French for Murder, page 8
I fired. His gun dropped on the carpet and he dropped on top of it, a big pancake stain of blood growing in his thigh. He scrabbled for the gun. I fired again. The second bullet hit him in the shoulder. He jerked convulsively and fell, face down, gasping. I felt no emotion. I had stopped him, the way you would shut a gate on a mad dog.
But I had other troubles. Mellan came at me from behind, big, heavy, going fast. He cannoned into me, sending me reeling. I tripped on the rug and fell. He smashed at me with his foot and missed. He came down on top of me. After the beating I had taken, the impact of his body made me sick. I saw lights in front of my eyes. He shoved me clear.
That was his mistake. As I lay there, he kicked the gun out of my hand and dived across the floor for it. I got back on my feet just as his fat paw closed on it, I jumped him then, jumped with both my feet on his outstretched hand. He howled like a stuck steer. Then he rolled over, screaming, holding his smashed paw. I picked up the gun.
Parsons was lying panting on the ground, bleeding. I went over and picked up the gun he had tried to reach. My head was still reeling from the kicks and the punching. I saw the room in a haze of pain, the Britisher bleeding to death on the carpet, the howling fat man nursing his smashed hand, the monkeys jumping in panic on the top of the bar.
I staggered and that stagger saved my life. For it let me see Simone, coming at me from behind, with a heavy onyx desk ornament in her hand, her lovely face convulsed with rage and fear. She threw it and she missed. I reached out and yanked her toward me by her long lovely hair. Then I hit her on the head with the Luger. She went down like a crumpled exotic flower.
The noise was splitting my skull open. Screams from the monkeys, the panicky whirring of the parakeets in the huge cage, the blubbering moans of Mellan, and the heavy breathing of Robby, fighting against the loss of blood and the blackness that was closing in on him. And through it all I heard a sound like a ripping sheet, the sound of my own tortured breath in my throat. Hammers beat a black crescendo in my brain. I reeled, dropping the Luger. I had to get out. My hands groped for the door.
Out, before I fell down again.
I was in the corridor. I found the apartment door. I got it open. People were staring at me from half-open doors. I got to the elevator and let myself in. I pushed a button. I passed out. I came to lying on the elevator floor.
I had to get out. Somehow I got on my feet, opened the elevator door, and reached the street. A concierge ran after me, staring at my bruised face, my tom shirt. And I thought of Parsons fighting the last minutes of life in the room upstairs.
"Miss Ensor's apartment," I gasped. "Hurry! An accident."
The concierge ran up the staircase and I went out into the Boulevard Raspail. Evening was beginning and Paris became the City of Light I staggered along like a drunken man until I found a cafe. I lurched among the tables and reached the bar. I anchored myself to the bar.
"Double cognac."
I drank it.
"Ouff!" the barman said sympathetically, touching my swollen face. "An accident?"
I nodded. "Another," I mumbled, holding up the glass.
He filled it. I drank it. Then he led me to the lavatory and brought a towel. He rinsed my face. He put iodine on the cuts. He sat me down at a table in the cafe. Customers began to crowd around. "What happened? What happened, monsieur?"
It was time to leave. I thanked the barman, paid for the drinks, and got out.
I walked as far as the Raspail metro station. And in the toilet of the subway station, I tried to fix my tom shirt I came upstairs and saw a man watching me. I began to walk faster. I went into a tabac and bought matches. He was waiting outside when I left. I went back inside the tabac and looked for a back door. No luck. I came out and started to walk. He followed.
I ran. After a block, I looked back. He was running too. I tried running again, but he caught up with me. He grabbed me by the arm.
He had a pleasant face. A brash young guy, Joe College type. He wore a sports jacket and gray slacks and he had short blond hair. He looked American.
"Mr. Cain?" he said.
CHAPTER NINE
I stared at him. "My name is Harrington."
"You're all in, Mr. Cain," he said. "Let's go somewhere and talk."
We were standing at the corner of the Rue de Buci. He jerked his thumb at the Mabillon.
"What about here?" he said.
It was a good choice. In the Mabillon they wouldn't notice if you had two heads. Except maybe if both heads talked different languages. They might work up a big thing out of that. The Mabillon is home for the jeans and sweater set that used to run after Jean-Paul Sartre. Nowadays they rave about Louis Armstrong, they smoke tea, and they dress in unlaundered blankets. They make a lot of noise and they make it in the Mabillon. Drinks are cheap there and the place is strictly long-hair. I mean long hair. It's a barber's college dream.
We took a table on the upper level, beside a crowd of kids who were playing a guitar and singing American folk songs. One of the kids, a redhead, told everyone he came from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. The girl beside him announced that she was from Toowoomba, Australia. They were probably right, at that. The Mabillon is the last place to meet anybody from Paris.
But I wasn't in the mood for local color. My head felt as big as a Times Square dime balloon. I sat down with the guy who knew my name. I didn't think about it. I was too bushed to think about anything.
He ordered a brandy for himself and a glass of milk for me. He also got two long loaves of bread with ham in them. He spoke bad French to the waiter.
"You need to eat, fella," he said. "I know you didn't have lunch. And I'll bet you didn't get dinner at Simone Ensor's place."
He grinned when he saw the look on my face. "Yes," he said. "I've been tailing you most of the day. Relax. Eat! I don't want you."
I looked at the door. It seemed a long way off.
"Ruston's my name," he said. "Captain Bill Ruston, United States Army. I'm attached to the customs unit on the West German border."
I took a bite of the sandwich. Let him talk.
"I'm in Paris on special duty," he said. "Unofficial. It's sort of undercover work." He fingered his sport jacket. "That's why the civilian clothes," he said. "I'm here in connection with smuggling across the West German border."
"What kind of smuggling?"
"Well-"
"What kind of smuggling?" I repeated.
He looked worried. "Well, between ourselves, it's narcotics," he said. "You see, Cain, I picked up your trail today at the Brasserie Royale when you met Simone Ensor. I'd been tailing her until you came along. I followed you both over to the Georges Cinq and then back to her apartment. I had you taped by then. I heard her call you Cain when you passed me in the lobby of the hotel. You're the guy they want for Slessor's killing, aren't you?"
"You seem to know everything," I said. I looked at the door again. If I knocked him over and jumped the rail to the lower level, I might get away with it. I might. But I was bushed. And he was young and in good condition. I might not.
"Look, fella," he said. "Let's get one thing straight. I don't think you killed Frank Slessor. Frank was in this smuggling game for a long time. There were plenty of people with reasons to kill him."
I drank the glass of milk and finished my sandwich. A lot of people had been telling me stories in the last twenty-four hours. Listening to them had brought me nothing but trouble.
"You got any papers?" I said.
"Sure." He pulled out a billfold and let me look at a cellophane-covered card inside. It had a U.S. seal on it. It said he was Captain W. R. Ruston, 8864 Customs Unit, United States Army. It had his photograph attached. I handed it back and he put it in his hip pocket.
There was something about him that made sense. He looked like what he was, a tough Army cop who probably had some police background before he went into the service. He was young-young enough to be honest.
"O.K.," I said. "I'm Noah Cain. What do you want?"
"How did you get mixed up in this?" he said. "I've been on this case for a long time now. I know who's who. But you don't figure."
"I was a travel agent once," I said. "The other night I went home to the Hotel de l'Univers, where I was staying. I was corned. I went into the wrong room and I saw a dead man on the bed and a girl searching the place. She hit me on the head with a bottle and beat it. She planted my cigarette lighter where the police would find it. When I woke up the next morning, I got the hell out of there. Now I'm wanted for murder."
"Who was the girl?"
"Her name is Stella Webster," I said. "Before I left Slessor's room I found his wallet. It had a picture of the girl I saw in his room. A nude picture. I went up to Pigalle to a place called the Boite Noire. That name was stamped on the back of the girl's picture. They put me onto Simone Ensor. Said she was Stella's best friend. You know most of the story after that. Today I found Simone. She got me up to her place and a couple of her pals slugged me. They think I killed Slessor and that I'm working for some outfit called Segovia."
"Who were these guys?"
"One's an American called Dan Mellan. The other is British. Name of Robby Parsons."
"What else did they say?"
I told him what I had pieced together so far: that Slessor was European manager for this Segovia outfit and that he had double-crossed his employers by turning over shipments to a group of hijackers headed by Mellan. Slessor had double-crossed Mellan as well as his employers and Mellan had put an operative called Stella onto him to find out his game. Mellan believed that a Segovia agent-me-had got to Slessor and killed him.
"So Slessor double-crossed everybody," Bill Ruston said. "No wonder he got a shiv in his guts."
He leaned across the table. His blue eyes were suddenly cold.
"One thing doesn't figure " he said. "Why didn't you report this to the cops, fella?"
"I've got no proof that I didn't do it," I said. "Unless I can find Stella Webster. All the evidence is against me. Why should the cops believe me?"
"Maybe I can help you there," he said. "Got any leads?"
I showed him the letter and Stella's picture. I told him I was going to Marseilles to look for her.
"I wouldn't do that," he said. "Hell, the cops are bound to pick you up if you move around."
"I've got to. She's my only lead."
"Look, Cain," he said. "I'll level with you. My job is unofficial as far as the French are concerned. I've got no right to gumshoe around in France. As far as the French are concerned, I'm here as a tourist. So you don't have to think of me as a cop."
Not much. Once a cop, always a cop. Delivering me tq the Paris police would get him in solid with the French.
"So you're not going to hand me over," I said. "O.K. What's the angle?"
"Well," he said, nervously twirling his brandy glass, "I haven't done too good on this job. If I could find this Stella Webster, I might find out who's behind the Segovia firm. I have a hunch she knows. We've got to get the original smugglers, the guys who are shipping the stuff to Europe. Now, if you give me that letter and the picture, I'll go to Marseilles and find her. It's a perfect deal for you. It's like hiring your own private detective."
"No, thanks," I said. "I'll do it myself."
"Listen, fella, you're in bad trouble. If you play ball with me, I might be able to clear you with the French cops. Not now, but in a couple of weeks, when we have some more facts to go on. Then I'll have some results to show them. And those results will prove that you were just an innocent bystander. Now, why don't you give me the letter?" he said. "I'll find her. Finding people is my job."
"No. That letter and the picture are the only things that prove my story isn't just a pipe dream. I'm not handing them over. I'll go myself."
He laughed. He had the nice cheerful laugh of a young man who sleeps well, eats well, and never gets tangled up with the law. He just didn't take it seriously. He hadn't been staring at the barrel of a gun in a Russian roulette game that or any afternoon.
"You're a dope," he said. "You're sticking your neck out. But if that's the way you want to play it, I'll buy cards. Why don't we enlist you right now? Let's see. We could call it 'special information.' I think I can let you have a couple of hundred bucks on that."
He took out a wad of bills and travelers' checks and counted off twenty tens. He wrote down a phone number on a piece of paper.
"Here you are, Cain," he said, handing me the paper and the money. "Take it. I know you don't like cops, but take it."
I took it.
"Right," he said. "Now, I'll tell you something. You've been sitting here beside me, wondering whether you're going to knock me over and run for it. I don't blame you. But you don't have to worry. I'm not interested in you. I've just given you this dough without asking for a signature. That's because I trust you. I'll need your signature later, for our records. This is the government. You can't give out government money without a receipt."
He grinned. "I think you're all right, Cain. That's why I gave you my phone number, too. When you get to Marseilles, keep in touch with me by phone. If you find Stella or this Henryk guy, get in touch with me at once. I can check on them with half a dozen good intelligence outfits. And if they've got records, we can get the French cops to pull them in. Then it will be their word against yours. You've got no criminal record, have you?"
"No."
"O.K.," he said. "This is a break for you. From now on, you have the United States Army behind you-if you can call me the Army. And while you're working on the Marseilles end, I'll keep tabs on Simone Ensor. I'll also do some work on your friends Mellan and Parsons."
I thought about Robby Parsons. The only guy who'd be doing any work on him for a while would be a surgeon.
"Is it a deal?" Ruston said.
"It's a deal." I figured I had two hundred bucks, anyway. That would get me to Marseilles.
He smiled in his eager-beaver way. "One thing you've got to remember. This is strictly undercover as far as our outfit is concerned. We want to find out how this stuff is getting across the West German border, but unless we do it quietly they'll know. And they'll switch the method of operation."
"O.K.," I said. "But if I'm going to work on this thing, it would help if I knew something more about it. Narcotics, you said. What's the setup?"
"I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that." He grinned apologetically. "It's classified information. Besides, at the rate you're working, you've found out more in one day than I have in four weeks. You'd make a good cop. Now, where are you staying? I'll give you a lift home."
"No, thanks. I'll walk." Better not tell him, I thought. There was no point in getting Sarto mixed up with the U.S. customs. Besides, Bill Ruston was still a cop in my books. And cops work with cops-not with guys like Sarto.
We said good-by outside the Mabillon and I watched him get into a cab and roll off along the boulevard. It was after midnight. I began to walk home along the dark side streets. The cops would have given permission for Slessor's burial by now. I wondered who would be at his funeral. Robby Parsons would be in a hospital, getting transfusions. Or he might be on a slab. I couldn't care much, one way or the other. Dan Mellan would be nursling a broken hand. And Simone would need to spend some time at the beauty parlor getting her bruises fixed. Stella Webster was in Marseilles with a sackful of money, probably getting ready to skip the country.
All his friends were busy. Slessor would have a lonely funeral. But at least his troubles were over. Mine had just begun.
I was walking through the streets of Paris with half the flics in France looking for me. And with one smart flic in particular. Inspector Briffault of the special branch. The international cop, Sarto had said. Well, this was on his beat. International smuggling with three or four countries in the act. Including the United States.
* * *
Sarto was waiting for me at the Palace, his grizzled face set in a frown of displeasure.
"All the damn day I have been sitting here," he said. "I did not even go out to eat, waiting for your telephone call. But you did not bother to call. You damn fool. Do you want a drink?"
"No," I said. "I want an Air France timetable. I've got to go to Marseilles." And I sat down and told him what had happened. When I got to the bit about Mellan and Parsons, he was so hopping mad he couldn't sit in his seat.
"Why didn't you bring me with you?" he shouted. "Why did you try everything alone? I could have helped you."
I calmed him down when I told him that Parsons and Mellan would likely spend most of the night in a hospital emergency ward. Then we made some coffee and he got an Air France timetable. He promised to call me early and I went up to my room to get some rest. Within seconds of putting my head down, I was fast asleep.
I was having a drink with Slessor, only he couldn't drink because he had a knife in his chest. Stella Webster, wearing only an ermine muff and high-heeled shoes, was mixing Martinis. I was asking the dead man what he had done to double-cross Mellan. Then a sudden shaking made me open my eyes in the darkness.
"Wake up, Noah," Sarto said quietly. "Get dressed. The flics are here."
I shook my head and pains stabbed over my eyes. I got out of bed and groped for my clothes in the dark.
"Briffault himself is downstairs," Sarto said. "Could be he got a tip from the taxi driver on the day you came here. Foresta, my night clerk, is waking up the guests for them." He chuckled. "Some very amusing things are coming to light."
"How do I get out?" I said, tying my tie.
"I have a back staircase and a cellar door. Two cellar doors. A flic is guarding one of them. They will not find the other. Hurry! They're on the second floor by now."
We went out in the darkened hall. Below, I heard angry shouts as cops barged into bedrooms.
"Par ici," Sarto hissed. We went down the narrowest service stairs I had ever seen. Then we went through the furnace room and came to a heap of coke. At the top of the heap was a small door.
