In the darkness Peregrine’s mind, as lethal as that of a ferrit in a rabbit warren, gnawed at the problem: and found an answer.
19
In the grand salon the members of the symposium had long since abandoned the topic of World Hunger. There were no experts on nutrition or agricultural techniques among them and even Dr Grenoy had failed to rally them around the topic by recourse to those generalities which, as a cultural attachè, and a French one, were his forte. In fact his attempt had made things worse. Only the multi-modular approach remained and, thanks to the enormous dinner and now the brandy, found increasing expression in national prejudices and personal feelings.
Curious bonds had been formed. Dr Abnekov’s antipathy to American capitalism had been overcome by Professor Botwyk’s observation to the Saudi delegate that any man who couldn’t hold his liquor ought to stop spouting about the power of petroleum products, and Pastor Laudenbach had brought them even closer together by supporting the refusal of Muslims to touch alcohol. Even Professor Manake and Sir Arnold had found a common interest in big-game hunting. Only Dr Zukacs remained obstinately doctrinaire, explaining to no one in particular that the only way the underdeveloped countries could free themselves from imperialism was by developing heavy industry and collectivizing farms. Since he was sitting next to the Polish delegate, who was under orders to keep his mouth shut and who knew what collective farming had done to his own country, and who resented the imputation that Poland was underdeveloped anyway, only Dr Abnekov’s threat to beat their collective heads together unless they shut up prevented a fight. Pastor Laudenbach’s appeal for peace brought Botwyk to his feet.
‘Listen, you dirty Kraut,’ he shouted, ‘don’t you start yammering about peace. Two world wars your lousy country’s started this century and don’t think we’ve forgotten it. Six million died in the gas chambers and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn you were the camp doctor at Auschwitz.’
‘That’s a lie,’ snarled the Pastor inadvisedly, ‘I spent four years on the Eastern Front in Panzers. I was at the Battle of the Kursk while you were bombing innocent civilians to death by the hundred thousand. I know about war. At Kursk I learnt and—’
It was too much for Dr Abnekov. ‘You murdering Hitlerite,’ he yelled, ‘just let me get my hands on you and I’ll show you what we did to butchers like you. At Kursk were you? By God—’
‘Gentlemen,’ appealed Dr Grenoy, ‘let us try to forget the past and—’
‘Shut up, you damned Frog,’ shouted Botwyk. ‘Without the boys who died on Omaha beach you’d still be doing what Heinie here told you even if you weren’t a goddam collaborator which is open to question.’
‘I was five at the time—’ began Dr Grenoy, but neither Botwyk nor Abnekov was to be silenced. As Abnekov hurled himself drunkenly at the Pastor, Botwyk cursed Dr Grenoy for getting out of Vietnam and NATO, not to mention teaming up with a load of Huns in the Common Market. And what about Marshall Aid?
‘Amazing,’ Professor Manake observed to Sir Arnold. ‘You Europeans never seem to realize how extraordinarily barbaric you are.’
‘I wouldn’t call myself a European, you know,’ said Sir Arnold. ‘We’re an island race with a seafaring tradition—’
But as he spoke, Peregrine, following another English tradition, acted. Firing with all the deadliness Major Fetherington had taught him he put his first bullet through Professor Botwyk’s forehead, then shot the lights out and with two more bullets plunged the courtyard into darkness as well. As the screams and shouts of the delegates echoed through the Château he dashed for the cover of the gateway tower. There was a little office there and from it he could command a view of the entire terrace and the stableyard where the cars were parked at the back. In short, no one could move out of the buildings without being shot. Best of all, he had the swine trapped in the Château and until they released Glodstone he didn’t intend to budge.
Three floors above, the Countess felt the same way about budging. From the sound of the shots, the screams and the confusion below, she realized she had been wrong. Dr Grenoy had known what he was talking about. Some hitman had come looking for her last night and she should have left while the going was good. Right now it was bad. Whipping to the door, she locked it and switched the light out. ‘If anyone comes don’t utter,’ she told Glodstone. ‘And wedge that bed against the door.’
For some time they sat on the floor in silence listening for more sounds of trouble and separately wondering how the hell they were going to get out of the mess. ‘Must have shot one of the guests,’ whispered the Countess finally.
‘Guests?’ said Glodstone.
‘Either them or the think-tank merchants.’
‘Think-tank merchants?’
‘The futurologists. Though what they know about the future beats me. Still, they pay well. Or did. I can’t see this being the world’s favourite venue for conferences after tonight.’
Glodstone tended to agree, though he wasn’t at all clear what futurologists were. Certainly international gangsters would be inclined to avoid the place.
‘What beats me,’ continued the Countess, ‘is why that goon last night was looking for me and now he’s shooting those poor eggheads down there. Unless it’s the gendarmes doing the shooting.’
‘The gendarmes?’ said Glodstone. ‘You mean they’ve had the nerve to call the police in?’
‘You don’t seriously imagine an international gathering of some of the world’s most eminent intellectuals are going to sit on their fannies when there’s a contract killer on the loose? It’s a miracle we haven’t got the United States Marines on call, the way that Professor Botwyk was carrying on this morning. Wanted to phone the Embassy.’
‘The Embassy?’
In the darkness the Countess looked at him suspiciously. ‘Do you always repeat everything anyone says to you?’ she asked.
‘No, but … Well, you wouldn’t think men like that would have the nerve to ask for government protection.’
‘I can’t think why not.’
Glodstone could, but in the present circumstances it didn’t seem advisable to say so. On the other hand, he had the increasing feeling that there had been some terrible mistake and for a moment he began to wonder if they’d come to the wrong château, before remembering that this woman had claimed to be Wanderby’s mother. Perhaps all this talk about international scholars and the police was a subtle means of getting him to talk.
‘It all seems very odd,’ he muttered.
‘You can say that again,’ said the Countess as another shot rang out below. Peregrine had just winged Dr Abnekov who had made the mistake of urinating out of one of the windows and had learnt what it felt like to be circumcised by a revolver bullet. As his yells receded the Countess got to her feet. ‘Where’s your car?’ she asked.
Glodstone hesitated. He still couldn’t make head or tail of the woman but there was nothing to be gained from lying. ‘I left it hidden in an old sawmill. I didn’t want anyone to steal it.’
‘Yeah, well I’d say you showed good sense,’ said the Countess. ‘We’ll just have to chance it. This place is beginning to feel like the condemned cell and I don’t fancy sitting here waiting. Help me move the bed. But quietly.’
Glodstone got to his feet and clutched the sheet to him. It was beginning to feel like a premature shroud. ‘Is that wise?’ he asked as another shot rang out. ‘I mean, it sounds like a battle out there.’
‘Which is why we’re moving now. So long as they’re occupied we’ve got a chance.’
They moved the bed and the Countess unlocked the door and went out into the passage. Glodstone followed her unwillingly and stopped.
‘So what’s holding you?’ demanded the Countess. ‘Got cold feet or something?’
‘It’s just that I’ve got no clothes and … well … I wouldn’t want to compromise you,’ he murmured.
‘Jesus, at a time like this he talks about compromising. If we don’t hurry I’m going to get comp
romised by a bullet.’
Glodstone gave in and traipsed nervously down the steps after her. ‘In here,’ whispered the Countess when they reached a large open landing directly above the gateway. Opening a door she pushed him inside. ‘You’ll find some of my husband’s clothes in the bedroom. He was twice your size but you’ll look better in something dark. That sheet goes with your complexion.’
Glodstone shuffled across the carpet into the next room and found some suits in a wardrobe. Whoever the woman’s husband might be she hadn’t been lying about his build. The brute must have stood six foot in his socks and his waistband was in the upper fifties. Still, anything was preferable to that sheet. Glodstone put on a shirt while the Countess busied herself in the other room. By the time he was dressed and could move about without tripping (he’d had to roll the bottom of the trousers up eight inches to achieve this feat) she had finished packing a suitcase.
‘Right,’ she said, fastening a rope ladder to a hook above the window that overlooked the drive and the avenue of walnut trees, ‘exit one Countess followed by bear. You can hand the case to me when I’m out. And then we’ll head for your car.’
‘But I’ll never make it dressed like this,’ said Glodstone. ‘Where are my own clothes?’
‘If they’re back from the dry-cleaners they’ll be in the office down below but I wouldn’t advise trying to get them. That way the only place you’ll make is infinity. Let’s hit the fire escape.’
She dropped the ladder out of the window and climbed over the sill. ‘Now the case,’ she said. Glodstone handed it to her. It was remarkably heavy. As she disappeared he stood irresolute. He had no doubt now that she was the Countess and to some extent he could be said to be rescuing her, but the thought of trying to walk fifteen kilometres in oversize menswear and lugging that suitcase appalled him. And where was Peregrine? A shot from below should have told him. It certainly decided him. Glodstone climbed over the sill and slithered down the rope ladder.
*
In the little office Peregrine was in high spirits. This was the life, the world, the action he had read and dreamt about and had been prepared for. It was no longer imaginary. It was real and exciting, a matter of life and death and in the case of the latter he’d undoubtedly been successful. He’d certainly shot one swine stone-cold dead and had just potted another who’d appeared at a window. The only thing that puzzled him was that no one had fired back. He’d have welcomed an exchange of shots. But none had come and he was trying to work out what this meant when a sound outside gave him the answer. Something had just bumped against the wall of the Château and he heard voices. So the bastards had managed to get round behind him and were preparing to attack him from the rear. Cunning. He’d soon put a stop to that.
Checking that the courtyard was still empty, he crossed to the tiny window that gave on to the drive. As he watched, a figure appeared with a suitcase. They were going to blast him out with a bomb. Peregrine aimed the revolver through the window and then hesitated. It was a woman, and he hadn’t been trained to shoot women. All the same, he was taking no chances. Slipping out to the gates, he gently unlocked them. A man was out there too. He could hear him whisper. He’d strike now. Shoving the gate open with his foot he aimed the revolver with both hands. ‘OK, freeze,’ he shouted, now identifying with the heroes of every American thriller he’d read. ‘Get your hands on your heads and don’t move.’
But the woman had already done so. She was off down the drive running as fast as she could. For a second Peregrine was tempted but Bulldog Drummond prevailed. At least he’d got the man and he wasn’t giving any trouble. He was wheezing and gasping but his hands were up.
‘For God’s sake don’t shoot,’ he whimpered. Peregrine recognized the voice.
‘Gloddie,’ he said, ‘is that you?’
‘Of course it’s me,’ said Glodstone with a moan, and sat down on the suitcase. ‘Oh my God!’
‘Are you all right?’
Glodstone felt his heart and thought not.
‘So who’s the frail?’ asked Peregrine, reverting to Mickey Spillane.
‘I am,’ said Glodstone.
‘I mean the woman.’
‘That happened to be the Countess.’
‘And we’ve rescued her. That’s terrific.’ Glodstone didn’t reply. To his way of thinking the adjective was wholly inappropriate.
‘Then we can go,’ said Peregrine, ‘or do you want me to finish the swine off?’
Glodstone tried to get up and promptly trod on the bottom of his trousers and fell over. ‘I don’t want you to do another thing,’ he said savagely as Peregrine helped him to his feet, ‘except see if my clothes are in an office in there and bring them out. And hurry. There’s murder going on.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Peregrine. ‘They’re—’
‘Well, I fucking do,’ said Glodstone.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Peregrine sulkily. ‘Just when it was getting to be fun.’
All the same, he went into the office and presently returned with a brown paper parcel. ‘Just one more thing to do,’ he said, and before Glodstone could protest that even one more thing would be too much for his heart he was gone. Glodstone flapped off down the drive with his clothes. If what he expected occurred he wanted to be behind a walnut tree when it did. For a few minutes everything was quiet and then a volley of shots rang out and Peregrine ran from the Château.
‘That should keep them quiet while we make our getaway,’ he said. ‘I’ve dumped that rope ladder and locked the gates.’
‘And shot someone too, I suppose.’
‘Nobody to shoot.’
‘Well, get that bloody suitcase,’ said Glodstone, hobbling along. He couldn’t wait to put as much distance between himself and the Château as was humanly possible. The place had nothing romantic about it now.
*
In the grand salon the delegates crouched in the darkness surrounded by broken glass. Their concern for the future of mankind had assumed a personal and more interested dimension, but they were still at odds with one another. Dr Abnekov particularly objected to Sir Arnold Brymay’s insistence that the only way to treat a badly wounded penis was to apply a tourniquet. ‘But not around my scrotum,’ shouted Abnekov.
‘It stops the venom getting into the bloodstream,’ said Sir Arnold, with a peculiar logic that stemmed from his experience of treating snakebite victims in the Tropics.
‘Not the only thing it stops,’ yelled the Russian. ‘You want to castrate me or something?’
‘I suppose we could try cauterizing it as well,’ said Sir Arnold, getting his own back for the Soviet delegate’s accusations that he was personally responsible for the atrocities committed by the British Army in Ireland.
Dr Keister intervened. ‘Perhaps I may be of assistance,’ she said. ‘In Denmark I have had experiences with the genitals of sexual offenders and—’
‘I am not a sex offender, you filthy cow. You do what you like in your rotten little country with all your pornography but if you touch me you’ll learn what a sex offence is.’
‘In Africa,’ said Professor Manake, ‘some of the less progressive peoples still practise female circumcision. In Ghana it is naturally unknown, but elsewhere I have studied initiation rites among males. They are a symbolic preparation for manhood.’
‘And what’s that got to do with me, you bloody witch-doctor?’ yelled Abnekov. ‘There’s nothing symbolic about my manhood. And stop twisting that piece of string, you imperialist pig.’
‘Actually, it’s my last pipe cleaner,’ said Sir Arnold. ‘Still, if you want to bleed to death I suppose you’re entitled to.’
Under the table Dr Grenoy and Professor Badiglioni were arguing about the theory and origins of international terrorism. The Italian placed the blame squarely on Robespierre, Babeuf, Blanqui, Sorel and any other Frenchmen he could think of, while Dr Grenoy countered with the Carbonari, the Mafia, Mussolini and Gramsci, whom he’d never read. The shooting of
Botwyk had put all thought of the Countess’s connection with gangsters in Las Vegas out of his mind.
Only Pastor Laudenbach and Sheikh Fahd bin Riyal, united by their faith in a spiritual future and certain unspoken prejudices, remained unmoved. ‘It is the will of Allah. The Western world is decadent and the infidel Botwyk was clearly a Zionist. He refused to acknowledge that the return of Jerusalem and all Arab lands can only be achieved by force of arms. It is the same with Berlin and the occupied East Bank of your country.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that before,’ said the Pastor. ‘We have much to feel guilty about.’
In the darkness the Saudi delegate smiled. He was thinking wistfully of Eichmann.
*
Far to the north, Slymne drove down the N1 at ninety miles an hour. He wasn’t wasting time on side roads, and the Major’s suggestions, made at frequent intervals, that they stop the night in a hotel had been ignored. ‘You heard what the Head said,’ he told the Major. ‘This could be the ruination of us all.’
‘Won’t be much of me left to ruin at this rate,’ said the Major, and shifted his weight on the inner tube.
20
Halfway down the drive the Countess paused in her flight. Too many days in the kitchen hadn’t equipped her for long-distance running and anyway, she hadn’t been shot at. Nobody had chased after her either. She sat down on the wall to get her breath back and considered the situation grimly. She might have saved her life but she’d also lost her life savings. The seven little gold bars in the suitcase had been her guarantee of independence. Without them she was tied to the damned Château and the kitchen stove. Worse still, she might have to go elsewhere and struggle on satisfying the whims and lusts of men, either as someone’s cook, housekeeper and general bottle-washer or, more distastefully still, as a wife. She would lose the bungalow in Bognor Regis and the chance of resuming her interrupted identity as Constance Sugg safe in the knowledge that her past was well and truly behind her. It was an appalling prospect and wasn’t helped by the fact that she was fat, fair and forty-five. Not that she cared what she looked like. The three Fs had kept the fourth at bay but they wouldn’t help her in a world dominated by lecherous men.