“Really,” Pierre said, and as Gaston was about to speak, he put a warning hand on his arm. “What’s in the other box?”

“More ammunition.”

Dillon took out the sheet from the holdall, covered the machine gun, then locked the door. He got behind the driving wheel, started the engine and moved the van a few yards, positioned it so that the tail pointed on an angle toward the crossing. He got out and locked the door and clouds scudded across the moon and the rain started again, more snow in it now.

“So, you leave this here?” Pierre said. “What if someone checks it?”

“What if they do?” Dillon knelt down at the offside rear tire, took a knife from his pocket, sprang the blade and poked at the rim of the wheel. There was a hiss of air and the tire went down rapidly.

Gaston nodded. “Clever. Anyone gets curious, they’ll just think a breakdown.”

“But what about us?” Pierre demanded. “What do you expect?”

“Simple. Gaston turns up with the white Renault just after two this afternoon. You block the road at the crossing, not the railway track, just the road, get out, lock the door and leave it. Then get the hell out of there.” He turned to Pierre. “You follow in a car, pick him up and straight back to Paris.”

“But what about you?” the big man demanded.

“I’ll be already here, waiting in the van. I’ll make my own way. Back to Paris now. You can drop me at Le Chat Noir and that’s an end of it. You won’t see me again.”

“And the rest of the money?” Pierre demanded as he got behind the Renault’s wheel and Gaston and Dillon joined him.

“You’ll get it, don’t worry,” Dillon said. “I always keep my word, just as I expect others to keep theirs. A matter of honor, my friend. Now let’s get moving.”

He closed his eyes again, leaned back. Pierre glanced at his brother, switched on the engine and drove away.

It was just on half past one when they reached Le Chat Noir. There was a lock-up garage opposite the pub. Gaston opened the doors and Pierre drove in.