Game Without Rules (24 page)

“I had better know your second name, too.”

She looked surprised.

“The same as yours, of course,” she said. “Shura Nichol. We are man and wife. That is how our papers are made out.”

Nichol said, “Oh, I see. Yes. I suppose that’s a sensible sort of arrangement.”

“We are on a camping holiday. The kit is all in the back of the car. There are many camp sites in France and Germany. If we went to hotels, there would be registration forms to fill in—”

“An excellent idea,” said Nichol. “Do I drive the car, or do you?”

“We take it in turns. It will be a long day’s run. More than three hundred miles. We had better get started.”

She threw the kit bag into the bushes.

“Isn’t that a bit risky?”

“In England, perhaps. In France, no. The peasant who finds it will not report it. He will think it good luck.”

The tip of Nichol’s fingers touched the cigarette lighter, which he had transferred to his new clothes along with his personal possessions. Luck, he said to himself, that’s what I’m going to need, too. Any goddamned amount of it.

Eighty miles away, in a wood south of Bolbec, the sensitive needle on the dial of Mr., Calder’s car began to quiver. He picked up the microphone.

“He’s off, I think,” he said.

“Moving southeast,” agreed the voice of Mr. Behrens.

The thing which David Nichol admired most in that long day’s run was his companion’s driving. He himself was a good driver. A part of his training had been the proper handling of cars, and a course at the Police Driving School had added technique to a natural aptitude. But he was not as good as Shura. She drove as safely as he did, and nearly five miles an hour faster.

There were other things to admire about her. Every move she made had the unconscious economy and control which is only achieved by an athlete at the height of training. Muscle was there under the flesh, but it was in the right place and was not obtrusive. A ballet dancer at the peak of her career, an Olympic runner or jumper would have carried her subjugated body and limbs in just such a fashion.

As she drove down the long straight road from Bayeux to Caen, he looked at her out of the corner of his eye and found himself wondering about her past. She was clearly a Slav; a South Russian, he thought. Perhaps a Georgian. She could not have attained her perfection in English – which was matched, as he soon noted, by a nearly equal perfection in French – without at least twelve years’ training. Yet she did not look more than twenty-four.

Could a totalitarian regime select boys and girls at twelve, as a breeder might select promising foals, and train them solely for its purposes? Teach them the requisite languages, train them in judo, and the use of poisons, teach them how to shoot, how to drive a car, how to operate a wireless set? There was nothing impossible about it. Sparta had selected her soldiers at the age of seven.

It would dehumanise them, of course. The only thing that Shura had not learned to do was to smile. Or could she do that too? Or make love? If the job demanded it, she could probably do that just as efficiently as she drove a car.

They had a picnic lunch in a wood south of Montargis. There was hot soup in a vacuum flask, and pate and fruit. Shura served him first and then herself. She produced a bottle of wine and when he shook his head put it away, unopened, and substituted citronate.

“I fancy they’ve stopped for lunch,” said Mr. Behrens. “We’ll have time to work out an accurate fix on them now.”

“We might have time for lunch ourselves,” said Mr. Calder, sourly.

All that afternoon they drove on, east and south. Sometimes they talked. Nichol knew very well that if he asked her questions about herself they would be politely blocked, and she seemed as disinterested in him as an air hostess in a passenger.

There were maps in the glove compartment, but she seemed to know the route and never asked for directions. He tried to estimate where they would be likely to spend the night. If they kept up their present speed and general direction they would be somewhere south of Dijon. She had talked about camping. He knew that France was well ahead of other countries in this respect and had numerous camps, some of them run by national motoring and cycling organisations, others by the local syndicat d’initiative.

They were well-organised places with numbered tent sites, running water on tap and good sanitary arrangements. During the summer months a camp superintendent would live permanently on the site, in his own caravan.

They had crossed the Saone a few kilometres south of Beaune and were now running up the heavily wooded valley of one of its tributaries. Nichol, who was driving, glimpsed the giant pylons of the recently completed Saone-et-Loire hydroelectric project, striding up the hillside on the right of the road. It was half-past seven. There was perhaps an hour of daylight left.

“Not far now,” said Shura. “The camp lies up this side road. It is a beautiful site.”

“You have been there before.”

“Once or twice. We turn left here. The road leads only to the camp site. We shall see it in a moment.”

The road climbed gently round the contours of the hill. They swung round the final bend, under a wooden arch which said camp de louvatange, and came to rest in the gravelled space which formed the car park.

Despite the earliness of the season, three or four caravans were parked round the opening, and the flysheets of more than one tent could be seen among the trees beyond.

The door of the nearest caravan opened, and a man came out. He had a gingery moustache, thin gingery hair and a face the colour of smoked salmon.

He said, in very bad French, “Welcome to the camp. My name’s Horton. Major Horton. I’m in charge here. If there’s anything I can do for you, you must let me know.”

His bulbous eyes frankly appraised the girl’s face and figure, and he said with increased warmth, “Anything at all. As soon as you’ve settled down, come and have a drink and a chat in my caravan, and I’ll put you wise to the camp routine.”

Ex-public school, ex-Army, thought Nichol. Ex-Kenya, pro-segregation and anti-any sort of hard work as long as someone would pay him gin money.

“It would give us great pleasure to do that,” he said in formal French.

“Hullo,” said the major. “Here comes another of ’em. Wonder who
he is.
Wasn’t told about this one. Unusual rush of business for the time of year.”

“These damned power lines are playing Old Harry with my set,” said Mr. Calder. “Over.”

“Not much better here,” said Mr. Behrens. “I think he’s crossed the river. We shall have to keep pretty close behind him if we don’t want to lose him.”

“Why not let him settle down for the night? Then we can fix him accurately.”

“Suppose he doesn’t stop?”

“Drive all night, you mean?”

“Why not? There must be at least two of them.”

“If they drive all night,” said Mr. Calder, “we shall have to do the same. I’ll take the Besancon road, you cross the river lower down and keep on his tail. I’ll be able to give you some sort of cross-bearing when I get to the top.”

Mr. Behrens said nothing. He was beginning to feel the strain. He could, if necessary, go on all night. But what he wanted at that moment, more than anything else in the world, was a hot bath and a good dinner.

He swung the car round the bend, saw too late the notice ahead of him, braked and came to a halt in a gravelled forecourt.

Three people were walking toward him. One was a girl, the second a man in a bush jacket, with a reddish mustache. The third was David Nichol. . .

He had time to drop the earphones onto the floor and slide the seat cushion back over the set, before the man caught up with him. He glanced at Mr. Behrens’ gb plate.

“My name’s Horton,” he said. “Major Horton. You wouldn’t be a modern Romany, I suppose?”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Behrens.

Nichol and the girl were moving off toward their own car.

“Your organising secretary was here last week. He told me I should be seeing some of you chaps soon. I must say, I take my hat off to you. Straight out from your desks and offices. You won’t have had much experience of this sort of thing, I take it?”

Nichol and the girl had got into the car, and were bumping off up one of the paths into the wood.

“I’m an accountant,” said Mr. Behrens boldly. “I spend my life among balance sheets, and profit and loss accounts. It was only last week that I decided I
must
revert to a simpler method of existence. I haven’t got much kit with me. A ground sheet, a couple of blankets.”

“You’re a real Romany,” said the major admiringly. “I can see that. Prepared to rough it.”

Mr. Behrens shuddered.

“I’m an old campaigner myself. I can probably give you a few tips. Let’s find a nice sheltered place for you.”

The major pointed at the taillight of the green Citroën.

“Better give them a bit of elbow room,” he said with a chuckle. “They look to me like a honeymoon couple. Don’t want to intrude on their privacy, eh?”

“Certainly not,” agreed Mr. Behrens.

“Now you’ll find quite a snug little berth here, under the roots of this tree. Spread the ground sheet over you, and peg it down each side. What about grub?”

“I’ve got some cold food with me, and a flask of coffee. I wasn’t thinking of doing any actual cooking. Not yet.”

“We could have a twig fire going in no time,” said the major. “And I’ve got a few old safari pots and pans I could lend you.”

“Thank you, no,”
said Mr. Behrens. “I’ve had a long and tiring day. I’ll just rig up my—er—bivvy.”

The bitter thought was of Mr. Calder, at that very moment drawing up before some snug hostelry.

“I’ll be quite happy with a packet of sandwiches and a hot drink.”

“The great thing,” said the major, “when you’re sleeping on mother earth, is to dig a hole for your hip.”

A hundred yards away, Shura had finished erecting the safari-model combined dwelling and sleeping tent and had plugged in the electric light from a spare battery in the car. It looked, Nichol thought, extremely inviting, a tiny refuge of light and shelter in a darkening world.

“Can I help?” he asked.

“It is really easier for me to do it. I know where everything is. Perhaps you could unroll the beds, while I set the table.”

There were, Nichol saw, two sleeping bags, each with an inflatable mattress and pillow.

“All you have to do,” said the girl, “is to blow them up. You will have to find what degree of inflation suits you best. I like mine quite soft. Just enough to keep my body off the ground. Will you have an aperitif before we eat?”

“Thank you,” said Nichol. “I think I should enjoy that.”

“Tournedos Rossini will do very nicely,” said Mr. Calder. “Followed, I think, by a Sorbet, and a bottle of Closdes Lambrays, 1955.”

Outside, it had started to rain.

David Nichol heard the rain pattering on the flysheet of the tent, and turned over in his sleeping bag. He was tired, but sleep seemed far away. There was something wrong with his mattress. He had inflated it too hard, and was rolling and bouncing like a small boat on a choppy sea. Also he was too hot.

He threw back the down-lined coverlet, and lay for a moment with his arms outside. A warm hand came out from the sleeping bag beside him. It touched his hand, then moved down to the mattress. There was a hiss of escaping air. Nichol felt himself sinking.

“Better?” asked Shura.

“Much better,” he said.

Mr. Behrens was first up. He shaved under a cold tap, repacked his belongings, and ten minutes later was freewheeling out of the car park and down the hill. He felt it wiser not to disturb Major Horton. If there was indeed a fee to pay for one of the most excruciating nights he had ever spent, it could be collected, in due course, from the modern Romanies.

In fact, he had not been unobserved. A pair of cold and protuberant eyes under projecting ginger eyebrows had watched his unobtrusive departure.

There was a telephone in Major Horton’s caravan, connected to the exchange at Besancon. He asked for a number and when connected spoke rapidly. His French seemed to have improved.

Mr. Behrens stopped at the first café which he found open, and had breakfast and a more satisfactory wash and shave. He then drove his car into a side turning and switched on his set.

It was still only seven o’clock.

Mr. Calder answered at once.

“I hope you had a good night,” said Mr. Behrens.

“Excellent,” said Mr. Calder. “And you—?”

“Unspeakable.”

“When you went off the air so suddenly, I assumed you’d run into our friend.”

“You assumed correctly. My right hip is still paralysed. I’ll tell you all about it one day. I think he’s off again.”

It was a false alarm. It was after eight before the needle flickered, and started to creep across the dial.

“Due east,” said Mr. Behrens.

“There are only two roads to Belfort,” said Mr. Calder, who had been devoting his attention to the map. “The southern looks the natural one for them. I’ll take it myself, and keep ahead. You can take the northern route through Vesoul. And keep out of trouble.”

“I’ll do my best,” snapped Mr. Behrens. “Out.”

It was at eleven o’clock, on the long climb up to Altkirch, that he ran into the road block. It was a single, whitewashed pole on trestles across the road. In the split second when he spotted it as he came round the corner, he wondered if his car was heavy enough to crash it. The German frontier was about twenty miles ahead. He braked and came to a halt.

One of the policemen advanced toward the car. The other remained seated on his chair beside the road. They were oldish men, police reservists, Mr. Behrens thought. He was uncomfortably aware that he had had no time to cover up the apparatus on the seat beside him.

“What’s all this about?” he said.

“Routine check,” said the man. But he had seen the wireless set. His eyes jerked down to the number plate on the car, and Mr. Behrens saw him glance back at his companion, who got quickly off his chair.