A Fine Night for Dying. Jack Higgins

found little difficulty in extracting the information he required, starting with the export firm in Bombay where her trip had commenced, passing through Cairo and Beirut, and culminating in Naples with the agents who controlled the Anya.

      ‘But why did you give Skiros all your money?’ he said.

      ‘He said it would be safer. That there were those who might take advantage of me.’

      ‘And you believed him?’

      ‘He seemed kind.’

      She leaned back in her seat, head turned to look through her own reflection into the darkness outside. And she was beautiful – too beautiful for her own good, Chavasse decided. A lovely vulnerable young girl on her own in a nightmare world.

      She turned and, catching him watching her, coloured faintly. ‘And you, Mr Chavasse? What about you?’

      He gave her his background story, cutting out the criminal bit. He was an artist from Sydney who wanted to spend a few months in England, which meant working for his keep, and there was a long, long waiting list for permits. He wasn’t prepared to join the queue.

      She accepted his story completely and without any kind of query, which was bad, considering that it was so shot full of holes. She leaned back again and gradually her eyes closed. He reached for his trenchcoat and covered her. He was beginning to feel some kind of responsibility, which was really quite absurd. She was nothing to him – nothing at all. In any case, with any kind of luck, things would go through pretty smoothly once they reached Ste-Denise.

      But what would happen when they arrived on the English coast and Mallory acted on his information? She’d be on her way back to Bombay for good. They’d never allow her into the country again after an attempt at illegal entry. Life could be very difficult at times. Chavasse sighed, folded his arms and tried to get some sleep.

      They reached St-Brieuc just before five o’clock in the morning. The girl had slept peacefully throughout the night and Chavasse awakened her just before they arrived. She disappeared along the corridor, and when she returned, her hair was combed neatly into place.

      ‘Any hot water down there?’ he asked.

      She shook her head. ‘I prefer cold in the morning. It freshens you up.’

      Chavasse ran a hand over the hard stubble on his chin and shook his head. ‘I’m not too fond of being skinned alive. I’ll shave later.’

      The train glided into St-Brieuc five minutes later. They were the only passengers to alight. It was cold and desolate and touched with that atmosphere peculiar to railway stations the world over in the early hours of the morning. It was as if everyone had just left.

      The ticket-collector, well protected against the chill morning air by a heavy overcoat and scarf, looked ready for retirement. He seemed indifferent to everything, even life itself, and the pallor of his skin, coupled with his constant, repetitive coughing, boded ill. He answered Chavasse with a kind of frigid civility, as if his attention was elsewhere.

      Ste-Denise? Yes, there was a bus to Dinard which would drop them within a mile of Ste-Denise. It left at nine o’clock from the square. They would find a café there which opened early for the market people. Monsieur Pinaud was not one to miss trade. He subsided once more into his own cheerless world, and they moved on.

      Rain drifted across the square as they went down the steps and crossed to the lighted windows of the café. It was warm inside, but not busy. Chavasse left the girl at a table by the window and moved to the zinc-topped bar.

      A middle-aged balding man in striped shirt and white apron, presumably the Monsieur Pinaud referred to by the ticket-collector, was reading a newspaper. He pushed it to one side and smiled. ‘Just off the train?’

      ‘That’s it.’ Chavasse ordered coffee and rolls. ‘They tell me there’s a bus to Dinard at nine o’clock. That’s definitely the earliest?’

      Pinaud nodded as he poured the coffee. ‘You want to go to Dinard?’

      ‘No, Ste-Denise.’

      The coffee-pot froze in mid-air and the man glanced across warily. ‘Ste-Denise? You want to go to Ste-Denise?’

      His reaction was more than interesting and Chavasse smiled amiably. ‘That’s right. My girlfriend and I are spending a few days’ holiday there. I’ve arranged to stay at an inn called the Running Man with a Monsieur Jacaud. You know him?’

      ‘Perhaps, monsieur. A lot of people come in here.’ He pushed the coffee and rolls across.

      Chavasse took the two cups and the plate of rolls across to the table. As he sat down, Pinaud wiped the zinc top of the bar carefully, then moved to a door which obviously led to the rear, and vanished.

      ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ Chavasse told the girl, and went after him.

      He found himself in a deserted, stone-flagged corridor. A notice at the far end indicated the lavatory. There was no sign of Pinaud. Chavasse started forward cautiously and paused. A door on his right was slightly ajar. From the sound of it, Pinaud was on the telephone. The interesting thing was that he was speaking in Breton, which Chavasse, whose paternal grandfather still presided over the family farm near Vaux in spite of his eighty years, spoke himself like a native.

      ‘Hello, Jacaud. Those two packages you were expecting have arrived. The girl fits the description perfectly, but the man worries me. Speaks French like a Frenchman, or like a Frenchman should, if you follow me. Yes - okay. They’re waiting for the bus at nine.’

      Chavasse slipped back into the café. Famia was already on her second roll. ‘Hurry up,’ she said. ‘Your coffee will be getting cold.’

      ‘Never mind. I’m just going across to the Station to check on that bus time again. I won’t be long.’

      He went out into the rain without giving her a chance to reply and hurried across to the station. It was still deserted, but he quickly found what he was looking for, a series of metal lockers, each with its own key, where luggage might be left. He took out his wallet and also the extra money he had taken from Skiros. He pushed the whole lot well to the rear of the locker, closed it quickly and concealed the key beneath the insole of his right shoe.

      Famia was looking anxious when he returned to the café. He patted her hand reassuringly and went back to the counter.

      ‘I wondered what had happened to you,’ Pinaud said.

      Chavasse shrugged. ‘I thought there might be a local train or something. It’s a hell of a time to wait.’

      ‘Don’t worry about that.’ Pinaud gave him a big smile. ‘You just sit tight and have another coffee. Lots of farmers and market people are in and out of here at this time in the morning. I’ll get you a lift to Ste-Denise. Someone is bound to be going that way.’

      ‘Very decent of you. Perhaps you’d join me in a cognac? It’s a cold morning.’

      ‘An excellent idea.’ Pinaud reached for a bottle and a couple of glasses and filled them quickly. ‘Your good health, monsieur.’ He raised his glass and smiled.

      Chavasse smiled right back. ‘And yours.’

      The brandy burned all the way down. He picked up his coffee and returned to the table to await events.

      People came and went, mainly porters from the nearby market, and Chavasse bought the girl another coffee and waited. It was perhaps half an hour later when the old van turned out of a narrow street on the other side of the square.

      He watched idly as it approached, and noticed a Renault emerge from the same street and halt at the kerbside. The van came on and braked no more than a couple of yards from the café window. Jacaud got out.

      The girl reacted immediately. ‘That man – what a terrible face. He seems so – so completely evil.’

      ‘Appearances can sometimes be very deceptive,’ Chavasse told her.

      Jacaud