“Yes,” came the soft reply. “I did not know at the time, Inspector …”
“I know, I know. Give us your item of tabulation, please.”
“In the hotel directly across from the scene of the crime, I questioned an American citizen as a possible eyewitness. I became convinced that he had no useful information.” The detective sighed. “I left him in peace. He was in a … compromised situation … with a young woman.”
“And you verified his identity, of course.”
“I accepted the management’s passport inspection. The manager identified the man I questioned as the same man who had checked into the hotel earlier that same day, at which time of course his passport was presented and registered.”
“An American passport, I have noted.”
“Yes.”
The Inspector’s gaze swept about the table. Obviously he enjoyed the dramatic. “And the name of this man, found directly across from the scene of the crime, this man who registered at the hotel under an American passport?”
“The name on the registry was Gill Martin.”
“Yes, the name on the registry was Gil Martin. Could it not as well have been L’Americcdne Formidable—or Mack Bolan—or The Executioner?”
The conference broke up shortly after that dramatic moment.
An item of reasonable proof had been established.
The Paris police had arrived at a logical course of action.
And a man who was then calling himself Gil Martin was moving into an area of jeopardy never before encountered during his young and savage career.
There was a uniqueness here—a quality of beauty which had nothing to do with the flawless skin, saucy eyes, and the raven sheen of contoured hair. He knew that he was looking at the most beautiful woman in his experience—but he would have been hard-put to describe that beauty to another.
Bolan was not absolutely certain as to just “oo” he should be. He dragged a chair over beside the bed and sat down.
The girl shrank back from his brooding gaze and said, “I demand to know ’oo you are.”
He smiled suddenly and told her, “Since this is my room, and that is my bed, I think you should first tell me ’oo the ’ell you are.”
She said, “Thees ees Gilbear Martin’s suite.”
Bolan nodded his head agreeably. “That’s right. And I’m standing-in for him. So ’oo the ’ell is in my bed?”
She was peering at him with mounting perplexity. “Standing-een? But I do not—well, thees ees crazy!”
Bolan told her, “If you belonged to me, I’d spend about half my time just sitting and looking at you.”
She moved head and shoulders in what he read as an unconsciously coquettish gesture and asked him, “And the othair time?”
Bolan chuckled. “Guess.”
She remembered where she was, and demanded, “Well, where ees Gilbear?”
“Cooling it, relaxing. So don’t you go lousing him up, eh.”
“Do you know ’oo I am!”
“I don’t care if you’re Joan of Arc. Blow the whistle on Gil and you’re a louse—a beautiful one, but still a louse.”
“Blow the wheestle?” She laughed suddenly and cried, “Oh, oui! But this is delicious! Quickly now, and me my wrap and turn your ’ead.”
Bolan did both. She moved out of the bed and into the flimsy garment in a single fluid movement, then leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I am not the louse,” she assured him. “Eeny-way, I am leave for Cannes een a few hours. I ’ave not the time for blow the wheestle. Tell Gilbear that Cici sends ’er love.”
Bolan asked, “Ceci who?”
“Oh, m’oui, you are the lousy stand-een. You do not know of Cici Carceaux?” The girl was getting into a bulkier garment and fishing about with one foot for a pair of furry little bedroom slippers. She gave him a sharp gaze and told him, “Not eentirely lousy. The face ees strong, eet ’as character, more so than Gilbear. Cici could grow to love thees face, Meester Stand-een. Tell me, stand-een, what would you do weeth Cici othair than seet and look at ’er?”
Bolan chuckled and said, “I’d think of something.”
She laughed again and said, “Well, eef I were not going to Cannes …”
“Isn’t that on the Riviera?”
“Yes, eet ees on the Riviera.”
“Close to Nice and Marseilles?”
“Nice, yes. Marseilles, not so close. Are you going there?”
Bolan grinned. “Someone suggested tonight that I may be happier there.”
She was watching him through partially lowered lashes, the coquette resurfacing. “I do not like to drive alone. Come weeth me.”
“You’re driving?”
She made a wry face and told him, “Pairhaps you would do the driving?”
Bolan said, “Great. Let’s leave right now.”
“Agreed! Do you mind eef I stop by my suite and get some clothing?”
He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “You look great to me just the way you are.”
“Americains I love them!” she shrieked. “So eempulsive!” She ran to the door, turned back to him, and said, “Meet me een the lobby een feefteen meenutes.”
“In the garage,” he suggested.
“Oh-kay!”
The door closed and she was gone.
Bolan put a hand to his head and gazed about the room, wondering if she had actually been there.
He had never been in the presence of such an exciting, enchanting woman.
“Yes, she had been there. He could still smell the lingering traces of her.
Maybe, he was thinking, the game had changed. Maybe he would snatch a few golden moments from his jungle of death and discover what Eden was all about.
The Executioner should have known better.
Very shortly, he would.
11: Right On
Bolan took the elevator straight to the garage, again bypassing the lobby. He dropped his bags at the pickup station and told the attendant, “Le voiture de Mlle. Carceaux.”
He was informed that the car was ready, and was directed to a gleaming Rolls waiting in the exit lane. The attendant turned over the keys and Bolan approached the car with sudden misgivings. He was stowing his gear in the luggage compartment when the woman arrived. She was almost quivering with excitement as she hurried over; a porter burdened with two large suitcases was laboring to keep up with her.
Bolan took her bags and stowed them himself. He noted that Cici was tipping the porter, then she opened a rear door and climbed in without a word to Bolan.
He secured the luggage compartment and went around to the driver’s side, leaned in, deliberately measured the distance separating the front and rear seats with his eyes, and told her, “I didn’t exactly have this in mind.”
She said, “In the box—the compartment—what the ’ell you call—is chauffeur’s ’at.”
“You want me to wear a chauffeur’s ’at?”
“Not that I want, but that I suggest. Also I suggest you should ’urry.”
Something in her eyes told him not to argue. He slid into the seat and found the blue cap. It was a bit small but not hopelessly so. Bolan put it on, added his dark glasses, cranked the engine, and eased out of the garage.
They were stopped immediately at the curb just outside by a uniformed policeman. A quick glance right and left disclosed a swarm of them in the immediate area. Bolan’s heart went into a tango and his mind shifted into survival mode. He had a hand on the door mechanism, waiting for the cop to step over to him, his thoughts racing ahead to the moment when he would make his move, catch the cop with a flying door, and try the breakaway on foot.
But the cop did not step over to Bolan. Cici Carceaux had her window down and was scooted to the edge of the seat, giving the guy a smile that would light two square blocks of Paris. The cop touched his cap and bent almost double in the sudden recognition. He murmured, “Bonjour, Mlle. Carceaux—excusez-moi.” To Bolan he gave the slightest flick
er of a glance and the command, “Continuez.”
Bolan did so without delay, easing the big car onto the street and around to the boulevard. Police vehicles were all over the place and a dozen or more uniformed cops were on the walk in front of the hotel. He cruised on past, and not until the scene was completely lost in the rearview did he relax enough to ask his passenger, “Okay, which way to the Riviera?”
“Is this all you ’ave to say?”
He shrugged. “It’s a sensible question—unless you want to end up in Brussels.”
She was slithering over the backrest and moving beside him in a flash of well-filled nylons. “Follow the signs for Lyon,” she directed breathlessly. Then she snatched the chauffer’s cap from his head and removed the glasses. “Why do the police swarm all ovair for Gilbear?”
“Is that what that back there was about?”
“This you know! I encounter them in the lobby. They are confer with the desk and go up in great numbers to make the arrest. Uh-huh, it becomes more clearly to Cici, this masquerade. Gilbear is in great trouble, no?”
“No,” Bolan responded, quite honestly. “It’s all a misunderstanding. Gil isn’t in trouble. Those cops, Cici. Any chance of them putting one and one together and coming up with you and me?”
She stared at him for a silent moment of confusion, then: “Oh, no. I do not think they even notice Cici, they are so occupied with othair things.”
She settled daintily into the corner of the seat, against the door. Bolan could feel her eyes on him. Street traffic was practically non-existent, it being that dead period in Paris between the two worlds of night and day. They were moving swiftly along now, the powerful Rolls engine pulling them on effortlessly through the quiet streets.
He glanced at her, caught her direct gaze, and asked, “How far is Cannes?”
She replied, “Eight, ten hour, depending on the ’aste of the driver.”
He whistled softly. “That’s quite a drive.”
“This is your fault, stand-in. I would ’ave been aboard Train Bleu and more than ’alfway to Cannes but for you.”
Bolan said, “I’m sorry.”
“You do not look sorry. You look most ’andsome and appealing. Anyway—I am not sorry. This is superior to the day train, an endless and boring journey. I say this for your benefit. The same train from Paris goes also to Marseille and Nice.”
“Something wrong with French airlines?”
“For some, no. But for Cici, I will await angel’s wings, not pursue them.”
He grinned and told her, “You’re pretty close right now. Uh, your accent is smoothing out. What became of the long e?”
She laughed and moved closer to him. “I am the natural fraud! Sometimes I do not know what is Cici and what is the cinema image.”
“And what does that mean?”
“When I am cast in American films, I am told ’ow to accent the English. In Italian films, ’ow to accent the Italian. Even in French films, ’ow to speak the French. Sometimes I do not know what film I am speaking.”
“Sounds confusing,” Bolan muttered.
“Yes, it is confusion.” She moved closer and her hand crept inside Bolan’s arm.
He said, “Uh-uh.”
“What this means, uh-uh?”
“It means you’re tangling up my gun arm.”
She giggled and pressed her head against his shoulder. “M’oui, thees ees threeling!”
Bolan experienced a deep irritation. He growled, “What film are you doing right now?”
She pulled away, sobering quickly. “I apologize, stand-in.”
Quickly he said, “No, I’m the one that’s wrong. I, uh … thanks for getting me out of that mess back there.”
Following a moment of silence, she told him, “I can speak the English better. I know ’ow.”
He smiled. “You’re still dropping your h’s.”
She made a long face and replied, “The h is not a French sound. I will nevair do the huuah—it is like throwing out something that is not wanted. Language is the same as life, as love—it is a giving of something treasured, something of great value. I will not give it with the huuah.”
Bolan sighed. She was telling him something while not actually saying it. A point of ethics. He said, “Okay, Cici, I’m the fraud. And you could be in great danger. I’m going to fade away when we reach the edge of town.”
“No! I do not wish that you fade away!”
He glanced at her and said, “Look, this is no film, it’s raw life. And you might find out just how raw it can get. I can’t—”
“No!” She moved back onto his shoulder. “Take me to Cannes, stand-in. I have a villa—a ’ouse on the coast.” She nuzzled his arm and added, “The raw life is there also.”
Bolan could believe it. He silently debated the question, finding it more and more difficult to face what he knew to be the proper decision. He had no right to involve this woman in his difficulties, yet he could not find the strength of character to refuse her demands that he do so. They drove on in a continuing silence and suddenly they were whizzing along free and clear on the highway to Lyon and she was snuggled against him—the decision was lost by default—and Bolan was telling himself that he would get out at the next town.
At that next town he found that she was quietly sleeping, her soft and regular breath falling upon his neck just beneath the ear, and he went on through without slowing. The magic of her had its way and, by the time he made the first service stop, Bolan was telling himself that the danger lay behind them now, that there was no necessity for the noble sacrifice; and the golden moments of Eden were seeming more and more accessible and desirable and reasonable as a goal to pursue.
Cici awakened as he pulled into the service station, lightly brushed his throat with her lips, and got out to freshen herself.
Bolan stood by while the vehicle was being serviced, then he paid the attendant and went to the rest room. When he returned, a carton of soft drinks and a small bag of snacks were on the seat. Cici was in the telephone booth. She saw Bolan and immediately returned to the car. She said nothing, but began poking about in the bag of snacks. Bolan started the car and returned to the highway.
She opened a soft drink and handed it to him. “I was trying to call Paris,” she told him.
He accepted the bottle and said, “Trying?”
“I did not get through.”
Bolan accepted that without further question. She unwrapped a candy bar and gave it to him. “Turn on the next Route Nationale to your left. This will save us some time.”
He nodded, slowed, and did as she suggested. Suddenly she surged over and kissed him lightly on the lips. He grinned and said, “What was that for?”
“For trusting me.”
“Why shouldn’t I trust you?”
She shrugged. “It is a world of distrust, is it not?”
He murmured, “Trust ends when doubt begins. Have you given me any reasons to doubt you, Cici?”
“No,” she replied softly. “And ’ave you given Cici the reasons to betray you, stand-in?”
He chuckled and found himself relaxing. “I hope not, for both our sakes.”
Bolan had not meant the remark as a threat. He realized, though, that it sounded like one. He felt her eyes on him but she said nothing. When he finished his drink she took the bottle from him and got onto her knees to place the carton and bag in the rear. Then she stayed that way and melted over against him, head on his shoulder, arms going about his neck. “Does this bothair your driving?” she whispered.
He replied, “Yes, but let it be bothered.”
She laughed softly. “Do you truly have a gun?”
He said, “Yep,” and unbuttoned his jacket.
Her fingers crawled down his chest and lightly caressed the pistol grip. “You do not break Cici’s arm?” she asked, faintly mocking.
“Not yet,” he replied.
“But when?”
He chuckled. “Don’t put me on the spot,
Cici.”
She withdrew the hand and left it lying across his waist. Bolan drove on in silence. Some minutes later he decided that she was again sleeping. He used one arm to try to gently rearrange her on the seat. She clung to him. He sighed and merely held her clutched to him, and they went on that way until the outskirts of Lyon.
The sun was up and the city was coming alive. Bolan stopped again for service and the girl quietly disentangled herself. He asked her, “Have a nice nap?”
“I was not sleeping,” she said. Her eyes flashed playfully and she added, “You are vairy ’andsome when deep in thought, did you know this?”
He gently squeezed her arm and said, “You couldn’t even see me.”
“One sees with more than one’s eyes, stand-in.” She pushed herself away and out the door.
Bolan watched her enter another telephone booth, then he gave instructions to the station man and got out to stretch himself. She was still in the booth when he went to the rest room, and she was still there when he returned. He paid the bill and moved the car clear of the pumps.
When Cici finally returned to the car he casually asked, “Get through okay this time?”
She dropped a folded newspaper in the floor and replied, “Yes.”
He put the car in motion and the trip was resumed. When they were clear of Lyon and again rolling free, she told him, “I also call Cannes. To ’ave the villa made ready.”
Bolan had no comment to this. She pulled her legs beneath her and knelt on the seat, facing him. He glanced at her and smiled. “You make me self-conscious,” he told her. “What are you looking at?”
She laughed lightly and said, “This was your idea. I, too, can sit and look, cheri.”
Bolan laughed, then silence descended for several minutes. Presently she said, “For many years I ’ave ’eard the rumors of young girls disappearing from the streets of France. Do these tales reach America?”
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