1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal (16 page)

Jo-Jo grunted, moved past Sadu and continued on down the path. Sadu turned and began to climb back to the road. He was lucky. A long line of rubberneck buses were passing and Fairfax, trying to get a change of programme on the receiving set had completely forgotten the two men taking photographs.

Jo-Jo now reached a spot where he could look down at the Villa’s terrace which was deserted. He dropped his haversack and squatting on his heels, he rested his back against a tree. He felt concealed and safe. He spent the next few minutes assembling the rifle. He took aim at the terrace. The telescopic sight was so powerful he could easily make out the cracks in the paving stones.

Satisfied, he loaded the gun, then with the gun across his knees, he settled down to wait.

While he waited, Henri Dumaine who ran a successful Insurance and Estate Agency business in Eze village was regarding Petrovka without much interest. He did not think this young, shabbily dressed man could have enough money to buy land in his district, but at the same time, he told himself, he might be acting as an agent for someone with money so he decided to be helpful.

“Yes, of course, I know Monsieur Dorey’s villa,” he said. “There are no villas in this district I do not know. You are interested in buying land above the villa?”

“Yes,” Petrovka said. He had already been out to the Grande Corniche and he had seen the Jeep and the soldier. He had decided it was unsafe to search for a path with the soldier on guard, and in desperation, he had gone to the Estate Agent.

“Well, it is not impossible, of course. There is land for sale there, but I should tell you there is no water.”

“That could be arranged,” Petrovka said in his careful French. “I would like to look at the land. Is there a path down to the Villa?”

“There was a path,” Dumaine told him. “At least, I think so.”

He got up and crossed to his filing cabinet. He took from it a number of sketch maps. “Yes, indeed, but I don’t advise you to make use of it. It is dangerous. No one ever uses it now, and the soil must be loose.”

“Could I see the map?” Petrovka asked, sweat breaking out under his arms. So he had failed! he was thinking. There was a path and he had told Malik there was no path.

Shrugging, Dumaine handed the map across the desk.

Petrovka studied it. He saw at a glance that he had passed the opening to the path which was close to where the Jeep had been parked.

He made a mental note of the opening down to the path, then returned the map.

“It might be interesting,” he said and got to his feet. “I will let you know.”

Dumaine was scarcely able to disguise his disgust.

“As you will, monsieur,” he said, rose, bowed, shook hands and watched Petrovka depart.

Petrovka drove back to the Grande Corniche. He was uneasy and unhappy. He knew he had wasted valuable time. Malik would be waiting impatiently for his report. But since the path did exist, he must get details.

The traffic had slackened and he drove past the Jeep without difficulty. A few metres farther on, there was a lay-by. He pulled into it and turned off the car’s engine.

There was now this problem of exploring the path without the sentry seeing him. He got out of the car and walked briskly back along the narrow sidewalk until he reached the bend in the road.

Then waiting until there was a lull in the traffic, he climbed over the wall and lowered himself down onto the mountainside. He had a dangerous and difficult scramble to where the path was, but he managed it. Every now and then, his feet slipped, and he thought he was going to fall, but by grabbing a shrub here and thudding against a tree trunk there, he finally managed to reach the path without being seen.

He began a cautious descent.

Relaxing in the sun, Jo-Jo heard him coming. His first warning was a stone that came rattling past him. He got silently to his feet, snatched up the haversack and moved off the path into the thick undergrowth. He waited, crouching, his lips drawn off his discoloured teeth, his finger around the trigger of his gun.

Then he saw Petrovka, a Mauser 7.63 mm gun in his hand, coming cautiously down the path. Jo-Jo lifted the rifle. It was an easy shot. The .22 bullet smashed into Petrovka’s forehead and he died without a sound.

Jo-Jo wiped the sweat from his face, reloaded the rifle, then walking to Petrovka’s dead body, he dragged it into the scrub.

In the drab little villa at Cagnes, Malik waited, pacing up and down. Smernoff, sitting at the open window, watched the girls in their bikinis, displaying themselves on the beach.

* * *

It wasn’t until Girland was nearly at the end of Feng Hoh Kung’s file that he suddenly became alert. He began to read a cutting from
The Art & The Connoisseur
, dated 1937 that was clipped into the file.

Up to this moment he had ploughed through a mass of uninteresting reports from various Agents, a summary of Kung’s character, his past achievements, his general background and his present work. Then suddenly this article from a defunct magazine caught his interest.

The article stated that over the centuries the Kung family had been collectors of rare antiques, precious stones and jade and Feng Hoh Kung had inherited all these treasures.

“Among this amazing collection, second to none in the world,” the article went on, “is the famous Black Grape, the only known jet black pearl in existence. The pearl originally belonged to Shi Huang-ti who built the Great Wall of China in the 3rd Century, B.C. It was acquired by the Kung family in 1753 and has remained with the family ever since.”

Girland pushed the file aside, reached for a cigarette and stared out onto the sunlit terrace.

This, he thought, was what Erica had been talking about.
It is
beautiful and black like a grape.
She had probably seen the pearl and it had made a big impression. He shrugged and again pulled the file towards him. Then he paused, his dark eyes narrowing.

He remembered her sudden agitation and what she had said:
I had it with me.

Was there a possible chance that she really had the pearl? Was this the reason why she had left Kung? He reread the article and then sitting back, he rubbed the side of his jaw while he thought.

He had many contacts. He was now asking himself who could tell him more about the Black Grape. His mind raced over the names of his contacts, then he snapped his fingers. He remembered Jacques Yew who owned a successful Oriental shop on the Boulevard des Moulins, Monte Carlo. Some years ago, Yew had run into trouble with one of his many boys who had turned vicious and had been trying to blackmail him. Girland had met Yew by chance in a Paris cellar club. Bored with waiting for a girl who hadn’t turned up, Girland had listened to Yew’s tale of woe. Blackmail was something that disgusted Girland. He handled the boy who was threatening Yew, reducing him to a terrified wreck, and Yew had said if Girland ever wanted his help, he could call on him.

This was the way Girland lived. He performed a service and never hesitated to collect payment later. Now, he thought, Yew could be useful.

He locked the file away. The time was 12.30 p.m. He would see Yew that afternoon. Ginny should be back at any moment.

Erica had been on her own for more than two hours. A little reluctantly, Girland went upstairs, tapped on her door and entered.

Erica, still sitting by the window, turned and smiled at him.

“Have you finished work, Mark?” she asked, holding out her hand to him.

“For the moment.” He came over and kissed her fingers. “But I have to go out this afternoon. Have you been bored?”

“No, I have been thinking.” There was a pause, then she asked, “Mark . . . have we been in Paris lately?”

“Yes. We have just come from Paris. Why do you ask?”

“My mind is walking through clouds. Sometimes the clouds get thinner and then I can see where I am walking. Do you understand?”

“Of course. Do you remember Paris?”

“I remembered I stayed at a hotel. You weren’t with me.”

“What was the hotel?”

She didn’t hesitate as she said, “Hotel Astorg.”

“Your clothes are missing. They could be at the hotel. I had better telephone them.”

She frowned.

“What happened in Paris?”

“I don’t know. We were staying at George V. I went out on business, when I returned you had gone with your luggage.”

“Do you think I was planning to run away from you?”

Girland smiled.

“I don’t think so. You probably woke up after I had gone, found you had lost your memory, got frightened and walked out.”

She shook her head helplessly.

“I suppose so. Would you telephone the hotel? I would like to have my things.”

“I’ll do it now. Nurse Roche is in Nice at the moment getting you something to wear. I’ll be right back.”

Downstairs, he put a call through to Dorey. When Dorey came on the line, Girland said, “She stayed at the Astorg Hotel. She could have left her luggage there.”

“So she’s beginning to talk?”

“Looks like it.”

“Has she come out with anything else?”

Girland thought of the Black Grape. He hesitated, then said, “Not so far.”

“I’ll get O’Halloran to check the hotel. All right at your end?”

Thinking of the service he was getting, Girland said, “I’m not complaining.”

“I don’t want complications with you and this woman or with the nurse. Do you understand?”

“I get the drift,” Girland said and grinned. “Any news of Malik?”

“No, but he hasn’t gone south.”

“Where is he then?”

“I don’t know. For the moment we have lost track of him, but I am satisfied he hasn’t gone south.”

“You and who else?” Girland asked mockingly. “If you have lost track of him, then it’s a safe bet he is right here,” and he hung up.

He went out onto the terrace, watched by Jo-Jo in his hide-out on the mountainside, walked down the steps and talked to Sergeant O’Leary. He warned O’Leary that Malik might be preparing for an attack. O’Leary said everything was under control and that trouble was his business. Girland regarded him thoughtfully, resisted a sarcastic retort and as he began to return to the villa, Ginny with Diallo came driving through the gateway.

Ginny was wearing a big sun hat that hid her face and her hair and Jo-Jo, staring through the telescopic sight wondered if she was Erica Olsen or some visitor. He mustn’t make a mistake, he told himself. He had been told that Erica was tall and blonde.

He had plenty of time. He would only have one shot.

While Diallo was preparing a quick lunch, Girland and Ginny went up to Erica’s room.

“Here’s Nurse Roche,” Girland said. “She has some clothes for you. I called the hotel. They will be calling back.”

“Thank you, Mark.” Erica got to her feet. Girland’s expression of admiration as he looked at her was not lost on Ginny who began to unpack the suitcase she had with her.

An hour later, Girland drove into Monte Carlo. Parking the car with some difficulty, he walked briskly along Boulevard des Moulins and entered Jacques Yew’s shop.

Yew was sitting at an ornate desk examining a piece of jade he was planning to sell to a rich American tourist staying at the Hotel de Paris. He was a small, thin, effeminate looking man with sandy hair and artistic features. He stared for a moment as Girland came to rest at his desk, then recognising him, he jumped to his feet, his face lighting up with a genuine smile of welcome.

“My dear boy! How good it is to see you again!” He offered a small limp hand. “Sit down. What are you doing in this ghastly little village?”

“On vacation. How are you, Jacques?”

Yew grimaced, then shrugged.

“So - so. Business is bad and that always depresses me. There is no real money about these days. And how are you?”

“I’m fine.” Girland paused to light a cigarette, then went on, “Can I ask you a question without you asking me one?”

Yew looked bewildered.

“What an odd request. Yes, of course. What is the question?”

“Have you ever heard of the Black Grape pearl?”

Yew’s small eyes opened wide.

“Well, of course. It belongs to the Kung family and at the moment it is in Pekin. What . . .?”

“Remember? No questions, Jacques. Tell me about it.”

“Well, it is, of course, utterly unique. It belonged to Shi Huang-ti who you may know built the Great Wall. It was supposed to have been found by a fisherman in an oyster bed off the Persian Gulf. This was around the 3rd Century B.C. It isn’t known how it got into the Kung family’s hands. Around 1887 the present Kung’s father compiled an illustrated catalogue of his treasures and this was the first time dealers and collectors knew the Black Grape was in the Kung's collection.” He got to his feet and walked over to a bookcase crammed with Art books. “I have a copy of the catalogue somewhere.” He searched for a moment, then pulled out a heavy volume bound in white vellum and brought it to the desk. He flicked through the pages, then turned the book to face Girland. “Here’s a photograph of the pearl. It is absolutely unique.”

Girland studied the photograph. It showed a jet black pearl, the size of a large grape, resting on the back of a Chinese dragon carved in gold.

“I had no idea a real black pearl existed,” Girland said, studying the photograph.

“There are lots of so-called black pearls, although in fact they are grey. This is the only real black pearl. There is a theory for what it is worth that the oyster became impregnated by the ink from an octopus. Just a theory, but an interesting one. The dragon is also a beautiful piece.” Yew put the book away, then turned and regarded Girland. “I must say, my dear boy, your interest in this pearl raises my curiosity.”

“What’s it worth?” Girland asked, tapping ash into the silver ashtray on Yew’s desk.

“Worth?” Yew smiled wistfully. “You couldn’t put a price to it. If it came up for auction, the collectors of the world would scramble for it. I doubt if enough money exists these days to buy it.”

“But suppose Kung wanted to sell?” Girland asked. “Suppose he was short of cash. What could you sell it for?”