“Yes,” she said, “you definitely are a lawyer.”
“It’s not so bad. There are compensations.”
“I know,” she said, nibbling his ear.
“You’d better watch that. I’ll get distraught.”
“Is that an offer?”
“Try me,” Carr said. “Just try me.”
Ralph Gorman thumbed irritably through the CORTEX file. Everything was simply shot to hell: the Associates were far in the lead, and looked like favorites to win the race. Carr had disappeared without a trace—checked out of his hotel room—and the specially imported Paris killer had been summarily dispatched within an hour of his arrival.
They moved so damned fast, Gorman thought unhappily.
Now there was this Perrani business. Perrani was an Associate; they’d known that for a long time. He had contacts in the racing business. Last night they had found his body at the bottom of a sheer cliff west of Cannes, on the Esterel coast. It looked natural, but it couldn’t be.
Jenning had reported the disappearance of one of his mechanics, vanished with a trace. Putting two and two together, Gorman came up with the idea that the Associates had planned to sabotage Jenning’s car in the Monaco race, killing him before he could sign the papers. The mechanic was Perrani’s man. But now both were removed from the scene, for reasons unknown.
It sounded good. Or was it adding two and two, and getting three? It might be something else entirely.
The real question, the important question, was: What would the Associates do next? They had to stop Jenning—he was crucial to the whole shipment, until the papers were signed. They would try to kill him again, as they had tried before.
But when? How?
It would be soon. The race was only two days away.
Roger Carr was awakened on the morning of the third day by the smell of hot coffee and something tickling his chin. Anne was leaning over him, swinging her hair back and forth across his face. The sun streamed, into the room, and she looked bright, fresh, and very excited.
“I have a problem,” she said, pouring him coffee. She was dressed in a pair of brief shorts, a white sleeveless jersey, and sandals.
“You don’t look like you have a problem.”
“I do: What are you going to name the first child?”
“That’s a hell of a question to ask a man first thing in the morning.” He hesitated. “You don’t mean—”
“No, no. I was just wondering.”
“I don’t have any idea.” He got up and stumbled off to the bathroom.
“Grouchy in the morning,” she said, watching him go. He looked back, saw her folded in a chair, holding her coffee cup. He felt suddenly happy.
“How were rehearsals last night?”
“All right. Are you always so mean when you get up?”
“I can’t think until I brush my teeth,” he explained.
“I had no idea.”
“Shave, too.”
“How extraordinary.”
“Alone,” he said, and shut the bathroom door.
She opened it later, as he was shaving, and he smelled the coffee in the bedroom outside. She leaned against the door, folded her arms across her chest, and watched him draw the razor down his face. Immediately, he cut himself on the chin—always the toughest part—and stuck his jaw forward toward the mirror, trying to see the extent of the damage.
“You’re responsible,” he said.
“Why?”
“Driving me out of bed at this ungodly hour. No wonder I’m not awake.” He finished shaving, washed the lather off his face, and came out into the bedroom. She sat on the bed as he picked up his coffee.
“Nell,” he said.
“What?”
“The first child. Nell. We could call her Death Nell for short.”
“Death Nell Carr. I don’t like that one.”
“How about Hubert?”
“No. If it was a girl, we could call her Coma. Coma Carr? Not bad at all.”
“I prefer Carcinoma.”
“Now, there’s a name.” She repeated it to herself. “Perfect.”
“And for a boy, Hubert Tort Carr.”
“Too abrupt. Lyndon Tort Carr, maybe—but even that isn’t very good.”
“Everett Corrugated Carr.”
“Better.”
“Horace Porous Carr.”
“Definitely.”
They stopped and sipped the coffee.
“Am I going to marry you?” Carr asked.
“I don’t know. Am I going to accept?”
“Ever since I was a kid,” Carr said, “I’ve had a great fear of being rejected for anything. Jobs, the Groton football team, the winter cotillion—anything at all.” He watched her carefully, but she was concentrating on her coffee cup. “I just thought I’d tell you,” he said.
Finally Anne said, “Marriage is something you have to take a chance with.”
“I suppose.” He suddenly wished he hadn’t brought it up.
A car pulled up in the drive. Carr recognized the deep growl of the Ferrari. Anne got up and went to the window.
“Liseau,” she said. “He’s motioning to me. I’d better go see what he wants. Back in a minute.”
Carr sat stirring his coffee. He knew that when this was all over, he would take Anne back with him—and not just as far as Morocco. She wasn’t the only one who knew a good thing when she saw it. He felt happy, and strangely impatient. But there was nothing to do except wait until Liseau released them.
She came back, slamming the door behind her, and sat down on the bed. Her face was tired, drawn.
“What’s the matter?”
“Liseau. He just gave me my plane ticket. He’s taking me with him to Hong Kong.”
Chapter XX
CARR WAS STUNNED. HE continued to stir his coffee mechanically, staring straight ahead.
“When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night!”
Her voice was flat and dead. “He told me to quit my job at the casino, and get ready to leave, I suppose he meant you.”
Carr took out a cigarette and began to play with it, tapping one end against the night table, turning it, and tapping the other end.
“I won’t let him do it,” he said at last.
She hugged him, and let her head fall on his shoulder. “It’s no good. He’s got us just where he wants us. There’s no sense or hope in fighting him—he’ll let you go, at least.”
“I wonder,” Carr said. Anne began to cry softly on his shoulder. “Easy,” he said. “We’ll find a way out of this. I have friends. Perhaps, if I can escape—”
“If you try, he will kill me. I know it.” She stood up. “I have to go.” She gave him one long, final kiss, salty with tears. “Good-bye,” she said.
“Wait—”
The door slammed shut, and he heard her running down the hall. He sat thinking, trying to believe what was happening. He could not quite comprehend that Anne was being taken from him; the realization came slowly, and very painfully. He did not want it to happen.
He could not allow it to happen.
Carr had a sudden image of Vascard, the policeman, shaking his head in sadness and amusement at Carr’s thoughts. It was a stubborn, foolish idea to try to escape—Carr knew that. The odds were against him, all down the line. But he could try, and he would try. He had no choice.
In all his life, Roger Carr had never escaped from anything more difficult than a blind date. He had no idea of how to begin, or what approach to use. He was weaponless, and defenseless—or was he?
He grinned as he dressed.
One weapon, honed and polished from long experience. One weapon, and one possibility.
He would take his chances.
As he walked out onto the terrace, Liseau called to him. Carr stopped, and looked at Liseau in what he hoped was a friendly way. He had few advantages in this game, but one would be surprise. “Yes?”
Liseau put an ar
m around Carr’s shoulder and walked with him away from the house. “I trust you have been enjoying your visit.”
“Yes, I have. It’s been marvelous from beginning to end. Frankly, I did not expect it to be so pleasant.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Liseau did, indeed, seem genuinely pleased. “I can tell you in turn that you will be free to go shortly.”
“In a way, that’s sad news—I’m afraid you’ve spoiled me for New York life. But I suppose I will be better off at work. Shall I make a plane reservation?” He kept his voice casual.
“There will be time for that very soon, my friend. But meantime I must ask you a favor. Tonight I am entertaining some guests, and we would prefer not to be disturbed. Will it be too much of an imposition for you to remain in your room for the evening?”
“Not at all. But tell me, may I have a guest of my own in my room?”
“I fear,” Liseau said apologetically, “that Miss Crittenden will—”
“I wasn’t thinking of Miss Crittenden.” He gave Liseau a slow wink, man-to-man.
“Eh?” The doctor was caught off guard, momentarily puzzled, and he frowned. This man does not like surprises, Carr thought.
“You don’t mean …”
“Yes.”
Liseau shrugged, covering his relief. “But of course. My house and everything in it are at your disposal, please.”
“You are very kind.”
“Not at all. Good luck, my friend.” He paused. “I think you will find she is excellent.”
Carr smiled and nodded, then walked idly across the lawn, the picture of nonchalance. He stood with his back to the house, apparently admiring the view. His mind worked furiously—this was a long shot, and the chances of success were slim, but he had managed the first hurdle already. That was something.
He strolled around to the drive and surveyed the parked cars. One was his little Alfa two-seater, standing with the top up; Liseau, no doubt, had the keys to that. The second was Liseau’s silver Ferrari, looking lithe and powerful. The third was a yellow Renault Dauphine. That, he thought, would be the maid’s car.
He did not think anyone was watching him, but he moved carefully. Hands in his pockets, he wandered over to the Alfa, which he regarded with proprietary interest. He kicked one of the tires. Then he moved to the Ferrari, and spent several minutes admiring it from all sides, and peering in to look at the dash. This was his first opportunity to see the car close up, and his admiration was genuine: it was a beautiful machine, swift and businesslike, with the muscular grace of a mountain lion. Pininfarina styling, he decided, and probably Scaglietti coachwork. The car would do 150 miles an hour without straining, and it looked it. Inside, the black horse pranced on a yellow background in the center of the wheel; the dashboard was straightforward, cleanly designed; the twin bucket seats were black leather. There was a briefcase on the shelf behind the seats, and a pair of tan hand-tooled driving gloves on the passenger seat.
He straightened up and, out of what seemed curiosity, went to the maid’s car. He glanced at it briefly, showing little interest, but he managed to examine the inside thoroughly. The seats and steering wheel had been covered in tasteless imitation leopard skin, and there was an empty packet of cigarettes, crushed, stuffed in the ashtray.
But there was no throw-rug in the back seat, as he had hoped.
It was still possible, he told himself, as he walked back around the house. More difficult, but still possible—and the most difficult part was coming now.
The kitchen was a clean large room with a broad central table, white cupboards all around, and a waist-high shelf of stainless steel which ran around the room. Off to one side were three glass-walled ovens. Liseau must do a great deal of entertaining, he thought.
The maid worked at one of the sinks, shelling peas. Carr tiptoed up and kissed her lightly on the nape of the neck, just below her short-cropped hair.
“Oh!” She dropped a handful of peas in surprise. “Monsieur Carr! It’s you.”
“Josette,” he said. “You must call me Roger. I’d like to know you better.”
“Avec plaisir—Roger.” She rolled the r charmingly, and looked at her feet in a reasonable imitation of modesty. This girl hasn’t got a drop of it, he thought.
“Don’t let me disturb your work.”
She seemed to come out of a daze, and snatched up her peas once again.
All right, he thought. Now, careful—this girl can’t be as foolish as she looks.
“How do you like working here?”
“Oh, it’s good. Very good.” She shrugged, apparently deciding she had showed too much enthusiasm. “It pays well.”
“You certainly have a fine place to work. This kitchen must be one of the best equipped in the region.”
“Oh! You have no idea. Le docteur entertains often, with many guests, and he has all the conveniences. Look here,” she said, pulling a heavy door. “Even a dishwasher! C’est magnifique, hein?”
“Amazing.”
“But that is not all. We have a mixer, a blender, and voici, an electric can-opener.” She tapped a small white box resting on a shelf. “We do not use it to open cans, of course,” she said quickly. “We have no canned food in this household. But it also has an electric knife-sharpener, right inside.”
“Really?” Now he was getting somewhere.
“Oui. I will show you.”
She went to a drawer and fished in it for a moment. Carr heard metal clicking against metal. Probably the whole drawer was full of knives. Finally she selected one, slim and glinting, and took it to the box.
“Alors.” She put her left hand on a small bar and set the knife into a slot. There was a high-pitched grinding noise, and the knife slowly slid out of the box and dropped into her hand.
“Amazing,” Carr said, examining the knife. “Very practical.”
“Vraiment.”
“Shall I put the knife back?”
“If you please.” Josette resumed her pea-shucking, and Carr went over to the knife drawer. He opened it and ran his fingers noisily across the knives. At the same time, he dropped the newly sharpened knife into his pocket. He shut the drawer and returned.
“Tell me, Josette, do you have any time to yourself?”
“Of course. Tonight, for instance—I must serve drinks to Dr. Liseau’s guests at nine, and then I am free.”
“And what do you plan to do?”
A sly look crept across Josette’s features. “Usually, on my nights off, I drive into Nice—”
“You have a car?”
“Of course. A Dauphine.” She smiled. “But tonight, perhaps I shall not go.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want to interrupt your plans, but …”
“Yes?”
He grinned engagingly. “I would appreciate it if you would bring some drinks to my room about ten o’clock.”
“For you and Miss Crittenden?” Her voice was suddenly harsh.
“Oh no. I will be alone.”
“Ah.”
“Can that be arranged?”
“With pleasure, yes.”
“With great pleasure, I hope.” He smiled. “Until then, Josette.” He had a last glimpse of her, eyes devilish, her hands busy with the peas.
He sat in his room, thinking of the three cars parked in the drive. The evening would be tricky, he knew, and a lot depended on luck. There would be more cars in the drive—would they block Josette’s Dauphine? Probably not, if she were in the habit of leaving shortly after the guests arrived. So there was no problem there.
That left two major difficulties—getting from his room to the car, and making his way past the gate guard. The first should be difficult enough, but the second might prove impossible. Certainly if the gates were locked …
He wondered if he should bring Josette with him. He had originally hoped to find a rug in the back seat; that would have allowed him to smuggle himself out while she drove at knife point. But there was no rug, and he was left with a diffi
cult choice. He could either lie exposed on the floor of the back seat while Josette drove—and hope the guard didn’t check—or else he could drive the car out himself. His chances of success seemed greater if he took Josette, but there was another consideration: Anne. She had said Liseau would kill her if Carr escaped, and he had no doubt she was right. Under most circumstances, she would be held responsible. But if Liseau found Josette bound and gagged in Carr’s room?
That was how it would have to be. Josette would arrive at ten; he would tie her up, take her keys, and slip down to the Dauphine; if he could, he would get past the gates and then to Vascard, or Gorman. But first, he had to get through the gates.
A hundred questions, possible pitfalls, flooded his mind. Would Josette forget—or not bother—to bring her keys? Would there be a guard in the hall? Would the front door be locked? Would the Dauphine start quickly? If the Associates gave chase, would they use the Ferrari? And most important, would Anne understand what had happened, and what he was doing?
He was not able to stop worrying until after lunch, when, lulled by good food and wine, he fell into a restless sleep.
Carr had an early dinner in his room, served by Josette, who seemed full of bawdy remarks and double entendres. When she had gone, he found he could not touch his food. He was dizzy with tension and excitement; his stomach turned, and his knees were weak. He had a muscle spasm in his left forearm.
He examined the knife he had stolen from the kitchen. It was serviceable enough, with a solid wooden handle and six inches of slim, very sharp blade. But it gave him little comfort—a knife was not much good against a gun, and these men had guns. He knew, too, that they weren’t playing games. If he were caught, he would be killed.
He hoped, if he had occasion to use the knife, that he would have the guts to kill ruthlessly. Carr had never killed anything in his life—he’d never even cleaned a fish. He had a vision of himself padding stealthily down the hall toward an unsuspecting guard. The knife would be between his teeth, or wasn’t that a good place?
Anyway, he’d approach the guard, and swiftly grab his arms with both hands. Then, how do you kill him? The guard would raise an alarm. He’d have to move quickly—slit the throat? How did you slit a man’s throat? He dimly remembered that there was something you had to cut—the jugular vein, or something like that. The heroes were always doing it in the movies. But where was it? In front, on the side of the neck, or where?
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