letters. If Glodstone had kept them, nobody could prove he'd sent them. And in a sense he was relieved. It was all over.
It wasn't. He was woken from this rhapsody of exhaustion by the car doors being opened and with the guns aimed at them they were ordered out.
'Can't,' said the Major adamantly, 'Ce n'est pas possible. Ma bloody derriere est blesse et je m'assis sur une tube de pneu.' But in spite of his protests he was dragged out and made to stand against a wall.
'Bloody disgraceful,' he muttered, as they were frisked, 'I'd like to see a British bobby try this sort of thing with me. Ouch!'
'Silence,' said the sergeant. They were prodded apart while the car was searched and their luggage was laid out on the road. It included the inner-tube and a bottle the Major had used to save himself the agony of getting out for a pee. After five minutes two police cars drew up on the far side of the barrier and several men in plain clothes moved towards them.
'Seem to be taking an interest in our passports,' said the Major and was promptly told to keep his trap shut. Slymne stared over the wall at a row of poplars by the river and tried to keep his eyes open. It was hot in the sun and butterflies soared and dropped about the meadow in the still air, alighting for no apparent reason on a small flower when there was a larger one only a foot away. Slymne took comfort in their random choice. Chance is all, he thought, and I am not responsible for what has happened. Say nothing and they can do nothing.
To the little group of policemen studying his passport, things looked rather different. The ferry ticket was in it. 'Entered France yesterday and they're here already?' said Commissaire Ficard, 'They must have driven all night without stopping.'
He looked significantly at the Major's bottle and its murky contents. 'Occupation, schoolmaster. Could be a cover. Anything suspicious in their luggage?'
Two plain-clothes cops emptied the suitcases onto the road and went through their contents.
'Nothing.'
'And what's the inner-tube doing there?'
'The other man was sitting on it, Monsieur le Commissaire. Claims to have a wounded backside.'
The mention of wounds decided Commissaire Ficard. 'Take them in for questioning,' he said, 'And I want that car stripped. Nobody drives here from Calais that fast without good reason. They must have exceeded the speed limit in any case. And check with the ferries. I'm interested in these two.'
As the Major was hustled into the van he made things worse. 'Keep your filthy paws off me, you oaf,' he snapped and found himself lying on the floor. Slymne went quietly. Being arrested had come as a relief to his conscience.
Outside Poitiers the Countess put the boot in. 'So we need gas. Now if you want to pull in at the next station with a description of a glass-eyed man circulating that's your problem. I don't want any part of it. You can drop me off here and I'll walk.'
'What do you suggest?' asked Glodstone. He had long since given up trying to think for himself.
'That you drive up the next quiet road and you and Al Capone Junior take a break and I drive on and have her filled up.'
'A car like this isn't easy to drive, you know. You have to have had experience of non-synchromesh gears and...'
'You double-declutch. I'll practise.'
'I suppose it might be a good idea,' Glodstone admitted and turned onto a side road. For ten minutes the Countess drove while Peregrine sat in the back and Glodstone prayed she wouldn't strip the gears.
'OK?' she asked finally.
Glodstone nodded but Peregrine still had reservations. 'How do we know you'll come back? I
