by Gavin Lyall
But that would make the Inspecteurdoubly suspicious. Now, I had to say something. I might as well make it useful.
‘I’ve turned off to join the Rat-line in the high country,’ I said, speaking English fast in the hope that anybody overhearing couldn’t follow English that fast; I hoped Merlin could. ‘I think you should send a telegram in our friend’s name, to the boat. It’ll help mislead everybody.’
He gave me another apologetic spiel about the surveyor being a lazy hound but this was, after all, the season for house purchase.
‘I’ll probably ring this evening, when I know where we’re staying the night. Are you being tapped? If you are, say you think the house price will go up.’
He assured me that the house price would stay as agreed – for, after all, they knew well Merlin’s standing as a lawyer.
I grinned into the phone and said: ‘Thanks, Henri – and while you’re at it, buy me a nice lonely house in a village where nobody’s heard of the police or international businessmen, will you?’
He assured me of his best attention at all times. We rang off and I came out sweating.
I walked slowly back across the square, wondering how stupid I’d been. If his phone was tapped, or if they decided for any reason to trace my call, then I’d sunk us. I couldn’t outrun the ripples in this sort of hill country. But they’d need a whole department to track down every one of the calls Henri must get every day, so maybe the only danger was tapping. And he’d said not, and he should know.
I argued with myself right into a café. There I ordered a doublemarc, and bought a couple of packets of Gitanes while the man was pouring it. It took me a minute to polish off themarc and half a minute to ask – and get told – how long it would take to drive to Limoges, which was in exactly the opposite direction from our route.
Harvey looked at me curiously as I got back in. I dropped the cigarettes on the seat between us. ‘One’s yours, if you’re running out.’ I started up and drove carefully out of the square. ‘What’s for lunch?’
Miss Jarman said: ‘Bread, cheese, paté, sardines, cherry tart. I got a bottle of red wine if you want it, and a bottle of Perrier.’
I said: ‘I’ll take Perrier: I’m driving.’
Harvey said: ‘Same for me – I’m shooting.’ He looked across at me. ‘And I didn’t even get a quick one in the café.’
I gave him a look that was supposed to be surprised. ‘Me?’
He smiled, perhaps a little bleakly, but perhaps any smile looked bleak on his face. ‘You. Hell, I don’t mind. But I do know how quick you can get a quick one.’
NINE
We ate on the move, the girl handing over wedges of bread stuffed withpatéor cheese. She tried opening the sardines, spilled oil on herself, said: ‘Damn them to hell,’ and threw the full tin out of the window. Then, very coolly, she said: ‘I’m sorry, we seem to be out of sardines.’
Maganhard gave a metallic chuckle.
I ate a bit of cherry tart and then lit a cigarette. I felt a lot more cheerful; even if they tried to seal off this area with roadblocks, they wouldn’t necessarily catch me. I was almost back into the Auvergne again, and when I was on roads I knew… well, the Gestapo had once tried catching me with roadblocks there.
I knew the feeling was due a lot more to the doublemarc than to either the food or my knowledge of the back roads, and I had enough sense to know it wouldn’t last more than a couple of hours. But while it lasted, I wanted to cover some ground.
The hillsides became lush, Gothic, overdone; the trees got romantically gnarled and twisted, set among rocks covered with thick moss like the green velvet sofas in old ladies’ parlours. The whole thing looked like a set for an opera where they’re trying to keep your mind off the singing.
I wasn’t fond of this country; it was too thick and damp and it breathed down your neck. I wanted the clean cold uplands, where you can see a man coming at rifle-shot range.
Harvey asked: ‘Who’re we staying the night with?’
‘Some friends.’
‘From the Resistance?’
I nodded.
He asked: ‘You’re sure they’re still there? And still friends?’
‘Somebody will be. We’ve got a choice: I knew quite a lot of people down here. One of the Rat-lines went through there – taking escaped prisoners out, bringing supplies in.’
We passed through la Courtine, an army town that looked a bit like a barracks itself: open, empty, newly swept, and with a scruffy soldier leaning on every corner. Then dived into the valley of the Dordogne.
Maganhard said: ‘Mr Cane.’
I waited for him to go on, then said: ‘I’m still here.’
‘Mr Cane – when we discussed – about policemen, you said you wouldskip the moral question. Why did you not argue it?’
Harvey and I glanced at each other. The old buzzard hadn’t said a word in hours – had he been brooding onthis egg?
I said carefully: ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be interested, Mr Maganhard.’
‘Why not?’
I shrugged and hoped he could see. ‘Maybe I made a hasty judgement from circumstances – such as being chased across France by assorted police and crooks. But I judged you wouldn’t be interested.’
‘If we might skip the sarcastic question,’ he said calmly, ‘will you tell me why?’
I leant forward and got a look at him in the rear-view mirror. For once, he had an expression on his face. It looked like a smile chalked on armour plate; not appropriate and not permanent – but still there.
I said: ‘Let’s say I try to keep an open mind about people who go in for tax avoidance in Liechtenstein.’
‘You don’t say taxevasion, Mr Cane.’
‘No, Mr Maganhard, I know the difference. Evasion is illegal – and I’m sure what you’re doing is legal.’
‘But not moral?’
‘Practical morality, like a lot of things, is mostly a matter of fair exchange. You’re running factories in France, Germany, and so on – but you aren’t paying to keep those countries running. That’s all.’
‘Any of those countries, having the power that governments have, could decide they wanted more of my money and establish a perfectlylegal debt that I owed them.’ His voice had the silky click of stainless-steel cog-wheels. ‘They may well do so. Would paying that debt make me more moral?’
‘I doubt it, Mr Maganhard. I’d say either you’re ready to pay for your ride or you’re not. Whether youhave to pay is something different. Perhaps you’re mixing up morality and legality.’
‘I’m sure you can explain the difference.’
‘I don’t suppose so. I’d just say that morality doesn’t change when you cross a frontier.’
Harvey chuckled.
After a moment, Maganhard said: ‘You seem to be taking a very strong, and rather strange, attitude, Mr Cane.’
I shrugged. ‘You brought the question up, Mr Maganhard. And I’m not breaking my heart over a bit of tax avoidance. Thousands do it; they’ll go on doing it as long as countries like Liechtenstein and some Swiss cantons make tax laws for exactly that reason – to try and suck a bit of blood from other countries. If it ever gets too much, the other countries’ll crack down. They’ll drive Liechtenstein out of business.’
‘I meant, Mr Cane, that you must find yourself in a rather equivocal position, attempting to help me as you are. Yet when I talked to Monsieur Merlin on the radio-telephone from my yacht, he told me you had asked to be assured that I wasnot guilty of this – this charge laid against me, and also that I was travelling to save my own investment, not to try to steal somebody else’s. You wished to believethen that I was a moral man.’ And all the steel smoothness was back in his voice.
‘Morality can also be relative, Mr Maganhard. For instance, I’d say you were more moral than those goons who jumped us in Tours. You don’t seem to be trying to kill anybody – but it seems somebody’s trying to kill you. I don’t have to believe you’re particularly moral o
ver taxes to think I’m on the right side in helping you here.’
‘You also believed Monsieur Merlin over the other charge! ‘ For a moment, the harshness in his voice surprised me. Then I got it: anybody who believed he was such a stiff, upright character as he did, would naturally take the old fate-worse-than-death attitude on rape. He’d believe it was the ultimate crime. Probably that was why he hadn’t been able to bring himself even to use the name: he’d just said ‘this charge’.
I wondered if whoever had framed him hadn’t had a sense of humour. Among other talents.
I said: ‘Merlin’s a good lawyer – and he said it was a frame. Anyway, I know something about rape charges.’
Harvey turned and said cheerfully: ‘You do? Tell us more.’
I said: ‘For one thing, you don’t need witnesses: nobody expects witnesses to a rape charge. All you need to know is that a man was alone in a likely place at a likely time, and have some girl complain he was raping her there and then. If you can get her to sleep with him, you can even get some medical evidence. But either way, it always ends up just her word against his. And even if it fails, or never comes to court, a smear sticks.’
Harvey said softly: ‘And I thought you only knew about machine-guns.’
Miss Jarman said: ‘Howdo you know this, Mr Cane?’
‘I did it to somebody once. Oh, it was quite moral, really. It happened in the war. We used it to get rid of a German civil official in Paris – he was being too efficient. It never went to court, of course, and it wouldn’t have worked if the German Army hadn’t wanted an excuse to get him recalled: they found him too efficient, too. So we gave them the excuse.’
‘What happened to the girl?’ she asked.
‘We got her out to the country, in case there was an enquiry.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said coldly.
‘I know you didn’t. Let’s say she was fighting a war and knew it.’
Maganhard interrupted impatiently: ‘I understand all that, Mr Cane. You were telling me why you believed the charge against me was false.’
‘I was.’ I fumbled a cigarette out of the pack on the seat beside me; Harvey reached across with his lighter. ‘Yes – that still leaves a couple of questions. Why should anybody frame you?’
He thought it over. ‘It makes my movements more difficult. Particularly in France, of course. But it is an extraditable offence that I am accused of, so I might be arrested anywhere. If I were in jail, then something like – like what we are trying to avoid would be more easy. Obviously.’
I grinned sourly: he hadn’t given anything away. Then I got serious again. ‘But the girl didn’t scream until you’d left France. That sounds like a pretty clear attempt just to scare you off, without risking a trial. Come to that, why weren’t you tried in your absence? You can be, under French law.’
‘Monsieur Merlin stopped an attempt to do that. I believe the prosecution weren’t pressing for it.’
‘It sounds as if they weren’t very happy about their own frame – if they thought it mightn’t stand up even without you there. Now let’s have the basic question: why didn’t you fight the charge? If it was a frame, you could get it knocked flat. You’d still have a bit of a smear – but now you’ve got thatand you can’t come and go freely.’
‘I thought you’d answered that question yourself, Mr Cane.’ He sounded slightly amused, if that was the right word for a very small change in tone. ‘You said that it would eventually come to being my word against the woman’s. I don’t believe any court in the world is infallible; they might have made a mistake.’
‘Mr Maganhard, I wasn’t talking about going to court; it would never get that far.’ I sounded puzzled; Iwas puzzled. I hadn’t expected to find myself lecturing a man with a home-made million on the facts of legal life.
He said: ‘I’m not sure I understand.’ His voice had gone stiff again.
I said: The disadvantage of a rape frame is the same as its advantage: it all depends on the evidence of one woman. If the woman’s really a phoney, then she’s been” hired. And if she can be bought once, she can be bought twice. So she changes her identification of you – and no case.’
‘I would regard that as wasted money.’ The voice was as rigid as cast iron now.
Harvey and I glanced at each other. He smiled briefly and went on leaving the work to me.
‘Look, Mr Maganhard,’ I said carefully. This would have saved you money. Say you’d given me the job of going to see this woman a month ago. If I thought she’d been bought, I’d have bought her back for a few thousand more. The whole cost – hers and mine – would be about a quarter of what you’re paying for this trip. And no risk. Strictly as a businessman, how does that appeal to you?’
‘Nobody is strictly a businessman, Mr Cane. One must take the moral question. And the morality of this____________________’
‘Morality? Who’s talking about morality?’ I found I was shouting, and lowered the volume. ‘We’re talking about a frame-up: where’s the morality of that? And if you want to do the moral thing, why didn’t you stand up in court and fight it?’
‘Forgive me, Mr Cane, but I have been thinking about this far longer than you have.’ He was calm and very sure. ‘Since I am innocent, I could gain nothing by going to court. I would merely risk the court making a mistake and finding me guilty. And I will not fight bribes with bribes; I do not see why I should pay for justice that should be mine by right. Thisis a moral question.’
For a long time there was nothing but the gentle zoom of the engine and the wind rush along the windows. Then Harvey said: ‘Well, it’s a good way to stay rich: count your money with glue on your fingers.’
‘Mr Lovell – don’t you think there might be a question of right and wrong in how the rich spend their money, as well as how the poor do?’
Harvey looked at me; I lifted an eyebrow back at him, and then fiddled the mirror to catch Maganhard’s face. He was leaning forward slightly, and frowning – slightly – at the back of Harvey’s neck. But I was beginning to learn that his slightness was only skin deep.
Harvey said: ‘Mr M. – how the rich spend their money has never been a really pressing problem with me. I’ll just say you’ve got a point of view there.’
Maganhard’s face twitched briefly into what could have been a smile, scowl, sneer, or almost anything else. But suddenly I thought I could see, under the square solid face, the lean Scots preacher thundering cold hellfire and penny-wise salvation from the stone pulpit.
‘He’s got a point of view,’ I growled. ‘He may lose an empire, but he’s got a point of view.’
TEN
After that nobody said anything much. The sky clouded over again with lumpy grey clouds that didn’t look as if they were going to rain, but were just wanting to shut off the sun. The whole afternoon tasted of yesterday’s beer.
Themarc wore off, leaving me feeling dull and sour, and my driving reactions slowed down; I let my driving slow down, too. Beside me, Harvey gave me an occasional new road number or direction to follow; that apart, he was slumped back staring out at the roadside winding past. Maganhard and the girl did nothing but keep some weight on the rear wheels.
Just before five o’clock we went through Condat-en-Féniers and after that we were in the real uplands. Not jagged country, not even really rough, just filed down by a million winds into sweeping slopes and low, bony ridges. The sort of country where most of what you see is sky. The only trees were clumps of pines beside the fort-like farmhouses and at crossroads, but the slopes were a vivid green and flooded with stubby little wild daffodils.
Harvey said: ‘We’re on aroute nationalenow – it’s a pretty minor one, but-‘
I said: ‘Don’t bother any more. I know this country.’
That should have made me feel better. Maybe it just stopped me feeling worse. I started to push the Citroen along a bit faster; the roads were almost empty, and if they weren’t straight at least you could see across the b
ends in that open country. I drove on the accelerator and brake, in bursts up to seventy kilometres an hour on the straights.
We didn’t stop. Nobody asked to and I didn’t offer. If I stopped now I wouldn’t want to start again.
I went north of St Flour, then by-passed Le Puy to the south; twenty minutes later we were crawling up a narrow, winding road between stone walls half sunk into the turf.
The village name-plate, knocked half out of the ground by some cart, said Dinadan. I stopped just beyond it, before the village came into view.
Harvey turned wearily in his seat and asked: ‘Where are we trying? A farm?’
‘No. In the village itself.’
He nodded at the roadside. ‘It’s got four telephone lines. It could have a gendarme, too.’
I just nodded and got out of the car and stretched. I felt as stiff as a coffin lid and creased as the paper you wrap the fish and chips in. I hoped Dinadan would be what I was looking for; I didn’t feel like going any further up or down the Rat-line.
‘I’ll be a few minutes,’ I said. I walked across the road to the uphill side, through a small gate in the stone wall, and into the village cemetery.
Dinadan was an old village, and by now the cemetery was a big place. But it didn’t have any of the flavour of the village about it. Where the village was scruffy, ramshackle, narrow and winding, the graves were laid out in neat square rows, clean and well-kept. And there was a lot more variety up here than down in the village.
There were big florid tombs with a sorrowing angel holding down the lid, wrapped up in a three-sided glass house to keep the wind off the flowers, and simple rectangular slabs flat on the ground, and everything in between. But each one was well-kept and legible – and I was there for the reading matter.
