She was in slacks and a thin rollneck sweater, wearing not a sc.r.a.p of makeup, her hair loose and tied back with a small piece of ribbon. She seemed smaller now than either of them remembered, and they found it hard to conceive that this was the same girl who had fought the power of The Dark Angels for them only two nights ago, fought to the death for them. It made the sick pain they already felt even harder to bear.

After a moment or two Tarrant gestured and managed to mutter. "Yes, please sit down."

Willie set down the tray, held a chair for Modesty, drew up one for himself facing her, and gestured politely for the others to sit. Modesty opened her little carton of cream and poured it in her coffee, opened the packet of sugar and tipped it in, all without haste. She stirred the coffee thoughtfully, laid down the spoon, and looked at the American for the first time. "Well, who are you, Gus?"

He spoke in the voice of an educated man and with a milder southern accent, a voice deeply troubled. "The name's right, ma'am, and my friends do call me Gus. The rest was lies."

"You don't own a string of supermarkets in America?"

He shook his head. "I own a small hardware store in Montana."

"So how did you get into this?"

"I was with the CIA for twentyodd years, ma'am. Did a lot of undercover work. Seems they owed your friend Sir Gerald a favour, and when he told them what he wanted they remembered I retired a few years back and they gave him my name. Said I might fit the bill and go along with it. So the stories about the big supermarket tyc.o.o.n were planted, then I came over, and... we set you up."

"Yes, I know that bit now, and I know the reason why my - what did you call him? - my friend Sir Gerald did it. But you were there with us, up the sharp end with three very smart killers gunning for you. Why did you do it, please?"

"Me? Well, I did it for fifty thousand pounds sterling."

"That's just money. There has to be a reason behind the money."

"I did it, ma'am, that's all. No excuses."

Tarrant coughed and said diffidently, "I feel bound to reveal that Mr Keyes had a wife who was in a local hospice for three years before she died. The hospice now has to raise substantial funds for refurbishment or it will close. Mr Keyes asked that the consideration due to him for his services be paid to the hospice."

After a moment Willie said, "Post 'umously if necessary?"

Tarrant smiled a small grey smile. "Of course. But thankfully that doesn't arise."

Gus Keyes said sombrely, "We've been sitting here arguing about which of us hates himself most. We could have got you killed, ma'am. Oh, Willie too," he added hastily.

Willie grinned and said, "Thanks."

Modesty drank some coffee, gazing reflectively from one man to the other. At last she said, "Where did the Jumpin' Jehoshaphat character come from?"

The American gave her a hesitant smile. "He was easy for me. That Gus was my grandfather, and I can conjure him up any time."

She looked at Willie. "He was a nice man, wasn't he, Willie? We liked Gus."

"They don't make 'em like him any more, Princess."

Gus Keyes flinched. "Sure. I don't think he'd like his grandson too much."

Still speaking to Willie she said, "On the other hand lives have been saved, killers put away, and our Gus would certainly have wanted to do his best for the hospice, wouldn't he?"

"I just 'ad the same thought. He'd even 'ave done it for the measly fifty grand."

She frowned. "It was a hundred grand, Willie. You can't have been listening properly." She looked at Tarrant. "That's right, isn't it, a hundred thousand sterling?"

Tarrant sighed. "Yes, of course." He looked at Willie and said severely, "Do listen more attentively, please."

After a short silence Gus Keyes said, "You're heaping coals of fire on my head. I don't know what to say."

"You can tell me why you ran out on me this morning."

He met her gaze with troubled eyes. "For shame, ma'am, you must know that. For shame. The longer it went on, you and me and Willie, the worse I felt."

"But you agreed to spend a week with us down at the cottage before you went back. A week with no worries."

He shook his head. "I couldn't do it, living lies for another week. I couldn't."

"Well, that won't apply now, will it? The invitation still stands." She smiled suddenly, and it was a smile that warmed his heart and made him catch his breath as she said, "But I won't be offended if you turn me down. I know you have a store to run."

He sighed, and tension seemed to drain out of him. "The store can wait," he said. "You're a very generous lady and I'm deeply beholden to you, ma'am."

"Good. Now you can stop calling me that." She looked across the table. "Will you take care of Gus and his luggage please, Willie? I'll join you at the car in a couple of minutes. I just want a quick word with Sir Gerald."

"Sure, Princess." Willie rose and picked up the suitcase beside Gus. "Come on, oldtimer, let's get them oxen harnessed."

When they had moved away Tarrant said, "I'd rather you were angry with me than hurt."

She looked at him, puzzled. "I'm neither. I was annoyed with myself for being suckered, but that'll help keep me on my toes. Why didn't you simply ask me?"

"You mean tell you the full story and ask you to take part, knowing Gus was a fake? I couldn't believe you'd agree. Why on earth should you?"

She sat thinking for a few moments, then said slowly, "Yes, you could be right. There had to be someone I cared about involved." She shook her head and laughed. "You'd better remember that another time."

Tarrant looked away. "My dear," he said gently, "I remembered it this time, didn't I? There'll never be another."

OLD ALEX.

On her tenth day in the cave Modesty Blaise roused as usual an hour after dawn from the comatose state in which her life processes were slowed to the essential minimum. She made no attempt to test her condition or remaining strength, for to do so would serve no purpose but would consume a few scruples of precious energy.

She had been walking in the Pyrenees, in the remote area west of the department of Ariege, when she heard the soft report and felt the sharp pain in the back of her thigh as the dart struck. She turned quickly, seeking her attacker, but within seconds she knew what had happened and that she had little hope of defence. Yet still the ferocious instinct for survival that had been bred in her throughout her childhood made her sink to the ground and slump as if unconscious before the tranquilliser had in fact taken hold.

She lay very still, slowing her heartbeat to lengthen the time it would take for blood carrying the drug to reach her brain. She had worked with a vet on a game reserve in East Africa, and knew that if the dart carried imobilon she was dead. Imobilon was for elephants and rhino. More likely it carried a mix of meditomidine and ketamine. Whoever had fired it, he or they would come to complete whatever their purpose might be, no doubt carrying the tranquilliser gun but perhaps a handgun also, and perhaps... perhaps she could...

Her senses were swimming, and she fought to hold back oblivion. Perhaps she could... do something...

But there was no sound, no rustle of sundried gra.s.s beneath approaching feet before darkness closed about her.

When she roused from a stupor her reliable internal clock told her that some three hours had pa.s.sed. She was lying in a cave, a small cave some twelve feet deep and with a ragged arch of an opening no more than half the size of an average door. But this opening was blocked by a boulder rolled hard against it, a boulder that would have required mechanical aid or at least two men with crowbars to manoeuvre it into position. Outside it was still day, but the only light in the cave came through a few narrow gaps at one or two points round the edge of the opening where the boulder did not quite fit.

She waited until her senses were clear, then sat with her back to the cave wall near the boulder to a.s.sess her situation. Three days ago she had set out on this walkabout. It was something she still did from time to time, an escape from ease and comfort, a reminder of the childhood years when she had wandered for thousands of miles through the Middle East and North Africa. Sometimes now she joined Aborigine friends in the Australian outback, but usually she went alone, walking barefoot, wearing only a cotton dress, carrying a small pack with a bottle of water, some packets of dates and nuts as emergency food, a few toiletries and a change of underwear - a luxury compared with the wardrobe of her early days.

She was highly skilled at living off the land, and according to Willie Garvin was well able to eat things no hyena would touch, but here in the Pyrenees food had presented no problems. Certainly this stretch of land through the slopes of the foothills was remote, but there was always a small farm within six or seven miles, and occasional villages on tributaries of the Salat and Ariege rivers. She carried a little money with her, but the French farm families were intrigued by her, and hospitable, and she had found it hard to pay for whatever food they provided.

As she sat in the cave on that first day, watching a narrow beam of sunlight fall across her thighs, she knew that she had been imprisoned here to die slowly. Somebody had put out a contract on her for an aggravated killing, and whoever was handling the contract had planned it carefully. Only Willie Garvin and Weng, her houseboy, knew what she was doing and where.

So she had been followed from London, which called for considerable organisation, and then tailed expertly to Lacourt, where she had left her car, and on into the mountains until the contractors had found the right moment to strike.

It had been skilfully done, and clearly there had been teamwork with radio communication, for somebody had reconnoitred ahead and found the cave. She did not wonder what other method of aggravated killing might have been chosen if the cave had not presented such a perfect opportunity, for that was unimportant. The contractors and whoever employed them were also unimportant. They could wait till later - if there was to be a later. Nothing mattered now except survival.

Her pack had been taken. She had no food, no water, nothing but the clothes she wore - bra, pants and a cotton dress. The boulder was immovable. A search of the cave had produced little of use; dust, gravel, scattered pieces of rock, feathers, a skeleton of a bird, animal droppings, two or three sticks, and - the only sign of human existence - the empty cigarette packet of a long extinct brand.

Unless somebody freed her by moving the boulder she would die. The chance of anyone pa.s.sing nearby, a local or walker like herself, was remote but not impossible. The problem would be to know if this happened, and even through the widest gap between rock and cavemouth, perhaps two inches, she could see only a narrow segment of thinly gra.s.sed earth extending for some twenty yards before sloping down out of her sight.

Willie Garvin would be concerned if she failed to contact him after two weeks. He would call the small hotel at Lacourt where she had left the car, then come out to find her, but she had followed no particular route, and the chances that he would stumble upon the cave were infinitesimal; except that he was Willie Garvin, who had a remarkable intuition for anything concerning her, who might well follow the route she had taken, and who would instantly be curious about a large boulder in an unnatural position.

But that, if it happened, was many days in the future. Her sole task must be to remain alive for as long as possible, so that the infinitesimal chance might grow to become minute. To do this she would need all her mental skills and all the abilities she had learned from Sivaji, the ancient guru in the Thar desert north of Jodhpur, for without a controlled slowing of heartbeat and breathing no human could survive more than a few days without water.

So it was that on the tenth day, when she roused from the coma she had lain in from dusk to an hour after dawn, she sat up slowly and waited for bodyheat to return. She was wearing only bra and pants, for her dress had been pushed with a stick through a ground level gap to one side of the cavemouth. She drew the dress in carefully through the gap and began to suck from it the heavy dew it had collected overnight.

When she had taken all the moisture it would yield she laid it aside and began to work on the task she had begun eight days ago, moving very slowly and with minimum mental and physical effort, listening carefully for any sound from outside.

One of the sticks was of cane, and with a sharp stone she had cut about four inches from one end of it. Now, using the quill from a feather, she was boring out the central pith from the cut piece. Most of this was now hollow, and she had cut a thin notch close to the open end to make a whistle. She did not know how effectively it would work, but it had been good for her morale to do something undemanding but positive during her listeningout periods. These were from early morning till midmorning, then from midafternoon till dusk. The rest of the day and night she was comatose.

She worked with a blank mind, without hope, without despair, and at about eight o'clock when the whistle was finished she tried it once, and allowed herself a moment of pleasure at the shrill sound it produced. Beside her lay the rest of the cane with a piece torn from her dress tied to one end. Got the whistle and the flag now, Willie, she allowed herself to think. Come soon. Then she withdrew her mind from all thought and stimuli except for the listening.

It was two hours after dawn next day when a sound triggered her to wakefulness. At first she was unsure that she had heard anything, but then it came again, a crunching as of wheels on a rocky track, from somewhere to the right of the cavemouth and drawing nearer, but below the slope where the ground dipped. Normally she could produce a taxihailing whistle of earsplitting quality with fingers to her mouth, but not with parched lips and drained energy. This was why she had contrived the little cane instrument.

Now she pushed her flag through the gap at the top of the cavemouth and knelt with her face close to the gap. It was a huge effort to blow, and to keep blowing, to use the other hand to wave the flag from side to side and to crane her neck in an effort to see through the gap. After perhaps fifteen seconds she paused to listen, chest heaving and weakness flooding her limbs.

The crunching sound had stopped. Again she began to whistle and wave her flag. She could see nothing through the gap, nothing, and could feel despair gathering to pounce when, startlingly near, she heard a gruff voice speak with rising astonishment, "Il'ya quelqu 'un la? Dedans?"

She could manage only a husky whisper as she said in French, "M'sieu, I am trapped in a cave behind this boulder. Can you hear me?"

Part of a face came into her view on the far side of the little gap, an old and weatherbeaten face beneath a shock of thick grey hair. "Une femme? How in the name of G.o.d-?"

She broke in. "Please, M'sieu. I have been here for some days and I am very weak. Please bring help to move the boulder."

The grey head nodded. "Wait, mam'selle, a few moments only. Napoleon and I will see to it." The face vanished, but the voice continued briefly and she had the odd impression that the man had said, "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!" in English.

Slowly pulling on her dress, she knew that she must be disorientated and had misheard. It was not surprising, for the last two minutes had produced the effect of shock in her, and she was reaching within herself now to regain control.

The man had referred to 'Napoleon', a friend presumably, and had spoken of a 'few moments only'. This she could not understand. It would take four strong men to roll that boulder away without implements for leverage. She was mentally preparing what she would say to him on his return when there came a clanking sound and strong, workworn ringers pushed a length of chain through the gap.

The voice said, "Pa.s.s it round the rock, mam'selle, and back to me through the little s.p.a.ce on the other side." A throaty chuckle. "It is good fortune that I came to haul timber today."

She took the end of the chain and drew it across the boulder, relaxing now in the knowledge that the man knew what he was doing and she could leave it in his hands. A second chain was fed through to her, and after a few moments she saw them both tighten round the boulder. From outside she could hear him talking to somebody, encouraging, cajoling, and it was suddenly clear to her that this was Napoleon, a beast of burden.

There came a heavy thudding sound from close outside, and with strange certainty she knew that he was using a pickaxe or heavy crowbar to dig away the ground by the outer base of the rock so that it would move readily. After a few minutes the thudding stopped and part of his face reappeared at the gap. "Soon, mam'selle. Soon now."

"Thank you. Please tell me your name." She wondered if she inwardly feared hallucination and was seeking his name to give him reality.

"Me? I am Old Alex, mam'selle. Alex Mirot, from the Mirot farm. And you?"

"Modesty Blaise. From England."

"Enchanted to make your acquaintance, mam'selle. You speak very good French." She saw part of a smile on the brown face, then he was gone and she heard him shouting, urging Napoleon on.

The rock shook, and its base shifted a few centimetres. A crowbar was thrust through the gap, levering against the edge of the cavemouth, then sunlight blazed suddenly in upon her as the rock rolled and settled, leaving an ample gap on one side. She crawled through into the open, got slowly to her feet and stood with head tilted back, eyes halfclosed against the light, breathing deeply.

Old Alex was taking the chains from round the boulder. Napoleon, a ma.s.sive ox, stood waiting patiently to be reharnessed to the long cart that stood a little way off. Slowly she absorbed the scene, and realised that the cart must have been moving over a patch of gravel at the foot of the gentle slope when she heard it.

She swayed, and Old Alex dropped the chains and moved towards her. Weakness was mounting in her now, but her mind was strangely clear and perceptive. She saw that this greyhaired French farmer was as fit as a lifetime of hard work and contentment would make a man. He was of medium height with a square face, blue eyes and a gentle manner, concerned for her now as he said, "You must rest, mam'selle. There are sacks in the cart for you to lie on. I will take you home."

She knew her face must be gaunt, her cheeks sunken, and her appearance had worried him, but she managed to smile as she said, "Thank you, Old Alex. Thank you from my heart."

Then abruptly her strength was gone and she would have fallen if he had not caught her. He stooped to slip an arm beneath her knees and straightened up, cradling her with her head against his shoulder, her eyes closed in deepest sleep. He spoke a word to Napoleon, and moved towards the cart, looking down at the pallid face. "Ah, la pauvre pet.i.te," he said softly, and shook his head in bewilderment. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l...!"

The Mirot farm stood between woodland and pasture, a kilometre from the cave and three kilometres from any other habitation. From it, a carttrack led down through the subalpine terrain to a lateral road through the foothills. Four generations lived in the rambling farmhouse and outbuildings, and in the four days since she had been brought here Modesty had seen them all but had little idea of who was related to whom.

Of the oldest generation there were only two - Old Alex and Matilde, a quiet, sharpeyed woman, perhaps a year or two younger than Alex and presumably a spinster since she wore no wedding ring.

There were two men and three women in their late forties and early fifties. Of these, Pierre Mirot was evidently the head of the family, and it was his wife, Beatrice, who had taken upon herself the task of looking after Modesty, bringing her very small dishes of bread and milk every hour or so for the first two days, then moving on to eggs, meat and fish, again in small portions.

Modesty had no idea who the other man and two women were, but had learnt their names and thought one of the women was the man's wife. The third generation consisted of two boys and two girls ranging from eighteen to twenty-four or five, offspring of Pierre, Beatrice and the others. These young ones had themselves produced three small children, two boys and a girl.

It was soon apparent to Modesty after she roused from her first long sleep that her arrival was the most exciting event the Mirot family had known for a long time. In turn they all came to see her in the little bedroom she had been given. None showed any hint of peasant dourness, and she was touched by the courtesy they displayed in asking no questions they felt might distress her.

She had told Pierre the simple truth, that she had been walking along when she had been hit by a dart she found in her leg later, and that when she came round she found herself in the cave. She also told him she had no idea who would wish to do such a thing to her, which was true in particular but not in general, for she had no wish to speak of her background. She suspected that the family felt she had been only three or four days in the cave rather than ten, and she made no attempt to correct this belief, for again she had no wish to explain how she had managed to stay alive for what seemed an impossible time.

The Mirot family appeared to get on remarkably well together. Like Beatrice, they all took to calling her Modesty, and showed unfailing consideration. On the second day Pierre asked if she wished to inform anyone of her safety and whereabouts. There was a village with a telephone only three kilometres down the track, and he would gladly drive her there tomorrow if she felt well enough. The farm owned a car, he informed her, a Citroen, old but with some mileage left in her. Money? She was not to concern herself. She was a guest of the family, and Old Alex would be greatly upset if she distressed herself about a few francs.

So it was that on the third day she was able to phone Willie Garvin and tell him something of what had happened, but she cut short his startled questions. "No, leave it, Willie. Details when I see you. I'm fine now, but if you're free I'd be glad if you'd come out here in about a week's time. I'll ring the hotel at Lacourt and tell them you'll pick up my hired car and deliver it to the garage. Then there's something special I'd like you to do for me as a thankyou to these good people From the fourth day onward she was up and about, eating with the family in the big kitchen, gaining lost weight and restoring muscletone. Janine, one of the younger girls, had lent her a few clothes, and shoes were no problem for she had gone unshod throughout the years of her childhood. She particularly enjoyed the evening meal in the kitchen. The Mirot family were much given to argument and there was invariably a babble of voices raised in dispute on any subject that might come up either on the radio or in the newspaper collected daily from the village.

Old Alex intrigued her. He was the oldest member, certainly not married to the elderly Matilde she realised as time went on, and apparently none of the others was his son or daughter or grandchild, yet he was clearly much respected and treated with affection by all.

To her surprise she now knew that he had in fact said 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!' that day at the cave, for she had several times heard him use it again as an interjection. Occasionally other odd English words emerged. A grumbling 'dim view' was familiar to her, but something that sounded like 'wizard prang' rang only the faintest of bells. The rest of the family took these oddities for granted, they were just things Old Alex had always said.

Her fifth day at the farm was a Sunday. Pierre drove Beatrice and the three children to the village church. The rest of the family, apart from Matilde, walked the three kilometres. For the first time Modesty found herself alone on the farm with the old lady, sitting with her at the kitchen table as she started to prepare a great mound of vegetables for the Sunday dinner.

Modesty said, "Can I help, Matilde?"

A brisk shake of the head. "You must rest, child, rest. Old Alex will be cross with me if I allow you to work. He will start with his b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.ls."

Modesty smiled. "We'd better not have that on a Sunday. I wonder where he picked up such words. Has he been to England?"

Matilde shrugged. "He came to us here when I was a girl of eighteen. He has never been away." She began to sc.r.a.pe some carrots, her eyes distant, remembering. "It was from June to February before he spoke. There was more English then. He was not well."