Carr idly listened to the discussion. The first of the cars reappeared at the port, engines screaming down the straightaway. Brabham led, hard-pressed by Mollini in a red Ferrari. The pack was still tight, but beginning to string out.
With whines and grunts, the cars shifted down for the final turn and came up to the starting line.
The race had begun. Ninety-nine laps to go.
He could see the drivers quite clearly as they flashed past him, their faces stern, concentrating. They locked their elbows and held the wheel straight-arm. It reminded Carr of the night before, and he thought of Liseau and Anne. Did the doctor know where she was? Was she still alive? And could he find Liseau?
He looked up at the apartments, their rooftops and balconies jammed with spectators. Kids sat on the rooftops and hung their legs over the side.
With a devastating roar, the cars swung around once more, starting the third lap. He caught sight of Jenning, running fifteenth. He was smiling slightly as he drove.
Ninety minutes later, the race was half over. Carr saw Brabham’s pit crew hold out a blackboard as the cars whizzed by; written in white chalk were the numbers 49 and 4—forty-nine laps to go, in fourth place. Brabham, with ignition trouble, had dropped back and Mollini’s Ferrari had held the lead for the last twelve laps. Stewart, in second place, was barely holding his own against John Surtees. The crowd was beginning to wonder when Surtees would make his bid. And Graham Hill, still in fifth place, three seconds behind Brabham, was causing comment.
One car had already left the race; Connie Richards had been forced out when his Honda developed transmission trouble. Jenning had had one slow lap because of mechanical difficulties, but had rallied and was still in the race.
The noise was overpowering. Carr’s ears were numbed; he strained to catch the words of the announcer, often obliterated by the scream of passing cars. He expected at any minute to hear the news of tragedy for car 14. Brauer had done nothing yet—probably he was waiting until late in the race, when Jenning would be exhausted, his reflexes slow. That would be the time.
He looked at the crowds, and briefly caught sight of Vascard, who waved grimly and disappeared. The cars went into the sixtieth lap.
He walked up toward the casino, and found a place where he could see the cars taking the curves. The engines growled and grunted as the drivers shifted down. The course of a thousand curves, he thought again—a circuit almost continuously twisting, sharp, unbanked, steeply sloping up or down. Hellish.
He did not see Liseau. He often turned up to the apartments and hotels, scanning the faces with his binoculars. He never once saw his man. Discouraged, he worked his way back toward the port.
Seventieth lap. Less than an hour to go in the race.
Carter Blakely crashed into the barricade at the Virage des Gazomètres, the loudspeaker announced. There was no word on the driver, but the car was definitely out of the race. A few minutes later, the loudspeaker said that Blakley was unhurt. Carr had been unable to see any of it from where he was standing.
Seventy-five laps.
The drivers showed the strain, and the lineups shifted twice. It was now Mollini, Surtees, and Hill running within two seconds of each other. Surtees, the Ferrari factory team leader, wanted to pass his teammate Mollini; an official waved a blue flag indicating this to Mollini, who ignored the signal for three laps. Finally Surtees took the lead. Hill, at number three, set a lap record and cut the gap between himself and Mollini to half a second.
On the eightieth lap, Jenning held fourteenth place—last place, since two cars were out. He drove doggedly, his face tense and tight-lipped beneath his goggles. The leaders had long since lapped him.
Carr kept looking for Liseau, with a growing feeling of desperation. In less than forty minutes, the race would end and one hundred thousand people would swarm down from the bleachers into the streets. Liseau would go with them. He would escape, coolly and quietly, from under the noses of the police—the crowd was his ally, and his ultimate protection.
The leaders tore down the straightaway on the eighty-seventh lap, Hill in second position behind Surtees. Carr looked down the road at the other autos as they emerged from the tunnel. Mollini was third, Stewart was fourth. All of them had lapped Jenning, who now came out of the tunnel, down the straightaway.
Without warning, Jenning’s car gave a frightful roar, swerved violently, and smashed into the barricade at the water’s edge. A cloud of bright yellow straw lifted into the air as the car bounced up, twisted sickeningly, and slapped upside down into the water. Spectators rose instantly; a woman screamed.
For a moment the four wheels and dirty underbelly of the car were visible above the surface of the water, and then it sank. A police motorboat churned across the port to the place where bubbles still rose. Carr waited for Jenning’s head to bob up, but it did not.
“Victor Jenning, in car 14, has gone into the water at the Chicane curve. We have no word on the driver’s condition.”
At the pits, an official waved a white flag at the drivers, telling them an ambulance was on the course. At the scene of the accident, men were hastily sweeping straw off the track. The ambulance was parked at the water’s edge, waiting, the stretcher out and ready. Two divers with aqualungs plunged in from the police boat. Carr waited, but they did not come up for several minutes.
Sickened, he turned away from the race. Liseau had won, exactly according to plan. It was all over now, all finished.
Aimlessly, Carr walked up the narrow streets of Monaco, ignoring everything around him. He felt disgusted, nauseated. As he traveled farther from the course, he came onto deserted streets, shops and cafés closed. The noise of the race receded behind him, becoming a muffled roar, like faraway ocean breakers.
He listened to his footsteps echo as he walked past the rows of parked cars. There were thousands of cars here for the race, providing transport for the thousands of people who would unwittingly help Liseau to escape. Carr noticed them idly—the expensive Citroëns and Mercedes; the occasional aristocratic Maserati; the modest little VW’s and Simcas.
And then he saw a yellow Renault, with leopard seat covers. A pair of hand-tooled driving gloves were draped over the wheel.
Chapter XXIII
HE REACTED SLOWLY, WALKING around the car in disbelief. It didn’t seem possible, and yet—he was sure of it. Bending over, he quickly let out the air in the two front tires. Then he straightened and dropped back into a nearby alley.
He did not have long to wait. Within minutes, Liseau appeared at the far end of the street, walking briskly, not looking around him. He was a man in a hurry, but still cool, still confident. Liseau unlocked the Renault, got in, and started the engine. Carr stepped out and walked over to the window.
“You have a couple of flats, you know. Both front tires. Very, very flat.”
Liseau looked at him from behind the steering wheel and said nothing. He appeared only mildly surprised. My God, he has self-control, Carr thought.
“How did you plan to go, Liseau? Plane, boat, what? Never mind it doesn’t matter. Let’s just wait here until the police arrive.” He took out his whistle. “They even gave me this little thing to speed matters along. Thoughtful of them, wasn’t it?”
He raised the whistle to his lips, and felt something cold in his stomach. He looked down at the gun.
“Don’t,” Liseau said. “Drop it on the ground and step back.”
“You wouldn’t risk a shot, Liseau. They’d be all over you in a minute—and you with your hands reeking of cordite.”
“That is why I am wearing gloves, and using this rubber baffle silencer. It makes no sound louder than the dick of the pin against the cartridge.”
Carr looked again at the gun. It was a pistol, with a long, dull black extension.
“Step back,” Liseau said. “Put your hands in your pockets, and act naturally. You are taking a little walk.”
Carr stepped back. “Give up, Liseau. You’ve had it. The race is
almost over.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Liseau got out of the car and pointed up the deserted street. There was nobody in sight. “It will not be a long walk, Mr. Carr. Ernst will accompany you.”
Carr whirled. The German was behind him, the pig-faced one. He had come up silent as a cat.
“The park,” Liseau said to Ernst. “Do it quickly.” The German nodded. Liseau walked to the next parked car, a black Citroën, unlocked it, and started the engine. “How nice to have known you, Mr. Carr.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“As a matter of fact, I am going now to take care of her. I can’t see spending the money for a plane ticket for her, can you?”
“Where is she?”
Liseau laughed. “Where do you think?” And with that, he drove off. Carr felt something push him in the back, rather roughly.
“Move,” Ernst Brauer said.
They walked.
Brauer was being careful. He walked alongside Carr, not touching him, and he kept the gun out of Carr’s vision. Carr didn’t dare take a swing—he could not be sure where the gun was.
He tried to think of a way out. There always was one in the movies, he thought grimly.
They approached a policeman, lounging against a lamp post, obviously disconsolate that he had drawn traffic duty which kept him away from the race. There was no traffic at all.
“The gun is now in my pocket,” Brauer said. “Do not speak to our friend up there. I would not like to ruin my suit, or his.”
Carr kept walking. As they passed, the policeman nodded affably to them. Brauer nodded back. They continued, hearing the roar of the crowds and the cars on the slopes below.
“Where’s the girl?” Carr asked.
Brauer only laughed. They came into a small, green, neatly kept park. “Sit down on that bench over there.” The bench stood in a cheerful patch of sunlight. A discarded newspaper lay at one corner. Birds chirped, and the noise of the race seemed very far away.
Carr sat down.
“This is satisfactory,” the German said. “After, I will put the newspaper over your head. To anyone going by, you will simply be a drunk fallen asleep. It is unusual in Monaco, but on a day such as this, some of the worst types come into the city.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Lie down, Herr Carr.”
“You’ll never get away with this, Brauer.” He remained sitting, his mind racing frantically, looking for a way out. Nothing came to him.
“Sit or lie—it is all the same. I will adjust your position afterward.” Carr saw the finger tightening on the trigger.
“Stop!” It was a gruff voice, from the trees to the left.
Brauer turned to look. Carr jumped for the gun. It fired just as his hand closed over Brauer’s; he saw the flames spurt and heard the report loud in his ears. His left leg was kicked back, and he toppled over. The gun fired again, this time into the dirt path near his face. There was another shot.
Carr rolled on the ground, saw Brauer’s legs, and grabbed them. The German fell easily—too easily, Carr thought as he threw himself on the man, scrambling for the gun. It fell out of Brauer’s fingers.
Carr looked down at the face. The eyes were rolled back, as if trying to peer into the skull. He was lying on a dead man.
He heard running feet on the path. It was Vascard. He came up just as Carr staggered to his feet and discovered that his left leg was bleeding.
“Nice shot,” Carr said.
Vascard was panting. “Twenty meters, not bad,” he said. “Is he alive?”
“No.”
“Damn. That ruins everything.” Vascard frowned. “Where is Liseau?”
“He got away.” Carr thought—away to Anne. Liseau’s parting words came back to him. Where did he think she was?
Where did he think?
More policemen were running up. Carr felt weak, giddy from his leg. His trouser, soaked in blood, clung heavily to him.
Where did he think?
And suddenly, in a burst of clarity, he knew.
Chapter XXIV
HE SNATCHED UP BRAUER’S gun and began to run. The gun seemed heavy in his hands.
“Hey!” Vascard said. “Where are you going? You have a wounded leg!”
Carr didn’t listen. He was running, trying to figure out how the safety on the gun worked. He had never fired a gun before. Well, he thought, a first time for everything.
If he was only in time.
He jumped into the first cab he saw. The driver was frightened. Carr shoved the gun in his face, and gave directions. The cabby drove.
“Faster!” shouted Carr, putting the gun behind the man’s ear. The driver, shaken, stepped on the gas. They sped toward Villefranche.
If only he was in time.
Birds chirped. The flowers were gay and colorful. Carr hobbled up the gravel path. Ahead of him, the Villa Perrani—his villa, he thought angrily—was silent. A black Citroën was parked before the front steps.
His foot throbbed murderously. He had no clear idea what he was going to do. He walked forward, painfully slowly, until he reached the windows. He looked into the library.
Anne was there, tied to a chair. Liseau was walking back and forth, hands behind his back, holding the gun delicately. He was talking to her. Anne’s face was white.
He went up the steps, leaving a little trail of red, and went silently inside, to the vast hallway. He could hear a soft voice through the doors that led to the library. He paused.
Roger Carr had no faith in his ability at unarmed combat. He had never won a fight in his entire life. When he was ten, eight-year-old kids had picked on him. What could he do now?
He knocked on the door.
When Liseau opened it, he would drill him. That was the answer. Footsteps were moving toward the door. The handle turned. He gripped the gun tightly. The door opened slightly, then more.
Anne.
He nearly shot her. It was only at the last moment that he lowered the barrel, firing stupidly into the wooden floor. The gun jumped out of his hand. God, it had a kick.
Anne stepped back. Liseau stood there, the gun aimed at Carr’s stomach.
“How nice to see you again, Mr. Carr.”
Anne screamed, and fainted.
Carr fell upon his gun.
Near his ear, he saw wood chips fly. There was no sound of a shot—Liseau was using a silencer. Carr got the gun and fired it.
He saw Liseau spin and tumble over.
Did it, Carr thought. Hot damn.
Moments later, Liseau was on his feet, blood dripping from his wrist. He held the gun loosely in his other hand. His face was tired, defeated.
“I surrender,” he said.
“Drop the gun.”
“As you wish.” Liseau shrugged and fired quickly. No sound, just whistling air past Carr’s head.
Carr flung himself behind a couch. Liseau overturned a table.
Carr heard a soft thunk thunk as two bullets plowed into the stuffing of the couch. He fired at the table, but missed it entirely in his excitement.
Liseau leaped for the door. Carr fired twice, but missed again. Liseau was out in the hallway. Carr heard feet running up the stairs to the second floor.
Anne came to, and looked at him through the smoke in the room. “Are you all right?” she said.
“Yes.”
“You’re bleeding,” she said, pointing to his leg.
“Don’t worry.” He had forgotten all about it.
“Is Liseau …?”
“No. He’s upstairs.”
Carr dashed out into the hall and ran for the stairs. As he ran, a chip of marble jumped up from the railing. He dropped down. Another chip sprang up with a whing! He saw Liseau at the top of the stairs, and fired once.
A bullet brought a groan of pain. He’d hit something—or maybe Liseau was faking. Carr moved up the stairs, sheltering himself behind the heavy marble banister. When he reached the second floor, it was silent. Crouched, he listened in
tently, and heard a noise in the bedroom down the hall.
Cautiously, he went down the hall. He looked into the bedroom where he had heard the sound. Empty. And then behind him, a voice saying, “Good-bye, Mr. Carr.”
Carr whirled. Somehow, Liseau was behind him. The gun was aimed directly at Carr’s heart; it couldn’t miss.
Click.
Carr looked at the gun.
Liseau fired again, suddenly afraid.
Click.
“Isn’t that a shame?” Carr said. “Very inconvenient.”
His own hand closed on the trigger.
“Please,” Liseau said. “I’ll pay—”
“Sorry,” Carr said.
He squeezed.
Click.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he said, and flung his gun at Liseau. The heavy Luger caught the doctor right in the mouth, and he staggered backward. Carr jumped forward. He would strangle him with his bare hands.
Liseau stood, gasping, against the wall. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew something shiny. Carr stopped.
It was a scalpel.
“I always carry one,” Liseau said, advancing. One wrist dangled limply, dripping blood. The other held the scalpel. “So useful.”
Carr stepped back cautiously. Could you throw a knife like that? He didn’t think so. He watched Liseau’s hand.
“I will draw and quarter you, Mr. Carr. I will cut out your guts and stuff them into your mouth.”
Carr moved backward. Liseau advanced.
“You will taste your own intestines, warm between your teeth.”
Carr felt the wall behind him. Liseau still moved forward. Closer, then closer, leading with the glinting sharp blade of the scalpel.
“Hungry?”
Carr kicked, hard, upward. The scalpel slashed his ankle, but his foot struck solidly between Liseau’s legs.
The doctor staggered back. There was a bureau nearby; bottles and tubes stood on a dresser. Carr grabbed them and threw them at Liseau. He fell.
Carr was on him.
Liseau rolled, and pushed Carr aside. He scrambled to his feet, panting. His eyes were wide, his face pale. He was losing a lot of blood from that wrist, Carr thought. He himself was dizzy and weak from his leg.
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