‘Rahn, turn around!’
‘What in the devil’s the matter, La Dame?’ Deodat said, and then: ‘Put that down!’
When Rahn turned he saw his friend standing in the near darkness pointing a gun at them. The hangdog grin on his face made him look rather ridiculous but he held the gun as if he knew how to use it. This was a side of La Dame that Rahn had never seen before.
La Dame shrugged. ‘Sorry, old boy, but you’re going to have to hand it over to me.’
‘What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?’ Rahn said, pushing his fedora up over his forehead a little so he could see better in the dim light. He was still holding the candle in his hand and the wax was dripping onto the stone floor at his feet.
La Dame nodded as if to confirm the incredulous thought that was passing through Rahn’s mind.
Rahn said, ‘Don’t tell me you’re involved in all this?’
A frown crossed the landscape of his bearded face. ‘I’m sorry, Rahn, really, I am.’
‘But why?’ Rahn moved forward. ‘Who are you working for?’
‘Don’t try anything funny or I’ll shoot you, and Deodat, too, for that matter,’ he said, not sounding very convincing. ‘Pass it over.’
Rahn couldn’t believe it. ‘What are you doing with that gun? You couldn’t use it if your life depended on it!’
‘Give me that book, Deodat. I’m warning you!’
With La Dame’s attention turned to Deodat, Rahn realised he was in striking distance. He had to do something, but what? All he had was the candle in his hand. He needed to make La Dame drop his gun, so he did the most unexpected thing he could think of – he thrust the candle he was holding straight into La Dame’s face.
La Dame flailed, trying to deflect it, but the flame caught on his beard and there was the smell of burning hair. The diversion created, Rahn went in for the kill. He struck a punch that grazed La Dame’s left eye and hit the bridge of his nose.
‘Oh!’ His friend staggered back, one hand holding his nose, the other still holding the gun. Shock gave way to anger and he lunged at Rahn.
There was a struggle. Rahn left behind him any memory of their friendship, their hours of drinking, laughing, commiserating, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, their potholing days and many adventures. He made himself blind to everything except the other man’s struggle to point the gun closer and closer to his brow.
‘Stop it, La Dame, for God’s sake!’ Rahn yelled at him.
‘No! You burnt my beard!’
La Dame’s cut eye was red and in it Rahn saw frenzy. His swollen nose was growing black, there was blood on his scorched beard and on his suit and he was breathing hard, gritting his teeth. Rahn managed to push the hand holding the gun away and caught a glimpse of Deodat coming from behind. He manoeuvred La Dame into position and then pulled at what was left of his beard with such fierceness that La Dame cried out in pain and turned his head slightly, enough for him not to notice Deodat approaching with a crucifix that he had taken from the altar and which he now brought down squarely over the hand holding the gun.
The gun fell to the floor with a clatter and Rahn took it up and gave it to Deodat. It was over. La Dame was now sitting on the floor panting and assessing his various injuries. Rahn’s knees gave way then and he found himself sitting opposite La Dame.
‘You’ve burnt my beard! You don’t understand!’
‘It serves you right for saying “burn my beard” all the time – it’s what gave me the idea!’
‘And I think I’ve lost a tooth,’ he said, horrified, spitting out more blood.
‘You were always a stupid bastard,’ Rahn said, his anger waning. ‘I should have listened to Deodat.’
‘And I think you’ve broken my nose too! You didn’t have to hit me so hard! There is an explanation!’
‘I should have hit you harder! I don’t want your explanations!’
‘Oh God, it hurts!’
‘You’re not cut out for this, La Dame,’ Deodat said, with no pity in his voice. ‘You didn’t even load the gun.’
‘I know,’ La Dame said miserably. He looked like he was about to weep but instead he found a handkerchief in one of his pockets and proceeded to wipe the blood away.
‘What in the devil?’ Deodat cried.
‘I’ll be taking that book now, if you don’t mind.’
All three men looked into the darkness from which emerged the shape of someone else holding a gun! Rahn recognised him – it was that ordinary-looking man: ordinary height, ordinary weight and ordinary face. It was the man he thought was following him in Paris; the man in the café and the man who had been standing outside his hotel. Behind him now, unfortunately, there also stood two men who looked like prize-fighters.