You Have Yourself a Deal

Chapter Four

Dorey surveyed the three telephones on his desk. His thin lips were compressed and his eyes uneasy. He was more than worried. The Russians had beaten him to the punch. He knew he had moved too slowly. As soon as O’Halloran had told him about this woman, he should have taken a chance and got her out of the hospital to somewhere completely safe and inaccessible. This comes, he thought bitterly, of being too cautious. He had stupidly wasted time finding Wolfert to check the tattoo marks. He had again wasted time finding Girland. Now the Russians had her and he thought uneasily of Washington. His first reaction was to call O’Halloran and take the operation out of Girland’s hands. Yet he had a strong instinctive feeling that if anyone could pull this chestnut out of the fire it would be Girland.

His hand hovered over the telephone which would put him in direct contact with O’Halloran, then like a gambler who pushes his last chip on the red, he picked up the receiver that was connected to Kerman’s Jaguar.

“Jack?”

“Right here, sir,” came Kerman’s brisk voice.

“I want to talk to Girland.”

“Hold it.”

There was a pause, then Girland came on the line.

“This is me.” The indifferent flippant tone made Dorey boil with fury.

“You listen to me!” He exploded. “Where are you and what are you doing?”

Girland winked at Kerman and slid further down in the driver’s seat.

“I am somewhere outside Paris, and I know what I am doing,” he said. “For Pete’s sake, Dorey, relax. You gave me this assignment and you’re paying me good money — at least I hope you are. I’m going to do the job so what are you getting so worked up about?”

“Girland!” Dorey’s voice rose a note. “This could be the most important and vital assignment I have ever given anyone! What are you doing? This could be on Presidential level! You’ve already lost this woman! What am I going to tell Washington?”

“Who cares about Washington? Just keep your big nose out of this,” Girland said. “I’ll deliver. Relax,” and he replaced the receiver.

He looked at Kerman and shook his head. “He should have been retired years ago! Let’s go, Jack. I have to be in Eze by tomorrow morning.”

Kerman laughed. It was a pleasure to work with a scatterbrain like Girland.

“You are an irresponsible bastard, aren’t you?” he said. “You’re not proposing to walk in there and shoot it out with probably a dozen tough Soviets, are you?”

“That’s the general idea,” Girland said. “You and I can take them. I’ll bet there aren’t a dozen of them, and who says the Soviets are tough?”

“We can do better than that,” Kerman said, sliding aside a panel below the dashboard of the car. “We have a couple of gas guns and gas masks here. When Dorey sets up an operation, he sets it up.” He handed Girland a flat heavy gun with an inch wide barrel. “Watch it. There’s enough paralysing gas in that gun to put a Battalion out of action.”

“It’s too easy.” Girland took the gas mask Kerman handed to him and fixed it over his eyes and nose. Then he turned and looked at Ginny. “Sit quietly, baby,” he said, his voice muffled. “We won’t be long, and then you’ll have a patient to look after.”

Ginny, her small, immature breasts rising and falling with excitement, looked at him with wide eyes. All she could say was, “Please be careful.”

“For your sake, I will,” Girland said and slid out of the car. Without waiting for Kerman, he ran through the rain, across the highway and into the grounds of the chateau.

Kerman went after him.

They paused for a moment, side by side, as they looked at the chateau. A light showed in one of the upper windows.

“That’s where she is,” Girland said. “I’ll go round the back. You come in by the front. Kick a window in. I’ll go on ahead. Give me a couple of minutes before you start.”

Kerman nodded.

With a wave of his hand, Girland moved silently and swiftly across the rough grass of the lawn. It was dark, but not so dark that he couldn’t see where he was going.

The gas mask hampered him and he pushed it up to the top of his head. As he rounded the corner of the chateau, he came to an abrupt stop and stood motionless.

Just ahead of him, he made out the figure of a man, also motionless. Ten yards separated them. Girland didn’t hesitate. Crouching, he rushed at the man who let out a half-strangled shout as Girland’s charge swept him off his feet. They went down on the wet grass in a tangled heap of thrashing arms and legs. Girland already had his hands on the man’s throat, his thumbs squeezing against the throat arteries. The man heaved and twisted, his fists hammering against Girland’s head. The struggle lasted only a few seconds and Girland felt the man suddenly go limp. He retained his grip for a moment or so, then got quickly to his feet. He listened, heard nothing, then moving cautiously, his eyes searching the darkness, he approached the chateau from the rear.

French windows faced him. He aimed a violent kick at the framework, just below the lock. The glass cascaded into the room and the doors swung open. He heard a distant shout and more crashing of glass, then the bang of a gun. He was across the room and was opening the door when splinters flew from the woodwork and the gun banged again.

Dropping on hands and knees, he threw the door wide open. The gas mask made his breathing difficult and he couldn’t see clearly. Lifting the gas gun and pointing it out into the dark hall, he squeezed the trigger.

The gun exploded with a hissing roar and the hall became enveloped in white vapour.

Kordak, gun in hand, was coming silently down the stairs. He walked right into the gas. He gave a strangled gasp, and fell forward, crashing down the rest of the stairs to land on his face on the moth-eaten carpet.

Girland moved out into the hall, then stepping over Kordak’s body, he started up the stairs. The gas gun, now empty, was a hindrance and he let it drop. Reaching the head of the stairs, he paused to get his bearings. He wondered how many more men were in the house to guard Erica Olsen. Moving silently, he approached a door to his right, turned the handle and looked cautiously into the room. The gas fumes drifted past him. The white vapour now filled the upper landing. He knew anyone getting a whiff of the gas would be put out of action, but he was still cautious. The room was a bedroom and it was empty.

“Mark?”

It was Kerman calling from below.

“I’m up here.”

Kerman came running up the stairs and joined him.

“Seen anyone?” Girland asked.

“Two guys out of action in the front room. Think there are any more?”

“Don’t let’s take chances. You look in that room, I’ll go down to the end room.”

Girland moved on, reaching the last door on the landing and opened it. With a water-soaked handkerchief across her nose and mouth, her muscular body pressed against the wall, a gun in her hand, Merna Dorinska waited for him.

As the door swung open, the gas vapours moved in ahead of Girland. Even with the handkerchief offering some protection, the gas began to attack Merna. Before she could prevent it, she coughed. At the sound, Girland darted into the room, swung around and closed with her. Her gun went off, but Girland had already gripped her wrist and the bullet ploughed into the ceiling. He clawed off the handkerchief as Merna’s fist slammed against his cheekbone, sending him staggering back. The woman took two unsteady steps towards him, trying to lift the gun. Then the gas overpowered her and she dropped to the floor.

Girland fumbled for the light switch and turned it on as Kerman came to the doorway.

They both looked at Erica Olsen as she lay in the big bed.

“Well, here she is again. Let’s get her out of here,” Girland said. He gathered the unconscious woman off the bed, and holding her close to him, he half-walked, half-ran down the stairs and out into the rain.

Kerman followed him.

They crossed the road and shoved the sleeping woman into the back seat, then Girland tore off his gas mask.

“Let’s go,” he said, then as he got into the driving seat, he turned to smile at Ginny who was staring, her eyes large and round. “She’s your patient now, baby. Look after her.”

As Kerman scrambled in beside him, Girland sent the Jaguar roaring towards the South.

Marcia Davis was taking the cover off her IBM 72 electric typewriter when the door pushed open and Nicolas Wolfert came in. The time was 08.55 hrs. The sight of this short, fat balding man at this early hour made Marcia’s flesh creep.

“Good morning,” Wolfert said. Under his arm, he clutched a bulging briefcase. “I hope I’m not too early. Is Mr. Dorey free?”

Marcia knew of Wolfert’s reputation for brilliancy and also of his impressive knowledge of China, but there was something about him which she loathed. To her, he was a soft, slimy slug and she knew instinctively as he stood looking at her, his soft, full lips creased in a smile, sweat beads glistening on his bald head, he was mentally taking off her clothes and mentally raping her.

She looked fixedly at him until Wolfert’s eyes shifted, then she picked up the telephone receiver.

“Mr. Wolfert,” she said, when Dorey’s voice came over the line.

“Send him in,” Dorey said.

She flicked a well-manicured finger towards Dorey’s door.

“Go on ahead.”

Wolfert ran his eyes over her body once more, then walked across the small office, tapped on the door, opened it and walked into Dorey’s big room.

Before leaving his penthouse, Wolfert had drunk three large brandies. His nerves were so jumpy that he felt he couldn’t go through his dangerous assignment without the aid of alcohol. Even now he was in a profuse sweat and every now and then, his fat, wet fingers touched the limpet microphone that Pearl Kuo had given him.

There was no question he wouldn’t do what he had been told to do. His life would fall apart if any of his friends saw these awful photographs of his lust. He had little sympathy for America. To his thinking, they had no idea how to handle the Chinese who were, after all, people he had been brought up with and whom he understood. To save himself, he was now prepared to turn traitor.

Dorey regarded him with mild surprise. He had been at his desk since 08.00 hrs. and he had had a reassuring talk with Girland who was at that moment driving along the Frejus Autoroute, heading for Eze.

Dorey was relieved and satisfied that his gamble had come off. Although Girland was, of course, impossible, he had proved that when the cards were down, he was a man to be relied on.

“Hello, Wolfert. You’re early. What is it?”

Dorey had to contact Washington and he had been about to put the call through when Marcia had announced Wolfert. Dorey was itching to tell of his success.

Wolfert came to the desk and lowered his fat, sweating body into the lounging chair.

“I am going down to Amboise so I apologise for this early call,” he said. “As I was passing, I thought you should see some photographs ol’ Kung’s jade I have found in my collection. I thought you would be interested. You will see he has been mad enough to deface these pieces with his initials.”

He took from his briefcase a batch of glossy prints and passed them across the desk. Dorey took them, scarcely concealing his impatience. His mind was on Washington. He had no interest in Kung’s jade.

“I didn’t know Kung was a collector.”

“Indeed, yes. He has one of the finest collections of jade and jewellery in the world.” Wolfert slid the limpet microphone out of his pocket and concealed it in his fat hand. He wished he wasn’t sweating so much. The microphone, no larger than a coat button, was difficult to handle.

“Very interesting,” Dorey said, flicking through the photographs. “Yes, I see his initials. Extraordinary man.”

“Yes, he is,” Wolfert let the briefcase slip off his fat knees onto the floor. As he bent to pick it up, he quickly pressed the adhesive back of the microphone to the underledge of Dorey’s desk. He picked up the briefcase and sat back, mopping his streaming face with his handkerchief.

Dorey eyed him with disapproval.

“You are out of condition, Wolfert,” he said. Then he looked more sharply at the white, strained face. “Are you all right?”

“Yes... yes. I’m working too hard,” Wolfert muttered and got to his feet. “A weekend in the country is what I need... a little relaxation.” He gathered up the photographs and put them into his briefcase. “I thought you would be interested. Perhaps I have taken up too much of your time.”

Dorey glanced at his desk clock.

“It’s all right, but I am expecting a telephone call. Thanks for coming, Wolfert.” He half rose, offered his hand, shook hands and sat down again. “Have a nice weekend.”

When Wolfert had gone, Dorey sat for a few moments, staring into space. His shrewd eyes were puzzled. Just why had Wolfert come at this hour like this? he wondered. It wasn’t as if he had anything of importance to show Dorey. Extraordinary. Well, perhaps that wasn’t true. It was interesting to know that Kung was a collector. He wondered if that fact had been registered in Kung’s file. He must ask Marcia, but now he had more important things to do. He picked up the telephone receiver.

“Give me Washington,” he said when Marcia answered.

The gendarme who patrolled outside the American Embassy stuck his thumbs in his belt and wandered over to a shabby Renault 8 that was double-parked within twenty metres of the Embassy gate.

The driver, a tall, slim man with Chinese eyes was opening the engine cover as the gendarme arrived. In the car was a Vietnamese girl, wearing a cheongsam. Her pale, lovely face was expressionless. The gendarme who was young and observant noticed with some surprise that the girl was wearing a deaf aid.

Sadu watched the gendarme approaching. He was slightly flustered as he gave the gendarme a servile smile.

“I’m afraid I have broken down. I think it is the plugs,” he said in his heavily accented French.

The gendarme saluted him.

“You can’t stay here, monsieur.”

“The plugs have oiled up. In about twenty minutes, they will have dried out,” Sadu said.

Pearl suddenly looked at the gendarme and her full lips parted in a smile. She managed to convey such a gaze of admiration that the gendarme was dazzled. With a little smirk, he saluted her.

“Be as quick as you can then, monsieur,” he said, saluted again and moved away.

Sadu wiped his sweating face and then leaned into the car’s engine.

Pearl, her deaf aid connected to a small but extremely powerful receiving set was listening to Dorey’s conversation with Washington. The conversation lasted several minutes, then she took out the earplug and called softly to Sadu.

“We can go.”

He hurriedly closed the engine hood and got into the car. He drove carefully back around the Concorde.

“She is at Dorey’s villa at Eze,” Pearl said. “You must tell Yet-Sen. We can leave this afternoon.”

“We? You must remain here and look after the shop,” Sadu said.

“We will close the shop,” Pearl said firmly. “We must not make any more mistakes.”

Sadu began to protest, then thought better of it. Leaving Pearl to park the car, he went into the shop and called Yet-Sen.

“I envy you,” Kerman said as Girland slowed and pulled up outside the Departure Centre of the Nice Airport, “Me back to stuffy Paris, and you with a new wife and sunshine... My! my! some people have all the luck.”

“Call it talent,” Girland said and grinned. “Well, be seeing you, Jack. Thanks for your help. I’ll talk to Dorey as soon as we get to Eze.”

The two men shook hands, then Kerman nodded to Ginny.

“Watch him, nurse: he is not to be trusted,” and getting out of the car he walked briskly into the airport.

Girland leaned over the back of his seat and smiled at Ginny who smiled back.

“How she is?”

“As well as can be expected. I would like to get her to bed.”

“Won’t be long now.” Girland looked with interest at the pale sleeping face. “Quite a beauty, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met and Girland smiled again.

“I’ll get on.”

He started the car and began driving towards the Promenade des Anglais.

He had already got Dorey’s permission to keep Ginny. This Dorey had arranged with Dr. Forrester. Although she was very young, Girland found her attractive. Life ahead seemed full of interest, he thought.

They arrived at Dorey’s villa a little after ten a.m. The road from the airport had been crammed with holiday traffic and fast speed had been impossible.

“This must be it,” Girland said as he saw a finger post marked Villa Hélios which pointed to a steep, narrow lane, cut into the side of the mountain. He changed down to bottom gear and sent the car slowly up the incline which twisted and climbed through Sea Pines and eventually broadened to a large circular turnaround to the right of which stood massive, iron-studded, wooden gates. The ten-foot high stone and ivy-covered walls completely hid the villa. Girland surveyed the gates from the car, impressed and surprised.

“Quite a place,” he said as he opened the car door and got out. “Looks like a fort.”

He approached the gates and seeing a bell chain, he tugged it. Almost immediately, a judas window opened and a young, fair-haired man regarded him with searching eyes.

“This villa belong to John Dorey?” Girland asked, now not quite sure if he had come to the right place.

“What of it?” The young man spoke French with a strong American accent.

“The name’s Girland. That mean anything to you, sonny?”

“Please identify yourself Mr. Girland.”

Then Girland knew he had come to the right place. So Dorey had called in O’Halloran’s bright young men, he thought as he produced his driving licence. There was a slight delay, then the big gates swung open.

He was a little startled to see an Army sergeant, an automatic rifle under his arm, come out of a small stone lodge nearby. Chained to a hook in the wall was a savage looking police dog who eyed him balefully.

The sergeant whose name was Pat O’Leary, a massively built man with a red, freckled face and strong, blunt features, nodded to Girland.

“Drive right in,” he said. “We have been expecting you.”

Girland grinned at him.

“So Dorey’s taking no chances.”

“No. We have six men here. You won’t have any trouble. Trouble will be our business.”

Girland returned to the car and drove it through the gateway.

“You’ll find the villa straight ahead,” O’Leary said, looking curiously at the sleeping woman, propped up in the back of the car. His eyes shifted to Ginny and he cocked his head on one side with approval. Ginny stared impersonally at him, sniffed and looked away.

Girland drove up the drive, turned a sharp corner and then saw the villa which was built on two levels into the face of the mountain with a big upper, overhanging terrace. There were window boxes of cascading flowers at every window and the villa was shaded by Sea Pines. It was compact, modern and very de luxe.

“Well! Look at this!” he exclaimed, stopping the car.

A tall, loose-limbed coloured man, Girland guessed would be from Senegal, wearing a white housecoat and white cotton trousers, came running down the steps to open the car door.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, his black face wreathed in smiles, his splendid white teeth gleaming. “I am Diallo, Mr. Dorey’s man. You are very welcome, sir. Everything has been prepared for you.”

And everything had been prepared.

Two hours later, Girland in shorts and sandals, provided by Diallo, lolling on a chaise lounge, the hot sun relaxing him, was talking on the telephone to Dorey.

“Quite a place you have here,” he was saying and reached for the glass of Cinzano bitters and soda that stood on the table by his side. “You know, Dorey, you have taste. I’m surprised. I thought you...”

“All right, Girland!” Dorey snapped. “Cut the comedy. How is she?”

“What do you expect? She was shot full of dope by the Commies and she has had a whiff of your efficient gas. But she’ll survive. Give or take three or four days, she should be as good as new or nearly as good.”

“Should the doctor see her?”

“The nurse says no.”

“I want some action, Girland. Don’t just sit there and imagine you are on vacation. You know what I want you to do.”

“I know, but I can’t do anything so long as she’s in this coma, can I?” Girland stretched luxuriously. This, he thought, was certainly the life. He looked at the distant blue sea, the blue sky and the distant Cap Ferrat. “All these boys you have here with guns... are they part of O’Halloran’s outfit?”

“Yes.”

“So you don’t trust me, Dorey. I’m hurt.”

“Malik beat us to the punch and I’m taking damn good care, now we have got her back, he won’t do it again,” Dorey snapped. “Now, take your job seriously, Girland. You won’t get any more money out of me until you turn in some reliable information. And Girland,” Dorey’s voice became suspicious, “what is this nurse like you have down there?”

“Like... what do you mean?”

“Is she young?”

“I got it. You’re worrying that she might seduce me. That’s okay, Dorey, she’s around fifty with three double chins. A nice old thing, but not my style.” As he replaced the receiver, he looked up to see Ginny standing in the doorway. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Ginny said.

“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 coupé 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 derrière 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 packet 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.