Vintage Stuff (18 page)

'That's what you fucking think,' said Botwyk, whose memory of some of the horrors he had been
through was slowly returning.

'Just wait till I lay my hands on the bastard who strangled me.'

'That's not what I mean,' said Glodstone, who shared his feelings about Peregrine. 'I'm just
advising you not to move. You could do yourself an injury.'

'When I get out of here I'm going to do more than an injury to that son of a bitch. You'd
better believe me. I'm going to '

'Quite,' said Glodstone to prevent hearing the gory details. He didn't want any part of that
retribution. 'Anyway, it was a good thing I happened to be passing and saw you fall. You'd have
been dead by now if I hadn't rescued you.'

'I guess that's so,' said Professor Botwyk grudgingly. 'And you say you saw me fall?'

'Yes. I dived in and swam across and managed to pull you out,' said Glodstone, and felt a
little better. At least he'd established an alibi. Professor Botwyk's next remark questioned
it.

'Let me tell you something, brother. I didn't fall. I was pushed.'

'Really?' said Glodstone, trying to mix belief with a reasonable scepticism. 'I mean, you're
sure you're not suffering from shock and concussion?'

'Sure I'm not sure,' said Botwyk, whose latent hypochondria had been understandably aroused,
'the way I feel I could have anything. But one thing's certain. Some goon jumped me and the next
thing I'm down here. In between being strangled, of course.'

'Good Lord,' said Glodstone, 'and did you...er...see who...er...jumped you?'

'No,' said Botwyk grimly, 'but I sure as shit mean to find out and when I do...'

He tried to raise himself onto an elbow but Glodstone intervened. It was awful enough to be
stranded on a ledge with a murderous gangster without the swine learning there was nothing much
the matter with him.

'Don't move,' he squawked, 'it's vital you don't move. Especially your head.'

'My head? What's so special about my head?' asked Botwyk, 'It's not bleeding or
something?'

'Not as far as I can tell,' said Glodstone, edging round towards the Professor's feet. 'Of
course, it's too dark to see exactly but I'd '

'So why the spiel about not moving it?' said Botwyk eyeing him nervously.

'I'd rather not say,' said Glodstone, 'I'm just going to...'

'Hold it there,' said Botwyk, now in a state of panic, 'I don't give a dimestore damn what
you'd rather not say. I want to hear it.'

'I'm not sure you do.'

'Well, I fucking am. And what the hell are you taking my shoes off for?'

'Just making a few tests,' said Glodstone.

'On my feet? So what's with my head? You start yapping about my fucking head and not moving it
and all and now you're doing some tests down there. Where's the goddam connection?'

'Your spine,' said Glodstone sombrely. The next moment he was having to hold the Professor
down. 'For Heaven's sake, don't move. I mean...'

'I know what you mean,' squealed Botwyk. 'Don't I just. Sweet Jesus, I've got to. You're
telling me...oh my God!' He fell back on the rock and lay still.

'Right,' said Glodstone, delighted that as last he'd gained the upper hand. 'Now I'm going to
ask you to tell me if you feel anything when...'

'Yes, I do,' screamed Botwyk, 'Definitely.'

'But I haven't done anything yet.'

'Guy tells me he hasn't done anything yet! Just tells me my spine's broken. And that's
nothing? How would you feel if you'd been strangled and dropped over a cliff and some limey at
the bottom gives you mouth-to-mouth and men says you've got a broken spine and not to move your
fucking head? You think I don't feel nothing? And what about my fucking wife? She's going to love
having me around the house all day and not being able to get it up at night. You don't know her.
She's going to be hot-tailing it with every...' The prospect was evidently too much for him. He
stopped and glared up at the sky.

'Now then,' said Glodstone, getting his own back for being called a limey, 'if you
feel...'

'Don't say it,' said Botwyk, 'no way. I'm going to lie here and not move until it's light
enough for you to swim back over there and get an ambulance and the best medical rescue team
money can buy and...'

It was Glodstone's turn to panic. 'Now wait a minute,' he said, wishing to hell he hadn't
boasted about swimming across so readily, 'I've sprained my ankle rescuing you. I can't go back
into...'

'Ankle yankle,' shouted Botwyk, 'you think I care about ankles in my fucking condition, you've
got to be crazy. Somebody is for sure.'

'Oh well, if you feel like that about it,' said Glodstone rather huffily only to be stopped by
Botwyk.

'Feel?' he yelled. 'You use that fucking word again and someone's going to be sorry.'

'Sorry,' said Glodstone, 'All the same...'

'Listen, bud,' said Botwyk, 'It's not all the same. Not to me it isn't. Your ankle and my
spine are in two different categories, right?'

'I suppose they'd have to be,' said Glodstone.

'You don't need a fucking ankle to get it up and feel and all. Well, it's not that way with
spines. Not the way I read it. So lay off the feeling part.'

'Yes,' said Glodstone, not too sure now if he'd been wise to raise the issue in the first
place. 'All the same...'

'Don't,' said Botwyk menacingly.

'I was going to say...'

'I know what you were going to say. And I've answered that one already. It's not the fucking
same. Same is out, same as feel is.'

'Even so,' said Glodstone after a pause in which he had searched for a phrase which wouldn't
infuriate the blighter, 'for all we know there may be nothing the matter with your spine. The way
to find out is to...'

'Take my fucking shoes off like you did just now,' said Botwyk, 'I've got news for you...'

But whatever he was about to impart was drowned by the sound of sirens. A car followed by an
ambulance hurtled along the road opposite and turned over the bridge to the Château.

'For hell's sake do something,' yelled Botwyk, 'We've got to get their attention.'

But Glodstone was too preoccupied to answer. Whatever Peregrine had done had included more
than dumping this foul-mouthed swine over the cliff and if he was caught...The notion horrified
him. In the meantime, he had better keep on good terms, or as near good as he could get, with the
sod.

'Did you notice that?' he enquired, jabbing his finger into the sole of Botwyk's foot when the
professor had stopped shouting.

Botwyk sat bolt upright. 'Of course I fucking did,' he snarled, 'What do you expect me to
fucking notice if you do a thing like that? I've got sensitive feet for Chrissake.'

'That's a relief,' said Glodstone, 'for a while there I thought you'd really broken your
back.'

'Jesus,' said Botwyk, and sank back speechless on the rock.

He was not alone in this. Mr Hodgson, the scrap-iron merchant who had been dying for a slash
and had been the recipient of one of Major Fetherington's Specials, was still incapable of doing
more than scribble that he'd been the victim of an attack by one of those damned foreigners and
the sooner he got home to Huddersfield the safer he'd feel. Dimitri Abnekov's opinion, also given
in writing, was that a deliberate attempt had been made by a CIA hit-team to silence the Soviet
delegate and was a violation of the UN Charter and the Helsinki Agreement as regards the freedom
of speech. Signor Badiglioni, having been subjected to Dr Keister's clinical approach to what she
called 'reciprocated sensuality' and he didn't, wasn't prepared to say anything. And Sir Arnold
Brymay preferred not to. Professor Zukas had been too engaged in a polemic with the Mexican
delegate on the question of Trotsky's murder and the failure of the Mexican government to
collectivize farms it had already distributed to the peasants to remember anything so
contemporary as his encounter with Peregrine. Finally, Mrs Rutherby and Mr Coombe, once they have
been extricated from one another by Dr Voisin, were blaming their agonizing ordeal on Mrs
Branscombe, the bull terrier judge, who denied that she made a habit of entering other people's
bedrooms to indulge her latent lesbianism by hurling buckets of water over heterosexual
couples.

Only Pastor Laudenbach approached the problem at all rationally. 'The question we must ask
ourselves is why a young man should want so desperately to find a countess. It is a phenomenon
not easily explicable. Particularly when he was obviously British.'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' said Sir Arnold, who could see an extremely awkward international
incident heading his way.

'I would,' said Dr Grenoy, the French delegate. He had slept through the whole affair but the
honour of France was at stake and in any case he was looking for an opportunity to divert the
symposium away from his country's role in Central Africa. On the other hand, he was anxious to
prevent the scandal reaching the media. 'I am sure mere is a simple hooliganistic explanation for
this regrettable occurrence,' he continued. 'The essential factor is that while we have all been
put to some inconvenience, no one has actually been hurt. In the morning, you may rest assured
that adequate protective measures will have been taken. I myself will guarantee it. For the
moment, I suggest we return to our rooms and...'

The Soviet delegate was protesting. 'Where is the American Botwyk?' he whispered, 'In the name
of the Union of '

'Let's not get too excited,' pleaded Dr Grenoy, now as anxious as Sir Arnold to avoid an
international incident. 'The Professor's absence is doubtless due to a comprehensible prudence on
his part. If someone will go to his room...'

Pastor Laudenbach volunteered but returned in a few minutes to announce that Professor
Botwyk's room was empty and that his bed had not been slept in.

'What did I say?' said Dr Abnekov, 'There has been a deliberate conspiracy to destabilize the
conference by elements...'

'Oh Lord,' said Sir Arnold, appealing uncharacteristically to his French counterpart, 'can't
someone bring an element of common-sense to this trivial affair? If that damned Yank had
instigated anything he wouldn't have been idiotic enough to disappear. Anyway, there were no
political implications. The lunatic simply wanted to know where some Countess was. I told him she
was in Antibes. He's probably pushed off there by now.'

'Countess? Countess? Mere subterfuge,' said Dr Abnekov, finding his voice. 'Typical
imperialistic tactics to obscure the real issue. There are no Countesses here.'

Dr Grenoy coughed uncomfortably. 'I am afraid to announce that there are,' he said, 'The
proprietor of the Château...' He shrugged. The name Montcon was not one he wished to announce to
the world.

'There you are,' said Sir Arnold more cheerfully, 'The woman has some lover...'

He was interrupted by the arrival of one of the ambulance drivers.

'There appears to be an explanation to the disappearance of Professor Botwyk,' Dr Grenoy
announced after a whispered consultation with the man. 'He has been found on a rock in the
river.'

'Dead?' asked Dr Abnekov hopefully.

'No. In the company of another man. The Emergency Services have been alerted and they should
be rescued at any moment.'

The delegates trooped out onto the terraces to watch. Behind them Dr Grenoy and Sir Arnold
consulted one another on the need to reestablish Franco-British collaboration, at least for the
time being.

'You keep the British out of this and I won't spread the word about Madame de Montcon,' said
Sir Arnold.

'It's the wretched American I'm worried about,' said Dr Grenoy. 'He may demand an enormous
security operation. Thank God we don't have a representative from Libya.'

They went out onto the terrace in time to see Professor Botwyk and Glodstone being ferried
across the river by several frogmen with an inflatable dinghy.

'I just hope he doesn't insist on holding a press conference,' said Sir Arnold, 'Americans
make such a song and dance about these things.'

Beside him Dr Grenoy made a mental note to see that the State-controlled French television
refused facilities.

But Botwyk was no longer interested in anything to do with publicity. He was more concerned
with the state of his own health. In addition to being strangled, dropped into the river and made
the victim of Glodstone's suggestion that he might have broken his back, he had also been
subjected to the attentions of the Château's sewage disposal system. Being hit in the face by an
unidentified sanitary napkin had particularly affected him. With a haunted look he was hauled up
the bank and helped into an ambulance. Glodstone was brought up too and together they were driven
up to the Château. Only then did Botwyk open his mouth briefly.

'Just get me into a disinfectant bath and a bed,' he told Dr Voisin as he stumbled out into
the dawn light. 'If you want any further information, ask him.'

But Glodstone had his own reasons for being reticent. 'I just happened to be in the right
place at the right time,' he said, 'I was passing and saw him fall. Swam across and got him
out.'

And conscious that he was now in the enemy's camp, he followed Botwyk and the doctor miserably
up the stairs to the bathroom.

From the far side of the valley Peregrine watched these proceedings with interest. It was good
to know that Glodstone was still alive but rather disappointing that the swine who had said he
was dead had somehow survived. Anyway, there was nothing he could do now until darkness came
again. He wriggled back to the bivouac and hung his clothes out to dry and climbed into his
sleeping bag. For a moment he wondered if he shouldn't take the precaution of moving somewhere
else in case they tortured Glodstone into telling them where the base was, but Gloddie would
never talk no matter what they did to him. On this reassuring note he fell asleep.

Deirdre, Comtesse de Montcon, never slept in the Château during the holiday season. She would
never have slept there at any other time if she could have helped but during the summer she had
her anonymity to think about, and besides, by staying the night in Boosat, she was sure of
getting the best vegetables in the market and the finest cuts of meat at the butcher. Nobody at
the Château Carmagnac could complain that the cuisine wasn't excellent or the service poor. Nor
would they know that the expert cook was a countess. More importantly, no one would suspect that
the woman who drove up in the Renault van each morning and spent the day scurrying about the
kitchen and shouting orders to the other servants was English or that her greatest ambition was
to retire to an even greater anonymity in her bungalow in Bognor Regis. Above all, they must not
know that she had a past.