‘And did you?’
The man fumbled in his pocket. ‘This was belching smoke and burst into flames just before I arrived. I waited till it was cool enough to handle and then wrapped it in my handkerchief.’
‘In case it had finger-prints or something?’
‘Yes. And I told outside guards to cover the grounds.’
‘But when you got back here everything was normal?’
‘Yes.’
Grant studied the fragment of metal. It looked like a tiny bomb case which had been exposed to very high temperature. The metal was warped, but a flicker of yellow still gleamed on the undersurface and he made a wild guess. A lipstick container! And again he felt a surge of admiration. This was really high-powered opposition! It almost deserved to succeed. And if ADSAD’s theory was correct an outside man would now be taking photographs! He remembered the Admiral’s first priority. ‘Get hold of any pictures.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ he snapped. ‘But I want a photographer to be here when the President comes out. He may or may not be alone but it is essential that we have photographic evidence one way or the other. Understood?’ He looked at the taller of the two men who was now standing hands by side, but with an anxious look in his eyes. ‘Arrange this and your Minister will be told nothing. Understand?’
They almost snapped to attention as he strode back to the main building and veered towards the cloakroom. If Peking had a photographer laid on he would be operating from the fire-escape and it was an open bet whether he would try for a ground getaway or make for the roof, wait till the party broke up and then leave at leisure. A nylon rope with a hook could get him over the wall and it could be worn round his waist. On balance Grant favoured the roof. Ground guards had already been alerted and once the French got their teeth into anything they were hard to shake off.
Inside the cloakroom he opened a small case and changed from his white evening jacket into a black while he recalled the plan of Élysée with its complicated architectural styles left by La Pompadour, Napoleon, the Queen of Naples, Louis Napoleon and others right up to the end of the Fourth Republic. Much of the interior had been altered during the previous 150 years but enough back stairs, and passages remained to give easy access to the roof.
Although not so flat as Versailles Grant moved easily across the sheets of lead and around occasional chimney stacks, drain pipes and attic structures until he commanded a perfect view of the gardens and of the long sweep which led towards entrance gates on Avenue Gabriel. Behind him he had occasionally marked the forecourt giving to rue du Faubourg and the flashing lights of cars turning towards rue de l’Élysée.
He pin-pointed his position in memory and angled east until he was over the ballroom. Music was loud enough, even up there, to muffle any slight noise, but he walked as though on ice until he had reached the low parapet above the top of that small fire-escape which led from the roof to the gardens past the President’s own suite.
Everything was quiet and he concentrated on finding his target. He would have staked everything that the man would never get out of the gardens until later. His only hope was the roof, and Grant could be very patient.
He leaned against a stone buttress and studied the scene below. Men were systematically beating the grounds. And if he could see them so could the photographer, who, if C.I.A. was correct, would now be taking photographs of the girl from Peking compromising a President, off-guard after a seven course meal and too much speechifying for his years.
He stiffened as a shadow moved below him, and while a dark shape slithered up the iron staircase, protected here and there by overhanging trees, and nearer the top by the darkness cast from an overhanging cope.
He tied a black pocket handkerchief around his face, turned up the lapel of his jacket and raised the needle which lay along the vertical limb of the D on his signet ring. It fitted perfectly, but was magnetically charged, swinging out only when attracted by his magnetised wrist watch. And it had been made to deceive men to whom the old fashioned suicide ring was very familiar. But the experts who had created this device knew that short of magnetic pull the needle simply could not be spotted, so snugly did it lie in its groove.
And the ring was lethal. A direct blow shot out a dose of toxin which caused death from coronary spasm within two to three minutes.
He double checked that the needle had ‘locked’ into position and poised for the Shebaba thrust which would knock the man unconscious—provided of course that he struck on target. Grant had learned the hard way that it is easier to kill a man when he is already unconscious, and he had proved that Shebaba was more deadly than Karate, even if more difficult to learn. He covered his right index finger with a thimble-like cylinder which fitted from web to tip. In spite of eight months’ practice he still couldn’t deliver the blow hard enough without this reinforcing metal finger-stall, and he knew that the tip must sink right on to the carotid plexus.
The shadow was still moving slowly, always in the dark and at times almost invisible.
Grant again checked his weapons. His index finger felt stiff as a ramrod inside its sheath and the needle was sticking out like a sting from the signet which he now wore on the middle finger of his left hand.
Shebaba was an art of self defence known to few. Translated it meant ‘Father of Obscenities’, and it took the name from that total lack of scruple which men must show who handled it. And also because it was always aimed at one of the more sensitive nerve spots or organs of the body. He had also heard that the man who had first evolved the technique had been nicknamed Shebaba and that his pupils had tried to immortalise the master by giving his name to his invention. In the kingdom of Nakhi, in Yunnan, Shebaba had become a sport which had spread as far south as Burma and Siam. But few had mastered it, and he owed his own expertise to a Chinese Nationalist, born in Likiang but now one of Peking’s most bitter enemies.
Grant recognised the breathing of a man who is in top training as he poised for action and waited for a head to appear over the cope.
First one hand. Then another.
He saw the fingers brace as they heaved a body upwards and heard a quiet sigh of satisfaction as the man wriggled like a snake over the stone.
Grant thrust a hand over his mouth, threw back his head and aimed his Shebaba. The man jerked and then flopped unconscious while Grant thrust his needle into the arm. He watched carefully. At one minute there were colour changes on his victim’s cheeks and the man gasped for breath. His hands moved convulsively and soon it was over.
Now the camera! It was strapped inside a case like an armpit holster and there was a second, a Jap job, clipped to his jacket pocket. He removed both, frisked him and removed a spare roll of unexposed negative, a flick knife plus a wallet of notes and some letters with receipts.
Five minutes later he was leaving the cloakroom and had changed back into white. His partner was sitting in one of the reception rooms and he motioned her into the garden. Her bag was big enough to hold everything and he stuffed his winnings inside while she flashed a comb through her hair. ‘Straight to Admiral Cooper and give him these. Now.’
The girl nodded. ‘Risk element?’
Grant shook his head. ‘Even so, anchor the bag to your forearm with the belt of your dress or something. Phone for one of our own cars and stop for nobody. Our drivers all know the drill.’
She offered her hand and Grant kissed it perfunctorily.
One had to go through the motions! But his thoughts were centred on the wisp of paper which she had passed over at dinner. He felt no especial need for secrecy and read it by the light of a match while he lit one more of his own branded cigarettes. The message was brief. ‘C.I.A. cannot identify woman for certain but acted on most probable assumption. Pursue possible red-herring angle.’
As he ground the ashes into the ground with the heel of his black suède evening shoe he looked around for Tania. At least another thirty minutes had passed and there was still no sign of trouble.
<
br /> The guards!
He sauntered towards the President’s room where Gascon was on duty alone. ‘What happened?’
The little man smiled. ‘You were right, sir. They came out together.’
‘Photographer?’
‘As arranged, m’sieur. Two flash pictures were taken.’
‘And no sign of trouble?’
‘None.’
‘Where did they go?’
The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘To the ballroom. And I heard that he gave her the first dance.’
Grant stared at him coldly. ‘The next time I give an order see that it is obeyed. But when you have a moment you might arrange for the removal of a dead man from the roof.’
He arrived at the ballroom in time to see Tania finish a waltz with the President. It was just after midnight, and he was curious to see what would happen. France’s most important leader for a generation was shrewd. He had learned the hard way and was not easy to deceive. Yet he was behaving with an old world courtesy which seemed sincere. Tania had wrapped him round her little finger, and he almost laughed as he watched her introduction to the Prime Minister of Britain.
This was now beginning to add up to more than coincidence.
If, indeed, she was the girl from Peking then she was cleaning up nicely.
The Premier danced well. There were two encores and he saw both of them through to the end.
Grant looked at the clock. Twenty minutes until zero hour! Time for a phone call! Time for that load of dynamite to have reached the Admiral.
He dialled a number and waited. ‘Had to send my partner home. Tired. All well your end?’
The Admiral purred with satisfaction. ‘Just fine. Carry on.’ The line went dead and Grant returned to the bar. Another Rom Bacardi with a shot of fresh grapefruit juice and angostura bitters was indicated. The barman looked at him quizzically. ‘A double,’ added Grant. ‘Sort of celebration,’ he said. ‘Just got rid of my partner, so I’m off shortly—with company.’
The barman gave what looked like a treble. ‘Then good luck, sir. And thank you very much.’ He accepted a mille and Grant knew that the message would be on the Admiral’s desk within minutes. A department car would tail their taxi, and he would be losing his grip if a team didn’t cover him for the rest of the night.
Clocks chimed one in three places, and Grant threw a cloak over his shoulder. Tania was already being escorted through the foyer but greeted him with outstretched hand. ‘Since we are both leaving at the same time let’s share my car. Or have you made other arrangements?’
Grant shook his head. ‘I was going to walk. But your Mercedes is almost as good as my Maserati.’
Her eyes sparked. ‘Of course a chauffeur is also convenient. One can talk without worrying about traffic. How do you manage? Or is it second nature to drive yourself?’
Never sting a woman unless it is unavoidable, he thought. And that crack had been unnecessary. ‘I manage.’
‘Everything?’ Her eyes were mischievous.
‘Almost everything.’
She bowed to a group of friends. ‘Then we’ll talk about the things you can’t manage.’
He could almost sense her satisfaction as her hand rested on his wrist and he bowed ‘good-night’ to a First Secretary. And then as they neared her car he whispered in her ear. ‘Let’s go to the Madeleine. We can either pick up a taxi or else stop wherever you wish and call one yourself.’
She looked at him curiously. ‘Why?’
His hand encircled her wrist and he hoped that it would muffled the transmitting device which he was sure was built into her watch. ‘Then we can go to some really neutral ground. So let’s leave it to a neutral taximan to decide and check in as Monsieur et Madame Smith from England. Some place where a note will be accepted instead of a passport.’
‘But I like comfort.’
He whispered again and his words were laden with venom. ‘Then if you want to keep out of prison settle for a hotel. We’ve got your man.’
‘What man?’ She sounded surprised. ‘I don’t understand.’
Grant tightened his grip. ‘Just a man. Would you like to play ball or shall we call the police?’
She laughed. ‘Now I know what you meant about being very “top”. You like melodrama. You want me to think you are a big newsman, or something. Very well. I’ll do what you say. You stop the car anywhere you please. Then I’ll call a taxi and the driver can take us to a hotel. Agreed?’
Grant relaxed and hoped that ADSAD taxis would crowd the area. ‘Agreed. And your vows?’
She laid her head on his shoulder. ‘Sometimes vows can be broken. Especially when I may never meet a man like you again.’
The words sounded harmless, but Grant knew that they were a challenge. This time bed might end in death!
Chapter Ten – ‘She looked like a goddess waiting for blood’
Traffic around the Madeleine was nearing supersaturation when Grant snapped out an order. ‘Off here. Stop at the kerb.’
The chauffeur halted, professionally automatic, but his eyes glinted with anger as Grant stepped on to the side walk and handed Tania out of the car. She smiled towards the driver who bared his lips formally and shot off with near maximal acceleration as a gendarme approached. He twirled his baton. ‘You should know better than to stop a car here, m’sieur.’
Tania switched on her full charm. She had been faint. The heat and motion of the car had made her sick. She just hadn’t thought properly and her chauffeur had to do as he was told.
Grant watched with one part of his mind while the gendarme thawed into mild interest and spoke about calling a doctor while Tania said that a walk might do her more good and thanked him for the consideration. She was telling him how difficult his job must be when Grant realised that of all the taxis in sight at least seven were driven by ADSAD men whose faces were familiar. ‘Do you call a taxi,’ he said, ‘or shall I?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘As you please.’
Grant raised his hand and a car drew up within seconds. The driver was an old acquaintance and Grant handed over a note. ‘We want a respectable and quiet hotel. Understand?’
The man switched on the meter and pointed towards the Opéra. He then veered round the latest system of one way streets, past Trinité Metro and up rue Pigalle to circle a few blocks and enter rue la Bruyère. The Hôtel la Bruyère stood near the far corner and narrow streets were still bustling with night hawks, with fast driven cars racing back to the city or self-conscious tourists returning from a glimpse of the night life.
Grant had tremendous respect for the French police, but the way in which standard taxi traffic had been cleared round the Madeleine was a miracle of organisation, while the speed with which the Admiral had laid on a fleet of cruising staff cars indistinguishable from the real thing was fantastic. And he knew that the hotel must also have been chosen by the Admiral. The Madame was reliable, and Grant had often heard about her from his friend George Mair who could be as particular as Grant in effacing himself when he wanted to disappear.
‘Not very exciting.’ Tania’s voice was neutral but Grant allowed no stalling for time and ushered her inside. ‘It is comfortable. The croissants are excellent. Madame is a lady. Her nephew is handsome and the rooms are good enough for any reasonable taste.’ He stared at her coldly. ‘Better than some of the places you must’ve used in the East.’
He signed the register and entered his own name. Madame Guignot, as usual, said little but saw everything and Grant figured that somewhere along the line she had been co-opted to see that there were no complications. Their room was on the first floor and Tania flopped on the bed with a resigned sigh as she slipped off her shoes. ‘A change from the Palace! Or do you always come here?’
Grant looked at her professionally. There could, conceivably, be a mini-microphone in either of her heavy ear rings, in her wrist watch or even in the larger of the pearls which she was wearing. Not to mention her handbag!
He
unfastened the necklace and silently wrapped it in an evening scarf. He then unclipped both ear rings, slipped off her watch and put them together with her handbag in another drawer into which he also stuffed a spare blanket.
‘Anything else?’
She smiled sarcastically. ‘Are you also a jewel thief?’
‘As well as what?’
‘A top person and amateur seducer of young ladies.’
The word ‘amateur’ rankled. ‘Even you must have heard of these mid-century microphones which we call “bugs”. I’m just being careful. And now I’m going to frisk you.’
‘Frisk?’ The word was new and Tania was genuinely surprised. If it meant what she thought he was hoping to move fast.
‘Stand up,’ he snapped.
She bowed her head. ‘Very well. But what is “frisk”?’
Grant ran his hands over her tightly moulded dress and felt the outline of young muscles. She might as well have been stark naked and she carried nothing which mattered.
‘So that is a “frisk”. I must remember. The sort of thing a farmer does before buying a pig or a cow.’
‘Sort of?’ The girl had Grant baffled. She wasn’t behaving according to form and he hated the unexpected. ‘I was only making sure that we are going to be private.’
‘Then since we are using farm talk may I say that what is sauce for the goose is also sauce for the gander.’ She removed his own wrist watch and tie clip and then delved into his trouser pockets, her fingers exploring every corner before she gripped the linings and turned them inside out. ‘Nothing there.’ Her voice was soft, but she knew that she had surprised him and that he had been taken aback by an unexpected gambit. Her hands flickered over his other pockets and she removed his cigarette case, his Parker 61 pen and the butane gas lighter.
She wrapped them in her own fur cape and packed them into the third drawer of the built-in wardrobe. ‘And now the frisk,’ she smiled, as her hands ran expertly under his armpits, down his forearms and around his body until they reached his thighs where they played methodically around each muscle group until in the end she was kneeling on the floor and fingering his shoes. ‘But now we’ll have these off, m’sieur. I like this frisk game. And you do feel nice. But I’ll be just that little bit happier if we get rid of the shoes.’
The Girl From Peking Page 12
