A Fine Night for Dying

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 the world over in the early hours of the morning. It was as if everyone had just left.

The ticket-collector, well protected against the chill morning air by a heavy overcoat and scarf, looked ready for retirement. He 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.

Ste-Denise? Yes, there was a bus to Dinard which would drop them within a mile of Ste-Denise. It left at nine o’clock from the square. They would find a café there which 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, Ste-Denise.’

The coffee-pot froze in mid-air and the man glanced across warily. ‘Ste-Denise? You want to go to Ste-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 which 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 Ste-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 idly as it approached, and noticed a Renault emerge from the same street and halt at the kerbside. 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 Ste-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 Ste-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 into the rear and climbed over the tailboard. 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 car pulled away from the kerb 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 travelling 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 man with extraordinary 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.