“I guess,” Terrell said, and picking up Lepski’s report, he began to read it.
While he was reading the report, Warren, at his hotel, asked for an outside line. When he got it, he called Forrester. There was some delay as every call on this number was screened. Hamilton had made sure that no one but Warren could talk to Forrester. Finally, Warren heard Forrester’s voice.
“This is Warren.”
“What is it?” Forrester sounded curt and irritable.
“I must see you again, Paul. May I come around in about an hour?”
“What do you want?”
“I can’t talk on the phone. I will come alone. In about an hour?”
“Very well, but don’t think you can change my mind. You have my terms.”
“Yes . . . all right, Paul, in about an hour.”
The line went dead and Warren grimaced. Hamilton, looking tired and jaded, got to his feet.
“Well, sir?”
“He sounds unco-operative,” Warren said, “but at least he will see me.” He went over to the table where the morning’s newspapers lay and looked down at the glaring headlines. “Life would be much simpler without the press, wouldn’t it?” He turned and shrugged wearily. “Where is Nona Jacey?”
“She’s with her boy-friend on a plane heading for Jamaica,” Hamilton said. “I packed them off at dawn this morning. I want them out of the way until we get through with what we have to do. They have been told not to talk. One of my men is with them, although they don’t know it. When the dust settles, they can come back, but not before.”
“And Mrs. Forrester?”
“I have one of my men watching her. She is doing nothing . . . staying put.”
Here, Hamilton was wrong. Thea Forrester was busy at that moment packing her clothes. She had listened to the radio, read the newspapers, knew now that her mad husband was holed up in some apartment, and she had decided to leave Paradise City.
She was shrewd enough to know that she no longer had any future in the City. When these numbskulls finally decided to capture her husband and put him back in his cell, the subsequent publicity would frighten away all her men friends. She had decided after some hesitation that she would return to New York. She had men friends there. She would miss the beach and the constant Florida sun, but sun and beach didn’t spell money, and Thea was money hungry.
But before she could leave Paradise City, she had to have a get-away stake. She had been told by Detective Jacoby that she was no longer under guard. He had assured her she would be safe to come and go as she pleased. She had spent hours trying to make up her mind how she could raise a substantial sum of money. She had finally decided that Wallace Marshall, President of the National Bank was her best bet. He was a fat old lecher with a battle-axe of a wife and he would be good for $10,000. She wondered if she should ask for more, but decided this sum wouldn’t make him squeal too much and it would be enough to get her started again in New York.
Around eleven o’clock, she finished dressing and surveyed herself in the long mirror on her bedroom wall. Even to her critical eyes, she looked pretty good. She left the bungalow, watched by Agent Mark Dodge of the C.I.A., a squat heavily built man who was sweating gently as he sat on the sand, behind a clump of shrubs. He held a walkie-talkie set in his hand.
He watched her walk to the garage and he grinned to himself. He had already removed the distributor head and was interested to see her reaction when she found the car wouldn’t start. He admired her figure, her swaying walk and he couldn’t imagine a girl built like that would walk to the highway which was a quarter of a mile away. He had to wait several minutes before Thea came out of the garage, her eyes blazing with fury and returned to the bungalow.
There was now a constant tap on her telephone so when she called the local garage, an Agent at the C.I .A. temporary headquarters promptly jammed the line so she only got the busy signal. After trying for some twenty minutes, she dialled a taxi hire service. Again the Agent at headquarters jammed the line. She then dialled the telephone engineers and the line promptly went dead.
She slammed down the receiver, reached for a cigarette, lit it and her emerald green eyes narrowed as she thought.
Car out of order . . . telephone out of order . . . the police guard removed.
She felt suddenly isolated and frightened.
She didn’t hesitate for more than few moments. The nearest bungalow was a quarter of a mile away along a rough sandy road. She decided to walk there and use their telephone. She kicked off her high heeled shoes, went into the bedroom and put on a pair of flat heeled, rubber soled shoes. Then she went to the front door, opened it and looked out at the vast stretch of deserted beach. She started down the path, then paused. Agent Dodge watched her with interest behind his screen of shrubs.
At this moment, her nerve failed. Suppose she walked into her husband? she thought and she quailed. She knew this was absurd. Hadn’t the radio told her that Dr. Forrester was trapped in an apartment on Lennox Avenue which was at least four miles from her bungalow? Hadn’t the police decided she was so safe they had removed their guards? Yet, looking at the expanse of lonely sand, knowing she had to walk down a long, lonely road and remembering the terror when the bathroom door had creaked under the horrifying force of his attack she turned and went quickly back into the bungalow. She slammed and locked the door, then crossed to the cocktail cabinet and poured herself a stiff whisky.
Grinning to himself, Dodge reported back to headquarters. It was while he was reporting back that Warren arrived at 146, Lennox Avenue. Watched by a crowd of sightseers and a number of pressmen and photographers, all held back at a distance by the cordon of police, Warren entered the apartment block.
This time he found the door to Forrester’s apartment shut. He rang the doorbell and waited. There was a long silence. He remembered that Dr. Hertz had said that Forrester could take his life on a sudden whim and Warren became anxious. He rang again, then drew in a sharp breath of relief as he heard the lock snap back.
He waited, then pushed open the door.
“Paul? It’s all right. I am alone.”
“Come in,” Forrester said.
Warren moved cautiously into the living-room.
Forrester had moved back and was standing in the doorway leading into the bedroom. He looked gaunt and pale: his eyes cold and suspicious.
Warren closed the door, then said quietly, “I hope you will be co-operative, Paul. We are in trouble. Don’t think we aren’t going to agree to your terms, but it won’t be possible for us to bring your wife to you. You will have to go to her. She knows where you are. We can’t drag her here. The press are outside. She is in a rented bungalow . . . alone. It won’t be possible for you to go there until its dark. It can be arranged if you will wait until nine o’clock tonight. I will drive you to the bungalow and leave you. Would that be satisfactory?”
Forrester looked suspiciously at him.
“You are not trying to be clever, are you?” he said. “I know you are clever, but don’t try to be clever with me. I know it is possible for someone to get the capsule from me before I can use it . . . remotely possible. But you still won’t have the formula unless you agree to my terms. You understand that? You realize that the Russians might hit on my idea? I don’t think they will, but they could. They will most certainly discover it in five or six years. But by then you will have had a very long start. I understand your difficulty. Very well, I will wait. But remember it is you who are wasting time . . . not me.”
“I will be here at eight forty-five tonight,” Warren said. “I will take you to her. Is there anything you want . . . food . . . anything I can bring you?”
“Nothing,” Forrester said, then he paused, looking stonily at Warren. “Yes . . . there is something. I want a barbecue knife. I want a special one. The blade measures four inches and it must have brass-headed nails in the handle . . . a replica of the knife my wife once gave me as a present. You can get it from Drew & Stanton o
n Main Street.”
Warren nodded.
“All right, Paul,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll get it for you.”
Forrester stepped back into the bedroom and closed the door.
Although slightly old-fashioned, The Peninsula Hotel is still considered the best hotel in Hong Kong. Herman Radnitz only accepted the best of anything and naturally he stayed at The Peninsula.
He had just had a curry lunch and was now in the spacious lounge, drinking Chinese tea and looking through a bulky document, satisfied that the Dam project was going well. In another three days, he could leave for Peking. However, his mind was not at ease. It was now three days since he had heard from Jonathan Lindsey. By now Lindsey should have had Formula ZCX decoded.
Radnitz put down the document and sipped his tea, his bleak, hooded eyes thoughtful. Had something gone wrong? Why hadn’t he heard from Lindsey? As if in answer to his query, a Chinese pageboy approached him, carrying a silver plate on which rested a roll of paper.
“Telex, sir,” the boy said.
Radnitz took the rolled-up Telex, frowning at its length.
His frown deepened as he read the heading of the message:
H.H.H; U (Rpt) U.
This was a code that told him: “For your eyes only. Ultra Urgent.” He saw the sender was Fritz Kurt, his secretary. He got to his feet, his heavy face stormy and walked to the elevator. He was conveyed swiftly to his third floor suite. He sat down at the desk and spread the Telex out and looked at it. “For your eyes only meant he had to decode the message himself. He took from his waistcoat pocket a thin leather bound notebook, picked up a gold pencil, drew papers towards him and set to work.
It took him a good half hour to decode the message and to realize the operation he had so carefully planned had failed. Forrester was in the hands of the C.I.A. Lindsey had disappeared: thought to be heading for Mexico. Keegan was dead. Silk was in Havana.
Radnitz sat motionless. His dream of laying his hands on four million dollars was now in pieces ― like a precious Ming vase dropped by some stupid, clumsy, incompetent fool.
All his vicious rage was turned on Jonathan Lindsey. He had long suspected that Lindsey had been sending money into Mexico City. So this incompetent fool now imagined he was going to settle in Mexico, live on the fat of the land and was stupid enough to imagine Radnitz’s revenging arm couldn’t reach him.
His hooded eyes like grey, frozen water, Radnitz drafted a brief Telex, coded it, then sitting back, he rang for Service.
Detective 3rd Grade Frank Brock came slowly awake in the Police house dormitory which he shared with three other junior detectives. He looked at his watch. The time was eleven a.m. He looked around the dormitory which was deserted. This was his day off from duty and he stretched, yawned, ran his fingers through his dark hair, then reached for a cigarette. He lit it and relaxed back in his small, hard bed.
His jaw ached a little and he fingered it tenderly. That sonofabitch Shields had certainly thrown a scare into him. He really had thought Shields was going to get him back on the beat, but it had only been bluff. But while the bluff had lasted, Brock had been scared witless. Well, okay, one of these days, he might be in a position to fix Shields. If he ever got him on the hook, he wouldn’t let him off . . . that was for sure!
He drew down a lungful of smoke, coughed, then stared up at the ceiling. Twice he had woken in the night and had seen an image of that girl’s naked body as she had lain panting on the sand. What a woman! He felt a hot rush of blood through him as he thought of her. If that sonofabitch Shields hadn’t arrived when he had, when she was offering him beer . . . who knows? She looked ripe for it. His face and hands became clammy as he remembered the way she had looked at him. He remembered what she had said: “Are you ever off duty, Frankie?” and that look in her eyes.
Well, damn it! He was off duty! He threw off the sheet and rolled out of bed. He knew the bungalow was no longer being watched. He went to his locker and found he had a little over $100 put aside for just this emergency. Brock believed in spending money on his girl-friends. How about going over there, taking her out to lunch and then taking her back to the bungalow? He thought again of the beautiful naked body . . . imagine straddling that! He crushed out his cigarette and went down the passage to the shower-room. He shaved carefully, took a shower, patted his face and body with aftershave. Returning to the dormitory, he selected his snappiest suit: a powder blue light-weight. He polished his black shoes, then selected a white and red striped tie. As he dressed he was aware that his hands were shaking and his breathing was hard.
As he went down the steps to the car park, he ran into Detective Andy Shields. The two men looked at each other.
“How’s the face, Frankie?” Shields asked, his eyes going over Brock’s suit.
“Get stuffed,” Brock said and pushing past, he went over to where his second-hand Cutless Convertible was parked.
It was 12.35 by the time he had reached Thea Forrester’s bungalow. He had left his car just off the main road, under the shade of some palm trees. His car was well known by members of the police and he decided it would be sticking his neck out to park right outside the bungalow.
He had been told the bungalow was no longer guarded but he approached it with caution.
It so happened that Agent Dodge was unpacking a carton of sandwiches as Brock arrived. Dodge liked his food. He had brought with him iced beer in a vacuum flask, beef and gherkin sandwiches and a large slice of apple pie. It was while he was surveying this little feast that Brock reached the front door of the bungalow and Dodge missed his arrival.
His hand shaking with excitement, Brock rang the doorbell. The door jerked open and Thea looked at him.
“Hello,” Brock said. “Remember me . . . Frankie?”
Thea was glad to see him. At least he was a police officer and could be useful. She gave him her wide sexy smile.
“Why, sure . . . of course I remember you. What is it?”
Brock regarded her with the steady, probing stare he used with success with all his girl-friends.
“Aren’t you going to ask me in? I’m off duty. There was a beer offered . . . remember?”
For a brief moment, Thea’s smile was less cordial. Surely this young hick isn’t on the make? she thought. But maybe he could fix her car.
“Come on in,” she said and retreated back into the untidy living-room. As Brock closed the front door, Dodge took a big bite at the beef sandwich. He looked across at the bungalow, saw nothing unusual, and leaned his fat back against a palm tree, settling down to enjoy himself.
“Sit down,” Thea said. “I’ll get you a beer.”
Brock sat down. He watched her as she walked into the kitchen and his heart began to race. Why bother to take her to lunch? he thought. It would cost me at least thirty bucks. After the beer, I’ll give her the treatment. I bet after being on her own for four days, she’s panting for it.
Thea came back with a tall glass of beer and put it on the table. She saw sweat on his face and noticed his hand was unsteady as he picked up the glass.
She sat down, thinking this hick has hot pants. I’d better watch him. I’m alone here. I bet he thinks I’m a quick, easy lay.
“You any good with a car, Frankie?” she asked. “My car’s on the blink. I can’t start it.”
“You’ve come to the right guy,” Brock said and grinned. He took a long drink, then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I can fix any car.”
“I’d be glad if you would look at mine. I’ve got a date in half an hour. It’s in the garage . . . be nice and fix it for me.”
“Why, sure,” Brock said, his eyes moving over her body and at her long, slim legs. “I be nice to you . . . you be nice to me . . . huh?”
Thea’s face hardened.
“Look, sonny,” she said, “don’t get ideas about me. I pick men, not boys. Does your Chief know you are here?”
“You’ll find I’m a man, baby,” B
rock said. “I’ve never disappointed a girl yet. Let’s try. Come on, baby . . . you’ll love it.” He got to his feet. His smile was fixed. He could feel the hammering of his heart.
“Get out!” Thea said, staring up at him. “Go on! Beat it!” She jumped to her feet and threw open the door.
Brock caught hold of her and pulled her to him. He had the mistaken idea that she would be like all the other girls he had seduced. Treat them rough, never take no for an answer, kiss them hard and you had them, but it didn’t work this time.
Thea leaned hard against him and then slammed her knee into his groin at the same time she raked his face with her clawlike fingernails.
Brock reeled back, holding himself, feeling blood running down his face.
She screamed at him: “Get out!”
Brock rode the agony. He saw her through an out of focus film of red. He swung a long, heavy punch at her jaw, felt his fist connect, saw her fly away from him, crashing across the table, sliding over it, her long shapely legs in the air, then crash down on the floor, the table on top of her.
Brock remained motionless, blood dripping down his face, his hands gripping himself, seeing drops of blood pattering down on the carpet.
After a moment or so, the pain in his groin eased a little. He groped for his handkerchief and mopped at the scratches on his face. He looked at what he could see of Thea: her long legs and the curve of her hips. Her head and the rest of her body were hidden under the table. He hesitated, moved towards her, then stopped. He had been crazy to have hit her like that, he thought. Maybe he had broken her jaw. He couldn’t just leave her there. He would have to get her to hospital. He thought of Captain Terrell and flinched. They would nail him for attempted rape and assault.
Slowly, he crossed over to where Thea was lying. He lifted the table off her. Holding his handkerchief to his bleeding face, he peered down at her.
Her head was at an odd angle. He stared, feeling his mouth turn dry. He hadn’t broken her jaw . . . he had broken her neck.
Believed Violent Page 19