Dying on the Vine (26 page)

I walked on down the hall toward where I calculated the garages must be. Another of the ubiquitous men in uniform materialized—there had to be an army of them. “Can I help you, monsieur?” he asked politely.

“I'm looking for the garage,” I said in an assertive tone.

“It is here but it is locked at night.”

“I need something from my car.”

“Monsieur le Viscomte has the keys.”

“No one else?”

“No, monsieur, no one.”

I gave him a dismissive nod and went back through the house, across the stone-flagged floor to the front door. It was locked. Another uniformed man appeared.

“I need some fresh air,” I said. “Will you open the door?” He nodded obediently and uncovered a small panel on the wall. He touched buttons and the door swung open.

“How do I get back in?”

“I'll be here, monsieur,” he said imperturbably.

I strolled outside. The only gate was the one I had entered. Uniformed men patrolled in a tight pattern everywhere. I went back in the house and found Suvarov in the bar. I took him to a corner at the far end away from where most of the other guests were gathered.

“I want to get out of here,” I said. “Tonight.” He stared at me.

“Tonight? Why?”

I hesitated, then gave him the story I had unfolded before Masterson. He listened, becoming increasingly amazed.

“You told him you knew all this? What did he say?”

“He denied having anything to do with the deaths.”

“What about all these people here?”

“They're all dependent on him, one way or another.”

“Simone isn't. I brought her here. I know.” He eyed me. “I'm not either—oh, he's been a good customer but I'd never condone murder.” He paused, then asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“Fly me out of here—tonight.”

His eyes widened. “I can't do that.”

“Why not? You flew in here.”

“It's illegal to fly an ultralight at night.”

“What do I care about illegal?” I snapped at him. “My life's being threatened.”

“It's not just that. It really is dangerous—ultralights have no navigation system. The pilot can only fly on visual and you can't see landmarks at night. They have no lights, so other aircraft can't see them. Worst of all, if there's no moon, the pilot can't see the line between earth and sky. This is hilly terrain—no, it's just too dangerous.

“Why don't you just take a car?” he suggested. I told him why not.

He shrugged. “I'd like to help you but I don't see how I can.”

“This is ridiculous. Here I am, knowing I may be murdered tomorrow, and I can't do anything about it!”

“Did I hear someone mention murder?” a voice asked and Monika came over, detaching herself from a group in the corner. Suvarov glanced sideways at me. “We were talking about the hunt tomorrow,” I replied. “I said hunting is murder.”

She regarded me coolly. “You're not a sportsman, eh? Well, I think you'll get something out of it.” She put down her glass. “I want to be sure of being fresh tomorrow so I'm retiring. Good night.”

When she had gone, Suvarov said plaintively, “Listen, I'd like to help you but—well, what can I do?”

“We'll both try to think of something,” I told him. “See you in the morning.” As I left, I passed the study. I could hear the subdued voices of Monika and Viscount Masterson.

Up in my room, I dragged a chest before the door, put cushions from chairs under the bedspread, and created a fair facsimile of a body in it. I made myself as comfortable as possible in a chair in the corner. I knew I wouldn't sleep a wink.

It was a gentle but persistent rapping at the door that woke me. …

“W
HO IS IT?” I
called, but I could hear no reply. I quickly checked the mound in the bed. There was no knife handle protruding—so much for Gothic horror and 1930s Hollywood mysteries. It took a couple of minutes to push the chest away from the door and in the meantime there was another series of persistent taps. I opened the door to see Suvarov. “Let me in!” he whispered.

He pushed the door open forcibly and came in, closing it quickly.

“Do you still want to get out of here?” He was tense, not his usual debonair aviator image.

“Yes, but you said you couldn't fly at night!”

“It's five o'clock. The sun will be up in half an hour. We can take off at first light.”

I looked at my watch in astonishment. I couldn't believe I had slept that long. “Well, yes, I—”

“Then dress fast.” He went to the window and peered out cautiously. As I did as he said, I asked him why the abrupt change of mind.

“I had a chat with one of the staff last night after I talked to you. He's Nineteenth—says they all are.”

“Nineteenth?”

“French Foreign Legion. When it was first formed, it was attached to the French army, the Nineteenth Corps. Old Legion hands still refer to it as the Nineteenth. That's why they all have the same manner, the same bearing, the same close crop. They're disciplined and tough and many of them only joined to avoid paying for some crime. More than half the Legion today is German. They're ideal recruits for anyone who—”

I was struggling to pull on my socks but I caught the implication.

“Anyone ruthless and with a plan that needs men who'll do as they're told, men who like excitement and don't object to violence. So now you believe me?”

“That's not all,” he said grimly. “I saw Ditter last night—the pilot who dropped the beehive on you. He was in the same uniform as the rest.”

“I saw him too. Did he know you recognized him?”

“I don't think so, but Masterson caught me when I was talking to the other one. Masterson questioned me—he, well, he was different, sort of…”

“Different how?” I asked.

“He kept referring to the viscomte as if he were another person. It was scary, scary enough that I'm ready to take you out right now. Ready?” I pulled on shoes and we went out quietly. Night-lights shed low radiance in the corridors and on the staircase. No one was to be seen. Suvarov waved a hand and I followed him into the game room where a row of video machines gave off colored reflections. Suvarov closed the door carefully.

“I came in and played some games last night till I was alone, then I unlocked this window,” he whispered.

We climbed out and crept across the lawn. The château was a massive bulk in the darkness as we left it. We hurried to where Suvarov's ultralight was pegged down at the top end of a grassy slope. There was still no sign of any life and I reflected that we had been lucky to avoid the viscomte's private army.

Suvarov kicked the pegs loose and untied the ropes. He held a hand in the air and nodded. “Wind's just right. She'll take off like a swallow.”

I looked at the aircraft, just visible in the predawn dimness. I had to be desperate to trust my life to this, I thought. A few flimsy strips of metal, some plastic sheeting, and an engine that looked as if it belonged in a kitchen blender.

“It's still dark,” I pointed out.

“As soon as we're up in the air, we'll be able to see the dawn. We'll fly toward it.”

Suvarov walked around the ultralight, examining it carefully but quickly. He took out a key and climbed into one of the seats.

There was a noise, a scuffling of the grass, and my heart froze. If it was one of the Legionnaires, we were caught. Suvarov heard it too and stared past me as a Figure came out of the gloom.

It was Lewis Arundel.

He came close. The faint starlight was enough to show the black automatic pistol that he pushed toward Suvarov.

“All right,” Arundel said in a taut voice. “Start her up. You're taking me out of here.”

“Wait a minute!” I protested. “He's taking me!”

“Move aside!” he grated. “Are you ready to take off?” he snapped.

The hapless Suvarov looked from me to Arundel.

“Yes,” he said in a low voice. “I don't want to start the engine till we're ready to go.”

Arundel walked forward, past me, keeping the gun close to him. As dawn broke, the gloom was already crystallizing into shapes. Arundel heaved himself into the passenger seat with one hand, darting me a look.

“Too bad for you, but it's getting dangerous for me here,” he said.

“You too? What's happened since yesterday when you were telling me about all the so-called accidents? Your memory started working? Or your conscience?”

“Ready?” Arundel asked sharply, and Suvarov nodded as he tapped one of the instruments in front of him. I was anxious to keep Arundel talking—anxious to do anything to delay the takeoff, to find a way to overcome Arundel. “You know plenty, don't you? From Morel, from Emil. …”

“I was on Masterson's yacht a few times,” Arundel said to me but still keeping a watchful eye on Suvarov. “We often went to Ajaccio. Morel was on one of those trips too. Oh, I was on Masterson's payroll—he kept telling me how determined he was to buy the Willesford vineyard and that he'd have me run it for him. He made a lot of promises. I believed him—I didn't know then it was all a blind for this truffle scheme. I remembered too that Emil had told me that Chantier had been out on one of those trips.”

He flicked an impatient glance at Suvarov, who was testing the controls.

“What did Morel find out?” I asked.

“I don't know for sure but he got Fox drunk one night. He also got something out of Emil and must have put together enough.”

“Masterson had them both killed and then had to eliminate Morel, who was blackmailing him.”

“I suppose, but I didn't have anything to do with the murders.”

“One more thing … why did you—”

“Let's go!” Arundel shouted the order at Suvarov.

I stood there, poised for the opportunity to grab Arundel's arm and pull him out of the aircraft. Unwilling to relax his grip on the gun, he hadn't fastened his seat belt, and the gun was still aimed right at me. Suvarov turned the ignition key, darting me a helpless look. The engine gurgled into life, spluttered once, then settled promptly into a steady drone.

Arundel's sardonic manner hadn't deserted him completely.

“Give us a push—get us going!” he shouted over the engine noise.

“Not bloody likely!” I yelled and snatched wildly at his arm.

He might have shot me but instead he swung the gun, hitting me across the knuckles. I let go reflexively and the ultralight was already moving. It was out of my reach in seconds, picking up speed, moving down the slope at an amazingly rapid rate.

With a sinking heart, I watched it soar upward. It climbed, turning gently and becoming more sharply visible as it rose into the first splintered beams of the rising sun.

Then it changed. From pink-tinged it was instantly transformed into a boiling globe of red and yellow flame. The bellow of the explosion came before the horror of the sight impacted on my eyes. Black smoke foamed out as the fireball spread. Blazing pieces fell, dropping slowly through the air. One of them looked like a human arm …

I stared horrified. The flames were already burning out and I was appalled at how quickly two lives and an airplane could disappear. It was as if they had never existed. All that remained was a sooty cloud.

Voices were calling out and the sound jerked me back to reality—which was that I should have been on the ultralight and that the explosive planted on it explained why there had been no guards during the night. It would have been another “accident.” Monica had evidently overheard Alex and I talking and the pilot, Ditter, had realized that Alex had spotted him. The ex-Legionnaire that Alex had pumped for information about Masterson's staff had obviously reported it, perhaps he had even planted further ideas in Alex's mind that had stressed his dangerous position.

The one advantage I had was that I was thought to be dead—and I needed every crumb of advantage I could gather. I had to get out of sight and fast. I made a run for the cover of the house.

T
HE VISCOMTE'S “ARMY” WAS
responding to the explosion with the same alacrity with which it had been mustered by a bugle call in the Sahara. Men in the familiar black uniform with red trim came out of the house; some took up positions by the wall, others went to the back of the château, and a relief team went out to the main gate.

I watched from a corner of the stable yard. I was safe temporarily but only as long as I was thought to be dead. I had to get out, but how? Some of the guests must be leaving today. I might be able to stow away in a car. I made my cautious way in the direction of the garages.

A servant came out of the kitchen with a barrel of trash and I ducked hastily out of sight. When he had gone back inside, I continued and reached the garage area. One glance was enough to show that the idea was not feasible. A pair of uniformed men were by the door, and inside, I could see two more examining vehicles.

All that was left was a getaway on foot. This presented two difficulties—first, to reach the wall unobserved, and second, to scale it. The former was the greater problem and as I reached that thought, a uniformed man came across the yard and went into the garage. Was that the answer? Put on a uniform and be like G. K. Chesterton's Invisible Man?

I headed back toward the kitchen area where the staff should be less militaristic and therefore easier to overcome. I thought of a chef's outfit but that would be out of place inside the house.

I went inside cautiously. A short corridor led past storage rooms, a couple of them with open doors and sacks, crates, and boxes neatly stacked inside. I went farther and came to another room, where steel filing cabinets covered two walls. A uniformed man wearing an apron was bending down, opening the lowest file drawer.