaud got out.

  The girl reacted immediately. “That man—what a terrible face. He seems so…so completely evil.”

  “Appearances can sometimes be very deceptive,” Chavasse told her.

  Jacaud paused just inside the door, glancing casually around the room as if seeking a friend before proceeding to the counter, and yet he had marked them. Chavasse was sure of it. He purchased a packet of cigarettes, and Pinaud said something to him. He glanced over his shoulder at Chavasse and the girl, then turned away again. Pinaud poured him a cognac and came round the counter.

  “You are in luck, monsieur,” he told Chavasse. “This man is going to Saint Denise. He has agreed to give you a lift.”

  Chavasse turned to the girl and said in English: “Our good-looking friend has offered us a lift. Should we accept?”

  “Is there any reason why we shouldn’t?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “You’re really very refreshing, but hopelessly out of date. Still—never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  Jacaud swallowed his cognac and crossed to the door. He paused and glanced down at Chavasse, face expressionless. “You are going to Saint Denise, I understand? I’m on my way there now. You’re welcome to a lift.”

  “Wonderful,” Chavasse said brightly. “We’ll be right with you.”

  Jacaud nodded briefly to Pinaud. “I’ll be in touch about further arrangements,” he said, in Breton, and went out.

  He was already behind the wheel when Chavasse and the girl joined him. There was room for one passenger. The girl took the only seat, and Chavasse heaved the suitcases in
to the rear and climbed over the tailgate. The van started at once, bouncing its way across the cobbles, passing the parked Renault. He caught a quick glimpse of the driver, a flash of very fair hair, and then the Renault pulled away from the curb and came after them, which was interesting.

  Chavasse touched the butt of the Smith & Wesson snug in its holster against his spine, then sat back and waited to see what was going to happen.

  WITHIN a few minutes, they had left the town and were proceeding along a narrow country road. The heavy rain and a slight ground mist reduced visibility considerably, but he caught an occasional glimpse of the sea in the distance beyond a fringe of pine trees.

  The Renault stayed so close that he could see the driver clearly, a pale, aesthetic man with extraordinarily fair hair who looked more like a priest than anything else. They came to a crossroads at a place where the pinewoods seemed to move in on every side. The van carried straight on; the Renault turned left and disappeared. Chavasse frowned.

  The van swerved into a narrow sandy track to the left and moved down through the pine trees toward the sea. A few moments later, the engine coughed a couple of times, faltered, then stopped completely. The van rolled to a halt, the door opened and Jacaud came round to the rear.

  “Trouble?” Chavasse inquired.

  “I’ve run out of fuel,” Jacaud said. “But it doesn’t matter. I always carry an emergency supply. At the back of the bench there.”

  Chavasse found on old British Army jerrycan that looked as if it had been in use since Dunkirk. It was full, which made it awkward to handle in the confined space, and he had to use both hands, which was obviously exactly what Jacaud had counted on. As Chavasse heaved the jerrycan up on the tailgate with every sign of difficulty, the big man’s hand appeared from behind his back and the tire iron lever he was holding cracked down.

  Only Chavasse wasn’t there any longer. He dodged to one side, holding the jerrycan in both hands with negligent ease, and the tire iron dented the edge of the tailgate. Jacaud was already moving backward out of harm’s way, every instinct that had kept him intact for forty-three years warning him that he had made a very bad mistake, but he was too late. The jerrycan took him full in the chest and he went over. He rolled onto his face and started to get up and Chavasse landed on his back.

  The arm that clamped itself around Jacaud’s throat was like a steel band, cutting off his air supply so efficiently that he started to choke at once.

  Chavasse wasn’t really sure what happened after that. He was aware of Famia screaming, calling his name, and then the light was switched off very suddenly. There was no pain—no pain at all. A blow to the base of the neck delivered by an expert—the thought was there and yet was not there, and in the same moment vision returned.

  He looked up into the face of a ravaged saint, an Anthony burned clear to the bone by the heat of the wilderness. Beneath the drift of flaxen hair, the pale blue eyes were empty. There was no love here, no cruelty either, and he crouched beside Chavasse in a kind of meditation, an exquisite ivory Madonna clasped in both hands.

  Chavasse was aware of the Smith & Wesson hard against his back, secure in its spring holster. Famia Nadeem stood beside the van, hands together, terror on her face, and Jacaud stood beside her. Chavasse decided to play it cool for another couple of minutes. He came back to Rossiter, stared at him vacantly and ran a hand across his eyes.

  The Englishman slapped him in the face. “Can you hear me, Chavasse?” Chavasse struggled up on one elbow, and Rossiter smiled briefly. “I was beginning to think I must have hit you harder than I had intended.”

  “Hard enough.” Chavasse sat up, rubbing the nape of his neck with one hand. “You’ve heard from Skiros, I presume?”

  “Naturally. He gives me to understand that you have in your possession a considerable sum of money belonging to the organization I work for. Where is it?”

  “In a safe place back in Saint Brieuc. I decided it would make what a poker player might term a good ace-in-the-hole. Who am I talking to, by the way? You’re not Jacaud, that’s for sure.”

  “Monsieur Jacaud you have already met. My name is Rossiter.”

  “And he and Skiros work for you?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Then I don’t think much of the way your organization treats the cash customers. When I reached Marseilles, Skiros sent me on my way to the wrong destination with a couple of goons on my tail to rob me. When I went back to the ship to talk things over, he was doing his best to rape the girl. On top of that, he’d taken her for a lot of money. I don’t know how well he’s been doing for you, but I’d say his bank account would make interesting reading.”

  Rossiter didn’t seem to be listening. He had turned to Famia Nadeem, a frown on his face. When he went forward, she glanced down and he put a hand under her chin and tilted it up.

  “Is he telling the truth?”

  Strangely enough, all her fear seemed to have vanished. She looked up at him calmly and nodded. Rossiter turned abruptly and came back to Chavasse. His eyes were bleak and there was an expression of utter desolation on his face.

  “What a world,” he said softly. “What a filthy, loathsome world.” He took a deep breath, something clicked, and he was himself again. “Get up!”

  Chavasse did as he was told, producing the Smith & Wesson at the same time. Jacaud gave a kind of angry cry, but Rossiter waved him to silence. He stood, feet slightly apart, tossing the ivory Madonna high into the air and catching it again in his right hand.

  “Now what?”

  “Now nothing,” Chavasse said. “I just want to get to London in one piece and fade into the background.”

  “Understandable enough.” Rossiter actually smiled. “Ten years in an Australian jail can hardly have been an exciting prospect. I believe they still run their penal system on rather old-fashioned lines.”

  Chavasse managed to look suitably astonished. “Is there anything you don’t know, sport?”

  “Not where clients are concerned.”

  Chavasse sighed and put the Smith & Wesson away. “I’ve had my bellyful of trouble during the past few months, Rossiter. I don’t want any more. Just get me to England, that’s all I ask. I’ll pay whatever is necessary. That business in Marseilles was all Skiros, believe me.”

  Rossiter slipped the Madonna into his right pocket. “The money? Where is it?”

  Chavasse told him. He also took off his right shoe and produced the key, which Rossiter immediately tossed to Jacaud. “We’ll wait for you here. You can take the Renault.”

  Jacaud moved away through the trees without a word and Chavasse lit a cigarette. So far so good. He looked down through the pine trees toward the sea and smiled.

  “Nice country. I was looking forward to this bit of the trip. My father came from Brittany, you know.”

  “I was wondering about your French,” Rossiter said. “It’s quite excellent.”

  “My mother was English, of course, but we’ve never used anything else but French in the house since I can remember. My old man wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Rossiter nodded, produced a slim leather case from his breast pocket, and selected a thin black cheroot, which he lit carefully. “Tell me something about the girl.”

  She was sitting in the passenger seat, watching them. Chavasse threw her a smile. “I only know what she’s told me.”

  He went through her story quickly, and when he had finished, Rossiter nodded briefly. “She’s very young to have gone through so much.”

  He said it as if he meant it, with real sympathy in his voice, and moved toward her. Chavasse sat down on a fallen log and watched them. Rossiter was speaking; the girl answered. Suddenly she was smiling, and a few moments later, laughed out loud. And Rossiter laughed with her, that was the strangest thing of all, so that for a short time he seemed to be an entirely different person. Curiouser and curiouser…

  Chavasse gave up for the moment, got to his feet and walked to the edge
of the clearing, breathing in the scent of damp pines, the good salt air from the sea, the smell that always brought the Brittany of his boyhood back to him, wherever he was. It would have been nice to have surprised his grandfather at Vaux. The old man would have loved that—an unexpected visit from his clever half-English grandson who lectured at a university whose name he could never remember. A little bit too much of the scholar with his doctorate in modern languages, but still a Chavasse for all that.

  Chavasse stared down through the trees toward the sea, remembering boyhood a thousand years ago and all its wonderful dreams. And now he had returned to Brittany and he could not go to Vaux….

  A horn sounded through the trees. Jacaud had arrived, and he sighed and came back to the present as Rossiter called to him.

  BRITTANY

  CHAPTER 5

  St. Denise was twenty or thirty granite cottages amongst pine trees fringing a horseshoe cove that was a natural harbor. There was a wooden jetty of sorts, with an old thirty-foot launch moored to it that looked as if it had seen better days. The tide was turning, and four clinker-built fishing cobles moved out to sea, line astern. A similar boat lay stranded on the beach above the high-water mark and two men worked on her hull.

  Chavasse took it all in as the van moved out of the trees along the narrow road that merged into the main street of the village. The only sign of life was a stray dog sitting mournfully in the rain outside a cottage door.

  The van left the village behind, and almost stalled as Jacaud dropped two gears to negotiate a steep hill. The Running Man was at the top, a two-storied granite house sheltering behind high walls. Jacaud turned through an archway and halted in the cobbled courtyard inside. Chavasse got out and looked around with interest. The whole place had a strangely forlorn look about it and badly needed a coat of paint. A shutter banged to and fro in the wind, and when he glanced up, a curtain moved slightly at a window, as if it had been pulled to one side while someone glanced out.