“That’s it.” Chavasse ordered coffee and rolls. “They tell me there’s a bus to Dinard at nine o’clock. That’s definitely the earliest?”
Pinaud nodded as he poured the coffee. “You want to go to Dinard?”
“No, Saint Denise.”
The coffeepot froze in midair and the man glanced across warily. “Saint Denise? You want to go to Saint Denise?”
His reaction was more than interesting and Chavasse smiled amiably. “That’s right. My girlfriend and I are spending a few days’ holiday there. I’ve arranged to stay at an inn called the Running Man with a Monsieur Jacaud. You know him?”
“Perhaps, monsieur. A lot of people come in here.” He pushed the coffee and rolls across.
Chavasse took the two cups and the plate of rolls across to the table. As he sat down, Pinaud wiped the zinc top of the bar carefully, then moved to a door that obviously led to the rear, and vanished.
“I’ll only be a minute,” Chavasse told the girl, and went after him.
He found himself in a deserted, stone-flagged corridor. A notice at the far end indicated the lavatory. There was no sign of Pinaud. Chavasse started forward cautiously and paused. A door on his right was slightly ajar. From the sound of it, Pinaud was on the telephone. The interesting thing was that he was speaking in Breton, which Chavasse, whose paternal grandfather still presided over the family farm near Vaux in spite of his eighty years, spoke himself like a native.
“Hello, Jacaud. Those two packages you were expecting have arrived. The girl fits the description perfectly, but the man worries me. Speaks French like a Frenchman, or like a Frenchman should, if you follow me. Yes-okay. They’re waiting for the bus at nine.”
Chavasse slipped back into the cafe. Famia was already on her second roll. “Hurry up,” she said. “Your coffee will be getting cold.”
“Never mind. I’m just going across to the station to check on that bus time again. I won’t be long.”
He went out into the rain without giving her a chance to reply and hurried across to the station. It was still deserted, but he quickly found what he was looking for, a series of metal lockers, each with its own key, where luggage might be left. He took out his wallet and also the extra money he had taken from Skiros. He pushed the whole lot well to the rear of the locker, closed it quickly and concealed the key beneath the insole of his right shoe.
Famia was looking anxious when he returned to the cafe. He patted her hand reassuringly and went back to the counter.
“I wondered what had happened to you,” Pinaud said.
Chavasse shrugged. “I thought there might be a local train or something. It’s a hell of a time to wait.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Pinaud gave him a big smile. “You just sit tight and have another coffee. Lots of farmers and market people are in and out of here at this time in the morning. I’ll get you a lift to Saint Denise. Someone is bound to be going that way.”
“Very decent of you. Perhaps you’d join me in a cognac? It’s a cold morning.”
“An excellent idea.” Pinaud reached for a bottle and a couple of glasses and filled them quickly. “Your good health, monsieur.” He raised his glass and smiled.
Chavasse smiled right back. “And yours.”
The brandy burned all the way down. He picked up his coffee and returned to the table to await events.
PEOPLE came and went, mainly porters from the nearby market, and Chavasse bought the girl another coffee and waited. It was perhaps half an hour later when the old van turned out of a narrow street on the other side of the square.
He watched it idly as it approached, and noticed a Renault emerge from the same street and halt at the curbside. The van came on and braked no more than a couple of yards from the cafe window. Jacaud got out.
The girl reacted immediately. “That man-what a terrible face. He seems so…so completely evil.”
“Appearances can sometimes be very deceptive,” Chavasse told her.
Jacaud paused just inside the door, glancing casually around the room as if seeking a friend before proceeding to the counter, and yet he had marked them. Chavasse was sure of it. He purchased a packet of cigarettes, and Pinaud said something to him. He glanced over his shoulder at Chavasse and the girl, then turned away again. Pinaud poured him a cognac and came round the counter.
“You are in luck, monsieur,” he told Chavasse. “This man is going to Saint Denise. He has agreed to give you a lift.”
Chavasse turned to the girl and said in English: “Our good-looking friend has offered us a lift. Should we accept?”
“Is there any reason why we shouldn’t?”
He smiled and shook his head. “You’re really very refreshing, but hopelessly out of date. Still-never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Jacaud swallowed his cognac and crossed to the door. He paused and glanced down at Chavasse, face expressionless. “You are going to Saint Denise, I understand? I’m on my way there now. You’re welcome to a lift.”
“Wonderful,” Chavasse said brightly. “We’ll be right with you.”
Jacaud nodded briefly to Pinaud. “I’ll be in touch about further arrangements,” he said, in Breton, and went out.
He was already behind the wheel when Chavasse and the girl joined him. There was room for one passenger. The girl took the only seat, and Chavasse heaved the suitcases into the rear and climbed over the tailgate. The van started at once, bouncing its way across the cobbles, passing the parked Renault. He caught a quick glimpse of the driver, a flash of very fair hair, and then the Renault pulled away from the curb and came after them, which was interesting.
Chavasse touched the butt of the Smith amp; Wesson snug in its holster against his spine, then sat back and waited to see what was going to happen.
Within a few minutes, they had left the town and were proceeding along a narrow country road. The heavy rain and a slight ground mist reduced visibility considerably, but he caught an occasional glimpse of the sea in the distance beyond a fringe of pine trees.
The Renault stayed so close that he could see the driver clearly, a pale, aesthetic man with extraordinarily fair hair who looked more like a priest than anything else. They came to a crossroads at a place where the pinewoods seemed to move in on every side. The van carried straight on; the Renault turned left and disappeared. Chavasse frowned.
The van swerved into a narrow sandy track to the left and moved down through the pine trees toward the sea. A few moments later, the engine coughed a couple of times, faltered, then stopped completely. The van rolled to a halt, the door opened and Jacaud came round to the rear.
“Trouble?” Chavasse inquired.
“I’ve run out of fuel,” Jacaud said. “But it doesn’t matter. I always carry an emergency supply. At the back of the bench there.”
Chavasse found on old British Army jerrycan that looked as if it had been in use since Dunkirk. It was full, which made it awkward to handle in the confined space, and he had to use both hands, which was obviously exactly what Jacaud had counted on. As Chavasse heaved the jerrycan up on the tailgate with every sign of difficulty, the big man’s hand appeared from behind his back and the tire iron lever he was holding cracked down.
Only Chavasse wasn’t there any longer. He dodged to one side, holding the jerrycan in both hands with negligent ease, and the tire iron dented the edge of the tailgate. Jacaud was already moving backward out of harm’s way, every instinct that had kept him intact for forty-three years warning him that he had made a very bad mistake, but he was too late. The jerrycan took him full in the chest and he went over. He rolled onto his face and started to get up and Chavasse landed on his back.
The arm that clamped itself around Jacaud’s throat was like a steel band, cutting off his air supply so efficiently that he started to choke at once.
Chavasse wasn’t really sure what happened after that. He was aware of Famia screaming, calling his name, and then the light was switched off very suddenly. There was no pain-no pain at all. A blow to the base of the neck
