Logs smouldered fitfully on the stone hearth, heavily banked with ashes that they might not burn too quickly. They told Guyon all he needed to know. Henri Granville and his wife were not there. But, then, they should have always counted on that as a possibility.
Ornithology was the old man’s great hobby. He had even written a book on the subject. It was quite obvious that at this moment he and his wife were sitting in their boat some-where among the reeds which covered so many square miles of the marshes, probably even in some bird-hide since dawn taking photos.
He moved outside and went down to the jetty. Faintly, through the mist, came the sound of an outboard motor. Jacaud and his men. For them the solution would be obvious. They would simply wait for Granville to put in an appear-ance. No need even to go looking for him.
There was only one answer to the problem and Guyon waded into the lake and pushed towards the other side. He moved up on to high ground and ran along the shore towards the sound of the motor.
In spite of the clammy cold of the marshes sweat trickled from Feelings armpits. Ever since that first moment of shock whenFleur de Lys had passed them in the mouth of the estuary he had felt sick and frightened. And then de Beaumont’s message over the radio, the mind numbing as the operator decoded it.
The message was quite plain. Under the circumstances they were to return at once. But that hadn’t been good enough for Jacaud. He had insisted on going on into the marsh and Fenelon had wilted under his cold fury.
The reeds lifted like pale ghosts on either hand, the only sound the steady rattle of the outboard motor. He sat in thestern at the tiller, two sailors in the centre with rifles. Jacaud sat on the edge of the rounded prow, his sub-machine-gun slung around his neck as he gazed into the fog like some great bird of prey.
He turned, his granite, brutal face running with moisture. “We must be almost there. Cut the motor. We’ll start pad-dling.”
“You’re wasting your time, Jacaud,” Guyon called gaily. “I beat you to it. By now Henri Granville and his wife are well on their way out of here.”
As the dinghy drifted forward, a sandbank reached out from the reeds like a pointing finger. Guyon stood on a small hillock at the far end. His hand swung up and he fired twice. One of the sailors groaned and went over the side, still clutching his rifle.
Jacaud slipped the sub-machine-gun over his head. It came up in a long, stuttering burst of fire, slicing through the reeds. He was too late. Guyon had disappeared like a ghost into the fog. He laughed mockingly somewhere near at hand and then there was silence.
The remaining sailor leaned over the side to pull in his comrade. Jacaud turned and struck up his arm. “Leave him. We haven’t time.”
The sailor recoiled from the killing fury, the devil’s face that confronted him. The curious thing was that when Jacaud spoke his voice was quite calm.
“Back toL’Alouette and give that motor everything it’s got. Mallory’s got to return to lie de Roc. He’s no choice. His girl-friend’s still there. If we’re lucky we can catch them on their way out to sea.”
To Mallory the rattle of gunfire in the distance was like a physical blow and he walked the deck in impotent fury, hoping desperately that whatever had gone wrong Guyon had been able to handle it. Perhaps ten minutes later he heard the sound of the outboard motor returning along thecreek. He stood very still, one foot on the rail, listening as it passed downstream.
He clambered on top of the wheelhouse and looked to-wards the west, straining into the fog. It was a good fifteen minutes before he heard the sound of brent geese calling bitterly as they lifted from the reeds. As the beating of their wings subsided, he was aware of movement towards the left.
He took a chance, cupped his hands and called: “Raoul! Over here!”