OLD ALEX
On her tenth day in the cave Modesty Blaise roused as usual an hour after dawn from the comatose state in which her life processes were slowed to the essential minimum. She made no attempt to test her condition or remaining strength, for to do so would serve no purpose but would consume a few scruples of precious energy.
She had been walking in the Pyrenees, in the remote area west of the department of Ariege, when she heard the soft report and felt the sharp pain in the back of her thigh as the dart struck. She turned quickly, seeking her attacker, but within seconds she knew what had happened and that she had little hope of defence. Yet still the ferocious instinct for survival that had been bred in her throughout her childhood made her sink to the ground and slump as if unconscious before the tranquilliser had in fact taken hold.
She lay very still, slowing her heartbeat to lengthen the time it would take for blood carrying the drug to reach her brain. She had worked with a vet on a game reserve in East Africa, and knew that if the dart carried imobilon she was dead. Imobilon was for elephants and rhino. More likely it carried a mix of meditomidine and ketamine. Whoever had fired it, he or they would come to complete whatever their purpose might be, no doubt carrying the tranquilliser gun but perhaps a handgun also, and perhaps... perhaps she could...
Her senses were swimming, and she fought to hold back oblivion. Perhaps she could... do something...
But there was no sound, no rustle of sundried grass beneath approaching feet before darkness closed about her.
When she roused from a stupor her reliable internal clock told her that some three hours had passed. She was lying in a cave, a small cave some twelve feet deep and with a ragged arch of an opening no more than half the size of an average door. But this opening was blocked by a boulder rolled hard against it, a boulder that would have required mechanical aid or at least two men with crowbars to manoeuvre it into position. Outside it was still day, but the only light in the cave came through a few narrow gaps at one or two points round the edge of the opening where the boulder did not quite fit.
She waited until her senses were clear, then sat with her back to the cave wall near the boulder to assess her situation. Three days ago she had set out on this walkabout. It was something she still did from time to time, an escape from ease and comfort, a reminder of the childhood years when she had wandered for thousands of miles through the Middle East and North Africa. Sometimes now she joined Aborigine friends in the Australian outback, but usually she went alone, walking barefoot, wearing only a cotton dress, carrying a small pack with a bottle of water, some packets of dates and nuts as emergency food, a few toiletries and a change of underwear - a luxury compared with the wardrobe of her early days.
She was highly skilled at living off the land, and according to Willie Garvin was well able to eat things no hyena would touch, but here in the Pyrenees food had presented no problems. Certainly this stretch of land through the slopes of the foothills was remote, but there was always a small farm within six or seven miles, and occasional villages on tributaries of the Salat and Ariege rivers. She carried a little money with her, but the French farm families were intrigued by her, and hospitable, and she had found it hard to pay for whatever food they provided.
As she sat in the cave on that first day, watching a narrow beam of sunlight fall across her thighs, she knew that she had been imprisoned here to die slowly. Somebody had put out a contract on her for an aggravated killing, and whoever was handling the contract had planned it carefully. Only Willie Garvin and Weng, her houseboy, knew what she was doing and where.
So she had been followed from London, which called for considerable organisation, and then tailed expertly to Lacourt, where she had left her car, and on into the mountains until the contractors had found the right moment to strike.
It had been skilfully done, and clearly there had been teamwork with radio communication, for somebody had reconnoitred ahead and found the cave. She did not wonder what other method of aggravated killing might have been chosen if the cave had not presented such a perfect opportunity, for that was unimportant. The contractors and whoever employed them were also unimportant. They could wait till later - if there was to be a later. Nothing mattered now except survival.
Her pack had been taken. She had no food, no water, nothing but the clothes she wore - bra, pants and a cotton dress. The boulder was immovable. A search of the cave had produced little of use; dust, gravel, scattered pieces of rock, feathers, a skeleton of a bird, animal droppings, two or three sticks, and - the only sign of human existence - the empty cigarette packet of a long extinct brand.
Unless somebody freed her by moving the boulder she would die. The chance of anyone passing nearby, a local or walker like herself, was remote but not impossible. The problem would be to know if this happened, and even through the widest gap between rock and cavemouth, perhaps two inches, she could see only a narrow segment of thinly grassed earth extending for some twenty yards before sloping down out of her sight.
Willie Garvin would be concerned if she failed to contact him after two weeks. He would call the small hotel at Lacourt where she had left the car, then come out to find her, but she had followed no particular route, and the chances that he would stumble upon the cave were infinitesimal; except that he was Willie Garvin, who had a remarkable intuition for anything concerning her, who might well follow the route she had taken, and who would instantly be curious about a large boulder in an unnatural position.
But that, if it happened, was many days in the future. Her sole task must be to remain alive for as long as possible, so that the infinitesimal chance might grow to become minute. To do this she would need all her mental skills and all the abilities she had learned from Sivaji, the ancient guru in the Thar desert north of Jodhpur, for without a controlled slowing of heartbeat and breathing no human could survive more than a few days without water.
So it was that on the tenth day, when she roused from the coma she had lain in from dusk to an hour after dawn, she sat up slowly and waited for bodyheat to return. She was wearing only bra and pants, for her dress had been pushed with a stick through a ground level gap to one side of the cavemouth. She drew the dress in carefully through the gap and began to suck from it the heavy dew it had collected overnight.
When she had taken all the moisture it would yield she laid it aside and began to work on the task she had begun eight days ago, moving very slowly and with minimum mental and physical effort, listening carefully for any sound from outside.
One of the sticks was of cane, and with a sharp stone she had cut about four inches from one end of it. Now, using the quill from a feather, she was boring out the central pith from the cut piece. Most of this was now hollow, and she had cut a thin notch close to the open end to make a whistle. She did not know how effectively it would work, but it had been good for her morale to do something undemanding but positive during her listeningout periods. These were from early morning till midmorning, then from midafternoon till dusk. The rest of the day and night she was comatose.
She worked with a blank mind, without hope, without despair, and at about eight o'clock when the whistle was finished she tried it once, and allowed herself a moment of pleasure at the shrill sound it produced. Beside her lay the rest of the cane with a piece torn from her dress tied to one end. Got the whistle and the flag now, Willie, she allowed herself to think. Come soon. Then she withdrew her mind from all thought and stimuli except for the listening.
It was two hours after dawn next day when a sound triggered her to wakefulness. At first she was unsure that she had heard anything, but then it came again, a crunching as of wheels on a rocky track, from somewhere to the right of the cavemouth and drawing nearer, but below the slope where the ground dipped. Normally she could produce a taxihailing whistle of earsplitting quality with fingers to her mouth, but not with parched lips and drained energy. This was why she had contrived the little cane instrument.
Now she pushed her flag through the gap at the top of the cavemouth and knelt with her face close to the gap. It was a huge effort to blow, and to keep blowing, to use the other hand to wave the flag from side to side and to crane her neck in an effort to see through the gap. After perhaps fifteen seconds she paused to listen, chest heaving and weakness flooding her limbs.
The crunching sound had stopped. Again she began to whistle and wave her flag. She could see nothing through the gap, nothing, and could feel despair gathering to pounce when, startlingly near, she heard a gruff voice speak with rising astonishment, "Il'ya quelqu 'un la? Dedans?"
She could manage only a husky whisper as she said in French, "M'sieu, I am trapped in a cave behind this boulder. Can you hear me?"
Part of a face came into her view on the far side of the little gap, an old and weatherbeaten face beneath a shock of thick grey hair. "Une femme? How in the name of God-?"
She broke in. "Please, M'sieu. I have been here for some days and I am very weak. Please bring help to move the boulder."
The grey head nodded. "Wait, mam'selle, a few moments only. Napoleon and I will see to it." The face vanished, but the voice continued briefly and she had the odd impression that the man had said, "Bloody hell!" in English.
Slowly pulling on her dress, she knew that she must be disorientated and had misheard. It was not surprising, for the last two minutes had produced the effect of shock in her, and she was reaching within herself now to regain control.
The man had referred to ›Napoleon‹, a friend presumably, and had spoken of a ›few moments only‹. This she could not understand. It would take four strong men to roll that boulder away without implements for leverage. She was mentally preparing what she would say to him on his return when there came a clanking sound and strong, workworn ringers pushed a length of chain through the gap.
The voice said, "Pass it round the rock, mam'selle, and back to me through the little space on the other side." A throaty chuckle. "It is good fortune that I came to haul timber today."
She took the end of the chain and drew it across the boulder, relaxing now in the knowledge that the man knew what he was doing and she could leave it in his hands. A second chain was fed through to her, and after a few moments she saw them both tighten round the boulder. From outside she could hear him talking to somebody, encouraging, cajoling, and it was suddenly clear to her that this was Napoleon, a beast of burden.
There came a heavy thudding sound from close outside, and with strange certainty she knew that he was using a pickaxe or heavy crowbar to dig away the ground by the outer base of the rock so that it would move readily. After a few minutes the thudding stopped and part of his face reappeared at the gap. "Soon, mam'selle. Soon now."
"Thank you. Please tell me your name." She wondered if she inwardly feared hallucination and was seeking his name to give him reality.
"Me? I am Old Alex, mam'selle. Alex Mirot, from the Mirot farm. And you?"
"Modesty Blaise. From England."
"Enchanted to make your acquaintance, mam'selle. You speak very good French." She saw part of a smile on the brown face, then he was gone and she heard him shouting, urging Napoleon on.
The rock shook, and its base shifted a few centimetres. A crowbar was thrust through the gap, levering against the edge of the cavemouth, then sunlight blazed suddenly in upon her as the rock rolled and settled, leaving an ample gap on one side. She crawled through into the open, got slowly to her feet and stood with head tilted back, eyes halfclosed against the light, breathing deeply.
Old Alex was taking the chains from round the boulder. Napoleon, a massive ox, stood waiting patiently to be reharnessed to the long cart that stood a little way off. Slowly she absorbed the scene, and realised that the cart must have been moving over a patch of gravel at the foot of the gentle slope when she heard it.
She swayed, and Old Alex dropped the chains and moved towards her. Weakness was mounting in her now, but her mind was strangely clear and perceptive. She saw that this greyhaired French farmer was as fit as a lifetime of hard work and contentment would make a man. He was of medium height with a square face, blue eyes and a gentle manner, concerned for her now as he said, "You must rest, mam'selle. There are sacks in the cart for you to lie on. I will take you home."
She knew her face must be gaunt, her cheeks sunken, and her appearance had worried him, but she managed to smile as she said, "Thank you, Old Alex. Thank you from my heart."
Then abruptly her strength was gone and she would have fallen if he had not caught her. He stooped to slip an arm beneath her knees and straightened up, cradling her with her head against his shoulder, her eyes closed in deepest sleep. He spoke a word to Napoleon, and moved towards the cart, looking down at the pallid face. "Ah, la pauvre petite," he said softly, and shook his head in bewilderment. "Bloody hell...!"

* * *

The Mirot farm stood between woodland and pasture, a kilometre from the cave and three kilometres from any other habitation. From it, a carttrack led down through the subalpine terrain to a lateral road through the foothills. Four generations lived in the rambling farmhouse and outbuildings, and in the four days since she had been brought here Modesty had seen them all but had little idea of who was related to whom.
Of the oldest generation there were only two - Old Alex and Matilde, a quiet, sharpeyed woman, perhaps a year or two younger than Alex and presumably a spinster since she wore no wedding ring.
There were two men and three women in their late forties and early fifties. Of these, Pierre Mirot was evidently the head of the family, and it was his wife, Beatrice, who had taken upon herself the task of looking after Modesty, bringing her very small dishes of bread and milk every hour or so for the first two days, then moving on to eggs, meat and fish, again in small portions.
Modesty had no idea who the other man and two women were, but had learnt their names and thought one of the women was the man's wife. The third generation consisted of two boys and two girls ranging from eighteen to twenty-four or five, offspring of Pierre, Beatrice and the others. These young ones had themselves produced three small children, two boys and a girl.
It was soon apparent to Modesty after she roused from her first long sleep that her arrival was the most exciting event the Mirot family had known for a long time. In turn they all came to see her in the little bedroom she had been given. None showed any hint of peasant dourness, and she was touched by the courtesy they displayed in asking no questions they felt might distress her.
She had told Pierre the simple truth, that she had been walking along when she had been hit by a dart she found in her leg later, and that when she came round she found herself in the cave. She also told him she had no idea who would wish to do such a thing to her, which was true in particular but not in general, for she had no wish to speak of her background. She suspected that the family felt she had been only three or four days in the cave rather than ten, and she made no attempt to correct this belief, for again she had no wish to explain how she had managed to stay alive for what seemed an impossible time.
The Mirot family appeared to get on remarkably well together. Like Beatrice, they all took to calling her Modesty, and showed unfailing consideration. On the second day Pierre asked if she wished to inform anyone of her safety and whereabouts. There was a village with a telephone only three kilometres down the track, and he would gladly drive her there tomorrow if she felt well enough. The farm owned a car, he informed her, a Citroen, old but with some mileage left in her. Money? She was not to concern herself. She was a guest of the family, and Old Alex would be greatly upset if she distressed herself about a few francs.
So it was that on the third day she was able to phone Willie Garvin and tell him something of what had happened, but she cut short his startled questions. "No, leave it, Willie. Details when I see you. I'm fine now, but if you're free I'd be glad if you'd come out here in about a week's time. I'll ring the hotel at Lacourt and tell them you'll pick up my hired car and deliver it to the garage. Then there's something special I'd like you to do for me as a thankyou to these good people
From the fourth day onward she was up and about, eating with the family in the big kitchen, gaining lost weight and restoring muscletone. Janine, one of the younger girls, had lent her a few clothes, and shoes were no problem for she had gone unshod throughout the years of her childhood. She particularly enjoyed the evening meal in the kitchen. The Mirot family were much given to argument and there was invariably a babble of voices raised in dispute on any subject that might come up either on the radio or in the newspaper collected daily from the village.
Old Alex intrigued her. He was the oldest member, certainly not married to the elderly Matilde she realised as time went on, and apparently none of the others was his son or daughter or grandchild, yet he was clearly much respected and treated with affection by all.
To her surprise she now knew that he had in fact said ›Bloody hell!‹ that day at the cave, for she had several times heard him use it again as an interjection. Occasionally other odd English words emerged. A grumbling ›dim view› was familiar to her, but something that sounded like ›wizard prang‹ rang only the faintest of bells. The rest of the family took these oddities for granted, they were just things Old Alex had always said.
Her fifth day at the farm was a Sunday. Pierre drove Beatrice and the three children to the village church. The rest of the family, apart from Matilde, walked the three kilometres. For the first time Modesty found herself alone on the farm with the old lady, sitting with her at the kitchen table as she started to prepare a great mound of vegetables for the Sunday dinner.
Modesty said, "Can I help, Matilde?"
A brisk shake of the head. "You must rest, child, rest. Old Alex will be cross with me if I allow you to work. He will start with his bloody hells."
Modesty smiled. "We'd better not have that on a Sunday. I wonder where he picked up such words. Has he been to England?"
Matilde shrugged. "He came to us here when I was a girl of eighteen. He has never been away." She began to scrape some carrots, her eyes distant, remembering. "It was from June to February before he spoke. There was more English then. He was not well."
It was not easy to follow the old lady's rambling comments. Modesty said, "In what way was he not well?"
"It was his head, of course. He had fallen down a little cliff near Pic de Zarra and cracked his head. My brother Maurice found him," she looked up over her spectacles, "as Old Alex himself found you... how long is it now? Fifty years later."
"So he was not of the family?"
"Not then, no. But naturally he became so."
Modesty sat very still, a strange suspicion growing within her. She said quietly, "Did he tell you his name, Matilde?"
"Ha! It was impossible not to know that, for he said nothing else through all the early days that I nursed him except his name, Alex something, and a number."
"I see." Now the suspicion was becoming conviction. "Are you the only one left who remembers that time?"
"I suppose so. My two older brothers are dead, my older sister married and moved to Pamiers. My nephew Pierre, who is Maurice's son, was only just born."
"So Alex came, and stayed, and nobody since has wondered where he came from?"
Matilde put the carrots aside and began to peel potatoes. "Why should they? For them he has always been here, a part of the farm."
"Yes, of course." Modesty was silent for a few seconds. Then, "Do you remember what he was wearing when your brother brought him home injured?"
The old lady peeled two potatoes without speaking, then put down the knife, wiped her hands on a teatowel and stood up. "Come," she said, and moved towards the stairs. Modesty followed, intrigued yet strangely reluctant, halfwishing she had never asked the first question about Alex. When she hesitated at the door of Matilde's bedroom the old lady beckoned her in, closed the door and moved to a big chest of drawers. Kneeling creakily, she opened the bottom drawer and lifted out several layers of clothes wrapped carefully in tissue paper.
Again she beckoned, and Modesty moved forward to look down into the drawer. Lying at the bottom was a jacket, torn and stained, deliberately stained it seemed, with the buttons removed. But it had once been blue and was of military cut. When she looked more closely she could see where the wings insignia had been removed from above the breast pocket.
Matilde looked up. "He was wearing this," she said.
Modesty knelt beside her. "This was during the war? He was an English airman, shot down over France and trying to escape across the border into Spain?"
"Who knows? He remembered nothing."
"But surely you must have-" She broke off, unwilling to complete the question. "Has he never recovered his memory, Matilde? Even in some small way?"
She shook her head slowly. "After some time he began to work with us. Then to speak. It was like a child learning to speak, in French of course. After two years he was one of us." She hesitated, then reached beneath the collar of the jacket and drew out a tape with two small flat discs on it. "I took this from his neck on the day my brother brought him home."
The workworn old hand trembled a little as Modesty took the tape and read what was stamped on the discs. After a few moments she handed it back and said gently, "Did you never show him this? Or the jacket?"
Matilde replaced the discs and ran a palm over the jacket to smooth out a fold. "I hoped he would marry me," she said. "For years I hoped, but he did not wish. Bloody hell. Now it has long ceased to matter."
Modesty knelt gazing down into the drawer. "Oh, my God," she thought. "Oh, my God."

* * *

On the eleventh day of her time at the farm Willie Garvin arrived driving a new Range-Rover and with a suitcase of her clothes and shoes. It was around midmorning. Apart from Beatrice and the two young mothers and the three children, all the family was out working. Willie was fluent in French, his accent far better than in the Cockney English he chose to maintain. Moreover he had a gift for being at home on any level and for being liked by being himself. It had been explained by Modesty that he was neither husband nor partner, simply a close friend of long standing. To Beatrice this was baffling.
"Why are you not married?" she whispered as she stood with Modesty and watched the two young mothers talking eagerly with him, laughing at something he had said. "There is some problem?"
Modesty smiled. "Not really, Beatrice. It's just that we're happy as we are."
"Ha! You English!"
It was an hour before she could get Willie away from the women and children to go with her on the walk she took morning and afternoon now that she was herself again. He was desperate to know what had happened to her, and she told him as they walked to the cave where Old Alex had found her, a kilometre from the farm. When she had finished, and he had seen the cave and the boulder, he leant against the rock wall beside the cavemouth, arms tightly folded, eyes like blue stones, lighting to control the huge fury that possessed him.
She had known it would be so, and that no words could ease his reaction, it would have to run its course. She patted his arm, kissed him lightly on the cheek, then moved away a little and sat on the grassy slope, looking down towards the wooded valley where Alex and Pierre would be working now. After a minute Willie came to sit beside her, taking her hand and touching the knuckles to his cheek. He was a little pale, and his smile was forced, but the rage had been absorbed and dispersed.
"Well, sorting out whoever set this up'll keep me out of mischief for a bit, Princess," he said, still holding her hand. "You got any ideas?"
"Nothing concrete, Willie. Somebody hates me pretty badly, but you could form a club from those people. Most of them you can discount because they're no longer in a position to have me put down. I'd say it's a contract job, but who paid and who took the contract is anybody's guess."
Willie said, "Salamander Four? You cost them fifty grand when you made them cancel that contract for an obscene killing of Steve and Dinah after the Kalivari caper. The money's nothing but they don't like losing face and it's not the first time you've hurt them."
"Salamander's a possible," she agreed, "but I've no idea who they might have contracted to do the job. Could be any one of a dozen groups, there are plenty about these days. They'll be in the Yellow Pages soon."
Willie gazed absently down into the valley. "It's got to be settled, Princess. Will you leave this one to me?"
"No, Willie love, I won't. I agree it has to be settled, but we'll take a lot of care and thought over it. When it's known I survived they'll expect trouble, so let's wait for them to drop their guard a bit. Meantime let's both watch ourselves. Nobody who knows us is going to put me down without being damn sure they have to put you down too." She paused, frowning, then gave a little sigh. "Anyway, there's something else that needs sorting first."
"Something else?" He looked at her curiously. "Here?"
She nodded, troubled. "When we go back for the midday meal you'll meet Old Alex, the man who saved me. He's a lovely character, about seventy-four or five I think, but tough as hickory and with years left in him." She drew a deep breath. "Willie, he's also English, part of a bomber crew I imagine, I don't know the details. They were probably shot down over France around June 1943, and I don't know what happened to the rest of the crew. What 1 do know is that Alex, probably aged twenty or twentyone, was trying to get across the border into Spain when he took a bad fall."
Willie was staring at her incredulously. "Blew 'is memory? All those years back?"
"Yes. He suffered a head injury that brought on total amnesia. The brother of Matilde, that's the old lady you saw at the farm, he found Alex unconscious and brought him home. The boy didn't speak for months, except to give his name and number, but even that soon faded. Matilde nursed him, he picked up French, became one of the family. He's been here ever since. That's the bones of it, Willie."
Willie Garvin shook his head as if to clear it. "God Almighty," he said softly. "What a story. How d'you find out, Princess?"
She pressed his hand. "Let's start walking back, I'll tell you as we go."
He rose and drew her to her feet. As they began to walk she said, "It's not a family secret. Old Matilde is the only one of her generation left, the only one who was alive when Alex came. It's strange, he still uses an English word or two as a kind of exclamation. The day he found me I thought I heard him say ›Bloody hell!‹ and I couldn't believe it. But he does say that, and sometimes he says ›wizard prang!‹ isn't that one of those wartime RAF expressions for something good happening?"
Willie nodded. "Heard it in old latenight war movies. It goes with the handlebar moustaches the RAF used to wear."
"I thought so, but at first I just assumed he'd been in England for a time with the Free French, perhaps. The family takes no notice of his little interjections. I don't think any of them know or care where Alex came from, apart from Matilde. For them he's always been there, part of the farm. But last Sunday I was alone with Matilde, the others had gone to church, and she spoke of Alex and his bloody hells, so I asked if he'd been in England. That's when it began to emerge, Willie."
She told him of the strange conversation with Matilde, of going to her bedroom and seeing the jacket and discs. "It was an RAF jacket. He'd torn off the buttons and wings and the rings on the sleeve, and he'd stained it with Godknowswhat so he could pass for a peasant at a distance, I suppose. And there was this thing the forces wear round their necks, with discs giving their name, number and religion."
Willie stopped short to look at her. "She'd got 'is identity discs?"
"Yes. She let me handle them, and then she showed me a letter he'd been carrying in one of his pockets. She'd never been able to read it, of course. It was from a girl called Elaine."
As they moved on again Willie said, "And she'd never shown 'im the letter?"
"She was eighteen when they found him, and after nursing him she hoped he would marry her one day, but he didn't."
Willie blew out his cheeks in bewilderment. "Well, weirder things 'appen in wartime, I suppose. Anyway, so now you know who this Old Alex really was - really is?"
"Yes, I know," she said reluctantly. "He may be entitled to a different name now, but when he was trying to escape through the Pyrenees in 1943 he was the Honourable Alexander Sayle. I think that means he was the son of a peer. A lord or an earl, maybe."
"Oh, Jesus!" They walked on in silence for a few moments, then he said, "What are you going to do about it, Princess?"
She sighed and took his arm. "I wish I knew, Willie. I wish to God I knew."

* * *

Twenty-four hours later Willie Garvin said, "Could you run us down to the village, Pierre? I can phone for a car from there."
The farmer stared. They were standing outside the farmhouse, a little apart from where Modesty was saying her goodbyes to the family. "A car? But you have this, Willie, the beautiful Range-Rover."
"Ah, well, I'm leaving that. We thought it might be useful round the farm."
Pierre blinked, then frowned. "We do not want payment for the little we have done. It has been our pleasure to have such a welcome guest."
Willie put a hand on his shoulder. "I know that," he said very quietly, "but it's not payment, Pierre, she's just saying thank you. So am I. Alex saved Modesty's life, and all the riches of Versailles mean nothing to me beside that. Please don't turn us down, Pierre. It's not from the pocket, it's from the heart."
Pierre stood in thought, running a hand over the Range-Rover's wing. Then he smiled. "Old Alex will love this," he said.

* * *

"More tea?"
"If you please." Sir Gerald Tarrant passed his cup. He had left his office in Whitehall where he headed a Special Intelligence Group and was sitting with Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin in the big drawingroom of the Hyde Park penthouse that was her home. Three days had gone by since her return with Willie. She had telephoned Tarrant at once, for her regard for him was almost filial, but he had not seen her till now, and was relieved to find her looking fit and well after the appalling ordeal Willie had described to him.
She was wearing a summer dress in pale yellow, and her hair was up, exposing the lovely column of her neck. Tarrant noted that Willie's eyes rested on her, not watching, just gazing with dreamy content. It was, Tarrant felt, a rewarding occupation. Sometimes, alone, he was swept with shame at the memory of other ordeals she had endured of which he had been the cause, and one of which he had been the occasion, when he had watched, helpless, as she fought unarmed and naked in the great crystal cave to save him from death. Those searing moments would live in colour for him for the rest of his life.
Yet whenever he saw her the shame was washed away by the smiling affection with which she always greeted him.
As he took his cup from her he said, "Would you like me to run over my report again?"
She shook her head and gave him a somewhat rueful look. "No, I think we've got it. The Honourable Alexander Sayle was the elder of the two sons of Viscount Sayle of Casterlaw, now deceased. In late May 1943 he was captain of a Halifax bomber that failed to return from a mission. The crew baled out over France and were taken prisoner. They reported later that the aircraft had been badly damaged. Alexander, as captain, presumably baled out after the crew had gone, but he was never captured and never heard of again. He was first reported missing, and later missing believed killed."
She looked down at her tea, prodding the slice of lemon in it. "Alexander's brother Mark, younger by four years, inherited the title twenty-five years ago. He is married with children and grandchildren, and occupies the family manor house in Kent. He is renowned for his charitable work, and well respected in the city and in the country." She stopped and looked a question at Willie, who nodded.
"That's it, Princess."
She turned to Tarrant. "So?"
"So what are you going to do about this obscene attempt to kill you slowly? I understand you made no report to the French police."
She shook her head impatiently. "Don't change the subject. We're watching our backs and we'll deal with it ourselves. What could the police do anyway? What I want now is your advice on what I should do about Old Alex. Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't thanked you for digging out all these details. I'm very grateful."
"Not at all. May I say I've never before known you to seek advice as to what you should do in given circumstances."
She gave a small laugh. "Most of the decisions I've had to make were pretty basic. This one isn't."
"I can see that, which is why I'm hedging. But since you press me I think you should make the survival of Alexander Sayle known to his family."
Willie said, "Alexander Sayle doesn't exist any more, Sir G. He's someone else now. Has been for fifty years." He looked at Modesty. "But I still think you can't just leave things, Princess. I know it's going to be a traumatic 'appening, but for God's sake, Lord Sayle's got a right to know. Old Alex is his brother."
"In fact," Tarrant said gently, "Old Alex is Lord Sayle, and his younger brother is simply the Honourable Mark Sayle."
Modesty said, "I don't care about all that. I care only about Old Alex."
Tarrant nodded. "And with good reason, for although in truth it was your own abilities that saved you, he was the man who heard and responded. You fear what effect revelation may have upon him, but should you therefore deny him knowledge of his own birthright?"
She sat gazing into space for perhaps a minute, then sighed and looked at Tarrant. "No, I can't deny that knowledge, either to him or to his family. But you have to keep my name out of the newspapers. You can tell his brother in confidence, because he may want to talk to me, but as far as the media's concerned Alex saved an unknown woman who was injured near a remote farm in the Pyrenees, and this revelation... emerged. Dress it up any way you like."
Tarrant sat up straight. "I'm to dress it up? You expect me to break this to the Sayle family?"
Willie said, "Who else? You've got the clout to make 'em listen to what seems a barmy story, and anyway you owe the Princess. Jesus, she's left skin and blood all over the place pulling chestnuts out of the fire for you."
Tarrant winced. "Don't remind me." He looked at Modesty. "All right, my dear, I'll do what I can. But even with Willie's assessment of my clout it won't be easy to convince Sayle that the brother he's believed dead for fifty years is still alive."
Modesty opened the handbag beside her and took something from it. She rose, moved to Tarrant's chair and bent to kiss his cheek. "Thank you," she said. "You're not a bad old gentleman really, and you won't have any trouble. Just show Lord Sayle these." She dropped the identity discs into his hand.
Tarrant stared down at them, then looked up. "You were able to bring them back with you?"
"Yes. Because Matilde gave them to me. I think she believes he's entitled to know of his birthright at last."

* * *

Professor Stephen Collier said, "Well you certainly managed to hit the headlines without actually getting your name in the papers. Have you seen him since his brother brought him home?"
"Once," said Modesty. "Apparently he kept asking for me, and I went down to Sayle Manor to see him. They were all being very kind, but he looked so... so out of place with his nice suit and a clean shave instead of stubble."
Three weeks had passed since Tarrant's visit. Steve and Dinah Collier, closest of all friends to Modesty and Willie, were with them in the penthouse roof garden on a late afternoon of a warm day. Their glasses were almost empty and Modesty's houseboy, Weng, had just brought a fresh jug of fruit juice and another of meursault and soda.
"Was the old chap unhappy?" Collier asked.
Modesty shrugged. "I don't know. I was so afraid he'd be angry with me, feel betrayed, but he was so pleased to see me and he seemed as... as jolly as ever. But I'm not sure he wasn't putting on a show for me."
Dinah turned her sightless eyes towards where Modesty sat beside her and said, "Look, honey, you have to stop fretting. You did what you had to do, and it's something for the Sayle family to work out now. You can argue points on this for hours and get nowhere. I know, because old Collier there kept me awake for about three hours the other night with his ›on the one hand this, and on the other hand that‹."
Collier grinned and flickered an eyelid at Willie. "I'd been secretly reading an article in Cosmopolitan about making the matrimonial bed more exciting, and I thought that a stimulating discussion of moral issues would be a surefire success. Unfortunately all I got from my beloved was some neanderthal grunts culminating in a threat to tie my leg in a knot if I didn't shut up. I think it was my leg."
Dinah gasped. "He just makes it up, Modesty! He's a terrible liar! That's not how I shut him up in the end."
"My darling," said Collier, "you don't imagine these two experienced people ever believe me, do you? Now let's move on to this cave business." He looked at Modesty. "You're in a rut, you know. You got a knockout needle in your bottom only last year, and now you've done it again with a dart. I trust it was the other cheek?"
"I'm sorry, Steve, I can't remember."
"You must try harder, darling. Balance is all. I suggest a small cross tattooed on the puncture next time."
"He's jabbering like that because he's likely to explode any moment," said Dinah. "You watch."
"Yes, I bloody well am," said Collier, his lean intelligent face suddenly taut with anger. "Do you know who those cave bastards were, Modesty? And if so, then what? Or even if not, then what?"
"We don't as yet know who they were," said Modesty. "As to ›then what?‹ I'm not making any announcements even to you, in fact especially to you, Steve. You'll only go all bitter and bad-tempered about taking risks and so on. We never take risks we don't have to."
"I'll do no such thing," said Collier grimly. "My heart's desire is that you go and find these unutterably evil buggers and make sure they're never seen or heard of again. I ask for nothing lingering. I'm not a vengeful type. But such creatures aren't fit to live, so please see they don't."
His voice was shaking as he ended, and Dinah said, "Easy, tiger. The girl's safe home with us again." She turned to Modesty. "Oh God, you should have been at our place when I first told him. Willie had rung and given me the whole story of you in the cave, then Steve came home and I told him. We were in the kitchen, and when I finished I could hear him sort of gibbering, then he actually flung a plate against the wall and smashed it to smithereens."
"I was throwing it at Dinah," declared Collier, himself again, "to stop her snivelling about what had happened to you, but I missed." He shrugged. "Nobody's perfect. I remember Cetewayo saying that very thing to me during my last but one incarnation, when I was with his renowned Silver Assegai Impi during the Zulu Wars. I threw my assegai at a redcoat but it went the wrong way and hit Cetewayo in the foot. ›Don't worry, Umbopo,‹ he told me as he limped up to me, ›nobody's perfect.‹ Then he caved my head in with his knobkerry. I'll never forget it."
By the time Collier had finished it was tacitly accepted that the cave and Old Alex were not for further discussion, and conversation moved to other matters. At six o'clock the Colliers left to spend a few days with friends in Cambridge. At seventhirty Modesty and Willie were taking a predinner swim in the pool beneath the penthouse block when the attendant came from his cubbyhole and called, "It's Weng on the phone, Miss Blaise. Urgent, he says."
"Thank you, Charlie." She pulled herself from the pool and moved towards the cubbyhole, dabbing herself with a towel. Willie followed.
"Yes, Weng?"
"I have Mrs Collier on the line, Miss Blaise. She's at Kempton Road Hospital."
Watching, Willie saw her eyes widen then go suddenly hard as she listened. He was familiar with every nuance of her expression and body language, and knew she was controlling a surge of fury. After perhaps thirty seconds she said, "I see. Where's their car now?" A pause. "All right, Weng. Tell her we'll be with her as fast as we can get there and we'll take care of everything."
She put the phone down. Willie was already holding her wrap for her to put on. As they moved to the lift she said, "Steve's been beaten up. Pretty badly, I think. Dinah's at Kempton Road Hospital with him."
Willie's face lost a little colour. He said, "Is Dinah hurt?"
"Not physically. There was a traffic diversion and Steve lost his way somewhere in the East End. Went into a pub to ask directions, and a man beat him up."
"Did Dinah say why?"
"No. She told Weng she was with Steve because he didn't want to leave her alone in the car. Somebody jostled her and Steve protested, saying she was blind. Then it happened. She could only hear it, of course." Modesty swallowed hard. "Oh Jesus, Willie."
With aching heart he recalled all that he knew of the Canadian girl with honeycoloured hair and a gentle nature who had come so strangely into his life. Since then he and Modesty had twice seen her face lethal danger with unfailing courage, and their affection for her was boundless. Willie imagined her listening helplessly in darkness, crying out, pleading in vain as the husband she loved was savagely beaten, and a wave of rage and nausea swept him.
As they emerged from the private lift into the penthouse foyer where Weng awaited them, Modesty said, "Do you know how Mrs Collier got him out of the pub and called an ambulance, Weng?"
"She did not say, Miss Blaise. I think she was finding it hard to speak. But she did manage to say that the pub was The Black Horse in Waverly Street. Professor Collier told her that, so he must have been conscious. Their car was parked about fifty yards from the pub, she said. If there is anything I can do, I should be most happy."
They had started to move towards the bedrooms, but now Modesty paused, thinking. After a moment or two she said, "Phone Inspector Brook and tell him what's happened. Say I'd be grateful for anything he might be able to tell me about The Black Horse. We'll leave in five minutes. I'll drop Mr Garvin off to pick up their car and follow me to the hospital. We've no keys but he can hotwire it. Make sure the guest bedroom is ready for Mrs Collier."
She looked at Willie. "I know how you feel, but don't go near that pub. Maybe this is a casual bit of violence but it feels like something more deliberate, so let's find out where we're at before we do anything about the bastard who did this." She turned to move on to her bedroom. "Then we'll do something about him, by God."

* * *

The young doctor looked tired and angry. "Two ribs cracked, damaged knee, query broken nose, heavy facial bruising, internal cuts to the cheeks from his own teeth, and an oldfashioned black eye." He grimaced. "The usual expert beatingup."
Modesty glanced at Willie, then returned to the doctor.
"Usual?"
He hesitated, then, "We get a casualty like this from The Black Horse every few weeks. Don't ever go in that pub unless you're one of their regulars."
Willie said, "You mean it's a gang job?"
"Oh, no. It's a crony job. There's a man called Pike, I don't know if it's a first name, surname or nickname, but he reigns in that area like one of the old Glasgow razorkings. The rest are bootlicking cronies. Maybe he runs some sort of protection racket, I don't know. I only know he likes to maintain a rule of fear... and we get the examples here as casualties."
Modesty said, "Does nobody ever bring charges?"
The young doctor laughed shortly. "He can always produce a dozen witnesses to swear he wasn't there, and anyway there's always a threat to the victim's womenfolk. I'll wager your unfortunate friend had a word or two whispered in his ear before he was dumped out on the pavement." The doctor squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "And there's that wife of his. Blind. Don't quote me, but I'd like to get a few volunteers from my rugby club and beat that bastard to a pulp." Bitterness infused his voice. "And you know what would happen? We'd all be charged, probably lose our jobs, have to pay compensation and Christ knows what else." He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry. I got a bit carried away. Will you be taking care of his wife?"
Modesty said, "Yes, we're close friends and she can stay with us."
"That's fine. We'll keep him in overnight but he'll probably be discharged tomorrow. Will she be able to look after him for a few days?"
"Yes," said Modesty, "but there's no need. They can both stay with me. Can we see him now?"
"No problem." The young doctor stood up. "I'm glad you'll be taking care of Mrs Collier. I only wish somebody would take care of that bloody man Pike. Excuse the language."
Modesty said, "That's all right. We feel much the same way."
Stephen Collier lay in bed in a small room. What could be seen of his face between bandages looked like a bruised plum. Dinah sat holding his hand, turning a tearstained face to the door as Modesty and Willie entered.
"It's us, Dinah."
"Hallo, honey." Her voice was croaky. "I'm sorry to drag you out." Modesty took her in her arms as she stood up, holding her close.
Collier surveyed them with his one good eye, then looked at Willie. "I'm not sorry about dragging you out," he said, articulating with difficulty. "I just hope you've missed your dinner. I can't stand people who aren't suffering when I am."
Willie hid a sigh of relief. "Is it worse than when Cetewayo clobbered you with 'is knobkerry?" he asked.
Dinah began to laugh and cry at the same time, then recovered herself and whispered an apology. Collier said, "Willie, I'd be vastly obliged if you'd take Dinah to the canteen or whatever they have here and buy her a cup of tea and a wagonwheel. This has been much tougher for her than for me, and you're good for her nerves. Tell her stories of your indecent past while I have a quick word with Modesty. Nothing special, but I know I'm going to be pestered about what happened and I'd like to get it over with and then go to sleep."
Dinah hesitated. Collier said, "Please, sweetheart."
Willie said, "Come on, love," and took her hand. "I'll throw in a packet of crisps if you're a good girl."
When the door closed after them Modesty took the chair where Dinah had been and said, "Go on, Steve."
"It was all such a shock," he said slowly, and there was no humour in his eye now. "We got lost in the East End. Stupid me. Went into this pub, The Black Horse. Took Dinah with me rather than leave her alone in the car. It was so weird, Modesty. There were about fourteen or fifteen men standing around or sitting with drinks. One barman, no women. And the moment we entered there was silence. Everything stopped. I moved up to the bar and said very amiably that we'd lost our way and could they tell me the best way to get to the M 11."
He closed his eye. She saw that his bandaged hand was shaking and took it gently in her own. "Take your time, Steve."
He nodded feebly, and after a moment continued. "Nobody answered. Then a man moved away from the bar and walked past Dinah. He was a biggish chap, square face, black hair cropped short, huge chest, very light on his feet. As he passed Dinah he jostled her with his shoulder so she almost fell. I said something like, "Please be careful, my wife is blind."
Collier drew a quivering breath, then winced, a hand to his ribs. "That was all I said, Modesty, and then he turned on me suddenly, raving at me. Insults. Abuse. Who the effing hell did I think I was? He'd bloody well teach me to give him his props - whatever that might mean."
"Proper respects. It's topthug talk. Go on, I've got the picture."
"Well, I tried to move past him to take Dinah out, and that's when he hit me the first time." Collier shook his head slowly. "I've never been really hit before. I was dazed, and I fell down. After that it's all a blur. He kept hitting me, kicking me sometimes, hauling me up and knocking me down again."
Collier stopped speaking and gazed into space as if mentally reliving those moments. When he went on, his voice was a whisper. "There were two terrible things. One was that the other men seemed to be... excited, stimulated. They watched, and giggled, and said approving things in a sycophantic sort of way. Nobody spoke a word of protest. But worse... far worse, I could hear Dinah calling out, begging them to stop what was happening. Begging the man to stop. She couldn't see, of course, but she didn't need to. God, I was so scared for her. I kept trying to call out to her to go. I thought this madman might turn on her, and I couldn't protect her..."
His voice tailed away and tears welled from the eye Modesty could see. Quickly she moved to dab them away with her handkerchief. He swallowed, fought for control and croaked, "Oh Christ, darling. Can you imagine it? My poor Dinah."
"We've been imagining it, Steve," she said quietly. "Now just do some deep breathing until you steady up."
"Sure. Can't breathe too deep with these sodding ribs." A ghost of a laugh and a wince of pain. Two minutes later he said in a steady voice, "I won't apologise for the exhibition. Not the first I've done for you, is it?"
She bent to kiss his cheek, then sat down again. "Are you up to telling me the rest?"
"There's not much left. I think they dumped me outside the pub and pushed Dinah out with me. I vaguely remember her supporting me, trying to get me to the car. When I came round a bit more I was sitting half in the car with my feet on the ground, and passersby were giving us a wide berth. I couldn't drive and Dinah couldn't do anything, but then a builder's van stopped to ask what was wrong. He had a mobile phone and rang for an ambulance. His name's Dan Ringmer, of Ringmer Contractors- remember it for me, Modesty. I must get in touch to thank him. I guess that's about all."
She studied him thoughtfully. "No. What is it you wanted to say that you don't want Dinah to hear?"
"Oh God, yes. That's the important thing. The only thing that really matters." He put out his hand to her. "I'm not going to the police about this because I'm sure it's a waste of time, and I know what you and Willie will be thinking but I don't want you to do anything. Anything at all."
"Because you're afraid for Dinah? I know how it works, Steve. The doctor told me."
"All right, maybe it's all a big bluff, but I can't put her at risk, Modesty. I can't."
"Do you think Willie or I would? She's very precious to us, Steve. Look, do you trust us?"
He stared. "Of course I bloody do. Christ, you've seen us through all kinds of lethal shit."
"Then you can be sure that nothing we do will create a threat to Dinah. Okay?"
He sighed. "I've never yet won an argument with you. Okay, then." He closed his eyes. "God, I'd like to see that animal get his comeuppance."
"So would that doctor and a lot of other people. We'll see what can be done. Now I'll just fetch Dinah to say goodnight, then we'll take her home, and if you behave yourself we'll probably be able to collect you tomorrow. All right?"
He opened his eye and looked at her quietly, remembering many things they had shared. "In some ways you're not too bad," he said. "Not too bad at all."

* * *

At ninethirty that evening when they were at the coffee stage of dinner at the penthouse there came a phonecall from Sayle Manor. Lord Sayle would like to speak to Miss Blaise if convenient to her. It was Old Alex, and she left Dinah and Willie to talk, taking her coffee through to the drawingroom. Old Alex had nothing in particular to say, yet after half an hour he was still speaking, remembering the occasion of his finding her in the cave, reminiscing about his life on the farm, practising a little of his returning English, and describing the wonders of his life today, of London, of his caring family, of his visit to the House of Lords.
At ten Inspector Brook phoned from reception to ask if it was too late to call with some information he had gathered. Willie said, "No, come on up, Brookie. She's talking to one of 'er upper class friends but she won't mind coming downmarket for a copper."
By the time Brook reached the penthouse foyer she was waiting for him. "Hallo Brookie, do you mind if we talk at table? Weng's just making some fresh coffee."
"I'd love some, thanks." He kissed her cheek.
"And our friend Dinah is with us. You've met her a couple of times."
"Indeed. Not a lady I'm likely to forget. I'm an admirer." In the diningroom when he shook hands with Dinah he said, "I'm deeply sorry about what happened to your husband, Mrs Collier. This has been a great ordeal for you."
Her smile was tired but genuine. She said, "Thank you, Inspector. If you'll excuse me I'll leave you to talk with Modesty and Willie alone." She turned her head to Modesty. "Look in on me later, honey. I won't be asleep."
"I'll do that."
Brook watched as she walked to the door and turned into the passage without hesitation. "How does she do it?" he said softly.
"She knows the layout," Modesty answered, "and we're careful to keep everything in place while she's with us. But in a strange area she can locate any sizeable object by making a highpitched whistle on the edge of human hearing and picking up the reflection." Her lips tightened. "It didn't help her at The Black Horse. When I think-" She broke off. "Never mind. What have you got for us, Brookie?" She gestured to Dinah's chair and began to pour coffee.
Inspector Brook said, "This evening I went over to see Harry Lomax, my oppo who covers that area. He knows all about The Black Horse and Pike, and he reckons Pike is the enforcer for a pretty powerful group." He took the cup Modesty passed him. "Thanks. Possibly Salamander Four."
She stared in surprise. "Salamander Four? Oh, surely not. They're into highclass big money projects, not East End thuggery."
"Yes, I know you've crossed swords with them once or twice, and my first reaction was the same as yours, but Harry Lomax doesn't exaggerate and he says things have changed. There's a hell of a lot of money sloshing about in the East End these days, and the mobs are getting more sophisticated all the time. Salamander Four always contract out. Okay, if they want an industrial espionage job done they'll give it to a suitable upmarket specialist. If they've taken on a killing they'll pick the right hitman for it. But think of the loot that's gone missing from bank robberies, ramraids, security van holdups over the last few years. Those jobs call for basic thuggery, hard men with iron bars, the lowest layer of the criminal world. So the bigboys are taking over that area, controlling it, subcontracting. And for that they need enforcers, men who create intense fear, who can intimidate witnesses, intimidate people on juries. Sadistic psychopaths like Pike."
Brook had been speaking ever more quickly, now he stopped abruptly and shook his head.
Willie said, "You got a bit carried away there."
Brook drank some coffee and leant back in his chair. "Sorry. I must have picked up some of Harry Lomax's frustration about it."
Modesty said, "There's nothing he can do?"
"Like what, for God's sake? We can't move without evidence, you know that. If people won't bring charges and won't give evidence we're hogtied. Will your Professor Collier bring a charge of assault?"
"I'm afraid not. He's scared for his wife."
"There you are, then."
There was a long silence. At last Modesty said, "Well, thanks for calling in, Brookie. If you haven't eaten, Weng can put up a simple supper, or you can stay and have a general natter with some background jazz." She smiled and touched his hand. "You're always welcome."
"Thanks, but I'll be getting home." Brook sat frowning for a moment, then went on, "Let's get this clear. I'm a copper, and I don't approve of anything in the way of vigilante action."
Willie Garvin looked hurt. Modesty said, "Neither do we. But if I'm attacked I'm entitled to defend myself, surely?"
Willie said, "And if the attacker doesn't bring charges there's nothing to answer, is there?"
Brook got to his feet. "Let's leave it at that," he said. "Thanks for the coffee."

* * *

Two weeks later Collier stood by the great picture window of the penthouse looking out over Hyde Park. They're up to something," he said. "I can smell it."
Dinah came up beside him and slipped an arm round his waist. "If you can smell, that's good," she said. "The nose feels normal now, but it's great to know you've got it working again."
"All the Collier organs are in working order," her husband announced with dignity, "as I'm prepared to demonstrate. How about going to bed?"
"Any time, honey. But it's only seven of a summer's evening and maybe we should hold off the demonstration till after our hostess returns."
"You've been reading books on etiquette. Moreover, you too can smell that they're up to something and you're dying to know what. All right, I'll give you a thrashing at backgammon while we wait. Come on."
Collier had spent three days at the penthouse after leaving hospital, then he and Dinah had gone down with Modesty to her cottage in Wiltshire for a further ten days. Now they were back at the penthouse and planned to return to their home in Surrey tomorrow. That morning Willie had come up from The Treadmill, his pub on the Thames. An hour ago he and Modesty and Weng had left on unspecified business.
"Do you think it's to do with us?" Collier said quietly as he set up the backgammon board. "I mean with what happened to us at The Black Horse?"
Dinah picked up the cup and dice. "I don't know. Modesty tells me just about everything, but she's said nothing about that."
"They never do when it's a caper," he observed. "Neither before nor after unless you drag it out of them. Come to think of it, we might just as well go to bed."
She laughed. "I'll get something out of Willie. Oh golly, it's good to see you back in form, tiger."
He reached out to take her hand. "I want to tell you something strange, sweetheart. It's hard to put into words and it sounds crazy, but I have a curious sense of... of relief, of satisfaction almost, at having endured a beatingup. I'm a cardcarrying coward and the thought of being the kind of victim they sometimes show you on television makes my stomach churn. But now it's happened, and it's past, and I've come out on the other side." He laughed suddenly. "God, I wouldn't want it to happen again, but... I don't know, I've sort of joined the club of those who've been through it, and I feel a bit braced up by that." He shook his head. "What's a nice girl like you doing, married to a total prat like me?"
"I can't remember now," Dinah said thoughtfully, "but I guess I had nothing better to do that day. Let's give it a bit longer anyway. I think I've started a baby."
Collier stared, then nodded. "Yes. As a professional statistician and lustful maths expert I was beginning to suspect something of the sort." He took her hand and touched it to his lips. "That's wonderful, sweetheart."
"Yep. Good old fertile Collier."
"Oh, come now. You were there too, as I remember." He released her hand. "My word, I do lead an interesting life. Do you know this will be the first time I've ever beaten a pregnant woman at backgammon."
"Cocky sod," said Dinah amiably, and threw the dice. "Not yet you haven't."

* * *

Weng sat in a hired car parked a short stone's throw from The Black Horse. During the past week he had checked that the man called Pike came regularly between halfpast seven and eight, and stayed for about an hour. This evening Pike had arrived ten minutes ago, and Weng had used his mobile phone to report this fact. Now he watched with interest as a man and a woman on foot turned the corner and moved towards the pub.
The man was greyhaired, quite tall but paunchy and roundshouldered, wearing a dark, rather shabby suit and a clerical collar. The woman was also greyhaired and running to fat. Incongruously she wore a white T-Shirt with Jesus Saves on it and green corduroy trousers. As they passed the car Weng saw that the man had sad, hangdog brown eyes and carried a concertina hung round his neck. The woman had blue eyes, wore grey cotton gloves and carried a small haversack with some papers sticking out of it. In the mirror Weng watched them enter the pub and prepared to follow.
As the door swung to, the clientele of The Black Horse fell suddenly silent, all eyes on the newcomers. Some glanced sidelong to where Pike stood drinking with three or four of his close cronies. Here was unusual fodder for Pike, and they wondered how he would react. Pike favoured younger, possibly tougher prey, but all was grist that came to his mill for the propagation of his image as the hardest of hard men.
The couple gazed benignly around, then the man played a long chord on his concertina. "Good evening, brothers," he said with a strong Scottish accent. "Ah am the Reverend James McNally but Ah'd be much pleased if you'd call me Jamie, and here's my wife, Jeannie. We come not to preach but to lift your hearts with songs of praise to the good Lord." He looked towards the barman. "You've no objection, brother?"
The barman, a dour man in his fifties, looked a question at Pike, who gave a slight shake of his head and set down his glass. Moving as if to the door, he walked past the woman, jostling her with his shoulder so that she stumbled sideways and almost fell. Her husband said in severe tones, "Have a care, friend. It's no' polite to be near knockin' a woman doon."
Pike turned to him. "Who the bloody 'ell d'you think you are? We don't want no biblethumping jocks 'ere." His fist flashed out in a hook to the head, and the man staggered back, yet even as Pike prepared to follow up he had an odd feeling that his blow had barely connected and it was therefore strange that the vicar or whatever he was had gone reeling back across the barroom to fetch up against a table near the door.
Pike had taken no more than a pace after his victim when the woman was suddenly there confronting him, eyes blazing.
"Ye'll no' abuse ma husband when he's speakin' for the Lord!" she cried angrily. "Repent before the Almighty, ye great cowardly bullyin' creature! Doon on yer knees, wull ye? Doon on yer knees an' beg forgiveness, ye fallen brute sinner!" Somebody laughed. Nobody noticed the young oriental who slipped through the door and stepped lithely up on to the table where the Reverend James McNally now stood.
Then it happened. Pike swung an open hand to slap the woman aside, but by the smallest of movements, seemingly unintentional, she evaded the full force of the blow so that it became little more than a light slap across the face. Then one gloved hand swung in a seemingly casual fashion to hit Pike in the face with the littlefinger edge, and it was as if he had been struck by an iron bar. He reeled back, blood streaming from his nose, shock and fury exploding within him. Then he launched himself at her.
Throughout the next thirty seconds the woman never ceased talking. At first she moved back in a small circle, seeming ever and by chance just beyond reach of Pike, yet hitting him incessantly with her gloved hands and sometimes with a flickering movement of a sensibly shod foot. After fifteen seconds it was Pike who retreated, trying to escape her, limping, clutching at his ribs, cowering with an arm crooked above his head.
And all the time her penetrating voice hammered at him. "Have ye no shame, man? Wull ye lay wicked hands on a poor wee woman who did'nae ask but that ye put aside the ways o' violence an' repent before the Lord? For yer ain soul I'm beggin' ye to remember the worm that dieth not an' the fire that burneth for ay. Up, man! Up!" He had fallen, and she hauled him to his feet by an ear. "I'll have ye fall on yer knees from yer ain guid wish to repent, not from weakness o' the flesh!"
Only one man noticed the young oriental with the camcorder to his eye, and moved towards him. As he approached the table, the vicar with the concertina gave him a friendly smile. An arm shot out, and the man remembered nothing more until he woke under the table several minutes later. Another crony ventured to intervene between Pike and the woman, reaching out to grab her arm. It seemed almost an accident when she backheeled him in the crotch. He gave a screech of pain and sank to his knees, clutching himself. The rest simply watched, transfixed, bereft of all initiative.
Then, in the closing seconds of the woman's exhortation, when Pike was croaking, "No... please... no," the atmosphere among the spectators changed from one of dazed incredulity to something akin to awestruck pleasure. The monster they had long feared and fawned on was being destroyed, and like human jackals they found relish in this.
Pike was on his knees, barely conscious, hands held up before his face. The woman stepped back and took some sheets of paper from her haversack. "Right, Jamie," she said with a glance towards her husband, "Let's have a wee song." She moved around, thrusting papers into reluctant hands, and looked coldly at the barman. "We're stubborn folk for the Lord, and it's a song we'll have now from you good people, else it'll mean our comin' back each night till we've stirred the spirit in yer souls."
The barman had drawn breath to protest, but her last words changed his mind. Stupefied by the concept that this visitation could afflict him nightly, and unable to think of any other action he could take, he looked balefully round at his clientele and muttered hoarsely, "Sing. Sing, for Christ's sake!"
The concertina wheezed an introduction, then launched into the verse of Yes, Jesus Loves Me. Led by Jamie and Jeannie, too dazed to resist, the pub regulars began to sing, feebly at first, but then, exhorted by the barman and under the woman's menacing eye, with greater effort. Pike still knelt, the singers grouped roughly behind him. The woman pinched his ear hard. "Sing up, ye glaikit tattiebogle!" she commanded stridently, and Pike began to open and close his swollen mouth in wordless mime.
After one chorus she gave orders for him to be carried outside. The young oriental followed, saw him dumped on the pavement, called for an ambulance on his phone, then listened happily to the renewed singing within for a few moments before making for his car. Two minutes later the greyhaired couple emerged from The Black Horse, walked to the corner and disappeared.
Weng waited, but nobody followed, and as soon as he heard the ambulance arriving he drove off.
At nine o'clock that evening Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin called at Kempton Road Hospital. They had changed their clothes in a hotel room and removed padding, wigs, and coloured contact lenses they had worn as Jamie and Jeannie McNally. Modesty had removed the thin strips of lead she had worn inside her gloves along the little finger edges of the hands.
Dr Ramsey said, "Aren't you the couple who were here a week or two ago when that poor blind girl's husband got beaten up at The Black Horse?"
Modesty said, "Yes, that's right. We happened to be passing tonight and called in to say that Professor Collier's doing very well and to thank you. We'd like to make a contribution to your staff fund, or to anything for the hospital. Can we leave you and Sister to decide?"
She handed the young doctor a cheque. He looked at it and whistled. "This is very generous, Miss Blaise." Suddenly a huge grin spread across his face. "As a matter of fact we're having rather a good nightshift tonight." He glanced at Sister beside him, who nodded, then went on, "This is off the record. We're over the moon because that Black Horse thug himself was brought in an hour ago, and somebody's beaten the living daylights out of him. You'll never believe this, but apparently it was some old religious bird who duffed him up."
Dr Ramsey shook his head in disbelief. "Pike didn't tell us, he hasn't said a word - oh, not because he's stoic, he's just plain traumatised! But when our ambulance chaps picked him up a couple of his cronies were standing around outside where they'd dumped him - ex-cronies maybe, because they seemed quite psyched up about it and weren't doing a thing for him. Anyway, they said this old couple had come in to sing hymns, and Pike hit the man, then slapped the woman and she went for Pike and fairly beat the - er, you know 
"Beat the shit out of him," said Sister happily. "He has just about the same injuries as he caused your friend. It's amazing."
Dr Ramsey lowered his voice. "And Pike's crying," he said with delight. "She's broken the bastard."
Modesty and Willie looked at each other in astonishment, then at Dr Ramsey. Willie said, "Well, I'm sure that will help speed up our friend's recovery."
"And we can tell him tonight," said Modesty. "He's staying with us. Thank you very much, doctor."
At noon next day Inspector Brook was in his office with Inspector Harry Lomax watching the tape and listening to the sounds for the third time running. When Brook turned the TV off Lomax wiped his eyes and said, "It's my best day since I joined the force, Brookie. Tell her if she ever wants to murder someone she can come and do it on my patch for free. What in God's name is a glaikit tattiebogle?"
Brook said, "According to Willie it translates as a clumsy scarecrow, but it's much more scathing than that in the vernacular. A Glaswegian called Jock Miller ran her transport section for The Network, and Willie says she picked it up from him."
"Well, give 'em my very best," said Lomax. He nodded towards the screen. "But I can't tell my boys who they really are?"
"No way, Harry. That was Jamie and Jeannie McNally, who came and went, nobody knows where from or to. Wasn't it bloody marvellous, though?"
Lomax grinned. "Pike's deader than if they'd killed him. He won't dare show his face in the East End again. Look, can I have copies of that tape? I could push them around a few pubs on my patch where they'll love seeing Pike getting duffed up. Could do us a bit of good."
"I'll ask her," said Brook, "but if she says no, that's final, Harry."
Lomax lifted a hand. "It's final. I owe her more than that." He hesitated. "Any chance of meeting her?"
Brook looked doubtful. "She doesn't like a lot of attention, or thanks either. I can't go to her and say my old mate Harry Lomax is dying to meet her. But... well, if ever something crops up, a window of opportunity as they say, I'll do what I can."
"Thanks. But don't forget." Lomax got to his feet and stood gazing at the blank screen thoughtfully. "You can tell her one thing, though. She'll know it, but tell her anyway. Whoever the big boys behind Pike are, they won't have to guess who Jamie and Jeannie were. By now they'll know exactly what happened, and they'll know those two were Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin. Nobody can disguise style, Brookie, and what happened at The Black Horse reeks of their style."

* * *

It was ten days later when Modesty rang Willie at The Treadmill. He was working out solo in his combat room behind the pub, and her call was put through to him there.
" 'Allo, Princess, what's new? Has it been confirmed about Dinah's baby?"
"Yes, and I'm so pleased for them after what happened last time."
"Me too. We'll stand guard this time, no messing. You still getting calls from Old Alex?"
"Three last week. He says everybody's very kind, but there's no hint of his memory coming back and I don't think he's happy."
"Fishes out of water usually aren't."
"I know. But listen, Willie, I've rung because something pretty weird happened an hour ago. I had a call from Sir Angus McBeal."
"What?"
"Yes, what indeed."
McBeal was a very rich man, a director of a number of companies. His activities were closely watched by the City, for if McBeal decided that a particular investment was a Good Thing then the City was inclined to follow. What was known to perhaps only three other people in the world beside Modesty and Willie was that Sir Angus McBeal was also one of the four directors of Salamander Four, probably the world's most formidable criminal group outside the Mafia.
There had been a time when Salamander Four accepted a contract for the obscene killing of the Colliers from a client seeking leverage over Modesty and Willie. It was a Dead Man's Handle contract, unstoppable even though the client had been killed. Modesty had confronted McBeal and told him that his life would be forfeit if the Colliers were harmed, also the lives of his three European codirectors, Chard, Gesner and Pereda. The same applied, she had said, if any attempt were made to dispose of her or Willie Garvin, pointing out that she and Willie were highly experienced in not getting killed, while McBeal and his colleagues were not.
McBeal had never admitted his connection with Salamander Four, but the contract had been cancelled and the fifty thousandpound fee sent to Modesty for the Colliers as confirmation that it was no longer running. That was over a year ago. Now, out of the blue, McBeal had made contact and Willie was amazed.
"It couldn't 'ave been for a social chat, Princess. What did he want?"
"I don't know yet. Well, I know he wants to meet me, with you present if you and I so wish. He wants me to name a day and time next week, but I needn't tell him the place until just before we meet. The only thing he asks is that a telephone be available."
There was a long silence. At last Willie said, "Weird isn't the word. When you said he wanted to meet you I started thinking he aimed to set you up for a hit, but he's covered that by letting you fix the time and name the place at short notice."
"Right. So what can he have to say to us?"
"Beats me, Princess, but we'd better find out."
"I have the same feeling. I thought of making it noon next Tuesday if you're free then. He lives in Belgrave Square, so I can ring him there half an hour before and tell him to come to the penthouse. He might anticipate that, but I can't see that it matters. We'll be watching him, and anyway he's no hitman, he's a headoffice man."
Willie said, "Tuesday's fine. All right if I come up Monday evening?"
"Yes, I'd like that. Come to dinner."
"Thanks, Princess. See you then."
At noon precisely, five days later, Weng took a call from the porter in reception and was told that Sir Angus McBeal had arrived to see Miss Blaise by appointment. He was alone. "As arranged," Weng reported, "Hudson informed me that Sir Angus was carrying only his hat, umbrella, and a small document case. I have said he was to be sent up."
Modesty and Willie were in the penthouse drawingroom. She said, "All right, Weng. Show him in, then lurk in the kitchen. The intercom's on so you'll hear whatever's said."
When McBeal arrived in the foyer he gave hat and umbrella to Weng but retained the slim document case. Modesty and Willie were standing when he entered the drawingroom. She thought he had aged since she had last seen him a year ago. He still wore the oldfashioned boardroom uniform of dark suit and wing collar, but it seemed to hang looser on him. His thin grey hair was thinner, his long neck more scrawny, and he looked ten years older than a man in his fifties and in normal health should look.
Modesty said, "Good morning, Sir Angus. This is a surprising visit."
"These are surprising times, Miss Blaise," he said in the rather highpitched voice she remembered. "I have come here to thank you and to do you a service."
"To thank me? I can't imagine for what."
"It would be quite impossible for you to do so, Miss Blaise, but I shall be happy to explain. May I sit down?"
She gestured towards an armchair and seated herself on the chesterfield, facing him across a coffee table. He gave her a stiff little bow and moved to the chair. Once he was seated, Willie settled himself beside her on the chesterfield. McBeal cleared his throat and said, "I have discovered that you were the person who recently found Lord Sayle living as a peasant on a farm in the Pyrenees, having suffered total amnesia following the occasion when the aircraft he was piloting crashed in France in 1943."
McBeal paused, looking over his glasses at her as if giving her the opportunity to comment, but she simply looked at him impassively. After a moment or two he went on, "Yes, I know your name was never mentioned in the newspapers, but I happen to know that you were in that area at that time and I suspect that Alexander Sayle or another resident of the farm had some hand in your escape from slow death in a cave."
She felt Willie go stiff beside her, and fought to prevent the abrupt shock of McBeal's last words showing in her face or bodylanguage. Her voice was mellow as she spoke. "Are you saying that was a Salamander Four contract?"
McBeal nodded. "Yes. An inhouse operation. There was no client. I hope you will believe that I protested most strongly and was outvoted."
She looked at Willie, who said, "We might need convincing."
"I hope," said McBeal, "to satisfy you on that score later. For the moment may I say that a considerable schism has developed between my colleagues and me. They have never forgiven the loss of face suffered when forced to cancel the Collier contract and pay the contract price to the Colliers as proof of cancellation."
Modesty said, "You took a different view?"
"Certainly. I have dealt with you face to face, Miss Blaise, they have not. I am less given to emotional reaction than are my colleagues. I pressed the view that you were no threat to us, that if we left you and any friend of yours alone, then you would leave us alone. This did not suffice for them. Hence, after a prudent delay, the contract for your slow death, for the execution of which we engaged a South American team of three who had very good references. They are comparatively new on the criminal scene. Have you heard of Las Sombras?"
She looked at Willie, who shook his head. "The Shadows?" she said. "No, but we'll certainly take note of the name."
"You need not trouble to do so, Miss Blaise. They died shortly after we heard of your safe return. We do not usually terminate subcontractors, but in this instance it was necessary to avoid any possibility of your tracing, through them, the participation of Salamander Four in the enterprise."
Willie Garvin sat with a look of polite interest, trying to conceal the fact that he was struggling to collect his scattered wits. Here was this man, a principal of the most successful criminal group outside America for the past twenty years, sitting before a woman they had tried to kill, and retailing the manner of the event as if presenting a report on the halfyear results to a company boardroom.
Modesty said quietly, "Do you remember what I said we would do about Salamander Four if any attempt was made to kill either of us?"
"I do indeed, and vividly, Miss Blaise. You said you would kill us, the four principals, to prevent any further attempt, and I believed you. It was a very rational proposition."
"Be advised that it still holds, Sir Angus."
McBeal looked at his watch. "As to that, I shall shortly offer an alternative I hope you will find acceptable and may even deem a substantial service. Meanwhile may I proceed to the other purpose of my visit?"
"The other-? Oh, to thank me for something. Yes, I'd be most interested to hear about that."
"It refers to my opening remarks concerning your discovery of Lord Sayle, believed killed in action over fifty years ago." McBeal began to unzip the document case on his lap and Willie reached under his jacket to where twin knives were sheathed, but when McBeal's hand emerged it held only a bundle of a dozen or so letters, the paper on which they were written now yellowing with age. He laid them on the table before Modesty, and when he spoke his voice had changed. The words came hesitantly, as if he were shaken by emotion.
"These letters were sent to my mother during the war," he said. "Her name was Elaine McBeal, and she died when I was five. Her parents brought me up. They are long dead, and I have no other family."
Utterly bewildered and now making no attempt to hide it, Modesty said, "You wish me to read them?"
"At least one or two, if you please. All of them if you so wish."
She picked up the top letter. It was dated September 1942 and bore the letterhead of Sayle Manor, Fenstone Green, Kent. A touch of prescience sent a shiver of strange anticipation through her. She drew a deep breath and began to read. The letter was only two short pages, and in it the writer hoped that he and Elaine would be able to make their leave coincide next time round, and that Elaine would spend at least part of it with him at the manor. There was more, for it was a very loving letter.
She read it carefully, passed it to Willie and picked up the next. It was, she supposed, a typical wartime letter subject to censorship, giving nothing away and consisting only of small personal hopes and news. She heard Willie mutter ›Jesus!‹ and waited for him to finish both letters before she spoke.
"I won't read any more, Sir Angus. These are love letters written to Elaine McBeal, serving in the Women's Royal Air Force, by Flight Lieutenant the Honourable Alexander Sayle."
"Who was my father," said McBeal.
Incredibly, there were tears in his eyes now. He swallowed, and made an effort to keep his voice steady as he went on, "I am illegitimate, of course. He went missing six months before I was born. I was in my late teens before my grandparents told me what had happened and gave me the letters. My mother never told him she was pregnant. They said she feared he would think she was trying to force him into marriage. But this is why I have come to thank you, Miss Blaise, for finding my father."
There was a silence while she tried to unravel her tangled thoughts, to understand his motive, to find the right questions. At last she said, "I didn't find your father, Sir Angus. He found me, and saved my life."
"You were the instrument of his being found, Miss Blaise. I cannot tell you how grateful I am."
She said tentatively, "Have you come to me because you wish to see him? Do you feel you have some right of inheritance-?"
"No!" For the first time they saw passion in his cold eyes. "No, no, no! He must never know that I exist. He would be so ashamed of me if he... if he knew the truth about his son."
Willie rubbed his eyes with finger and thumb, wondering if he were dreaming. Modesty made a helpless gesture and said, "I'm at a loss, Sir Angus. For long years you've remembered your father as a hero who died for his country. Why should the discovery that he's alive make you... let's say, take a different view of yourself?"
He looked through her with blank eyes for long seconds, and at last he said in a small voice, "So hard to explain, even to myself. But because he is alive he could... form an opinion of me. An opinion that fills me with shame. I can only say that it has changed everything for me."
Head bowed, he gazed down at the floor in silence for a few moments, then suddenly sat up straight and looked at his watch. His voice was flat and businesslike again as he said, "May we revert to your own situation now, please?"
Modesty gathered up the letters and handed them to him. "In what respect?"
"I said a short time ago that I would provide an alternative to the ultimatum you so rightly presented to Salamander Four and which they ignored."
"They? You exclude yourself?"
"As I have said, I was the sole objector." Again McBeal looked at his watch. "At this moment my three colleagues are gathered at a house in a somewhat remote part of Sussex that we use for board meetings in this country. Shortly before arriving here I telephoned them to say that I was being delayed by traffic and would be about thirty minutes late in joining them. They will now be expecting me shortly." He took a mobile phone from his pocket, dialled a number, listened for a moment and said into the phone, "Stand by."
Still holding the mobile, he glanced towards a side table and said, "I would like to use your telephone now, and I see you have an amplifier. May I switch that on for you to hear?"
Modesty said, "Go ahead."
McBeal rose and picked up the phone. He dialled a number and switched on the amplifier. After two rings a deep voice said, "Yes?"
"Hallo, Chard. I'll be with you in a few minutes. Are Gesner and Pereda there?"
"We are all here waiting for you," said the voice impatiently. "What the devil are you thinking of, using names on an open line?"
McBeal said, "One moment please." He put the mobile phone to his lips and said, "Now."
The deep voice was speaking. "Hallo? Are you there? Hallo-?" The line went dead.
McBeal switched off the amplifier, cradled the phone and listened on his mobile. After a few seconds he said, "That is very satisfactory. I will put through the balance of the agreed sum as arranged." He switched off, put the mobile in his pocket and returned to his chair.
Modesty said slowly, "What exactly have you done?"
McBeal took off his spectacles and began to clean them on a small square of cloth. "I have retired," he said. "I have retired from alternative business. Salamander Four has ceased to exist."
She came to her feet, staring. "The house in Sussex-?"
There has been an explosion caused by escaping gas accumulating in a cellar," said McBeal patiently. "It was arranged and triggered by an expert who observed the effect from a safe distance and just reported to me that the whole house has collapsed and is burning. I believe this will save you a great deal of trouble and danger, Miss Blaise, and I hope you will be convinced that I personally am no threat to you or to Mr Garvin."
She looked at Willie, who had risen with her, and it was the first time he had ever seen her openmouthed. With an effort she collected herself and turned back to McBeal. "Christ!" she said. "What would your father think of that little effort?"
He blinked at her sadly and put his spectacles on. "They were very bad, dangerous men. I think that for your sake my father might well approve."
She turned away and walked to the big picture window, thinking, Yes. Old Alex just might. Willie Garvin was wandering aimlessly around the room, trying to stop feeling disorientated. McBeal sat looking fondly at one of the letters. After a while Modesty said, "Well... you've said your thankyou and you've done us a service, which is what you came for, Sir Angus. Is there anything else?"
He looked up from putting the letters away in his case. "Yes, there is, Miss Blaise, and I urge you to give it serious thought. The man Pike was in our employ not that he knew who his employers were, of course. After events at The Black Horse, and after discharge from hospital, he decamped to Liverpool and was killed in a brawl there by arrangement. We don't, or perhaps I should say we didn't, permit our lowest stratum of employees to cause us to lose respect without their suffering the consequences."
"What's your point?"
"My colleagues and I had a report of the event, and knew at once that you and Mr Garvin were the principal protagonists. For myself I felt only professional admiration. My colleagues, however, were incensed that yet again you had damaged our organisation. They at once agreed that a further attempt on your life should be made without delay. I protested but was again overruled."
McBeal closed the document case and stood up. "Gesner proposed a simple assassination by sniper rifle, hiring the world's best practitioner for the purpose."
Willie said, "Skendi? The Albanian?"
"The same. It was suggested that the best opportunity as regards location would be Miss Blaise's cottage in Wiltshire. At this juncture of the meeting I was required to withdraw since I was opposed to the operation, so I cannot tell you whether the proposal was acted upon. Skendi was in South Africa at the time, and as you are aware, we work through cutouts so it would take several days at least to conclude the contract. I can only tell you that perhaps from this very day you may well both be at risk from long range, and there is now nothing I can do to cancel the contract - if it exists. In that event Skendi will have been paid half one hundred thousand pounds in advance, the rest to be paid on completion. He will not know that this balance cannot now be paid."
McBeal paused, thinking. "I believe there is nothing more I can usefully tell you," he said. "Thank you for your time." He made no attempt to shake hands, but gave another little bow and moved towards the foyer. Weng appeared with his hat and umbrella, handed them to him and opened the lift door. McBeal started to enter, then paused. "May I offer you a word of advice, Miss Blaise?"
She laughed shortly. "After all you've said so far I'm hardly likely to decline."
"It's of little importance really, but should you survive Skendi's attentions, as I sincerely hope, I recommend a substantial purchase of Bearstead Holdings. There will be an agreed takeover in about six weeks and the shares will double in value."
He nodded, stepped into the lift, and the door closed after him. Weng, who was probably the world's richest houseboy, said thoughtfully, "Bearstead Holdings"
Willie sat down on the chesterfield, leaned back and closed his eyes. Modesty joined him and followed suit. A long minute later Willie said, "I just 'ad a very funny dream, Princess."
"So did I. This man called, and sat there chatting about various people he'd had killed. Then he got us to listen while he killed off some more over the phone, his colleagues actually. Oh, before that he thanked me for discovering his father, lost for fifty years, and got tearful about how ashamed his father would be of him-"
She broke off at the sound of Weng setting a tray down on the low table. When they opened their eyes they saw that he had brought a halfbottle of champagne in an icebucket, and two glasses. As he poured, Willie said, "You have great perception, Weng. We needed a pickmeup."
"Thank you, Mr Garvin. The bit I liked best," Weng had to pause, struggling to contain his mirth, "was when he said he had retired from... from alternative business."
He choked on the last word, overwhelmed, and fled from the room with a wailing cry of apology. Following the tensions of the past twenty minutes it was infectious. Modesty collapsed against Willie, beating a hand against his chest as he heaved with laughter.
After a little while, breathless, they picked up their drinks. Modesty said, "Well... at least he's saved us some agonising decisions over what to do about Salamander Four. We've never gone in for assassinations, but I wasn't going to wait around to be killed."
Willie said soberly, "There's still Skendi."
She nodded. "He's very good, very careful, but he doesn't hang about on a contract. If he's taken it we can expect something within ten days or so."
"He'll know he's got to get both of us," said Willie. " Whoever's left 'll go after 'im." He thought for a moment. "Small chance of taking us together, though. He'll settle for one at a time if he has to."
"We'll set it up that way." She drained her glass and put it down. "He's wanted for murder in New York, isn't he?"
"They've 'ad special agents trying to nail him for a couple of years since he shot that Sanford heiress and then 'er husband made a deathbed confession soon after, saying he'd paid for the hit."
"Well... as I said, I'm not standing still for it. We'd better do something about him." She sat gazing into space, and after a while gave a little sigh.
Willie looked at her curiously. "What was that for, Princess?"
She halflaughed and gave him a wry look. "Just a silly moment, Willie love, and it's McBeal's fault. I've never thought of it before, but I was just wondering if my father, whoever he was, would be ashamed of me."

* * *

Willie Garvin flew to Paris the next day. He then disappeared and was not to be found at any of his usual haunts. In Hyde Park the following day Modesty Blaise took a fall from her horse. She happened to be riding with a police surgeon of recent acquaintance, supplied by Inspector Harry Lomax. The surgeon had her taken to the hospital at which he was a consultant and she was discharged that evening with one leg in plaster, Weng pushing her in a wheelchair.
Next morning her friend Dinah Collier came to look after her, and it was then decided that Weng should drive them both down to Modesty's cottage near the village of Benildon in Wiltshire. Stephen Collier was reluctantly absent for his own sake. Willie Garvin, speaking on the phone from wherever he was, had said, "Modesty won't 'ave you near the cottage, Steve. We reckon Skendi might think you're me at long range, even with a sniperscope, and we don't want you knocked off. Dinah thinks there's a bit of mileage in you yet."
"Jesus, Willie, how the hell could anyone take me for you? I'm handsome and debonair, with opposed thumbs, and I move beautifully-"
"I know, Steve, I know. But Skendi might go in for a bit of wishful thinking, because he'd love it to be me. Or he might blow your 'ead off out of sheer male jealousy."
Collier had laughed. "There's always that. But Dinah's safe?"
"Skendi's a pro. He'll only kill the girl in the wheelchair."
Morning and afternoon at the cottage in the valley Weng pushed the wheelchair with its passenger out into the garden for an hour to doze in the sun. Sometimes Dinah would emerge to sit with her for a while or to see that she was comfortable, adjusting the pillow on the stool supporting her hurt leg. Sometimes Weng emerged to speak with her briefly, but for the most part she seemed content to sit and read, or doze, or watch the occasional hangglider that floated lazily across the sky between Furze Hill and Benildon.
Skendi came after dark on the fourth night. He left his hired car at a garage miles away and hired a mountain bike which he hid in thick woods near the ridge that ran north of the cottage. At first light he lay within the edge of the woods and studied the lie of the land and the position of the cottage in the valley below. He had brought food and water in a haversack with him, and throughout the morning he watched through binoculars.
Once or twice he saw the houseboy and the fairhaired girl he had been told about by his advance team watching the London penthouse, but it was not until eleven that the subject of his mission was pushed out in her wheelchair to sit in the garden. She was facing south, towards the ridge on the far side of the valley which was pasture land and offered no cover for him. A hangglider was moving out from the hill beyond, and Skendi noted that he would need overhead concealment in choosing his position for putting a bullet through the subject's head.
After studying the terrain for half an hour he made his choice. There was a place where the ground rose in a little hummock to a broad hedge fronted by a patch of tall nettles. He could not check it out in daylight, but could do so shortly after dusk with little chance of being seen, for after crossing an area of pasture he would enter a field of corn on the other side of the hedge, and he could approach under cover of that.
He wriggled back deeper into the woods, then rose and walked to where he had left his mountain bike with its pannier containing a small bivouac. Skendi was a wiry man of less than medium height, in his late thirties and with thinning hair, a forgettable appearance and a phlegmatic manner. He felt no pride at knowing he was considered the best in the world at his job. He was interested only in the money. He sat reading a paperback till dusk, occasionally eating a sandwich from some packets bought earlier, and drinking water, then he walked back through the woods, crossed the pasture and crawled through the cornfield to reach the spot he had chosen. With secateurs he cut a narrow hole through the base of the hedge and lay within it, looking over the hummock at the lights of the cottage below, three hundred yards away.
For ten minutes he remained there, getting the feel of the position and making a thin mattress of straw to lie on. There had been no wind worth mentioning today, and the forecast was settled. It would be an easy killing. He moved back through the cornfield and the woods, set up his tent, climbed into a sleepingbag, set a small travelling alarm clock near his head, and went to sleep.
Half an hour before first light he roused, packed the tent, put it in the pannier of his bike, and picked up a flat box he had brought with him strapped to his back, a wooden box perhaps onethird the size of a cardtable. Fifteen minutes later he was crouched by the hedge, hidden by the corn as he carefully assembled the parts of his custommade rifle with its telescopic sight. He slid an expanding bullet into the breech, then crawled into the hole beneath the hedge.
For a few minutes he sighted on various targets at the range he would be using, then turned on his back, settled himself on the straw mattress with the rifle lying beside him, and took the paperback from his pocket.
Through the first hours of daylight he read and dozed. At ten o'clock he turned on his front and began to watch the cottage. It was shortly before eleven when the young oriental pushed the wheelchair into the garden accompanied by the fairhaired girl who spent some time making the subject comfortable. There seemed to be a suggestion that a sun umbrella be set up, but this was evidently declined and the two went back into the cottage.
Slowly Skendi lifted the rifle to his shoulder and sighted. He could see the back of the subject's head clearly above the top of the wheelchair. There was hardly any tension in him as he brought the crosshairs to the middle of the head and gently squeezed the trigger.
The report was not loud. Skendi saw the head burst open, spraying blood, then he was wriggling back, lying low in the corn, beginning smoothly and without haste to disassemble the rifle and pack the components in the padded box. Glancing up, he saw a hangglider drifting over the far ridge. No problem. He had only to crawl across the corner of the cornfield and the downslope would hide him as he moved over the pasture to the woods.
In the cottage Dinah and Weng had heard the report. Weng was sitting by the window, watching the dummy in the wheelchair. As the head shattered he noted the direction in which the fragments of plastic and sponge had been flung, and lifted a handradio to his lips. "From the north ridge, Miss Blaise. Go, go, go!"
Dinah, making coffee in the kitchen, called "Weng! Was that it?" She came hurrying through to where he sat, her face pale.
Weng stood up and said grimly, "He blew the head apart. I'm glad you did not see it, Mrs Collier-" He caught himself and winced at the gaffe. "Forgive me, please. You know what I meant."
"It's nothing." Her voice shook. "We're wound up so tight, waiting. Thank God it's over. Oh Weng, is it really over? Can we be sure?"
He looked out of the window again at the headless dummy and the fake blood spattered round it. "It is almost over, Mrs Collier," he said, "but I regret that Miss Blaise has to observe certain legalities." He sighed and shook his head. "A pity it could not be left to Mr Garvin to conclude the matter. He has a very positive way of dealing with people who try to kill ladies."
Remembering moments when men had sought her own death, Dinah said soberly, "Yes, Weng. Yes, I know."

* * *

Holding a handradio and sitting in the passenger seat of a car parked half a mile away in the layby off the road running along the ridge, Inspector Harry Lomax said to the driver beside him, "All right, Sergeant, let's go. It's the north ridge so we're nice and close."
Three days ago Lomax had taken a week's leave and was spending it at The Plough in Tunbury, a village two miles from Benildon. Most of each day was devoted to his favourite pastime of fishing, but for an hour every morning and afternoon he sat in this unmarked car with the Detective Sergeant from the local force, listening out on the radio and occasionally catching sight of a hangglider drifting high above the road leading to Benildon. His friend Inspector Brook had been going to carry out this surveillance, but in an act that Brook himself deemed the height of selflessness he had asked if Lomax might be invited to take his place.
A minute after Weng's message to Modesty came through on the radio the car drew up where a footpath led south through a tapering neck of woods. At that moment Skendi was emerging from the cornfield adjoining the wide pasture on the far side of the wooded area. Pausing to scan the ground ahead, and finding it empty, Skendi rose to his feet and began to walk towards the woods, carrying the case holding his rifle. He was halfway across the pasture when a cruciform shadow passed silently over him. His pulse quickened as he saw the hangglider less than a hundred feet up as it moved ahead of him, turned, then slanted down to land.
Shock hit him like a blow under the heart as the pilot touched down lightly, released the harness, moved clear of the wing and stood looking towards him, hands on hips. It was a woman, a darkhaired woman, and even at a distance of fifty yards or more he knew that this was Modesty Blaise, knew that his contract to kill had been blown, that he had walked into a wellplaced trap, and that he was nearer to sudden death at this moment than he had ever been.
He dropped to one knee, fighting to keep his hands steady as he opened the flat box and began to assemble the rifle. Sweat broke out on his brow as the chill of fear gripped him, for this was Modesty Blaise. When he glanced up he saw that she had started moving unhurriedly towards him. Breech and barrel were now fitted together. No need for the telescopic sight, for she would be at pointblank range. With new horror he realised that he also would be at pointblank range, for she wore a bolstered gun and it was said that she was lethally fast and accurate.
Such was Skendi's concentration on the rifle and the advancing figure that he was utterly unaware of the second hangglider dropping down fast from the thermal it had been riding, swooping round in a gentle curve to arrive directly behind him at fifty feet, drifting quietly towards him. Skendi had slipped a cartridge into the breech and was lifting the rifle to his shoulder when a blackjack thrown from only twenty feet hit him hard on the back of the skull and dropped him senseless.
Modesty relaxed, and lifted the hem of the hiplength dark tunic she wore to drop it over the Colt.32 bolstered at her hip. It would not be needed now. She had never known Willie to miss a throw, but the timing of his arrival had been critical and they both regarded the taking of unnecessary risks as bad practice.
He landed to one side of her and stepped clear of the wing, his face showing no pleasure. "I could've rigged it to look like an accident," he said plaintively. "He could've been hanggliding and got his neck broken when he crashed 'ere. No problem."
"Oh, shut up, Willie love," she said amiably, "we've been through all that." She lifted the radio hooked to her belt and spoke into it. "All over, Weng. Tell Mrs Collier we're fine except that Willie's having a bit of a sulk."
Weng's voice said, "Wilco, Miss Blaise. So am I."
Willie grinned and looked towards the woods. Two men were emerging from the trees. As they drew near, Inspector Lomax called, "Miss Blaise and Mr Garvin, I believe? The Sergeant here tells me you're the regular hanggliding folk locally." He produced his warrant card. "I'm Inspector Lomax and this is Detective Sergeant Baker. We saw you come down and thought you might be in trouble."
Modesty said, "Well, no, Inspector. We were gliding over the ridge and we saw that man lying there." She pointed. "He seemed to be unconscious, so we landed to see if we could help."
"Very kind of you, Miss. We'd better take a look."
Together they moved towards Skendi, and Lomax said, "My word! Just look at that, Sergeant it's a rifle!"
"And not a sporting rifle, sir," said Baker with the stilted air of a man remembering lines. He pointed to the weapon and then to the open box in which the telescopic sight and spare cartridges were clipped. "That's the sort of weapon assassins use!"
"So it is!" exclaimed Lomax. "Lucky you happened to bring that sheet with you, Sergeant. There'll be fingerprints all over the box and the rifle. Wrap them up carefully, then put your 'cuffs on this fellow."
"Right, sir," said Baker. "I wonder what he was doing here?"
"Practising, I'll be bound," said Lomax confidently. "But he must have tripped and hit his head on..." He looked about him and pointed to a huge flint a dozen yards away, "... on that rock. Staggered over here and collapsed." He fingered his chin thoughtfully. "You know, I've seen that face on some wanted pix that were circulated recently."
As the Sergeant bent to his task Lomax turned to Modesty and Willie and went on solemnly. "It's quite possible that this rifle has been used for assassination elsewhere. If so it can be identified by bullets taken from the bodies of any previous victims."
Willie Garvin said, "Gosh! Really?" and Lomax had a brief choking fit before he could speak again.
"I hope," he said, looking at Modesty, "I hope this hasn't been too much of a shock for you, Miss?"
"No, I-I'll be all right," Modesty said bravely. "Mr Garvin will see me home."
Lomax nodded and turned away, standing in silence for a few moments with clenched jaws. He relaxed and said to Baker as he rose from handcuffing the unconscious man, "Get that gear back to the car, Sergeant, then radio for an ambulance. I'll wait here."
"Right, sir." Baker gathered up the sheetwrapped rifle and box very carefully and moved off towards the footpath. When he had disappeared into the woods, Lomax turned and said quietly, "Thanks very much. It's a particular pleasure for me to meet you, and I'm sure you'll know why."
Modesty smiled. "I hope you won't feel you've wasted some well earned leave."
"Oh God, no!" Lomax looked down at Skendi, who was beginning to stir and make faint sounds. "It's outrageous, but I'll get the credit for this. I understand there's been some sort of advance consultation at high level in anticipation of Skendi being nailed, and the American Embassy have extradition papers already prepared. This coldblooded bastard is either going to spend the next ninetynine years in stir, or he'll get the hotseat."
"Needle," said Willie. "It's New York State."
Lomax nodded. "That'll do nicely." He looked at Modesty. "May I call later officially to take statements confirming what you've said to me and to Sergeant Baker?"
"Yes, of course, Mr Lomax. We're very grateful for your help. Come about eight o'clock and join us for dinner if you're free."
Lomax laughed. "The name's Harry," he said. "And thanks, I'm free all right."

* * *

It was midafternoon six days later when an old man came into reception at the penthouse block and spoke haltingly to the porter. Eight floors above, Modesty Blaise was in her lapidary workroom, cutting en cabochon one of two large rough emeralds Willie Garvin had last year dug from the emeraldbearing shale of abandoned mines in Colombia, working among the guaqueros, treasureseekers who would have slit a dozen throats to lay hands on his find.
As she worked she recalled with a smile his falsely contrite air as she trounced him for taking such a risk. The fact was that Willie enjoyed bringing her unusual presents and would do so whenever an idea seized him. This afternoon Weng was offduty, playing bridge at a club where the stakes were high and where he invariably made several thousand a year. When the housephone rang she switched off the slitting saw, laid down the dopstick with the emerald cemented to its head, and moved from her chair to pick up the phone.
"Yes, George?"
The porter said, "I've got a foreign gentleman here who wants to see you, Miss Blaise. Says his name is Alex something, I couldn't quite get the surname."
She was taken aback. "Is he alone?"
"Yes, Miss."
"All right, George. Put him in the lift and point out where the upbutton is, will you?"
"Certainly, Miss Blaise."
She moved to the foyer and waited by the lift gates, wondering, remembering. Alex was the key to all that had happened since the day he had found and saved her. It was he who had frustrated Salamander Four, thereby ensuring that she was alive later to deal with the thug who had savagely beaten Steve Collier, the man who unknown to her was a Salamander Four enforcer. Because she had shattered this enforcer's power they had set up another attempt to kill her. But Old Alex, unknown to himself, was the father of Sir Angus McBeal, one of the four Salamander directors, and McBeal had first destroyed his three colleagues, then warned her of the Skendi contract. And it had all begun and continued with Old Alex.
The doors opened and he stood gazing at her anxiously. He wore a beautifully cut suit with a silk shirt and tie, contrasting strangely with his weatherbeaten face and gnarled old hands.
"I do not inconvenience you, mam'selle?"
He spoke in French, and she answered in the same tongue. "Alex dear, you could never be an inconvenient visitor. Come in, come in and talk with me." She took his hands, drew him into the foyer and kissed him on each cheek. "But why are you calling me mam'selle? It was always Modesty, both on the farm and when we spoke on the telephone."
"I don't know. I think because I am afraid."
She led him down the three steps to the drawingroom and sat beside him on the chesterfield, holding his hand.
"What are you afraid of, Alex?"
He shook his head helplessly. "Of... of each day. They are kind, Modesty, very kind. And I have tried... tried hard to learn and remember and become as they would wish. But it does not march. They are unhappy because they think they fail in a duty. I am unhappy because... because I am alone always, even when we are all together. I think about the farm, the vines, the family eating together in the kitchen. I want to harness Napoleon and haul logs. I don't know what I once was, Modesty, but I know what I am now, and it is not the same. Bloody hell."
He turned his head to look at her, his old eyes desperate. "I cannot bring myself to ask them for what I truly want. It would be cruel, for they know I am of their blood and are doing all for me. But to me they are strangers. I cannot ask them, so I come to you. I have the address." He touched his breast pocket. "I have money. I walk to the station and take a train to London. I show the address to the taxi man and he brings me, and you are here, thank God. So I ask you... please take me home. Please."
She patted his hand, feeling a wave of pity and relief sweep through her. "Of course I will, Alex. You'll stay here tonight and I'll take you home tomorrow. Nobody can stop you if you want to go, but I do have to telephone your brother at once, to let him know you're safe with me."
His eyes shone with tears of joy. "Tomorrow?"
"I promise, Alex. Tomorrow. Now just sit and rest while I phone."
A minute later, on the phone in her workroom, she was saying, "Lord Sayle? This is Modesty Blaise, and I'm calling to say that Alex is safe here with me."
Mark Sayle's voice said, "Oh, thank God for that. When he went for a walk and didn't return we feared his memory was playing tricks and that he might have met with an accident."
"No, he's quite all right. But I think he's been under much greater strain than anyone realised, and I'm afraid his mental capacity could well be impaired if it continues. The fact is, he wants to go home. He's desperate to go home, to the home where he belongs. He couldn't bring himself to ask you because he says you've all been so kind and he felt it would be cruel. So he came to me, I suppose because he feels closer to me than to anyone else in the country, and I've promised to take him home tomorrow."
There was a brief silence, then Mark Sayle said quietly, "Now that it's happened I'm not surprised. We've really tried hard, you know, and Alex is a lovely chap, but... try as I may, I haven't been able to see him as the brother I grew up with. I'm sorry if that seems heartless."
So there would be no opposition, and new relief touched her as she said, "That isn't heartless, it's honest, and Alex quite simply isn't the brother you grew up with. After fifty years I don't believe there's anything left of that young man except an occasional bloody hell or wizard prang. It's heartbreaking, but there it is."
"Well... I can only say I'm very grateful to you, Miss Blaise. Do you wish me to send his clothes or any possessions? My chauffeur could bring them this evening. It's probably better for Alex if I don't try to say goodbye."
"I think that's a kind decision. Please don't worry about clothes. I'll take him out and buy him the sort of clothes he'll feel comfortable to go back in, then he can stay with me tonight and we'll fly to Perpignan tomorrow."
Mark Sayle said, "Thank you. I'm sure he'll be very happy to have you take him home. Will it offend you if I offer to cover your costs?"
She laughed. "It won't offend me, but no thank you. I felt guilty about causing Alex to be brought here, and I'm relieved to be taking him home."
"You're very kind."
"I hold him in great affection, and not only because he saved my life."
"Yes, I understand. At an appropriate moment please ask if I might one day visit him and his family on the farm, when he's had plenty of time to settle in."
"I will. And I look forward to visiting them myself."
She said her goodbyes, put down the phone and returned to the drawingroom. Old Alex looked up anxiously. She gave him her best smile and said, "It's all settled. I'll phone now to book our flights for tomorrow, then we'll go and get you some proper clothes. You don't want to arrive home in that suit, do you?"
He rose and embraced her wordlessly, then stepped back, grinning in the cheerful Old-Alex way she remembered. "If I go back like this," he said, "perhaps Matilde will marry me after all!" He chuckled happily.
Modesty stared. "You mean she refused when you were young?"
"Refused? Ah, no. I was nobody from nowhere. With nothing. How could I ever ask?"
She exhaled a long breath and gazed at him wonderingly. "Oh Alex," she said, "this is a funny old life, isn't it?" She studied his worn, happy face and straightened the tie he had pulled loose at the neck. "I'm sure Matilde would have married a handsome man like you, if you'd asked."
"Handsome? Me?" He was genuinely amused.
"Of course." She took his arm and moved to the foyer, picking up her handbag from a sidetable. "If you were younger by fifty years or so I'd keep you myself for a toyboy. Come on, let's go and buy you some clothes."
She had used the English word toyboy, knowing of no French equivalent, and Old Alex echoed it, puzzled. "Toyboy? What is that?"
As they went down in the lift she explained. A few moments later the porter watched her crossing the reception area, arm-in-arm with an old man who looked like a peasant and was dressed like a lord. He was grinning broadly and kept saying, "Toyboy! Bloody hell!"