Алистер Маклин - Caravan to Vaccares

Bowman parked the Peugeot at the spot in the valley road where he had picked up Cecile and the cases. He got out.

‘Stay here,’ he said to Cecile. ‘This time I mean it.’ She didn’t exactly nod her head obediently but she didn’t argue either: maybe his training methods were beginning to improve. The jeep, he observed without any surprise, was where he’d last seen it: it was going to require a mobile crane to get it out of there.

The entrance to the Baumanière’s forecourt seemed deserted but he’d developed the same sort of affectionate trust for Czerda and his merry band of followers as he would have for a colony of cobras or black widow spiders so he pressed deep into the shadows and advanced slowly into the forecourt. His foot struck something solid and there was a faint metallic clink. He became very still but he’d provoked no reaction that he could see or hear. He stooped and picked up the pistol that he’d inadvertently kicked against the base of a petrol pump. Young Ferenc’s pistol, without a doubt. From what last Bowman had seen of Ferenc he didn’t think he’d have missed it yet or would be wanting to use it for some time: but Bowman decided to return it to him all the same. He knew he wouldn’t be disturbing anyone for lights from inside Czerda’s caravan still shone through the windows and the half-open door. Every other caravan in the forecourt was in darkness. He crossed to Czerda’s caravan, climbed the steps soundlessly and looked in through the doorway.

Czerda, with a bandaged left hand, bruised cheek and large strip of sticking-plaster on his forehead, wasn’t looking quite his old self but he was in mint condition compared to Ferenc to whose injuries he was attending. Ferenc lay on a bunk, moaning and barely half-conscious, exclaiming in pain from time to time as his father removed a blood-soaked bandage from his forehead. When the bandage was at last jerked free to the accompaniment of a final yelp of pain, a pain that had the effect of restoring Ferenc to something pretty close to complete consciousness, Bowman could see that he had a very nasty cut indeed across his forehead, but a cut that faded into insignificance compared to the massive bruising of forehead and face: if he had sustained other bodily bruises of comparable magnitude Ferenc had to be suffering very considerably and feeling in a very low state indeed. It was not a consideration that moved Bowman: if Ferenc had had his way he, Bowman, would be in a state in which he’d never feel anything again.

Ferenc sat shakily up on the bunk while his father secured a fresh bandage, then sat forward, put his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands and moaned.

‘In God’s name, what happened? My head–’

‘You’ll be all right,’ Czerda said soothingly. ‘A cut and a bruise. That’s all.’

‘But what happened ? Why is my head–’

‘The car. Remember?’

‘The car. Of course. That devil Bowman!’ Coming from Ferenc, Bowman thought, that was rather good. ‘Did he – did he–’

‘Damn his soul, yes. He got clear away – and he wrecked our jeep. See this?’ Czerda pointed to his hand and forehead. Ferenc looked without interest and looked away. He had other things on his mind.

‘My gun, Father! Where’s my gun?’

‘Here,’ Bowman said. He pointed the gun at Ferenc and walked into the caravan: the bloodstained chain and crucifix dangled from his left hand. Ferenc stared at him: he looked as a man might look with his head on the block and the executioner starting the back swing on his axe, for executioner Ferenc would have been in Bowman’s position. Czerda, whose back had been to the door, swung round and remained as immobile as his son. He didn’t seem any more pleased to see Bowman than Ferenc did. Bowman walked forward, two paces, and placed the bloody crucifix on a small table.

‘His mother might like to have that,’ he said. ‘I should wipe the blood off first, though.’ He waited for some reaction but there was none so he went on: ‘I’m going to kill you, Czerda. I’ll have to, won’t I, for no one can ever prove you killed young Alexandre. But I don’t require proof, all I need is certainty. But not yet. I can’t do it yet, can I? I mustn’t cause innocent people to die, must I? But later. Later I kill you. Then I kill Gaiuse Strome. Tell him I said so, will you?’

‘What do you know of Gaiuse Strome?’ he whispered.

‘Enough to hang him. And you.’

Czerda suddenly smiled but when he spoke it was still in the same whisper.

‘You’ve just said you can’t kill me yet.’ He took a step forward.

Bowman said nothing. He altered the pistol fractionally until it was lined up on a spot between Ferenc’s eyes. Czerda made no move to take a second step. Bowman looked at him and pointed to a stool close to the small table.

‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘and face your son.’

Czerda did as he was told. Bowman took one step forward and it was apparent that Ferenc’s reactions weren’t yet back in working order for his suddenly horrified expression in what little was left of his face that was still capable of registering expressions and his mouth opening to shout a warning came far too late to be of any aid to Czerda who crashed heavily to the floor as the barrel of Bowman’s gun caught him behind the ear.

Ferenc bared his teeth and swore viciously at him. At least that was what Bowman assumed he was doing for Ferenc had reverted to his native Romany but he hadn’t even started in on his descriptions when Bowman stepped forward wordlessly, his gun swinging again. Ferenc’s reactions were even slower than Bowman had imagined: he toppled headlong across his father and lay still.

‘What on earth–’ The voice came from behind Bowman. He threw himself to one side, dropping to the floor, whirled round and brought the gun up: then, more slowly, he rose. Cecile stood in the doorway, her green eyes wide, her face stilled in shock.

‘You fool,’ Bowman said savagely. ‘You almost died there. Don’t you know that?’ She nodded, the shock still in her face. ‘Come inside. Shut the door. You are a fool. Why the hell didn’t you do what I asked and stay where you were?’

Almost as if in a trance she stepped inside and closed the door. She stared down at the two fallen men, then back at Bowman again.

‘For God’s sake, why did you knock those two men senseless? Two injured men?’

‘Because it was inconvenient to kill them at present,’ Bowman said coldly. He turned his back on her and began to search the place methodically and exhaustively. When one searches any place, be it gypsy caravan or baronial mansion, methodically and exhaustively, one has to wreck it completely in the process. So, in an orderly and systematic fashion, Bowman set about reducing Czerda’s caravan to a total ruin. He ripped the beds to pieces, sliced open the mattresses with the aid of a knife he’d borrowed from the recumbent Czerda, scattering the flock stuffing far and wide to ensure that there was nothing hidden inside, and wrenched open cupboards, all locked, again with the aid of Czerda’s knife. He moved into the kitchen recess, smashed all the items of crockery that were capable of holding anything, emptied the contents of a dozen food tins into the sink, smashed open preserving jars and a variety of wine bottles by the simple expedient of knocking them together two at a time and ended up by spilling the contents of the cutlery drawers on the floor to ensure that there was nothing hidden beneath the lining paper. There wasn’t.

Cecile, who had been watching this performance still in the same kind of hypnotic trance, said: ‘Who’s Gaiuse Strome?’

‘How long were you listening?’

‘All the time. Who’s Gaiuse Strome?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bowman said frankly. ‘Never heard of him until tonight.’