Silk moved a few steps back. He looked at Keegan, his scarred face expressionless. Keegan moved quickly. He flicked out a length of nylon cord from his pocket, stepped behind Craig, dropped a noose over Craig’s head and around his neck. Then he dropped flat on his back in a Judo fall, hauling on the cord. The movement was done in a split second.
Craig felt the cord bite into his flesh. He went over backwards with a crash. Keegan slammed his feet on Craig’s shoulders, hauling on the cord.
Silk unscrewed the silencer on his gun, dropped the silencer into his pocket, then returned the gun to its holster. By the time he had done this, Craig was dead.
Keegan got to his feet while Silk took the photographs from the envelope. He selected one which he put on an occasional table. The rest he returned to the envelope which he forced into his overcoat pocket. In the meantime, Keegan had gone into the bathroom. Now, he returned.
“There’s a hook on the door strong enough to take him,” he said.
The two men caught hold of Craig’s lifeless body and dragged it into the bathroom. They hung it by the cord from the hook. Craig’s polished shoes just touched the tiled floor.
They regarded him, then Silk nodded.
“A nice clean job,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Keegan opened the front door, looked along the corridor, listened, then jerked his head.
The two men rode down in the elevator.
No one saw them leave. No one noticed the Thunderbird as it drifted through the heavy traffic back to the Washington Hilton Hotel.
Jean Rodin, Radnitz’s Paris agent, was short, middle-aged, fat and balding. He had a perpetual smile which never reached his glassy, expressionless eyes. He handled Radnitz’s affairs in France intelligently and efficiently. Many of the things Radnitz required him to do were criminal. Rodin was a careful man. He never made a mistake. The money Radnitz paid him was impressive. He was one of Radnitz’s most reliable agents.
He received a cable from Washington on the afternoon of Craig’s death. The cable was brief and to the point:
Rodin
Hotel Maurice. Paris 6.
Smith. Complete operation.
Lindsey.
He lit a Gauloise cigarette, put on his hat and overcoat and went down to where he had parked his Simca car. He drove with the heavy traffic until he reached Quai des Grands Augustins where after some difficulty he found a parking place. He walked down Rue Seguier, turned into a dirty courtyard and entered a shabby apartment block. He climbed to the sixth floor, pausing every now and then to regain his breath.
Rodin adored food and smoked forty cigarettes a day. Any form of exercise distressed him, and stair climbing was his least happy experience. Finally, he reached the sixth floor and knocked on a door.
Jerry Smith, wearing a dirty singlet and skin-tight jeans, opened the door, a scowl on his face, but seeing Rodin, he brightened.
“Hello, Mr. Rodin, I didn’t expect you. Got some more work for me?”
Rodin regarded him with disgust. Such creatures had to be used, he told himself, but to have contact with them made him feel soiled.
“I think I can find you something. “ He spoke English with a strong French accent. He moved into the small, disgustingly dirty room.
“I did a good job, didn’t I?” Jerry went on, grinning. “I should have been paid more. How about it, Mr. Rodin?”
Rodin regarded him. They always wanted more money and sooner or later they always talked.
“Yes, perhaps.” He put his hand inside his overcoat. His small, fat fingers closed over the butt of a .25 automatic. He knew Jerry Smith lived alone on this floor and the old lady who lived below was stone deaf. He could hear the roar of the traffic as it pounded along the Quai. It would be safe to shoot.
As Jerry Smith edged forward, greed in his eyes, Rodin drew the gun and shot him through the heart. The brittle bang of the small gun mingled with the roar of the traffic and was lost.
Rodin walked out on to the landing, pushing the gun back into his holster. He closed the door and made his way without hurrying down the stairs and to his car.
Back at his hotel, he sent the following cable.
Lindsey, Washington Hilton Hotel
Operation completed.
Rodin.
Radnitz had told Lindsey to leave no dangerous loose ends. Lindsey believed in being thorough. What were two lives worth against a four million dollar take?
The Belevedere Hotel is considered the most expensive and the most luxurious hotel in Florida. Situated on the magnificent bay that half circles Paradise City, it is the favourite resting place for the Texas oil men, movie stars and anyone with more than a half a million dollar income.
Radnitz rented the penthouse suite at the hotel on a year-to-year basis. Fifteen storeys above the sand and the sea, the penthouse suite consisted of three bedrooms, three bathrooms, a deluxe kitchen, two fine reception rooms, a smaller room used by Radnitz’s secretary and a vast terrace complete with a swimming pool, awnings, a cocktail bar, lounging chairs and tropical flowers.
Whenever Radnitz was planning a big operation, he retired to the penthouse as he thought better, planned better when in the direct blaze of Florida’s sun.
He was sitting on the terrace, wearing a white towelling shirt and blue linen slacks, a cigar in his mouth, a highball at his elbow when Lindsey crossed the red and white tiles and pulled up a chair and sat down.
Radnitz, his hooded eyes a little sleepy, raised his eyebrows.
“Did you get it?”
Lindsey handed over a big envelope.
“No loose ends?” Radnitz asked as he drew out several big prints of the formula.
“No loose ends,” Lindsey said quietly.
Knowing Lindsey, Radnitz didn’t waste time asking for details. He studied the formula, then returned the prints to the envelope which he put on the table.
“Odd to think this could be worth four million dollars,” he said, reflectively, “but as it is, it is worthless.”
Lindsey didn’t say anything. When he was with Radnitz, he seldom talked, except to answer questions. He had an enormous respect for this fat, squat man, knowing him to be one of the most powerful and brilliant financial geniuses, who had built his kingdom from nothing, relying on his brains, his ruthlessness and a built-in instinct that led him unerringly where big money was to be found.
“I am told Alan Craig committed suicide,” Radnitz said, not looking at Lindsey, his hooded eyes studying a group of girls in bikinis, disporting themselves on the beach far below him. “Sad . . .”
“Yes,” Lindsey said. “The police found an incriminating photo in his apartment. It is being hushed up. Warren has thrown a blanket over it all.”
“Just as well,” Radnitz sipped his drink. Well, now, we can start the operation. You have a lot to do. First, let me put you in the picture. I want you to know exactly what you have to do. I have put my own ideas down on paper. They may or may not be helpful. You have the ultimate decision on every move. I am leaving for Prague. There is a deal there coming up that could be interesting. From Prague, I go to Hong Kong. They are, as usual, short of water. There is some question of building another reservoir in the New Territories. I have an option on the contract, but a reservoir is useless without water. From Hong Kong, I go to Peking. I hope to persuade the Chinese Government to fill the reservoir. I will be back in ten weeks.” He stared at Lindsey, the slate grey eyes cold. “I expect you to have broken the code by then.”
Lindsey crossed one long leg over the other and regarded his glossy black shoe. His face remained expressionless.
“There is only one man who can decode the formula,” Radnitz went on after a long pause: “The man who invented it. His name is Paul Forrester. He not only invented the formula, but also the code. Let me tell you about the formula. It is for a new and entirely revolutionary metal. From what I hear, this metal is ten times lighter than steel and three times as durable. It is also completely friction proof. Using this metal, it will be possible to make a Moon shot half as cheaply as before. It is obviously the ideal metal for any kind of space rocket. Nothing like it has ever been thought of before. As you probably know, the inventor, Paul Forrester, is now in the Harrison Wentworth Asylum. It is a private asylum for the very rich. The American Government have put him there in the hope that he will recover and give them the key to the formula. He has been there now for twenty-six months. He is quite uncooperative, spending his days staring into space, suspicious of everyone, not reacting to treatment . . . in fact, a zombie? Radnitz paused, then after another sip at his highball, went on, “You may well ask yourself why this man is in an asylum. Without doubt he is one of the best and most impressive scientists in the world. I have had his background investigated. It seems he has always been an odd man out. His father committed suicide. His mother went off with some man and disappeared. Forrester was brought up by a spinster aunt, a sour, disillusioned woman who did her duty, but no more. Forrester was brilliant at school with a genius for mathematics. But he was unpopular, a loner and an introvert. I won’t bother you with his success at school or at Harvard. At the age of thirty-three, he was appointed Chief Scientist at the Paradise City Rocket Research Station. His assistant did all the routine work. Forrester had his own laboratory and no one knew what he was working on. For those who had the insight, signs of manic-depression were beginning to show: irritability, sleeplessness, suspicion, restlessness and so on.
“Before taking up his post here, he married an utterly unsuitable woman as so often men of his brilliance will marry. This woman―I don’t need to bother you with details about her―was the ultimate cause of his mental breakdown.
“Getting back to his work, he had a lab assistant, a young woman whose name is Nona Jacey. She is important. She was the only person allowed in his laboratory. Her duties were simple. She merely kept the place clean, answered the telephone, kept unwelcome visitors away, brought Forrester his lunch. I will come back to her in a moment.
°The Medical Officer on the Research Station began to get worried about Forrester. He was sure Forrester was heading for a breakdown and he alerted Warren in Washington. Warren had heard that Forrester was working on something important, but had no idea what it was. When he got the doctor’s report, he became alarmed. He sent for Forrester. He arranged for a top psychiatrist to be present at the meeting. He got nothing from Forrester who refused to say what he was working on. Another interview was arranged for the following day. When Forrester had returned to his hotel, the psychiatrist said bluntly that Forrester was on the verge of a mental crackup . . . all the signs were there. Before Warren could make up his mind what to do, Forrester had packed and had returned to the Research Station.” Radnitz paused again to sip his drink. “He caught his wife in bed with his assistant, about the only man on the Research Station he had any contact with. He killed the man and was only just prevented from killing his wife. He was found battering down the bathroom door, quite insane and extremely violent. The killing, his wife’s behaviour and Forrester’s insanity were hushed up. It became a Top Secret secret. Warren arranged for Forrester to be put in the Harrison Wentworth Asylum. There he remains, quiet, moody . . . a zombie.”
Lindsey recrossed his legs.
“What makes you think he will decode the formula?” he asked.
“You will read my suggestions later,” Radnitz said. “I have talked to a number of mental specialists. There is a chance. As regards the code it is apparently simple, but without a key, unbreakable. What Forrester seems to have done is to substitute words and numbers for other words and numbers, probably taken from some book. Every book in his home and laboratory has been examined without finding any of them marked, This isn’t surprising as Forrester has a remarkable photographic memory . . . quite a freak thing. He is or rather was able to read a page of print and then recite it back without making a single error. So it would seem the key to the code is in his head.”
Lindsey thought the girl running across the sands to the sea in the far distance shouldn’t be wearing a bikini. Although her figure was acceptable, her thighs were enormously fat . . . so fat, she ran awkwardly.
“This girl . . . Nona Jacey?” he asked, shifting his eyes back to Radnitz.
“Yes. She is still working at the Research Station in some lowly job. It was she who gave Warren the clue about this metal. Forrester liked and trusted her . . . this is important. She had no idea he was a mental case. She has been interrogated by the top scientists, the C.I.A. and by Warren. From the interrogation comes the fact that Forrester has discovered this metal. She was present when he hit on the formula and -he told her about it. She was puzzled and worried when he said no one should have it. He was alarmingly elated and told her the United States did not deserve the fruits of his brain. It was thought that he hadn’t discovered anything of importance and all this talk was part of his growing madness, but the girl is emphatic she has seen the metal and has seen the various tests Forrester made . . . if one is to believe her, the metal exists. A thorough search for the metal was made, but Forrester either has hidden it or destroyed it and it was never found. As you know, every effort has been made to break the code without success. So the affair stands . . . stalemate. Nona Jacey is vitally important. You will see what I suggest.” He looked inquiringly at Lindsey. “Any questions?”
“A lot,” Lindsey said, “but I want to read your suggestions first.”
“Yes, do that,” Radnitz said. “You will find them on my desk. This is probably one of my most important operations. If you run into any major difficulties, you may consult me. I am relying on you,” and with a wave of his hand, he dismissed Lindsey, then sank lower in his chair and stared out at the beach and the blue sea, glittering in the sunshine.