1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal

by James Hadley Chase

  Ginny looked at him, then nodded.

  “All right.” She paused, then went on, “She is lovely, isn’t She?”

  He crossed the room and put his arms around her.

  “So are you, Ginny. You have something she hasn’t.”

  Ginny touched his cheek with her finger.

  “What is that?”

  “I’ll tell you tonight.”

  She moved away from him. Girland watched her. She wandered to the french windows leading out onto the terrace, paused, then looked at him.

  “All right . . . then tell me tonight,” she said and walked out into the hot sunshine.

  * * *

  Jo-Jo was feeling the heat. He had already drunk half the bottle of wine Ruby had given him, and he now decided it had been a mistake to drink wine. It only made him hotter. He should have brought Coca Cola. He had taken off his dirty, cotton coat and had rolled up his black shirtsleeves. Sweat sparkled on his narrow forehead as he shifted further into the shade. He had been up on the mountain now for four hours and the terrace had been deserted for all this time. He pulled the haversack towards him, looked into it and took out a demi—baguette, split in two and filled with ham and garlic sausage. He gnawed a piece off, wiped the sweat from his face and began chewing. The rifle across his knees felt hot. Suddenly he stiffened. He spat out the half-eaten lump of bread and lifted the rifle.

  Here she was, and at last! he thought as far below him a blonde girl came out onto the terrace. She had on a skimpy sun suit and she sat on one of the lounging chairs. She began to spray her arms with a suntan bomb.

  Jo-Jo, his mouth now dry, his body tense, lifted the rifle and peered at the girl through the telescopic sight. He had been told the woman was blonde. He knew the nurse was brunette. So this must be Erica Olsen. His lips came off his discoloured teeth and he held his breath as the cross section of the sight centred on the girl’s forehead. She had paused and was looking down into the garden, motionless. Jo-Jo knew he was being offered the perfect target. Very gently, still holding his breath, he squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Seven

  Had Pfc Willy Jackson not been a light heavyweight champion, his life could easily have been made unbearable by the kidding and leg-pulling of his companions. But since Jackson could lick any man in his battalion, and since he was in an ugly and sullen mood, no one attempted to kid him about the way he had let the Commies walk off with this Swedish chick.

  Jackson had recovered consciousness with a bruised and swollen jaw in the Bois. He had been reprimanded and was now on sentry detail at Dorey’s villa, the bruise on his jaw turning a pale yellow and green.

  Sergeant O’Leary sent him up onto the Corniche to relieve Pfc Fairfax. The change of guard took place at 13.00 hrs., and now Jackson with his police dog, was taking his duties seriously.

  He had been given a black mark by his Commanding Officer and that had hurt Jackson’s feelings. He decided that anyone acting suspiciously on this sun—roasted road should be challenged.

  He didn’t even sit in the Jeep nor did he allow his dog to sleep.

  Jackson was breathing fire and was very much on the ball.

  A little after 1.30 p.m. with the traffic crawling past him in a steady stream, Jackson saw a young beatnik, carrying a violin case on the narrow sidewalk which ran along the low wall of the mountainside.

  A few moments previously, there had been a gap in the traffic, and Jackson had had a clear view of the long strip of the Corniche he was guarding. There had been no pedestrians in sight, and now this young beatnik had materialised from nowhere.

  Jackson hesitated only for a moment, then he shouted, “Hey, you! Just a moment!”

  Jo-Jo flinched, but kept walking. He controlled the urge to run and looked as casually as he could at the distant view as if he hadn’t heard Jackson’s shout.

  “You!”

  Jo-Jo kept on.

  Jackson snapped his fingers at his dog and pointed. The dog was out of the Jeep like a black flash, whipped in front of a crawling car, got ahead of Jo-Jo and planted itself in front of him.

  Jo-Jo came to an abrupt halt

  There was something deadly in the way the dog stared up at him.

  For the first time in his short vicious life, Jo-Jo knew fear.

  Carrying his automatic rifle at the alert, Jackson crossed the road, his eyes coldly suspicious. He came up to Jo-Jo.

  “Didn’t you hear me tell you to stop?” he demanded in his excruciating French.

  “Why should I stop for you, Yank?” Jo-Jo said, licking his dry lips.

  “What have you got in there?” Jackson said, pointing his rifle at the violin case.

  “A violin, and what’s it to you? Listen, Yank, I don’t know what you think you’re doing. I’m a French subject. Take your dog and get lost.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “You’ve come up the mountainside, haven’t you?”

  “What should I be doing on the mountainside?” Jo-Jo sneered. “If you don’t want to land yourself in trouble, you’d better leave me alone. I’m a French subject and . . .”

  “I heard you the first time. Open that fiddle case!”

  If it hadn’t been for the dog, Jo-Jo would have whipped out his knife, stabbed this fool and made a bolt for it. But the dog made this impossible. Jo-Jo was really scared of the dog.

  “You don’t talk this way to me, Yank,” he said. “Get the hell out of my way.”

  Jackson hesitated. He realised he had no right to interfere with a French subject, but this dirty, vicious looking little rat had come up the mountainside. He was sure of that and he wasn’t going to let him go.

  “Look, sonny, why don’t you act sensibly? If you have nothing to hide, open the fiddle case and you can go. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I don’t open anything for a goddamn Yank,” Jo-Jo snarled.

  Then out of the crawling traffic appeared a French road cop, immaculate in his white helmet, his blue uniform and his glittering knee-high boots.

  Jackson waved to him.

  Dropping his violin case, Jo-Jo, frantic now, made a grab at Jackson’s automatic rifle. Two things happened to him at once.

  Jackson’s left fist thudded against his jaw and the dog pounced, pinning his right wrist.

  * * *

  Girland tapped on Erica’s door. She called for him to come in. He opened the door, then paused in the doorway.

  Erica was dressed. She had on a black and green sleeveless frock and she was standing in front of a full-length mirror admiring herself. She turned and smiled at him.

  “Well?”

  Girland, who adored beautiful women, was for a brief moment so full of admiration that he said nothing, but just looked at her.

  Then he came into the room, closed the door and walked over to her.

  “You look wonderful. That dress . . . it suits you beautifully.”

  She again looked at herself in the mirror.

  “I think it does.” She came to him and put her long fingers on his arm. “Mark, can’t I go out into the sun? I am sure I will feel so much better if only I could.”

  “Not yet. Please be patient. Come and sit down. I want to talk to you.”

  She sat down away from the window, crossed her long, shapely legs and looked inquiringly at him.

  “Yes, Mark?”

  “I want to try to help your memory,” Girland said. He took a chair near hers. “Does the name Naomi Hill mean anything to you?”

  She frowned, thought, then shook her head.

  “No . . . should it mean anything to me?”

  From the despairing expression in her blue eyes, Girland was satisfied she wasn’t faking.

  “Never mind. The one thing you do seem to remember is this black grape.”

  Her eyes lit up.

  “Yes. It keeps coming into my mind, but it isn’t a grape, Mark. I think it’s a pearl.”

  “That’s right,” Girl
and said. “ I t is a pearl, and it is set on the back of a Chinese dragon.”

  She stared at him, then nodded.

  “Yes . . . I remember that now. Do you know about it?”

  “I know a little about it. Have you got it, Erica?”

  She moved uneasily. “Should I have it?”

  “I think so. Try to remember. It belonged to Feng Hoh Kung.”

  He could see from her expression the struggle going on in her mind. Finally, she threw up her hands.

  “It’s no use. It is like trying to open a door that won’t open. There is a black pearl. I do know that. Kung . . . does he live in Pekin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me think for a moment.” She got up and walked slowly to the open window. Girland watched her. He saw her look down onto the terrace. He saw her stiffen, lean forward, stare, then her hands went to her face and she gave a loud piercing scream that set Girland’s nerves tingling.

  She spun around, horror in her eyes.

  “What’s the matter with her? Something’s happened to her!”

  Girland reached the window in two strides. He looked down onto the terrace where Ginny lay on the chaise lounge. He felt his heart kick against his side.

  Ginny lay in an unnatural position. From where he stood, Girland could just make out a tiny red hole in the centre of her forehead. From it oozed a line of blood that ran down the side of her nose, across her parted lips and dripped onto her white, sun suit.

  As he turned and started for the door, Erica gave a low, gasping sigh and fell at his feet in a faint.

  * * *

  At the sound of the bell, Malik snatched up the telephone receiver. He had been sitting in the hot, stuffy little room of the villa now for three hours and he was in a white heat of fury.

  “Boris,” Smernoff said over the line. “Things have been happening. The woman is dead. The police are looking for us. Do nothing until I get back,” and he hung up.

  Malik slowly replaced the receiver. He contained his fury with an effort that brought thick veins out on his forehead. He lit another cigarette and continued to wait.

  Half an hour later, Smernoff came into the room.

  “Well?”

  “There was a path at the back of the villa,” Smernoff said. “Petrovka found it. He walked into an ambush and he’s dead. The police have picked up Jo-Jo Chandy . . . Yet-Sen’s agent. They caught him with a .22 rifle. He killed the woman with a long distance shot.”

  “Are you certain it was the woman?” Malik demanded, glaring at Smernoff.

  “There was only one blonde woman in the villa. The nurse was dark. This blonde woman was on the terrace and Chandy picked her off like a sitting duck. Dorey’s flying down . . .”

  Malik stared down at his powerful hands, his face wooden.

  “This is our first failure, Boris,” he said. “We could be in trouble.”

  “There is always a first time,” Smernoff said philosophically. He was glad this was Malik’s responsibility. He couldn’t see how he himself could be blamed. “What do we do now?”

  “I must be absolutely certain this woman is dead,” Malik said. “Get one of your men to talk to the Press.”

  “I have already arranged that. He should be calling any moment now.”

  Five minutes later, the call came through. Smernoff listened, grunted and then said, “You can return to Paris,” and he hung up. Turning to Malik, he went on, “There’s no doubt about it. The reporter for Nice Matin has seen the body. The dead woman is Erica Olsen.”

  Malik shrugged.

  “Then we leave at once.” He crossed the room and picking up the telephone receiver, he called Kovski at the Russian Embassy.

  While he was breaking the news to Kovski, Dorey arrived at his villa. He came by military aircraft and by fast car from Nice.

  It was probably the fastest journey he had ever made in his life.

  Girland, his eyes bleak and his face pale, explained what had happened.

  “O’Halloran’s men didn’t take the job seriously,” he concluded bitterly. “Chandy and Malik’s man got past the guards on the Corniche. That’s something for you to sort out, but I want you to remember that this sentry is responsible for Ginny Roche’s death.”

  “All right . . . all right,” Dorey said impatiently. He wasn’t interested in Ginny Roche. “What about Erica Olsen?”

  Girland ignored this.

  “At least the French police are efficient. They have made Chandy talk, and they are picking up his two pals. They all work for Yet-Sen.”

  “Never mind that. That is a police affair. Is this woman talking yet?”

  Girland looked at him in disgust.

  “You have a one track mind, haven’t you? It means nothing to you that that kid is dead. Well, she isn’t talking. She’s in shock. She saw Ginny murdered.”

  Dorey moved impatiently around the room. Girland watched him, then he said, “I have told the press the murdered woman is Erica Olsen.”

  Dorey paused and peered at Girland over the top of his “Will they believe it?”

  “They do believe it. The Nice Matin man is a friend of mine. I let him see the body. I told him she was the mysterious woman who had lost her memory. He didn’t question it. When the Russians and the Chinese hear Erica Olsen is dead, they will lift the pressure. We can’t go on the way we have been going on. I’m taking Erica out of here. She will leave as Nurse Roche. I’m getting her a dark wig and she’ll wear Ginny’s uniform. Once I get her away from here and the guards, I am sure I can get her to talk.”

  Dorey studied him suspiciously.

  “Where are you taking her?”

  “To an apartment in Monte Carlo. I have made all the necessary arrangements. She will be safe there for a week or so. Look, Dorey, it was your bright idea I should pretend to be her husband. She now accepts this fact, so you are stuck with your idea. You take care of the funeral, give it all the publicity you can and I’ll take care of Erica. All I need is money. Give me a hundred thousand francs. She thinks I am a successful business man and I have to act the part.”

  “Where is the apartment?”

  Girland scribbled an address on a scratch pad, tore off the sheet and gave it to Dorey.

  “Don’t telephone me unless it is urgent. When she talks, I’ll call you.”

  Dorey hesitated. He decided the idea might work and he couldn’t think of an alternative. He would have been very uneasy had he overheard the telephone conversation between Girland and Jacques Yew that had taken place half an hour before he had arrived at the villa. In that conversation, Girland had asked Yew if he could accommodate a girl and himself in his apartment overlooking the Beach hotel. He also asked Yew to buy a woman’s brown wig and to come with it at 5.30 p.m. to Dorey’s villa.

  Girland had concluded the conversation by saying. “You remember what I was saying, Jacques, about a grape? This has to do with it. Your cooperation now could put you right in the middle of a deal.”

  Jacques had said, “You can rely on me, dear boy. Of course you can use my apartment. You can have anything else you want.”

  But Dorey didn’t know of this conversation; all the same he was a little dubious about Girland’s plan.

  “Nurse Roche could have relations,” he said. “We can’t bury her as Erica Olsen.”

  “I will only want a week. There’ll be an inquest. Delay it as long as you can,” Girland said impatiently. “If I can’t get Erica talking in a week, then I never will.”

  “Isn’t she remembering anything yet?”

  “She remembered staying at the Astorg hotel. You have her suitcase.”

  “There were two suitcases. We have only found one.”

  Girland looked sharply at Dorey.

  “Two suitcases?”

  “She left Pekin with two. She had them with her at Hong Kong. O’Halloran is trying to trace the second one, but so far, without success.”

  Girland shrugged.

  “I want some money. I’ll n
eed at least a hundred thousand francs.”

  “I will give you twenty thousand, and you will have to account for every franc,” Dorey said firmly, and sitting down, he took out his chequebook.

  “That’s my Dorey,” Girland said in disgust. “Mean in every emergency.”

  “Not mean . . . careful,” Dorey said and signed the cheque with a flourish.

  * * *

  Sadu Mitchell sat in Ruby’s little garden, his eyes going constantly to his wristwatch. It was now seven hours since he had left Jo-Jo on the mountain path. He was worried and uneasy. Pearl, relaxed, waited with oriental calm which irritated Sadu.

  Suddenly they both heard Ruby’s high-pitched voice crying out in alarm. They looked at each other. Sadu started to his feet, his fingers closing over the butt of Jo-Jo’s gun.

  “What is it?” Pearl said, without moving.

  Ruby’s cry of alarm abruptly ceased. There was a moment of silence, more sinister than when she had been screaming. Sadu cursed, kicked away his chair and drew the gun.

  “Drop it!” a man’s voice snapped from the open french window.

  In a panic, Sadu fired blindly in the direction of the voice.

  Then he heard the bang of gunfire and felt a violent blow on his chest. He found himself lying on the hot, dry grass. He tried to lift his gun, but he had no strength left and the gun slipped from his grasp. He looked wildly at Pearl who was sitting motionless, her pretty face expressionless, then he became aware of a pair of black, highly-polished jackboots just in range of his darkening vision.

  * * *

  By 17.00 hrs. the activity at the villa had died down. Dorey had gone with Inspector Dulay to the Nice Police Station. Ginny’s body had been taken away in an ambulance. The newspaper men had gone. Sergeant O’Leary had taken his men in three Jeeps to the Airport.

  Diallo, wide-eyed and nervous, Erica Olsen and Girland were at last on their own.

  From time to time, Girland had gone into Erica’s room where she was lying on the bed, her back turned, her face hidden. Girland didn’t speak to her. He felt it best to wait for her to make her own recovery. At 5.30 p.m. he saw Jacques Yew’s black Cadillac come up the drive and he went out onto the terrace to greet him.