Saturday Sneak Peek

Good morning, my dear readers. You guessed it, I was in hospital again last week. Plus my physician, who presumably knows what he’s doing, is limiting my laptop access time. I have a ton of work to do, and only a few short hours to do it. Here’s the Peek!

Death on the Istanbul Express

Note

This is Book 2 in a series. For maximum enjoyment, try reading Book 1, Death in Paris, first. Death in Paris is on a 99 cents Special at Amazon

If, you prefer to read on, this is a Standalone Locked Room Mystery, so you can also enjoy Book 2 without first having read Book 1.

Books in the Màiri Maguire series give you a Clean Cozy Read that is Fast in both senses of the word! That is, the story moves along quickly, and the book doesn’t take long to read. Typically these stories are a 3 or 4 hour read, what one Book Trade Reviewer described as “a perfect beach read” and another as “a perfect Sunday afternoon read”. The first 3 books are collected in a one volume box-set.

Prologue

10:30 a.m.  Friday, 21st August 1970

Platform 11, Gare du Nord, Rue de Dunkerque, Paris 

Màiri Narrates

Our journey across Europe to Istanbul is due to start at 10:35 a.m. We’re standing on the platform, and I’m zealously watching the porters’ every movement as they stow our new luggage in our compartment. I don’t want to take any risk that our lovely travel things might get damaged by careless handling.

A scruffy postman moves along the train corridor, a large mail-sack slung over his shoulder, for a second partially obscuring my view of the porter stowing our cases, but then he moves on past our compartment and I breathe a sigh of relief, because the porter is handling all our beautiful luggage with the care it deserves. He’s settling our cases onto a teeny-weeny shelf.

I’m checking our tickets again to make certain that we have the right compartment when Ellis comes up to us.

“Good morning, Major” Lianna greets him, likely because she doesn’t feel that she knows Ellis well enough to call him anything else. She’s only spent one evening in his company. And he’s so much older than us. Lianna was brought up right, like me. She’s respectful to her elders.

With a tiny half bow, Ellis hands her a small bundle of books. “To keep you busy on the journey.” He grins. Lianna blushes. I blush.

Then he turns to me and hands me a cake-box. “To make up for the cream cakes you didn’t get on the train from Le Havre.”

My face gets redder. “It’s very kind of you to come to see us off – ” but he interrupts

“Oh, I’m not seeing you off. I’m travelling to Rome. Time to get aboard, ladies.”

He tips his hat to us and saunters off to the First Class section of the train. For the first time, I regret not having spent the extra money for First Class.

Lianna and I are standing right beside our own Second Class compartment, and so we climb aboard. I wonder what adventures await us in Istanbul? It’s bound to feel tame after all the ups and downs we’ve had in Paris.

The Guard blows his whistle and we’re off.

As Lianna slides open the door of our lovely compartment, made up as a tiny sitting-room, a train attendant rushes up. “A million pardons, ladies. This is not your compartment.”

I have the tickets still in my hand, and it’s our compartment all right. I turn to the man, and show him our tickets. “It is so.” 

He beams. “Yes, ladies. From Rome to Istanbul, this is your compartment. From here to Rome, you have been transferred to a suite in First Class. Please, follow me.”

No way am I leaving my exquisite new black luggage to the tender mercies of careless train porters. It will be moved under my eye. “Very well.” I sniff. “Please ask the porters to come for our luggage now.” 

The attendant is crestfallen. Obviously he thought that we would be over-joyed to get moved into one of the super-ritzy First Class compartments just as fast as possible. He peeps into our compartment. Our tiny travelling cases sit on a teeny-weeny shelf of just the right size to hold them. Lianna is a superb shopper – she knew exactly what we’d need. 

The attendant beams again. “Of course. I will carry your cases.” He darts in too fast for me to say a word, picks up our cases, and is back out in the passageway with us almost before I’ve opened my mouth.

“Thank you.” I smile “But we’ll still need a porter. There are two steamer trunks as well.”  The attendant knows all about the compartments where steamer trunks are stowed, of course. It’s quickly settled that Lianna will go with him and our travelling cases to our new First Class suite; and I’ll wait here for the porters. You couldn’t move me with a crowbar before those lovely trunks are safely transported.

Soon two porters turn up. Only one can work inside the compartment at a time. The first goes into the compartment, opens the stowage, carefully removes Lianna’s trunk, and starts off down the passageway with it. The other goes to the stowage compartment on the opposite side of the carriage, opens it up, and begins to pull out my gorgeous glossy black trunk.

Three seconds later he stops dead, and backs out of the carriage, his body obscuring my view. Obviously my worst fears have been realised – some careless porter has scratched my trunk!

I crane my neck, determined to see the extent of the damage. And when I do, I wish I hadn’t. The top of my trunk is not properly closed, and a lifeless arm lolls out of it.

10:00 a.m.  Friday, 21st August 1970

Holding cell, Commissariat De Police Quartier De La Porte Saint-Denis

Rue de Chabrol, Paris

The moment has come. Either Harry’s cronies will come through for them, or they will spend the rest of their lives rotting at the bottom of the deep hole the French authorities will throw them into. Captured would-be bombers are not popular people, and the Sûreté are especially unhappy with Harry Brown and his soi-disant OAS army because they had come so close to succeeding.

If not for that imbecile Ferghal, Harry thinks – not for the first time – Paris would be in ruins by now. It had been such a brilliant plan. Getting himself onto the committee for the Bastille Day celebrations, throwing money and fancy dinners around like confetti, gradually creating an environment where the staff at the Eiffel Tower expected him to turn up at all sorts of odd hours burdened with heavy electronic equipment and ready to start wiring up fireworks.

He'd given them the most spectacular pyrotechnics display they’d ever had, this July 14^th.  

And if not for that infuriating little Glaswegian schoolteacher, on August 19^th he’d have given them the most terrifying display they’d ever had.

They’d all have been blown to bits, and he would be on his way, this very minute, to his tropical island, a whole island all his own. 

Instead he’s sitting in an airless room concentrating on not biting his nails. A true leader, (Harry soothes himself with his favourite mantra) a true leader always acts, he does not permit himself to be acted upon by untoward circumstance.

The rescue team are ging to turn up, because they need him. He’s got more brains in his little finger that all the rest of them put together have got in their heads. Besides, he’s the only one who knows where the weapons are cached.

Harry hasn’t been permitted to keep his watch, of course, but his internal body-clock tells him it’s close to ten o’clock. They are due to be moved at 10:15 a.m. so at any moment now the guards will be coming to take them to the police transport.

Ferghal flexes his biceps and tenses, readying himself to attack.

“Not now, you moron.” Harry snarls.

“Sorry, boss.”

The gendarmes may arrive at any moment, now is not the time to walk Ferghal through the plan again. But since the idiot could ruin everything by attacking as soon as the police escort walk in, Harry decides that another rehearsal is the lesser danger.

“Listen up Ferghal. Very soon the police will come for us.”

“Yes, boss.”

“ – and when they do, they’ll find us sitting here quietly.”

“I’ll be doing my Zen meditation.” Ferghal nods.

“NO Ferghal, not yet.”

“But boss - ”

“You’ll be doing your Zen meditation as we’re walking to the transport.”

Ferghal manages to look both rebellious and quelled at the same time, and opens his mouth.

Seeing instantly that the word about to issue from him is Not Yes, Harry moves slightly to gain maximum leverage and swings one hand-cuffed wrist into Ferghal’s face. The iron cuff doesn’t quite reach the moron’s mouth, but at least he abandons the attempt to speak.

“You’ll go into trance as we reach the van – ”

Ferghal opens his mouth again, but nervously eyeing Harry’s hands, he thinks better of saying what he is about to say; and Harry continues

“ – falling into the van as they open the doors. Which will worry them, and then while they’re distracted by your motionless body, Rico and his lads will descend, and we’ll be offski.”

“I thought it was Gilberto coming for us?”

As it happens Ferghal is right, and this annoys Harry even more.

“Gilberto, Umberto, Renato, Ricardo, who cares?”

“You do, boss.”

10:11 a.m.  Friday, 21st August 1970

Lucky 8 Casino, Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, Paris

Gilberto is feeling resentful, and in his open-hearted Italian way he is making his feelings known to Rico, nominally his capo in this operation. For a start, Gilberto resents that Rico is capo in this operation. He, Gilberto, has seniority. Perhaps only 5 weeks, but still, seniority.

He, Gilberto, is the Getaway driver, the most important role in the operation. Is there a better Getaway driver anywhere in Italy? Anywhere in Paris? Anywhere – Gilberto waves both his hands expansively – on the face of God’s beautiful creation? (Gilberto crosses himself.) There is not. Rico must know there is not.

Rico, keen for Gilberto to talk himself out and get on with the job, nods vigorously. This has the twin advantages of not interrupting Gilberto’s flow of speech and being open to more than one interpretation.

Eventually Gilberto gets to his point, which is that he doesn’t see why his priceless talents, his unparalleled driving skills, are being wasted on an incompetent Englishman who has been so foolish as to get himself arrested; or why he, Gilberto, is in Paris at all, a city he detests. He wants to be back in Milan, a city he should never have left.

Rico uncrosses his legs, and re-crosses them the other way, waiting to see if Gilberto has finished. Thankfully, he is talked out, for the moment.

Now Rico interjects gently that Harry is the only one who knows where the weapons are.

Gilberto, who is not stupid, only too talkative, gets the point. Where will they be rendezvousing with Harry after the jailbreak? In Rome, in St Peter’s Square, two days from now.

Gilberto is satisfied. They need the weapons, and two days is not long to wait. To wait a shorter while would be foolish, would draw attention. He glances at his watch. 10:14 a.m. Time to get behind the wheel.

As Gilberto leaves, moving smoothly but at high speed, Rico smiles. 45 seconds left, if that, for Gilberto to get from the Lucky 8 to the Secure area at Rue de Chabrol. Since Rico had the foresight to send the heavies to sit in the car five minutes ago, there’s no question that Gilberto will make it with seconds to spare. He talks too much, but he drives like God’s Vengeance.

10:14 a.m.  Friday, 21st August 1970

Secure Vehicles area, 43 Rue de Chabrol, behind Commissariat De Police Quartier De La Porte Saint-Denis, Paris

Just as Harry had anticipated, four gendarmes enter the holding room soon after he finishes talking. They form a square around him and Ferghal, shepherd them out of the room, and bring them into the secure vehicles area where the police transport waits.

From that moment onwards, things fail to go according to plan.

They cross the yard and reach the van. Ferghal doesn’t go into a trance. He stands beside the transport vehicle looking perfectly normal, putting one foot on the step as if to enter the van. There’s no sign of the Getaway car.

Harry wants to kill Ferghal and his Italian fellow conspirators too! But he always stays cool in an emergency. He kicks out at Ferghal’s kneecap, sending him writhing to the ground. That will at least create a distraction, Harry reasons, and give him a moment to think.

Two of the police escort seize Harry’s arms. Ferghal is kicking about, and one flailing foot catches Harry on the shin, as painfully as if aimed there on purpose. Harry momentarily loses his hold on his temper and kicks Ferghal back.

Gilberto crashes through the locked gates in a Mercedes Estate that has got to be armour plated to have barrelled in like that. He pulls up scant inches away from the police guards.

Gilberto doesn’t only drive like the Vengeance of God, he has Zero Tolerance for anything which interferes with his driving. Gilberto is not happy to see Ferghal, who’s meant to be in a trance, flopping about on the ground.

He flies out of the car, Peppe and Carlo exiting just behind him.

Scooping up Ferghal with one hand, Gilberto tosses him to Peppe, and Ferghal goes limp in mid-flight, the Zen trance cutting in at the most inconvenient moment possible.

Peppe’s out of the fight now, it’s going to take all his energy to get this sack of lard into the back seat of the Mercedes.

Peppe calls aloud on the Mother of Mercy for aid. He manages to absorb the dead weight of Ferghal landing in his gorilla-muscled arms, turns swiftly back to the car.

Without even checking his stride, Gilberto barrels on. He plunges both hands into his pockets and brings them out again all in one lightning arc of fluid movement.

At the top of the arc, Gilberto punches the gendarme turning toward him in the stomach.

The gendarme cries out in pain. Gilberto pushes what he’s holding straight into the man’s opening mouth, his other hand clapped over the gendarme’s nose.

Harry is furious. Screaming police were no part of the plan. The noise may bring help. His perfect escape is coming apart. Swiftly Harry brings up his cuffed hands at the best angle to knock out one of the policemen trying to keep hold of his arms.

Harry turns, his rising steel-cuffed wrist hitting the other man.

Carlo reaches the last gendarme. Like Gilberto, he punches the man and pushes one chloroform pad into his mouth and the other over his nose. His gendarme sinks to the ground.

Carlo grabs Harry and pulls him away from the falling gendarmes who were holding him.

At the same moment, Gilberto seizes Harry around the waist and half carries, half pushes him the 18 inches to the open back door of the Mercedes.

Harry is bundled into the back seat beside Peppe and Ferghal.

Carlo follows as Gilberto reaches the open driver’s door.

Peppe whips out a lockpick.

The car takes off.

Back through the crushed gates.

Left into Rue de Chabrol.

Swinging violently right, into Rue La Fayette.

Zig zags at top speed through the roundabout.

The Mercedes tears on up Rue La Fayette, weaving between the other cars as if they aren’t there.

Peppe is releasing Harry from his handcuffs as the car arrows onward.

Carlo unlocks the handcuffs from the wrists of the motionless Ferghal.

As the Mercedes passes Gare du Nord, Harry and Ferghal are pushed out of the massively slowed but still moving car. Peppe crams a package into Harry’s arms as he tumbles out. Ferghal falls out behind him.

The Mercedes picks up speed, moving on.                                                                

It vanishes into the traffic stream as if it had never existed.

The entire jailbreak has taken less than 90 seconds.

The Paris police do not even know yet that Harry and Ferghal have escaped.

10:17 a.m.  Friday, 21st August 1970

Gare du Nord, Rue La Fayette side, Paris

Ferghal is coming out of his Zen trance. Harry rubs his wrists and spares a second to look inside the package Peppe had thrust at him. Four cartons of Benson & Hedges.

In that moment, Harry forgives Gilberto for the hair-raising stunts pulled during the jailbreak.

He has escaped. The gendarmerie doesn’t know he has escaped. He’s at Gare du Nord with Ferghal in good time for them to smuggle themselves aboard the Istanbul Express; and he has 40 packets of fags to last him through the 26 hour journey to Rome. All’s well that ends well.

He kicks Ferghal, not very hard.

Because Substack haven’t yet hooked up Kate’s Book Club, and I am pledged to put all Sneak Peeks into Kate’s Book Club before publishing them anywhere else, I regret that you can’t read Death in Europe right now.

You can get Death in Paris is on 99cents Special at Amazon and I will put Death on the Istanbul Express into Kate’s Book Club as soon as the Club is Live.