Gavin Lyall - Midnight Plus One

I could have used a real drink; I'd been awake and active a lot longer than any of the market porters in the café. But I reckoned that if Harvey could stay off it, the least I could do was stay with him.

I glanced round the table. The girl shook her head. Maganhard didn't bother to look at me. Harvey said: 'Not for me, thanks. But you have one.'

I told the waiter No, thanks.

We sipped at the coffee and tore up the croissants, which were fresh and warm. Somebody at the next table had a transistor radio pumping out information on the day's racing, and a keen audience crowded around commenting on the three-leggedness of the runners.

Miss Jarman asked: 'Why didn't you choose a more northerly route – Orleans, Dijon, and Neuchatel?'

'Because I like this route.'

The radio said:'Maganhard.'

'I froze. The radio said: '… grand yacht de luxe appartenant à un financier international a été arrêté par une frégate de guerre auprès de la côte…'

Somebody turned the radio off.

I looked at Maganhard: 'Oh, you bloody nit,' I said. 'You hadn't even got the sense to stay outside the three-mile limit – and now your crew's singing the whole story in Brest.'

Harvey said: 'I mean let's not start fighting out loud in here, hey?'

I took a deep breath and a firm hold on my common sense. 'That's right. Nobody heard it, okay? We're still just tourists.'

The waiter banged the cream jug down in front of Miss Jarman.

Harvey said casually: 'So what's the new plan?'

'We have to assume the crew talked. So they know Maganhard's ashore, probably where he's heading. They'll know you're with him-' I nodded at the girl. 'Would they know who we are?'

Maganhard said: 'I don't believe so.'

Harvey asked: 'What about the car – want to try and switch it?'

I thought about that, then shook my head. 'I don't think they'll have the car number yet. It'll take them a few hours to establish it's missing and get that on the teleprinters. We can't hire a car without showing a passport, and if we pinch one, they're likely to havethatnumber as soon as they get the Citroën's. Particularly since we'd have to dump the Citroen. No, we'll just keep on. But' – I turned to Maganhard -'you can forget any idea of being in L. tonight. We're on side roads from here on.'

'Why?'

'I don't think local cops will worry us. They'll get the news slowly, and they won't take it seriously. A village policeman won'texpect to catch an international businessman, so he won't really look. It's the Sûreté Nationalethat'll be looking for us. They're good – but they stick to the main roads. So if we keep off theroutes nationaleswe should be clear. But we'll be slow.'

Maganhard stared at the last of his coffee, then looked up at me, totally without expression. 'All right. If I can send a message some time today, I can waste another night.'

Harvey said: 'Let's go, then.'

I had enough change to cover the bill, so I left it on the table, picked up my briefcase, and we strolled out. We dropped almost naturally into pairs: Maganhard, with Harvey on his outside, then me and Miss Jarman following.

There were more cars parked in the square by now. A grey Mercedes just behind the Citroen, and a little green Renault 4L just in front. Harvey and Maganhard reached the car a couple of yards ahead of us – and kept going-. Then I saw why. I slid an arm round Miss Jarman's shoulders, smiled into her face, and said: 'Just keep walking. We're in trouble here.'

We went round the corner, and the one after that. Harvey and Maganhard were waiting for us, Maganhard tucked into a doorway.

Harvey said: 'You're jammed by those two cars, aren't you?'

'Yes. And they've both got Paris numbers.'

He nodded. 'So no accident. What now?'

'It can't be the cops: they wouldn't do it that way. So it's our business friends. They'll be waiting somewhere with a view of the cars.'

'That caféin the square.'

'That's my guess.'

Harvey stretched his fingers and then clenched them. 'Okay,' he said quietly. 'Let's go suggest they shift their cars.' He turned to Maganhard. 'I don't like leaving you alone, but we don't have a choice. You stick here and we'll pick you up. Okay, Cane?'

I stuck the briefcase in the doorway, blocked the view with my body, and slipped the Mauser under my raincoat and into my waistband. It was about as comfortable as walking around in an iron lung, but not quite as obvious.

We walked back round the first corner. Without needing to talk it over, we went past the street leading to the square, and turned at the next, to come up beside the caféwithout showing ourselves to its windows.

As we reached the square again, Harvey stopped and looked carefully around. A couple of workmen ambled out of sight past the parked cars on the other side of the square.

I looked over my shoulder into the street we'd come up. It was narrow, shadowed, and nobody seemed to be using it to go anywhere. 'You know, if I was wanting a quiet talk about borrowing some car keys, I'd take it here rather than in the café.'

Harvey moved his head in a very faint nod, and led the way.

We hadn't expected any trouble in finding them, and there wasn't any: in that crowd of market workers, the three of them stood out like crocodiles in a goldfish pond. And they were where they had to be: at a table alongside the window, near the door, with a little stack of francs beside their coffee cups so that they could dive out at any time without the waiter chasing them for payment.

Harvey looked them over and chose the leader: a fat man in his late forties, wearing last year's raincoat and yesterday's beard. Harvey leant down so that his mac hung open to shield his right hand from the rest of the café.

'Venez faire une promenade, mes enfants?'he suggested quietly.

The fat man went very still and just rolled his yellowish eyes sideways at Harvey. I moved up between the other two, giving them a confident smile and a good look at the big Mauser in my waistband. Then I faded back out of reach to keep an eye on the cafécrowd.

Nobody had noticed us yet; the waiter was out of sight and the rest were chattering busily.

Harvey said:'Marchez'

The fat man suddenly jabbed both hands against the table to shove himself clear. There was a silver flash and a thump, and his fat face twisted in silent pain. He moved his left hand slowly to comfort his right, still flat on the table edge and beginning to bleed a little.

Harvey drew back the Smith and Wesson close to his body and slowly thumbed the hammer back to full cock. The click was lost in the noise of the cafébehind us. The fat man opened his eyes and watched sombrely. Harvey turned the gun towards him and pulled the trigger. He was Still holding back the hammer, so it didn't fire; the fat man made a gulping sound.

Now anything that dislodged Harvey's thumb would fire the gun: it was about as safe as a grenade with a half-second fuse. No sane man believes he can knock aside a gun in that condition; all he believes is that he can get himself shot accidentally by making too sudden a movement.

We seemed to have been there a long time; the waiter was going to pop up and ask what we wanted – and find out. I began to sweat. But the fat man was sweating a lot harder.

Then he frowned once, just for his own self-respect, and made a very small gesture to show he was ready to get up. Harvey stood back. The five of us marched out in a close line like five trucks on a freight train.

We went round the corner and past a bend that put the square out of sight from our side of the street. Harvey halted the procession and held out his left hand:'Les clefs de la Mercedes et la Renault.'

The fat man leant against the wall and started to explain that they weren't his cars and, anyway, what the Devil- Harvey just smiled. He had the sort of face for that sort of smile. It made me think of other walls, pitted with bullet marks, and blindfolds and firing squads. Then he pulled out his gun again, and this time you could hear the click.