Caravan to Vaccares

Chapter 8

Bowman turned round slowly for there was nothing to be gained by haste now. Of the shock, of the inevitably profound chagrin, there was no sign in his face. But Czerda, standing in the doorway with a silenced gun in his hand and Masaine, beside him, with a knife in his, made no attempt to disguise their feelings. Both men were smiling and smiling broadly, although their smiles were noticeably lacking in warmth. At a nod from Czerda, Masaine advanced and tested the shackles securing the three men. He said: ‘They have not been touched.’

‘He was probably too busy explaining to them just how clever he was.’ Czerda did not trouble to conceal the immense amount of satisfaction he was deriving from the moment. ‘It was all too simple, Bowman. You really are a fool. Shopkeepers in Arles who receive a gratuity of six hundred Swiss francs are hardly likely to forget the person who gave it to them. I tell you, I could hardly keep a straight face when I was moving through the crowd there pretending to look for you. But we had to pretend, didn’t we, to convince you that we hadn’t recognized you or you’d never have come out into the open, would you? You fool, we had you identified before you entered the arena.’

‘You might have told Maca,’ Bowman murmured.

‘We might, but Maca is no actor, I’m afraid,’ Czerda said regretfully. ‘He wouldn’t have known how to make a fake fight look real. And if we’d left no guard at all you’d have been doubly suspicious.’ He stretched out his left hand. ‘Eighty thousand francs, Bowman.’

‘I don’t carry that sort of loose change with me.’

‘My eighty thousand francs.’

Bowman looked at him with contempt. ‘Where would a person like you get eighty thousand francs?’

Czerda smiled, stepped forward unexpectedly and drove the silenced barrel of his gun into Bowman’s solar plexus. Bowman doubled up, gasping in agony.

‘I would have liked to strike you across the face, as you struck me.’ He had removed his smile. ‘But for the moment I prefer that you remain unmarked. The money, Bowman?’

Bowman straightened slowly. When he spoke, his voice came as a harsh croak.

‘I lost it.’

‘You lost it?’

‘I had a hole in my pocket.’

Czerda’s face twisted in anger, he lifted his gun to club Bowman, then smiled. ‘You’ll find it within the minute, you’ll see.’

The green Rolls-Royce slowed as it approached the Mas de Lavignolle. Le Grand Duc, still with a parasol being held above his head, surveyed the scene thoughtfully.

‘Czerda’s caravans,’ he observed. ‘Surprising. One would not have expected the Mas de Lavignolle to be of any particular interest to our friend Czerda. But a man like that will always have a good reason for what he is doing. However, he will doubtless consider it a privilege to inform me of his reasons. . . What is it, my dear?’

‘Look ahead.’ Lila pointed. ‘Just there.’

Le Grand Duc followed the direction of her arm. Cecile, flanked by El Brocador and Searl, the first all in white, the second all in black. The door closed behind them.

Le Grand Duc pressed the dividing window button. ‘Stop the car, if you please.’ To Lila he said: ‘You think that’s your friend? Same dress, I admit, but all those Arlésienne fiesta dresses look the same to me, especially from the back.’

‘That’s Cecile.’ Lila was positive.

‘A razateur and a priest,’ Le Grand Duc mused. ‘You really must admit that your friend does have a marked propensity for striking up the most unusual aquaintanceships. You have your notebook?’

‘I have what?’

‘We must investigate this.’

‘You’re going to investigate–’

‘Please. No Greek chorus. Everything is of interest to the true folklorist.’

‘But you can’t just barge in–’

‘Nonsense. I am the Duc de Croytor. Besides, I never barge. I always make an entrance.’

The ache in his midriff, Bowman guessed, was as nothing compared to some of the aches that he was going to come by very shortly – if, that was, he would then be in a position to feel anything. There was a gleam in Czerda’s eye, a barely-contained anticipation in the face that bespoke ill, Bowman thought, for the immediate future.

He looked round the caravan. The three shackled men had in their faces the uncomprehending and lacklustre despair of those to whom defeat is already an accepted reality. Czerda and Masaine had pleasantly anticipatory smiles on their faces, El Brocador was serious and thoughtful and watchful, Simon Searl had a peculiar look in his eyes which made his unfrocking a readily comprehensible matter, while Cecile just looked slightly dazed, a little frightened, a little angry but as far removed from hysteria as could be.

‘You understand now,’ Czerda said, ‘why I said you’d find the money within the minute.’

‘I understand now. You’ll find it–’

‘What money?’ Cecile asked. ‘What does that – that monster want?’

‘His eighty thousand francs back again – minus certain small outlays I’ve been compelled to make – and who can blame him?’

‘Don’t tell him anything!’

‘And don’t you understand the kind of men you’re dealing with? Ten seconds from now they’ll have your arm twisted up behind your back till it’s touching your ear, you’ll be screaming in agony and if they happen to break your shoulder or tear a few ligaments, well, that’s just too bad.’

‘But – but I’ll just faint–’

‘Please.’ Bowman looked at Czerda, carefully avoided Cecile’s gaze. ‘It’s in Arles. Safe-deposit in the station.’

‘The key?’

‘On a ring. In the car. Hidden. I’ll show you.’

‘Excellent,’ Czerda said. ‘A disappointment to friend Searl, I’m afraid, but inflicting pain on young ladies gives me no pleasure though I wouldn’t hesitate if I had to. As you shall see.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will. You are a danger, you have been a great danger and you have to go, that’s all. You will die this afternoon and within the hour so that no suspicion will ever attach to us.’

It was, Bowman thought, as laconic a death sentence as he’d ever heard of. There was something chilling in the man’s casual certainty.

Czerda went on: ‘You will understand now why I didn’t injure your face, why I wanted you to go into that bullring unmarked.’

‘Bullring?’

‘Bullring, my friend.’

‘You’re mad. You can’t make me go into a bullring.’

Czerda said nothing and there was no signal. Searl, eagerly assisted by a grinning Masaine, caught hold of Cecile, forced her face downwards on to a bunk and, while Masaine pinned her down, Searl gripped the collar of the Arlésienne costume and ripped it down to the waist. He turned and smiled at Bowman, reached into the folds of his clerical garb and brought out what appeared to be a version of a hunting stock, with a fifteen-inch interwoven leather handle attached to three long thin black thongs. Bowman looked at Czerda and Czerda wasn’t watching anything of what was going on: he was watching Bowman and the gun pointing at Bowman was motionless.

Czerda said: ‘I think perhaps you will go into that bullring?’

‘Yes.’ Bowman nodded. ‘I think perhaps I will.’

Searl put his stock away. His face was twisted in the bitter disappointment of a spoilt child who has been deprived of a new toy. Masaine took his hands away from Cecile’s shoulders. She pushed herself groggily to a sitting position and looked at Bowman. Her face was very pale but her eyes were mad. It had just occurred to Bowman that she was, as she’d said, quite capable of using a gun if shown how to use one when there came from outside the sound of a solid measured tread: the door opened and Le Grand Duc entered with a plainly apprehensive Lila trailing uncertainly behind him. Le Grand Duc pushed the monocle more firmly into his eye.

‘Ah, Czerda, my dear fellow. It’s you.’ He looked at the gun in the gypsy’s hand and said sharply: ‘Don’t point that damned thing at me!’ He indicated Bowman. ‘Point it at that fellow there. Don’t you know he’s your man, you fool?’

Czerda uncertainly trained his gun back on Bowman and just as uncertainly looked at Le Grand Duc.

‘What do you want?’ Czerda tried to imbue his voice with sharp authority but Le Grand Duc wasn’t the properly receptive type and it didn’t come off. ‘Why are you–’

‘Be quiet!’ Le Grand Duc was at his most intimidating, which was very intimidating indeed. ‘I am speaking. You are a bunch of incompetent and witless nincompoops. You have forced me to destroy the basic rule of my existence – to bring myself into the open. I have seen more intelligence exhibited in a cageful of retarded chimpanzees. You have lost me much time and cost me vast trouble and anxiety. I am seriously tempted to dispose of the services of you all – permanently. And that means you as well as your services. What are you doing here?’

‘What are we doing here?’ Czerda stared at him. ‘But – but – but Searl here said that you–’

‘I will deal with Searl later.’ Le Grand Duc’s promise was imbued with such menacing overtones that Searl at once looked acutely unhappy. Czerda looked nervous to a degree that was almost unthinkable for him, El Brocador looked puzzled and Masaine had clearly given up thinking of any kind. Lila simply looked stunned. Le Grand Duc went on: ‘I did not mean, you cretin, what you are doing in Mas de Lavignolle. I meant what are you doing here, as of this present moment, in this caravan.’

‘Bowman here stole the money you gave me,’ Czerda said sullenly. ‘We were–’

‘He what?’ Le Grand Duc’s face was thunderous.

‘He stole your money,’ Czerda said unhappily.

‘All of it.’

‘All of it!’

‘Eighty thousand francs. That’s what we’ve been doing – finding out where it is. He’s about to show me the key to where the money is.’

‘I trust for your sake that you find it.’ He paused and turned as Maca came staggering into the caravan, both hands holding what was clearly a very painful face.

‘Is this man drunk?’ Le Grand Duc demanded. ‘Are you drunk, sir? Stand straight when you talk to me.’

‘He did it!’ Maca spoke to Czerda, he didn’t appear to have noticed Le Grand Duc, for his eyes were for Bowman only. ‘He came along–’

‘Silence!’ Le Grand Duc’s voice would have intimidated a Bengal tiger. ‘My God, Czerda, you surround yourself with the most useless and ineffectual bunch of lieutenants it’s ever been my misfortune to encounter.’ He looked round the caravan, ignoring the three manacled men, took two steps towards where Cecile was sitting and looked down at her. ‘Ha! Bowman’s accomplice, of course. Why is she here?’

Czerda shrugged. ‘Bowman wouldn’t cooperate–’

‘A hostage? Very well. Here’s another.’ He caught Lila by the arm and shoved her roughly across the caravan. She stumbled, almost fell, then sat down heavily on the bunk beside Cecile. Her face, already horror-stricken, now looked stupefied.

‘Charles!’

‘Be quiet!’

‘But Charles! My father – you said–’

‘You are a feather-brained young idiot,’ Le Grand Duc said with contempt. ‘The real Duc de Croytor, to whom I fortunately bear a strong resemblance, is at present in the upper Amazon, probably being devoured by the savages in the Matto Grosso. I am not the Duc de Croytor.’

‘We know that, Mr Strome.’ Simon Searl was at his most obsequious.

Again displaying his quite remarkable speed, Le Grand Duc stepped forward and struck Searl heavily across the face. Searl cried out in pain and staggered heavily, to bring up against the wall of the caravan. There was silence for several seconds.

‘I have no name,’ Le Grand Duc said softly. ‘There is no such person as you mentioned.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Searl fingered his cheek. ‘I–’

‘Silence!’ Le Grand Duc turned to Czerda. ‘Bowman has something to show you? Give you?’

‘Yes, sir. And there’s another little matter I have to attend to.’

‘Yes, yes, yes. Be quick about it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I shall wait here. We must talk on your return, mustn’t we, Czerda.’

Czerda nodded unhappily, told Masaine to watch the girls, put his jacket over his gun and left accompanied by Searl and El Brocador. Masaine, his knife still drawn, seated himself comfortably. Maca, tenderly rubbing his bruised face, muttered something and left, probably to attend to his injuries. Lila, her face woebegone, looked up at Le Grand Duc.

‘Oh, Charles, how could you–’

‘Ninny!’

She stared at him brokenly. Tears began to roll down her cheeks. Cecile put an arm round her and glared at Le Grand Duc. Le Grand Duc looked through her and remained totally unaffected.

‘Stop here,’ Czerda said.

They stopped, Bowman ahead of Czerda with a silencer prodding his back, El Brocador and Searl on either side of him, the Citroën ten feet away.

‘Where’s the key?’ Czerda demanded.

‘I’ll get it.’

‘You will not. You are perfectly capable of switching keys or even finding a hidden gun. Where is it?’

‘On a key ring. It’s taped under the driver’s seat, back, left.’

‘Searl?’ Searl nodded, went to the car. Czerda said sourly: ‘You don’t trust many people, do you?’

‘I should, you think?’

‘What’s the number of this deposit box?’

‘Sixty-five.’

Searl returned. ‘These are ignition keys.’

‘The brass one’s not,’ Bowman said.

Czerda took the keys. ‘The brass one’s not.’ He removed it from the ring. ‘Sixty-five. For once, the truth. How’s the money wrapped?’

‘Oilskin, brown paper, sealing-wax. My name’s on it.’

‘Good.’ He looked round. Maca was sitting on the top of some caravan steps. Czerda beckoned him and he came to where they were, rubbing his chin and looked malevolently at Bowman. Czerda said: ‘Young José has a motor scooter, hasn’t he?’

‘You want a message done. I’ll get him. He’s in the arena.’

‘No need.’ Czerda gave him the key. ‘That’s for safe deposit sixty-five in Arles station. Tell him to open it and bring back the brown paper parcel inside. Tell him to be as careful with it as he would be with his own life. It’s a very, very valuable parcel. Tell him to come back here as soon as possible and give it to me and if I’m not here someone will know where I’ve gone and he’s to come after me. Is that clear?’

Maca nodded and left. Czerda said: ‘I think it’s time we paid a visit to the bullring ourselves.’

They crossed the road but went not directly to the arena but to one of several adjacent huts which were evidently used as changing rooms, for the one they entered was behung with matadors’ and razateurs’ uniforms and several outfits of clowns’ attire. Czerda pointed to one of the last. ‘Get into that.’

‘That?’ Bowman eyed the garish rigout. ‘Why the hell should I?’

‘Because my friend here asks you to.’ Czerda waved his gun. ‘Don’t make my friend angry.’

Bowman did as he was told. When he was finished he was far from surprised to see El Brocador exchange his conspicuous white uniform for his dark suit, to see Searl pull on a long blue smock, then to see all three men put on paper masks and comic hats. They appeared to have a craving for anonymity, a not unusual predilection on the part of would-be murderers. Czerda draped a red flag over his gun and they left for the arena.

When they arrived at the entrance to the callajon Bowman was mildly astonished to discover that the comic act that had been in process when he’d left was still not finished: so much seemed to have happened since he’d left the arena that it was difficult to realize that so few minutes had elapsed. They arrived to find that one of the clowns, incredibly, was doing a handstand on the back of the bull, which just stood there in baffled fury, its head swinging from side to side. The crowd clapped ecstatically: had the circumstances been different, Bowman thought, he might even have clapped himself.

For their final brief act the clowns waltzed towards the side of the arena to the accompaniment of their companion’s accordion. They stopped, faced the crowd side by side and bowed deeply, apparently unaware that their backs were towards the charging bull. The crowd screamed a warning: the clowns, still bent, pushed each other apart at the last moment and the bull hurtled wildly over the spot where they had been standing only a second previously and crashed into the barrier with an impact that momentarily stunned it. As the clowns vaulted into the callajon the crowd continued to whistle and shout their applause. It occurred to Bowman to wonder whether they would still be in such a happily carefree mood in a few minutes’ time: it seemed unlikely.

The ring was empty now and Bowman and his three escorts had moved out into the callajon. The crowd stared with interest and in considerable amusement at Bowman’s attire and he was, unquestionably, worth a second glance. He was clad in a most outlandish fashion. His right leg was enclosed in red, his left in white and the doublet was composed of red and white squares. The flexible green canvas shoes he wore were so ludicrously long that the toes were tied back into the shins. He wore a white conical pierrot’s hat with a red pom-pom on top: for defence he was armed with a slender three-foot cane with a small tricolor at the end of it.

‘I have the gun, I have the girl,’ Czerda said softly. ‘You will remember?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘If you try to escape, the girl will not live. You believe me?’

Bowman believed him. He said: ‘And if I die, the girl will not live either.’

‘No. Without you, the girl is nothing, and Czerda does not make war on women. I know who you are now, or think I do. It is no matter. I have discovered that you never met her until last night and it is unthinkable that a man like you would tell her anything of importance: professionals never explain more than they have to, do they, Mr Bowman? And young girls can be made to talk, Mr Bowman. She can do us no harm. When we’ve done what we intend to do, and that will be in two days, she is free to go.’

‘She knows where Alexandre is buried.’

‘Ah, so. Alexandre? Who is Alexandre?’

‘Of course. Free to go?’

‘You have my word.’ Bowman didn’t doubt him. ‘In exchange, you will now put on a convincing struggle.’

Bowman nodded. The three men grabbed him or tried to grab him and all four staggered about the callajon. The colourful crowd were by now in excellent humour, gay, chattering, relaxed: all evidently felt that they were having a splendid afternoon’s entertainment and that this mock-fight that was taking place in the callajon – for mock-fight it surely was, there were no upraised arms, no blows being struck in anger – was but the prelude to another hilariously comic turn, it had to be, with the man trying to struggle free dressed in that ridiculous pierrot’s costume. Eventually, to the accompaniment of considerable whistling, laughter and shouts of encouragement, Bowman broke free, ran a little way along the callajon and vaulted into the ring. Czerda ran after him, made to clamber over the barrier but was caught and restrained by Searl and El Brocador, who pointed excitedly to the north end of the ring. Czerda followed their direction.

They were not the only ones looking in that direction. The crowd had suddenly fallen silent, their laughter had ceased and the smiles vanished: puzzlement had replaced their humour, a puzzlement that rapidly shaded into anxiety and apprehension. Bowman’s eyes followed the direction of those of the crowd: he could not only understand the apprehension of the crowd, he reflected, but shared it to the fullest extent.

The northern toril gate had been drawn and a bull stood at the entrance. But this was not the small light black bull of the Camargue that was used in the cours libre – the bloodless bullfight of Provence: this was a huge Spanish fighting bull, one of the Andalusian monsters that fight to the death in the great corridas of Spain. It had enormous shoulders, an enormous head and a terrifying spread of horn. Its head was low but not as low as it would be when it launched itself into its charge: it pawed the ground, alternately dragging each front hoof backwards, gouging deep channels in the dark sand.

Members of the crowd were by this time looking at one another in uneasy and rather fearful wonder. For the most part they were aficionados of the sport and they knew that what they were seeing was quite unprecedented and this could be no better than sending a man, no matter how brave and skillful a razateur he might be, to his certain death.

The giant bull was now advancing slowly into the ring, at the same time still contriving to make those deep backwards scores in the sand. Its great head was lower than before.

Bowman stood stock-still. His lips were compressed, his eyes narrow and still watchful. Some twelve hours previously, when inching up the ledge on the cliff-face in the ruined battlements of the ancient fortress he had known fear, and now he knew it again and admitted it to himself. It was no bad thing, he thought wryly. Fear it was that sent the adrenaline pumping, and adrenaline was the catalyst that triggered off the capacity for violent action and abnormally swift reaction: as matters stood now he was going to need all the adrenaline he could lay hands on. But he was coldly aware that if he survived at all it could only be for the briefest of periods: all the adrenaline in the world couldn’t save him now.

From the safety of the callajon Czerda licked his lips, half in unconscious empathy with the man in the ring, half in anticipation of things to come. Suddenly he tensed and the whole crowd tensed with him. An eerie silence as of death enveloped the arena. The great bull was charging.

With unbelievable acceleration for a creature of its size it came at Bowman like an express train. Bowman, unblinking, his racing mind figuring out the correlation between the speed of the bull and the rapidly narrowing distance between them, stood as a man would who is frozen with fear. Trance-like, fearful, the spectators stared in horror, convinced in their minds that this mad pierrot’s destruction was only a couple of heartbeats away. Bowman waited for one of those heart-beats to tick away and then, when the bull was less than twenty feet and a second away, he flung himself to his right. But the bull knew all about such tactics, for with remarkable speed in so massive an animal it veered instantly to its left to intercept: but Bowman had only feinted. He checked violently and threw himself to the left and the bull thundered harmlessly by, the huge right horn missing Bowman by a clear foot. The crowd, unbelieving, heaved a long collective sigh of relief, shook their heads at one another and murmured their relief. But the apprehension, the tension, still lay heavily in the air.

The Andalusian bull could brake as swiftly as it could accelerate. It pulled up in a shower of sand, whirled round and came at Bowman again without pause. Again Bowman judged his moment to a fraction of a second, again he repeated the same manoeuvre, but this time in the reverse order. Again the bull missed, but this time only by inches. There came another murmur of admiration from the crowd, this time to the accompaniment of some sporadic hand-clapping: the tension in the air was beginning to ease, not much, but enough to be perceptible.

Again the bull turned but this time it stood still, less than thirty feet away. Quite without moving, it watched Bowman, just as Bowman, quite without moving, watched him. Bowman stared at the great horns: there could be no doubt about it, their tips had been filed to sharp points. It occurred to Bowman, with a curious sense of detachment, that he had rarely encountered a more superfluous refinement: whether the horns had been sharpened or filed to the diameter of a penny it wouldn’t have made a ha’porth of difference: a swinging hook of one of those giant horns with all the power of those massive shoulder and neck muscles behind it would go straight through his body irrespective of the condition of the tip. Indeed, being gored by the sharpened horn might prove the easier and less agonizing way to die but it was a matter of academic importance anyway, the end result would be inevitable and the same.

The bull’s red eyes never wavered. Did it think, Bowman wondered, was it thinking? Was it thinking what he was thinking, that this was but a game of Russian roulette in so far as the terms of probabilities went? Would he expect Bowman to execute the same manoeuvre next time, refuse to be drawn, carry straight on and get him while Bowman had checked to fling himself the other way? Or would he think that Bowman’s next evasive action might not be a feint but the real thing, swerve accordingly and still get him? Bluff and double-bluff, Bowman thought, and it was pointless to speculate: the laws of blind chance were at work here and sooner or later, sooner rather than later, for on every occasion he had only a fifty-fifty chance, one of those horns would tear the life out of him.

The thought of that fifty-fifty chance prompted Bowman to risk a quick glance at the barrier. It was only ten feet away. He turned and sprinted for it, three steps, aware that behind him the bull had broken into its charge, aware ahead of him, in the callajon, of the figure of Czerda with the red flag over his arm, but the gun beneath clearly hanging downwards. He knew, as Bowman knew he knew, that Bowman had no intention of leaving the ring.

Bowman spun, back to the barrier, to face the bull. Pirouetting like a spinning top, he moved swiftly away along the barrier as the onrushing enraged bull hooked viciously with his right horn, the sharpened point brushing Bowman’s sleeve but not even tearing the material. The bull crashed into the barrier with tremendous force, splintered the top two planks, then reared up with his fore-feet on top of the planks as he tried furiously to climb over. Some time elapsed before the bull realized that Bowman was still in the same ring though by this time a prudent distance away.

By now the crowd was clapping and shouting its approval. Smiles were reappearing and some were even beginning to enjoy what had originally appeared to be a ludicrously one-sided and suicidal contest.

The bull stood still for a full half minute, shaking its great head slowly from side to side as if dazed by the power of its head-on collision with the barrier, which it very probably was. When it moved this time, it had changed its tactics. It didn’t charge Bowman, it stalked him. It walked forward as Bowman walked backward, slowly gaining on him, and when it abruptly lowered its head and charged it was so close that Bowman had no room left for manoeuvre. He did the only thing open to him and leapt high in the air as the bull tried to toss him. He landed on the bull’s shoulders, somersaulted and came to the ground on his feet: although hurt and badly winded he miraculously succeeded in retaining his balance.

The crowd roared and whistled its admiration. Laughing in delight, they clapped one another on the back. Here, below that pierrot’s disguise, must be one of the great razateurs of the day. The great razateur of the day. Some of the spectators looked almost sheepish at having worried about the capacity for survival of so great a master at this.

The three manacled prisoners on their bunks, the two girls and Masaine watched in some trepidation as Le Grand Duc paced restlessly up and down the length of the caravan, glancing in mounting irritation at his watch.

‘What in the devil’s name is taking Czerda so long?’ he demanded. He turned to Masaine. ‘You, there. Where have they taken Bowman?’

‘Why, I thought you knew.’

‘Answer, you cretin!’

‘For the key. For the money. You heard. And then to the bullring, of course.’

‘The bullring? Why?’

‘Why?’ Masaine was genuinely puzzled. ‘You wanted it done, didn’t you?’

‘Wanted what done?’ Le Grand Duc was exercising massive restraint.

‘Bowman. To get him out of the way.’

Le Grand Duc laid his hands on Masaine’s shoulders and shook him in a no longer to be contained exasperation.

‘Why the bullring?’

‘To fight a bull, of course. A huge black Spanish killer. Bare hands.’ Masaine nodded at Cecile. ‘If he doesn’t, we’re going to kill her. This way, Czerda says, no suspicion can fall on us. Bowman should be dead by now.’ Masaine shook his head in admiration. ‘Czerda’s clever.’

‘He’s a raving maniac!’ Le Grand Duc shouted. ‘Kill Bowman? Now? Before we’ve made him talk? Before I know his contacts, how he broke our ring? Not to mention the eighty thousand francs we haven’t got yet. At once, fellow! Stop Czerda! Get Bowman out of there before it’s too late.’

Masaine shook his head stubbornly. ‘My orders are to stay here and guard those women.’

‘I shall attend to you later,’ Le Grand Duc said chillingly. ‘I cannot, must not be seen in public with Czerda again. Miss Dubois, run at once–’

Cecile jumped to her feet. Her Arlésienne costume was not the thing of beauty that it had been but Lila had effected running repairs sufficient to preserve the decencies. She made to move forward, but Masaine barred her way.

‘She stays here,’ he declared. ‘My orders–’

‘Great God in heaven!’ Le Grand Duc thundered. ‘Are you defying me?’

He advanced ponderously upon a plainly apprehensive Masaine. Before the gypsy could even begin to realize what was about to happen Le Grand Duc smashed down his heel, with all his massive weight behind it, on Masaine’s instep. Masaine howled in agony, hobbled on one leg and stooped to clutch his injured foot with both hands. As he did so Le Grand Duc brought down his locked hands on the base of Masaine’s neck, who collapsed heavily on the floor, unconscious before he struck it.

‘Swiftly, Miss Dubois, swiftly!’ Le Grand Duc said urgently. ‘If not already gone, your friend may well be in extremis.’

And in extremis Bowman undoubtedly was. He was still on his feet – but it was only an exceptional will-power and instinct, though fast fading, for survival that kept him there. His face was streaked with sand and blood, twisted in pain and drawn in exhaustion. From time to time he held his left ribs which appeared to be the prime source of the pain he was suffering. His earlier pierrot finery was now bedraggled and dirtied and torn, two long rips on the right-hand side of his tunic were evidences of two extremely narrow escapes from the scything left horn of the bull. He had forgotten how many times now he’d been on the sanded floor of the arena but he hadn’t forgotten the three occasions when his visits there had been entirely involuntary: twice the shoulder of the bull had hurled him to the ground, once the backsweep of the left horn had caught him high on the left arm and sent him somersaulting. And now the bull was coming at him again.

Bowman side-stepped but his reactions had slowed, and slowed badly. Providentially, the bull guessed wrongly and hooked away from Bowman but his left shoulder struck him a glancing blow, though from something weighing about a ton and travelling at thirty miles an hour the word ‘glancing’ is purely a relative term. It sent Bowman tumbling head over heels to the ground. The bull pursued him, viciously trying to gore, but Bowman had still enough awareness and physical resources left to keep rolling over and over, desperately trying to avoid those lethal horns.

The crowd had suddenly become very quiet. This, they knew, was a great razateur, a master mime and actor, but surely no one would carry the interest of his art to the suicidal lengths where, every second now as he rolled over the sand, he escaped death by inches and sometimes less, for twice in as many seconds the bull’s horns tore through the back of the doublet.

Both times Bowman felt the horn scoring across his back and it was this that galvanized him to what he knew must be his final effort. Half a dozen times he rolled away from the bull as quickly as he could, seized what was only half a chance and scrambled upright. He could do no more than just stand there, swaying drunkenly and staggering from side to side. Again, that eerie silence fell across the arena as the bull, infuriated beyond measure and too mad to be cunning any more, came charging in again, but just as it seemed inevitable that the bull must surely this time impale him, an uncontrollable drunk lurch by Bowman took him a bare inch clear of the scything horn: so incensed was the bull that he ran on for another twenty yards before realizing that Bowman was no longer in his way and coming to a halt.

The crowd appeared to go mad. In their relief, in their unbounded admiration for this demigod, they cheered, they clapped, they shouted, they wept tears of laughter. What an actor, what a performer, what a magnificent razateur! Such an exhibition, surely, had never been seen before. Bowman leaned in total exhaustion against the barrier, a smiling Czerda only feet away from where he stood. Bowman was finished and the desperation on his face showed it. He was finished not only physically, he had come to the end of his mental tether. He just wasn’t prepared to run any more. The bull lowered its head in preparation for another charge: again, silence fell over the arena. What fresh wonder was this miracle man going to demonstrate now?

But the miracle man was through with demonstrations for the day. Even as the silence fell he heard something that made him spin round and stare at the crowd, incredulity in his face. Standing high at the back of the crowd and waving frantically at him was Cecile, oblivious of the fact that scores of people had turned to stare at her.

‘Neil!’ Her voice was close to a scream. ‘Neil Bowman! Come on!’

Bowman came. The bull had started on its charge but the sight of Cecile and the realization that escape was at hand had given Bowman a fresh influx of strength, however brief it might prove to be. He scrambled into the safety of the callajon at least two seconds before the bull thundered into the barrier. Bowman removed the pierrot’s hat which had been hanging by its elastic band down the back of his neck, impaled it on one of the sharpened horns, brushed unceremoniously by the flabbergasted Czerda and ran up the terraces as quickly as his leaden legs would permit, waving to the crowd who parted to make way for him: the crowd, nonplussed though it was by this remarkable turn of events, nevertheless gave him a tumultuous reception: so unprecedented had the entire act been that they no doubt considered that this was also part of it. Bowman neither knew nor cared what their reactions were: just so long as they opened up before him and closed again after he had passed it would give him what might prove to be vital extra seconds over the inevitable pursuers. He reached the top, caught Cecile by the arm.

‘I just love your sense of timing,’ he said. His voice, like his breathing, was hoarse and gasping and distressed. He turned and looked behind him. Czerda was ploughing his way up through the crowd and not leaving any newly made friends behind him: El Brocador was moving on a converging course: of Searl he could see no sign. Together they hurried down the broad steps outside the arena, skirting the bull pens, stables and changing rooms. Bowman slid a hand through one of the many rips in his tunic, located his car keys and brought them out. He tightened his grip on Cecile’s arm as they reached the last of the changing rooms and peered cautiously round the corner. A second later he withdrew, his. face bitter with chagrin.

‘It’s just not our day, Cecile. That gypsy I clobbered – Maca – is sitting on the bonnet of the Citroën. Worse, he’s cleaning his nails with a knife. One of those knives.’ He opened a door behind them, thrust Cecile into the changing room where he himself had robed before his performance, and handed her the car keys. ‘Wait till the crowd comes out. Mingle with them. Take the car, meet me at the southern end – the seaward end – of the church at Saintes-Maries. For God’s sake, don’t leave the Citroën anywhere near by – drive it out to the caravan park east of the town and leave it there.’

‘I see.’ She was, Bowman thought, remarkably calm. ‘And meantime you have things to attend to?’

‘As always.’ He peered through a crack in the door: for the moment there was no one in sight. ‘Four bridesmaids,’ he said, slipped out and closed the door behind him.

The three manacled men were lying in their bunks, quietly and seemingly uncaring, Lila was sniffing disconsolately and Le Grand Duc scowling thunderously when Searl came running up the steps. The apprehensive look was back on his face again and he was noticeably short of breath.

‘I trust,’ Le Grand Duc said ominously, ‘that you are not the bearer of ill tidings.’

‘I saw the girl,’ Searl gasped. ‘How did she–’

‘By God, Searl, you and your nincompoop friend Czerda will pay for this. If Bowman is dead–’ He broke off and stared over Searl’s shoulder, then pushed him roughly to one side. ‘Who in heaven’s name is that?’

Searl turned to follow Le Grand Duc’s pointing finger. A red-and-white-clad pierrot was making his way at a lurching, stumbling run across the improvised car park: it was evident that he was near total exhaustion.

‘That’s him,’ Searl shouted. ‘That’s him.’ As they watched, three gypsies appeared from behind some huts, Czerda unmistakably one of them, running in pursuit of Bowman and covering the ground a great deal faster than he was. Bowman looked over his shoulder, located his pursuers, swerved to seek cover among several caravans, checked again as he saw his way blocked by El Brocador and two other gypsies, turned at right angles and headed for a group of horses tethered near by, white Camargue horses fitted with the heavy-pommelled and high-backed Camargue saddles which look more like ribbed and leather-upholstered armchairs than anything else. He ran for the nearest, unhitched it, got a foot into the peculiarly fenced stirrup and managed, not without considerable effort, to haul himself up.

‘Quickly!’ Le Grand Duc ordered. ‘Get Czerda. Tell him if Bowman escapes neither he nor you shall. But I want him alive. If he dies, you die. I want him delivered to me within the hour at the Miramar Hotel in Saintes-Maries. I myself cannot afford to remain here another moment. Don’t forget to catch that damned girl and bring her along also. Hurry, man, hurry!’

Searl hurried. As he made to cross the road he had to step quickly and advisedly to one side to avoid being run down by Bowman’s horse. Bowman, Le Grand Duc could see, was swaying in the saddle to the extent that even although he had the reins in his hands he had to hold on to the pommel to remain in his seat. Beneath the artificial tan the face was pale, drawn in pain and exhaustion. Le Grand Duc became aware that Lila was standing by his side, that she too was watching Bowman.

‘I’ve heard of it,’ the girl said quietly. No tears now, just a quietness and a sadness and disbelief. ‘And now I see it. Hounding a man to death.’

Le Grand Duc put a hand on her arm. ‘I assure you, my dear girl–’

She struck his hand from her arm and said nothing. She didn’t have to, the contempt and the loathing in her face said it all for her. Le Grand Duc nodded, turned away and watched the diminishing figure of Bowman disappearing round the bend in the road to the south.

Le Grand Duc was not the only one to take so keen an interest in Bowman’s departure. Her face pressed against a small square window in the side of the changing room, Cecile watched the galloping white horse and its rider till it vanished from sight. Sure knowledge of what would happen next kept her there nor did she have long to wait. Within thirty seconds five other horsemen came galloping by – Czerda, Ferenc, El Brocador, Searl and a fifth man whom she did not recognize. Dry-lipped, near tears and sick at heart, she turned away from the window and started searching among the racks of clothes.

Almost at once she found what she wanted – a clown’s outfit consisting of the usual very wide trousers, red, with wide yellow braces as support, a red-and-yellow-striped football jersey and a voluminous dark jacket. She pulled on the trousers, stuffing in the long fiesta dress as best she could – the trousers were cut on so generous a scale that the additional bagginess was scarcely noticeable – pulled the red-and-yellow jersey over her head, shrugged into the big jacket, removed her red wig and stuck a flat green cap on her head. There was no mirror in the changing room: that, she thought dolefully, was probably as well.

She went back to the window. The afternoon show was clearly over and people were streaming down the steps and across the road to their cars. She moved towards the door. Dressed as she was in a dress so shriekingly conspicuous that it conferred a degree of anonymity on the wearer, with the men she most feared in pursuit of Bowman and with plenty of people outside with whom to mingle, this, she realized, would be the best opportunity she would be likely to have to make her way undetected to the Citroën.

And, as far as she could tell, no one remarked her presence as she crossed the road towards the car or, if they did, they made no song and dance about it which, as far as Cecile was concerned, amounted to the same thing. She opened the car, glanced forwards and back to make sure she was unobserved, slid into the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition and cried out more in fright than in pain as a large and vice-like hand closed around her neck.

The grip eased and she turned slowly round. Maca was kneeling on the floor at the back. He was smiling in a not very encouraging fashion and he had a large knife in his right hand.