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they had been shut and locked. Then there was the coffee pot, the knife Peter had used, gas knob, kitchen surfaces as well as the tabletop and the backs of the chairs.
    Peter Lanchester came out of the tiny bedroom backwards, using his handkerchief to do the doorknob and edge, nodding appreciatively when he saw that Cal had used a bag he had found to take with them the remaining food and any rubbish.
    He was dressed in dark-grey flannels and a blazer, everything else in a valise he was carrying. Last of all, after the front door had been wiped, was the key, cleaned and flicked under the door. Once at the entrance to the apartments Peter allowed Cal twenty paces before following him to where he had parked his car, a small, two-door, green Simca, in a road off the quayside.

CHAPTER THREE
    T he route out of La Rochelle avoided the main road that led eventually, as all roads in France do, to Paris. They drove instead through the south-eastern suburbs, an obviously working-class quarter, across a bridge, then on to a narrow pavé road that ran alongside the south side of the Canal du Marais-Poitevin, just wide enough for two cars to pass, tree-lined on one side and with a shallow inland storm ditch to prevent flooding from the adjoining open fields.
    It was also, bar the odd shallow bend, as straight as a ruler and far from busy, cutting through a flat, featureless agricultural landscape dotted with windmills and the odd manoir -type farmhouse, with the waterway and the occasional barge using it to the northern side.
    There was no attempt at haste; Cal kept the speed down, not because he feared any kind of police presence, but for the simple reason that it was unwise to do anything that might draw attention.Both side windows were open to let in a welcome breeze; with the sun now high in the sky, the day had become hot and a bit sticky, increasingly so as they left behind the cooling breeze from the sea. That also had the advantage of extracting Peter’s almost-constant cigarette smoke.
    What conversation they exchanged consisted of general chat about the increasingly feverish situation in Central Europe, thanks to the rantings of Hitler, plus a shared if constrained fuming at how Mussolini had not only got away with his criminal invasion of Ethiopia and the even more iniquitous use of poison gas, but had then had that conquest recognised by the democratic nations in the hope that it would deter him from forming an alliance with Germany, the conclusion being it was a flawed policy.
    That moved on to the projected outcome for the republicans in Spain and it was far from sanguine. They were steadily losing ground to their fascist-backed opponents while simultaneously trying to get out from the grip of the international communists and commissars Stalin had sent to help in their campaigns – emissaries who had proved to be, as friends, just as dangerous as the troops of General Franco.
    Railing at the stupidity of that, as well as Bolshevism in general, and getting little response, Peter eventually noticed that his companion was uncomfortable discussing the failings of the communists; in fact Cal abruptly turned the conversation to what was happening socially and politically in London, and when he enquired as to why he was a bit touchy, Peter was told to mind his own business.
    He was thus left in the dark about a subject his companion found too painful to talk about: both the loss he had suffered at the hands of the communists in Spain and the revenge he had taken for whatwas, in truth, a bereavement. Not a cold-blooded killer by nature, events had forced him into that mode and it was not a memory that, in either cause or effect, was in any way joyful.
    A lorry coming in the opposite direction, one of a width that forced them to pull hard to the side and stop between two trees to let it pass, curtailed a rather strained exchange. Sitting with the engine idling, Cal quietly asked, his eyes firmly fixed on the rear-view mirror, if