rang. 'No, I will say nothing more to the Press. And I'd like to know who leaked the story yesterday. The media is crawling all over the ground in helicopters. What do you mean they can't crawl in 'copters? They land in them and then...' He slammed the phone down and lumbered to his feet. 'Just let me lay my hands on this English turd. I'll squeeze the truth out of him if it has to come out of his arsehole.'
'Monsieur le Commissaire, we have already told him some special agents are coming from Paris,' said the Inspector.
'They needn't bother. By the time I'm through with him there'll be nothing left for them to play with.'
Major Fetherington lay on his stomach with his head turned sideways and contemplated the wall uncertainly. Like everyone else in the Boosat gendarmerie, he hadn't the foggiest notion what had really happened at the Chateau Carmagnac but for the moment he'd spared himself the ordeal Slymne was quite clearly going through. To the Major it sounded like an advanced form of hell and he thanked God he'd given the sods what they'd wanted a load of codswallop. And in another way it was satisfying. Old Gloddie must have done something pretty gruesome to have warranted roadblocks, helicopters and accusations that he and Slymne were agents of the Secret Service, and good luck to him. The Major had never had much time for the French and Gloddie had given it to them where it hurt and got away with it. And he wasn't sneaking on the old ass to a lot of Frog cops who were doing whatever they were doing (the Major preferred not to think about it) to Slymne. Reaching over the side of the bed he found his socks and tried to block his ears with them and had partially succeeded when Slymne stopped yelling and the cell door opened.
'What about my clothes?' asked the Major with a quaver as they dragged him to his feet. Commissaire Roudhon studied his stained Y-fronts with disgust.
'You're not going to need any where you're going,' he said softly. 'You may require shoes though. Give him a blanket.'
'What's happening?' said the Major, now thoroughly frightened.
'You're taking us to the spot where you buried that parachute.'
'Oh, my God,' whimpered the Major. He could see now he'd made a terrible mistake.
Chapter 22
The Countess sat in the coffee-lounge in Weymouth waiting for the Bentley to come through Customs. She had sent Peregrine along to the statue of George III and would have made herself scarce too if it hadn't been for the gold bars. She had bought the Daily Telegraph and had learnt that the assassination of Professor Botwyk was already causing an international furore. Like Slymne, she knew the efficiency of the French police and she was lumbered with two halfwits. Without her to think for them they'd end up in the hands of Scotland Yard and with the American government now involved the FBI would backtrack her to California and through her various aliases to her arrival in the States and Miss Surrey and finally to Selsdon Road and Constance Sugg. She could see how easily it would be done. Anthony at Groxbourne, the missing revolvers she'd made a terrible mistake mere Glodstone's account of her 'letters' and Peregrine's pride in being such a good shot...Worst of all, whoever had set her up had done a spectacular job.
Once again she cursed men. All her life she had had to fight to maintain her independence and now just when she had it all made to be her quiet surburban self she was being forced to think ruthlessly. And think she did. By the time the Bentley nosed off the ferry, she had made up her mind. She got up and walked down the road where Glodstone could see her and waited for him. 'No problems with Customs?' she enquired as she climbed in behind him.
'No,' said Glodstone glumly. 'Where's Peregrine?'
'By the statue. He can wait. You and me is going to have a quiet talk.'
'What about?'
'This,' said the Countess and put the newspaper on his lap.
