Donald Westlake - The New Black Mask ( No 3 )

“At the sides.” She put a hand inside the case, feeling for the retaining catch, and drew out, one after the other, four flat cellophane envelopes.

Andrew held them for a moment in his hand, as though estimating their weight, and said, “Two million francs. A valuable cargo. What did you intend to do with it?”

“It was all arranged, through my school friend and her father. He has connections with the law officers. I was to hand this over, and to give them the names of our contacts in England. The ones who were waiting for this consignment. In return they promised to look after me. Money and papers. A new name and a new life in America. And, at last, freedom from all this.”

“And now?”

“And now it is too late. They must have discovered my plans. They are here already. They would have had no difficulty in tracing your car. They have friends everywhere. You saw the helicopter which watched us as we approached. You heard them arrive at the hotel.”

“I don’t think they found out about you,” said Andrew slowly. “I think it is much simpler. I think, at the last moment, they must have found out about me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Explanations later. What we need now is two minutes on a clear telephone. Not here. The hotel exchange will already be controlled. Somewhere, anywhere outside. Put on a coat.” As he spoke he was pushing the packets down inside his shirt.

“We shall never get away from here.”

“And a pair of shoes. Sandals would be best. We shall have to move quietly.”

“How?”

“Fortunately there is an outhouse roof underneath my window. We shall have to drop onto it, hoping we break no tiles, and slide down it, making as little noise as possible. Then out through the garden, and into the countryside. It would be too risky to try to take the car. It has probably been immobilised. Are you ready?”

Five minutes later they were making their way through the garden among the rose beds. There was a low fence at the bottom to negotiate, and they were in a field. The second crop of hay had been cut, and was lying in swatches.

“It is beautiful,” said Marie-Claude. Her voice had no longer the heavy undertones of defeat. It was singing with the excitement of the night. “I could go on forever.”

“A mile should be enough,” said Andrew practically. “We will lie up until first light. Then find a farm with a telephone. We can have enough of our own men here in an hour to deal with all your father’s hired bullies.”

They circled the wood ahead of them. At the far side Andrew went down on his knees, scraped a hole between the roots of a massive oak tree, and buried the four envelopes, covering them with leaves. Then they crossed two more fields, waded across a shallow stream, and climbed the slope ahead of them. This time it was stubble, but easy going. At the top was a barn. The door was immovable, evidently barred on the inside, but they found an opening at the back, and wriggled through into the sweet-smelling darkness. Then they climbed on top of the hay, which was piled, not baled, and Andrew took off his jacket and rolled it up for a pillow. They lay down together. He thought, All men wish for their youth back again, and not one man in a thousand is granted his wash. You are lucky. You are the thousandth man. He made love to the girl in the simple way that the situation demanded, and then they both slept, pressed up against each other in the warm hay.

He slept longer than he intended. When he woke, he cl imbed off the stack, unbolted the door of the barn and looked out. He came back quickly to Marie-Claude, who was blinking the sleep out of her eyes.

He said, “We are in trouble. Bad trouble. I underestimated them. We should have gone further and faster. There are six men at least in sight. Four of them are beating up the hill towards us. The other two are at the top. There may be more of them.”

Marie-Claude stared at him and said nothing.

“Listen to me, and please listen carefully. We have only one chance. It is not a very good one, but it is better than no chance at all. When the men get close to the barn, you will scream, and run towards them. I do not think you are in any danger. It is me they are after, not you. You will be hysterical. Your story, when you are able to tell it, is that I abducted you by force. They will look after you, but you will not be a prisoner. So you should have an opportunity, sooner or later, of getting to a telephone. Sooner, I hope.” He gave a crooked smile.

Marie-Claude said, “I understand.”

“Remember this number. It is a Paris number.” He spoke it slowly, and she repeated it after him.

“All you have to do is to ask for Colonel Foxwell. He won’t come to the telephone himself. But the fact that you know his name and this particular number will vouch you to them. Tell them where you are telephoning from. The number will be sufficient. Say, very serious. That’s all.”

Marie-Claude nodded. He could see her lips move as she repeated the name and the number to herself.

“One more thing.” He felt in his jacket pocket and took out a small black pistol. It was a nine-millimetre Mauser automatic. “You had better have this. It is no use to me, since they will search me and find it. In certain circumstances it might be useful to you.”

He looked through the opening in the door. Two of the men were quite close to the barn. Two others were behind them, well spread out and covering them. They moved like trained soldiers.

Andrew kissed Marie-Claude gently, and said, “Run. And scream.”

The men were not gentle with him. They knocked him to the ground and one of them stood on his ankles whilst the other searched him. His arms were twisted behind his back and handcuffed. He was frog-marched across the field, and bundled into the car which was in the lane at the top of the field. Being unable to protect himself in any way, his head made contact with the door handle of the car, and the blood started to run down his face. Through all of this he saw nothing of Marie-Claude, and hoped she was safe.

About half a mile down the lane the car turned off into the courtyard of a prosperous-looking farm. The place had been taken over. There were half a dozen cars parked outside the door, and no sign of the farmer or his family. Andrew was dragged out by his hair, pushed into the front room of the farm, and thrown into an old armchair. The blood had run into his eyes and he wiped it away by rubbing his face on the arm of the chair.

The man who seemed to be in charge was the younger of the two who had visited Louis Rocaire on the previous afternoon. He said, “You are in trouble, Mr. Siward. In bad trouble. There is only one way in which you can help yourself. That is by handing back the property which you stole from us last night.”

Andrew said nothing. He was shaking his head to try and clear it.

“You could be heroic. I hope not. We should start by removing your left eye.”

“I have not the least intention of being heroic. You can certainly have back the packages of which I took temporary charge last night. There is only one difficulty. When one buries something in a wood at night, one can find it again. But it is not possible to explain to someone else where to find it.”

The dark-haired man considered the point. Then he nodded his head towards the two men who had brought Andrew in. Andrew had already begun to think of them as Laurel and Hardy. One was thin and serious, the other was a stout, jolly Marseillais who might have been a sailor.

“Go with him. If he seems to be wasting time, you can do what you like — to encourage him to move more quickly.”

By finding the wrong tree twice Andrew managed to waste a certain amount of time. The second mistake cost him two inches of knife blade in the flesh of his left arm. In less than an hour’s time the three of them were back in the farmhouse. Blood from the wound in his arm had soaked Andrew’s sleeve and was dripping steadily onto the floor. He felt sick and dizzy and guessed, from the look on the dark-haired man s face, that he had not long to live.