She grimaced, and felt round behind her thigh with one hand, pulling up her skirt and craning her head round to look down.

There was a broad ladder in one leg of her tights. She said, "Blast!" and let the skirt fall. When she turned, the greyhaired westerner was on his feet, holding his hat, face averted, very clearly not looking in her direction.

He said, "You hurt someplace, Missy?"

She laughed. "No, just laddered my tights. Excuse me."

He came towards her, shaking his head in wonder, grinning despite the trickle of blood from a corner of his mouth. I'll be gol'durned! They cotched 'emselves a cougar with you, Missy." He turned his head to glare at Danny. "Can't say that young feller helped much."

Danny composed his features and said with dignity, "I am Madam's butler, sir, and she instructed me to remain in the vehicle. I may also say she is better than I at dealing with such matters."

"Hehhehheh! You can say that again, son!"

Modesty looked at her elderly champion with friendly exasperation, took a handkerchief from a pocket of her skirt and held it against the cut by his mouth. "Don't you know better than to tangle with lippy dudes half your age?" she asked.

He took over holding the handkerchief. "Feller's gotta stand up for a lady. Ain't too old till he's dead."

She studied him curiously. "They don't make too many like you these days. What's your name and where did you spring from?"

"I'm stayin' down the road a piece at a little pub place, and I just took a walk. My friends call me Gus."

She watched the two men wade miserably from the pond, void of aggression now, avoiding her eye. Then she took the old American's arm and walked him to her car. "All right, Gus," she said, "I'll see you home."

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting together at a low table in a corner of the lounge in a three hundred year old hostelry. The table was set for three with a plate of scones, jam and cream, and a pot of tea. Danny, now trapped in his role of butler, sat looking dignified and was not presuming to join in the conversation. Modesty, amused by the setup and intrigued by her new friend, was pouring tea and saying, "Well, you're a long way from home, Gus."

He nodded. "Yup. They run these here package tours, so I come across for a few weeks." He took the cup she pa.s.sed him, thanked her, and put several k.n.o.bs of sugar in it, stirring as he said, "My folks was from this village around a couple a hundred years back, so 1 figured spending a day or two here, seein' if I could find any of 'em in the churchyard or the register thing. Where you from, Miss Modesty?"

"Oh, nowhere special. What do you do back home, Gus? Or maybe you're retired?"

"No, I got a general store." He frowned with a touch of embarra.s.sment. "Everybody's gotta come from somewhere, but maybe you reckoned I was nosey, askin' you?"

She shook her head in friendly rea.s.surance. "It's just that I don't know the answer. I think my folks may have been refugees who didn't make it, but the first thing I can remember is wandering through the Middle East on my own."

He had picked up his cup, but now he set it down and looked at her wonderingly. "How old?"

"Seven, eight maybe. Everything before that seems to have disappeared."

"And you was on your own? Just roamin' about?"

"I was on my own at first. Then I met an old man in a Displaced Persons campwell, he seemed old to me then but he was probably under fifty. He'd been a professor in Budapest until he had to run for his life. He knew just everything."

"And he looked after you?"

She smiled. "No, I looked after him, Gus. He knew everything, but he was hopeless in my kind of world, so I had to fight for us and steal food and do whatever had to be done. I never knew his real name, I just called him Lob. Anyway, that's where I come from."

"But... where d'you go from there, Miss Modesty?"

"Well, we roamed all over the Middle East and North Africa, and he was my teacher. He gave me my name, and I loved him. When I was about sixteen he died one day in the desert. I buried him, and cried, and went on alone. What came next is much too long to tell, Gus."

He sat staring down at the table, his tea untouched, not meeting her eye, and she had the strange impression that he was struggling with a feeling of shame. At last he said in a low voice, "I jest can't figure how a kid girl could get by all those years."

She wanted no sympathy for what had been, and said, "Hey, lighten up, I didn't tell you to make you feel bad. You've lived rough yourself, haven't you?"

He seemed to take hold of himself, and grinned. "Yup. Plenty. Was twice I sure enough nearly didn't git back alive when I was a young feller prospecting. But I warn't a kid girl."

"It's the same for anyone. As long as you don't starve and don't die of exposure you get by."

"Sure. But there's more'n being hungry or gitting froze. There's people. Bad people."

She had no intention of telling about the occasions of horror she had gone through, and said, "What did you do about people like that when you were a young feller?"

"Me? Well, I ain't big but I used to be real sneaky. I'd kick 'em in the belly, then stomp 'em."

"I thought it would be something like that. I used to run until I got big enough and sneaky enough to do it your way."

"That figures. Ain't no wonder you give them fancypants a surprise just now." He sighed, turned his head to look at her directly, and said with curious formality, "It's been a real pleasure meetin' you, Miss Modesty. A real pleasure."

She dipped her head. "Thank you, Gus. I've enjoyed it too, so if you come up to London give me a call." She turned to Danny Chava.s.se. "Give the gentleman my address and number before we go, Blenkinsop."

Danny nodded gravely. "Certainly, madam."

Two men and a woman sat at a boardroom table in the City of London. There was no secretary to take minutes. The woman was Harriet Welling, fortyeight years old, director of three large companies and committee member of several charities. She wore a neat suit, had a round face and forgettable features, an appearance that belied her character, for she had risen from pool typist to become a figure of substance in the City.

There was silence in the room as all three sat reading copies of the same report. First to finish was George Sumner, a lean, eaglefaced man, a brigadier who had been among those axed from one of the county regiments during the last slimming down of the armed forces. He got up, moved to feed his copy of the report into the shredder, then resumed his seat, and said, "In my view The Dark Angels are getting too d.a.m.n theatrical. What's the point of all these acrobatics? They just have to kill someone. Don't have to carry on like - who is it? - Batman or somebody."

The second man, Timmins, was heavily built, squarejawed and with thinning black hair sleeked back from a wide brow. He said, "You miss the point, Sumner. The theatricality of The Dark Angels is essential to their success. It's essential to them, because that is their common character. I'm sure your brigade had a character that you created and which caused it to operate in a particular way - your way, and therefore in some degree different from the way another brigade would operate. The Dark Angels are the elite among the executive groups we employ, and we interfere with their methods at our peril."

Sumner sat gazing into s.p.a.ce for perhaps half a minute, then nodded and said abruptly, "Point taken." He looked towards the woman, who had laid down her report. "Your view, Mrs Welling?"

Harriet Welling always spoke slowly but without hesitation, her voice cool and amiable. She said, "I agree they're theatrical, Brigadier, but if we use psychopaths we have to accept psychopathic behaviour. The Dark Angels revel in their role. To them it's G.o.dlike. When they operate, not only does n.o.body know who was responsible, n.o.body even knows there's been a killing, because the Angels create perfect accidents," she tapped the report in front of her, "as they did for Kaltchas. What's more, although one hundred per cent successful, they're content to remain anonymous, which is greatly to our advantage. Most a.s.sa.s.sin groups give themselves a name and publicise it. That's the last thing we want if we're to be effective."

Timmins said, Thank you, Mrs Welling. We must also take on board the fact that, unlike lesser contractors we hire, The Dark Angels know our ident.i.ty." He glanced at the other man. "That was inevitable since it was Sumner who had to select them from army records and arrange covert training. My point is that, given their particular mentality, it would be unwise and bad security to subject them to needless criticism. Their work for us has been impeccable. Let us not disturb the relationship in any way."

Sumner nodded briskly. "Agreed," he said. "I recall anxious moments during the van Doom business, when other contractors failed twice and we had finally to bring in The Dark Angels. It's just..." he paused with a wry smile, "it's just that they are so d.a.m.n theatrical, and with my own training that sets my teeth on edge. But you've provided convincing reasons why I should put up with it, so I won't raise the matter again."

Timmins looked at his watch, then at an empty chair where an agenda paper lay on the table in front of it. "Beckworth's late, but I think we should leave item three until he arrives. Item four-Future Operations." He looked up. This depends on what forewarning we may have of proposed largescale takeovers affecting this country. I have my usual lines of inquiry out, but nothing to report at present. Mrs Welling?"

Harriet Welling said, "I believe there is a possible hostile takeover of one of our larger industrial companies being planned, but I would rather wait till I have further intelligence on this before reporting fully."

Timmins said, "Thank you. Brigadier?"

Sumner shook his head. "My sources are very narrow compared with yours and Mrs Welling's. Perhaps Beckworth has-' he broke off as the door opened and a man entered. He wore a city suit and was carrying a bowler hat and umbrella." Sumner said, "Ah, Beckworth."

The man said, "Sorry Mrs Welling, gentlemen." He hung up his hat and umbrella, moved to the empty chair and sat down, a man with a fresh complexion, a chubby face and bright blue eyes, his hair greying at the temples, a neat moustache still dark.

Timmins said with a touch of sarcasm, "Good of you to come."

Beckworth answered without resentment. "I'm on eight boards of directors, Timmins, most useful to our enterprise, and the traffic's h.e.l.l today. Where are we up to?"

"Item three, please."

Beckworth studied the agenda. "Choice of contractor for disposal of Mr. Howard A. Keyes. Well, what's the feeling?"

Sumner said, "I recommend using The Dark Angels right away."

Harriet Welling said gently, "As treasurer I feel I must point out that our funds are low following heavy expenditure last year. The Carter group or the Albanian group would be cheaper."

"Not if they fail," said Timmins. "We don't want to pay half in advance and then fall back on the Angels anyway."

Sumner said slowly, "We four are the only source of funds. We are dedicated to the sole purpose of keeping British industry Britishowned by preventing the steady takeover of our industrial base by foreign corporations. Surely there must be others of our mind, others who foresee the loss of sovereignty and death of Britain as we know it if this continues. Can we not recruit a few carefully selected persons of reasonable substance who would join our enterprise?"

Beckworth fingered his moustache. "Our enterprise involves killing people."

"Of course. But we take great care to ensure that only the selected person dies. You'll see from the report on the Kaltchas operation that his bodyguard suffered no harm."

"A minor torticollis, perhaps," Harriet Welling suggested.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A stiff neck, Brigadier."

"Oh. Quite. But I don't think that invalidates my point. We do what has to be done in an extremely responsible manner."

Beckworth leaned back in his chair and looked round at his companions. "My own feeling is that any attempt at recruitment would be dangerous. However, we may have to consider it and I therefore recommend that we leave Sumner's suggestion on the table for future discussion. Now, according to our latest intelligence Mr Howard A. Keyes shouldn't be very difficult to kill. I suggest that to save expense we put the job out to the Carter group first, but with a cash on delivery proviso, no deposit."

Timmins said, "Certainly we lose nothing that way. I'll second the proposal. Mrs Welling?"

"Yes. A good compromise."

Sumner said, "Agreed."

There was silence as they looked at their agenda papers, then Beckworth said, "Items one and two are routine, and no doubt you've dealt with them. Shall we proceed to item four now?"

Danny Chava.s.se had been gone three days. The church fete was in progress in the village of Benildon, and Sir Gerald Tarrant stood at the hoopla stall with Modesty Blaise beside him, watching him throw the wooden rings. He paid for six more and sighed inwardly, reflecting that he would have been greatly enjoying himself if he had not been suffering from a rare attack of guilt. His job was one in which he often had to put his people at considerable risk. Sometimes they were given tasks which resulted in death for them. This was something to which he had been compelled to inure himself, though he sometimes feared that he was simply postponing any response to some future day, to retirement perhaps, when all the horrors would descend upon him together.

At this moment he was feeling guilty about the girl beside him who was licking an ice cream cornet and carried a basket full of bottles, jars, cans of food and sundry other items either bought or won at great expense. She was no employee, but twice she had carried out missions for Tarrant, and in the Sabretooth operation had come close to dying for him.

Since that time, what had been acquaintance had become something closer, and he had been delighted when she invited him for a long weekend at her country cottage. They had fixed a date three weeks ahead, but only two days after making the arrangement Tarrant had been called in by the government minister to whom he was responsible. Intelligence reports from sources abroad and from other UK organisations had been pa.s.sed to Tarrant, and he had been required as a matter of urgency to investigate and deal with a possible criminal matter of great delicacy involving foreign citizens and their governments. Evidence was patchy to the point of being nebulous, but he was told that speed in settling the matter was essential.

After long hours of increasingly uneasy consideration Tarrant had come to the ineluctable conclusion that no legal authority had the power to do what would be necessary if he was to achieve the task laid upon him. He had also concluded that there were two people who, being independent, could act more freely than any he could employ. They were also widely experienced in criminal matters, and above all had ways of thinking that he regarded as unique. So it was possible, just possible, that they might find a way to the heart of the nebulous matter and uncover what lay there.

Impossible simply to ask Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin for their services again. He would have to involve them tangentially, and this he had now taken steps to arrange, which was why he felt heavy with guilt as he threw the last of the hoopla rings and watched with horror as it settled neatly round a small but very ugly green frog. This prize proved to be of painted lead and was presumably intended for use as a paperweight.

Modesty choked off a laugh, crunched the last of her cornet, wiped her lips on a tissue and said, "Well done." She looked about her. "Where did Willie disappear to?"

"Over there." Tarrant nodded to a stall where Willie was throwing darts at rows of playing cards fastened to a large board.

Modesty stared. "He can't do that!" She took Tarrant's arm and moved briskly across to the stall as Willie prepared to throw a final dart. "Willie! Don't you dare win prizes at that, it's not for-" she swallowed the word 'professionals' and made it, "for people like you."

The motherly lady in charge said, "Oh, it's all right, dear." She pointed to the row of small, evillooking gnomes on a shelf above the board where the playing cards were pinned. "He hasn't hit any spots yet, but he's just broken three of the prizes and he's very sorry, so he's going to pay five pounds for each of them."

Willie said, "I can't get the hang of this, some'ow." He threw the last dart, and a fourth gnome shattered with the impact. "There, see what I mean?"

Modesty nodded thoughtfully. "Yes... another time you could try aiming a bit lower, perhaps?"

"Might be the answer," Willie agreed. "I'll think about it." He handed a note to the lady in charge. "Twenty pounds, Mrs Bailey. Will that cover the damage?"

"Handsomely, thank you, Mr Garvin, they're only a pound each. And you're not fooling me for a moment, you know."

Willie grinned, winked at her, then turned away with Modesty and Tarrant. "What's that you've won, Sir G.?"

"It's a large emerald carved in the shape of a frog," said Tarrant. Inspiration struck him, and he seized the moment. "Should I seek protection, do you think? A bodyguard?"

Modesty said, "I'll ask the Boy Scouts." And before Tarrant could continue his theme she went on, "I think we've done our bit now. Let's go home and have tea."

Willie said, "I'm dying for a cup. Let's 'ave the basket, Princess."

As they moved towards the field where the car was parked Tarrant said, "Talking of bodyguards-" he stopped as she gave him a puzzled look.

"Bodyguards? Oh, you mean just now. Yes, sorry, go on."

Hiding his discomfiture Tarrant continued, "If you'll forgive me for talking shop briefly I'd just, like to ask if you could recommend a really good bodyguard."

After a little silence Modesty said, "We never dealt in that line of business. Surely you have access to a wide selection of likely people?"

"We need somebody rather special," said Tarrant. "The person to be guarded is inclined to be difficult."

"And you can't tell us who it is?"

"In confidence, yes. It's Mr Howard A. Keyes. It's possible you may have heard of him."

Willie said, "Keyes? He's been in the news a bit. Owns a chunk of Texas and a chain of supermarkets."

Modesty said, "Is he the American the city pages call the Mystery Tyc.o.o.n, who's planning to build supermarkets here?"

"And to take over one of our major supermarket chains," said Tarrant. "Yes, that's the man."

They had reached the car, and as Willie opened the door for her she said, "Who does he need protection from?"

"I'm afraid we don't know," said Tarrant, "but what he needs protection from is murder. And Keyes isn't particularly mysterious, just eccentric. He hates publicity."

Willie said, "Then he won't much like being murdered. It's bound to make 'eadlines."

"I've been given the job of preventing that." Tarrant took the back seat with Modesty, and Willie got in behind the wheel. As they moved away Modesty said, "Why are you involved?"