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 comer of his eye, he noticed a thickset 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 thickset 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 thickset 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 thickset man's knees. The two men thudded together on the concrete.
The thickset 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 thickset 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.
There was a cafe-bar at the end of the street, crowded with young people: boys with crew cuts and chin beards; girls, wearing calf high boots, their hair matted in an imitation of the Bardot hairstyle.
He entered and walked through the noise of the jukebox and the shrill chatter of the young people, down a short flight of stairs that led to the toilettes and to a telephone cabinet. He shut himself in the cabinet and dialled the number of 'Alio Paris.'
There was a long pause as he listened to the ringing tone.
He leaned against the wall of the cabinet, his eyes searching the dimly lit lobby outside the security of the glass box.
A man said impatiently, “Yes?”
“Is Madame Foucher with you?” Girland asked in his fluent French.
He could hear the strident sound of distant dance music and the heavy thud of drums.
The man asked, “Who is that?”
“If Madame Foucher is there, she will be expecting me.”
“Hold on.”
Girland waited, listening to the rhythm of the drums. There was a long delay. He heard a girl in the bar above laugh hysterically and he grimaced sourly. “Women!” he said to himself.
“Where there's a woman, there are always complications.” He thought of the long-legged blonde. To have her lying across a bed would justify any complication. He remembered what Rossland. now a dead pathetic body, had said: “Why can't you leave women alone? Seriously, there are too many women.”
Girland wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief.
It was hot in the cabinet. He shrugged. Rossland was dead.
He was now only a voice from the grave. Maybe he was right.
Girland thought, but I have always been a sucker for women.
Again he thought of Tessa with New York Herald Tribune inscribed across her full breasts.
A man's voice over the telephone line said, “Madame Foucher is here. She is waiting for you.”
Girland smiled mirthlessly. So were other much more lethal people waiting for him.
“I want to speak to her,” he said. “Would you...” He broke off as he saw the shadow of a man moving across the opposite wall. He replaced the receiver and dropped onto his knees, hiding himself behind the wooden panel of the cabinet. His left hand reached for the door handle, his right for his gun.
He waited, motionless. He felt trapped. Whoever it was outside could jerk the cabinet door open and kill him before he could defend himself.
Then he realised the sound of a gunshot would bring the twenty or thirty beatniks in the bar crowding to the top of the narrow stairs. No gunman could get past such a barrier He heard a door slam shut and again silence. His fingers gripping the gun butt, began to ache. He waited, then he heard a toilet flush, a door open and slam shut, and again silence.
He remained on his knees, listening All he could hear was the strident voices of the beats upstairs. Very cautiously, he opened the door of the cabinet a crack, his gun ready. He looked into the empty, dimly lit lobby. He slowly stood up, feeling sweat on his face. He stepped out into the empty lobby and looked around. Then he drew in a long, slow breath.
You're getting as soft as Rossland, he thought in disgust.
You've no more nerves than a spinster who thinks there's a man under her bed.
Then again he thought of Rossland and what they had done to him. and his lips drew off his teeth in a mirthless grin If I can avoid it. they won't do that to me, he thought He stood, hesitating, then seeing a door by the toilet, he crossed to it and opened it. He saw it gave access to a steep flight of stairs. There was a three-minute time switch for the electric light which he pressed, then he ran up the stairs. When he had climbed four flights, he slowed his pace. He paused to look upwards. The narrow, steep spiral continued for another three flights. He began to climb again. On the fifth floor, the light went out He cursed, and as he began to grope for the button, the light came on again and he heard someone coming, down the stairs. His hand slid inside his coat and his fingers closed around his gun butt. A fat middle-aged woman appeared at the top of the next landing. She had a heavy wool shawl around her shoulder
s and her greasy hair was protected by a hair net. He moved aside to give her room to pass him. She nodded, saying, “Bon soir, monsieur,” and then she passed him and plodded on down and out of sight.
Girland continued to climb. On the seventh and top floor, a, little breathless, he found himself on a long corridor. Four shabby doors lined the corridor, at the end of which was a bolted steel door.
He drew the bolt and opened the door to find himself staring up at the night sky. He moved forward onto a flat roof and closed the steel door behind him The roof was guarded by a rail. Leaning over the rail, he looked down at the busy Boulevard far below him. He could see the bright canopy of lights from the Casino Theatre. Further to his right, he could see a Bashing sign that spelt out: 'Alio, Paris'.
He examined the roofs ahead of him. Three of them were flat and easy, the fourth was pointed and could be tricky, the fifth that covered the building where the cellar club was. was half-flat, half-sloping. He decided it could be safer to gain access to the club by the way of the roofs.
It took him only a few seconds to reach the pointed roof.
Here, he paused. After studying this obstacle, he reluctantly made up his mind to make the crossing by way of the gutter, leaning against the tiles, his feet in the gutter. He had no confidence in that gutter, knowing he dare not put his whole weight on the flimsy, soot-covered lead. He had ten yards to cross before he reached safety of the further flat roof.
He took his gun from its holster, slipped on the safety catch, then holding the gun by its barrel, he leaned forward and broke one of the tiles Within reach. He removed the broken tile and let it slide into the gutter: Putting his fingers through the hole he had made, he gripped the wooden lathe that supported the tile. He rested one foot in the gutter very cautiously, supporting most of his weight by hanging onto the lathe. The gutter creaked, but held.
He leaned forward again and broke another tile. As he reached for the new hole, he had to transfer his whole weight onto the gutter that creaked ominously. He was now sweating, thinking of the long, lethal drop onto the Boulevard far below.
He rested for some moments before he again reached forward and made a third hole in the tiles. He put the gun back into its holster and reached for the hole he had made with his left hand while retaining his grip on the second lathe with his right hand.
As he moved forward, the gutter gave way and his feet swung into sickening space. He held on desperately, grabbed at the third hole, missed, grabbed again and got a grip. He hung there, his arms outstretched, his feet scrabbling for a hold. One of his feet hooked into the next section of the gutter. He paused, then slowly began to transfer some of his weight from his hands to his foot. The gutter creaked, but held. Painfully and slowly, he dragged himself up and rested for a long moment, standing in the gutter, but holding on with both hands. Then he shifted forward, pulled out his gun and made a fourth and last hole in the roof. He returned the gun to its holster, his breath whistling between his clenched teeth. Then he cautiously advanced, put his hand into the hole, gripped and then swung himself onto the flat roof three feet below him.
He sank onto his hands and knees, his eyes searching the roof, but he saw nothing suspicious. Within a yard or so from him, he saw a skylight. Satisfied there was no one except himself up on the roof, he stood up and approached the skylight. He looked down through the dirty glass into darkness. It took him only a few minutes to lever up the glass frame, then taking a flashlight from his hip pocket, he shone the beam into the dark void. He saw a landing and stairs. He lowered himself through the opening, drawing the glass frame back into place, then dropped silently onto the landing floor.
Thomas said. “It's sealed off. He can't get near the place without us seeing him.” He looked at his watch. “He could be here any moment now.”
He and Borg were standing in a darkened shop doorway, opposite the cellar club. Borg was bored and beginning to feel chilly.
“So what do you do when you see him?” he asked. “This guy is a toughie. He's not like Rossland.”
Thomas fingered the silencer on the gun concealed in his pocket.
“Shoot him. By the time anyone realises anything has happened, we'll be away.”
“Make sure you kill him,” Borg said. “Where's Marcel?”
“Down the road,” Thomas said. “He knows Girland by sight. He'll alert us as Girland approaches the club.”
Borg shifted restlessly.
“Well, okay, so long as you know what you're doing. You've got someone up on the roof?”
“The roof?” Thomas stared at him, his small eyes startled.
“Why the roof?”
Borg shrugged.
“You said you got this place sealed off. This guy isn't stupid in the head. He could go in by the roof.”
Thomas was shocked that a fool like Borg could have thought of such an idea when he should have thought of it himself.
Although he was young, he had won Radnitz's approval because he used his brains. Sweat broke out on his narrow forehead as he thought that by such a slip-up he could have failed Radnitz.
“You go,” he said urgently. “I should have thought of that. Go in there and take the lift to the top floor. Hurry!”
Borg scowled at him.
“Not me! You go if you want to. Why the hell should I stick my neck out?”
“You heard me!” Thomas said, his voice, vicious. “Go in there!”
Borg hesitated, then knowing that Thomas was Radnitz's pet and it would be dangerous to argue with him. He shrugged.
“Oh, anything you say.”
Leaving the shelter of the doorway. Borg crossed the Boulevard and entered the building that housed the cellar club.
As he walked into the lobby, he could hear the steady beat of the drums and the wild notes of saxophones coming up from the cellar.
Girland was about to descend the last flight of stairs when he saw Borg come in. He stopped moving and pressed himself against the wall. He watched Borg enter the lift and shut the doors. A moment later the lift began a slow crawl upwards.
As soon as the lift had reached the first floor, Girland continued on down the stairs to the lobby.
A neon sign in red with a down pointing arrow told him 'Alio Paris' was on the floor below. He walked into the light of the neon sign and looked closely at his suit.
The dark suit he was wearing only showed the dirt he had picked up from the roof climb in strong light, but his hands were grimed with soot and his shoes scuffed. He took from his wallet a fifty-franc note. Folding it he walked down the stairs to the gaudy club entrance.
The doorman in a red uniform, took one look at Girland, then blocked his entrance.
“Members only.” he said in a flat, disapproving voice.
Girland grinned at him.
“That's okay, pal.” he said in broad American. “Let's be buddies. I had a goddamn fall.” He swayed on his feet, then thrust the folded note into the doorman's hand. “I'll get cleaned up and then we can all have a wonderful time.”
The doorman looked at the note, then he grinned. He took Girland by his arm and led him into a brightly lit lounge and then into the Men's room.
“If there's anything you want, monsieur, you ask.”
It took Girland some ten minutes to get rid of most of the soot and dirt he had collected during his climb, then he left the Men's room and paused at the entrance to the cellar club.
The noise, blaring at him from the dimly lit, smoke ladened room, set his teeth on edge. Saxophones wailed, drums hammered, people screamed at each other.
A small man, wearing a green smoking jacket with frogs, appeared before Girland.
“You have a reservation, monsieur?” he asked. “Without a reservation . . . I'm afraid . . .”
“Madame Foucher is expecting me,” Girland said.
The fat man's face became alert. He studied Girland, then nodded.
“Come this way.”
He led Girland around the side of the big
room. On the stage a stripper was slowly taking off her clothes to the violent noise of the band. She was pretty and her movements were professionally tantalizing. As Girland reached a door at the far end of the room, she slowly removed black lace panties. He paused to watch. When any woman took off her panties. Girland always watched. The girl turned her back to the disinterested audience and then went through the dull routine of 'bumps and grinds.' She had a large strip of adhesive plaster across her left buttock, concealing a painful boil.
Girland grimaced. Women were meant to be glamorous, he thought, but they were only so long as they didn't get boils, spots and the many other, things they seemed cursed with.
The man in the green smoking jacket stood waiting, holding open the door. Girland followed him. The door swung shut and the strident noise from the clubroom faded to a murmur.
They were now in a narrow corridor. Either side were doors.
The man pointed to the far end of the corridor.
“Madame Foucher is in room six monsieur.” he said, then moving around Girland, he opened the door, letting in the violent sound of people clapping and the final roll from the drums. He shut the door behind him and the welcome hush made Girland sigh with relief.
He walked down the corridor to room number six. He eased the .45 automatic from its bolster and tapped on the door.
No one told him to come in.
He tapped again. Still hearing nothing, he opened the door and looked into a square-shaped room. Facing him was a wide, ceiling high mirror. In the middle of the room stood a double divan bed. The room was well carpeted and comfortable, it was also empty.
Satisfied he was alone, he returned the gun to its holster.
A woman's voice said. “Sit down, please, on the bed and face the mirror.” Her voice, with an accent that puzzled Girland. It was slightly distorted. He quickly realised that she was talking through a microphone.
Then he got it and grinned. Madame Foucher had chosen their meeting place to her advantage. He was in one of those rooms where girls took drunken suckers to go through with them sexual manoeuvres while paying customers watched through this big trick minor. The side Madame Foucher was on was like a window. The side he was on was a mirror.
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