Free Vintage Stuff by Tom Sharpe Page B

English gentleman

touring through France. It is vital therefore that you take your time and trust no one. The men

against whom you are set have agents among the gendarmerie and are themselves above suspicion. I

cannot state their influence too highly. Nor dare I catalogue their crimes in writing.' This time

the letter was signed 'Yours in gratitude, Deirdre de Montcon,' and as before the postscript

ordered him to burn both letter and envelope.
    Glodstone turned to the other page. It was typewritten and stated that he was to cross from

Dover to Ostend on the early morning ferry on the 28th of July and drive to Iper before passing

the frontier into France the following day. Thereafter his route was listed with hotels at which

'rooms have been booked for you.' Glodstone read down the list in amazement. Considering the

terrible dangers La Comtesse was evidently facing, her instructions were quite extraordinarily

explicit. Only when he turned the page was there an explanation. In her own handwriting she had

written, 'Should I have need to communicate with you, my messages will be waiting for you in your

rooms each night. And now that I have written this by hand, please copy and then burn.'
    Glodstone reached in his pocket for a pen, only to be interrupted by his aunt.
    'Your tea's getting cold, dear.'
    'Damn,' said Glodstone, but went through to the sitting-room and spent an extremely impatient

half an hour listening to the latest family gossip. By the time Aunt Lucy got on to the various

diseases her grandnieces and nephews had been suffering from, Glodstone was practically rabid.

'Excuse me, but I have some really pressing business to attend to,' he said, as she launched into

a particularly clinical account of the symptoms his cousin Michael had contracted, or more

precisely expanded, as a result of mumps.
    'Balls,' continued Aunt Lucy implacably.
    'I beg your pardon,' said Glodstone, whose attention had been fixed on La Comtesse's

instructions.
    'I was saying that his '
    'I simply must go,' said Glodstone and rather rudely left the room.
    'What a very peculiar boy Gerald is,' muttered the old lady as she cleared away the tea

things. Her opinion was confirmed some forty minutes later when she discovered the hallway was

filling with smoke.
    'What in heaven's name are you doing in there?' she demanded of the door to the lavatory which

seemed to be the source of the fire.
    'Nothing,' choked Glodstone, wishing to God he hadn't been so conscientious in following La

Comtesse's instructions to burn all evidence. The letter and his itinerary had gone easily

enough, but his attempt to screw the envelope into a ball and catch the flood had failed

dismally. The envelope remained obstinately buoyant with the crest plainly visible. And the

cistern had been no great help either. Built for a more leisurely age, it filled slowly and

emptied no faster. Finally Glodstone had resorted to the French newspapers. They were

incriminating too and by crumpling them up around the sodden envelope he might get that to burn

as well. In the event, he was proved right, but at considerable cost. The newspapers were as

fiery as their editorials. As flames shot out of the pan, Glodstone slammed the lid down and was

presently tugging at the chain to extinguish what amounted to an indoor bonfire. It was at this

point that his aunt intervened.
    'Yes, you are,' she shouted through the door, 'You've been smoking in there and something's

caught fire.'
    'Yes,' gasped Glodstone, finding this a relatively plausible explanation. Nobody could say

that he hadn't been smoking. The damned stuff was issuing round the edges of the lid quite

alarmingly. He seized the towel from behind the door and tried to choke the smoke off before he

suffocated.
    'If you don't come out this minute I shall be forced to call the fire brigade,' his aunt

threatened but Glodstone had had enough. Unlocking the door, he shot,