Jack Higgins – Night of the Fox

“Do you still believe, Sean?” Hamilton asked.

“Not since the first of July, nineteen sixteen, on the Somme,” Gallagher said. “I was attached to a Yorkshire Regiment, the Leeds Pals. The idiots at headquarters sent those lads over the top, packs on their backs, into heavy machine-gun fire. By noon, there were around forty or so survivors out of eight hundred. I decided then that if God existed, he was having a bad joke at my expense.”

“I take your point,” Hamilton said gravely.

Gallagher stood up. “I think I’ll sample the night air for a while,” and he opened the door and went out.

George Hamilton rested his head on his arms on the desk and yawned. It had been a long day. He closed his eyes and was asleep within a couple of minutes.

It was just after ten and Dougal Munro was still working away at his desk in his office at Baker Street when the door opened and Jack Carter limped in, his face grim. He placed a signal flimsy on the brigadier’s desk. “Brace yourself, sir.”

“What is this?” Munro demanded.

“Message just in from our Resistance contact in Gran-ville. That’s in Normandy.”

“I know where it is, for God’s sake.” Munro started to read and suddenly sat up straight. “I don’t believe it.”

Munro read the signal through again. “It couldn’t be worse. There isn’t a resistance movement in Jersey. No one to call on. I mean, this de Ville woman and the Gallagher man, how long can they manage, especially if he’s ill? And how long can he get by on a small island like that? It doesn’t bear thinking of, Jack.”

For the first time since Carter had known him he sounded close to despair, uncertain which way to go. “You’ll think of something, sir, you always do,” Carter said gently.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Munro stood up and reached for his coat. “Now you’d better phone through to Hayes Lodge and get me an immediate appointment with General Eisenhower. Tell them I’m on my way.”

Helen de Ville had been waiting anxiously for the sound of the van returning, and when it drove into the courtyard, at the side of de Ville Place, she ran out. As Gallagher and Hamilton got out of the van, she cried, “Is he all right?”

“Still doped up, but the leg’s doing fine,” Gallagher told her.

“There’s no one in at the moment. They’re either in Granville or at sea or at the officers’ club, so let’s get him upstairs.”

Gallagher and Hamilton got Kelso out of the van, joined hands and lifted him between them. They followed Helen through the front door, across the wide paneled hall and up the great staircase. She opened the door of the master bedroom and led the way in. The furniture was seventeenth-century Breton, including the four-poster bed. There was a bathroom through a door on the right side of the bed, on the left, carved library shelving from wall to ceiling crammed with books. Her fingers found a hidden spring and a section swung back to disclose a stairway. She led the way up and Gallagher and Hamilton followed with some difficulty, but finally made it to a room under the roof. The walls were paneled in oak, and there was a single window in the gable end. It was comfortable enough with carpet on the floor and a single bed.

They got Kelso onto the bed and Helen said, “There’s everything you need, and the only entrance is from my room, so you should be quite safe. An ancestor of mine hid here from Cromwell’s people for years. I’m afraid the convenience hasn’t improved since his day. It’s that oak commode over there.”

“Thanks, but all I want to do is sleep,” Kelso said, his face tired and strained.

She nodded to Gallagher and the old doctor and they went out and downstairs. Hamilton said, “I’ll get off myself. Tell Helen I’ll look in tomorrow.”

Sean Gallagher took his hand for a moment. “George, you’re quite a man.”

“All in a doctor’s day, Sean.” Hamilton smiled. “See you tomorrow.” And he went out.

Gallagher went through the hall and along the rear passage to the kitchen. He put the kettle on the stove, and was pushing a few pieces of wood in among the dying embers when Helen came in.

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