There was a curious stillness between them. Chavasse said, in a harsh, unemotional voice, “I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about.”
“Neither do I, man.” Jones grinned, and the moment passed. “You want to eat, we’d better move.”
They made their way through the sand dunes and started across the beach above the wooden jetty. Chavasse pointed toward the motor launch moored beside it. “Is that the boat?”
Jones nodded. “It kind of fits in with Jacaud, wouldn’t you say?”
“What do you make of him?”
Jones shrugged. “He’d sell his sister or his grandmother for a bottle of rum at the right time. He’s on two a day at the moment and escalating.”
“And the man who works for him-Mercier?”
“Frightened of his own shadow. Lives in a cottage on the other side of the village. Just him and his wife. She’s some kind of an invalid. A walking vegetable. He jumps when Jacaud roars.”
“And Rossiter?”
Jones smiled softly. “You like the question bit, don’t you?”
Chavasse shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Okay, I will. You know what a zombie is?”
Chavasse frowned. “Something to do with voodoo, isn’t it?”
“To be precise, a dead man brought out of his grave before corruption’s had a chance to set in.”
“And given life, is that what you’re trying to say?”
“A kind of life, to walk the night and do his master’s bidding-a creature of pure, mindless evil.”
“And that’s Rossiter.”
“That’s Rossiter.” The Jamaican laughed harshly. “The funny thing is, he used to be a priest-a Jesuit priest.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Ran out of matches one night, so I knocked on his door. He didn’t seem to be around.”
“And your natural curiosity got the better of you?”
“What else, man? There were a couple of interesting photographs in the bottom right-hand drawer of his dressing table. He hasn’t changed much. There’s a nice one dated 1949 of about twenty of them in a group-looks like graduation day at the seminary. The other was taken in 1951 in Korea. Shows him with a half dozen kids at the gate of some mission or other.”
He was still thinking about it as they turned into the courtyard of the Running Man.
CHAPTER 6
English Channel
The main room of the inn was deserted when they entered, and Jones went behind the bar and took down a bottle of cognac and two glasses from the shelf.
“Join me?” he said.
Chavasse nodded. “Why not?”
There was a sudden bellow of anger as Jacaud appeared through the rear door. “Put those down. You hear me, you black ape?”
Jones looked him over calmly, not a flicker of emotion on his face. “Sure I hear you,” he observed, in very reasonable French.
He uncorked the bottle and filled both glasses. Jacaud took a quick step toward him, grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.
“Jacaud!” Rossiter spoke from the doorway, his voice full of steel, brooking no denial.
Jacaud turned reluctantly. “They don’t even pay,” he muttered lamely.
Rossiter ignored him and came forward. He was wearing gray slacks, a hand-knitted fisherman’s sweater and steel-rimmed spectacles. He carried a slim book in one hand, a finger marking his place.
“Be my guests, gentlemen.”
“Are you going to join us?” Chavasse inquired.
“Mr. Rossiter don’t drink,” Jones said. “We’re on our own, man.”
He saluted Chavasse, emptied his glass in a single swallow and filled it again. Jacaud, scowling, took down a bottle and glass for himself and retired to the other end of the bar.
“You’ve been for a walk, I see,” Rossiter said.
Chavasse nodded. “That’s right. It’s quite a spot. They must do well in the tourist season round here.”
“Too far off the beaten track and they don’t encourage strangers.”
“I was wondering when we make our move.”
“I can’t be certain. We have one more passenger. It depends when he arrives. It could be today or tomorrow.”
“And what’s the form when we do go?”
“You’ll be told at the appropriate time. No need to worry. We know what we’re doing.”
Behind them, a soft voice said hesitatingly, “May I come in?”
Famia stood in the doorway, her flawless complexion set off to perfection by a scarlet sari. There was a silver rope necklace about her neck, gold bracelets on the wrists. It was the reactions of his companions that interested Chavasse most. Jones was giving her the kind of appraisal you saw on the face of a connoisseur in an art gallery when confronted with something of value. Jacaud gazed at her with ill-concealed lust. And Rossiter? Rossiter seemed transfixed. His face had turned very pale, which made the eyes seem bluer than ever, and then a strange thing happened. He smiled, and it was as if something had melted inside.
He went forward and gave her his arm. “They should be ready for us. Shall we go in?” he said, and took her through into the dining room.
He had left his book on the bar counter and Chavasse picked it up. It was the Everyman edition of
There were times when Chavasse got the distinct impression that he was the only sane person in a world gone mad. This was very definitely one of them. He emptied his glass, nodded to Jones and went after them.
THERE was a large walled garden behind the inn, a sad sort of place with gnarled apple trees long since run to seed from lack of proper attention. There were no flowers as yet, for it was still too early in the season and last year’s grass overflowed onto the narrow paths, still uncut.
Famia walked there, Rossiter at her side, a figure from Brueghel in her scarlet sari, vivid against that gray- green landscape. She laughed, and the sound rose on the quiet air to the window of Chavasse’s room, where he sat with Jones, watching from behind the curtain.
“First time I’ve seen him smile,” the Jamaican said.
“She’s certainly touched something,” Chavasse replied. “But I’m not sure what.”
Rossiter murmured to the girl, turned and went away. She walked on by herself, pausing to look up at a blackbird on a branch above her head. A moment later, Jacaud appeared.
He was obviously drunk and swayed slightly as he moved forward, staring at her unwinkingly. She failed to see him, still intent on the blackbird, until he reached out and touched her shoulder. She turned, recoiling immediately, but he caught her by the arm, pulled her close and kissed her. Perhaps he meant no more than that, for as she cried out, struggling to be free, he laughed.
Jones beat Chavasse to the door by a short head. They went down the stairs, along the passage and out through the kitchen. Already they were too late.
Rossiter stood halfway between them and Jacaud, an arm around the girl. Very gently, he put her to one side; his hand slipped into his pocket and came out holding the ivory Madonna.
Jacaud didn’t even try to escape, that was the strangest thing of all. He fell on his knees, his great face
