The great forest of the Landes had come down in the world. A mixture of hornbeam, beech, oak and Scots pine, it had been cultivated for centuries with care and forethought; the trunks of the trees for the builder and the carpenter, the lops and tops to keep the home fires burning in a country which had little coal.
The development of synthetic materials and alternative forms of heating had seen the gradual abandonment of this careful husbandry. The neglected trees had crowded together, shooting ever higher in competition for the sun, whilst round their feet the invaders had crept in; yew, alder and holly, brambles and bindweed, the heralds of carelessness and neglect.
It was into such a forest that Peter followed Laure as dusk deepened towards night. After crossing the main road they had left their bicycles with one of Laure’s forester friends and gone forward on foot.
At first they were on something which might once have been a road and which developed, after about a mile, into a main street, with cottages on either side; but they were derelict and roofless and clearly long deserted.
“Roquillac,” said Laure. “My grandmother was born here.”
From this point they left the road and plunged forward among the trees. Laure, who seemed to be able to pick some sort of path through the undergrowth, hardly slackened her pace. When Peter had twice tripped over snaring roots and fallen onto his knees he uttered a protest. “I don’t know how you can see where you’re going. How do you avoid these bloody roots and brambles?”
“I keep my eyes open.”
“Then they’re a damned sight better eyes than mine. Can’t we slow it down a bit?”
“I thought I was going slowly.”
“Then go slower still then.”
He found he was arguing with her exactly as though she had been a boy of his own age. This seemed normal at the time. It was only when he thought about it afterwards that it appeared odd.
From that point onwards, either because they did go at a more reasonable pace, or because his eyes were becoming used to the dark, he stumbled but never actually fell. After twenty minutes of cautious progress they came out of the trees into another clearing which had once contained a village. This was even more derelict than Roquillac. What had once been cottages were now lumps of brick overgrown with ivy and thorn. A single chimney-stack pointed defiantly at the sky.
“Laugnan,” said Laure. “The camp is named from it. You will be able to see it in a moment.”
What Peter saw next was an impenetrable screen of bushes and undergrowth woven into a rusty barbed-wire fence.
“How do we get through that?” he said.
“We don’t,” said Laure. “There is a gate where the road enters.”
“Why on earth did they bother to put up a barricade like that if the camp is deserted?”
“When the military left – it was just after the war, a time of great shortages, you understand – the local people went in and started to pull down the huts. The wood was valuable. That had to be stopped.”
“Best way of disposing of the camp, I’d have thought.”
“They might have wanted to use it again, might they not?”
“Simple French obstructionism, if you ask me.”
“I suppose the English would have said, ‘Come and help yourselves’.”
“Probably.”
During these exchanges they were cautiously circling the camp site. On the eastern side the remains of an approach road, deeply rutted, ran up to a double gate, topped with a roll of barbed-wire. Peter, stooping to examine it, found that, although the chain which passed through the uprights of the gate was as rusty as everything else, the padlock which held the ends of the chain together was new.
He said, “What they did, no doubt, was to saw off the old padlock and put in a new one of their own.”
Laure was not listening. She was some yards away, on her hands and knees.
“It’s somewhere here,” she said. “I found it last summer when I was exploring.”
“Found what?”
“A way in, of course. Unless you would care to try climbing the gate.”
Peter looked at the roll of rusty barbed-wire on top and said, “Thank you, no.”
“Come along then.” She had crawled along another ten yards and was now pulling out small shoots and weeds. Peter, crouching beside her, saw what looked like the entrance to a fox’s earth.
“Fox or badger,” said Laure, “looking for scraps, no doubt. The bottom strand of wire is loose – I propped it up with a stick. It’s still there.”
The next moment all he could see was her bottom as she wriggled under the wire. He followed and found progress messy, but surprisingly easy. Emerging, they pushed on, heading back towards the track which ran down the centre of the camp.
Something loomed in front of them. A Peugeot van, of the sort used by travellers for their samples, was parked among the bushes beside the track. By the light of the moon, which had now cleared the tree tops, he could see the Bordeaux number plate and could read the legend, painted on the side, ‘Gentilhomme et Cie, Lesparre’.
“Garments for women,” said Laure. She was whispering now. “They must have stolen it when they arrived.”
Peter was trying to work out why the men should have risked stealing a van when they could easily have brought their own car, but Laure was already padding ahead down the track.
It was evident that the pillagers had, sensibly, started dismantling the huts at the point nearest to the gate. Of the six huts fronting the central track the first two on each side had been completely demolished, the next three partly. The only complete huts left standing were the end ones in each line. They approached with care. If the two men were there, it was likely that they were housed in one or other of them.
There was no light visible in either.
“Let’s try the one on the right first,” whispered Peter. He noticed that Laure, who had been in the lead throughout, had now fallen back into the shadows. He tried the hut door. It was unlocked, but sagging on its hinges. When he pushed it open it screamed a protest.
He peered in. At the far end of the hut a line of light showed through the door of an inner room. As he stepped forward something whipped round his throat.
He was unable to utter a sound and could only put up a feeble resistance against the throttling arm. There was a red mist behind his eyes and a drumming of blood in his ears. As consciousness slipped away he realised that the inner door had been opened, letting in a flood of light and that a man was speaking. It was a voice he had heard before, in the church of St. Brieuc des Caves. Now it said, in tones of amusement, “Don’t kill the boy, Mahmoud. Remember, he is our meal ticket.”
The pressure on his throat relaxed. He drew in grateful lungfuls of air. A hand on his arm steered him forward, through the door and into the inner room. It was bare of furniture except for two rusty and decrepit iron beds which looked as though they had been left behind when the camp was abandoned. On them, sacks full of straw served as mattresses. There was a pressure lamp and some enamel plates and mugs, on a packing case which served as a table. The three outside walls had been draped with what looked like sections cut from an army tent. This was, presumably, to keep out the draughts which would otherwise have whistled through the rotten planking of the walls.
It looked primitive, but habitable.
“You are admiring our little nest,” said Rasim. “As you see, we are soldiers. We have the art of making ourselves comfortable.”
“But we do not plan to stay here long,” said Goraji. “No longer than we have to. And you are going to help us. Yes?”
“Yes,” croaked Peter.
“The boy has a rhume,” said Rasim. “Doubtless the night air is bad for his constitution.”
“He is somewhat pale,” agreed Goraji. “We must not keep him any longer than is necessary from the comforts of the château. To work, then.”
He unfolded on top of the packing case a plan of the sort which was handed out to tourists by the Syndicat d’Initiative. It showed all the named vineyards of the Médoc, with the major and minor access roads boldly plotted.
“It is the road D103 to which you will pay attention. As you will see, it runs on the west side of the Lambrécie chateau and alongside its vineyards. It crosses the D102 at that point.”
“I know it,” said Peter. His voice was coming back.
“He knows it, good. As you proceed south from that point, you reach the village of Courbian and a bridge across the canal. Right? Three hundred metres further on, as you will observe, the road skirts the south-west corner of the château vineyard. That is the place appointed for our meeting. We shall be there at ten o’clock. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite clear.”
“We shall there exchange Monsieur Wellborn’s beautiful picture for a banker’s draft—”
“Equally beautiful,” said Rasim.
“—for five million francs. And let me warn you of one thing. Should you be so stupid as to arrange for an intervention by, perhaps, the police, it would still be quite easy—” he produced a cigarette lighter from his pocket and clicked it on “—to destroy the picture before any such interruption could become effective.”
“I don’t think you need worry about the police,” said Peter.
“The boy is a thinker,” said Rasim. “He has been educated. He uses his brains.”
“One thing more. In addition to the draft it has been agreed that you will hand over an envelope, addressed to the Banque de La Guyane in Paris, eighty-three Rue Etienne-Marcel. The envelope will be marked for express delivery and appropriately stamped. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“This is important. Because the letter must be in the post before half-past ten. There must be no slip-up on that point.”
“I can assure you,” said Peter, “that Monsieur Wellborn will follow your instructions implicitly, as he has done throughout.”
“Monsieur Wellborn is a man of sense,” agreed Goraji. There was an unconcealed sneer in his voice. “I do not imagine that he would wish to be present at the exchange.”
“I’m quite sure that he wouldn’t.”
“In that case, you will bring the gosse with you.”
“The gosse?”
“The Gobard child. Her presence there will ensure that no one starts a shooting match, yes?”
“I will see if I can persuade her to come.”
“You will not see if you can. You will ensure that she does come. If we do not see her beside the road when we arrive, we drive straight through and the deal is off. Understood?”
“Very well,” said Peter. “There is just one thing more. I should like to examine the picture.”
“You think we may have substituted a copy?”
“The boy has brains,” said Rasim. “I have already commented on it. He is a pretty boy, too. No doubt a great favourite with the girls.”
Goraji ignored this. He went over to the corner of the hut and drew out, from under a pile of blankets, something wrapped in brown paper. He undid the wrapping and brought across to Peter the picture which he had last seen in the uncle’s drawing-room. It was no substitute. It was the Titian masterpiece, one of the greatest pictures that master had painted. The virgin mother had a look on her face in which adoration was mingled with an unmistakable touch of surprise.
Rasim said, “You would think she is displeased with us for handling her so roughly.”
Peter had turned the painting over and was examining the back of the wooden stretcher. Sure enough, by each of the new copper nails was the filled-in hole where the old iron nails had been driven through and removed.
“You see something there?” said Rasim.
“Only what I have been told to look for.”
“What a boon is education.”
“All right,” said Goraji sharply, “then if you are satisfied, we will get on with it.” He led the way out of the hut. The moon was playing hide-and-seek among the black clouds and there was a tingling feeling in the air.
“Rain coming,” said Rasim. “A storm perhaps.”
“So waste no time,” said Goraji. He unlocked the padlock and forced the gate open far enough for Peter to squeeze through. Before he could do so Goraji stopped him. “I meant to enquire,” he said. “How did you get in?”
Peter had seen this coming. He said, “There are plenty of places where the wire can be climbed.”
“An athlete,” said Rasim, “as well as a thinker.” He stroked Peter’s arm, as though he were feeling his biceps. Peter jerked himself free, squeezed through the gap in the gates and started to walk quickly down the path towards the main road. He was conscious that the two men were standing there watching him. He heard one of them say something. The other man laughed. As soon as he was out of sight of the camp, Laure materialised beside him. She gestured him to follow her. Abandoning the track, she made a beeline through the trees, without hesitating and without speaking, until they were back in the ghost village of Laugnan. Here she opened her mouth for the first time.
She said, “These men are savages, yes?”
“Yes,” said Peter. The muscles of his throat still felt sore. “Do I understand that you were listening?”
“Of course. I was behind that piece of canvas which they have hung up.”
“You mean you were actually inside the hut?”
“Certainly. There are holes in the wall a horse could get through. Some of the things which were said I did not understand. Why do they want this envelope?”
“Once they have the money – the bank draft – their instructions are to post it straight to a bank in Paris. It must be there by tomorrow morning.”
“And you are worried about that. Why?”
Peter thought before speaking. Then, having come to the conclusion that his ally was both reliable and intelligent, he told her the whole story. They were through Roquillac and heading for the main road before he had finished. Laure was silent for some minutes. Then she said, “If this person Meyer goes to South America and takes all the money with him, what will these men do?”
“I don’t care to think about it. You said yourself they are savages. I think they would kill everyone in Lambrécie and burn it to the ground.”
“Then why do you not tell them what you have just told me? Then, if they believe you, they will not send the money to Meyer.”
“If they believe me,” said Peter. “That’s the trouble. Remember, they have most definite instructions from their own boss, Agazadeh Zaman. And I judge from what Commissaire Meurice told me that he is a very formidable man. Probably the only man in France these two apes are frightened of. They will certainly not disobey his orders merely because I tell them some wild story.”
“Could they not speak to him? Get new orders.”
“How? All communications between Bordeaux and Paris are suspended. Tomorrow, they say, they will be restored. Tomorrow will be too late.”
“Yes. It is difficult,” said Laure. She made no further comment until they had recovered their bicycles. As they were preparing to mount she said, “Is there any reason we should not take my father and my uncle into our confidence? They are both men of courage.”
“Yes. But we will not, I think, say anything to Mr. Wellborn.”
For the first time that evening Laure laughed aloud. She said, “Certainly we must not tell the patron. Poor man, he is like an ostrich, looking for somewhere to hide his head.”
On this more cheerful note they pedalled back to the château. They found Michel-Ange and Hervé in the kitchen. Gran’mère, who had made all ready for the service of dinner, had retired to her room. Both men were anxious for news and in ten minutes Laure had not only told them what happened, but had given them a concise and accurate summary of the difficult position they were now in.
Hervé said, “The patron has been speaking to his friend in the Post Office. It seems there is no possibility of telephoning Paris before tomorrow morning at the earliest.”
Michel-Ange said, “I see no problem. Now we know where these men are we can go straight to their hide-out and kill them.”
Laure said, “The objection to that is that they are expert assassins. They would almost certainly kill you before you could kill them.”
Michel-Ange growled, but offered no comment. He was confident that, in a fair fight, he could deal with one or both of the Iranians. The last occasion had not been fair. The dice had been loaded against him. Next time it would be different. If his daughter, whose brain he respected, could devise a method of making fools of them, so much the better. But it was not the final response to the affront that had been put on him.
Peter said, “It seems to me that what we have to do is to buy time. If we were to tell these men what we suspect and if they could communicate with Zaman – which they can’t – he would no doubt alter their instructions. But by the time he could do so the money will be out of the country.”
Laure said, “Certainly it is difficult.”
“It is very difficult. I can see no clear way out of it.”
“Have not you yourself propounded the solution?”
The three men stared at her. Peter suspiciously, her uncle and her father hopefully.
“You said that we need to gain time. In short, that the money has to be put in safe custody where neither Meyer nor these other men can get at it. Only, perhaps, until tomorrow, by which time the situation will be clearer.”
“Stating the problem does not solve it.”
“Very well then. I have a plan. Your mother was, I believe, French. She is dead, but you will have relatives living. In Paris perhaps?”
“My mother’s elder sister, Christine de Clissac, lives in Paris, yes. She is old and extremely obstinate.”
“Tant mieux. Exactly what we require. This envelope which has been prepared for the money to be despatched to Mr. Meyer’s bank – you have it with you?”
“It is in Mr. Wellborn’s desk. I could get it – only it might lead him to enquire what we were going to do. Would that be wise?”
Hervé said, “I do not know what plan you have in mind, little one. But I can assure you of this. If the patron thought that you were proposing in any way to cross these men he would forbid it absolutely.”
“When I saw him last,” growled Michel-Ange, “he was in the dining-room restoring his self-possession with the aid of a bottle of cognac.”
“Then I will go myself,” said Laure. “If he is in his study I can always tell him that Gran’mère wishes to speak to him.”
“But surely,” said Peter, “If she did, he would come to her.”
Both men laughed tolerantly. They explained that people who wished to discuss matters with Gran’mère came down to the kitchen. She was, in effect, the uncrowned ruler of the château. When Laure came back she was grinning. She said, “No trouble with the patron. He is asleep in the dining-room. And snoring.”
She laid out on the kitchen table the unsealed envelope, addressed in clear block capitals to Mr. Henri Meyer, care of the Banque de La Guyane, Rue Etienne-Marcel, Paris and adorned with an express service sticker and two ten franc postage stamps, one of them put on slightly askew. She had with her two envelopes of the same type, a number of stamps and two or three stickers.
She said, “I have also borrowed the pen from the desk which the patron always uses. It will now be possible for you – yes? – to produce an exactly similar envelope.”
“As the address is in capital letters that should not be difficult,” said Peter, “but I still don’t see—”
“I will explain. But do it, please. We shall need also another envelope addressed to your aunt in Paris and a letter of explanation to go in it. I will tell you about that later.”
Peter obediently took up the pen and produced, without much difficulty, an exact replica of the envelope for the Banque de La Guyane. An express sticker was affixed to it; also two ten franc stamps, one of them slightly askew. Whilst he was doing this Peter was thinking, I’m back at Chelborough. Now it’s Laure, not Stewart, who is involving me in some hare-brained scheme. Only this time the stakes are higher. Much higher. Very well, he was prepared to learn what was in the tortuous mind of this wild sixteen-year-old. But, he assured himself, he would reserve the full right of veto. At no point would his hand be far from the brake.
“All right,” he said, as he addressed the third envelope to Aunt Christine, marking it, also, for express delivery. “Perhaps you can now tell us what goes into them?”
“In the envelope addressed to your aunt the bank draft for five million francs will, ultimately, be enclosed. Also a letter to her – oh, you can make up any lies you like about it – you won the State Lottery, perhaps. All you have to tell her is that she should put the money in some place of safety and that she must not hand it over to anyone but you. That is important. To no one but yourself in person.”
“Very well,” said Peter patiently. “But let me first hear the rest of your plan.”
“In one of the two envelopes addressed to the bank you enclose a blank piece of paper.”
“Proceed.”
“The second one will, eventually, contain nothing at all. Once it has served its purpose, it can be torn up.”
“I see,” said Peter. He was beginning to have an idea of what she was after. It was, as he had suspected, outrageous and impracticable. “You are planning a switch.”
“Exactly.” Laure sounded like a schoolmistress who has discovered an unexpected gleam of intelligence in a backward child. “Let me demonstrate. The meeting takes place on the road. The men will arrive by van. This pepper grinder represents the van. You will be in front of it – we place a salt-cellar for you. I shall be standing by the road, as requested.”
“A mustard pot for you,” said Peter indulgently.
“Thank you. The van, as you have seen, is a large one with a heavy body. When I move behind it I shall be out of sight of the men – two spoons for them please. They will be in front of it, standing perhaps together, or perhaps on either side of the road. The moment of exchange arrives. They produce the picture. You take the bank draft out of the bank envelope so that they can examine it. When they are satisfied, you take it back from them, place it in the envelope and seal it up. At that moment you give the sign by saying something – let me think – what would it be natural to say?”
“I think I should say, ‘O.K. That’s that!’ “
“Excellent. When I hear those words – I am now hidden by the van, remember – I shine my torch. My father, who is in the woods above the road, sees the torch. He has with him his old fowling piece, loaded and primed.”
“Good, good,” said her father. “I shoot both men.”
“You most certainly will do nothing of the sort. You will have it ready cocked. Your finger will be on the trigger. Immediately you see the light from my torch you fire, aiming well above the van.”
“It would be better to shoot them,” said Michel-Ange. “I do not see the object of firing if not to hit them.”
“I do,” said Peter. “And I want, here and now, to be absolutely clear about one point. You think that if these men’s attention is distracted I shall be able to pocket the letter which I have put the draft in and hand over to them the duplicate envelope which contains nothing but a blank piece of paper.”
“It would be better, I think, if you managed to pass the letter with the draft in it to me. They might seek to detain you. I do not think they will trouble about a foolish girl like me. I shall no doubt still be screaming with terror at the sound of the gun. It would be natural if I threw myself into your arms.”
“Don’t overdo it,” said Peter. “The men are not fools. And listen, please, to what I have to say. I shall be the judge, and the only judge, of whether the men’s attention has been sufficiently distracted to allow this farce to be played. If I consider that it has not, I shall simply hand them the envelope with the draft in it. If Meyer is indeed planning to steal it and take it out of the country, the consequences may be unpleasant. But they will not be as unpleasant, or as immediate, as the reactions of these men if they find us trying to swindle them. I doubt if any of us would be alive at the end of the night. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” said Laure sadly, “that you will try to convince yourself that their attention has not been sufficiently diverted.”
Before Peter could deal with this all further conversation was aborted by the reappearance of Gran’mère. She bustled in saying, “A quarter past eight. Is everyone in this house mad? Why has dinner not been called for?”
“The patron has much on his mind,” said Laure. “I will go up at once and find out.”
Dinner that evening might have been a miserable function. Although the food was up to Gran’mère’s usual high standard, Peter was so distracted by thoughts of the ordeal ahead that it could have been cold meat and bread for all the attention he could pay to it. The occasion was saved by the fact that his host had drunk just enough of the Lambrécie marc to restore his spirits, but not enough to make him incoherent. He was cheerful. He could see the end of his troubles. Once the picture was back in his possession he had made plans for its immediate disposal. The thought of the money he was paying did not disturb him. It was only a tenth of what he was receiving. And there was a further advantage which had occurred to him. When the truth of the whole matter came out – as no doubt it would, in due course, such things could not be kept secret for ever – people could no longer blame him for selling a painting which had caused him such trouble. It really seemed that everything was finally turning out for the best.
The only drawback was that, though the dining-room windows were wide open, the atmosphere seemed somehow to be oppressive. “I have spoken again to my friend at the head office of the P.T.T.,” said Mr. Wellborn. “The storm over central Europe was the most severe recorded in the last forty years. The worst damage was above Clermont-Ferrand. The Allier burst its banks and flooded the main telephone exchange for the whole of northern France.”
“Terrible,” said Peter, who was hardly attending to him.
“It is being pumped out now. Communications should be restored by tomorrow morning.”
“Is the storm coming this way?”
“Apparently not. The storm centre is now between Toulouse and Montpellier. What we feel here is the side effect. One is conscious, is one not, of a certain oppression? I trust we shall avoid any really bad weather. Happily the vendange has been completed, but I plan to take my car into Bordeaux this evening and I dislike driving in storm conditions.”
This did interest Peter. He said, “It must be a matter of great importance to take you out at night.”
“It is indeed important. For some time now I have been in touch with the Musée Claude Bonnier. The director is an old friend of mine. I have offered him six of my finest pictures, including the Titian until it goes to America. They will be on permanent loan. I chose that institution because it is well protected. As soon as you have concluded your business this evening I shall drive into Bordeaux with the pictures. Whatever time I arrive, the director will certainly wait up for me. He does not often get such an offer. When the pictures are gone I shall sleep soundly for the first time for many days.”
“I hope we shall all sleep soundly tonight,” said Peter.
By a quarter to ten they were in position. Michel-Ange had taken station in the woods which overhung the far side of the road and Laure had made sure that he could see the light from her torch when she switched it on.
She was standing beside Peter.
Had they not been totally preoccupied they might have taken some note of the behaviour of the weather. The wind, coming from the east, had drawn a curtain of low black cloud across the sky, blotting out moon and stars. Now, suddenly, it had ceased to blow steadily. It was coming in a series of strong puffs which flattened the leaves on the trees and whipped up clouds of sand from the road verge.
“What are they up to? Why are they late?” said Laure. Even her imperturbability seemed to be slipping.
Peter looked at the luminous dial of his watch. He said, “They aren’t late. It’s only five to ten.” And after four minutes had crept by he added, “They daren’t be late. They’ve got to get their letter into the post by half-past ten.”
“I wish they’d hurry.”
Peter nearly said, ‘And I wish we hadn’t started this nonsense’, but before this declaration of defeat could be spoken they saw the van. It was running very slowly, with only side lights showing. When it drew up alongside them there was a moment of complete stillness, before both doors opened and the men jumped out.
Peter could see from their movements and from the way they stationed themselves, one looking up and the other down the road, that they were expecting trouble. He had the bank draft ready in one hand and the envelope in the other. Goraji walked towards him and held out his hand.
“The picture?” said Peter.
Goraji said, “What a suspicious young man. Your picture is here.” He half turned, opened the van door and brought out the brown paper parcel which Peter had seen before. He then pulled the picture clear of its wrapping and held it under the side lights. Peter moved forward to examine it. They were now standing quite close together. He took a quick look at the picture, nodded and held out the bank draft.
Goraji took it and subjected it to a surprisingly casual examination. It was the critical moment. Would he say, ‘All right. Give me the envelope’, or would he hand the draft back? Everything turned on that. And even if that went well, was it possible that the feeble diversion they had planned could succeed against two trained and suspicious professionals? Peter had noticed that, during all these manoeuvres, Rasim had never relaxed his attention. He was turning his head, looking first up then down the road, with one hand never far from the gun which lived in a shoulder holster inside his coat.
Peter held out his hand. Nature seemed to be holding its breath. Then Goraji handed back the draft.
He watched closely while Peter inserted it in the envelope, licked the gum and fastened it.
What happened next shook everyone.
As Peter opened his mouth to utter the agreed signal, a jagged streak of blue lightning split the cloud almost immediately overhead. Laure dropped her torch. Michel-Ange, whose finger was on the trigger, pulled it without waiting for any signal. The blast of his gun was swallowed up by the drum roll of thunder which followed.
Both the men, blinded and deafened, dived for the further ditch, going for their guns as they dropped. By the time they had climbed back onto the road there had been ample time to switch the envelopes and Laure was back behind the van scrabbling for her torch.
Peter alone seemed not to have moved. He was standing, rock-like, in the same position holding out an envelope.
Goraji said, in a voice in which fury was mixed with suspicion, “That wasn’t just thunder. Someone was shooting at us. Yes?”
Another flash of lightning and a thunder clap, but further off and more muted. As it rumbled away among the trees Peter said, quite coolly, “No one was shooting at you. It was probably old Gobard. He goes after rabbits in that bit of wood.”
Goraji was clearly in two minds. He had a feeling that something was going on that he didn’t understand. Peter decided that the time had come to break up the scene. He said, “We’d better get the picture under cover, hadn’t we, before it’s damaged?”
Single, heavy thunder drops of rain were now battering the top of the van and throwing up little spurts of dust from the road.
Goraji said, “The gosse can take it. You’re coming with us.”
That was the point when Peter’s moment of triumph started to crumble.
Rasim handed the parcel to Laure. The brown paper was already getting soaked. She took it without a word, crossed into the vineyard and was lost to sight.
Goraji said, “Get in.” Peter started to protest, but there was no arguing with the guns.
As they drove north along the road he thought perhaps they only wanted to keep an eye on him until the letter was posted. On the other hand, were they now so suspicious that they would reopen the letter to check its contents before dispatching it? When they reached the box – the same one in which Peter had posted his own letter some hours before – this fear, at least, was dispelled. Rasim jumped out with the letter, paused only to examine the legend in front of the box to make sure that the 10.30 collection had not yet taken place and pushed the letter through the slot.
“Can I go home now?” said Peter meekly.
Goraji said, “No.” Rasim jumped in beside Peter and the van bumped off down the road.
Goraji, who seemed to be in a slightly better humour now that the business of the evening had been concluded, said, “You feel that an explanation is due for our detaining you. Yes?”
“I didn’t see that I could be much more use to you.”
“On the contrary. You may still have an important part to play.” He glanced at Rasim who was smiling. They both seemed relaxed and happy. Much too happy for Peter’s peace of mind.
“We observed,” said Goraji, “the care with which you examined the painting.”
“Care and skill,” said Rasim.
“Clearly you had been instructed what to look for. Yes? We, on the other hand, do not possess the necessary knowledge to examine the bank draft with equal care and pronounce on its authenticity. We observed that the name of Crédit Agricole was at the head of it and that the sum mentioned appeared to be five million francs. But the signatures at the foot and the names and descriptions of the signers – what did we know about them? Nothing. The whole document could have been fictitious. A scrap of paper. Worthless. You appreciate now why we have to keep our hands on you. When this draft arrives in Paris tomorrow morning it will be examined by people who understand these things. As soon as they can communicate, they will be able to assure us that the draft is in order.
“After which,” he added, “you will be of no further use to us.”
Rasim said, “I also remembered something when I saw you earlier this evening. Yours is a face one does not easily forget. Outside that church in Normandy – you recall the occasion—?”
“Yes,” said Peter. He said it reluctantly. He was hoping that Rasim would not have remembered him.
“It makes you very precious to us,” said Rasim, sliding an arm round his shoulder. “Doubly precious.”