Peter O'Donnell - Cobra Trap

There came a heavy thudding sound from close outside, and with strange certainty she knew that he was using a pickaxe or heavy crowbar to dig away the ground by the outer base of the rock so that it would move readily. After a few minutes the thudding stopped and part of his face reappeared at the gap. "Soon, mam'selle. Soon now."

"Thank you. Please tell me your name." She wondered if she inwardly feared hallucination and was seeking his name to give him reality.

"Me? I am Old Alex, mam'selle. Alex Mirot, from the Mirot farm. And you?"

"Modesty Blaise. From England."

"Enchanted to make your acquaintance, mam'selle. You speak very good French." She saw part of a smile on the brown face, then he was gone and she heard him shouting, urging Napoleon on.

The rock shook, and its base shifted a few centimetres. A crowbar was thrust through the gap, levering against the edge of the cavemouth, then sunlight blazed suddenly in upon her as the rock rolled and settled, leaving an ample gap on one side. She crawled through into the open, got slowly to her feet and stood with head tilted back, eyes halfclosed against the light, breathing deeply.

Old Alex was taking the chains from round the boulder. Napoleon, a massive ox, stood waiting patiently to be reharnessed to the long cart that stood a little way off. Slowly she absorbed the scene, and realised that the cart must have been moving over a patch of gravel at the foot of the gentle slope when she heard it.

She swayed, and Old Alex dropped the chains and moved towards her. Weakness was mounting in her now, but her mind was strangely clear and perceptive. She saw that this greyhaired French farmer was as fit as a lifetime of hard work and contentment would make a man. He was of medium height with a square face, blue eyes and a gentle manner, concerned for her now as he said, "You must rest, mam'selle. There are sacks in the cart for you to lie on. I will take you home."

She knew her face must be gaunt, her cheeks sunken, and her appearance had worried him, but she managed to smile as she said, "Thank you, Old Alex. Thank you from my heart."

Then abruptly her strength was gone and she would have fallen if he had not caught her. He stooped to slip an arm beneath her knees and straightened up, cradling her with her head against his shoulder, her eyes closed in deepest sleep. He spoke a word to Napoleon, and moved towards the cart, looking down at the pallid face. " Ah, la pauvre petite," he said softly, and shook his head in bewilderment. "Bloody hell…!"

The Mirot farm stood between woodland and pasture, a kilometre from the cave and three kilometres from any other habitation. From it, a carttrack led down through the subalpine terrain to a lateral road through the foothills. Four generations lived in the rambling farmhouse and outbuildings, and in the four days since she had been brought here Modesty had seen them all but had little idea of who was related to whom.

Of the oldest generation there were only two—Old Alex and Matilde, a quiet, sharpeyed woman, perhaps a year or two younger than Alex and presumably a spinster since she wore no wedding ring.

There were two men and three women in their late forties and early fifties. Of these, Pierre Mirot was evidently the head of the family, and it was his wife, Beatrice, who had taken upon herself the task of looking after Modesty, bringing her very small dishes of bread and milk every hour or so for the first two days, then moving on to eggs, meat and fish, again in small portions.

Modesty had no idea who the other man and two women were, but had learnt their names and thought one of the women was the man's wife. The third generation consisted of two boys and two girls ranging from eighteen to twentyfour or five, offspring of Pierre, Beatrice and the others. These young ones had themselves produced three small children, two boys and a girl.

It was soon apparent to Modesty after she roused from her first long sleep that her arrival was the most exciting event the Mirot family had known for a long time. In turn they all came to see her in the little bedroom she had been given. None showed any hint of peasant dourness, and she was touched by the courtesy they displayed in asking no questions they felt might distress her.

She had told Pierre the simple truth, that she had been walking along when she had been hit by a dart she found in her leg later, and that when she came round she found herself in the cave. She also told him she had no idea who would wish to do such a thing to her, which was true in particular but not in general, for she had no wish to speak of her background. She suspected that the family felt she had been only three or four days in the cave rather than ten, and she made no attempt to correct this belief, for again she had no wish to explain how she had managed to stay alive for what seemed an impossible time.

The Mirot family appeared to get on remarkably well together. Like Beatrice, they all took to calling her Modesty, and showed unfailing consideration. On the second day Pierre asked if she wished to inform anyone of her safety and whereabouts. There was a village with a telephone only three kilometres down the track, and he would gladly drive her there tomorrow if she felt well enough. The farm owned a car, he informed her, a Citroen, old but with some mileage left in her. Money? She was not to concern herself. She was a guest of the family, and Old Alex would be greatly upset if she distressed herself about a few francs.

So it was that on the third day she was able to phone Willie Garvin and tell him something of what had happened, but she cut short his startled questions. "No, leave it, Willie. Details when I see you. I'm fine now, but if you're free I'd be glad if you'd come out here in about a week's time. I'll ring the hotel at Lacourt and tell them you'll pick up my hired car and deliver it to the garage. Then there's something special I'd like you to do for me as a thankyou to these good people—

From the fourth day onward she was up and about, eating with the family in the big kitchen, gaining lost weight and restoring muscletone. Janine, one of the younger girls, had lent her a few clothes, and shoes were no problem for she had gone unshod throughout the years of her childhood. She particularly enjoyed the evening meal in the kitchen. The Mirot family were much given to argument and there was invariably a babble of voices raised in dispute on any subject that might come up either on the radio or in the newspaper collected daily from the village.

Old Alex intrigued her. He was the oldest member, certainly not married to the elderly Matilde she realised as time went on, and apparently none of the others was his son or daughter or grandchild, yet he was clearly much respected and treated with affection by all.

To her surprise she now knew that he had in fact said "Bloody hell!" that day at the cave, for she had several times heard him use it again as an interjection. Occasionally other odd English words emerged. A grumbling "dim view" was familiar to her, but something that sounded like "wizard prang" rang only the faintest of bells. The rest of the family took these oddities for granted, they were just things Old Alex had always said.

Her fifth day at the farm was a Sunday. Pierre drove Beatrice and the three children to the village church. The rest of the family, apart from Matilde, walked the three kilometres. For the first time Modesty found herself alone on the farm with the old lady, sitting with her at the kitchen table as she started to prepare a great mound of vegetables for the Sunday dinner.

Modesty said, "Can I help, Matilde?"

A brisk shake of the head. "You must rest, child, rest. Old Alex will be cross with me if I allow you to work. He will start with his bloody hells."