Thomas lifted the automatic and pointed it at Rossland’s paunch.
“No fuss,” he said quietly. “Walk backwards and keep your hands still.”
As Schwartz appeared behind Thomas, Rossland’s face sagged and turned grey. He walked slowly backwards into the living-room. Thomas followed him while Schwartz closed the front door and locked it.
Girland ran up the flights of stairs to his apartment. He had time to take the girl, waiting for him, to the little bistro across the way, he thought as he reached the top landing. After dinner, he would bring the girl back here, persuade her to wait for him again, and then see this woman at the ‘Allo Paris’ club. When he was through with her, and after calling Rossland, he would return to his apartment. The girl and he would have fun together for the rest of the night. It was typical of the confidence he had in himself that it never occurred to him that the girl might not be co-operative.
He unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped into the lighted room, then he paused, frowning. There was no sign of the girl.
“Tessa?” he called, raising his voice.
Only silence greeted him.
He looked into the shower room, then satisfied that she had gone, he sat on the bed.
In disgust, he thought, well, she certainly had me for a sucker. She must have gone as soon as I. I really thought I was on to a sure thing. Then he frowned. But why? Why did she come back here and give me the treatment if she didn’t intend to play? His eyes became alert and he got to his feet. He looked around the big room. Everything seemed to be just as he had left it.
He crossed the room to the big wardrobe and looked at the three drawers in the wardrobe. The lower drawer which he didn’t use was his warning of alarm. He had gummed a hair across the opening to alert him if someone searched his room. He saw the hair was broken.
He went into the shower room, pressed the spring in the panel and looked inside. In the recess, he hid his professional equipment: an Exakta camera with its accessories, two microphones, a tape recorder, a set of burglar’s tools, several guns and various other pieces of equipment he needed from time to time. The recess also contained an odd assortment of clothing for there were times when Girland had to change his appearance.
A tiny electric light in the ceiling glowed green. It told him the girl hadn’t discovered the recess.
He snapped the panel shut and returned to the living-room. He stood for some seconds, thinking. He had criticised Rossland unjustly, he thought. Whoever these people were, they had known about him before he had met Rossland. He was angry with himself. The girl had been cleverly planted, and he had been stupid enough to have fallen for her.
He crossed the room to the telephone and dialled Rossland’s number. He listened to the steady ring of the bell, and when he finally convinced himself there was going to be no answer, he replaced the receiver. He ran his hand thoughtfully up and down the nape of his neck.
Rossland had said he was returning to his apartment. He had said he would be waiting for Girland … so why didn’t he answer his telephone?
Girland went to the shower room and exchanged his ammonia gun for a .45 automatic. Leaving his apartment he descended the stairs and moved cautiously to where he had parked his car.
It took him twenty minutes to reach Rossland’s apartment block. He parked the car around the corner and then walked back to the entrance to the block.
Leaving the lift at the fifth floor, he rang Rossland’s bell. He didn’t expect an answer, and after a minute wait, he opened the door with a piece of thick wire that he used expertly with any lock.
Gun in hand, he moved silently into the tiny hall, and then into the living-room.
He paused at the sight of Rossland, lying on the velvet covered settee. The muscles in Girland’s face tightened at the sight of the fat man as he lay in painful death.
Rossland had been brutally strangled. The nails of his right hand had been torn off. Blood from his nail-less fingers made a small pool of dark blood on the carpet.
The mutilated hand told Girland all he needed to know. He knew Rossland hadn’t the guts to withstand such torture. Whoever had killed him now knew that a woman calling herself Madame Foucher had a meeting with Girland at ‘Allo Paris’ club at eleven o’clock this night.
Girland touched Rossland’s dead shoulder. He had worked for Rossland now for five years. He had watched Rossland grow fat and soft. The other men who had worked for Rossland had gradually deserted him. Girland had hung on because he had been too lax to look elsewhere. Rossland had provided him with just enough money to live the way he liked to live.
Girland looked down at the dead face with its bulging eyes, the tongue, a red ball, protruding between big yellow teeth, and he felt a sudden sorrow for what remained of Rossland. He had warned him. He had said, “This is for real.” But Rossland had been too drunk and stupid to heed the warning.
“I have been able to identify the American in the Fiat car, sir,” Thomas said. He was standing respectfully before Radnitz who was sitting in a lounging chair, looking up at Thomas. They were in the sitting-room of Radnitz’s luxury suite. The hands of the gilt ornate clock on the overmantel pointed to twenty-five minutes to ten. “His name is Mark Girland, and he has a one-room apartment on Rue de Suisses. He calls himself a Freelance Journalist, but he doesn’t appear to have any money. Under pressure, Rossland admitted this man is one of his agents. Girland does not deal direct with Dorey. Rossland has told him to meet this woman, Madame Foucher, at the ‘Allo Paris’ club at eleven o’clock tonight. Neither Rossland nor Dorey know what it is she has to sell. I am a little late, sir, because we went to Girland’s place, but he had gone. I had hoped to get rid of him as we got rid of Rossland.”
Radnitz drew on his cigar.
“You are doing very well, Thomas, but understand this: Girland is not to meet this woman. Make sure he doesn’t get near the club. Have it completely sealed off. Get rid of him. Get hold of this woman. I must talk to her. Don’t hurt her. Take her to Schwartz’s place. I’ll wait here until you telephone me. I repeat: Girland is not to talk to her. It is imperative I see and talk to her before anyone does. Is that understood?”
You are doing very well.
Such praise came seldom from Radnitz and Thomas flushed with pleasure. He was Radnitz’s slave, admiring him with adulation bordering on fanaticism.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I will arrange everything.”
Radnitz dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He thought Thomas ridiculous with his little beard and in his shabbiness, but he was content to use him as long as he served him efficiently.
Thomas left the hotel, walking on air. He returned to where the Citroen was parked. He and Borg discussed the instructions he had received. Schwartz sat motionless in the back seat. He never took part in plan making. His job was to eliminate. Both Thomas and Borg regarded him as a savage and were secretly afraid of him.
Thomas said, “We will need more men. You wait here. I’ll telephone. If we are to seal off the club, I must have at least another four men.”
Borg watched him return to the hotel and he put a cigarette between his thin lips. He regarded Schwartz in the driving mirror. Schwartz was staring with brooding intensity before him. Borg grimaced uneasily. Thomas had told him what Schwartz had done to Rossland. There were times, Borg thought, when he wondered if the money Radnitz paid him was enough to compensate him for the way he was living.
A blonde girl, wearing a
New York Herald Tribune
sweater came up to the car and jerked the door open.
“Tribune?” she asked, offering the paper. Her blue eyes examined Borg, and they then shifted to Schwartz.
Borg grinned at her. He liked blondes especially when they had a shape like this girl had.
“Don’t you peddle anything else besides newspapers, baby?” he asked and leered at her.
The girl stepped back and slammed the car door. He watched her walk away.
“I bet the guy who’s lucky to have her has himself a good time,” he said wistfully. “Selling newspapers! She must be crazy! With a tail like that, she could make a fortune.”
Schwartz remained silent. Women meant nothing to him. Borg hated him for his superior disinterest.
A minute later, Thomas came out of the hotel. The blonde girl, her newspapers in her hand, was standing in the shadows. Thomas didn’t notice her. As he got into the Citroen, the girl scribbled on the front page of the Tribune, the number of the car.
Thomas said as he slid into the passenger’s seat, “Now Boul’ Clichy. We’ll have five of the boys there in half an hour. Hurry it up. We have to get there before Girland does.”
Borg grunted and started the car’s engine. He moved the Citroen out into the stream of traffic and headed towards L’Etoile.
Girland sat in a bistro at a table at the far end of the big noisy room. He was eating a herb omelette without appetite, his mind busy.
In two hours’ time he had to contact this woman. He was sure the men who had murdered Rossland would be waiting for him. If they were as efficient as they seemed to be, they would make sure he didn’t get near the cellar club. They would by now have the place sewn up, and if he wasn’t very careful, he could walk into lethal trouble.
He toyed with the idea of telephoning Dorey. He had never met Dorey. He had only heard of him through Rossland. He decided for the moment he would see this thing through by himself. The first move would be to get to this woman, Madame Foucher, and find out what she had to sell. Then he would decide whether to handle it himself or work with Dorey.
He pushed aside his plate and lit a cigarette.
He told himself he had two choices of action. He could either go to this cellar club and take the risk of walking into trouble or he could telephone the club and try to persuade the woman to meet him elsewhere.
After a moment’s thought he realised that now the opposition knew the woman’s name and where she was to be found, they would probably try to kidnap her. No woman would withstand the kind of torture Rossland had suffered. Once they had her, she would talk, and then he would be out of it.
He made up his mind to go to the club. He just couldn’t operate from the sidelines.
He ordered a cup of coffee and continued to brood. He worried about the blonde girl, Tessa. Who was she? Where did she fit into all this? He thought of her lush, long-legged body. Okay, sucker, he thought, things never do work out right for you. Right now she and I could be rolling in the hay.
He finished his coffee, paid his bill and walked out onto the street. He hesitated for a moment, then decided to leave his car where he had parked it. He waited on the kerb patiently for ten minutes before an empty taxi cruised by. He told the driver to take him to St. Lazare station.
At the station, he paid off the taxi and began the long walk towards Boulevard de Clichy. He walked slowly, jostled by the crowd thronging the pavement, his eyes and senses alert.
The time now was ten minutes to ten. Girland used the back streets that ran parallel with the Boulevard. He wondered what they had arranged. They couldn’t attempt to murder him in the street. He was constantly surrounded by people. His hand moved inside his coat and his fingers closed around the butt of his .45. The feel of the cold butt gave him more confidence.
He suddenly experienced a prickle of excitement. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a thick-set man who was staring aimlessly into the lighted window of a photographic equipment shop. The man wore a wool-lined coat and a green Swiss hat decorated with a feather. He turned casually as Girland moved past him and began to walk behind him.
It was too casually done. Girland’s mouth tightened. They had certainly spread a wide net. Well, all right, he would let them know they weren’t dealing with an amateur. He walked on, aware of the soft footfalls of the man behind him, then abruptly, he turned into a doorway, leading to an apartment block. He walked into darkness, then into a courtyard, dimly lit by the-pale moon. He moved back against the wall of the apartment block, becoming invisible in the shadows. He waited. Nothing happened. He listened to the scurrying footfalls of the crowd going home and to the grinding of gears as cars crawled in an impatient stream along the narrow road. He had plenty of time and patience.
He stood there for over ten minutes. This was something Girland could do without any tension to his nerves. Waiting had always been part of his professional equipment.
Then he saw a thick-set figure come cautiously down the dark alley that led to the courtyard. The man paused when he realised that he would have to cross the dimly lit courtyard. He seemed nervous. Girland waited.
Finally, the man made up his mind. Girland saw him take something from inside his coat that glittered for a brief moment. Girland thought: A knife man.
The thick-set figure came forward. He was within three yards of Girland before he saw him. He was a quick, competent killer, but not quite quick enough for Girland’s reflexes.
The flat, stabbing knife flashed as Girland launched himself in a flying tackle at the thick-set man’s knees. The two men thudded together on the concrete.
The thick-set man’s hat fell off as he tried to drive the knife into Girland’s throat. Girland gripped the man’s stabbing wrist. They strained, each exerting their maximum strength. The knife came closer to Girland’s throat, so close, he felt the scratch of its sharpness against his skin. Making an effort that set his heart racing, he shoved away the threatening knife and with his left hand, he struck a vicious Judo punch that sank into the thick-set man’s throat. The knife fell from the man’s hand. He gave a gurgling sigh and went limp. Breathing heavily, Girland scrambled to his feet.
He didn’t even bother to look at the prostrate body. Moving quickly, brushing himself down, he walked back to the lighted street, and again mingled with the jostling crowd.
He was very alert now. He was within two minutes’ walk of the cellar club. He checked his watch. The time was half past ten.