A Fine Night for Dying

by Jack Higgins

  The Renault entered the courtyard and pulled up just behind the van. Famia got out and stood there, looking uncertain. Rossiter came round from the other side, picked up her suitcase and took her elbow. She looked tired, ready to drop at any moment. He leaned over her solicitously, murmured something and took her inside.

  Chavasse turned to Jacaud. “What about me?”

  “If I had my way, you could sleep in the pigsty.”

  “Careful,” Chavasse said. “You’ll be making sounds like a man next. Now let’s try again.”

  Jacaud went inside without a word and Chavasse picked up his suitcase and followed him. He paused to glance up at the painted sign above the door. It was obviously very old and showed a man running, apparently some kind of fugitive, a pack of hounds at his heels. A pleasant sight indeed, the terror in the poor wretch’s eyes frozen into place for all eternity.

  Inside was a large square room with a low-beamed ceiling and a tiled floor. There was a scattering of chairs and tables, a large open hearth in which a fire burned and a marble-topped bar.

  Jacaud had gone behind it and was pouring himself a large cognac. He rammed the cork into the bottle and Chavasse dropped his case. “I’ll join you.”

  “Like hell you will. Let’s see the color of your money.”

  “Rossiter’s got it all, you know that.”

  “Then you can go thirsty.” He replaced the bottle on the shelf and raised his voice. “Hey, Mercier, where are you?”

  A door at the back of the bar opened and a small, worried-looking man of forty or so came in. He wore a fisherman’s patched trousers and was wiping his hands on a grimy towel.

  “Yes, monsieur, what is it?”

  “Another passenger for the Leopard. Take him upstairs. He can share with Jones.”

  Jacaud glared at Chavasse like some wild animal, turned and, kicking open the door, vanished into the kitchen.

  “Quite a show,” Chavasse said. “Is he always like this or is today something special?”

  Mercier picked up the suitcase. “This way, monsieur.”

  They mounted some stairs to the first floor and moved along a narrow whitewashed corridor past several doors. Mercier knocked on the one at the far end. There was no reply and he opened it.

  The room was small and bare, with whitewashed walls, two narrow truckle beds standing side by side. There was a crucifix on one wall, a cheap color reproduction of St. Francis on the other. It was clean—but only just.

  Mercier put down the case. “Monsieur Jones will probably be back shortly. He is, by the way, Jamaican. A meal will be served at twelve-thirty. If there is anything else you wish to know, you must see Monsieur Rossiter.”

  “And who does Monsieur Rossiter have to see?”

  Mercier frowned, looking genuinely bewildered. “I don’t understand, monsieur.”

  “Let it go,” Chavasse told him.

  Mercier shrugged and went out. Chavasse put his suitcase on one of the beds, moved to the window and looked out. So this was the Running Man? Not a very prepossessing sight.

  Behind him, someone said, “Welcome to Liberty Hall, man.”

  A gull cried high in the sky and skimmed the sand dunes. Down by the water’s edge, he threw stones into the sea. He turned and moved back toward Chavasse, tall, handsome, the strong angular face and startling blue eyes evidence of that mixture of blood so common in the West Indies. Jack Jones? Well, that was as reasonable a name as any. He had the shoulders of a prizefighter and looked good for ten rounds any day of the week, or Chavasse was no judge.

  He flung himself down on the sand, produced a packet of Gauloise and lit one. “So you’re from Australia?”

  “That’s it—Sydney.”

  “They tell me that’s quite a town.”

  “The best. You should try it some time.”

  The Jamaican stared at him blankly. “You must be joking. They wouldn’t even let me off the boat. They like their immigrants to be the pale variety, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  It was a plain statement of fact, without any kind of rancor in it, and Chavasse shrugged. “I don’t make the laws, sport. Too busy breaking them.”

  The Jamaican was immediately interested. “Now that explains a lot. I was wondering why a free, white, upstanding Protestant like you was having to use the back door into the old country like the rest of us.”

  “Catholic,” Chavasse said. “Free, white, upstanding Catholic—just for the record.”

  Jones grinned, produced his packet of Gauloises for the second time and offered him one. “And just how badly does the law back home want you?”

  “About ten years’ worth. That’s if I’m lucky and the judge isn’t feeling too liverish on the great day.”

  Jones whistled softly. “Man, you must be a real tiger when you get going.”

  “A weakness for other people’s money, that’s my trouble.” Chavasse looked across the sand dunes to the small harbor and the sea beyond. “This is all right; about the nicest beach I’ve touched since Bondi.”

  “That’s what I thought five days ago—now it’s just a drag. I want to get moving.”

  “What are you going to do when you get over the Channel?”

  Jones shrugged. “I’ve got friends. They’ll fix me up with something.”

  “But for how long?”

  “As long as I need. Once I hit London, I can’t go wrong. I’ll just merge into the scenery. After all, one black face is the same as another, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  Chavasse refused to be drawn. “What about the rest of the clientele?”

  “If you turn your head a couple of points to starboard, you’ll see them now.”

  The old man who appeared over a sand dune a few yards away wore a blue overcoat two sizes too large, which gave him a strangely shrunken look, and his brown, wrinkled skin was drawn tightly over the bones of his face. He wasn’t too steady on his feet, either. Chavasse got the distinct impression that if it hadn’t been for the woman who supported him with a hand under his left elbow and an arm around his shoulders, he might well have fallen down.

  “Old Hamid is seventy-two,” Jones said. “A Pakistani. He’s hoping to join his son in Bradford.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Mrs. Campbell? Anglo-Indian—a half-and-half. What they used to call chi-chi in the good old days of Empire. A fine Scots name, but she can no more get away from the color of her skin than I can. Her husband died last year and her only relative is a sister who married an English doctor years ago and went to live in Harrogate, of all places. Mrs. Campbell tried to get an entry permit to join her, but they turned her down.”

  “Why?”

  “She doesn’t qualify as a dependent under the Immigration Act, she’s an Indian national and she’s got tuberculosis. She was born in India, never been to England in her life and yet she talks about it as if going home. Funny, isn’t it?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Mrs. Campbell was about fifty, with sad dark eyes and skin that was darker than usually found amongst Eurasians. She seemed cold and wore a shabby fur coat, a heavy woolen scarf wrapped about her neck and head.

  They paused, the old man gasping for breath. “A cold day, Mr. Jones, don’t you agree?”

  Jones and Chavasse stood up and Jones nodded. “This is Mr. Chavasse, a new arrival. He’ll be going with us.”

  The old man showed no surprise. “Ah, yes, Miss Nadeem spoke of you.”

  “You’ve met her?” Chavasse said.

  “Just before we left for our walk,” Mrs. Campbell put in.

  Hamid held out a soft, boneless hand, which Chavasse touched briefly before it slipped from his grasp as easily as life would slip from the frail old body before very much longer.

  Mrs. Campbell seemed curiously embarrassed and tugged at the old man’s sleeve. “Come now, Mr. Hamid, we mustn’t dawdle. Lunch soon. So nice, Mr. Chavasse.” Her English was quaint in its preciseness, and the way in which she spoke was an echo of a bygone age
. Chavasse watched them stumble away across the sand dunes, strange, shadowy creatures with no substance to them, adrift in an alien world, and was conscious of an indescribable feeling of bitterness. Men made laws to protect themselves, but someone always suffered—always.

  He turned and found Jones watching him enigmatically. “You look sorry for them, too sorry for any Sydney duck with the law on his tail.”

  There was a curious stillness between them. Chavasse said, in a harsh, unemotional voice, “I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Neither do I, man.” Jones grinned, and the moment passed. “You want to eat, we’d better move.”

  They made their way through the sand dunes and started across the beach above the wooden jetty. Chavasse pointed toward the motor launch moored beside it. “Is that the boat?”

  Jones nodded. “It kind of fits in with Jacaud, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What do you make of him?”

  Jones shrugged. “He’d sell his sister or his grandmother for a bottle of rum at the right time. He’s on two a day at the moment and escalating.”

  “And the man who works for him—Mercier?”

  “Frightened of his own shadow. Lives in a cottage on the other side of the village. Just him and his wife. She’s some kind of an invalid. A walking vegetable. He jumps when Jacaud roars.”

  “And Rossiter?”

  Jones smiled softly. “You like the question bit, don’t you?”

  Chavasse shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “Okay, I will. You know what a zombie is?”

  Chavasse frowned. “Something to do with voodoo, isn’t it?”

  “To be precise, a dead man brought out of his grave before corruption’s had a chance to set in.”

  “And given life, is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “A kind of life, to walk the night and do his master’s bidding—a creature of pure, mindless evil.”

  “And that’s Rossiter.”

  “That’s Rossiter.” The Jamaican laughed harshly. “The funny thing is, he used to be a priest—a Jesuit priest.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Ran out of matches one night, so I knocked on his door. He didn’t seem to be around.”

  “And your natural curiosity got the better of you?”

  “What else, man? There were a couple of interesting photographs in the bottom right-hand drawer of his dressing table. He hasn’t changed much. There’s a nice one dated 1949 of about twenty of them in a group—looks like graduation day at the seminary. The other was taken in 1951 in Korea. Shows him with a half dozen kids at the gate of some mission or other.”

  Nineteen-fifty-one. The year the Korean war had started. Was that where Rossiter had lost his faith? Chavasse frowned, remembering that tortured, aesthetic face. The priest he could see, but the murderer…It just didn’t seem possible.

  He was still thinking about it as they turned into the courtyard of the Running Man.

  ENGLISH CHANNEL

  CHAPTER 6

  The main room of the inn was deserted when they entered, and Jones went behind the bar and took down a bottle of cognac and two glasses from the shelf.

  “Join me?” he said.

  Chavasse nodded. “Why not?”

  There was a sudden bellow of anger as Jacaud appeared through the rear door. “Put those down. You hear me, you black ape?”

  Jones looked him over calmly, not a flicker of emotion on his face. “Sure I hear you,” he observed, in very reasonable French.

  He uncorked the bottle and filled both glasses. Jacaud took a quick step toward him, grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.

  “Jacaud!” Rossiter spoke from the doorway, his voice full of steel, brooking no denial.

  Jacaud turned reluctantly. “They don’t even pay,” he muttered lamely.

  Rossiter ignored him and came forward. He was wearing gray slacks, a hand-knitted fisherman’s sweater and steel-rimmed spectacles. He carried a slim book in one hand, a finger marking his place.

  “Be my guests, gentlemen.”

  “Are you going to join us?” Chavasse inquired.

  “Mr. Rossiter don’t drink,” Jones said. “We’re on our own, man.”

  He saluted Chavasse, emptied his glass in a single swallow and filled it again. Jacaud, scowling, took down a bottle and glass for himself and retired to the other end of the bar.

  “You’ve been for a walk, I see,” Rossiter said.

  Chavasse nodded. “That’s right. It’s quite a spot. They must do well in the tourist season round here.”

  “Too far off the beaten track and they don’t encourage strangers.”

  “I was wondering when we make our move.”

  “I can’t be certain. We have one more passenger. It depends when he arrives. It could be today or tomorrow.”

  “And what’s the form when we do go?”

  “You’ll be told at the appropriate time. No need to worry. We know what we’re doing.”

  Behind them, a soft voice said hesitatingly, “May I come in?”

  Famia stood in the doorway, her flawless complexion set off to perfection by a scarlet sari. There was a silver rope necklace about her neck, gold bracelets on the wrists. It was the reactions of his companions that interested Chavasse most. Jones was giving her the kind of appraisal you saw on the face of a connoisseur in an art gallery when confronted with something of value. Jacaud gazed at her with ill-concealed lust. And Rossiter? Rossiter seemed transfixed. His face had turned very pale, which made the eyes seem bluer than ever, and then a strange thing happened. He smiled, and it was as if something had melted inside.

  He went forward and gave her his arm. “They should be ready for us. Shall we go in?” he said, and took her through into the dining room.

  He had left his book on the bar counter and Chavasse picked it up. It was the Everyman edition of The City of God by St. Augustine.

  There were times when Chavasse got the distinct impression that he was the only sane person in a world gone mad. This was very definitely one of them. He emptied his glass, nodded to Jones and went after them.

  THERE was a large walled garden behind the inn, a sad sort of place with gnarled apple trees long since run to seed from lack of proper attention. There were no flowers as yet, for it was still too early in the season and last year’s grass overflowed onto the narrow paths, still uncut.

  Famia walked there, Rossiter at her side, a figure from Brueghel in her scarlet sari, vivid against that gray-green landscape. She laughed, and the sound rose on the quiet air to the window of Chavasse’s room, where he sat with Jones, watching from behind the curtain.

  “First time I’ve seen him smile,” the Jamaican said.

  “She’s certainly touched something,” Chavasse replied. “But I’m not sure what.”

  Rossiter murmured to the girl, turned and went away. She walked on by herself, pausing to look up at a blackbird on a branch above her head. A moment later, Jacaud appeared.

  He was obviously drunk and swayed slightly as he moved forward, staring at her unwinkingly. She failed to see him, still intent on the blackbird, until he reached out and touched her shoulder. She turned, recoiling immediately, but he caught her by the arm, pulled her close and kissed her. Perhaps he meant no more than that, for as she cried out, struggling to be free, he laughed.

  Jones beat Chavasse to the door by a short head. They went down the stairs, along the passage and out through the kitchen. Already they were too late.

  Rossiter stood halfway between them and Jacaud, an arm around the girl. Very gently, he put her to one side; his hand slipped into his pocket and came out holding the ivory Madonna.

  Jacaud didn’t even try to escape, that was the strangest thing of all. He fell on his knees, his great face working as Rossiter slowly advanced, grabbed the Breton by the hair and pulled back his head. There was a sharp click, and steel flashed. Very deliberately, Rossiter drew the point of the razo
r-sharp blade across Jacaud’s forehead. The flesh opened and blood oozed in a crimson curtain.

  Jacaud rolled over without a sound and Rossiter wiped the knife mechanically. Famia stood looking at him, a dazed expression on her face. He went to the girl, put an arm around her shoulders and led her past Chavasse and Jones without a glance.

  Chavasse turned Jacaud over and dropped to one knee. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the blood away from the great ugly face.

  “How is he?” Jones asked.

  “Fainted dead away—fright, I expect. Rossiter knew what he was doing. He’s marked him badly—no more than that. Bandages should be enough.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “Rossiter’s?” Chavasse nodded. “Reminded me of something Faustus says in Marlowe’s play.”

  “Something like ‘this is hell and I am in it’?” Jones said. “More than apt.”

  Chavasse grinned. “One thing about the Jamaican educational system—they certainly must have encouraged you to read.”

  “And write, man. And write. Hell, it’s the coming thing.”

  The Jamaican got a shoulder under Jacaud’s arm and raised him. Together they took him inside.

  LATER in the afternoon, the rain came again with a sudden rush, shrouding everything in a gray curtain. The old woman who did the cooking came in from the kitchen and lit an oil lamp, retiring immediately without a word. Mrs. Campbell and Hamid sat as close to the fire as possible and talked quietly with Famia. Jones was reading a book, and Chavasse sat with a week-old copy of Le Monde.

  He dropped it to the floor and went to the door that led to the bar. Rossiter and Jacaud sat at a table, talking in low tones, a bottle of cognac close to Jacaud’s hand. Otherwise the place was empty, except for Mercier, who stood behind the bar counter, polishing glasses. It seemed as good an opportunity as he was ever likely to get, and Chavasse turned, strolled across the room and went into the passage.