You Have Yourself a Deal

Chapter Six

A movement near him brought Girland abruptly awake.

“It’s all right,” Ginny said softly. “I’m going back to my room.”

“What’s the time?”

“Just after six.”

Girland sighed, stretched and turned on his back. Ginny, sitting on the edge of the bed, her blonde hair a little tousled, her naked back to him, was groping with her feet for her slippers.

He reached out and pulled her backwards across his chest.

“Hello, Ginny,” he said. “Don’t go yet.” His hands closed over her small breasts and he kissed her ear.

She jerked away and scrambled clear of him. Snatching up her wrap, she put it on.

“No, please. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Girland crossed his hands at the back of his neck and regarded her.

“It’s early. Come here... you don’t have to rush away as if you’re catching a train.”

“No. It was a lovely night, Mark, but it is finished now. It won’t happen again.”

“It was a lovely night,” Girland agreed, thinking how pretty she looked. Then with his charming smile, he said, “I would like it to happen again, Ginny, darling.”

“No. You have a job to do, and so have I. This isn’t the way to do it. Please don’t make it difficult for me. I’m going to see Miss Olsen now,” and she started for the door.

“Ginny...”

She paused to look at him.

“You’re quite right, of course, but this job won’t last very long. Could we make a date for the future?”

“I thought you were twice my age, and I was much too young,” Ginny said, regarding him seriously.

“I can put up with it if you can,” Girland said, smiling.

“We’ll see.”

He cocked his eyebrow at her.

“Please don’t make it difficult for me.”

She tried to suppress a giggle, but failed.

“Well, the hospital won’t run away, and that’s where I work,” she said and was gone.

Girland reached for a cigarette, lit it and relaxed back in the bed. He sighed contentedly. This, he decided, was the best job he had ever had from the C.I.A. So good it was suspicious. He blew a stream of smoke up to the ceiling and wondered how long it would be before Erica recovered her memory. He wondered too if she would give him the information Dorey wanted. He frowned, remembering those few strange words she had uttered: It is beautiful and black like a grape. Just what did it mean? Anything or nothing? Was this reference to a grape something to do with Kung’s new weapon? He shook his head. It was unlikely: weapons weren’t beautiful. Impatiently, he stubbed out his cigarette. He looked at the bedside clock. It was only 6.15 a.m. Too early yet to get up. He closed his eyes and let his mind recall the exciting moments of the night. You never knew with women, he thought. Who would have imagined there was so much passion locked up in that immature little body?

An hour later, still dozing, Girland heard a tap on the door and he called to come in.

Diallo entered with coffee and orange juice on a tray.

“What time would you like breakfast, sir?” he asked as he set down the tray.

Girland looked guiltily around the room to make sure Ginny had left no trace of her visit. He could see none.

“Another hour, I think,” he said, stretching. “What have we got?”

“Eggs, sir, anyway you like them. The ham looks very good. If you fancy a blue trout, I can recommend it.”

Girland sighed with ecstasy.

“I’ll take the trout. Does Mr. Dorey always live in this style?”

“What style, sir?” Diallo looked genuinely puzzled.

“That means he does,” Girland said and shook his head in wonderment. “All right, Diallo. I’ll be down in an hour.”

An hour and thirty minutes later, breakfast finished, Girland was about to settle on the terrace with the New York Herald Tribune when Sergeant O’Leary came briskly up the steps. He had under his arm a fair sized parcel which was heavily sealed.

“This came for you,” he said, putting the parcel on the table. “Will you sign for it?” As Girland signed the receipt, O’Leary went on, “Six more men have arrived. There’s a man and a dog on the upper Corniche.”

“Fine,” Girland said. “Have some coffee?”

“I’m on duty,” O’Leary said curtly and left the terrace.

Girland grimaced. He realised he had annoyed O’Leary by insisting on having a man on the Corniche. He shrugged. Well, that was too bad. He couldn’t afford to take chances, and besides, it had been an order from Dorey.

He got to his feet and opened the parcel which contained a bulky file on Feng Hoh Kung. He carried it into the living room and locked it away in a drawer of the big desk standing in the alcove. Then he went up the stairs and knocked on Erica’s bedroom door.

Ginny came to the door. She was wearing her nurse’s uniform and she looked impersonally at him. She didn’t even smile when he gave her a broad wink.

“How’s the patient?” he asked, seeing she was determined to be impersonal.

“She’s up and well,” Ginny said. “She is asking to go out on the terrace. Please come in.”

Girland moved past her into the big, pleasant room. Erica was sitting in a lounging chair by the open window that had a direct view of the sea. She was wearing a blue wrap which Girland guessed Ginny had bought for her, and as he came over to her, she turned her head and looked at him. She smiled and held out her hand.

“Hello, Mark,” she said.

He kissed her fingers, aware that Ginny had left the room. Then he sat down in a chair nearby.

“How are you feeling this morning, Erica?”

“Wonderful. I want a swim. Will you take me?”

“Hey! Hey!” he said in mock alarm. “Not yet! Although I can’t wait for you to get back to normal, you mustn’t rush things. You must keep out of the sun.”

She gazed at him and Girland thought how beautiful she looked.

“But I love the sun. It will do me good.”

“You want to get your memory back, don’t you? The doctor says on no account should you be in too strong a light. I know it is going to be a bore for you, but you must not even go out of doors for a few days. If you do, your memory will suffer.” He wondered if she would accept this lie.

“I see.” She grimaced. “Oh, well, I suppose...” She again looked at him. “This is the strangest thing. I can’t believe you are my husband. You really are my husband?”

“I can show you our marriage certificate if you want to be convinced,” Girland said lightly and laughed. “Yes, darling, I really am your husband.”

“And yet I remember nothing about you.” She put her fingers lightly on the back of his hand. “You seem very nice... just the kind of husband I would choose. How long have we been married?”

“Three years,” Girland said glibly.

“Have we any children?”

“No.”

“Why is that, Mark?”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly uneasy.

“We’ve been moving around... we haven’t had much chance to settle down.”

“What is your business?”

“I work for I.B.M.... the computer people. Right now I am doing a deal here and I hired this villa while I’m fixing things.”

“Where is here?” She seemed to be listening in an abstract kind of way, but Girland had a feeling she was growing tense.

“Eze... near Nice in France,” he told her.

“Are you a very important person, Mark?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’m pretty successful. No more than that.”

“Then why are there soldiers patrolling the garden with guns?”

Girland’s brain worked quickly.

“I have a deal set up with the French Government,” he said smoothly. “The Minister of Finance is coming here in a day or so. Someone threw a bomb at him last month. He is a little nervous. We called out the Army to give him confidence. It’s all rather silly, but the deal is important. You don’t have to worry about them.”

He was watching her carefully. She seemed to relax a little.

“I see.” She turned to look at him. The dark, violet-blue eyes searched his face. “I am glad you are my husband, Mark. You don’t know what it means to lose the past the way I have lost it and then to find myself in this lovely room with someone like you.”

Girland shifted.

“I understand. You’ll recover your memory soon. You see...”

“Did we ever quarrel?”

“Why, no. What should we quarrel about?”

“Married people do, don’t they?”

He decided to shift the conversation, which was becoming embarrassing to him, to safe ground.

“Don’t you remember one little thing of your past, Erica?” he asked. “Don’t you even remember the trip we did a couple of months ago to Pekin?”

She stiffened and her hands turned into fists.

“Pekin?”

“Yes.”

She sat for a long moment, staring out of the window.

“I didn’t like Pekin,” she said in a cold, flat voice.

“Why do you say that?”

She made a movement of distaste.

“I don’t know. It’s something I feel What happened to me in Pekin?”

“Why, nothing. I was there on business,” Girland lied. “You did a lot of sightseeing while I was busy. Don’t you remember?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. It is something unpleasant to me.”

“But I thought you enjoyed it. Don’t you remember those grapes?” Girland leaned forward. “The black ones...”

She turned swiftly, her eyes suddenly bright and animated.

“There was one... a beautiful thing. There was a golden dragon... there was...” Then her eyes went dull again and putting her hands to her head, she exclaimed, “Oh, why can’t I remember! The grape is so important!”

“Why is it important?”

“I don’t know, but I feel it is important. I had it with me... I...” She broke off, looking distressed.

“Well, don’t worry about it,” Girland said soothingly. “Give it time.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see you again in a little while. I have a lot of work to do right now. Just relax and don’t worry. Do you want something to read?”

“No. I want to think. I feel the more I think, the quicker I will remember.”

“All right, but don’t overtax yourself. I’ll tell Nurse Roche to come up. She’ll keep you company.”

“Not now... later, perhaps.” She smiled at him and held out her hand. When he took it, she pulled him closer and offered him her lips. They kissed, then she leaned back. “All right, Mark, go and do your work. Come and see me again soon.”

A trifle shaken, Girland left the room and walked down the stairs to the living room. Ginny was glancing through the newspaper. She looked up at him inquiringly.

“Ginny, dear, there is one thing bothering me and we’ll have to attend to it,” Girland said. “Erica must have some clothes. Will you go to Nice right away and buy her whatever she should have? Better take Diallo with you. He has the money. Will you do that?”

“Of course,” Ginny said.

When she had gone up to change, Girland went over to the desk, took out Kung’s file and carrying it out onto the terrace, settled down to examine it.

Around midday, the traffic up to the Grande Corniche began to thicken. A stream of rubberneck buses, packed with tourists, came crawling up the steep hill and along the curving road, stopping every now and then to allow photographic enthusiasts to snap their cameras out of the open windows.

Pfc Dave Fairfax sat in his Jeep which was parked in a lay-by and watched the traffic with a jaundiced eye. His receiving set played soft, swing music. The Alsatian police dog slept at the back of the Jeep.

Fairfax was not only bored, but irritated. Hadn’t his Sergeant told him that sitting up on this goddam road was so much waste of time? How much more pleasant it would have been to be in the garden of the Villa where the other boys were. Some of them had organised a crap game, and Fairfax fancied himself as an expert. If he had been down there instead of up on this sun blistered road, he could have cleaned up, and he needed the money. There was that French chick he had run into on Villefranche harbour the other night. She was aching for it, but he knew instinctively what she would cost. The trouble was he had competition with the goddam Navy. Those guys certainly had it good. Once they got off that lump of iron anchored in the harbour, the chicks were all over them.

Three rubberneck buses moved slowly past him. An owl-faced man with thick horn-rimmed spectacles leaned out of the window and took a photograph of the Jeep. Fairfax made a face at him. He lifted one finger and stabbed the air with it. The owl-faced man grinned, and the bus moved on.

Fairfax shifted in his seat. It was hot. He thought longingly of the shady garden. It did him some good to watch the number of cars crawling behind the buses. The expressions of exasperation on the drivers’ faces as they realised it wasn’t possible to get by the line of buses amused Fairfax. At least he wasn’t the only one to be suffering.

Convinced he was wasting his time, assured by O’Leary that there was no way for anyone to get down to the Villa from the Corniche, Fairfax was far from being alert. Every now and then, he dozed. After all, he argued, if the dog could sleep, why shouldn’t he?

He failed to notice, among the crawling traffic, a black 404. Had he been alert, he might have become curious at the sight of a pretty Vietnamese girl at the wheel. By her side was a slimly built man who looked half-Chinese. In the rear of the car was a young beatnik who lolled against the back of the seat, his small black eyes restless and glittering.

“On your left,” Pearl said softly.

Sadu had already seen the Jeep. He stiffened and put his hand up to his face. Jo-Jo also looked at the Jeep. He saw an American soldier, his feet up on the dashboard, his jaw moving rhythmically as he chewed gum, his eyes half-closed.

“Do you think they have found the path?” Sadu asked as Pearl brought the car to a stop in the traffic block.

“They may have. You’ll have to go with him, Sadu,” Pearl returned.

Sadu grimaced.

“You have my gun,” Jo-Jo said. “I’ll bring the rifle.” Leaning forward, he dropped the silenced.38 into Sadu’s lap.

Sadu hurriedly shoved the gun down the waistband of his trousers. He hated all this, but it was something he couldn’t shirk.

“I’ll stop at the next bend,” Pearl said. “You will have to walk back. Don’t forget the camera.”

The traffic moved a little fester. Around the bend and out of sight of the soldier, Pearl began to slow down.

“Be quick,” she said. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Sweating in the heat, Sadu grabbed the 16 mm movie camera he had brought with him, then slid back the catch on the door. Pearl put out her hand and signalled that she was stopping, then braked to a standstill. The long line of traffic behind her came to a slow, cursing halt.

Sadu and Jo-Jo slid out of the car and reached the narrow sidewalk as the driver behind the 404 blasted his horn. Pearl sent the car forward again.

The gun pressed painfully against his stomach as Sadu began to walk back. Jo-Jo, carrying the violin case and a rucksack containing food and wine, walked with him.

The path, overgrown and hidden from the road, was some hundred metres from the parked Jeep.

Sadu and Jo-Jo walked slowly towards the gap in the wall which led down to the path. They both felt like flies on a wall. There were no other pedestrians, and they were also aware that people in the crawling cars were looking at them. Sadu felt certain the violin case was attracting attention.

Jo-Jo said under his breath, “He’s spotted us. Take some pictures.”

Fairfax had just deposited his wad of gum on the undershelf of the Jeep’s dashboard. He saw the two men, and for a brief moment, his mind became alert, then when one of them lifted a movie camera and began to take distant shots of the village below, he sneered to himself and began to peel the wrapping off another piece of gum.

Tourist! he thought. All the goddam equipment money can buy and I bet he takes lousy pictures!

A rubberneck bus was approaching.

“We go down the path when the bus is between him and us,” Sadu said.

They waited. Sadu still pretended to take photographs.

Jo-Jo said, “Now...”

Under the eyes of thirty tourists, but out of view of the Jeep, they quickly slid down the steep slope, through the undergrowth, moving dangerously quickly until they reached the path itself.

Sadu pulled the gun from his waistband and began to move forward. Jo-Jo waited for a few seconds before he followed him. When they were in sight of the Villa’s roof and when Sadu had satisfied himself there was no guard to worry them, he stopped.

“It’s all right,” he said. “They haven’t found it. I’ll get back. You must find your own way back to the hotel. Stay here until the job’s done.”

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. Glancing at his cheap watch, he saw it was now 1.10 p.m. 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?”

Yew shook his head.

“I wouldn’t attempt to sell it. It is much too important a piece. It should go to Christies for the world to bid for it.”

“But suppose this had to be an undercover deal? Suppose Kung didn’t want his government to know about the sale. Do you know a collector who would buy it?”

Yew regarded Girland thoughtfully, his eyes suddenly hooded.

“Yes, I know three or four collectors who would buy it.”

“What kind of price?”

Yew shrugged.

“That’s not easy. I would try for three million dollars.”

Girland drew in a long, slow breath.

“Think you would get it?”

“It is possible.”

“The whole affair would be arranged without publicity?”

“That is also possible.”

“It would have to be.”

Again Yew regarded Girland.

“My friend,” he said, “I can’t believe you are wasting your time talking this way unless you know more than you are telling me. Why not be frank? You can trust me. I am your friend. Are you acting for Kung? Does he really want to sell his pearl?”

Girland got to his feet.

“Don’t let’s rush this, Jacques,” he said. “Thanks for the information. If you had the pearl, you could sell it for three million dollars... right?”

Yew touched his temple with a silk handkerchief.

“Yes.”

“Fine... I’ll be seeing you.” Girland shook hands and walked out of the shop.

He was in a very thoughtful mood as he drove back to Eze.

... In the shabby villa at Cagnes, Malik paced up and down.

“What is happening to the fool?” he demanded, his voice vicious with rage. “He has been gone three hours! What is he doing?”

Smernoff sighed and dragged his eyes away from a suntanned girl in a white bikini who was running down to the sea.

“The traffic is bad,” he said. “It would take an hour to get up the Corniche and an hour to get back. Don’t be so impatient.” He pointed. “That girl... look at the length of her legs. She is really very pleasing. I would like to...”

“Shut up!” Malik barked. “Go and look for him, Boris. Go up to the Corniche and find out what he is doing!”

Smernoff recognised the dangerous note in Malik’s voice. He got to his feet and moved to the door.

“It will take me some time, but I will go,” he said.

Impatiently, Malik waved him away. When Smernoff had gone, Malik sat in the chair Smernoff had been using. He looked out onto the beach. The girl in the white bikini was walking along the beach, swinging her bathing cap.

Malik watched her.

O’Halloran came into Dorey’s office. He carried a blue and white suitcase which he put on a chair.

“This is hers,” he said as Dorey put aside a file and got to his feet. “The hotel had it in their left luggage office. She told them she would collect it later.”

“I thought you said there were two suitcases?” Dorey said.

“There were. I haven’t traced the other yet. There’s nothing of interest in this one. Just clothes. I’ve been through it. Good, expensive stuff, but nothing to help us.”

Dorey showed his disappointment. He shrugged and sat down.

“How about the second suitcase?”

“Could be anywhere. We are working with Dulay and he is having every left luggage locker checked and is checking all left luggage offices. It’s a big job. Could take days.”

“How did she register at the hotel?”

“As Naomi Hill from Los Angeles. There is no doubt she is the woman. I showed the staff at the hotel her photograph. They immediately recognised her.”

“How about her passport?”

“The reception clerk didn’t see it. She told him her passport was in her luggage. She took the police card and filled it in herself. I’m checking the passport number. It’s certain to be a false one.”

“Doesn’t look as if she had lost her memory at that time, does it?” Dorey said thoughtfully. “Looks as if she was on the run.”

“I suppose we are sure she really has lost her memory?” O’Halloran said.

“Dr. Forrester seems certain about it. She might be faking.” Dorey sat for a moment in thought. “I’ll talk to Girland. In the meantime if you are sure there is nothing in the suitcase of value, you had better put it on a plane and let her have it.”

“There’s nothing.”

“Well, then do that.” Dorey reached for the telephone. Ten minutes later, he was talking to Girland. He told him one of the suitcases had been found.

“There’s nothing of interest in it for us,” Dorey went on. “I’m having it sent down to the Nice Airport. You can get someone to collect it. O’Halloran and I have been talking about this woman.” He went on to tell Girland that she had registered under the name of Naomi Hill of Los Angeles. “We are wondering if she really has lost her memory or is faking. I want you to lay a trap for her.”

“Such as how?” Girland asked, reaching for a cigarette.

“Call her Naomi. Watch her closely. See if you get any reaction,” Dorey said. “Do you want me to send someone down there to handle it?”

Girland, thinking about the Black Grape, said, “No. I can handle it. Give me an hour or so. I’ll think what is best to do. I have an idea she isn’t faking, but you might be right,” and he hung up.

Ginny, who had been listening to all this, said, “She isn’t faking, Mark. I am quite sure of it. I’ve had a loss of memory case before now. There is this lost, vague look m the eyes that can’t be faked.”

Girland smiled at her.

“I don’t think she is faking. My boss was born suspicious. I’m going up to talk to her. Why don’t you go out on the terrace and top up your beautiful suntan?”

Ginny looked at him, then nodded.

“All right.” She paused, then went on, “She is lovely, isn’t She?”

He crossed the room and put his arms around her.

“So are you, Ginny. You have something she hasn’t.”

Ginny touched his cheek with her finger.

“What is that?”

“I’ll tell you tonight.”

She moved away from him. Girland watched her. She wandered to the french windows leading out onto the terrace, paused, then looked at him.

“All right... then tell me tonight,” she said and walked out into the hot sunshine.

Jo-Jo was feeling the heat. He had already drunk half the bottle of wine Ruby had given him, and he now decided it had been a mistake to drink wine. It only made him hotter. He should have brought Coca Cola. He had taken off his dirty, cotton coat and had rolled up his black shirtsleeves. Sweat sparkled on his narrow forehead as he shifted further into the shade. He had been up on the mountain now for four hours and the terrace had been deserted for all this time. He pulled the haversack towards him, looked into it and took out a demi — bagette, split in two and filled with ham and garlic sausage. He gnawed a piece off, wiped the sweat from his face and began chewing. The rifle across his knees felt hot. Suddenly he stiffened. He spat out the half-eaten lump of bread and lifted the rifle.

Here she was, and at last! he thought as far below him a blonde girl came out onto the terrace. She had on a skimpy sun suit and she sat on one of the lounging chairs. She began to spray her arms with a suntan bomb.

Jo-Jo, his mouth now dry, his body tense, lifted the rifle and peered at the girl through the telescopic sight. He had been told the woman was blonde. He knew the nurse was brunette. So this must be Erica Olsen. His lips came off his discoloured teeth and he held his breath as the cross section of the sight centred on the girl’s forehead. She had paused and was looking down into the garden, motionless. Jo-Jo knew he was being offered the perfect target. Very gently, still holding his breath, he squeezed the trigger.