The Sixth Key(63)

Rahn turned around and tried to focus his eyes. There was nothing behind them, nothing beside them. Ahead, the narrow road seemed to wind its way around one bend after the other. He felt another great thump then, which sent the Tourster rumbling towards the precipice. Eva pushed down on the brakes with all her might but the car had a mind of its own.

‘I’ve got no brakes. Do something!’ she shouted at Rahn. As she finished her words, however, a sharp corner sent the car skating over the gravel. Rahn braced himself, certain the car was going to mount that low stone wall, or break through it. Either way, they would be finished. But the wall held them and there was a crunching and scraping and tearing at the body and tyres of the car before the curve reversed and the Tourster left the wall and careered towards the mountainside.

‘Change to a lower gear, for God’s sake,’ he told Eva.

‘Can’t you see I’ve been trying to. It’s stuck!’

The collision with the wall had caused the Tourster to wobble for a time on its wheels like a drunk running out of steam. Eva seemed to have regained some control until another jolt sent them hurtling towards an approaching bend. She put her foot down on the brakes again as hard as she could but they remained useless.

Rahn had an idea.

‘Steer along the rock wall – stay away from the edge.’ He grabbed hold of the hand brake and pulled on it with all his might. The back wheels locked up and the car began to slide, scraping along the hillside with a terrible screech until the engine stalled, bringing the Tourster to a noisy and unhealthy-sounding stop.

Eva got out of the car with an air of calm annoyance. She had a bruise on her forehead and scratches here and there but she was essentially unhurt. She helped Rahn climb out. His many aches and pains seemed to have cancelled each other out and he stood beside Eva, who seemed to be looking at the mangled Tourster in disbelief.

‘Something took hold of that auto-car!’ Eva said. ‘I had no control! Someone or something was driving us straight into those walls. Black magic perhaps?’ she said sarcastically, but Rahn thought there might be an element of truth in it.

‘Well?’ She was staring at him from under that straight-cut fringe with a look of expectation.

Rahn liked her for not being hysterical; at this point he couldn’t have coped with a panic-stricken woman since he was feeling rather frenetic himself. But there was something singularly annoying about her unruffled attitude and her calculated audacity.

‘If Sancho Panza were here,’ Rahn gave back, ‘he would say: “whether the pitcher hits the stone or the stone hits the pitcher, it’s bad luck for the pitcher . . . ” and it was bad luck for the Tourster, I’m afraid.’

‘And are you going to take a look at it?’

He straightened his aching shoulders and, feeling put on the spot, walked to the car. It looked as if some great beast had clawed it. He resolved that it was irreparably damaged, at least for the time being. He opened the hood and peered inside. Everything seemed to be in order, as far as he could see, but in truth he knew almost nothing about cars and the gesture was in the spirit of creating the illusion that he was in control of things, as any man should be. He closed the hood again and wiped the grease from his hands with an air of authority. He was about to deliver his diagnosis when she cut through the entire charade with her sharp, sarcastic tone; hands on waist, eyebrows raised.

‘You don’t know anything about auto-cars, do you?’

‘As a matter of fact . . .’ he began, and was saved from a complete loss of face by the sound of a horse and cart coming around the hairpin bend. He brightened and said, ‘As a matter of fact I can hear our taxi now!’

He waved the man down and asked if he could take them to Saint-Paul-de-Fenouillet.

‘Are you just going to leave the car here?’ the girl interjected.

‘What else shall we do with it, Mademoiselle Cros? Perhaps you feel like getting behind the wheel again?’

She huffed, defeated, and Rahn repressed a smile, feeling he’d redressed the imbalance.

The man asked them what business they had in Saint-Paulde-Fenouillet and Rahn told him they were on their way to see the priest.

‘No, you’re not,’ the man said. ‘At this time of the year, Abbé Grassaud is not at his presbytery but at the hermitage. I am more than glad to take you there—’ he paused, ‘—for a fee.’

It was with a whistle then that he set off with Rahn and Eva in the back, bouncing among baskets full of produce. But it was only a short ride before the road widened and they saw a small sign and a level area. The man let them down and told Rahn to ring the bell. He said someone from the hermitage would hear it and come to greet them.