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It wasn't only luck that protected us, I thought, as I fumbled with the half-forgotten intricacies of the telephone; it was commonsense to suppose that the chances of our being seen and recognised now, here, were very small. One had read dozens of "pursuit" books, from the classic Thirty-nine Steps onwards, and in all of them the chief and terrible miracle had been the unceasing and intelligent vigilance of every member of the population. In sober fact, nobody was much interested…
Here one of the card-players raised his eyes from the game to look at me; then he nudged his neighbour and said something. The latter looked up too, and his stare raked me. My heart, in spite of the soothing logic of my thoughts, gave a painful jerk, as with an effort I forced my gaze to slide indifferently past them. I turned a shoulder and leaned against the wall, waiting, bored, for my co
"Ici le Coq Hardi" quacked a voice in my ear.
I jerked my attention back to it, and my imagination back to the teeming little i
"I want to speak to Monsieur Blake, please."
"Who?"
"Monsieur Blake. The Englishman from Dieudo
There was some altercation, aside, that I couldn't make out. Then it stopped abruptly, as if cut off by a hand over the mouthpiece. To my fury I found that my own hand was damp on the receiver.
Then the voice said into my ear: "No, he's not here. Who's that wanting him?"
"Is he likely to be in tonight?"
"Perhaps." Was I being jumpy, or was it suspicion that put the edge on that unfriendly voice? "He didn't say. If you ring back in half-an-hour… Who is that speaking, please?"
I said: "Thanks very much. I'll do that. I'm sorry to have-"
The voice said, harsh and sharp: "Where are you speaking from?"
Suspicion. It bit like an adder. If I didn't answer they could trace the call. I didn't stop to ask myself why they should. It was enough for me that the Coq Hardi was on Valmy land and that presumably the news would reach the chateau just as quickly as wires could carry it. If I could let them think I was safe for another half-hour…
I said pleasantly, with no perceptible hesitation: "From Évian. The Cent Fleurs. Don't trouble Monsieur Blake. I'll ring him up later on. Thank you so much."
And right in the teeth of another question I rang off.
I stood for a moment looking unseeingly at the telephone, biting my lip. Needless to say I had no intention of waiting to ring up again, but in putting off pursuit I had also put off William Blake. If he got my message at all, and if he was aware of the story that must by now be rife in Soubirous, he might realise I needed help and set straight off for Évian and the huge crowded floor of the Cent Fleurs, which certainly wouldn't remember if a young woman accompanied by a small boy had used the telephone at some time during the evening.
Somehow I was very sure, of William Blake's desire-and solid capacity-to help. Now I had had to cut myself off from that, and only now did I realise how much I had depended on the comfort of his company when the inevitable showdown came. I was well aware that even the interview with Hippolyte wouldn't be altogether plain sailing. 'Never before had I felt so miserably in need of a friend-someone who, even if they could do nothing, would simply be there. I gave myself a mental shake, I mustn't start this. Just because, for a few short hours, I had laid flesh and spirit in other hands, I didn't have to feel so forsaken now. I'd hoed my own row for long enough-well, it seemed I must go on doing just that. What one has never really had, one never misses. Or so they say.
I went back to my table, unwrapped three lumps of sugar, and drank my coffee black and far too sweet. The benedictine I drank with appreciation but, I'm afraid, a lack of respect. It was the effect, and not the drink I craved. I took it much too quickly, with half a wary eye on the card-players in the other corner.
Then, just as they were nicely involved in a new round of betting, I quietly paid the waiter, nodded a good night to Madame and went (unfollowed except by Philippe) out of the café.
Chapter 18
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come…
Shakespeare: So
The Villa Mireille stood right on the shore of Lac Léman. It was one of a row of large wealthy houses-châteaux, almost- which bordered the lakeside, being served to landward by a narrow pretty road some two hundred feet below the town's main boulevards. Most of the houses stood in large gardens plentifully treed and guarded from the road by high walls and heavy gates.
It was dark when we reached the Villa Mireille. The gate was shut and as our steps paused outside there was the rattle of a heavy chain within, and a dog set up a deep barking.
"That's Beppo," whispered Philippe.
"Does he know you?"
"No-I don't know. I'm frightened of him."
Here the door of the concierge's lodge opened, and the light from it rushed up the trees that made a crowded darkness beyond the gate. A woman's voice called something, shrilly. The barking subsided into a whining growl. The door shut and the trees retreated into murky shadow.
I said: "Is there another way in?"
"You can get in from the lake-shore. The garden runs right down, and there's a boat-house. But I don't know the way down along the lake."
"We'll find it."
"Are we going further?" His voice was alarmed and querulous; tears of pure fatigue were not far away.
"Only to find a way down to the lake. We can't go in past Beppo and Madame-what did you say her name was?"
"Vuathoux."
"Well, unless you'd like to go straight to her-“
"No.”
I said: "You'd be safe, Philippe."
“She would telephone my Uncle Léon, wouldn't she?"
"Almost certainly."
"And my cousin Raoul would come?"
"It's possible."
He looked at me. "I would rather wait for my Uncle Hippolyte. You said we could."
"All right. We'll wait."
"Would you rather wait for my Uncle Hippolyte?"
"Yes."
"Then," said Philippe, swallowing, "perhaps we will find the way quickly?"
We did-three houses along from the Villa Mireille. A small wicket, swinging loose, gave onto a dim shrubbery, and as we slipped cautiously inside we could see the dim bulk of a house looming unlighted among its misty trees. No dog barked. We crept unchallenged down a long winding path, along beside a high paling bordering an open stretch of grass, and eventually once again between big trees towards the murmur of the lake.
Neither moon nor stars showed tonight. Over the water mist lay patchily, here thick and pale against the dark distances, here no more than a haze veiling the lake's surface as breath mists a dark glass, here as faint as the sheen that follows a finger stroking dark velvet. Long transparent drifts of vapour wreathed up from the water and reached slow fingers across the narrow shore towards the trees. The water lapped hollowly on the shingle beside us as we crunched our way back towards the Villa's garden. The night was not cold, but the water breathed a chill into the air, and the slowly-curling veils of mist brushed us with a damp that made me shiver.
"That's the boat-house," whispered Philippe. "I know where the key's kept. Are we going to go in?"