Алистер Маклин - Caravan to Vaccares

‘Daymel.’

‘You are Tina’s father?’

‘I am.’ The expression on his face was that of a man receiving his executioner and not his saviour. ‘Who in the name of God are you?’

‘Bowman. Neil Bowman. I’ve come to take you three gentlemen away.’

‘I don’t know who you are.’ This from the man in the middle bunk who didn’t seem any happier to see Bowman than Daymel had been. ‘I don’t care who you are. For God’s sake go away or you’ll be the death of us all.’

‘You are the Count le Hobenaut?’ The man nodded.

‘You heard about your brother-in-law? Alexandre?’

Le Hobenaut looked at him with an odd speculative desperation on his face, then said: ‘What about my brother-in-law?’

‘He’s dead. Czerda murdered him.’

‘What crazy talk is this? Alexandre? Dead? How can he be dead? Czerda promised us–’

‘You believed him?’

‘Of course. Czerda has everything to lose–’

‘You two believe him?’ Bowman asked. They nodded.

‘A man who trusts a killer is a fool. You are fools – all three of you. Alexandre is dead. I found his body. If you think he’s alive why don’t you ask Czerda if you can see him? Or you, Daymel. Why don’t you ask Czerda if you can see your daughter?’

‘She’s not – she’s–’

‘She’s not dead. Just half dead. They flayed her back. Why did they flay her back? Why did they kill Alexandre? Because they were both trying to tell someone something. What was it that they were trying to tell, gentlemen?’

‘I beg you, Bowman.’ Le Hobenaut’s distress was but one step removed from terror. ‘Leave us!’

‘Why are you so terrified for them? Why are they so terrified for you? And don’t tell me again to go for I’m not going until I know the answers.’

‘You’ll never know the answers now,’ Czerda said.

Bowman turned round slowly for there was nothing to be gained by haste now. Of the shock, of the inevitably profound chagrin, there was no sign in his face. But Czerda, standing in the doorway with a silenced gun in his hand and Masaine, beside him, with a knife in his, made no attempt to disguise their feelings. Both men were smiling and smiling broadly, although their smiles were noticeably lacking in warmth. At a nod from Czerda, Masaine advanced and tested the shackles securing the three men. He said: ‘They have not been touched.’

‘He was probably too busy explaining to them just how clever he was.’ Czerda did not trouble to conceal the immense amount of satisfaction he was deriving from the moment. ‘It was all too simple, Bowman. You really are a fool. Shopkeepers in Arles who receive a gratuity of six hundred Swiss francs are hardly likely to forget the person who gave it to them. I tell you, I could hardly keep a straight face when I was moving through the crowd there pretending to look for you. But we had to pretend, didn’t we, to convince you that we hadn’t recognized you or you’d never have come out into the open, would you? You fool, we had you identified before you entered the arena.’

‘You might have told Maca,’ Bowman murmured.

‘We might, but Maca is no actor, I’m afraid,’ Czerda said regretfully. ‘He wouldn’t have known how to make a fake fight look real. And if we’d left no guard at all you’d have been doubly suspicious.’ He stretched out his left hand. ‘Eighty thousand francs, Bowman.’

‘I don’t carry that sort of loose change with me.’

‘My eighty thousand francs.’

Bowman looked at him with contempt. ‘Where would a person like you get eighty thousand francs?’

Czerda smiled, stepped forward unexpectedly and drove the silenced barrel of his gun into Bowman’s solar plexus. Bowman doubled up, gasping in agony.

‘I would have liked to strike you across the face, as you struck me.’ He had removed his smile. ‘But for the moment I prefer that you remain unmarked. The money, Bowman?’

Bowman straightened slowly. When he spoke, his voice came as a harsh croak.

‘I lost it.’

‘You lost it?’

‘I had a hole in my pocket.’

Czerda’s face twisted in anger, he lifted his gun to club Bowman, then smiled. ‘You’ll find it within the minute, you’ll see.’

The green Rolls-Royce slowed as it approached the Mas de Lavignolle. Le Grand Duc, still with a parasol being held above his head, surveyed the scene thoughtfully.

‘Czerda’s caravans,’ he observed. ‘Surprising. One would not have expected the Mas de Lavignolle to be of any particular interest to our friend Czerda. But a man like that will always have a good reason for what he is doing. However, he will doubtless consider it a privilege to inform me of his reasons. . . What is it, my dear?’

‘Look ahead.’ Lila pointed. ‘Just there.’

Le Grand Duc followed the direction of her arm. Cecile, flanked by El Brocador and Searl, the first all in white, the second all in black. The door closed behind them.

Le Grand Duc pressed the dividing window button. ‘Stop the car, if you please.’ To Lila he said: ‘You think that’s your friend? Same dress, I admit, but all those Arlésienne fiesta dresses look the same to me, especially from the back.’

‘That’s Cecile.’ Lila was positive.

‘A razateur and a priest,’ Le Grand Duc mused. ‘You really must admit that your friend does have a marked propensity for striking up the most unusual aquaintanceships. You have your notebook?’

‘I have what?’

‘We must investigate this.’

‘You’re going to investigate–’

‘Please. No Greek chorus. Everything is of interest to the true folklorist.’

‘But you can’t just barge in–’

‘Nonsense. I am the Duc de Croytor. Besides, I never barge. I always make an entrance.’

The ache in his midriff, Bowman guessed, was as nothing compared to some of the aches that he was going to come by very shortly – if, that was, he would then be in a position to feel anything. There was a gleam in Czerda’s eye, a barely-contained anticipation in the face that bespoke ill, Bowman thought, for the immediate future.

He looked round the caravan. The three shackled men had in their faces the uncomprehending and lacklustre despair of those to whom defeat is already an accepted reality. Czerda and Masaine had pleasantly anticipatory smiles on their faces, El Brocador was serious and thoughtful and watchful, Simon Searl had a peculiar look in his eyes which made his unfrocking a readily comprehensible matter, while Cecile just looked slightly dazed, a little frightened, a little angry but as far removed from hysteria as could be.

‘You understand now,’ Czerda said, ‘why I said you’d find the money within the minute.’

‘I understand now. You’ll find it–’

‘What money?’ Cecile asked. ‘What does that – that monster want?’

‘His eighty thousand francs back again – minus certain small outlays I’ve been compelled to make – and who can blame him?’

‘Don’t tell him anything!’

‘And don’t you understand the kind of men you’re dealing with? Ten seconds from now they’ll have your arm twisted up behind your back till it’s touching your ear, you’ll be screaming in agony and if they happen to break your shoulder or tear a few ligaments, well, that’s just too bad.’

‘But – but I’ll just faint–’

‘Please.’ Bowman looked at Czerda, carefully avoided Cecile’s gaze. ‘It’s in Arles. Safe-deposit in the station.’

‘The key?’

‘On a ring. In the car. Hidden. I’ll show you.’

‘Excellent,’ Czerda said. ‘A disappointment to friend Searl, I’m afraid, but inflicting pain on young ladies gives me no pleasure though I wouldn’t hesitate if I had to. As you shall see.’