1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal

by James Hadley Chase

“I am.” He regarded her. She looked very out of place in the blazing sunshine in her nurse’s uniform. He struggled to his feet.

  “You can’t dress that way in this heat. Get yourself a sun suit. Dorey will pay. Anyway, come to think of it, you haven’t anything, have you? I bet you haven’t even a lipstick?”

  “No, I haven’t, but I’ll manage,” Ginny said, regarding him wistfully. “There are some things I need for her. I have a list here.”

  “What’s your other name, baby?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Ginny.”

  “Fine. Now listen, Ginny, relax. I want you to enjoy this visit as I intend to enjoy it.” He raised his voice, “Hey, Diallo!”

  A moment later the big coloured man, his face creased in smiles, came hurrying out onto the balcony.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I want you to take Nurse Roche into Nice right away. She’s got some things to get for our patient. She is also going to buy herself an outfit. Have you any money?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Dorey arranged with the bank I could have money.”

  “Then you go along to the bank and get a lot of money and let Nurse Roche fix herself up. Right?”

  “Anything you say, sir.”

  Girland smiled at Ginny who was regarding him with round eyes.

  “Go ahead, Ginny. I’ll watch the patient. Have yourself a ball. You are now the guest of the United States of America.”

  * * *

  An elderly woman, wearing a tiny flowered hat, an emerald green dress and a mink stole rattled the door handle of Sadu Mitchell’s shop on Rue de Rivoli. The door remained locked.

  The steel grille drawn over the shop window and the darkness beyond the glass door finally convinced her that the shop was shut. She looked with exasperation at her watch. The time was 10.10 a.m.

  Sadu, sitting in the room behind the shop, heard the rattling and he moved uneasily, frowning. He hated to lose a customer, but Yet-Sen, sitting opposite him, his yellow face tight with suppressed rage, Pearl leaning on the back of a chair and Jo-Jo in a corner, nibbling his nails, brought him back to the seriousness of the situation.

  “This woman should have been dead by now,” Yet-Sen said as the door handle ceased to rattle. “Pekin will be displeased. I am displeased.”

  “She could have been dead last night,” Sadu said, “but Dorey moved too quickly for us. How were we to know he would send the woman to the South of France? You will admit we were quick to find that out.”

  Yet-Sen who knew who had been quick, gave Pearl an approving glance.

  “This time there must be no mistake,” he said. “You are leaving at once?”

  “We are catching the 1.55 p.m. plane to Nice,” Sadu said. “We are lucky to get on it.”

  “You will have a car waiting?”

  “I have a Hertz rental laid on.”

  Yet-Sen turned to Pearl.

  “Very soon Dorey will find the microphone. He will eventually suspect Wolfert. Do you need this man anymore? If he is arrested, he will talk.”

  “I don’t need him,” Pearl said in a cold, flat voice.

  “Then that is settled. Let me warn you all, do not make a second mistake. If such a mistake does occur, an example will be made.”

  He left by the back entrance and getting into a waiting car, he was driven to the Chinese Embassy. He went to his office and picked up the telephone receiver. He spoke in soft Cantonese. The subject of this conversation over the telephone arrived at his small, but luxurious villa on the lie d’Or, the garden of which ran down to the banks of the Loire.

  * * *

  Wolfert had driven down in his Mercedes sports coupe a little recklessly as when he had returned to his apartment, he had again drunk three stiff brandies.

  During the drive down, it had occurred to him that sooner or later Dorey or one of his staff would discover the limpet microphone. What worried him was the sudden thought that they could find his fingerprints on the instrument.

  Sweating and very uneasy, he parked the car in the garage, lifted out his suitcase, then walked across to the villa. He unlocked the front door and entered.

  Wolfert employed a woman from the village to keep the place clean, but she only came when he was in Paris. He liked to have the villa to himself over the weekends. It was convenient when a girl or maybe two girls came to share the weekend with him.

  Setting down the suitcase, he walked into the big lounge and threw open the french windows. Then he went to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself a large brandy. Although it was approaching lunchtime, he wasn’t hungry . . . just worried.

  He sat down, sipped his drink and again thought about the microphone. Would it be possible, he wondered, to get the microphone back? Certainly not until Monday. He would have to think of some excuse to call on Dorey on Monday morning, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. He relaxed a little. The brandy was soothing. He would leave for Paris by tomorrow afternoon, he decided. In the meantime what was he to do to pass the time?

  There was that girl with the mole on her cheek he had met the other week at that dreary cellar club. She had given him her telephone number. She might prove amusing. He wondered if she would come down for the weekend. It was worth a try. He finished his drink, got to his feet and walked over to the telephone.

  As he reached for the receiver, he paused.

  From the open french windows he had a view of his short curving drive. Coming up the drive was a shabby Fiat 500 which pulled up outside his front door.

  Frowning, puzzled, Wolfert peered through a side window. A girl got out of the car and he immediately eyed her with interest.

  She was wearing a black close-fitting sweater, skintight white capri pants and sandals. Her black hair fell to her shoulders. He couldn’t see her face from where he was standing, but his eyes travelled down her long back and the lust in him stirred.

  The girl took from the car a shabby holdall, then walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

  Wolfert finished his drink, wiped his sweating hands on his handkerchief and walked to the door. He opened it.

  It came as a little shock to see the girl was Chinese, but he was now sufficiently drunk not to be suspicious.

  For a Chinese girl, she was extremely attractive, he thought: a little too thin perhaps and the nose a little flat, but his glassy eyes moved over her body. Nothing to complain about there.

  He judged rightly that she was a Cantonese and, smiling, he said in the dialect, “What do you want here, my pretty?”

  “You speak my language?” The black, almond-shaped eyes regarded him expressionlessly, but Wolfert was used to that.

  “Certainly. Is there something I can do for you?”

  She bent and opened her holdall. Wolfert’s eyes regarded her charming little derriere sharply outlined by the stretched pants and he drew in an unsteady breath.

  She took from the holdall a vulgar looking, giant size packet of Pic-White, the detergent soap he had seen so often advertised in the press and on television.

  “I would like to give you this,” the girl said and offered him the packet.

  “You are very kind, but I don’t need it,” Wolfert said. “I never use that sort of thing. What are you doing in France?”

  The girl regarded him with her deadpan expression.

  “I am trying to make a living. If you don’t take it, then I will have more work to do. I have to get rid of all these packets before I get paid.”

  “That’s too bad. Well, come in. Let’s talk about it,” Wolfert said, opening the door wide.

  “No, thank you. I am very busy. I can’t come in. Thank you.”

  “But why not? You can leave all your packets with me. I will throw them away for you. That way, you will get your money quickly.”

  The girl giggled. Wolfert knowing the Chinese knew she was embarrassed.

  “Come along,” he said. “Come in. I would like you to tell me about yourself.”

  She shook her head and pushed the packe
t into his hand. He had taken it before he could stop himself. Now he was getting a little annoyed.

  “Oh come in!” He wasn’t used to being refused. “You are not afraid of me, are you? Besides, we could amuse each other.” He leered at her. “A little girl like you could use a hundred francs, couldn’t you?”

  She bent and closed the holdall. Then picking it up, she regarded him with such cold contempt that Wolfert, clutching the packet of Pic-White retreated a step. Then she turned and walked back to her car. She got in and drove away.

  Wolfert watched the little car disappear around the bend in the drive. He grimaced. Obviously this wasn’t to be his lucky day, he thought. He regarded the packet of detergent and shrugged.

  Maybe his cleaner could use it. He took it into the kitchen and set it down on the table.

  Well, now, he said to himself, this girl from the cellar club.

  As he started towards the lounge, the bomb concealed in the detergent packet exploded. It blew out all the windows of the Villa. It also blew Nicolas Wolfert into several messy pieces.

  * * *

  It was sheer bad luck that Jean Redoun, a rabid Communist, who worked as a luggage porter at Orly airport and who was in the pay of the Soviet Embassy should spot Jack Kerman as he came through the Customs barrier after his flight from Nice.

  Redoun, a bitter-faced, elderly man, had a good memory. He had spent many hours going through a photograph album at the Soviet Embassy examining photographs of men and women in whom the Soviets were interested. He received a hundred francs for any information he telephoned to the Embassy, whether or not the information was useful. So, having seen Kerman without luggage come briskly through the Customs barrier, and knowing he was a man the Embassy was interested in, he went to the nearest telephone booth and put through his call.

  The information was immediately conveyed to Malik.

  Smernoff was with him and the two men looked at each other.

  “Kerman is Dorey’s special agent,” Malik said, his thick, strong fingers playing with a Biro pen. “If Dorey hasn’t a great deal of confidence in Girland, he would call on Kerman. Kerman has returned from Nice without luggage. That means he could have driven down there with Girland and come back by plane. That makes sense. Girland and the woman could be there. Make inquiries, Boris. This is our only lead.”

  Smernoff nodded. He left the office. Malik continued to play with the Biro pen.

  He was thinking the next time he met Girland, he wouldn’t hesitate. This wastrel was proving himself more than a nuisance.

  He would kill him. How he wished he had done so when he had had him in the ambulance. Well, next time, he would make no mistake.

  His mind switched to Dorey. Merna Dorinska had been right.

  He had underestimated Dorey. Well, that was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat.

  Dorey would have been flattered if he had known these thoughts. He was at this time reading a routine file, satisfied that he had now taken every precaution of guarding Erica Olsen and still a little irritated with his talk with Girland.

  His intercom buzzed.

  He flicked down the switch.

  “What is it?”

  “Captain O’Halloran wants you. He’s here,” Marcia Davis told him.

  “Let him in.” Dorey flicked up the switch and pushed aside his file.

  O’Halloran came in. With him was a tall, lean man who Dorey knew to be O’Halloran’s top investigator. His name was Joe Danbridge.

  “What’s it now?” Dorey asked impatiently.

  “You have a bug in here,” O’Halloran said. “We have been running a check and we get an affirmative signal from your office.”

  Dorey stiffened.

  “That’s impossible. The office is always checked before I arrive. No one has been here. What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve got one,” O’Halloran said. “There’s no mistake. There’s a bug somewhere in here.”

  “Go ahead and find it,” Dorey said and moved out of his chair.

  He knew Danbridge. This man never made a mistake. While the search was in progress, he thought quickly back on his various telephone conversations during the morning. There had only been one of importance: his call to Washington.

  It took Danbridge exactly six minutes to locate the limpet microphone.

  “Here it is,” he said, pointing to the under shelf of the desk.

  Dorey bent to stare at the small betrayer, then he straightened.

  An unwired microphone couldn’t function without a powerful receiving set not far away.

  “I’ve already contacted Inspector Dulay,” O’Halloran said as if reading Dorey’s thoughts. “He’s checking. Who has been here this morning?”

  “Wolfert, Sam Bentley, and Merl Jackson.”

  “Wolfert? Bentley and Jackson are out.”

  “Wolfert has gone down to his place at Amboise,” Dorey said. “You handle this, Tim. I must alert Girland. Someone now knows where he is. Not that I’m worrying. They can’t get near them. I have six of your men down there and the place is so situated, they can’t be got at. Still, I must alert him,” and he reached for the telephone.

  An hour later, while Sadu Mitchell, Pearl Kuo and Jo-Jo Chandy were driving to Orly airport, Inspector Jean Dulay of the Sûreté together with a young gendarme arrived at Dorey’s office.

  O’Halloran was still there. Danbridge had confirmed that the fingerprints surrounding the microphone had been Wolfert’s.

  A fast car was racing down to Amboise with two Security officers to make the arrest.

  The gendarme, nervous and sweating, under the glaring eyes of his superior, told of the Renault that had broken down near the U.S. Embassy at 09.00 hrs. that morning.

  Dorey became very alert when the gendarme described Sadu Mitchell.

  “He had Chinese eyes, sir,” the gendarme said. “I thought he was a tourist. There was a woman with him: a Vietnamese I think. She could have been Chinese. She was wearing a deaf aid.”

  Dorey smiled grimly. They must be the two who had listened in to his conversation with Washington. The deaf aid would be hooked to a receiving set. So now he had not only Malik to worry about, but the Chinese also had taken the field.

  “I want those two found,” he said to Dulay.

  “At least he remembers the number of the car,” Dulay said, glaring at the gendarme. “We are checking now.”

  Twenty minutes later, it was found the car had been hired by Sadu Mitchell, the owner of a boutique on the Rue de Rivoli.

  By the time the Nice Police had been alerted, Sadu and his party had passed through the police barrier at Nice Airport and were heading for Eze.

  Chapter Five

  She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Ginny said wistfully.

  She and Girland were standing side by side by the sleeping woman’s bed.

  “I guess,” Girland said and moved away.

  She was certainly beautiful, he thought. It made him a little uneasy that he was to pretend to be her husband. He realised suddenly that he was not looking forward to the moment when she recovered consciousness.

  “How is she going?” he asked, looking out of the window.

  “All right. Sometime tonight she will wake up,” Ginny said.

  “Her pulse beat is returning to normal. I’d say around two or three in the morning.”

  Girland moved to the door. Together they went down to the terrace. The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, turning the sky and the sea a dark, vivid red. Girland was still wearing shorts and sandals, and Ginny, now in a white cotton frock, walked to the balustrade of the terrace and rested her hands on the hot stone. She looked down at the twinkling lights of Eze village, then beyond at the darkening outline of Cap Ferrat.

  “I wish I were as beautiful as she is,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “I would love to be blonde.” She turned, resting her small hips against the balustrade and looked at Girland, “Do you think I would look better if I were a blonde?”<
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  Girland groaned silently.

  “Why not buy a blonde wig and then you’ll know,” he said.

  Women’s problems about their beauty bored him. To him a woman was either beautiful or not. “You look lovely as you are.”

  He looked at his watch. “I must have a word with Sergeant O’Leary. I won’t be long.”

  As he walked down the steps into the garden, Ginny looked after him. His strong muscular shoulders, his straight back, his massive suntan gave her a little pang. She now discovered she was falling in love with him and this realisation came as a shock to her. She watched him out of sight, then turning abruptly, she hurried into the villa and up to her room.

  Girland found O’Leary sitting on a stool outside the lodge.

  Near him was the black Alsatian dog which stiffened at Girland’s approach. Girland walked straight up to the dog and put his hand around the dog’s black muzzle.

  O’Leary caught his breath sharply and began to get to his feet.

  “Hello, chum,” Girland said, looking straight into the dog’s eyes.

  The dog regarded him, then pushed its muzzle deeper into Girland’s hands.

  “Hell!” O’Leary said, relaxing. “You gave me a fright. I thought you were going to lose your hand. That dog’s vicious.”

  Girland continued to caress the dog.

  “I like dogs,” he said. “They seem to like me.” He gave the dog a final pat and then sat on a rock by O’Leary’s side. “Looks like we have the yellow boys as well as the Commies to watch out for.”

  “Yeah. Let them all come,” O’Leary said indifferently. “We can handle them. There was a guy here around a couple of hours back. He wanted to know if this was Lord Beaverbrook’s old home. I didn’t dig for him. Beaverbrook had a place further down the coast, didn’t he?”

  “Cap d’Ail. Who was this guy?”

  “Search me. A beatnik: dirty, young. I told him to beat it . . . he did.”

  Girland rubbed the side of his nose.

  “Look, O’Leary, suppose they threw a bomb at this gate . . . they could get in, couldn’t they?”

  “Sure they could, but it wouldn’t get them anywhere. I have two boys at the head of the drive, nicely placed and concealed with machine guns. We can’t get taken from behind. All we have to bother about is our front, and by the time they get those gates down, we’ll be ready for them.”