delivered by an expert-the thought was there and yet was not there, and in the same moment vision returned.
He looked up into the face of a ravaged saint, an Anthony burned clear to the bone by the heat of the wilderness. Beneath the drift of flaxen hair, the pale blue eyes were empty. There was no love here, no cruelty either, and he crouched beside Chavasse in a kind of meditation, an exquisite ivory Madonna clasped in both hands.
Chavasse was aware of the Smith amp; Wesson hard against his back, secure in its spring holster. Famia Nadeem stood beside the van, hands together, terror on her face, and Jacaud stood beside her. Chavasse decided to play it cool for another couple of minutes. He came back to Rossiter, stared at him vacantly and ran a hand across his eyes.
The Englishman slapped him in the face. “Can you hear me, Chavasse?” Chavasse struggled up on one elbow, and Rossiter smiled briefly. “I was beginning to think I must have hit you harder than I had intended.”
“Hard enough.” Chavasse sat up, rubbing the nape of his neck with one hand. “You’ve heard from Skiros, I presume?”
“Naturally. He gives me to understand that you have in your possession a considerable sum of money belonging to the organization I work for. Where is it?”
“In a safe place back in Saint Brieuc. I decided it would make what a poker player might term a good ace-in- the-hole. Who am I talking to, by the way? You’re not Jacaud, that’s for sure.”
“Monsieur Jacaud you have already met. My name is Rossiter.”
“And he and Skiros work for you?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Then I don’t think much of the way your organization treats the cash customers. When I reached Marseilles, Skiros sent me on my way to the wrong destination with a couple of goons on my tail to rob me. When I went back to the ship to talk things over, he was doing his best to rape the girl. On top of that, he’d taken her for a lot of money. I don’t know how well he’s been doing for you, but I’d say his bank account would make interesting reading.”
Rossiter didn’t seem to be listening. He had turned to Famia Nadeem, a frown on his face. When he went forward, she glanced down and he put a hand under her chin and tilted it up.
“Is he telling the truth?”
Strangely enough, all her fear seemed to have vanished. She looked up at him calmly and nodded. Rossiter turned abruptly and came back to Chavasse. His eyes were bleak and there was an expression of utter desolation on his face.
“What a world,” he said softly. “What a filthy, loathsome world.” He took a deep breath, something clicked, and he was himself again. “Get up!”
Chavasse did as he was told, producing the Smith amp; Wesson at the same time. Jacaud gave a kind of angry cry, but Rossiter waved him to silence. He stood, feet slightly apart, tossing the ivory Madonna high into the air and catching it again in his right hand.
“Now what?”
“Now nothing,” Chavasse said. “I just want to get to London in one piece and fade into the background.”
“Understandable enough.” Rossiter actually smiled. “Ten years in an Australian jail can hardly have been an exciting prospect. I believe they still run their penal system on rather old-fashioned lines.”
Chavasse managed to look suitably astonished. “Is there anything you don’t know, sport?”
“Not where clients are concerned.”
Chavasse sighed and put the Smith amp; Wesson away. “I’ve had my bellyful of trouble during the past few months, Rossiter. I don’t want any more. Just get me to England, that’s all I ask. I’ll pay whatever is necessary. That business in Marseilles was all Skiros, believe me.”
Rossiter slipped the Madonna into his right pocket. “The money? Where is it?”
Chavasse told him. He also took off his right shoe and produced the key, which Rossiter immediately tossed to Jacaud. “We’ll wait for you here. You can take the Renault.”
Jacaud moved away through the trees without a word and Chavasse lit a cigarette. So far so good. He looked down through the pine trees toward the sea and smiled.
“Nice country. I was looking forward to this bit of the trip. My father came from Brittany, you know.”
“I was wondering about your French,” Rossiter said. “It’s quite excellent.”
“My mother was English, of course, but we’ve never used anything else but French in the house since I can remember. My old man wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Rossiter nodded, produced a slim leather case from his breast pocket, and selected a thin black cheroot, which he lit carefully. “Tell me something about the girl.”
She was sitting in the passenger seat, watching them. Chavasse threw her a smile. “I only know what she’s told me.”
He went through her story quickly, and when he had finished, Rossiter nodded briefly. “She’s very young to have gone through so much.”
He said it as if he meant it, with real sympathy in his voice, and moved toward her. Chavasse sat down on a fallen log and watched them. Rossiter was speaking; the girl answered. Suddenly she was smiling, and a few moments later, laughed out loud. And Rossiter laughed with her, that was the strangest thing of all, so that for a short time he seemed to be an entirely different person. Curiouser and curiouser…
Chavasse gave up for the moment, got to his feet and walked to the edge of the clearing, breathing in the scent of damp pines, the good salt air from the sea, the smell that always brought the Brittany of his boyhood back to him, wherever he was. It would have been nice to have surprised his grandfather at Vaux. The old man would have loved that-an unexpected visit from his clever half-English grandson who lectured at a university whose name he could never remember. A little bit too much of the scholar with his doctorate in modern languages, but still a Chavasse for all that.
Chavasse stared down through the trees toward the sea, remembering boyhood a thousand years ago and all its wonderful dreams. And now he had returned to Brittany and he could not go to Vaux….
A horn sounded through the trees. Jacaud had arrived, and he sighed and came back to the present as Rossiter called to him.
CHAPTER 5
Brittany
St. Denise was twenty or thirty granite cottages amongst pine trees fringing a horseshoe cove that was a natural harbor. There was a wooden jetty of sorts, with an old thirty-foot launch moored to it that looked as if it had seen better days. The tide was turning, and four clinker-built fishing cobles moved out to sea, line astern. A similar boat lay stranded on the beach above the high-water mark and two men worked on her hull.
Chavasse took it all in as the van moved out of the trees along the narrow road that merged into the main street of the village. The only sign of life was a stray dog sitting mournfully in the rain outside a cottage door.
The van left the village behind, and almost stalled as Jacaud dropped two gears to negotiate a steep hill. The Running Man was at the top, a two-storied granite house sheltering behind high walls. Jacaud turned through an archway and halted in the cobbled courtyard inside. Chavasse got out and looked around with interest. The whole place had a strangely forlorn look about it and badly needed a coat of paint. A shutter banged to and fro in the wind, and when he glanced up, a curtain moved slightly at a window, as if it had been pulled to one side while someone glanced out.
The Renault entered the courtyard and pulled up just behind the van. Famia got out and stood there, looking uncertain. Rossiter came round from the other side, picked up her suitcase and took her elbow. She looked tired, ready to drop at any moment. He leaned over her solicitously, murmured something and took her inside.
Chavasse turned to Jacaud. “What about me?”
“If I had my way, you could sleep in the pigsty.”
“Careful,” Chavasse said. “You’ll be making sounds like a man next. Now let’s try again.”
Jacaud went inside without a word and Chavasse picked up his suitcase and followed him. He paused to
