There were dead British soldiers lying in the street—he had dummy4
only this moment left another one of them, newly-dead —
killed in France and not yet buried. And the dirty bastards were already picking up the spoils—the dirty thieving swine!
He launched himself down the street in a red haze of rage, kicking obstructions out of the way, and fetched up within striking distance of the youth before another coherent thought could cross his mind.
'Get off that machine!' he barked. 'Get off— d'you hear me —
And that might not be an order delivered in French, but—by God! it's meaning out to be plain enough, he told himself hotly.
The youth tossed his head insolently and rotated his hands on the handlebars.
'Get off!' shouted Bastable. 'At once!'
The youth smirked at him—he was hardly older than the errand boys Bastable's retained for their parcel deliveries —
and pronounced a single word. And although it was a French word its vulgar meaning was also immediately clear to Bastable.
His anger passed the point of incandescence, consumed itself and suddenly became deadly cold. He knew now, as he fumbled with his webbing holster—he knew now with a horrible icy certainty that he would shoot this youth dead in five seconds if he refused to get off the motor-cycle.
Then something hard poked him in the back, just below the dummy4
right shoulder blade.
'Non,' said someone behind him.
Bastable swung round and found himself staring into the twin mouths of a double-barrelled shotgun.
The shotgun was held by a villainous-looking bandit whose expression indicated not only that he was quite capable of squeezing both triggers but also that it would give him great personal satisfaction to do so.
Bastable's own murderous anger dissolved into fear as he identified the emotion behind the expression: it was the same one that he himself had experienced seconds before—
the mad glare of impotent rage which had at last found something to expend itself on. It was his own finger on the trigger of the gun that was pointed at him.
The understanding of his own imminent death froze him into immobility, hand on holster.
'Levez . . . Poot up ... the 'ands.'
There were other men behind the man with the shotgun, and it was one of them who spoke. It seemed impossible to Bastable that he should not have seen or heard them behind him, but he hadn't.
He put up his hands so quickly that for a heart-stopping moment—as he did so, but before he could stop himself— he thought the shotgun man would blow him to pieces.
Someone detached himself from the blur of individuals: a short, fat little man in a dusty black suit but no collar and tie, dummy4
only a gold collar-stud.
Not the face, but the whole man and the air of authority he still carried sparked Bastable's memory. He had seen this one before, only once and from afar, but the image was there—of a short, fat little man arguing with the Adjutant outside the Town Hall of Colembert.
It was the Mayor.
This deduction fanned a quick flame of hope in him. The Mayor might be anti-British—he might even be a damn Red, if Wimpy was to be believed. But he was still an official of local government, and presumably a man of substance as well. Even in Colembert—even if Colembert wasn't Eastbourne—that must count for something.
Somewhere below, in the lower town, there came a rumble and crash of falling masonry.
Colembert wasn't Eastbourne.
The Mayor of Colembert was speaking to him now —hissing those meaningless words at him, which he couldn't understand. If only Wimpy was here!
dummy4
Assassin?
That wasn't fair.
'I am a British officer!' he snapped back. 'Britain and France
—'
He felt a movement at his side, where his holster was: the youth was relieving him of his revolver! But before he could think of lowering his arm to prevent the theft the shotgun jerked menacingly at him, countermanding the
