Vintage Stuff (12 page)

And it was the Bentley that most interested Slymne. As he wandered the streets or stared so
menacingly into shop windows his mind, hyped by too much caffeine, tried to devise ways of
following the car without keeping it in sight. In books it was quite simple. Reality was
something else again. So were boys. On the other hand if he could only bring the Bentley to a
halt in some lonely spot Glodstone would have to leave the car and go for help. Slymne remembered
the time when an enterprising fourteen-year-old at Groxbourne had stuffed a potato up the exhaust
pipe of the Art master's car to such good effect that the man had had to have it towed away and
the engine stripped before anyone had found out what was wrong. And there had been talk of
another master's car which had been wrecked before the War by adding sugar to it petrol tank.
Inspired by these memories, Slymne went into a café and ordered a calvados. Under its influence,
and that of a second, he reversed his order of priorities. If Glodstone started south again
Slymne could stay ahead of him by sticking to the main roads. Bu not in the Cortina. One glimpse
of its number plate would give the game away.

Slymne left the café in search of a garage where he could hire car. Having found one, he moved
his luggage from the Cortina to Citroën, bought two kilos of sugar, another kilo of nails,
several large cans of oil at different garages, and parked near the hotel. If Glodstone left that
night, he was in for a nasty surprise. Wearily he looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. He
would give Glodstone until midnight. But at ten-thirty the Bentley's bonnet poked cautiously from
the garage, paused for a moment and then swung south. Slymne let it go and when it had turned the
corner started the car and moved after it. Five minutes later he watched it turn onto the Anet
road. Slymne put his foot down, doing ninety on the N183, and before Glodstone could have entered
the Forêt de Dreux, the Citroën was six kilometres ahead of him.

In the event, he need not have hurried. Glodstone was taking his time. Twice he had turned
down side roads and switched off his lights.

'Because,' he said, 'I want to give them a chance to go by. They've been waiting to see what
we're going to do and they'll follow. But they won't know which road we've taken and they'll have
to look.'

'Yes, but when they don't find us, won't they watch the roads ahead?' asked Peregrine who was
enjoying himself unstrapping the revolvers from their hiding places beneath the seats.

Glodstone shook his head. 'They may later on, but for the moment they'll assume we're
travelling fast. I mean they would if they were in our shoes. But we'll move slowly. And France
is a big country. If we lose them here they'll have a thousand roads to search much further
south. And here, I think, they come.'

'How do you know?' whispered Peregrine as a Jaguar shot past the side road. Glodstone started
the Bentley.

'Because French headlights are yellow and those were white,' he said, 'and if I'm not
mistaken, our Englishman at Calais is the link man. He's probably above suspicion too. Some
wealthy member of the Bar whose Club is White's and who moves in the best circles. Now a Jag may
be a shade too flashy in London but it'll do very well in France for speed.'

And with this pleasing invention Glodstone drove the Bentley out into the road and turned
sedately after the disappearing tail lights.

In the Forêt de Dreux, Slymne completed his preparations. He had chosen the end of a long
straight with a tight corner on it for his ambush, had parked his car on a track well out of
sight round the bend, and was ready to swill a can of oil on the road as soon as he saw the
Bentley's headlights. It was a desperate measure but Slymne was a desperate and partially drunk
man and the memory of being called Slimey had inspired him with a grim determination. Glodstone
had to be stopped, and quickly. As he waited, Slymne made some further calculations. The Bentley
would slow before the bend, would then hit the oil slick and skid. Slymne considered its next
move and decided that a log in the road would help. He found a fallen branch and had just put it
down when the headlights appeared. Slymne emptied the can of oil and crossed the road to be on
the safe side. There he lay in the forest waiting for his man.

In the event, he was proved wrong. It was less a man than an entire family, Mr and Mrs
Blowther from Cleethorpes and their two children, who were enjoying the privilege afforded by
straight French roads of travelling at a hundred miles an hour in their brand-new Jaguar when
they hit the oil slick. For a moment they continued on their way. It was a brief respite. A
second later the car slewed sideways. Mr Blowther, under the misapprehension that both his front
tyres had blown, slammed his foot on the brake. The Jaguar spun like a whirling dervish before
encountering the branch and then somersaulted through the air. As it landed on its roof and with
a crescendo of breaking glass and tearing metal shot upside down round the corner, Slymne knew he
had made a ghastly mistake and was running for the car. Or trying to. After the brilliance of the
now shattered headlights, the forest was pitch-black and filled with an extraordinary number of
hollows, barbed bushes and invisible trees. As he came abreast of the wrecked car the Blowthers,
still miraculously alive, were crawling from the windscreen and giving vent to their outraged
feelings. Mr Blowther, convinced that the fallen branch had caused the catastrophe, was
particularly vehement about fornicating French foresters and flaming firtrees, and only stopped
when Mrs Blowther more maternally began moaning about saving the children.

'Save? Save?' yelled her husband still too deafened to hear at all clearly, 'Of course we'll
have to save. It'll take ten years to save enough to buy another effing Jag. You don't think that
crumpled conglomeration of craftsmanship was comprehensively covered? All we had was third-party
insurance and for your beastly benefit, the only third party is that fractured flipping
fir-tree.'

In the bushes the authentic third party shuddered. Not only had he wrecked the wrong car but
he had just remembered the oil cans. He had left them in the wood and his fingerprints would be
all over the things. Under cover of Mr Blowther's demented alliteration, Slymne slipped back into
the forest rather more successfully now that his eyes weren't blinded by the headlights and had
reached the cans when the Bentley appeared. Slymne slid into the undergrowth and prayed it would
emulate the Jaguar. But his hopes were dashed by Mr Blowther who scampered round the corner and
was endeavouring to flag down the Bentley when he encountered the oil slick. For a moment, he
waved frantically before losing his foothold and slumping down on the road. By the time he had
got to his feet four times, had fallen three and had rolled into the ditch, he was not a sight to
inspire confidence. Even Slymne could see that. Glodstone could evidently see more. He brought
the Bentley to a halt and stared at Mr Blowther suspiciously.

'Don't make another move,' he called out. 'You see we've got you covered.'

Mr Blowther took umbrage. 'Move?' he shouted. 'You must be out of your bleeding mind. I can't
even shuffle without falling arse over elbow. And as for being covered, I don't know what you
think I am now but the way it feels to me I'm a human Christmas tree. That flaming holly '

'That's enough of that,' shouted Glodstone, for whom Mr Blowther's North country accent was
further proof that he was a gangster and the whole thing an elaborate trap. 'Now get your hands
above your head and walk backwards. And remember, one false step and you're a dead man.'

Mr Blowther stared into the darkness behind the great headlamps incredulously. 'Listen, mate,'
he said, 'If you think I'm going to stick my hands in the air and try to walk anywhere on this
grease pan and not be a dead man, you've got another think coming.'

'I shall count to ten,' said Glodstone grimly, 'One, two...' But Mr Blowther had had enough.
He had been through a terrible car crash and was now in the middle of a second inexplicable
nightmare. He moved. To be precise he slid sideways and landed on his shoulder before rolling
back into the ditch. As he went the Bentley started forward into the oil and, skidding this way
and that, disappeared round the corner. Thanks to this veering and the erratic swing of the
headlamps, Glodstone was spared the sight of the wrecked Jaguar among the trees and of the
distraught Mrs Blowther searching in the debris for her handbag and a handkerchief with which to
blow the nose of a little Blowther. All his energies were concentrated on keeping the Bentley on
the road.

'By God,' he said, when the car finally steadied itself, 'that was a damned near thing. It
only goes to show the sort of swine we're up against.'

'Do you think they'll come after us?' asked Peregrine hopefully, toying with a revolver.

'Certain to,' said Glodstone, 'But we'll give them a run for their money. There's a crossroads
coming up and I'm going to go left. From now on we'll drive straight through the night.'

Behind them, Slymne was struggling with two empty oil cans and his conscience. From Mr
Blowther's vehement opinions and Mrs Blowther's complaints about using foul language in front of
the children, he had gathered that, although he had been responsible for wrecking a very fine
motor car, the occupants had somehow managed to escape unhurt. It was small consolation. The
police would undoubtedly be called to the scene and it would be extremely difficult to explain
his presence there or his possession of the oil cans, two kilos of sugar and a large quantity of
nails. Worse still, he had the crested notepaper and the notes he had made for Glodstone's
premeditated adventure in his suitcase. In the circumstances it seemed wisest to make himself
scarce as quickly as possible.

Under cover of the Blowthers' acrimony, he stumbled back to the Citroën, put the cans in the
boot and, driving without lights, followed the road by the gap of night sky between the trees.
Ten miles further on, he wiped the oil cans clean of fingerprints, dumped them over a bridge into
the river and buried his handkerchief in a ditch. To make doubly sure, he poured the sugar into
the river too and drove on another mile before disposing of the nails. Finally he burnt the rest
of the notepaper and the envelopes, and drove back to Mantes considering extradition treaties.
For the first time in his life, Slymne was definitely against them. He was also very much against
remaining in France. Whatever Glodstone might find when he reached the Château and even if he
still had the forged letters in his possessions, Slymne and no intention of spending time in a
French prison for destroying a car and endangering life. It seemed best to leave the Citroën at
the garage and drive like hell for Calais in his own Cortina. With any luck, he would be across
the Channel and safely home in Ramsgate before the police had made any headway in their
investigations. And so Slymne drove quietly into Mantes and spent the rest of the night trying to
get some sleep in the forecourt of the rent-a-car garage. At eight that morning, he was on the
road for Calais.

Far to the south, the Bentley was still covering ground. Glodstone finally pulled into the
side of a very minor road and yawned.

'We seem to have lost them,' said Peregrine, who had spent the night peering over the back of
the car in the hope of taking a shot at their pursuers.

'Not the only thing we've lost,' said Glodstone gloomily looking at the map. 'I suppose we can
find where we are when we come to the next town. All the same, we're not out of the wood
yet.'

'Aren't we?' said Peregrine, too literally for Glodstone's taste. 'I mean we can see for miles
around and they don't know where we are.'

Glodstone took out a pipe and lit it. 'But they know where we're heading,' he said, 'And if I
were in their shoes I'd concentrate my forces on the roads leading to the Château. I mean I
wouldn't waste my time any further afield when it is obvious where we're going.'

He laid the map out on the grass and knelt beside it. 'Now here's the Château and as you see
it's devilish conveniently placed. Five roads lead into Boosat but only one leads from the
village and past the Château. The drive must come from that road and by the look of the ground
I'd say it goes up here. But first it has to cross the river and that means a bridge. That shows
they've only to watch the road from Boosat to the north and Frisson to the south and guard the
bridge to have us neatly in a trap. In short, if we drive there we're entering a killing ground.
And so we won't. Instead, we'll go south on this road here to Florial. It's about twenty miles
away with empty country in between and no connecting road to Boosat. If we can find a base
somewhere there we can travel on foot to these heights overlooking the Château. They may be
guarded but I doubt it. All the same, we'll have to move cautiously and take our time. And now
let's have some breakfast. After that we'll lie up for the day and get some rest.'

Peregrine climbed back into the Bentley and fetched the camping-gas stove and the picnic
hamper and, when they had breakfasted, Glodstone unrolled a sleeping bag. 'We'll take it in turns
to keep watch,' he said, 'and remember, if anyone stops, wake me. And stop toying with those
damned revolvers. Put them away. The last thing we want is to draw attention to ourselves.'

While Glodstone lay on the far side of the Bentley and slept, Peregrine kept vigil. But the
road was little more than a track and the country flat and quiet and nothing passed. Seated on
the running-board, Peregrine basked in the morning sun and was intensely happy. In a less literal
person, the thought might have crossed his mind that his dreams had come true; but Peregrine had
accepted dreams as reality from his earliest childhood and had no such gap to bridge. All the
same, he was excited, and endowed the countryside around him with dangers it didn't obviously
possess. Unlike Glodstone, whose heroes were romantic and born of nostalgia, Peregrine was more
modern. Seated on the running-board, he was not Bulldog Drummond and Richard Hannay, he was Bond
and The Jackal; a man licensed to kill. Even a cow which peered at him over a gateway seemed to
sense its danger and retreated to browse more safely further afield.