As the night darkened, and the wind in the trees picked up, he felt the knotting fear inside him grow worse. It was like some crawling thing in his stomach, gripping him.
He lay down on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and waited.
It was now eight o’clock. The ashtray was heaping with cigarettes; the air hung in the room, smoky and stale. He could hear cars pulling into the drive, and went to the window to see them. Three arrived within a few moments of each other: the Associates were prompt. They parked their cars in a line—two Citroëns, and a Mercedes sedan he had not seen before—and briskly entered the house. Carr noticed with a start that the driver of the Mercedes was a woman; he couldn’t see much of her in the dark. He returned to the bed, emptied the ashtray into the wastebasket, and lit a cigarette.
It was not until nine o’clock that he had his idea. He was standing at the window, stretching his legs and feeling the muscles quiver, when it occurred to him. As he smoked, he looked out at the yellow light from the living room pouring out on the grass below. He heard the faint murmur of voices. The Associates were drawing up final plans for the next day.
What were these plans? He realized that he had no idea, and he could see himself going to Vascard with no proof, no shred of evidence, not even an inkling of what was going on. Even if he wanted to help, Vascard would be bound by the law. Carr needed information—and the only source was the group in the living room.
He looked again at the light on the grass; it was tempting. The Associates hadn’t bothered to draw the curtains. Anyone on the lawn outside could see right in, as could anyone on the roof…
His watch told him it was five past nine. That gave him nearly an hour. He looked out his window with new interest.
For a moment, he thought it couldn’t be done, and then he spotted a way. Beneath his window ran a metal trough, a rain gutter barely two inches wide. It continued around the base of the entire second story. By moving along it, Carr might be able to reach the living-room roof, since the living room, cantilevered out over the hill, was the only single-story part of the villa. The problem was handholds—the walls were glass, and offered no grip at all. Occasionally, there were bits of metal molding or short sections of brick, but for the most part it was smooth glass.
He slid open his window-wall, and placed one foot on the gutter. It bent under his weight, but held. So far, so good. He stepped fully out, holding onto the edge of the glass, and one foot slipped.
Leather soles on his shoes, he remembered—fine for dancing, but not this. He went back inside and removed his shoes, then tried again, feeling the cold metal of the gutter on his bare feet.
He pressed himself flat against the glass and edged forward toward the living room, some fifty feet away. He did not look down. He passed the length of his own room, struggling for each handhold, testing each foothold. The room next to his was a storage room—it contained an ironing board, linen, odds and ends—and he went on. He could see his breath condensing on the glass. Careful, he told himself. Slowly.
Step by step, inch by inch.
His entire concentration was on his feet and hands; he felt the cool, curved surface of the gutter, and the cold glass against his fingers, chest, and cheek.
Another room.
The light was on, and Carr paused. Should he continue? He listened for a moment, heard nothing, and decided to risk it. Edging slowly along the gutter, he saw that it was a small study, filled with books, charts, correspondence files. There was a small desk and a padded chair. No one was in the room; probably Liseau had forgotten the light. He went on.
He was stopped cold by the sound of a man whistling.
It was coming down from the lawn. He froze, not even daring to breathe.
The sound came closer. Soon he could hear the soft pad of feet on damp grass.
It was a guard; it had to be. Making rounds, probably checking the woods most carefully. At least, Carr hoped so. He glanced down and saw a burly man with a rifle slung over his shoulder; the man walked with a relaxed, easygoing gait. He was obviously expecting no trouble.
Carr hoped he would not look up. He was painfully aware of how visible he was, spread-eagled against the glass. The whistling receded, and finally the guard went around the corner.
Carr’s breath came in shallow gasps; he could not breathe deeply or his expanding chest, pressing against the glass, would force him off balance. He continued on, step by step, inch by inch. He fought back his terror. The night wind blew gently in his ears. Where was Anne now?
Step by step, inch by inch.
He was coming to the end—not long, just a few yards, a few feet, a few more cautious steps…
He stood on the tar-paper-and-gravel surface of the roof and took stock of his situation. His legs no longer shook; indeed, he seemed quite calm. He looked across the vast flat roof. In the center was a drain next to the chimney, the only two objects to break the monotony of the surface. He quietly stepped to the edge of the roof and saw a tin downspout leading to the ground. That would be helpful.
With one hand grasping the gutter pipe, he lay flat on his stomach and eased himself over the side, hearing the gravel grate loudly beneath him. It seemed that someone would be sure to hear it; he waited tensely, but the low murmur of conversation in the room continued without a pause. He pushed himself farther over the side, until he was bent at the waist, with only his legs remaining on the gravel.
He was just able to see into the room.
The Associates were there, clustered around a central table, beneath the mobile. They were standing, looking at something on the table, but their bodies blocked his view. He noticed the woman standing silently in a black evening dress. She was quite beautiful, though none of the men paid any attention to her. Was she one of them?
Liseau said something, and the men nodded; a moment later, Josette entered the room with a tray of drinks. The Associates sat down, though the woman remained standing, and Carr could at last see what was on the table.
It looked like a map. A large one, done in brown and white, like an ordinance survey chart. Drawn on it was a rather free-form loop, marked out in heavy red ink. The Associates were discussing the loop, pointing to various parts of it as they talked.
What the hell was it?
His head was beginning to ring from the blood rushing to it. He wished he could hear, but the wind masked what little sound penetrated the glass. Liseau raised his drink, and the Associates rose, blocking the map once again. Carr pulled himself back up to the roof.
If only he could hear!
He looked in frustration across the roof, to the drain and the chimney. His eyes fixed on the chimney. Perhaps, he thought. He moved slowly across the roof, painfully conscious that one slip, one crunching step, would finish him. He came to the chimney, bent over, and listened.
“… are agreed then, it will be here.”
“Yes. Gentlemen, a toast.” Carr recognized Liseau’s voice. “To Tribune R.”
“To Tribune R.”
“And to Herr Brauer.” It was another voice; Carr did not know it.
“Herr Brauer.”
The woman spoke now. “Let us come to the point—to a swift and successful conclusion of the affair.”
“Spoken like an angel,” Liseau said, laughing.
Carr heard glasses clicking softly, and then the wind picked up, and other sounds were lost to his ears. Damn! He went back to the edge, leaned over, and looked in. The Associates were still standing, drinks in hand, discussing the map, which Carr could not see clearly. He felt frustrated—he couldn’t see, and he couldn’t hear.
He checked his watch. Nine-thirty. He had better start back. Standing carefully, he returned to the rain gutter; it took him almost ten minutes to cover the distance to his room.
Once inside, he began to shake all over. He had done a dangerous thing, and he had gotten away with it. He lit a cigarette and reviewed what he had seen. It meant nothing to him—but perhaps Vascard could piece it together.<
br />
Carr leaned on his elbows, and fought to control his shuddering body. He had gotten away with it, he thought. That was something—with a little luck, he might escape as well. He could imagine Liseau’s face when he was told. Amazement, briefly replaced by irritation, and then the face would go blank. Orders would be given, calmly, coldly. Carr would be hunted.
But, with luck … He told himself: All he needed was a little luck.
Someone snapped on the light in his room.
Carr whirled and saw Liseau, standing by the door. In one hand he held a gun.
Chapter XXI
“CREDITABLE ACROBATICS, MR. CARR,” he said. “You surprise me. I would frankly not have thought you capable of it.”
Carr said nothing. How long had Liseau been there, standing quietly in the dark?
“I came up here quite by accident, to tell you that Josette regrets she cannot be with you tonight—and to ask you please to return the knife.” He smiled blandly. “Josette is a most carefully trained servant.”
An engine roared to life on the drive outside.
“In fact, there she goes now to Nice.” He looked curiously at Carr, as if he were unsure what to make of him. “Shall we go downstairs?”
Carr got up and left the room, feeling sick and weak, defeated. This man was ahead of him every step of the way, and he had been from the start. Carr had been a fool to try to beat him at his own game. This was no field for amateurs, he thought, feeling the gun touch him gently in the spine. Liseau was a professional—he never prodded, never shoved, never moved or acted roughly. He remained calmly, delicately, perfectly in control.
They went downstairs, and to his surprise, Carr was not taken into the living room. Instead, Liseau steered him outside to the drive. A guard was there, smoking a cigarette, and leaning against the fender of the Ferrari.
“Off the car.” Liseau’s voice was quiet but commanding, and the guard jumped up as if he had been stung.
“It’s not a bench, my friend. Next time, lean against the wall.” He turned to Carr. “I hate to see things misused, don’t you?”
Carr did not reply. He waited, passive and tired. The sight of the guard had shown him that his planned escape would have been foiled anyway—he would have never made it to the Dauphine.
“Cheer up, Mr. Carr. Things are not as bad as you think. Here are the keys to your car.” Liseau held them out, glinting in the moonlight. Carr could see clearly the cross and snake of the Alfa Romeo emblem. He took the keys slowly, almost reluctantly.
Liseau grinned in the dark, showing ghostly white teeth. He turned to the guard. “Help Mr. Carr put down the top of his car.” Carr looked at Liseau, who said, “Go ahead. You’ll want to enjoy the air on a fine night such as this.”
Carr went slowly to the car and helped unclip the black canvas top from the windshield and roll it back down behind the seat. He moved automatically, unable to think, unable to understand. He felt the cool, dewy canvas in his hands, and ran his fingers across the cold black leather of the newly exposed seats. He was confused, and he must have shown it.
“I don’t want you to be alarmed,” Liseau said. “I am always distressed by suspicious looks.” He smiled again and pointed down the drive. “When you get to the main road, you can turn left and return to Menton. You will pick up the Moyenne Corniche after a kilometer or so, and I think you can find your way from there.”
He held out his hand. Carr took it, feeling strange; the grip was warm, dry, and smooth. “It’s been very pleasant,” Liseau said. “I wish you a good trip back to the United States.”
Carr’s mind began to function. There was a catch somewhere; there had to be. “What about my clothes?”
“Oh, yes.” Liseau frowned, but did not seem very concerned. “We’ve forgotten those, haven’t we? Shall I forward them to American Express, New York?”
Carr nodded dumbly.
“Good. We’ll do that then. Good-bye, Mr. Carr.”
“Good-bye.” He got into the car, slipped out the choke, and flicked on the ignition. The light engine started immediately, the roar booming out into the night. In his rear-view mirror, Carr could see Liseau standing next to the guard. He backed the car around and started down the drive past Liseau, who waved amiably. Carr barely noticed him; he was listening to the sound of the engine. Was there a bomb under the hood? Had they loosened the steering mechanism, so it would give way on a turn and send him hurtling off the road?
But the car felt fine, and sounded good. The exhaust was a vigorous, healthy growl. He drove slowly down the drive, and as he went, he caught a glimpse of a small yellow car pulled over into the woods—Josette’s car? Then she hadn’t left the villa. Who had?
The gate lay ahead, open, but a guard stood by, rifle poised. Carr tensed his muscles. They might shoot him right here.
The guard saluted, smiled, and waved him through.
Carr pulled out onto the road, turned right—he was not about to follow Liseau’s directions—and headed off in second. He continued to listen to the engine, and to twist the wheel experimentally. He could detect nothing wrong. He shifted up to third, gaining speed. He was going sixty now, then seventy. The curves shot past; he took them with tires squealing.
He couldn’t believe it. He was free.
Should he go to Vascard, or Gorman? Vascard would be more sympathetic, but Vascard was a policeman. He could do nothing—he would be tied to the law. Carr had no proof, and no real information; Vascard would be unable to help. But Gorman was another matter altogether. Carr had the distinct feeling that Gorman knew exactly what was going on, and precisely how Carr fitted into things.
He pushed the speedometer up to eighty. The curves grew tighter; he cut them, starting outside, slipping in toward the rock wall, then out again. The road was deserted.
Abruptly he saw headlights in his rear-view mirror. Yellow lights—a French car. The car gained.
So this is it, he thought. They’ll pass me, and give me a blast from the machine gun. He should have known! Liseau would want the job done neatly, away from the villa. He increased his speed, but the headlights gained steadily. Closer, closer—and with a loud honk, the car swerved around and passed him.
It happened so fast, Carr didn’t have time to react; he barely saw the white Lotus Elan as it shot past him. There were a man and a girl inside. The girl waved gaily, without looking back at him.
Carr broke into a sweat, and slowed his car. He was being ridiculous, too nervous for his own good, too jumpy. He let the speedometer dip down to fifty, and held it there. He needed a cigarette. Fumbling in his breast pocket, he found one, and pushed it between dry lips. He depressed the cigarette lighter on the dash, and waited. His hands were shaking.
Another set of headlights behind. Carr did not increase his speed, but kept his eyes on the rear mirror, trying to discern what kind of car it was. The headlamps were low, spread wide—a big car. It came closer. A sedan of some kind.
The lighter clicked out, and Carr touched the glowing filament to his cigarette. His eyes went back to the mirror.
And suddenly, he caught a glint of the curved bumper on the blunt shark-nose of a Citroën.
He stepped on the accelerator.
Behind him, he heard a ping, then a slow whine. Another ping, whine. Off to one side came a sound like paper being torn—a hissing, ugly shredding sound.
They were shooting at him.
He was momentarily gripped by fear, but he forced himself to relax at the wheel. It was idiotic, shooting from a moving car. You couldn’t hit anything—the motion of the car would send your shots wildly askew. It was no wonder that the bullets were going into the road, and off to the sides.
He picked up speed.
The Citroën stayed with him, and the shooting continued. Three into the road behind, two spanging off the rear bumper. With a loud thunk! one passed into the trunk.
But then he remembered the Citroën suspension—the smooth, fine ride which cushioned even the heaviest bum
ps. No wonder they were using a Citroën: it was the finest, most advanced suspension in the world, with the axles set far apart, to get the maximum wheelbase out of the chassis, and the air-oil springing which was one of the engineering triumphs of the automobile industry. Shooting from a Citroën would be like shooting from a living-room couch.
He was painfully aware of his head and shoulders, lighted brightly in the lights of the following car. He was a simple target; his shadow was cast on the windshield in front of him. But they hadn’t hit him—they hadn’t even hit the glass.
Two more bullets ricocheted off the road, and another sang off his rear fender.
They were aiming low.
Why?
His car whipped around another curve, the Citroën right behind him. Two more shots in rapid succession bounced off his fender. One more into the trunk, low.
Why?
The noise of squealing rubber was loud in his ears. He cut the next corner sharply, barely missing the rock wall, and kept going. The engine roared into the night. The Citroën squealed through the curve after him.
Why?
Two more shots into the road. He could imagine the little puffs of concrete dust, and the white streak on the surface of the road that the bullets would leave. Shooting low, shooting low.
Why?
The tires!
It came to him in a flash. He was doing eighty-five—if a tire blew at this speed, he would lose all control, smashing into the rock face, or perhaps going into the low stone wall along the edge of the road. He could see the nose of the Alfa dipping as it crashed into the wall; then the rear end would lift up, slowly. The car would raise up and over the low wall, then bounce slowly down the hillside.
But Carr would not be with it. He would be thrown clear on impact, instantly killed. No wonder Liseau had made him take the top down. It all made sense now. Fiendishly clear sense. The police would find only the wreckage of a car, and the driver, who had no doubt been drinking or had fallen asleep at the wheel, dead without a mark of unnatural violence on him. A clear case of accidental death.
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