Vintage Stuff by Tom Sharpe Page B

Glodstone before Peregrine could send his blood pressure up any

further by his obtuseness, 'the fellow enquired which ferry I was taking, which tells me this:

they don't know I was crossing via Ostend. At least they didn't last night and it will take them

time to find out and by then we must have reached the Château. It's surprise that counts, so

we'll press on.'
    'When those cows get out of the way,' said Peregrine. 'You don't suppose they're blocking the

road on purpose?'
    For a few seconds Glodstone eyed him incredulously. 'No,' he said, 'I don't.'
    Presently they were able to drive on. As they drove, Glodstone's mind wrestled with the

problem of hotels. La Comtesse had arranged the bookings to enable her to communicate with him en

route and if he avoided them and pushed on there was the danger that he might miss a vital

message. Against that there was the need for speed. In the end, Glodstone compromised and when

they reached Gisors, where he had been scheduled to spend the first night, he sent Peregrine in

to cancel the room.
    'Explain that I've been taken ill and won't be coming,' he said, 'and if there are any

messages for me, collect them.' He parked the Bentley out of sight round the corner and Peregrine

went into the hotel. He was back in five minutes. 'The manager spoke English,' he said.
    'So the blighter should. After all we've saved them from the Hun in two World Wars and a fat

lot of thanks we've had for it. Bloody butter mountains and wine lakes and the confounded Common

Market,' said Glodstone, who had been looking forward to a short nap. 'And no message or letter

for me?'
    Peregrine shook his head and Glodstone started the Bentley again. All day, the great car ate

the miles and a vast quantity of petrol, but Glodstone pushed along the side roads of Slymne's

tortuous route. It was afternoon by the time they came to Ivry-La-Bataille and Glodstone was able

to totter into the hotel and remove his goggles. 'I believe you have a room reserved for me. The

name is Glodstone,' he said in French that was a shade less excruciating than Slymne's and

infinitely more comprehensible than Peregrine's.
    'But yes, monsieur. Number Four.'
    Glodstone took the key and then paused. 'Has any message come for me?'
    The clerk looked through a stash of envelopes until he came to the familiar crest. 'This was

delivered this afternoon, monsieur.'
    Glodstone took the letter and tore it open. Five minutes later the key to his room was back on

the board and Glodstone had left. 'You can stop bringing the baggage in,' he told Peregrine, 'La

Comtesse has sent a message.'
    'A message?' said Peregrine eagerly.
    'Shut up and get in,' said Glodstone casting a suspicious eye round the street, 'I'll explain

while we go.'
    'Well?' said Peregrine when they were clear of the little town.
    'Take a good look at that,' said Glodstone and handed him the letter.
    'It's from the Countess asking you on pain of her death not to come,' he said when he had read

it through.
    'In that case why was it delivered by a man with an English accent who refused to speak

English? In short, our friend who left the warning at Calais. And another thing, you've only to

compare her handwriting with that of the earlier letters to see that the devils have tortured her

into writing it.'
    'Good Lord, you mean ' began Peregrine. But Glodstone's mind has already fabricated a number

of new conclusions. 'Just this, that they know the route we're following and where we're going to

stay the night, which may be to their liking but doesn't suit my book.'
    'Which book?' asked Peregrine, browsing through a mental library from The Thirty-Nine Steps to

The Day of the Jackal with more insight into the workings of Glodstone's mind than he knew.
    Glodstone ignored the remark. He was too busy planning a new strategy. 'The thing is to put

yourself in the other fellow's shoes,' he said, 'I'm sure we're being watched or waited for.