1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal (18 page)

“Yes.”

“Let me think for a moment.” She got up and walked slowly to the open window. Girland watched her. He saw her look down onto the terrace. He saw her stiffen, lean forward, stare, then her hands went to her face and she gave a loud piercing scream that set Girland’s nerves tingling.

She spun around, horror in her eyes.

“What’s the matter with her? Something’s happened to her!”

Girland reached the window in two strides. He looked down onto the terrace where Ginny lay on the chaise lounge. He felt his heart kick against his side.

Ginny lay in an unnatural position. From where he stood, Girland could just make out a tiny red hole in the centre of her forehead. From it oozed a line of blood that ran down the side of her nose, across her parted lips and dripped onto her white, sun suit.

As he turned and started for the door, Erica gave a low, gasping sigh and fell at his feet in a faint.

* * *

At the sound of the bell, Malik snatched up the telephone receiver. He had been sitting in the hot, stuffy little room of the villa now for three hours and he was in a white heat of fury.

“Boris,” Smernoff said over the line. “Things have been happening. The woman is dead. The police are looking for us. Do nothing until I get back,” and he hung up.

Malik slowly replaced the receiver. He contained his fury with an effort that brought thick veins out on his forehead. He lit another cigarette and continued to wait.

Half an hour later, Smernoff came into the room.

“Well?”

“There was a path at the back of the villa,” Smernoff said. “Petrovka found it. He walked into an ambush and he’s dead. The police have picked up Jo-Jo Chandy . . . Yet-Sen’s agent. They caught him with a .22 rifle. He killed the woman with a long distance shot.”

“Are you certain it was the woman?” Malik demanded, glaring at Smernoff.

“There was only one blonde woman in the villa. The nurse was dark. This blonde woman was on the terrace and Chandy picked her off like a sitting duck. Dorey’s flying down . . .”

Malik stared down at his powerful hands, his face wooden.

“This is our first failure, Boris,” he said. “We could be in trouble.”

“There is always a first time,” Smernoff said philosophically. He was glad this was Malik’s responsibility. He couldn’t see how he himself could be blamed. “What do we do now?”

“I must be absolutely certain this woman is dead,” Malik said. “Get one of your men to talk to the Press.”

“I have already arranged that. He should be calling any moment now.”

Five minutes later, the call came through. Smernoff listened, grunted and then said, “You can return to Paris,” and he hung up. Turning to Malik, he went on, “There’s no doubt about it. The reporter for
Nice Matin
has seen the body. The dead woman is Erica Olsen.”

Malik shrugged.

“Then we leave at once.” He crossed the room and picking up the telephone receiver, he called Kovski at the Russian Embassy.

While he was breaking the news to Kovski, Dorey arrived at his villa. He came by military aircraft and by fast car from Nice.

It was probably the fastest journey he had ever made in his life.

Girland, his eyes bleak and his face pale, explained what had happened.

“O’Halloran’s men didn’t take the job seriously,” he concluded bitterly. “Chandy and Malik’s man got past the guards on the Corniche. That’s something for you to sort out, but I want you to remember that this sentry is responsible for Ginny Roche’s death.”

“All right . . . all right,” Dorey said impatiently. He wasn’t interested in Ginny Roche. “What about Erica Olsen?”

Girland ignored this.

“At least the French police are efficient. They have made Chandy talk, and they are picking up his two pals. They all work for Yet-Sen.”

“Never mind that. That is a police affair. Is this woman talking yet?”

Girland looked at him in disgust.

“You have a one track mind, haven’t you? It means nothing to you that that kid is dead. Well, she isn’t talking. She’s in shock. She saw Ginny murdered.”

Dorey moved impatiently around the room. Girland watched him, then he said, “I have told the press the murdered woman is Erica Olsen.”

Dorey paused and peered at Girland over the top of his “Will they believe it?”

“They do believe it. The
Nice Matin
man is a friend of mine. I let him see the body. I told him she was the mysterious woman who had lost her memory. He didn’t question it. When the Russians and the Chinese hear Erica Olsen is dead, they will lift the pressure. We can’t go on the way we have been going on. I’m taking Erica out of here. She will leave as Nurse Roche. I’m getting her a dark wig and she’ll wear Ginny’s uniform. Once I get her away from here and the guards, I am sure I can get her to talk.”

Dorey studied him suspiciously.

“Where are you taking her?”

“To an apartment in Monte Carlo. I have made all the necessary arrangements. She will be safe there for a week or so. Look, Dorey, it was your bright idea I should pretend to be her husband. She now accepts this fact, so you are stuck with your idea. You take care of the funeral, give it all the publicity you can and I’ll take care of Erica. All I need is money. Give me a hundred thousand francs. She thinks I am a successful business man and I have to act the part.”

“Where is the apartment?”

Girland scribbled an address on a scratch pad, tore off the sheet and gave it to Dorey.

“Don’t telephone me unless it is urgent. When she talks, I’ll call you.”

Dorey hesitated. He decided the idea might work and he couldn’t think of an alternative. He would have been very uneasy had he overheard the telephone conversation between Girland and Jacques Yew that had taken place half an hour before he had arrived at the villa. In that conversation, Girland had asked Yew if he could accommodate a girl and himself in his apartment overlooking the Beach hotel. He also asked Yew to buy a woman’s brown wig and to come with it at 5.30 p.m. to Dorey’s villa.

Girland had concluded the conversation by saying. “You remember what I was saying, Jacques, about a grape? This has to do with it. Your cooperation now could put you right in the middle of a deal.”

Jacques had said, “You can rely on me, dear boy. Of course you can use my apartment. You can have anything else you want.”

But Dorey didn’t know of this conversation; all the same he was a little dubious about Girland’s plan.

“Nurse Roche could have relations,” he said. “We can’t bury her as Erica Olsen.”

“I will only want a week. There’ll be an inquest. Delay it as long as you can,” Girland said impatiently. “If I can’t get Erica talking in a week, then I never will.”

“Isn’t she remembering anything yet?”

“She remembered staying at the Astorg hotel. You have her suitcase.”

“There were two suitcases. We have only found one.”

Girland looked sharply at Dorey.

“Two suitcases?”

“She left Pekin with two. She had them with her at Hong Kong. O’Halloran is trying to trace the second one, but so far, without success.”

Girland shrugged.

“I want some money. I’ll need at least a hundred thousand francs.”

“I will give you twenty thousand, and you will have to account for every franc,” Dorey said firmly, and sitting down, he took out his chequebook.

“That’s my Dorey,” Girland said in disgust. “Mean in every emergency.”

“Not mean . . . careful,” Dorey said and signed the cheque with a flourish.

* * *

Sadu Mitchell sat in Ruby’s little garden, his eyes going constantly to his wristwatch. It was now seven hours since he had left Jo-Jo on the mountain path. He was worried and uneasy. Pearl, relaxed, waited with oriental calm which irritated Sadu.

Suddenly they both heard Ruby’s high-pitched voice crying out in alarm. They looked at each other. Sadu started to his feet, his fingers closing over the butt of Jo-Jo’s gun.

“What is it?” Pearl said, without moving.

Ruby’s cry of alarm abruptly ceased. There was a moment of silence, more sinister than when she had been screaming. Sadu cursed, kicked away his chair and drew the gun.

“Drop it!” a man’s voice snapped from the open french window.

In a panic, Sadu fired blindly in the direction of the voice.

Then he heard the bang of gunfire and felt a violent blow on his chest. He found himself lying on the hot, dry grass. He tried to lift his gun, but he had no strength left and the gun slipped from his grasp. He looked wildly at Pearl who was sitting motionless, her pretty face expressionless, then he became aware of a pair of black, highly-polished jackboots just in range of his darkening vision.

* * *

By 17.00 hrs. the activity at the villa had died down. Dorey had gone with Inspector Dulay to the Nice Police Station. Ginny’s body had been taken away in an ambulance. The newspaper men had gone. Sergeant O’Leary had taken his men in three Jeeps to the Airport.

Diallo, wide-eyed and nervous, Erica Olsen and Girland were at last on their own.

From time to time, Girland had gone into Erica’s room where she was lying on the bed, her back turned, her face hidden. Girland didn’t speak to her. He felt it best to wait for her to make her own recovery. At 5.30 p.m. he saw Jacques Yew’s black Cadillac come up the drive and he went out onto the terrace to greet him.

Carrying a paper bag, Yew climbed the steps and the two men went over to lounging chairs, shaded by a sun umbrella. They sat down.

“I don’t know what this is all about, dear boy,” Yew said, putting the bag on the table. “Here is the wig you asked me for. You are being intriguingly mysterious.”

“It’s intriguing all right,” Girland said and went on to tell him the story of Erica Olsen. “There is just a possible chance she may have the pearl,” he concluded. “If she has, I think I could persuade her to cut us in. You handling the deal, and I getting a cut for putting her in touch with you.”

Yew sat back, his hooded eyes glittering.

“What makes you think she has the pearl?” he asked.

“I’m playing a hunch. The one thing that gets her animated is the pearl. Now a pearl is easy to conceal. If I happened to be the mistress of an old Chinese goat and couldn’t see much future in it, I would look around for something worthwhile to take before I walked out on him. That’s how I would reason and I’m playing a hunch that is the way she has reasoned too.”

“My dear boy! That’s terribly dishonest!” Yew protested for a moment genuinely shocked.

“Yes.” Girland grinned. “But if I’m right, and if she has the pearl, will you sell it for her?”

“Of course I will,” Yew said without hesitation.

“Fine. I’ll bring her to your apartment in about an hour. I have my own car, so you needn’t wait. Did you see any newspaper men on your way up?”

“There was no one.”

“Okay, then you get off. We’ll be joining you in about an hour.”

“You really think she has the pearl? It seems unbelievable.”

“I’m playing a hunch. Anyway, what can we lose?”

Yew looked dubious.

“Well . . . yes, I suppose that’s right.” He gave Girland a Yale key. “That’s the key of my apartment. You will have it to yourselves. I will stay with my brother. There is a woman who comes in every day. You can get your meals sent in. Is there anything else?”

“No, and thanks, Jacques. We could make some money out of this if we have any luck.” Girland thought for a moment, then repeated, “If we have any luck.”

When Yew had driven away, Girland went up to Erica’s room, taking the paper bag with him. He tapped on the door and entered. Erica was sitting now in a lounging chair. Her face was tense and white and she regarded him with a disconcerting stare.

“Well, darling?” he said as he closed the door. “How are you feeling?”

“You can cut that darling stuff out,” she said in a flat, hard voice. “I don’t know who you are, but I do know you are not my husband.”

Girland smiled.

“That’s a relief,” he said and came over to sit opposite her. “So you are getting your memory back?”

“I’m getting it back. What happened to her?”

“She thought she would look more attractive as a blonde,” Girland said soberly. “They mistook her for you and they killed her.”

Erica flinched.

“And you? Who are you?”

“I guess I had better fill you in,” Girland said. He paused to light a cigarette, then went on. “You were found unconscious in Paris. You were taken to the American hospital. When they put you in bed, they found three tattoo marks on your body . . . Chinese initials. Some bright boy reported this to the C.I.A. They put two and two together and decided you must be Erica Olsen, the mistress of Feng Hoh Kung, the top missile expert in Pekin. The C.I.A. wants all the information they can get about Kung. They dreamed up an idea. I was to be your husband and you were to tell me all about Kung. But the Chinese and the Russians heard about the tattoo marks and they also decided you must be Erica Olsen. The Chinese decided you were to be liquidated. The Russians decided they wanted to know what you knew about Kung. In the general mix-up, Nurse Roche got shot instead of you. Right now, we have given out you are dead. We have a few days free from pressure before the Chinese and the Russians get to know you are still alive, then they will come after you again.”

She stared down at her long, shapely hands, her face expressionless, then she said, “So that’s it. Well, I know nothing about Kung. Absolutely nothing.”

“Why did you leave him?”

“He bored me.”

“Then why should they want to kill you?”

She hesitated, then still not looking at him, she said, “Kung is possessive. I was his toy. He breaks his toys if they don’t give him pleasure.”

“A young girl died because of you,” Girland said quietly. “You might have died, but she was the unlucky one. Your chances of survival are still pretty thin. You may think you can play this on your own, but I assure you you can’t. I have only to walk out on you for you to be in real trouble. You have no money. You have no passport. You will be in a hell of a jam unless you cooperate.”