James Chase - You Have Yourself a Deal

“Very interesting,” Dorey said, flicking through the photographs. “Yes, I see his initials. Extraordinary man.”

“Yes, he is,” Wolfert let the briefcase slip off his fat knees onto the floor. As he bent to pick it up, he quickly pressed the adhesive back of the microphone to the underledge of Dorey’s desk. He picked up the briefcase and sat back, mopping his streaming face with his handkerchief.

Dorey eyed him with disapproval.

“You are out of condition, Wolfert,” he said. Then he looked more sharply at the white, strained face. “Are you all right?”

“Yes... yes. I’m working too hard,” Wolfert muttered and got to his feet. “A weekend in the country is what I need... a little relaxation.” He gathered up the photographs and put them into his briefcase. “I thought you would be interested. Perhaps I have taken up too much of your time.”

Dorey glanced at his desk clock.

“It’s all right, but I am expecting a telephone call. Thanks for coming, Wolfert.” He half rose, offered his hand, shook hands and sat down again. “Have a nice weekend.”

When Wolfert had gone, Dorey sat for a few moments, staring into space. His shrewd eyes were puzzled. Just why had Wolfert come at this hour like this? he wondered. It wasn’t as if he had anything of importance to show Dorey. Extraordinary. Well, perhaps that wasn’t true. It was interesting to know that Kung was a collector. He wondered if that fact had been registered in Kung’s file. He must ask Marcia, but now he had more important things to do. He picked up the telephone receiver.

“Give me Washington,” he said when Marcia answered.

The gendarme who patrolled outside the American Embassy stuck his thumbs in his belt and wandered over to a shabby Renault 8 that was double-parked within twenty metres of the Embassy gate.

The driver, a tall, slim man with Chinese eyes was opening the engine cover as the gendarme arrived. In the car was a Vietnamese girl, wearing a cheongsam. Her pale, lovely face was expressionless. The gendarme who was young and observant noticed with some surprise that the girl was wearing a deaf aid.

Sadu watched the gendarme approaching. He was slightly flustered as he gave the gendarme a servile smile.

“I’m afraid I have broken down. I think it is the plugs,” he said in his heavily accented French.

The gendarme saluted him.

“You can’t stay here, monsieur.”

“The plugs have oiled up. In about twenty minutes, they will have dried out,” Sadu said.

Pearl suddenly looked at the gendarme and her full lips parted in a smile. She managed to convey such a gaze of admiration that the gendarme was dazzled. With a little smirk, he saluted her.

“Be as quick as you can then, monsieur,” he said, saluted again and moved away.

Sadu wiped his sweating face and then leaned into the car’s engine.

Pearl, her deaf aid connected to a small but extremely powerful receiving set was listening to Dorey’s conversation with Washington. The conversation lasted several minutes, then she took out the earplug and called softly to Sadu.

“We can go.”

He hurriedly closed the engine hood and got into the car. He drove carefully back around the Concorde.

“She is at Dorey’s villa at Eze,” Pearl said. “You must tell Yet-Sen. We can leave this afternoon.”

“We? You must remain here and look after the shop,” Sadu said.

“We will close the shop,” Pearl said firmly. “We must not make any more mistakes.”

Sadu began to protest, then thought better of it. Leaving Pearl to park the car, he went into the shop and called Yet-Sen.

“I envy you,” Kerman said as Girland slowed and pulled up outside the Departure Centre of the Nice Airport, “Me back to stuffy Paris, and you with a new wife and sunshine... My! my! some people have all the luck.”

“Call it talent,” Girland said and grinned. “Well, be seeing you, Jack. Thanks for your help. I’ll talk to Dorey as soon as we get to Eze.”

The two men shook hands, then Kerman nodded to Ginny.

“Watch him, nurse: he is not to be trusted,” and getting out of the car he walked briskly into the airport.

Girland leaned over the back of his seat and smiled at Ginny who smiled back.

“How she is?”

“As well as can be expected. I would like to get her to bed.”

“Won’t be long now.” Girland looked with interest at the pale sleeping face. “Quite a beauty, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met and Girland smiled again.

“I’ll get on.”

He started the car and began driving towards the Promenade des Anglais.

He had already got Dorey’s permission to keep Ginny. This Dorey had arranged with Dr. Forrester. Although she was very young, Girland found her attractive. Life ahead seemed full of interest, he thought.

They arrived at Dorey’s villa a little after ten a.m. The road from the airport had been crammed with holiday traffic and fast speed had been impossible.

“This must be it,” Girland said as he saw a finger post marked Villa Hélios which pointed to a steep, narrow lane, cut into the side of the mountain. He changed down to bottom gear and sent the car slowly up the incline which twisted and climbed through Sea Pines and eventually broadened to a large circular turnaround to the right of which stood massive, iron-studded, wooden gates. The ten-foot high stone and ivy-covered walls completely hid the villa. Girland surveyed the gates from the car, impressed and surprised.

“Quite a place,” he said as he opened the car door and got out. “Looks like a fort.”

He approached the gates and seeing a bell chain, he tugged it. Almost immediately, a judas window opened and a young, fair-haired man regarded him with searching eyes.

“This villa belong to John Dorey?” Girland asked, now not quite sure if he had come to the right place.

“What of it?” The young man spoke French with a strong American accent.

“The name’s Girland. That mean anything to you, sonny?”

“Please identify yourself Mr. Girland.”

Then Girland knew he had come to the right place. So Dorey had called in O’Halloran’s bright young men, he thought as he produced his driving licence. There was a slight delay, then the big gates swung open.

He was a little startled to see an Army sergeant, an automatic rifle under his arm, come out of a small stone lodge nearby. Chained to a hook in the wall was a savage looking police dog who eyed him balefully.

The sergeant whose name was Pat O’Leary, a massively built man with a red, freckled face and strong, blunt features, nodded to Girland.

“Drive right in,” he said. “We have been expecting you.”

Girland grinned at him.

“So Dorey’s taking no chances.”

“No. We have six men here. You won’t have any trouble. Trouble will be our business.”

Girland returned to the car and drove it through the gateway.

“You’ll find the villa straight ahead,” O’Leary said, looking curiously at the sleeping woman, propped up in the back of the car. His eyes shifted to Ginny and he cocked his head on one side with approval. Ginny stared impersonally at him, sniffed and looked away.

Girland drove up the drive, turned a sharp corner and then saw the villa which was built on two levels into the face of the mountain with a big upper, overhanging terrace. There were window boxes of cascading flowers at every window and the villa was shaded by Sea Pines. It was compact, modern and very de luxe.

“Well! Look at this!” he exclaimed, stopping the car.

A tall, loose-limbed coloured man, Girland guessed would be from Senegal, wearing a white housecoat and white cotton trousers, came running down the steps to open the car door.