Paradise Spells Danger

by George B Mair

  ‘Admiral Cooper was rich. Extremely rich. But he had eccentric ideas about money. Looked as if he couldn’t care less. His own needs were simple. Maybe he got kicks out of kidding that he was flat broke or from under-tipping waiters. But although I’ve been closer to him than any other living person he never once hinted at his love-child here. Though I think I now understand why.’ He paused. ‘Anyhow I am one of three trustees. The second is his own private solicitor and the third a former President of the Bank of Switzerland. His will should be made public tomorrow and it will push most other things off the headlines.’

  He looked Grant straight in the eye. ‘Your name is going to be on many lips, because the Admiral has made you heir to the larger part of his fortune. And it is a packet! All invested in real estate, solid equities, various oil interests, nickel and the like.

  ‘Last estimate was around four hundred million United States dollars, and you get sixty per cent after deduction of death duties and so forth. So you have become one of the world’s quite few really rich men.’

  He lifted his hand as Grant made to interrupt. ‘Hear me out. Ten per cent goes to the Save the Children Fund, ten to the International Red Cross, five to spastic children and fifteen for cancer research in a medical school of his own choosing.

  ‘Now it is these four bequests which make publicity unavoidable, but as a backlash all the world will shortly know that David Grant has become a very multi-multi-millionaire. A situation which may make our opposition reappraise their handling of yourself, because, suitably manipulated, you could be a gold mine, and even super-genius Marius Brandt needs to pay the rent.’

  Grant felt physically sick. He was still annoyed that Krystelle had off-loaded money from their last operation into his own accounts and had intended to deal with the situation later. But this latest bomb-shell was preposterous.

  ‘Unexpected possibly,’ said Alvis. ‘But preposterous it is not. You worked with the Admiral for over twelve years and earned his respect. He enjoyed your company, and, as he wrote to Moogie there, you reminded him of his own youth. But I referred to a sentence in his will which made sense as from our last meeting. He never mentioned his love-child because he had already settled one million dollars upon her and knew that she had inherited most of another million from her mother. That is a deal of money for a young lady and she can live a life of privilege with it. But if he had left more she might have found it a burden. Fortune hunters would have haunted her, and certainly, if she had been mentioned in the will, she would never have known another day of privacy in her life. No, David, the Admiral treated his family extremely well. And he didn’t leave you the sixty per cent so that you could blow it on conventional extravagances. Far from it. He told me several times that you were straining at the lead and wanting to go free-lance. Well, he knew that that could cost more than you might have bargained for, so he decided to let you have enough to get really organised and was confident that you would really do the same sort of work as before, even if from a different office. All clear?’

  ‘I would hardly know where to begin,’ said Grant. ‘I’m a rotten business-man.’

  ‘So we all know. But,’ said Alvis, ‘Krystelle is one very shrewd little lady indeed. How many girls can invest almost half a million sterling, and all her own earnings, while still in the middle twenties? And the loot from B.A. last year has been well invested. Already it has appreciated about seventeen per cent. So we figure that she’ll be the business member of the company.’

  ‘You cunning so-and-so!’ Krystelle had a big thing about privacy. ‘What right had you or anyone else to pry into my affairs?’

  Alvis stubbed out his cigar. ‘Every right,’ he snapped. ‘In effect you stole goods worth more than a million, and insurance companies have had to pay. It was only because our activities bear upon another level of crime that you got away with it. That plus the fact that you are supremely useful to David Grant and combine to make a quality team. I don’t look for goodies in our job. But I do look for loyalty, for intelligence and for dedication to whatever job is accepted. On these grounds you qualify. But basically you are a crook, who has lived with crooks and who takes naturally to walking on a razor edge. Grant has the abilities of a crook but is handicapped by hang-ups built in by his upbringing and caste. Finally, the fact remains that before people like Admiral Cooper, Miss Sidders or myself decide to let a couple like yourselves loose against the underworld we check and treble check.

  ‘Okay! You got the ratings, so now you can take over where officialdom left off. The people who will run our show in future aren’t your calibre. No talent in sight. Mostly career types with an eye on the pension. Either that or sleazy bums who are prepared to run risks in return for some status and hard cash. Things have changed over the last ten years, and like or not we’re stuck with David Grant and yourselves if the latest European Chum Club has to stand a hope in Hell of survival. Got it?’

  He slowly lit a second cigar and relaxed into his chair. ‘Guess I must be uptight. But quit bothering me, David. You got the money and you got the know-how to use it properly. Your side-kick has the ability to handle the finances as well as a coupla hundred other types of situation. So don’t start an argument. Cooper and I put all our trust in your teamwork. It should keep Europe safe for another ten years.’

  Grant took a deep breath. ‘Even Krystelle will need advice in handling money like that. And incidentally how much is it likely to be? Our share I mean.’

  Alvis sipped his night-cap thoughtfully. ‘The trustees have a list of brokers and bankers who will see you through. Talk about it with them when you get back to Paris. As for amount: say seventy-five millions sterling.’ He turned to Moogie. ‘And you keep out of this, young lady. Start having kids or something. And hold on to your dough. Krystelle and David are loners who won’t mind if they end up in the morgue. But you got no experience.’

  She smiled thinly. ‘I did very well in Australian nickel. Got in early because my mother’s brother said it was a good gamble. When he sold, my two millions had become thirteen. So I can help.’ Her voice changed and became suddenly harsh. ‘And I have a right. It would have been my father’s wish. I,’ she added proudly, ‘am his daughter and I’m going to work with the others.’

  ‘You just saved your life,’ said a lazy voice from the door. ‘I could do with thirteen million.’

  Grant turned to see three men in room service hotel uniform standing in a tight group beside a trolley laid with sandwiches and drinks. Two were carrying Smith and Wesson .41 heavy-duty double-action revolvers and the third nursed a slender knife against his palm.

  ‘Sorry, man,’ he said, smiling towards Alvis, and in almost the same second the knife buried itself to the hilt in the old man’s chest.

  Alvis winced slightly and lifted his cigar. ‘You don’t practise enough,’ he said. ‘Which is why you’ll lose.’ His voice became more faint and he turned towards Grant. ‘Don’t fail us, David. Looks like you’re the only one left.’ He smiled slightly. ‘And the girls, of course. See you one day.’

  His hand was quivering when he reached towards the ashtray and slowly dropped his cigar. Sweat had begun to trickle down his forehead and he fumbled for a handkerchief. Moogie leaned forwards and gently mopped his brow while the man who had thrown the knife signalled the others to leave her alone.

  Alvis smiled for the last time. ‘That was guts, girl,’ he said. ‘But don’t take chances when you become professional.’ He seemed to relax against the cushions as Moogie stroked his fingers and laid her head against his shoulder. Seconds later it was all over. She gently kissed his lips, folded his handkerchief and then viciously clutched it in her right hand.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ she spat. ‘He was an old man.’

  The killer stroked his moustache. ‘Old men still have brains. So how about keeping out of things? Your life to me is worth exactly the current share value of thirteen million dollars, but I could face giving even that up now that we’ve got Grant if
you start anything. Okay?’ He turned for the first time towards Grant. ‘You got a reputation for talking too much. But I want . . .’

  ‘I feel faint.’ Krystelle’s voice was soft and she had begun to sway to and fro on her chair. Her fingers were fumbling with buttons in her top and she seemed to be gasping for air. A fleck of frothy foam had dribbled through the corner of her mouth and her facial muscles were beginning to twitch.

  The two gunmen glanced uncertainly towards the one who Grant guessed was leader. His eyes were suspicious, and he was still fiddling with his moustache, but he stepped forward abruptly and ripped off Krystelle’s flimsy blouse. Her breathing had become thick and heavy, her eyes were now only half open and she seemed to slither helplessly on to the floor.

  ‘What the Hell’s wrong?’ snapped one of the gunmen.

  Grant decided to bluff. ‘Maybe a heart attack. Got a knife wound a few years ago and has never been the same since. That apart, the last few days have taxed her strength pretty badly.’

  He watched the man with the moustache feel for Krystelle’s pulse and then put his fingers under her left breast. She was lying motionless and only an occasional quiver of her ribs showed that she was still breathing.

  The knife-man on the floor looked worried. ‘You’re a doctor, Grant. Do something.’

  ‘Such as what? She needs hospital.’ Grant chose his words carefully. ‘And don’t forget that if she dies you lose the chance of another million. Or is that chicken feed now?’

  ‘Let her go to hospital,’ said Moogie desperately. ‘I’ll pay you anything. Later. I promise.’

  The man glanced at her briefly. ‘Sure. You’ll pay. But you, Grant, keep her alive. Here. Hospital doesn’t figure.’

  ‘I’ll try the kiss of life,’ said Grant at last. ‘I take it I can move?’

  ‘So long as you remember that it’s the kiss of life for more than the girl. But watch it. Take everything very slow.’

  ‘Then I need help.’ Grant nodded towards Moogie. ‘Sit across her turn and give ordinary artificial respiration in time with me.’ He hesitated. ‘And you, whatever your name is. Bring some spirits or eau de cologne from the bathroom.’

  When Moogie was operating rhythmically he walked to Alvis and faced the mobsters. ‘I must have either a long needle or a very thin knife. That stiletto would do. In hospital the heart can sometimes be jerked back into action by an electric shock. But a needle into nerves in the right place can sometimes work in an emergency.’

  He withdrew the blade from Alvis’ chest and felt that the silence in the room could have been cut into slices. ‘Okay. Now one of you rinse this out and sterilise it in the bathroom. Use soap and hot water. Fast.’ Tension relaxed only when the leader took the blade almost automatically while Moogie kept up her gentle, slow, rhythm. ‘What now, David?’

  Grant lay down with his head above Krystelle’s face, lifted her arms to the side and clasped her hands in his own while he covered her lips with his mouth.

  The men by the door had now taken chairs beside a round table three paces away, and after a minute or so of steady work he saw the third return from the bathroom to stand beside Moogie. He was holding the stiletto where the steel sank into a slim bone handle, but carefully, between finger and thumb.

  More important, Grant had been picking up words in Morse from Krystelle’s fingers quivering against his palms. They could both receive and transmit as fast as any professional, and he even remembered how she had once flickered out a spiel by using her eyelids. His only problem was to make the kiss of life routine look realistic while, in fact, Krystelle took short infrequent breaths herself.

  The messages were all to the point.

  K okay.

  Buying time.

  I take nearest at zero.

  Distract attention.

  Killer take kiss routine before zero.

  Moogie take gunman nearest.

  Grant paused for a rest and glanced towards Moogie. ‘Keep it up, honey. She’s just a little better. But I need a breather.’ He stretched his neck and clambered to his feet. ‘Stiff work,’ he said curtly and then stooped over Krystelle’s chest to feel her heart. Only he in the room knew that she had the power to throw herself into trances, and that during her stormy childhood in the Guianas she had been trained as a ‘sort of’ voodoo priestess or medium. Only he knew that she had also been trained in Yoga by an Indian guru who rated, and that as she grew older she had tried to compose all sort of tensions which had developed by practising Yogi until she had learned how to control her moods and discipline her body through her mind. It didn’t surprise him to find that although her heart was beating regularly, the pressure was low enough to prevent a pulse quivering in either neck or between the ribs.

  He forced himself to look seriously professional. ‘Touch and go. The kiss of life isn’t too much use in coronaries. But the touch of a needle in the right place might be just enough to trigger the heart off into some sort of controlled activity again.’

  He looked the man beside him straight in the eye. ‘Keep that knife clean while I wash my hands. And watch how the girl is doing the artificial respiration. I want you to take over the kiss of life angle when I get back, and while I slip the point of that stiletto into exactly the right place. If she moves while I’m doing it I might cut a vein and kill her. So lay on one of your boys to hold her legs steady. One hand on each knee just behind the girl. You’ll be able to fix her head and I can manage the chest. But we need three for this job.’

  As he walked to the wash-room he realised that somehow the phoney medical talk had built up an atmosphere of drama. One of the gunmen was looking like a junior nurse ordered in to her first operation and was already slightly pale. ‘You mean you going to put that into her heart?’ he asked.

  Grant paused beside him. ‘Done every other day in hospital. But not into her heart. Only on to a cluster of nerves inside the heart muscle. And I’m in a hurry. One of you two do as I said and take an ankle in each hand. Behind the Thai girl. Snappy. No time to lose.’

  He washed his hands systematically at the tap, playing for time. He knew only one thing for certain: that the three men hadn’t the vaguest clue about medical matters and that almost any bluff might now come off. An aerosol tin of air-freshener spray caught his eye and he returned to the sitting-room using it lavishly.

  The killer was lying on his face as Grant had done, but looked up in surprise. ‘Relax,’ snapped Grant. ‘The nearest thing around for sterilising the air.’ He gave a final squirt in the direction of the gunman who seemed most uncomfortable, finished washing and returned with his hands dripping water heavily saturated with soap. The knife was lying, point up, inside an empty glass, and he almost smiled as he recognised the clumsy attempt which had been made to keep the thing ‘sterilised.’

  ‘The one behind you,’ he said in French as he approached Krystelle and marked Moogie’s eyes flicker with understanding. The gunman behind her had laid his Smith and Wesson on the carpet by his side and the other was staring from his chair towards the group as though wondering what would happen next.

  ‘Now the great thing is rhythm.’ Grant had made his voice somehow professionally professional. ‘And I’m going to have a go after six more breaths. So keep it up. Six is zero hour.’

  He forced himself to stare at Krystelle and to ignore the gunman by the table. ‘Four,’ he heard himself say. ‘Five.’ And micro-seconds suddenly became as long as minutes. Almost everything depended upon Moogie being able to cope and dealing with the man behind her.

  Much would also still depend upon his own target, the hood at the table, being slow on the draw because of the nausea which had been building up over the past few minutes.

  ‘Six!’ he said, and hurled himself towards the table. He heard a squeal of pain and glimpsed Krystelle’s fingers stabbing above her face while Moogie seemed to throw herself backwards, lift the gun by her side with her left hand, and smash it against the mouth of the thug wriggling below her.
He felt his own fingers sink into flesh as he took his own man on the side of the neck.

  It was all over in less than twenty seconds and he looked up from the unconscious man at his feet to see Krystelle staring curiously at a whining figure who was blundering over the floor rubbing what was left of his eyes. ‘A couple of bulls, David. He must’ve bin about six inches away when I got a finger into each side. They felt squelchy and went pop. But for crissake did he ask for it! Killing that poor old guy like rubbing out a mosquito. He doesn’t deserve even to live blind.’ She turned to Moogie. ‘Nice work. And most of his teeth out as well! So what now?’

  Grant saw that she was suffering from reaction. But he also knew that she would work it out of her system in her own good time. Right now their first priority was to get rid of the squawking, blinded, whimpering creature who was still staggering about the room and he knew that death would be a blessing. The only question was ‘how.’ He was about to look for the knife which he had dropped during the fight when Moogie suddenly took her man from behind using her left hand across his mouth and throat, while with her right she placed the point of the blade just above his collar bone.

  ‘You shouldn’t have killed Mr. Alvis,’ she said and pricked the man’s skin as he began to bite her hand and kick wildly backwards.

  Moogie seemed to alter grip and fingers burrowed into nerves deep in the root of the neck as he fought for breath. His eyes were blazing with anger and Moogie’s hand slipped for a second as his elbow caught her between the ribs. ‘You b . . .’ The words were lost as she forced one hand between his teeth and almost dislocated his jaw.

  Grant saw that she was fighting with a controlled purpose and passion which was the first side-light he had glimpsed as to how she might tick way-deep-down inside her façade of polite serenity.

  ‘Why did you kill Mr. Alvis?’ she said.

  Her knife was still pointing near the man’s neck when he suddenly twisted, and in the same minute butted her on the forehead with the back of his head. Nobody understood exactly what happened, but as she jumped with pain the man slumped against her. The knife was buried to the hilt near the angle of the jaw but he was fighting to speak, though his face was now twisted and Grant figured that the seventh nerve had been cut.