James Chase - You Have Yourself a Deal

Ginny, listening to this, gasped.

“You are a horrible man!” she exclaimed, glaring at Girland. “How can you say such a thing?”

Girland gave her his charming smile.

“Will you please keep your pretty nose out of this? Who cares what you think?” He looked at Malik. “How about it, my Russian comrade? How about a deal?”

Malik regarded him with contempt.

“I would rather trust a rattlesnake than you, Girland. I can handle this woman. I don’t need you. What surprises me is that Dorey should use you.”

“You’re right. It surprises me.” Girland laughed. “The trouble with Dorey is he is a romantic. He hasn’t learned to distrust anyone. Well, okay, if you’re sure we can’t make a deal, what’s going to happen to me?”

By now the ambulance was racing along the broad Autoroute de l’Ouest.

“In a little while we stop and let you out,” Malik said. “You can then return to Dorey and tell him you have failed. But be careful, the next time we meet may not be so pleasant for you. I have no orders to kill you, but if we should meet again, then I could be tempted.”

Girland gave an exaggerated shiver.

“I’ll keep clear of you, Comrade. I wouldn’t want to put temptation in your way. And how about our pretty little nurse?”

Malik glanced at Ginny and shrugged.

“She can get out with you. Just for your information, after we have driven a few miles from the place we leave you, we change cars. You will be wasting your time trying to follow us.”

“Why should I follow you?” Girland asked. “I’ve gone through the motions. I haven’t been successful. I have had some money so it is now Dorey’s funeral.”

Malik drew in a long breath of exasperation. This attitude, this talk coming from an American agent infuriated and baffled him. He had always taken his work seriously and had been ready to sacrifice his life for the Cause. This man... Malik controlled his exploding temper. He knew about him... a man who thought only of himself.

But thinking about Girland, as the ambulance roared along the autoroute, Malik felt a slight qualm. How much easier life would be, he thought wistfully, if he had this kind of philosophy of always putting yourself first and always thinking of money. He stared at Girland whose eyes were shut as he lolled in his seat, completely relaxed and humming the latest Beatles’ hit.

Then Malik stiffened. Even to think this way was decadent, he reminded himself. Leaning forward, a snap in his voice, he told Smernoff to drive faster.

The time was 10.10 p.m. and Mahler’s 2nd Symphony was coming to a blazing end when the shrill, persistent ringing of the front door bell made Nicolas Wolfert start to his feet, his fat, dimpled face showing his irritation.

Wolfert lived in a luxury apartment in Rue Singer: a penthouse that overlooked the old and soot-blackened roofs of Paris. He had bought this three-room apartment with the money he had inherited from his father, Joel Wolfert, who had been a successful merchant, selling American goods to the Chinese people. Joel Wolfert’s original idea had been to turn his business over to his son, but he found to his consternation that his son wished to be a scholar. After a longish period which had disappointed the father, Nicolas Wolfert emerged as one of the world’s experts on Chinese jade and a rare being who could write, read and speak several Chinese dialects fluently.

His father dead, the fortune he had inherited wisely invested, Wolfert now made an acceptable living attending auctions, writing articles on jade and when necessary working for Dorey when Dorey needed advice on Chinese problems.

Dorey had accepted this short, fat rather unattractive man as his Chinese expert. Wolfert, of course, had been screened by Security, but they had been so dazzled by his talents they hadn’t dug as deeply into his private life as they should. What would have worried Dorey had he known was Wolfert’s liking for Oriental women. His sexual activities, carefully concealed, would have made Dorey’s remaining hairs stand on end.

Wolfert, muttering to himself, turned down his expensive Quad hi-fi set and walked across the priceless Persian carpet he had inherited from his father, down the broad corridor, the walls of which were decorated with priceless Chinese scrolls, also inherited from his father, to open his front door.

The small figure, wrapped in a white plastic mac standing outside the door made his heart give a little jump.

“Why, Pearl... it is Pearl, isn’t it?” He peered at the small, beautiful face. “What are you doing here? You’re wet. Come in.”

Pearl’s red-rouged lips curved into a smile as she moved past him. Puzzled, but excited, Wolfert followed her into the living room. He hurriedly turned off the hi-fi set, then smiled uncertainly at her.

He had met her some months ago at Chung Wu’s restaurant. She had been dining alone, and it seemed to him the obvious thing to do since she had smiled at him, to join her. He had been entranced by her flower-like beauty. She had been startlingly direct. After an excellent meal, she had said quietly, “When I am fortunate enough to meet a man like you, I wish to be held in his arms. I have a room. Shall we go?”

Scarcely believing his good fortune, Wolfert had left with her. They had gone to a small hotel in the Rue Castellane. The man behind the desk had given her a key. There was nothing to pay. Wolfert had seen a slight signal pass between the Vietnamese girl and the clerk but he was too excited to care. This could, he thought, as he followed the small hips up the stairs, be one of his most exciting adventures, and so it turned out to be.

Western women, he thought, as he walked out into the hot narrow street an hour later, exhausted, but satiated, knew nothing of the technique of love. Of course, they imagined they did. Some he had known were quite adept at pleasing a man, but when it came to an explosive fusion of bodies, the Eastern women were supreme.

He had met her three more times, and each time they had gone to the same hotel, then he had decided to make a change. Wolfert prided himself on variety. He ceased to go to Chung Wu’s restaurant. He found a Japanese air hostess at Orly whose technique charmed him. Then there was a serious Indian girl student at the Sorbonne, studying classical French... perhaps not quite so interesting, but at least amusing. Then there was the Thai girl. Even the thought of her made Wolfert wince. Inflicting pain on women nauseated him. This was something he couldn’t understand. He had quickly got rid of her, but the experience still slightly shocked him.

Until this moment, he had forgotten Pearl, and he was puzzled, but still confident in his charms to be unworried.

“It is a long time since we have met,” he said, watching her slip off her wet mac. “But how did you know I lived here?”

She moved with flowing grace to an armchair and sat on the edge of it. In her black cheongsam with the white silk pants showing, her black hair oiled with a lotus bud behind her ear, she made an entrancing picture.

“I want to know where Erica Olsen is,” she said softly.

Wolfert gaped at her. For a moment he didn’t think he had heard aright, then sudden alarm flowed through him.

“What do you mean? I... I don’t understand.”

“The woman in the American hospital. She has been moved,” Pearl said, her black almond-shaped eyes glittering at him. “You work for Dorey. My people must know where she is. You must tell me.”

Wolfert heaved himself to his feet. His fat face was flushed. He pointed a shaking finger at the door.

“Get out! I won’t have you here! Get out at once or I will call the police!”

She stared at him for a long moment, her face expressionless, then she opened her handbag and took out five glossy photographs.