Don Pendleton - Continental Contract

A young officer at the other side of the table quietly pointed out, "But there is nothing in the evidence, Inspector, to definitely establish that the man Bolan is this same L'Americaine Formidable."

"Let us tabulate," replied the Inspector. "First, we receive a flash from the United States that the man known as The Executioner is suspected of having boarded Overseas Flight 721, Washington to Paris. At Orly, we encounter a man who meets every description of the one in question. But we are embarrassed. This American is identified as the film star, Gil Martin, beyond any doubt. We learn later that another American who fits the general description has been passed through with only a peremptory challenge."

"Yes, but this is merely..."

"Continue the tabulation with me, please. Less than one hour after the arrival of Flight 721 at Orly, a battle erupts in the St. Michel neighborhood. The victims are identified as known underworld figures, and the whispering is begun concerning L'Americaine Formidable. Approximately one hour after this, the same Gil Martin arrives at his hotel on Champs d'Elysees. Or — is this the same Gil Martin? If so, where has he been for these past two hours? Sightseeing in the fog? The doorman at the hotel insists that this man arrived on foot. He is surly with the desk clerk and orders a rental auto even before going to his room."

"But what are you... Why are we back to Gil Martin, Inspector?"

"Let us see. Tabulate with me. Gil Martin goes to his suite and apparently to bed. Late in the afternoon he again appears. Again he is surly with the clerk, spurns an offer to speak with the most beautiful woman in all France, and departs in his rented auto.

"Now — let us jump ahead in the tabulation. At thirty minutes past the hour of ten, this same evening, another battle erupts in almost the precise same spot as the earlier one. This is L'Americaine Formidable with a vengeance. When our..." he gestured to a young officer at the end of the table, "...investigating team arrive on the scene, they find incredible carnage at the House of Celeste. The dead are scattered about all three levels of the house, two are lying in the street outside — but one, one, remains alive. This is none other than the esteemed M. Rudolfi, man of many involvements and influential connections — but, an American citizen — American, mind you."

"Surely you do not think Rudolfi is L'Americaine Formidable!"

"Wait awhile. Let us proceed with the tabulation. M. Rudolfi cannot explain what has happened. He was driving by. He saw what he thought to be a business acquaintance entering this questionable establishment. He goes inside, finds a madman killing everyone in sight, is himself wounded and left for dead. Now... to move back a bit in the tabulation." The Inspector's eyes went to a man down the table. "Would you repeat the events at Orly this evening, Claude?"

A heavyset detective removed a dead pipe from his mouth and reported, "A chartered jet landed at nine-forty, Washington to Paris. A large delegation of American businessmen were hurried through customs by some official prearrangement and were met by a special bus. These businessmen did not look like businessmen. The bus took them to a fashionable section near the Arc de Triomphe. There the bus awaited while three men went into the town house of M. Thomas Rudolfi..." his eyes flashed to the Inspector, "...man of many involvements and influential connections."

A man at the end of the table sighed loudly.

The heavyset one continued. "The bus was there until some time past ten o'clock. The passengers sat complacently, patiently, penned up in there, uncomplaining. At shortly before ten-thirty, the three men returned to the bus and the entourage proceeded to the chateau of M. Rudolfi. At last report, the bus remained at that location, as did all its occupants."

"Remember now," the Inspector reminded the conference, "that all items of the tabulation continually reflect American involvement. Rudolfi — we all know what he is and who he is. The American 'businessmen' — we know also who and what they are. The..."

The young officer across the way again interrupted. "Why do we not bring in this M. Rudolfi and put to him some cogent questions?"

The Inspector released a harsh sigh. "The impatience of youth. You will 'bring in' this man of many involvements only when you have resigned yourself to a premature retirement, or when you have caught him in an indefensible act of murder — preferably with 100 eyewitnesses and substantiating photographs. Now — let us again shuffle the tabulation." His eyes sought the young detective at the end of the table. "Petreau, you conducted the investigation at Rue Galande. Was there an American involved in this investigation?"

"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'Americaine 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."