Nine Coaches Waiting

The mist was thicker now. Our little torch-beam beat white against it. It lay heavy as a cloudbank among the trees, but over the lawn near the house it showed only a pale haze that thi

The lamp still glowed over the front door. Its circle of light seemed to have shrunk as the trees crowded and loomed closer in the mist. No other light showed.

We slipped quietly across the lawn and up the terrace steps. The long window stood ajar, and we went in.

The salon was a big room, and in the light of a cautious torch it looked even bigger. The little glow caught the ghostly shapes of shrouded furniture, the gleam of a mirror, the sudden glitter of the chandelier that moved with a spectral tinkle in the draught from the window. The meagre light seemed only to thicken the shadows and make the room retreat further into dusk. It smelt of disuse, melancholy, dry-as-dust.

We hesitated just inside the window.

I whispered: "We'll go to your Uncle Hippolyte's room. That'll have been prepared, surely? There'll be a fire or a stove. And is there a telephone in it? "

He nodded and led the way quickly across the salon. If he was scared he didn't show it. He moved almost numbly, as if in a bad dream. He pushed open a massive door that gave onto the hall and slipped through it without a look to right or left into the shadowed corners. I followed.

The hall was a high dim square where I could just make out a graceful branching staircase. Tiles echoed our quick footsteps hollowly. No other sound. We fled upstairs. Philippe turned left along a wide gallery and finally stopped before a door.

"It's Uncle Hippolyte's study," he whispered, and put a hand to the knob.

The room, sure enough, was warm. Like pins to a magnet we flew across the carpet to the big stove and hugged it as closely as we could with our chilled bodies. I said, sending the torchlight raking round the room: "Where does that door lead?"

"There's another salon. Bigger. It's never used now."

I went across and pushed the door open. The torchlight once more probed its way over the ghosts of furniture. Like the room downstairs, this was still shrouded in its winter covers. It smelt musty, and the silk-panelled walls, as I put up a gentle finger, felt dusty and brittle, like a dead moth's wing. From the empty darkness above came the now familiar phantom tinkling of a chandelier.

I crossed the carpet softly and paused by a shrouded shape that seemed to be a sofa. I lifted the dust-cover and felt underneath it… damask cushions fraying a little, silk that caught on the skin and set the teeth on edge. "Philippe," I called softly.

He appeared beside me like a smaller, frailer ghost. He was shivering a little. I said very matter-of-factly: "I don't suppose it'll be needed, but every fighter has to have a possible line of retreat worked out. If for any reason we still want to hide, I'd say this is as good a place as any. Under the dust-cover. It makes a tent, see? And you'd be pretty snug underneath and quite invisible."

He saw. He nodded without speaking. I cast him a look as I covered the sofa again and followed him back into the study. I pulled the salon door almost, but not quite, shut behind me.

I glanced at my wrist. Five minutes to twelve. One of the windows looked out over the drive. No sign of a car. I turned to Hippolyte's desk and picked up the telephone.

CHAPTER 19

So, uncle, there you are.

Shakespeare: Hamlet.

A man's voice said: "Coq Hardi."

At least it was not the same unpleasant and suspicious voice, but there was no harm in trying to disarm it further. It was five minutes to twelve, but just in case…

I said quickly, eagerly; "Guillaume? Is that you, chéri? It's Clothilde."

He said blankly: "Clothilde?"

"Yes, yes. From A

The voice was amused. "Mademoiselle, a moment. Who is it you want?"

"I-isn't that Guillaume? Oh mon dieu, how silly of me!" I gave a nervous giggle. "I am sorry, monsieur. Perhaps-if he isn't in bed?-if you will have the goodness to fetch him-"

He was patience itself. "But of course. With the greatest of pleasure. But Guillaume who, Mademoiselle Clothilde? Guillaume Rouvier?"

"No, no. I told you. Monsieur Blake, the Englishman. Is he there? He did tell me-"

"Yes, he's here. Content yourself, Mademoiselle Clothilde. He's not gone to bed. I'll fetch him." I heard him laugh as he moved away from the telephone. No doubt William's stock would soar at the Coq Hardi…

Philippe had moved up close to me. In the faint glow that the front door light cast up through the uncurtained window his face looked small and pale, the eyes enormous. I winked and made a face at him and he smiled.

William said in my ear, sounding bewildered and suspicious: "Blake here. Who is that, please?"

“I’m sorry if I've embarrassed you," I said, "but I had to get you somehow, and that seemed the best way. Linda Martin."

"Oh, it's you. The barman said it was a petite amie. I couldn't think-what's been going on? Where are you? Are you all right? And the boy-"

"For heaven's sake! Can anyone hear you, William?"

"What? Oh yes, I suppose they can. But I don't think they know English."

"Never mind, don't risk it. I daren't call you for long because it mayn't be safe, but I… I need help, and I thought-"

He said quietly: "Of course. I heard the local version of what's happened, and I've been hop-expecting you'd get into touch with me. I-I've been terribly worried-I mean, you being on your own, and all that. What is it? What can I do?"

I said gratefully: "Oh, William… Listen, I can't explain now, it would take too long. Don't worry any more; we're safe, both of us, and I think the whole thing will be over in a few minutes, but… I'd be awfully grateful if you'd come along. There's no danger now, but there'll be… scenes, and I don't somehow feel like facing them alone. I know it's a lot to ask of someone you hardly know, and it's a shocking time of night, but I wondered-"

"Tell me where you are," said William simply, "and I'll come. I've got the jeep. Is it the Cent Fleurs?"

"No, no. So they told you I'd rung up before?"

"Yes. I've just got back from Évian."

"Oh, William, no!"

"Well," he said reasonably, "I thought you were there. I didn't know anything about this business till we got in tonight, you know. I was up at the hut till late last night, working, but I was due today to go with a couple of men over to the south plantations and we had to make an early start, so I slept at the pub. We were out all day and got back lateish, and then I was told you'd rung up from the Cent Fleurs, and of course I heard all the stories that were going round. I rang up the Cent Fleurs and they didn't remember you, so I skated down to Évian in the jeep-"

"Did you see Raoul de Valmy there?"

"Don't know him from Adam," said William simply. "Is he looking for you, too?"

"Yes."

"Oh. I thought you might have-I mean, someone said-" he stopped, floundering a little.

I said: "Which ever of the stories you heard, it isn't true. We're on our own."

"Oh. Ah. Yes. Well," said William cheerfully, "tell me where you are now and I’ll be straight over."

"We're in Thonon, at the Villa Mireille. That's Hippolyte de Valmy's place; he's the brother-"

"I know. Have you seen him?"

"He's not back yet. Expected any minute. We're waiting for him. I-I'll explain when I see you why we didn't go straight to the police. Just for the time being, will you not say anything? Just-come?"