At ten o’clock the other side began showing an edginess. The Citroen tooted its horn on a pass of the house and kept moving. Seconds later two men came out and moved down the street. Bolan watched them intently. The car came around again and halted beside the men. The driver got out and stretched himself during a brief discussion from the rear seat, then he re-entered the vehicle and drove on.
The two men from the house crossed the street and into Bolan’s blind area. A pair reappeared moments later, crossed back, and went into the house. Moments later another two came out and went the other way. This time Bolan saw the switch. A man swung out of a shop front just up the street, another crossed over. The four conversed briefly, then the two outside men went on to the house and the other two took their places.
Bolan grinned. A bottle operation, with the Citroen as kicker. This said something very definite for the identity of the crew. Bolan could not mistake that set. It was typically Mafia.
He decided to make his move while they were unkinking and stirring around. He buckled on the .45 and swung into the pistolet, donned the crepe-soled sneakers, and went into the hallway. A dim bulb near the stairs was providing the only illumination at that level. The sound from a television program drifted up the stairwell from the lobby. No other interior sounds could be discerned.
Bolan unscrewed the light bulb, allowed his eyes to find their adjustment, than moved silently along the hall to the floating stairway to the roof. A small door at the top was bolted on the inside; both lock and wood framing were ancient; perfect, if typical, and Bolan suspected that it was.
He moved on to the roof and stood quietly for several minutes getting the layout. A common rooftop served the entire line of buildings; this, also, he had gathered during his earlier recon of the area. There was no moon and no stars; the only illumination of the night was being provided by the dull castings of the neighborhood’s artificial lighting. He moved to the rear of the building and found the rusted fire escape. A very narrow and dark alleyway below, a door standing open down the way, a line of garbage cans. He paused at a chimney outlet and lightly smudged his face with soot, then moved cautiously across the rooftop to the end building, a moving shadow in the blackness.
Bolan watched for the Citroen, marked its passage, and quickly descended the steel ladder. A quiet moment later he was on the opposite side of Rue Galande and ascending to the rooftop of that line of ancient buildings. Here the going was a bit different, the roofs uneven and roughly joined, occasionally a low parapet separating individual buildings.
He took his time getting the lie and sniffing the atmosphere for human presence. Halfway back toward his goal he came upon a heavily breathing man of about middle age, mumbling to himself and hanging out a washing of underwear and socks, that area dimly lighted from an open doorway. Bolan watched and waited as the man completed his chore and went inside, then Bolan went on, considering himself warned of clothesline hazards.
He was using his own hotel as a reference point. He drew abreast of it with utmost caution and settled down to another breathless wait. Ten minutes passed. Satisfied that he was entirely alone up there, he found the door and went to work on it. Several minutes of patiently restrained labor was rewarded by a dull snap; the door swung open, and the Executioner had constructed his avenue to another hell.
He spurned the creaking mechanism of the floating stairway and dropped lightly into the hall. Something moved down by the main stairwell. Bolan froze and became part of the wall. Muted light spilled up the stairwell from the second floor; six doors at the third level, slivers of light defining each of them, behind him, a window to the outside. Utter silence marked the third floor, except for soft music and an occasional murmur of voices from below.
Bolan allowed the minutes to drift on, then he began his move, working his way in inches toward the stairwell, swiftly transiting each light-defined doorway, until he could see the skinny man sitting quietly hunched on the top step.
The guy was either asleep or half-asleep. Bolan closed the distance in one cat-like leap, seizing throat and mouth in the same motion, lifting the sentry clear of all reference to the floor, carrying him quietly back into the shadows and not releasing the throat-lock until the possibility of outcry was gone forever.
He deposited the remains in a darkened corner of the hallway and began his exploration of the third-level rooms. He did not score until the final try. Beyond the sixth door, a young girl with shoulder-length red hair was seated at a dressing table and applying a scarlet substance to puffy nipples with a make-up brush. She wore a transparent negligee and shortie gown; the gown was pulled down from the top to allow free access to the task at hand. Their eyes met in the mirror, hers widening in immediate alarm. Bolan whispered “Silence!” and moved on inside and closed the door.
Plump breasts popped back into the confines of the see-through gown and she swivelled about to look him over with a shrinking gaze. He asked her, “Comprenezvous anglais?”
She shook her head negatively but whispered, “A little.”
Bolan showed her the machine pistol and told her, “Pour les femmes, non. I have come for the men. Je veux les hommes. Comprenez-vous?”
The girl nodded her head and tried to say something in reply. The words stuck. She cleared her throat and placed a hand daintily to the side of her face. “L’Americaine Formidable!” she hissed.
“Yeah, maybe so. The point is, I don’t want you girls getting hurt. Cette blessure pour les femmes, non.”
She again jerked her head in understanding, but the eyes revealed confusion.
“I want you to get all the girls up here. Can you do that?”
A blank look, a hesitant nod, and, “You wish me … go elsewhere?”
Bolan was not certain that he was getting through, or that he ever would. He pulled her to her feet and told her, “La femme Anglaise, blonde, bring her here, to me.”
Comprehension dawned. The girl nodded her head vigorously and replied, “Oui, Judy Jones, I will bring ’er.”
Bolan cautioned her with a finger across her lips. He patted the pistol and shook his head warningly, then went to the door, checked the hall, and motioned for her to join him. They went together to the stairs. Bolan stood at the railing, pistol at the ready, and sent her down alone.
Sure, he was taking a chance. That was the name of the game. Getting a bunch of women, even whores, in a crossfire was not. He stood tensely waiting, safety off, hair-trigger tickling the finger. Then came a sound, a movement at the bottom of the stairs.
He stepped back into the shadows, merged with them, and took up the briefest yet hardest wait of the night.
In his own mind Bolan was settling once and for all that age-old question about the heart of a whore.
8: Maison de Mort
Monzoor Rudolfi sat stoney-faced in the rear of the Citroen. Beside him was the somber Vito Bertelucci, Rudolfi’s strong right hand. Driving and alone in the front was a weary native of Philadelphia, Charley “Roller” Guevici, who was at the moment complaining of dizziness.
Rudolfi muttered, “Shut up, Roller,” and opened the miniature bar in the armrest. He poured himself a brandy and closed the bar, ignoring the needs of his companions. His rear end was paralyzed and he had a headache and he had long ago began to wonder about the wisdom of this hardset. Bolan was not stupid enough to return to the scene of his crime; he would not push his luck that far. But where did one begin? If not here, then where? Also, if Bolan had a terroristic interest in the Paris operation, would he not use this same starting point for an extension of further adventures?
Rudolfi sniffed the brandy and tugged at an earlobe, then he turned to Bertelucci and said, “Try the house again, Vito.”
Bertelucci grunted and picked up the mobile telephone, placed the call, and settled back with a gloomy gaze at his boss. He got his connection. “Roxanne? Vito. Anything?” He listened for a moment, then spoke past the mouthpiece to Rudolfi. “We have company. Lavagni and crew. What shall I
tell her?”
“Tell her to get Lavagni and crew drunk.”
“Seriously, Tom.”
Rudolfi sighed. “Tell Roxanne to escort them to the chateau. Give them the full VIP treatment. She knows.” He glanced at his watch. “Tell her we should be there by midnight. Perhaps with a prize.”
Bertelucci nodded and relayed the instructions through the telephone, then he hung up and sat back with a sigh, lit a cigarette, and resumed the surveillance at the window. Around and around they went, and where they’d stop, nobody would … He flashed a quick glance at his boss and told him, “I need to take a piss.”
Rudolfi downed the brandy before signifying receipt of the request. Then he kicked the driver’s seat and said, “The place on St. Jacques, Roller. I suppose we all should get out and refresh ourselves.”
Guevici’s eyes in the rearview mirror were grateful. “Yeah, Tom, this ring around the rosy is making me dizzy as hell. Of course if it was accomplishing anything—”
“Shut up, Roller,” Rudolfi commanded. He did not like to hear his own doubts voiced. Bolan would come. He knew that he would come. An empire awaited that coming. A lion with a roar could not for long remain mute. “Go on around,” he said suddenly, changing his mind about the stop at St. Jacques. “Stop at the house of Celeste. We will refresh ourselves there.”
Guevici threw a delighted grin toward the rear seat. “Maybe me’n Julio can trade places for a while.”
Rudolfi grimaced disgustedly and replied, “How can you change places with Julio when you have never bothered to learn the language, Roller? How can you command a French crew when the only words in your vocabulary are deshabillez-vous and etendez-vous?”
Guevici chuckled. “I don’t even know those. What’d he say, Vito?”
“Take off your clothes and lie down,” Bertelucci grunted.
“Well, I guess that would get me by in there, wouldn’t it, Tom? Anyway, I got better words for it than that.”
“Give me a word for Bolan,” Rudolfi quietly commanded.
“Bastard,” said Guevici, coldly.
“Remember it then. And here is another. Death. Morte, Roller, in French. Morte has two faces. Remember that also. It comes and it goes, at the same time. Make sure, when you are looking at the bastard, it is going. Eh, Vito?”
“Just let me look at the bastard, Tom,” Bertelucci said. “You’ll see which way it’s going.”
The car was slowing and pulling to the curb.
“I would give ten thousand francs for such a look, Vito,” Rudolfi replied, sighing.
The monzoor was about to get that look … but it would cost him an empire.
The shiny blonde head moved up the stairway and into the shadows at the top. Her breathing lurched raggedly as the apparition in black detached itself from the darkness and arrested her forward movement. “My God!” she hissed. “It is you! This is insane! This is—”
Bolan tapped her lips with a finger and said, “Quiet. Take me where we can talk.”
He could not see her clearly but he could hear the uneven breathing of tight emotions, could feel the warmth of her and smell the delicate aromas of boudoir grooming, and he could not keep out the vision of that enchanting female body as he had last seen it. He followed her down the hall and into a dimly-lighted bedroom. He closed the door as she dropped to the bed and turned to regard him in a mixture of fear and female interest. She wore flimsy harem pajamas and velvet slippers, leaving very little to the male imagination, and Bolan had to look away from her as he said, “You know why I’m here.”
Her lips moved woodenly in the reply. “I suppose it’s obvious. But it’s also insane. There are a dozen of them here, armed to the teeth.”
“Don’t worry about that. I want you to get the girls out before the fireworks start.”
“But how?”
“What are they doing down there?”
“Talking, just talking. Julio won’t allow any bedroom action, no drinking, no nothing.”
“Who is Julio?”
“The head thug, I take it. Large man, about 35 or 40, obscene and violent. He’s in charge. Celeste is thoroughly frightened by him. Her husband, Marcel, was—”
“Marcel was her husband?”
“Well, not really, but they had a warm thing going.”
“What were you about to say?”
“Marcel was always the go-between. For the payoffs, I mean. He was mixed up in many other things, also.”
“Celeste is paying mob protection?”
“Of course. Otherwise she could not stay open a night through.”
“How does she feel about this invasion?”
“You mean this one, tonight? She is very angry. With you, too, Mr. Bolan.”
“I see you found the name.”
“Of course. It is all we have heard for hours.”
“Okay, give me the setup. How many on the second floor?”
“Eight. Three or four more on the ground floor. Others are in the street outside, I’m sure of that.”
“And the girls?”
“All right below, in the party room.”
“Yeah, okay.” Bolan was deliberating the possibilities.
The girl asked, “How did you get in here?”
“Same way I’m getting you out,” he told her. “The roof. Go get the girls, but very quietly. It all depends on you if they live or die. I’ll give you two minutes to get them up here, into something warm, and onto the roof.” He was looking at his watch. “I’m making the hit at exactly 10:30. You’d better be clear by then.”
The girl’s lips had begun to quiver. As she moved toward the door she asked, “How about Celeste?”
“What about her?”
“She hates you. I wouldn’t guarantee her reaction to your presence here.”
“Does she hate me enough to die?”
“I guess not.”
“Be sure she understands the choice, then. Have you decided how to round ’em up?”
“Something will come to me.”
“Try this. The boys down there are probably getting bored as hell. Make an announcement of some special entertainment. You want all the girls upstairs to work it out. Gay, you know? Strip-tease or something. Can you do it?”
She was vigorously nodding assent. “Yes, that sounds good.” She hesitated in the doorway and turned back to whisper, “Mr. Bolan, it would be such an insane waste if …” She gazed at him for a brief moment, leaving the statement incomplete, then spun out the door and along the hall.
Bolan followed her to the stairwell and again took position in the shadows. Moments later a burst of excited chatter sounded from below. The young redhead was the first one up. She brushed against Bolan and whispered, “Merci,” and ran along the hallway. Apparently she had spread the word to the girls while Bolan was talking to the English girl. All were now racing up the stairs in a pretty good show of giggling excitement, but brushing by Bolan with whispered thanks.
Bolan was counting them through and, when Celeste and Judy appeared, he said quietly, “You two make ten. Is that all?”
The blonde girl replied, “Yes. Give us a minute to get our coats.”
Celeste gave him a hard look and pressed on by. This was one of the things Bolan hated about his work. He wondered how many other sad widows lay in the Executioner’s shadow, but he flung the idea from his mind and steeled himself for what lay just ahead.
The roof stairway was creaking into place. Soft-footed women were wrestling with coats and quickly departing the battle zone. All but one. Celeste stood at the bottom of the stairway and gazed toward Bolan.
She thinks I’m going to get it, Bolan decided. She wants to see me get it.
It was time. He moved the safety release on the pistolet rapidly back and forth, assuring no failure, then went quickly down the stairs in a soft descent.
Three men relaxing lazily on a couch directly across the room took his first burst, the drumfire punching them deeper into the cushions as they
gawked at him.
Two men at the window spun into the next burst, one of them crashing head-down into a nearby corner, the other going through the window in a shower of glass.
Bolan’s death whirl continued unchecked. A bearded Frenchman in a beret, clawing gunleather, jerked his trigger prematurely and shot himself in the belly. Bolan added several more rounds for good measure, and whirled on.
Two men near the stairway had come unfrozen and had guns in hand, firing in a trigger-jerking frenzy at the fastmoving target. Bolan zippered them from right to left, then from left to right, and had to dodge back to avoid their falling bodies. He was feeding a fresh clip to the machine-pistol as he stepped over them and leapt down the stairs to the ground level.
Bare seconds had passed since the first eruption of gunfire. Two rather large men were jammed together in the doorway to the living quarters, both trying to get through at the same time. A gun hand was clear, though, and swinging on Bolan as he sent his own emissaries into the jam, and it dissolved and oozed to the floor.
Moving figures flashed beyond the doorway and a soft male voice inside was crying, “Julio! Julio!”
Bolan sent a figure-8 burst through the doorway and whirled to meet a challenge from the street door. A small man with a wolfish Italian face was poised there, gun cooly raised and spitting and trying to track onto Bolan’s movements, the slugs chewing wood behind the elusive target. A raspy voice on the other side was commanding, “Down, Roller, down!”
Bolan helped Roller down, with a zipper across the face that punched him back out the door and sprawling backwards onto the sidewalk. A whistling slug literally parted Bolan’s hair as he rolled toward the sound of the raspy voice, and as he came up to the new attack Bolan recognized the big man behind the roaring .45. It was Vito Bertelucci, once a rodman with the old Capone mob and lately missing from American Mafia circles. Bolan made it a permanent absence with a target grouping tightly about the heart. Vito went down without a sound, dead before the fall.
Continental Contract Page 7