Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  The devious country route to Arcachon was deserted as she drove through the late afternoon. She would go to the Atlantique Hotel in Arcachon, book a room, contact Paula. If Paula wasn't available soon she'd contact Paris.

  *

  The man known as Kalmar sat in his hotel room studying a photograph of Jean Burgoyne. He had no doubt the opportunity would soon present itself when he would strangle her.

  He hadn't a photo of Paula Grey, but he didn't need one. After all, he'd met her. He didn't often get an assignment to eliminate two targets. He was rather looking forward to the double killing.

  Lamy's instructions over the phone had been precise and simple. The odd thing was Lamy had given him no idea of the location of either target. That was most unusual. Sometimes Kalmar wondered about Major Jules Lamy. His pay as Chief of Intelligence would hardly amount to a fortune. And he was the only other man - apart from de Forge presumably - who knew the targets. Which might explain some strange events which had occurred.

  Putting the photo back into an envelope, he tucked it inside his pocket. This looked like very easy money. The thought that the fee paid involved the murder of two women never crossed his mind.

  Newman had slept for twenty-four hours in his bedroom at the Atlantique Hotel in Arcachon. Driving north from the Landes non-stop to Arcachon with Moshe Stein, he had arrived exhausted in the late afternoon.

  And, like himself, Moshe had been flaked out, all reserves of energy used up. Both men had retired to their rooms. Newman had wanted to phone Tweed but when he lay on the bed after a quick wash he fell fast asleep.

  It was a troubled sleep, crucified by nightmares. Firing squads on a lonely beach backed by the sand dunes with the forests of the Landes behind them. Stretcher parties carrying the dead victim up over the dunes into the forest, dumping a body whose face looked like his own into a hole in the ground. An old woman watching, cackling with obscene delight at the spectacle. A man wearing a Ku-Klux-Klan mask bending over him. The man removing the mask to reveal the grinning face of Major Lamy.

  Eventually Newman woke, feeling his head was stuffed with cotton-wool. He forced himself out of bed, checked the time. It was almost dusk outside. Stripping to the waist, he sluiced himself with cold water, dried off. His brain was beginning to function.

  He was shivering from the cold. The heating in the hotel was meagre. He threw on a few fresh clothes, the first ones he came to when throwing back the lid of his case.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he dialled the special number at the Ministry of the Interior from memory. He had to be very forceful to get put through to someone in high authority, who turned out to be Lasalle.

  'Need to speak urgently to Tweed.'

  'I'm afraid he is not in the building just at the moment, Mr Newman. Can I help?'

  'Only Tweed can. Thanks. Call you back,' Newman mumbled and put down the phone.

  Only Tweed could be trusted with the information he had gathered. He went along the corridor to Moshe's room, knocked on the door. He had to knock several times before the door was opened on a chain. Moshe's bleary-eyed, unshaven face peered at him.

  'Oh, it's you. Sorry, I was asleep.'

  Moshe put the chain back on the door when Newman had entered. He ran a hand through his tousled hair.

  'I feel as though the Eiffel Tower fell on me. What do we do now? I still think you should leave me here. Go north. Take the car. No reason why you should risk your life any more.'

  'I'm sticking with you until you're safe in Paris, Meanwhile, I may have to go out. You have money? Good. Bribe the people here to send a decent meal to your room. Stay here until I knock on the door like this.'

  Newman rapped his knuckles with a certain tattoo on the dressing table. Going back to his room, he had a quick shave, tidied himself up, put on a warm coat. It would be pretty raw outside.

  First he'd enquire whether Paula was in the hotel. Accommodation in Arcachon was fairly limited in winter. He found she was registered but out. That would give him time to visit Isabelle. Maybe she had seen someone floating round Arcachon, someone he ought to know about.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  'I'm sorry I'm so late, Victor. I never expected you would wait.'

  Rosewater grinned as Paula hurried up to him in the bar restaurant she'd earlier called a 'cafe'. Clad in a black leather jacket and heavy navy trousers with a razor sharp crease, he gave her a bear hug, asked her what she would like to drink as they sat at a table.

  'Vermouth, please.'

  'Are you hungry?' he enquired.

  'Ravenous. Haven't eaten for hours.'

  'There's the menu. What do you fancy?'

  'Don't need to look. A huge mushroom omelette with lots of fried potatoes. Damn watching my figure this evening.

  'I'll take pleasure watching it instead,' he assured her and summoned a waiter.

  The restaurant was only half full. Butler wandered in as though on his own. He chose a small table by a window. Paula had said it was unnecessary for her two escorts to come, that she'd return to the Atlantique as soon as she'd finished her meal with Rosewater.

  'You can go in on your own.' Butler had told her. 'Then I'll follow, merge with the wallpaper. But we're staying with you all the time. Tweed's strict orders.'

  Outside Nield sat in the parked Renault where Butler could see him through the window. Nield was surveying his surroundings. What attracted his attention was a red Porsche, parked twenty yards or so further along the road.

  Parked in the shadows, away from the nearest street lamp, it was difficult to tell whether there was anyone in the driver's seat. Nield slipped his Walther out of its holster and laid it on his lap. The Porsche bothered him.

  Inside, Paula was sipping her vermouth, studying Rose-water. Even late in the day he looked as fresh as paint with his strong jaw, his handsome face, and pleasant smile. Paula liked men who smiled a lot.

  'Tell me what you've been up to,' Rosewater invited.

  'Oh, just visiting an old friend.'

  'Man or woman?'

  'Now you're prying.'

  'I'm jealous ...'

  His gaze swivelled as a tall elegant Frenchwoman entered the restaurant. A waiter relieved her of her coat. She made a performance of the action. Slipping her arms out of the sleeves slowly, she raised her hands to smooth down her long sleek hair. The movement emphasized her well-built sum figure. Dressed in black, her breasts protruded against the tight dress. She was looking directly at Rosewater and gave a slow smile.

  Paula followed Rosewater's fixed gaze. Across the room Butler chose the same moment to turn round, taking his time to lift a salt cellar from the empty table behind him. His eyes swiftly scanned the new arrival.

  The waiter led her to a table by a window next to where Butler sat. He put down the salt cellar, which he had no intention of using.

  'That woman...' Rosewater switched his gaze back to Paula. 'She's attractive so it's odd she's alone. She is just the sort of woman who could be one of de Forge's army of spies.'

  'Let's forget her, enjoy our evening.' Paula suggested.

  'So was it a man or a woman? I am jealous.' Rosewater repeated.

  'You've increased my appetite no end. And what, may I ask, have you been occupying yourself with?'

  'Driving all round the countryside, stopped at roadblocks, showing my papers. Not my real ones.'

  'Roadblocks?' Paula was puzzled.

  'Soldiers of the Third Army ...'

  'You mean the Third Corps.'

  'No. I questioned that. They clearly said the Third Army. They seemed to be searching for someone. I tried to get them to talk but all they'd say was they were on military manoeuvres. Then they shut up like clams. You'd think it was a state of martial law.'

  'Rather disturbing.' Paula probed.

  'It's not going to disturb our meal...'

  An hour later Paula felt her stomach. She had pigged it, but felt much better for the experience. Glancing at her watch, she grimaced.

/>   'I'm afraid I must go now, Victor. Thank you for a wonderful evening. I've enjoyed every moment.'

  'Hold on.' Rosewater protested. 'I thought we'd go for a drive. I know a club which will still be open. We could have a nightcap, maybe even a dance.'

  'Sorry. I'd love to. But I'm tired. Give me a number where I can get in touch with you.'

  Rosewater took out a notebook, scribbled a number. Handing over the sheet he'd torn out he put the same question to her.

  'Where can I contact you?'

  'You can't.' She smiled. 'I move around. My job.'

  'Mysterious lady ...'

  The waiter brought her coat. Rosewater helped her on with it. His hand squeezed her shoulder affectionately. As they walked to the door Butler, who had paid his bill strolled after them. He caught them up as they stood outside. Paula introduced him to Rosewater.

  'This is my cousin, Harry.'

  'Saw you in the restaurant.' Rosewater commented as they shook hands. 'You should have joined us,' he added without enthusiasm.

  'I'm no gooseberry.' Butler's expression was blank.

  'We're walking.' Paula explained. 'Where is your car?'

  'Parked round the corner in a cul-de-sac off the front.' Rosewater replied. 'Let's keep in touch. Goodnight.'

  He walked off towards the front. Butler touched Paula's elbow and she stayed where she was until Rosewater had disappeared round a corner. Then they walked to where Nield still sat patiently in the Renault. Paula thought of him sitting in the car while she had eaten a prince of meals. She dived into the back.

  'Pete, when did you last eat?'

  'Half an hour ago.' Nield twisted round, grinned at her, holding up something. 'Sandwiches from a cool bag. I always travel with rations. Plus a flask of coffee.'

  'Get moving.' said Harry as he sat beside Nield. 'Back to the Atlantique. Drive slowly.'

  'Not yet. Before we go I want to investigate that Porsche. It's been sitting there ever since we arrived. Back in a minute.'

  He was out of the car before Butler could reply. Paula saw Nield was carrying his Walther in his right hand held down close to his side. Nield walked along the pavement on the opposite side of the road to where the Porsche stood like a tiger crouched to spring.

  He strolled along like a local on his way home, collar turned up against the bitter night. No one else was in sight.

  His rubber soled shoes made no sound as he came close to the car shrouded in the unnerving shadows.

  With his left hand he pulled his collar tighter round his neck as he glanced across at the stationary vehicle. Paula felt moisture exuding from her palms as she saw Nield casually cross the road at a diagonal angle so he could see the driver's seat from the rear. Paula tensed herself for the sound of gunshots.

  He circled the car from the rear, walked in front of it and back down the street. Climbing in behind the wheel of the Renault, he bolstered his Walther.

  'False alarm. No one there. So back to the Atlantique.'

  'And drive slowly.' Butler repeated as they started to move.

  'You said that before.'

  'I'm hoping Jean Burgoyne will phone me,' Paula remarked. 'The sooner she gets away from that villa the better.'

  'She'll have to look after herself.' Butler replied.

  Nield stopped suddenly, swore, said he'd dropped his wallet. He left the engine running, hurried back the way they had come. He returned fairly quickly, saying he'd been lucky as he stuffed his wallet into his pocket. Paula thought his behaviour odd: Pete never lost anything. They cruised the streets of Arcachon on their way back to the Atlantique. Mostly the streets were deserted: the late hour, the subzero temperature, the time of year - November about to run into December. They turned a corner and Paula called out.

  'Crawl, Pete.'

  Ahead of them a man walked on the pavement on their side. Despite his heavy overcoat, his astrakhan hat, Paula recognized his way of holding himself, of walking with a deliberate tread like a man pacing out a specific distance.

  'That's Lieutenant Berthier again.'

  'Sure?' asked Butler.

  'Certain. I should know. I spent time with him during my visit to Aldeburgh when he was posing as James Sanders.'

  'Move just a bit faster, Pete,' Butler advised. 'He'll be suspicious if we crawl past him.'

  Paula glanced quickly out of the window just before they came alongside Berthier, then ducked out of sight. Yes, it was definitely de Forge's man. They were approaching the Atlantique when Butler made his comment.

  'It's a bit odd. Berthier prowling round the town. And we encountered polite Mr Brand, also in Arcachon. You would think something was about to happen in this neck of the woods.'

  'Don't!' Paula protested. 'I'm worried about Jean Burgoyne. She could have called while I was out.'

  'Soon know that,' Butler replied.

  Yvette Mourlon, de Forge's agent, had followed the Rover driven by Jean Burgoyne without her quarry suspecting she had been followed. Yvette's beat-up Peugeot looked like so many other French cars involved in a collision.

  Arriving at the Atlantique after dark, Jean went up to the desk clerk. She phrased her enquiry carefully.

  'My friend, Paula Grey, said she was staying at a hotel in Arcachon. I hope I've got the right place.'

  She rested on the counter her hand holding two banknotes. The clerk's hand straightened up the register and with the same movement he relieved her of the money.

  'You've come to the right hotel. She's here.'

  'Great! Could you give me her room number?'

  'Wouldn't do you any good. She's out.'

  'Have you any idea when she's expected back?' Jean pressed.

  'None at all. She doesn't tell me her movements.' He hesitated, leaned over the counter. 'I had the impression she was going out for the evening. Had a man with her.'

  'Thank you. Do you mind if I wait?' She glanced round the gloomy lobby. 'On that banquette over there?'

  'Please yourself...'

  The leather banquette had a slit in it and stuffing protruded. Not exactly the Ritz, Jean thought, as she settled down to wait. She sat there for quite a long time and then began to get nervous. De Forge might have returned to the villa. In which case men already be out looking for her. She felt very visible.

  Opening her bag, she extracted a well-worn local map and studied it. The trouble was she going to have to leave it with the night clerk who was the nosy type - so she'd little doubt he'd find a way of opening a sealed envelope. The solution occurred to her and she marked three different locations on the map with crosses. Then she inserted a number inside a circle above each cross. One. Two. Three. She scribbled a note, put map and note in one of the large envelopes she always carried, wrote Paula Grey's name on it.

  Taking it to the night clerk who sat reading a newspaper, she handed the envelope to him with two more banknotes.

  'I have to go out. Could you please give this to Paula Grey as soon as she returns? And I expect you'll have a room for me at this time of the year?'

  'Name?'

  'Lisa Mason. No. I'm in a rush. I'll fill in the register when I get back...'

  *

  Earlier Yvette Mourlon had watched Burgoyne enter the Atlantique. She waited for a few minutes to see if she was coming out again. Convinced she was staying for the night, she drove a short distance further down the street, parking in the shadow of a high wall. She elevated her aerial and turned her transmitter to the right point on the waveband. She gave her codename when she had made contact and began talking.

  'Yvette here. Subject at Hotel Atlantique in Arcachon at moment. Appears to be there for the night. Any orders?'

  'Yes, Yvette. Keep subject's hotel under surveillance. Report immediately any fresh movement of subject. Follow if necessary. Repeat - immediately.'

  'Understood...'

  Yvette slammed the microphone back inside the concealed compartment. Arrogant bitch! And she found it strange that this uppity cow of a girl took certain mess
ages - that Major Lamy, whom she normally spoke to, was absent sometimes. Always when someone died later.

  Lieutenant Berthier was walking along a side street close to the front when his mobile phone beeped. He stepped inside the alcove of a doorway, pulled out the phone from under his coat, answered, listened.

  He received exactly the same message which had been transmitted to Yvette except for the reference to continue surveillance. He was also told to phone back at fifteen-minute intervals.

  Berthier closed down his aerial and began hurrying to the front where he'd left his means of transport.

  *

  Brand made the phone call from a cubicle in a corner of the bar. He listened, replied briefly, replaced the receiver. Leaving the money for his drink on the counter he hurried to where he'd parked his car.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Paula took the envelope handed to her by the night clerk at the Atlantique. She was hurrying upstairs with Nield and Butler when the clerk called after her. His expression said worlds: all three together in one room?