Vintage Stuff (9 page)

'I had to come back for something. What on earth happened? Did you slip on some scree in
Wales?'

'Never got to bloody Wales. Glissaded on a dog-turd in Shrewsbury and came a right purler, I
can tell you. All I could do to drive that damned minibus back here. Had to cancel the OU course
and now I've got old Perry on my hands.'

'Peregrine Clyde-Brown?' asked Glodstone with rising hope.

'Parents off in Italy somewhere. Won't be back for three weeks and he's been trying to phone
some uncle but the chap's never in. Blowed if I know what to do with the lad.'

'How long is that ankle of yours going to take to mend?' asked Goldstone, suddenly considering
the possibility that he might have found just the two people he would most like to have with him
in a tight spot.

'Quack's fixed me up for an X-ray tomorrow. Seems to think I may have fractured my
coccyx.'

'Your coccyx? I thought you said you'd sprained your ankle.'

'Listen, old man,' said the Major conspiratorially. 'That's for public consumption. Can't have
people going round saying I bought it where the monkey hid the nuts. Wouldn't inspire confidence,
would it? I mean, would you trust a son of yours to go on a survival course with a man who
couldn't spot a dog-pat when it was staring him in the face?'

'Well, as a matter of fact I don't...' began Glodstone, only to be interrupted by the Major
who was shifting his posterior on what appeared to be a semi-inflated plastic lifebelt. 'Another
thing. The Head don't know, so for Lord's sake don't mention a word. The blighter's only too
anxious to find an excuse for closing the OU course down. Can't afford to lose my job.'

'You can rely on me,' said Glodstone. 'Is there anything I can get you?'

The Major nodded. 'A couple of bottles of whisky. Can't ask Matron to get it for me. Bad
enough having her help me to the loo, and then she hangs about outside asking if I need any help.
I tell you, old boy, everything they say about passing razor blades is spot-on.'

'I'll see to the whisky,' said Glodstone, not wishing to pursue this line of conversation any
further. It was obvious that the Major was a broken reed as far as the great adventure was
concerned. He went downstairs in search of Peregrine. He had no difficulty. The sound of shots
coming from the small-arms range indicated where Peregrine was. Glodstone found him using a .22
to puncture the centre of a target. For a moment he watched with delight and then stepped
forward.

'Gosh, sir, it's good to see you,' said Peregrine enthusiastically and scrambled to his feet,
'I thought you'd left.'

Glodstone switched his monocle to his good eye. 'Something's turned up. The big show,' he
said.

Peregrine looked puzzled. 'The big show, sir?'

Glodstone looked cautiously round the range before replying. 'The call to action,' he said
solemnly. 'I can't give any details except to say that it's a matter of life and death.'

'Gosh, sir, you mean '

'Let's just say I've been asked to help. Now, as I understand it, your folks are in Italy and
you've nothing on.'

For a moment Peregrine's literal mind struggled with the statement before he caught its
meaning. 'No, sir, I've been trying to phone my uncle but I can't get through.'

'In which case you won't be missed. That's number one. Number two is we've three weeks in
which to do the job. I take it you've got a passport.'

Peregrine shook his head. Glodstone polished his monocle thoughtfully. 'In that case we'll
have to think of something.'

'You mean we're going abroad?'

'To France,' said Glodstone, 'that is, if you're game. Before you answer, you must know that
we'll be acting outside the law with no holds barred. I mean, it won't be any picnic'

But Peregrine was already enthralled. 'Of course I'm game, sir. You can count me in.'

'Good man,' said Glodstone and clapped him on the shoulder. 'Now as to a passport, I have an
idea. Didn't Mr Massey take the fifth-form French to Boulogne last year?'

'Yes sir.'

'And Barnes had flu and couldn't go. If I'm not wrong, the Bursar said he'd kept his temporary
visitor's passport back. It could be he still has it in his office.'

'But I don't look a bit like Barnes.'

Glodstone smiled. 'You will by the time you cross,' he said, 'We'll see to that. And now for
weapons. You don't by any chance have the key to armoury, do you?'

'Well, yes sir. The Major said I could keep my eye in so long as I didn't blow my head
off.'

'In that case, we'll pay the gunroom a visit. We need to go armed and two revolvers won't be
missed.'

'They will, sir,' said Peregrine. 'The Major always checks the guns.'

'I can't see him doing it in his present condition,' said Glodstone. 'Still, I don't like
going unprepared.'

For once Peregrine had the answer. 'There's a smashing shop for replica guns in Birmingham,
sir. I mean if we '

'Splendid,' said Glodstone. 'The Major wants some whisky. We can kill two birds with one
stone.'

That evening the substitutions were made and two .38 Webleys with several hundred rounds of
ammunition were stored in cardboard boxes beneath the seats of the Bentley. And the problem of
the passport had been solved too. Glodstone had found Barnes's in the Bursar's office.

'Now it remains to convince the Major that you're going to your uncle's. Tell him you're
catching the ten o'clock train and I'll pick you up at the bus-stop in the village. We don't want
to be seen leaving the school together. So hop along to his room and then turn in. We've got a
long day ahead of us tomorrow.'

Glodstone went up to his rooms and sat on in the evening sunlight studying his route on the
map and sipping pink gins. It was nine before he remembered the Major's Scotch and took him the
two bottles.

'Bless you, old lad,' said the Major, 'You'll find a couple of glasses in the cupboard. Saved
my life. And Perry's off to his uncle's tomorrow.'

'Really?' said Glodstone. 'Anyway, your very good health.'

'Going to need it by the feel of things. Bloody nuisance being cooped up here with no one much
to chat to. Are you staying around for long?'

Glodstone hesitated. He was fond of the Major and the whisky coming on top of his pink gins
had added to the intoxication he felt at the prospect of his adventure. 'Strictly between these
four walls,' he said, 'and I do mean strictly, the most extraordinary thing's happened and...' He
hesitated. The Countess had asked for the utmost secrecy but there was no harm in telling the
Major and if anything went wrong, it would help to have someone know. 'I've had a summons from La
Comtesse de Montcon, Wanderby's mater. Apparently she's in terrible trouble and needs me...'

'Must be,' said the Major unsympathetically, but Glodstone was too drunk to get the message.
By the time he'd finished, Major Fetherington had downed several stiff whiskies in quick
succession and was looking at him peculiarly. 'Listen, Gloddie, you can't be serious. You must
have dreamt this up.'

'I most certainly haven't,' said Glodstone. 'It's what I've been waiting for all my life. And
now it's come. I always knew it would. It's destiny.'

'Oh, well, it's your pigeon. What do you want me to do?'

'Nothing. I know how you're placed and all that. But do remember, you're sworn to secrecy. No
one, but no one, must know. I want your hand on that.'

'If you say so,' said the Major. 'Shake a paw. No names, no pack-drill and all that. You can
rely on me. All the same...Pass the bottle. So you're crossing to Ostend?'

'Yes,' said Glodstone and got up unsteadily. 'Better get some shut-eye.' He wove to the door
and went downstairs. On the way, he met the Matron and ignored her. She held no attractions for
him now. La Comtesse de Montcon wanted him and the great romance of his life had begun. He
crossed the quad. A light was burning in Peregrine's dormitory but Glodstone didn't see it.

'Fuck me,' said the Major, unfortunately just as the Matron entered.

Peregrine shut the book and turned out the light. He had just finished The Day of the
Jackal.

In Ramsgate, Slymne hardly slept. Away from Groxbourne and in the saner atmosphere of his
mother's house, Slymne could see considerable weaknesses in his plan. To begin with, he had
forged two letters from the Countess and if Glodstone hadn't followed instructions to burn the
confounded things and actually produced them to her, things could become exceedingly awkward. The
woman might well call the police in and they would probably find his fingerprints on the letters.
At least Slymne supposed they could, with modern methods of forensic science, and even if they
didn't there was still the matter of the hotel bookings. As far as he could see, this was his
most fatal mistake. He should never have made the bookings by telephone from England. If the
calls were traced the police would begin looking for motive and from there to his own progress
across France during the Easter holidays...Slymne preferred not to think of the consequences.
He'd lose his job at the school and Glodstone would gloat over his exposure. In fact he could see
now that the whole thing had been a ghastly mistake, a mental aberration that was likely to wreck
his career. So, while Glodstone and Peregrine drove to London next day and booked into separate
rooms, one with a bathroom, Slymne concentrated on means of stopping the scheme he had so
successfully started. Possibly the best way would be to send a telegram to the school purporting
to come from the Countess and countermanding the instructions. Slymne decided against it. For one
thing they always phoned telegrams before sending the printed message and the School Secretary
would take the call, and for another Glodstone had probably left no forwarding address. To make
absolutely certain, Slymne took the opportunity, while his mother was out shopping, to put a
large wad of cotton wool very uncomfortably in his mouth to disguise his voice and phone the
school. As he anticipated the Secretary answered.

'No, Mr Slymne,' she said, to his horror, 'you've just missed him. I mean he was here till
yesterday but he's gone now and you know what he's like about letters anyway. I mean they pile up
in his pigeonhole even in-term-time and he never does leave a forwarding address. Is there
anything I can tell him if he comes back again?'

'No,' said Slymne, 'and my name isn't Slymne. It's...it's...er...Fortescue. Just say Mr
Fortescue phoned.'

'If you say so, Mr Fortescue, though you sound just like one of the masters here. He had ever
such bad toothache the term before last and '

Slymne had put the phone down and removed the wad of cotton wool. There had to be some way of
stopping Glodstone. Perhaps if he were to make an anonymous phone call to the French Customs
authorities that Glodstone was a drug smuggler, they would turn him back at the frontier? No,
phone calls were out, and in any case there was no reason to suppose the French Customs officials
would believe him. Worse still, the attempt might provoke Glodstone into some more desperate
action such as crossing the frontier on foot and hiring a car once he was safely in France and
driving straight to the Château. Having opened the Pandora's box of Glodstone's adolescent
imagination it was going to prove exceedingly difficult to close the damned thing. And everything
depended on Glodstone having burnt those incriminating letters. Why hadn't he considered the
possibility that the man might keep them as proof of his bona fides? The answer was because
Glodstone was such a fool. But was he? Slymne's doubts increased. Putting himself in Glodstone's
shoes, he decided he would have kept the letters just in case the whole thing was a hoax. And
again, now that he came to think of it, the instruction to burn every piece of correspondence was
distinctly fishy and could well have made Glodstone suspicious. As his doubts and anxieties
increased, Slymne decided to act.

He packed a bag, found his passport, took the file containing the photographs of the
Countess's letter, together with several sheets of crested notepaper and envelopes, and was ready
to leave when his mother returned from her shopping.

'But I thought you said you were going to stay at home this summer,' she said. 'After all, you
had a continental holiday; Easter and it's not as though you can afford to go gallivanting
about.'

'I shall be back in a few days,' said Slymne. 'And I'm not gallivanting anywhere. This is
strictly business.'

He left the house in a huff and drove to the bank for more travellers' cheques. That
afternoon, he was in Dover and had joined the queue of cars waiting for the ferry when he was
horrified to see Glodstone's conspicuous green Bentley parked to one side before the barrier to
the booking office. There was no doubt about it. The number plate was GUY 444. The bastard was
disregarding the Countess's instructions and was leaving earlier than he was meant to. Crossing
to Calais and sending a telegram from the Countess addressed to Glodstone care of the
Dover-Ostend ferry was out of the question. And Slymne was already committed to taking the Calais
ferry himself. As the queue of cars slowly moved through Customs and Immigration and down the
ramp into the ship, Slymne's agony increased. Why the hell couldn't the man have done what he was
told? And further awful implications were obvious. Glodstone's suspicions had been aroused and
while he was still committed to the 'adventure', he was following an itinerary of his own. More
alarming still, he was travelling on the same ship and might well recognize Slymne's Cortina on
the car deck. With these fears plaguing him, Slymne disappeared into the ship's toilet where he
was prematurely sick several times before the ship got under way. Very furtively, he went up on
deck and stared at the retreating quay in the hope that the Bentley would still be there. It
wasn't. Slymne drew the obvious conclusion and spent the rest of the voyage in a corner seat
pretending to read the Guardian and hiding his face from passers-by. He was therefore in no
position to observe a young man with unnaturally black hair who leaned over the ship rail and was
travelling under a temporary passport made out in the name of William Barnes.