James Chase - You Have Yourself a Deal

Kerman nodded.

With a wave of his hand, Girland moved silently and swiftly across the rough grass of the lawn. It was dark, but not so dark that he couldn’t see where he was going.

The gas mask hampered him and he pushed it up to the top of his head. As he rounded the corner of the chateau, he came to an abrupt stop and stood motionless.

Just ahead of him, he made out the figure of a man, also motionless. Ten yards separated them. Girland didn’t hesitate. Crouching, he rushed at the man who let out a half-strangled shout as Girland’s charge swept him off his feet. They went down on the wet grass in a tangled heap of thrashing arms and legs. Girland already had his hands on the man’s throat, his thumbs squeezing against the throat arteries. The man heaved and twisted, his fists hammering against Girland’s head. The struggle lasted only a few seconds and Girland felt the man suddenly go limp. He retained his grip for a moment or so, then got quickly to his feet. He listened, heard nothing, then moving cautiously, his eyes searching the darkness, he approached the chateau from the rear.

French windows faced him. He aimed a violent kick at the framework, just below the lock. The glass cascaded into the room and the doors swung open. He heard a distant shout and more crashing of glass, then the bang of a gun. He was across the room and was opening the door when splinters flew from the woodwork and the gun banged again.

Dropping on hands and knees, he threw the door wide open. The gas mask made his breathing difficult and he couldn’t see clearly. Lifting the gas gun and pointing it out into the dark hall, he squeezed the trigger.

The gun exploded with a hissing roar and the hall became enveloped in white vapour.

Kordak, gun in hand, was coming silently down the stairs. He walked right into the gas. He gave a strangled gasp, and fell forward, crashing down the rest of the stairs to land on his face on the moth-eaten carpet.

Girland moved out into the hall, then stepping over Kordak’s body, he started up the stairs. The gas gun, now empty, was a hindrance and he let it drop. Reaching the head of the stairs, he paused to get his bearings. He wondered how many more men were in the house to guard Erica Olsen. Moving silently, he approached a door to his right, turned the handle and looked cautiously into the room. The gas fumes drifted past him. The white vapour now filled the upper landing. He knew anyone getting a whiff of the gas would be put out of action, but he was still cautious. The room was a bedroom and it was empty.

“Mark?”

It was Kerman calling from below.

“I’m up here.”

Kerman came running up the stairs and joined him.

“Seen anyone?” Girland asked.

“Two guys out of action in the front room. Think there are any more?”

“Don’t let’s take chances. You look in that room, I’ll go down to the end room.”

Girland moved on, reaching the last door on the landing and opened it. With a water-soaked handkerchief across her nose and mouth, her muscular body pressed against the wall, a gun in her hand, Merna Dorinska waited for him.

As the door swung open, the gas vapours moved in ahead of Girland. Even with the handkerchief offering some protection, the gas began to attack Merna. Before she could prevent it, she coughed. At the sound, Girland darted into the room, swung around and closed with her. Her gun went off, but Girland had already gripped her wrist and the bullet ploughed into the ceiling. He clawed off the handkerchief as Merna’s fist slammed against his cheekbone, sending him staggering back. The woman took two unsteady steps towards him, trying to lift the gun. Then the gas overpowered her and she dropped to the floor.

Girland fumbled for the light switch and turned it on as Kerman came to the doorway.

They both looked at Erica Olsen as she lay in the big bed.

“Well, here she is again. Let’s get her out of here,” Girland said. He gathered the unconscious woman off the bed, and holding her close to him, he half-walked, half-ran down the stairs and out into the rain.

Kerman followed him.

They crossed the road and shoved the sleeping woman into the back seat, then Girland tore off his gas mask.

“Let’s go,” he said, then as he got into the driving seat, he turned to smile at Ginny who was staring, her eyes large and round. “She’s your patient now, baby. Look after her.”

As Kerman scrambled in beside him, Girland sent the Jaguar roaring towards the South.

Marcia Davis was taking the cover off her IBM 72 electric typewriter when the door pushed open and Nicolas Wolfert came in. The time was 08.55 hrs. The sight of this short, fat balding man at this early hour made Marcia’s flesh creep.

“Good morning,” Wolfert said. Under his arm, he clutched a bulging briefcase. “I hope I’m not too early. Is Mr. Dorey free?”

Marcia knew of Wolfert’s reputation for brilliancy and also of his impressive knowledge of China, but there was something about him which she loathed. To her, he was a soft, slimy slug and she knew instinctively as he stood looking at her, his soft, full lips creased in a smile, sweat beads glistening on his bald head, he was mentally taking off her clothes and mentally raping her.

She looked fixedly at him until Wolfert’s eyes shifted, then she picked up the telephone receiver.

“Mr. Wolfert,” she said, when Dorey’s voice came over the line.

“Send him in,” Dorey said.

She flicked a well-manicured finger towards Dorey’s door.

“Go on ahead.”

Wolfert ran his eyes over her body once more, then walked across the small office, tapped on the door, opened it and walked into Dorey’s big room.

Before leaving his penthouse, Wolfert had drunk three large brandies. His nerves were so jumpy that he felt he couldn’t go through his dangerous assignment without the aid of alcohol. Even now he was in a profuse sweat and every now and then, his fat, wet fingers touched the limpet microphone that Pearl Kuo had given him.

There was no question he wouldn’t do what he had been told to do. His life would fall apart if any of his friends saw these awful photographs of his lust. He had little sympathy for America. To his thinking, they had no idea how to handle the Chinese who were, after all, people he had been brought up with and whom he understood. To save himself, he was now prepared to turn traitor.

Dorey regarded him with mild surprise. He had been at his desk since 08.00 hrs. and he had had a reassuring talk with Girland who was at that moment driving along the Frejus Autoroute, heading for Eze.

Dorey was relieved and satisfied that his gamble had come off. Although Girland was, of course, impossible, he had proved that when the cards were down, he was a man to be relied on.

“Hello, Wolfert. You’re early. What is it?”

Dorey had to contact Washington and he had been about to put the call through when Marcia had announced Wolfert. Dorey was itching to tell of his success.

Wolfert came to the desk and lowered his fat, sweating body into the lounging chair.

“I am going down to Amboise so I apologise for this early call,” he said. “As I was passing, I thought you should see some photographs ol’ Kung’s jade I have found in my collection. I thought you would be interested. You will see he has been mad enough to deface these pieces with his initials.”

He took from his briefcase a batch of glossy prints and passed them across the desk. Dorey took them, scarcely concealing his impatience. His mind was on Washington. He had no interest in Kung’s jade.

“I didn’t know Kung was a collector.”

“Indeed, yes. He has one of the finest collections of jade and jewellery in the world.” Wolfert slid the limpet microphone out of his pocket and concealed it in his fat hand. He wished he wasn’t sweating so much. The microphone, no larger than a coat button, was difficult to handle.