Midnight Never Comes

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The moment he pushed open the door and paused on the edge of darkness, Chavasse knew that he had made a bad mistake. Somewhere deep inside, a primitive instinct, that slightly mystical element common to all ancient races and inherited from his Breton ancestors, combined with the experience that came from ten hard years of working for the Bureau and touched him coldly, sending a wave of greyness moving through him.

As he took a hesitant step forward, the darkness was filled with a hideous, frightening clamour and a red light flashed on above his head reaching into the four corners of the small room.

Jorgensen was standing by the window, immaculate in the beautifully-cut dinner jacket he had worn earlier, the rose still fresh in his lapel. He stood there, legs slightly apart, a.38 Smith amp; Wesson magnum in his right hand, barrel pointing to the floor.

Chavasse slid a hand inside his jacket, reaching for the Walther automatic in its special pocket, knowing he hadn't a chance and Jorgensen grinned almost apologetically.

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