Don Pendleton - Continental Contract

Bolan said quietly, "I want Marcel."

"Non! Americaine?" She raised her voice to call out, "Marcel! C'est l' Americaine!"

Immediately the door at the rear of the lobby opened and a man of about 25 entered, a short but powerful looking Frenchman with a wide grin of welcome. The grin faded into uncertainty as he stared at Bolan, then another man pushed in behind him.

The second man got a good look at the visitor, yelped something in excited French, and whipped a pistol from the waistband of his trousers. Bolan's .32 phutted dully and blood geysered from between the man's eyes. He hit the floor dead, his pistol clattering across the floor and sliding to a rest almost at Bolan's feet. The first man was diving back toward the door. Bolan's second round helped him get there, the slug plowing into the back of the skull and dropping him in the doorway.

The woman called Celeste was staring unbelievingly into the scene, mouth open and moving but no sounds issuing. Bolan clamped a hand onto her shoulder and shook her. "Speak English," he commanded. "Who were they expecting?"

Sound came on her second try, rasping through a parched throat and a paralyzed tongue. "Non, non," she choked.

Bolan let her go and she crumpled to her knees. A sound out he stairway whirled him about as a blonde girl of about twenty descended quickly into view, then halted halfway down in sudden confusion as the scene presented itself to her. She wore absolutely nothing but a narrow garter belt and thigh-length hose of black mesh. She cried, "My God! I thought I heard..."

Bolan growled, "Get on down here!"

She came down hesitantly, a voluptuous vision of pink skin and well-piled flesh, eyeing Bolan as though he were a cobra about to strike, then she scuttled quickly across to be near Celeste. She asked Bolan, "Wh-what is this? What are you doing?"

Her speech was that of a refined Englishwoman. Bolan wondered what the hell she was doing in this lousy drop. He told her, "I'm not up on the language. Tell Celeste she has one chance to live. I want information and damn quick. Are they bringing the American here? How many of them are involved. When are they expected?"

A rapid exchange in French between the two women ensued. Then the blonde girl told Bolan, "Yes, an American criminal was to be brought here. He was to be kept here until further instructions were received. She does not know how many, she understood it was to be but one. Do you mean — oh yes, I see what you mean." She turned to the older woman and another discussion, then back to Bolan. "Seven men went to the airport, in two machines. She feels that they have been delayed by the fog. They should have arrived before now."

Bolan said, "Okay, that's what I wanted." Under other circumstances he would have wanted something quite different from the English beauty, but this was just another of the sacrifices to the lousy war. He told her, "Get the woman upstairs. Stay there. Don't let anyone else down."

The girl nodded her head in vigorous assent and pulled Celeste toward the stairs. The French woman was beginning to tremble and weep. Bolan watched them up the stairway, hoping that Celeste had not become overly attached to her dead pimp, and working hard to keep his eyes away from the invigorating display of blonde rump, then he quietly put out the lights, opened the door, and went outside.

The situation out there had not changed. The street was quiet and the fog was showing no signs of dissipating. Bolan took a position several steps uprange from the doorway, secure in the enveloping mists. He noted lights going on upstairs and supposed that the house of joie was coming alive in a premature awakening. He replaced the two expended cartridges in the .32 and settled into the wait, trying to not think of the English girl. Half a cigarette later, the sound of an automobile engine entered his consciousness, followed quickly thereafter by the slow advance of headlamps along the curbing — then another sound and another pair of lights.

The vehicles came to a halt just below Bolan's position. A car door opened, feet moved on the sidewalk, then both pairs of lights winked out. A nasal voice called, "Depechez-vous!"

Yeah, Bolan thought, hurry up and die.

Distorted shapes wavering in the gloom, car-doors in motion, a quiet murmur of voices — this was the area of perception. Bolan moved softly toward the entrance to the house. A lone figure approached, nothing more than a shapeless suggestion of mass. Bolan stepped beside him and caught him behind the ear with the butt of the gun, then grabbed the falling body and assured it a soft and soundless descent to the ground.

Three more blobs moving toward him... yeah, here was paydirt — the middle blob sort of bent and sagging and being dragged along by the other two. The .32 whispered two coughing little words, the two outside blobs fell away and the inside one tumbled toward Bolan. He caught it, hissing, "Quiet, quiet," and got an arm around it and guided it up the sidewalk toward Rue St. Jacques.

Behind them a troubled voice called out, "Armand? Henri?"

Bolan kept moving, trying to get as much distance as possible before the light dawned back there. He saw the headlamps of the lead car flash back on and heard the sounds of aroused voices. The man beside him was breathing raggedly and trying to tell him something in a pained monotone. But there was no time for sidewalk conferences. Running feet were pursuing them up the sidewalk and the vehicle was moving forward again.

Bolan pushed his burden against the wall of a building and shoved him down into a seated position, then dropped to one knee and swivelled to the attack. Immediately the running feet became an identifiable figure bearing down on him. He squeezed off another quiet phut and the running figure pitched forward and became a sliding mass.

The .32 angled up and over, Bolan sighting in an imaginary target just above the dull glow of an automobile headlamp, and he sent three quick rounds into there in a right-to-left scan. The crashing of window glass and a sudden veering of the headlamps announced his success; the vehicle headed off on an erratic course, crossing the street to the other side and moments later smashing into an immovable object.

A man's voice was yelling something in a mixture of French and Italian, then the same voice rose in hysteria and was screaming for help. A sudden flash of light hinted at the fire over there, and then an explosion settled all doubts. Confusion and running about and excited voices down near the maison de joie; screams and hot flames piercing the fog at the far side of the street; female voices pitched high in excitement and floating down from Madame Celeste's balconies — to this backdrop, Bolan took time to thumb in two fresh rounds of ammo, then he reclaimed his charge and hustled him along the street as fast as he could move him.

They reached Rue St. Jacques as Rue Galande began bursting with curious life and all traffic seemed to be heading counter to Bolan's progress. He paused at the corner and allowed Martin to get his breath. Back there were leaping flames and excited people crowding about like wraiths in the weird glow. If there was a pursuit, Bolan could not see it — but then, he could not see much of anything. He asked Gil Martin, "Are you okay?"

"No," Martin groaned. "They... fiends. Fingers broken... and kicked, kicked, ribs burn."

"We have to keep going," Bolan told him. "Can you make it?"

"Yes. Anything. Th-thank God. Yes, go."

They went, moving quietly and surely along Rue St. Jacques and onto Boulevard St. Michel, Bolan beginning to develop an entirely new feeling about the quality of one Gil Martin. They paused again there, at the Boulevard, Bolan trying to orient himself as to present location and desired goals. A name that sounded like an American whiskey flashed into his mind and the inviting declaration re-whispered, "I usually stay at the Pension de St. Germain."