It was, in a way, brilliant.
Two more bullets whanged into his fender. It was only a matter of time before they hit the tire. He increased his speed.
The road curved gently downward. It was a good road, but it had not been made for speeds anywhere near one hundred miles an hour. Carr realized it; he felt his body pulled from side to side, and he felt the sickening skids at each sharp turn. Once, he skidded too far, and banged his rear end loudly into the wall—it bounced back, he regained control, and went on.
Sweat poured down his face, forcing him to blink his eyes rapidly. His hands were slippery, and his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel.
More speed.
The Citroën dropped back slightly, very slightly. They couldn’t maintain the pace, but neither could Carr. He knew it. It was only a question of which curve would catch him and finish him.
His lights illuminated the jagged rock wall, then swung out to nothing, then back onto the road. Night bugs splattered against the windshield. He maintained his speed, the wind roaring wildly in his ears, tugging at his hair.
He was putting more distance between himself and the Citroën. The big car dropped back a little more. He took another curve, and momentarily the yellow lights were lost behind the bend.
He had just one hope. A desperate, insane hope—but it might work, if he could only keep up his speed a little longer. The road continued down, the curves growing sharper, the pavement narrower. His eyes stung from the sweat; his shoulders were stiff with tension and strain. He locked his elbows and held the wheel stiff-armed; that was better.
Another twist in the road—he was cut off from the Citroën for a few seconds that time. Perhaps …
He increased his speed.
The speedometer went up to one-ten. The engine was working hard now, screaming like a tortured demon with the night wind, which bruised his ears, deafening him. He took the next curve sloppily, bouncing from the rock face to the stone wall, then miraculously back to the center of the road.
It shook him badly, but he kept his foot down. The road grew narrower still. That was good. Another curve coming up, a deadly one, sharp and blind. Good. He slowed slightly, then slammed on his brakes.
The car skidded, the rear end spinning forward. He turned a full circle, then stopped, the motor dead. The Alfa stood sideways, blocking the entire road.
He jumped out. He could hear the approaching Citroën, moving very fast. He ran over to the stone wall at the edge of the road and flung himself over.
He fell.
For a horrible moment he thought he would fall forever, but then he hit the ground, rolling, and bounced down the hillside until he was stopped by a tree that slammed into his spine. Dizzy, he groped for the trunk, clutched it, and held. He pulled himself upright. The slope was gentle and a few yards farther down, he could see the red-tiled roof of a villa in the moonlight.
Up on the road, there was a noisy metallic crash. The front end of the Citroën emerged over the low wall; broken glass tinkled down the hillside. Carr crawled up. As he had hoped, the Citroën had not had time. They had taken the curve too fast, coming hard upon Carr’s Alfa. The driver had not been able to touch his brakes before they hit. The front end of the French car was bashed in horribly, and the windshield was shattered; Carr’s little Alfa had been upended by the collision. Carr looked at the Citroën, looking for movement but not expecting any. No one could have survived that crash.
Suddenly, with a loud whoosh, the interior of the Citroën burst into flame. The entire cockpit of the car went up in bright red, silhouetting the doorposts and windows. Carr dropped down the slope again, waiting for the gas tank to go.
So that was the game. Hit the tires, force the victim’s car to crash, and then pitch in a Molotov cocktail as you went by. Very tidy, very natural, very accidental—by the time the police arrived.
The gas tank exploded with a roar and a rush of hot gas.
Carr climbed slowly down the hillside toward the villa.
A white-haired man in sandals and suspenders, carrying a newspaper, answered the door. He regarded Carr with unconcealed hostility and suspicion.
“Yes?”
“My car,” he said, pointing up to the road, “has been in an accident I must call someone. May I use your telephone?”
“The garages are closed now. It is night.” The old man stuck his head out the door and glanced up at the moon for confirmation.
“Yes, I know. I want to call a friend.”
“Yes?” The look remained suspicious, and the man continued to block the door.
“I will pay you for the call. Please.”
“Come in.”
Carr entered the room, lighted softly in pink. Pink wallpaper, pink lace curtains, and light coming through a pink lampshade. In one corner, a wrinkled old lady sat in a rocking chair, knitting.
“Good evening,” Carr said. The old woman looked at him strangely. For the first time, he became aware of his clothes—streaked with dirt from the fall—and his face, which he supposed was also dirty. He must look like a tramp.
“Voilà.” The man pointed to a phone, resting on a lace doily next to a pink couch. “You know the number?” His tone was wary.
“No.” Carr took the offered directory gratefully, and thumbed through it looking for Gorman. He found no listing, so he dialed the police. The old man’s eyes grew wide as he watched.
“Nice police. Bon soir.”
Very pleasant, Carr thought. “Good evening. May I speak with Captain Vascard?”
“He is not on duty.”
“Then could you give me his home number? It’s important.”
“Your name, please?”
A moment later, the number was given to him, and he dialed Vascard’s home. The phone rang seven times before it was answered.
“Allo.” The voice was strange, muffled.
“Vascard? Roger Carr here.”
“Mr. Carr.” A reproving pause. “I am eating.” Carr heard a loud swallow, and the voice was clearer. “You try my patience, my friend.”
“You’re not the only one.” He glanced at his watch. “But I need your help. You’d better send somebody up here—there’s been an automobile accident, and I think people have been killed.”
“You were involved, as usual?”
“I’ll explain later. I also need you to contact the consulate for me—I think this is a matter for them. Have somebody pick me up here.”
“Where is here?” Vascard asked patiently.
Carr put his hand over the phone. “Where is here?” he asked the old man.
“Eh?”
“The address. The street.”
“Ah. Villa Francine, Rue Ambrose Toine. The villa is named for my wife, Francine.” He nodded toward the woman in the corner, peacefully knitting.
“Villa Francine, Rue Ambrose Toine.”
“All right. That will be Menton police—I will notify them. Also the consulate. Good night, Mr. Carr.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it, please. I have resigned myself to you.”
“Ouch!”
“Oh, stop being such a sissy,” Ralph Gorman said, as he swabbed iodine on Roger Carr’s scraped face. They were sitting in Gorman’s kitchen, in his apartment in Cimiez. Gorman wore white tie and tails; he had been called back from a diplomatic function which he had been only too eager to leave. (“Emerging nations, you know—excellent canapés, but such thin skins.”)
He had fed Carr a piece of pastry, a cup of coffee, and a quick shot of brandy, and was now swabbing his cuts.
“We’ve been worried sick about you,” Gorman said. “Really, we have. Ever since you disappeared two days ago.”
“Three days ago.”
“Yes, right. Three days ago. Where have you been?”
“A prisoner in a villa.”
“How interesting.”
“I thought,” Carr said, “that you might be able to advise me on my next step.”
“It sounds quite bizarre,” Gorman said. “Quite extraordinary.”
“I’ve seen a man killed. A man named Perrani.”
“Astonishing.”
“Is that all you have to say? Ouch! Watch that stuff.”
“Sorry. Well, frankly, I don’t know what else to tell you. It seems terribly complicated, doesn’t it?”
Carr frowned unhappily. He was being given the run-around.
“Who owned this villa?” Gorman asked.
Carr shook his head. “No information,” he said, “until I hear your side of it.”
“My side of it?” Gorman put a wounded hand to his breast. “My side of it?”
“Yes.”
“Why, I’m as much in the dark as you are.”
“You make me sick,” a disgusted voice said. “Tell the poor bastard what’s going on. We need his help, and we haven’t got all night.” Vascard stepped out of the bedroom.
“Surprise,” Carr said.
“A votre service.”
“Vascard is Deuxième Bureau,” Gorman said unhappily. “You probably didn’t know.”
“Of course he didn’t know. Quit stalling and tell him what’s going on. He’s been kicked around, had his nose broken, been chased down highways—and you still insist on picking his brain without giving him a shred in return.”
Vascard turned to Carr. “It is well known,” he said, “that the Americans know nothing about Intelligence. Either they pay fortunes and get nothing back, or they expect the world for free.” He shook his head at Gorman. “Besides, you should be able to tell at a glance that this man does not care about shipments or murders. He is worried about a girl, aren’t you, Mr. Carr?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like—”
“A girl?” Gorman said.
“Liseau’s girl,” Vascard said.
“Liseau’s girl?” Gorman said.
“Try,” said Vascard patiently, “not to repeat the conversation. Tell Mr. Carr the problem. And let us see if we can do something about it.” He turned to Carr. “I have already sent out a squad to Liseau’s villa, on the assumption that we would manage to prefer charges of some sort. Would you testify to the murder of Perrani?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Then that is a start. I should receive a phone call at any moment. Meantime”—he smiled at Gorman—“tell him a story.”
Forty minutes later, Vascard said briskly, “Well, now that we have exchanged reminiscences, we can get down to business.”
Carr had listened with complete absorption as Gorman described the mixup with Morgan, the attempts on Jenning’s life, and something about the arms shipment. Carr had responded with a quick outline of the events of the past few days, including what he had heard from the rooftop.
The telephone rang, and Vascard answered it. He spoke rapidly for several minutes in French, and looked disappointed. When he hung up, he said, “That was my group at Liseau’s villa. It is deserted—they left rather hastily, it seems. But in any event, they are gone.”
He paced unhappily up and down the floor, then said: “This is going to be a very long night, and we had better get moving.”
“Tell me again,” Gorman said, “what you heard through the chimney.”
“Well,” Carr began, “someone mentioned Tribune R, and they were looking at a map showing a wiggly red loop, and—”
“Never mind,” Vascard interrupted, putting on his coat. “You can explain it to this simpleton on the way. We have less than fourteen hours before the start of the race.”
“The race?” Gorman said slowly.
“Of course. What did you think they were doing?—looking at the wiring diagram for a vacuum cleaner? They were checking the course. Let’s go.”
Within half an hour, Carr found himself in a darkened, stale-smelling room, smoking a cigarette and waiting for Vascard to show the first slide. The screen was blank, and irritatingly bright; his tongue was raw from too much smoking. He was very tired, with the complete exhaustion which penetrated even his bones, making them ache.
The screen was filled with blurred color, which gradually resolved itself into a picture of Le Scalpel, taken, Carr judged, with a long telephoto lens. There was considerable foreshortening. He saw three men standing in the sunlight.
“Do you recognize any of them?” Vascard asked.
“Liseau is the one on the left. The man in the middle is an Associate—I don’t know his name.”
“Ever seen the fellow on the right?”
Carr squinted. The picture was not very clear; the immense magnification was beyond the capacities of the film grain. “I’m not sure. He looks something like the ugly blond fellow who was trailing me all around.”
“His name is Ernst Brauer. He’s a German, does odd jobs. Dirty jobs.”
“Brauer? I think that’s the name they were toasting.”
“Probably,” Vascard said dryly. “Two weeks ago, he was living very high in Savona, near Genoa. Then he managed to duck us. He probably crosses the border frequently, using different passports all the time.”
There was a metallic click, and another picture flashed up. This one had been taken in downtown Nice, showing a man walking out of a nice-looking flat.
“Liseau’s office,” Vascard said. “Know the man?”
“He’s another of the Associates.”
“Antoine Gerard,” Gorman said. “The old devil.”
“That’s right. The legal arm of the Union Corse.”
“Yes,” Carr said. “He questioned me. They said he was a lawyer.”
“He is. A brilliant one,” Vascard said. His voice indicated no admiration.
Another picture. This one showed Liseau talking to a bearded man at a sidewalk café.
“Oh no!” groaned Gorman.
“What’s the matter?”
“My psychiatrist.”
“He’s an Associate,” Carr said.
“Voilà” said Vascard irritably. “The leak in our highly vaunted American consulate. How interesting.”
Gorman sat back and said nothing. He looked as if he wanted to cry.
Another picture. Carr stubbed out his cigarette, took one of Gorman’s Luckies, and looked up at the screen. It showed a man leaning against a railing with a strikingly beautiful girl on his arm. The girl was short and compact, with glossy black hair; her eyes had a fiery look. The man was much older, and looked to be in his late thirties—a vigorous, barrel-chested man with a broad smile and prematurely graying hair. He wore sandals, tan slacks, and a smug look on his face.
“Recognize him?”
“No.”
“That’s Victor Jenning.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“Number five, I believe, though it’s hard to keep track. The man is irrepressibly virile,” Vascard said. “This picture is two years old.”
“And he’s on number seven now?”
“Something like that.”
“Attractive,” Gorman said.
“I didn’t know you were so inclined,” Vascard said.
“I meant the girl.”
The picture changed. Another of Jenning, with a very young girl.
“Number three,” Vascard announced.
He clicked on to still another scene, taken in the Monaco port, showing Jenning holding onto the stays of a sailboat and talking to a woman.
“That’s her,” Carr said.
“Who?”
“The woman who was with the Associates tonight.”
“Are you sure?” Vascard asked.
“I think so. Do you have another picture?”
“Just a minute.” Vascard shuffled through his slides, selected one, and slipped it into the projector. It was a closeup showing Jenning and the woman getting out of a taxi in front of the Monte Carlo casino.
“That’s her, all right,” Carr said. She was tall and handsome, in a hard, rather bitchy way.
“Number seven, the latest. We don’t know much about her, except th
at she’s French Algerian, a pied noir. Jenning married her last year at just about this time. It’s interesting—I wonder if she was one of them all along.” He sighed. “Anyway, it certainly changes things.”
“You know,” Gorman said, “that those papers can be signed—”
“I know. We’ll pick her up tomorrow, during the race. Speaking of the race,” Vascard said, clicking to a slide, “here we are.” It was a map of Monaco, with a heavy green loop. “The course.”
Carr looked intently. It seemed to be the same loop as the one he had seen in red before.
“We use this slide to brief our men before the race—we always send a few over to help out with traffic. Now, look. As you know, the racecourse consists of public roads in the center of Monaco, cleared and converted. The circuit itself is laid out in an L-shape, running from the port up and around the casino, then back to the port. It begins here, at the port; the cars run east, then turn right up the hill and continue for a long straightaway. This is where Tribune R is located. At the end of the straightaway, there is a sharp turn, then another as the cars go around the casino. They come out to a short downhill stretch, pass three difficult turns, and emerge alongside the far end of the port. They pass through this tunnel—the Tunnel of Pigeons—and come out on a straightaway, a slight curve, then another straight stretch. Then they follow the course around to the front of the port, run one final hairpin, and return to the starting point. One hundred laps to the race, three kilometers a lap.”
There was a pause.
“Mr. Carr has told us that he overheard of Tribune R, the bleachers along the uphill stretch. It is a good choice, since there are relatively few places where the drivers attain high speeds on the Monaco course. The cars will be going nearly two hundred kilometers an hour at this point—one hundred twenty-five miles an hour. At the end of the straightaway is a curve, and they must slow to ninety miles an hour to negotiate it. Barriers will be erected at that point, of course, but a car out of control would still be serious. It would probably bounce over the barriers and roll down the hillside.” He indicated this on the map.
“However, we must take into account two other possibilities. The Associates may change their plans in the light of Carr’s escape. There are other places where the tires could be shot with excellent effect—here, just before the tunnel, or here, just outside the tunnel. The cars will be traveling over one hundred miles an hour at either point and, out of control, would probably plunge into the water—it’s happened before.”
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