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Authors: Michael Gilbert
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for it.
The last course was eventually cleared: the wicker-covered flask was nearly empty, and Nap was drinking a remarkably good cup of black coffee and doing some thinking.
That girl with the henna hair was pretty obviously an habitué of the place. Careful though the fatherly British police might be, Nap knew that such an arrangement was not uncommon. In a few minutes, when the restaurant was empty, she and Brandison would disappear, he guessed, through that discreetly curtained doorway. He shifted his chair, and received a shock. For the second time the laws of optics were destined to play an important part in this affair.
From where he sat he was looking, as has been explained, directly into the annexe. On its wall, and facing him, there was hanging a framed advertisement for a French aperitif. The shift in his position, combined with the forward tilt of the picture, enabled him to see Brandison’s table reflected in the glass.
And Brandison was not there.
His chair was empty. Yet the girl was apparently continuing to talk and laugh, as she had been doing throughout the evening. Look. She was leaning forward now, pretending to say something.
“In a few minutes – when the restaurant was empty–”
In all the human orchestra the shrillest note is the trumpet of sudden danger. During the months that he was working for the French Maquis Nap had kept his ears carefully alert for its unmistakable warnings. Through the clatter of other small noises he heard it now; and the familiar prickling sensation ran up the back of his neck.
A dozen urgent questions called for answers.
Why had Brandison and the girl, alone of all the diners, been allowed to sit in the annexe and been placed at that one table, so that he could see the girl, but not the man? How long had Brandison gone? Where was he now?
And why was the restaurant so empty? His subconscious had been calling his attention to it for some time. Party after party had gone; but it was a long time since anyone had come in.
Nap glanced quickly down at his wristwatch.
Half past ten. Yet, when he had been watching the place, he could swear that parties had continued to arrive regularly till eleven o’clock or later. Why were they not doing so tonight?
Had a quiet hand slipped the latch an hour before?
Was the doorman turning people away. “Sorry, sir.” “Sorry, madam. We’re closed tonight. Yes, closed for redecoration.”
And who was going to be redecorated?
The slowness with which his own food had arrived assumed a new significance. He remembered now that a man and girl at the next table, who had come in some time after him, had finished and gone half an hour since.
Nap signalled for his bill and this time the waiter quite palpably ignored him.
These reflections, though they have taken some time to set out, had not actually occupied many seconds. As he was looking round another party had gone out into the vestibule. He heard the doorman saying good night, and the clack of the door closing.
Apart from a scattering of waiters and the girl, who had ceased her charade and was now looking directly at him with undisguised interest, there was only one person visible. This was a large man, who had come in late, he remembered, and was now seated two tables away with his back towards him.
“When that chap goes,” he said to himself, “the band will begin to play.”
What would happen, he wondered, if he got up and made a dive for the open. One of the waiters was standing beside the inner entrance, which led out into the vestibule. A nasty-looking customer. Most of the waiters, he thought, were Italians or Maltese.
Here it came: the other man was obviously getting ready to leave. He had paid his bill. Now he pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
Then a surprising thing happened.
Instead of making for the door, he swung round, came up to Nap, and sat down beside him.
“Mr Rumbold?”
“Yes?”
“Or ‘Pascale’ I think it was you called
The last course was eventually cleared: the wicker-covered flask was nearly empty, and Nap was drinking a remarkably good cup of black coffee and doing some thinking.
That girl with the henna hair was pretty obviously an habitué of the place. Careful though the fatherly British police might be, Nap knew that such an arrangement was not uncommon. In a few minutes, when the restaurant was empty, she and Brandison would disappear, he guessed, through that discreetly curtained doorway. He shifted his chair, and received a shock. For the second time the laws of optics were destined to play an important part in this affair.
From where he sat he was looking, as has been explained, directly into the annexe. On its wall, and facing him, there was hanging a framed advertisement for a French aperitif. The shift in his position, combined with the forward tilt of the picture, enabled him to see Brandison’s table reflected in the glass.
And Brandison was not there.
His chair was empty. Yet the girl was apparently continuing to talk and laugh, as she had been doing throughout the evening. Look. She was leaning forward now, pretending to say something.
“In a few minutes – when the restaurant was empty–”
In all the human orchestra the shrillest note is the trumpet of sudden danger. During the months that he was working for the French Maquis Nap had kept his ears carefully alert for its unmistakable warnings. Through the clatter of other small noises he heard it now; and the familiar prickling sensation ran up the back of his neck.
A dozen urgent questions called for answers.
Why had Brandison and the girl, alone of all the diners, been allowed to sit in the annexe and been placed at that one table, so that he could see the girl, but not the man? How long had Brandison gone? Where was he now?
And why was the restaurant so empty? His subconscious had been calling his attention to it for some time. Party after party had gone; but it was a long time since anyone had come in.
Nap glanced quickly down at his wristwatch.
Half past ten. Yet, when he had been watching the place, he could swear that parties had continued to arrive regularly till eleven o’clock or later. Why were they not doing so tonight?
Had a quiet hand slipped the latch an hour before?
Was the doorman turning people away. “Sorry, sir.” “Sorry, madam. We’re closed tonight. Yes, closed for redecoration.”
And who was going to be redecorated?
The slowness with which his own food had arrived assumed a new significance. He remembered now that a man and girl at the next table, who had come in some time after him, had finished and gone half an hour since.
Nap signalled for his bill and this time the waiter quite palpably ignored him.
These reflections, though they have taken some time to set out, had not actually occupied many seconds. As he was looking round another party had gone out into the vestibule. He heard the doorman saying good night, and the clack of the door closing.
Apart from a scattering of waiters and the girl, who had ceased her charade and was now looking directly at him with undisguised interest, there was only one person visible. This was a large man, who had come in late, he remembered, and was now seated two tables away with his back towards him.
“When that chap goes,” he said to himself, “the band will begin to play.”
What would happen, he wondered, if he got up and made a dive for the open. One of the waiters was standing beside the inner entrance, which led out into the vestibule. A nasty-looking customer. Most of the waiters, he thought, were Italians or Maltese.
Here it came: the other man was obviously getting ready to leave. He had paid his bill. Now he pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
Then a surprising thing happened.
Instead of making for the door, he swung round, came up to Nap, and sat down beside him.
“Mr Rumbold?”
“Yes?”
“Or ‘Pascale’ I think it was you called
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