Trudi and Herta were coming down the street. Trudi, dressed in a sleeveless pink frock and wearing long white cotton gloves, skipped along in her customary childish fashion, her blonde hair swinging, a smile on her face: Herta, clad in her usual outlandish dress, waddled gravely alongside, carrying a large leather bag in her hand.
I didn’t stand on the order of my going. I stepped quickly inside the shop: but not in Maggie’s direction, whatever else happened I didn’t want those two to see me talking to her: instead I took up a strategic position behind a tall revolving stand of picture-postcards and waited for Herta and Trudi to pass by.
They didn’t pass by. They passed by the front door, sure enough, but that was as far as they got, for Trudi suddenly stopped, peered through the window where Maggie was standing and caught Herta by the arms. Seconds later she coaxed the plainly reluctant Herta inside the shop, took her arm away from Herta who remained hovering there brood-ingly like a volcano about to erupt, stepped forward and caught Maggie by the arm.
‘I know you,’ Trudi said delightedly. ‘I know you!’
Maggie turned and smiled. ‘I know you too. Hullo, Trudi.’
‘And this is Herta.’ Trudi turned to Herta, who clearly approved of nothing that was taking place. ‘Herta, this is my friend, Maggie.’
Herta scowled in acknowledgment.
Trudi said: ‘Major Sherman is my friend.’
‘I know that,’ Maggie smiled.
‘Are you my friend, Maggie?’
‘Of course I am, Trudi.’
Trudi seemed delighted. ‘I have lots of other friends. Would you like to see them?’ She almost dragged Maggie to the door and pointed. She was pointing to the north and I knew it could be only at the haymakers at the far end of the field. ‘Look. There they are.’
‘I’m sure they’re very nice friends,’ Maggie said politely.
A picture-postcard hunter edged close to me, as much as to indicate that I should move over and let him have a look: I’m not quite sure what kind of look I gave him but it certainly was sufficient to make him move away very hurriedly.
‘They are lovely friends,’ Trudi was saying. She nodded at Herta and indicated the bag she was carrying. ‘When Herta and I come here we always take them out food and coffee in the morning.’ She said impulsively: ‘Come and see them, Maggie,’ and when Maggie hesitated said anxiously: ‘You are my friend, aren’t you?’
‘Of course, but — ‘
‘They are such nice friends,’ Trudi said pleadingly. ‘They are so happy. They make music. If we are very good, they may do the hay dance for us.’
‘The hay dance?’
‘Yes, Maggie. The hay dance. Please, Maggie. You are all my friends. Please come. Just for me, Maggie?’
‘Oh, very well.’ Maggie was laughingly reluctant. ‘Just for you, Trudi. But I can’t stay long.’
‘I do like you, Maggie.’ Trudi squeezed Maggie’s arm. ‘I do like you.’
The three of them left. I waited a discreet period of time, then moved cautiously out of the shop. They were already fifty yards away, past the building I’d asked Maggie to watch and out into the hayfield. The haymakers were at least six hundred yards away, building their first haystack of the day close in to what looked, even at that distance, to be a pretty ancient and decrepit Dutch barn. I could hear the chatter of voices as the three of them moved out over the stubbled hay and all the chatter appeared to come from Trudi, who was back at her usual gambit of gambolling like a spring lamb. Trudi never walked: she always skipped.
I followed, but not skipping. A hedgerow ran alongside the edge of the field and I prudently kept this between myself and Herta and the two girls, trailing thirty or forty yards • behind. I’ve no doubt that my method of locomotion looked almost as peculiar as Trudi’s because the hedgerow was less than five feet in height and I spent most of the six hundred yards bent forward at the hips like a septuagenarian suffering from a bout of lumbago.
By and by the three of them reached the old barn and sat down on the west side, in the shadow from the steadily strengthening sun. I got the barn between them and the haymakers on the one hand and myself on the other, ran quickly across the intervening space and let myself in by a side door.
I hadn’t been wrong about the barn. It must have been at least a century old and appeared to be in a very dilapidated condition indeed. The floor-boards sagged, the wooden walls bulged at just about every point where they could bulge and some of the original air-filtering cracks between the horizontal planks had warped and widened to the extent that one could ‘almost put one’s head through them.
There was a loft to the barn, the floor of which appeared to be in imminent danger of collapse: it was rotted and splintered and riddled with woodworm; even an English house-agent would have had difficulty in disposing of the place on the basis of its antiquity. It didn’t look as if it could support an averagely-built mouse, far less my weight, but the lower part of the barn was of little use for observation, and besides, I didn’t want to peer out of one of those cracks in the wall and find someone else peering in about two inches away, so I reluctantly took the crumbling flight of wooden steps that led up to the loft.
The loft, the east side of which was still half full of last year’s hay, was every bit as dangerous as it looked but I picked my steps with caution and approached the west side of the barn. This part of the barn had an even better selection of gaps between the planks and I eventually located the ideal one, at least six inches in width and affording an excellent view. I could see the heads of Maggie, Trudi and Herta directly beneath: I could see the matrons, about a dozen in all, assiduously and expertly building a haystack, the tines of their long-handled hayforks gleaming in the sun: I could even see part of the village itself, including most of the car park. I had a feeling of unease and could not understand the reason for this: the haymaking scene taking place out on the field there was as idyllic as even the most bucolic-minded could have wished to see. I think the odd sense of apprehension sprang from the least unlikely source, the actual haymakers themselves, for not even here, in their native setting, did those flowing striped robes, those exquisitely embroidered dresses and snowy wimple hats appear quite natural. There was a more than faintly theatrical quality about them, an aura of unreality. I had the feeling, almost, that I was witnessing a play being staged for my benefit.
About half an hour passed during which the matrons worked away steadily and the three sitting beneath me engaged in only desultory conversation: it was that kind of day, warm and still and peaceful, the only sounds being the swish of the hayforks and the distant murmuring of bees, that seems to make conversation of any kind unnecessary. I wondered if I dared risk a cigarette and decided I dared: I fumbled in the pocket of my jacket for matches and cigarettes, laid my coat on the floor with the silenced gun on top of it, and lit the cigarette, careful not to let any of the smoke escape through the gaps in the planks.
By and by Herta consulted a wristwatch about the size of a kitchen alarm clock and said something to Trudi, who rose, reached down a hand and pulled Maggie to her feet. Together they walked towards the haymakers, presumably to summon them to their morning break, for Herta was spreading a chequered cloth on the ground and laying out cups and unwrapping food from folded napkins.
A voice behind me said: ‘Don’t try to reach for your gun. If you do, you’ll never live to touch it.’
I believed the voice. I didn’t try to reach for my gun.
‘Turn round very slowly.’
I turned round very slowly. It was that kind of voice.
‘Move three paces away from the gun. To your left.’
I couldn’t see anyone. But I heard him all right. I moved three paces away. To the left.
There was a stirring in the hay on the other side of the loft and two figures emerged: the Reverend Thaddeus Goodbody and Marcel, the snakelike dandy I’d clobbered and shoved in the safe in the Balinova. Goodbody didn’t have a gun in his hand, but then, he didn’t need one: the blunderbuss Marcel carried in his was as big as two ordinary guns and, to judge from the gleam in the flat black unwinking eyes, he was busily searching for the remotest thread of an excuse to use it. Nor was I encouraged by the fact that his gun had a silencer to it: this meant that they didn’t care how often they shot me, nobody would hear a thing.