A Killer for a Song

by John Gardner

  Steadying himself in the water, Boysie aimed for the dirty creamy wall of the Villa Veronique - which seemed a hundred miles away now - and began to swim slowly but steadily towards it.

  XVI - BARCAROLLE

  Song or instrumental piece suggestive of boating in swaying 6/8 time

  They always say death by drowning is not an unpleasant way to go - what with the biopic flashing through your mind and all that. Boysie nearly went, but he did not find it reassuring.

  His leg and arm muscles felt as though they were being wrenched out of place and near capitulation, while at one point his wind gave out altogether, making him turn over on his back and lie there floating, head thrust upwards, mouth open and wheezing, gasping for air.

  But survival was important, so he pressed on, fighting the fatigue, the undertow and cold, his head bobbing in and out of the water which misted his eyes. At times, through the haze, he glimpsed the target villa, and it seemed to remain as far away as ever.

  Halfway across he slewed to the right, moving inshore, instinctively searching for shallow water in case the most feared cramps would catch up with him.

  Eventually, after what seemed to be a hundred years, he found himself only fifty yards or so from his goal. Then the other terror began to penetrate the numbness, making him forget the perils of cramp and the ebbing strength of his limbs.

  He craned his neck back, trying to scout the villa and its surrounding area, searching for any sign of life which might bring the crack and sudden oblivion of a bullet. He recalled a hundred movies which showed graphically how a swimmer got shot: the flurry of water, the body heeling over and the spreading crimson patch.

  He wanted to throw up with fear and exertion.

  There were no shots, no sudden shrieks of pain or blood. Rocks washed past him, and, slightly surprised, Boysie realised that he had made it, clinging to a rusty iron ring set into the buttress of the jetty which shielded him from the rising villa above. He clung on, panting and spent, aware, once more, of the silence and terrible cold surrounding his naked body.

  He hung there until his breathing returned almost to normal, and vision cleared so that he was able to look around with fresh interest. To the left, steps ran up to the jetty and villa.

  Still the silence, except for the sound of a train, wafting over the water from a long way off; but he was now acutely aware that something was not quite right - a renewed wariness creeping into his head. It had something to do with the description of the villa. Something either William Edith or Couperose had said.

  He let go of the ring and began to founder, lashing out in a moment of panic towards the steps. The stone was slippery from years of wear and tear, from the sloshing sea. His hand could not gain a hold at first, but finally he pulled himself up, lying across the lowest steps, half in and half of the water like a seal. They would probably be down in a minute, he reflected, to ring the bell and throw fish for him to catch.

  “There’s some kind of boat at the jetty, and a couple of pedallos,” Couperose had said. That was the kicker, because there was no kind of boat here and not a pedallo in sight. Furthermore, as he looked up the steps, Boysie saw a legend burned out on a wooden plaque. Villa Bougainvillea the plaque said, and Boysie wanted to cry.

  He was exhausted, cold and in the wrong place. The depression lasted about two minutes; then Boysie started to rationalise. He had swum either too far or not far enough, and there was only one thing to do now: get back in the water and find his bearings.

  Boysie closed his eyes, slipped into the sea, rolling onto his back with the plastic sack floating on top of him, just below his chest, frog-pushing with his legs to propel him from the shore. To help concentration he counted each kick.

  At twenty-three he stopped, floating and looking back over his toes. The right big toenail needed trimming. To the left, just above the Villa Bougainvillea, nestling among rocks and trees, was another villa. It had a balcony overlooking the sea just like in the plan Couperose had shown them, and there was a little boat tied up at the jetty, moored clear of the rocks. There was also a pair of shabby pedallos lashed near the steps. No sign of life.

  Boysie took a deep breath, rolled over and began a slow tired swim towards the boat, pleased that there were no visible guards, and thinking that it was bloody early in the morning which was as good a reason as any for there being nobody around.

  As he came closer to the jetty he realised that the steps up to the villa were not the only means of access. The wooded area, which was a kind of garden, to the right of the house, sloped gently down to a tiny shingle beach, a pocket among the rocks: a place which afforded plenty of cover from the building.

  He had reached the boat now, an eleven-foot Dore Sports, one hand touching the hull. Treading water, Boysie began to feel around for the hunting knife, realising that he would have to be very careful. If it slipped, point down into the water, it could cause him a nasty mischief: the unkindest cut of all.

  The Dore Sports was tied up to a ring in the jetty wall with a big spreading and sprawling knot. Not a very nautical knot. He got the knife out and began to saw at the rope. It took about four hacks before parting. He trod water again, like running hard against an escalator, manoeuvring the knife back into its sheath. By the time he had completed the operation the little boat had begun to sway away, floating a good six feet from the wall.

  Boysie trundled round it, pushing lightly. It wallowed off, slowly but with its mind obviously made up.

  He paid no attention to the pedallos. They were not the fastest craft known to those who go down to the sea in ships. In any case, if he got away with it, Boysie had no intention of leaving that way.

  He clambered round the rocks and up onto the little shingle beach, the stones biting into his feet, taking just two staggering steps before his thighs gave out and he buckled to the ground, neatly avoiding a small pile deposited by some passing dog.

  Let them come down here and shoot me, he thought. He was quite exhausted and would probably die there anyway. The idea of being shot galvanised him into action again, and he got the knife out fast.

  The twine around the neck of the sack parted easily and he routed around, getting the Colt out first, flicking off the safety and placing it among the stones where he could grab it fast. Then he hauled out the towel, rubbing his body to get the circulation going again as much as to dry himself. He felt incredibly vulnerable and could not really see himself going into action, with the automatic pistol, dressed as a streaker.

  As life began to return, Boysie climbed wearily to his feet, lost his balance and stepped right into the dog shit.

  He swore and staggered down to the water’s edge, keeping low, to wash the soiled foot, then back again, half crouching, pulling on his clothes, pushing his feet into the sneakers and buckling on the belt, to which he had now added the knife sheath.

  The exhaustion seemed to be passing, though his thighs and calves trembled with a will of their own when he stood up, the Colt ready in his right hand.

  Stupidly he wished that he had a mirror. He had always fancied himself in black. At least nobody would mistake him for a vacuum cleaner salesman in this gear. He only needed the wide-brimmed hat and he could have played the Jack Palance part in Shane. Then he remembered that Jack Palance got dead in Shane so he went back to Central Casting for another role.

  Standing there on the beach, hidden from the house by the rocks and trees, Boysie considered that he had already proved William Edith wrong on one count. It was well past dawn and nobody was alert at the Villa Veronique.

  His stomach did an impressive imitation of someone plunging from a tall building. What if it was already over and finished, with Zizi gone, or dead? There was only one way to find out, and that called for more decisions. If you are alone you cannot rush a house, that is a law of nature and survival: you just do not do it if you want to stay alive. In this kind of situation there is one of two choices: either you go to the front door, rouse everyone, do a number on the
melon of the fellow who opens up, and take your chances with the rest; or you do it by stealth and shrewd cunning-which means that you hang about, wait and let the inhabitants make the first move, then deal with them according to circumstances. That was the best way.

  Boysie hung about.

  For two hours he hung about, crouched off the beach, close to the villa wall, expecting someone to look out from the balcony, notice that the boat had got sea fever, and start getting angry.

  Two hours was a long time to wait, particularly without the natural comforts of life, like a drink, or smoke, or a jelly baby on which to nibble.

  It was getting on for nine o’clock before the first signs of life were made apparent. There was the sound of a lock being activated at the front of the house, and a door opening.

  Boysie shuffled along the wall and peered out from the shelter of a clump of bushes. He recognised the man who was unlocking the door of the black Renault parked in the small drive. Couperose had shown him the mug-shot: Frelon - the Hornet.

  Frelon yawned, trudged the few yards up to the gates, which he unlocked and pulled open. He then walked back, got behind the wheel of the car, started the engine, raced it like he was on the grid at Brand’s, and took off as though Dracula was after him in a jet hearse.

  Boysie did some rapid calculations. With Frelon gone the villa should contain Zizi, plus Chiliman, Castervermentes and Gest: though there was possibly one other, because Couperose had said the trio had been met at Cap Martin station and nobody would have left Zizi alone in the villa. He was pondering this possibility when the shout of rage came from the rear of the house. Someone had noticed that the Dore Sports had got away.

  There was a lot of banging and clattering. The front door of the house opened again and a short man, dressed in jeans and a faded blue shirt came running out, obviously trying to stop Frelon. But he was long gone and the man in blue threw up his arms in a melodramatic gesture, letting fly to the morning air with a gabble of his native tongue and much repetition of the word merde. He then got careless and went back into the house without shutting the door.

  There appeared to be a conference going on at the rear: a lot of talking, some shouting - one very angry voice raised above the others - and a lot of language which would have offended most God-fearing people. In fact it was like an ordinary family party when relatives have not seen one another for a long time.

  Boysie decided that the moment had come and, breaking cover, he walked round to the front of the house, heading for the open main door. He was only half-a-dozen steps away when the little man in the blue shirt came barrelling out and it was difficult to determine which of them was the most surprised.

  The little man skidded to a halt, his mouth open. Boysie just stood there and let time pass. Then the one in the blue shirt seemed to recover himself and half turned, the muscles around his mouth beginning to operate properly, head going back to yell a warning. The head was still back when Boysie hit him with the heel of his pistol butt just behind the left ear.

  Boysie grinned, realising that was what had been missing in his life for the last hours. All the pent up frustration and anger needed to come out in some concrete manner like hitting somebody hard. The end product was a short Frenchman in jeans and a blue shirt lying in a heap on the gravel. Boysie grinned again - the heap would have a nasty lump and a headache when he woke up. Serve the bugger right, he thought, picking his way over the fallen lump heading towards the door.

  From the hallway he could see the entire ensemble out on the patio behind the big French windows at the rear of the main room: there was a short grossly fat and oily man whom he took to be Chiliman, a younger, more agile and slim man whom he positively recognised as the singer, Gest, and the third could only be Castervermentes, swarthy with olive skin - he kept raising his arms in a flapping motion, letting the hands drop back onto his thighs, a gesture of frustration as he looked out to sea.

  “You could get it with one of the pedallos,” he kept saying. “James is fit enough, but with my weak ankle I dare not go.”

  “And what about my chest and heart?” Chiliman made a lot of noise when he shouted: with any luck, Boysie thought, he will have a heart attack on the spot.

  “All right, all right,” Castervermentes shrugged. “It’s no good waiting for Henri to get back. James and Edgar can catch it.” He was leering at Gest, “You’ve got good thigh muscles, haven’t you, James?”

  Gest said something quiet which did not sound nice, then Chiliman started to shout for Edgar who could not hear him on account of the fact that he was unconscious and lying with a mouthful of gravel in front of the house.

  It was at this moment that Boysie noticed the door by the stairs. The door had been shown on the plan, and it led to the cellar. There was a large key in the lock.

  Zizi was his first consideration and he was at the door in a second, turning the key, opening it and entering, taking the key with him and locking the door on the inside.

  There was a light just inside the door, which was as well because the stone steps were steep and narrow. Boysie scuttled down them aware of the chill which surrounded him. The steps led off into the narrow cellar, one side of which was given up to stone bottle racks. There were no bottles, but at the far end, huddled and wrapped in blankets, on a small camp bed, lay Zizi Portobello, her face turned towards him in fear and apprehension. There were bruises down one side of her face, the right eye was swollen and blackened and her lips were puffed and caked with blood.

  “Boyzee,” the voice trailed off, low.

  “Who did that?” Boysie lifted her in his arms, the blankets falling away to reveal that she was only clad in panties and bra.

  Zizi began to cry, and through the tears, she whispered, “I’m okay, Boyzee. But zey ‘ave you now.”

  “No, they ‘aven’t me,” said Boysie, feeling the fury rise. “They don’t even know I’m here.”

  There was shouting and noise from above.

  “Wrong,” he said. “They know someone’s here now. Who did it?”

  “Zee dark one, zee one zey call Casterversomething.”

  “Castervermentes. I’ll kill that bastard.”

  “Zee fat one, ‘ee stood by and tell ‘im to do eet. I’m okay though, Boyzee, look, I can stand, not like zee other one.”

  “What other one?”

  “Zee other girl. Zee one zey ‘ave killed and put in zee sea. Zee one called Lyric.”

  “They killed Lyric?”

  “She ees dead. Zey tell me that and tell me zey will do zee same to me.”

  “Judas Iscariot on a tandem.” Boysie felt his wrath exploding, far down in his guts and then, like a fire, in his head. He knew now what they meant when they talked about people seeing red. “Stay there,” he hissed. “It’ll be okay now, Zizi.”

  He went back up the steps, two at a time, pressing his ear to the door at the top. It was as cold as a snowman’s armpit, even up there at the top of the cellar steps, but the sounds from outside, in the main house, seemed a long way off.

  Boysie turned the key gently and peeped out. Nobody, only the voices coming from the front of the house where they were obviously trying to bring the world back to the somnolent Edgar.

  “Someone hit him,” he heard Castervermentes say.

  Then, “The boat, it’ll be far gone. We’ve got to do something about the boat. You get to it and I’ll look after Edgar.”

  “I can’t ...” Chiliman started.

  “All right, so we lose the boat.”

  Then a muttering and some French and the sound of someone retching. Edgar was coming back to life.

  Boysie realised that he could not stand there, out in the open, all day. He gently closed the cellar door behind him, locked it from the outside, slipped the key into his battledress pocket, and padded through to the main living room. Behind him he could hear them helping Edgar back into the house.

  The kitchen door was on his right, a swing door. Boysie swung through it and waited. It
took about two minutes to bring Edgar into the main room. Then they obviously sat him down and started to argue about the boat, which had, it seemed, drifted out into the middle of the bay and then hit the doldrums.

  “It could start drifting again any time now,” Castervermentes said. “And we’re going to need it later. Edgar’s not fit enough, look at him. You’ll have to try.”

  Gest laughed, “Come on, Caesar. We’ll have a go. Exercise will do you good.”

  Chiliman just appeared to be wheezing and there was a moaning noise which, presumably, came from the luckless Edgar. Then the sounds moved in the direction of the patio. He could hear noises which suggested that they were going down the steps to the jetty.

  Boysie pushed against the door as though it was wired for an explosion. Edgar sat in a leather chair, his head in his hands and his back towards Boysie.

  Boysie hit him again, on the left side this time. Poor Edgar would probably end up with scrambled brains. In the meantime, he ended up on the floor, making a lot of noise about it.

  They heard that down on the jetty and someone came running up the steps. Boysie stood in the centre of the open French windows, holding the Colt with both hands, square on to the rising target.

  It was Castervermentes.

  “Stay,” said Boysie quietly. “Stay and tell your friends to come up, and you can get your hands over your head before I give you some sudden terminal brain damage.”

  He should have seen the flicker in Castervermentes’ eyes. The mouth broke into a slow smile and he took another pace forward up the steps.

  Just before the flash and wave of pain; just before the ground came up to meet him; just before darkness descended, Boysie realised that Harry the Hornet must have got back.

  ***