James Chase - You Have Yourself a Deal

Jo-Jo said, “Now...”

Under the eyes of thirty tourists, but out of view of the Jeep, they quickly slid down the steep slope, through the undergrowth, moving dangerously quickly until they reached the path itself.

Sadu pulled the gun from his waistband and began to move forward. Jo-Jo waited for a few seconds before he followed him. When they were in sight of the Villa’s roof and when Sadu had satisfied himself there was no guard to worry them, he stopped.

“It’s all right,” he said. “They haven’t found it. I’ll get back. You must find your own way back to the hotel. Stay here until the job’s done.”

Jo-Jo grunted, moved past Sadu and continued on down the path. Sadu turned and began to climb back to the road. He was lucky. A long line of rubberneck buses were passing and Fairfax, trying to get a change of programme on the receiving set had completely forgotten the two men taking photographs.

Jo-Jo now reached a spot where he could look down at the Villa’s terrace which was deserted. He dropped his haversack and squatting on his heels, he rested his back against a tree. He felt concealed and safe. He spent the next few minutes assembling the rifle. He took aim at the terrace. The telescopic sight was so powerful he could easily make out the cracks in the paving stones. Satisfied, he loaded the gun, then with the gun across his knees, he settled down to wait.

While he waited, Henri Dumaine who ran a successful Insurance and Estate Agency business in Eze village was regarding Petrovka without much interest. He did not think this young, shabbily dressed man could have enough money to buy land in his district, but at the same time, he told himself, he might be acting as an agent for someone with money so he decided to be helpful.

“Yes, of course, I know Monsieur Dorey’s villa,” he said. “There are no villas in this district I do not know. You are interested in buying land above the villa?”

“Yes,” Petrovka said. He had already been out to the Grande Corniche and he had seen the Jeep and the soldier. He had decided it was unsafe to search for a path with the soldier on guard, and in desperation, he had gone to the Estate Agent.

“Well, it is not impossible, of course. There is land for sale there, but I should tell you there is no water.”

“That could be arranged,” Petrovka said in his careful French. “I would like to look at the land. Is there a path down to the Villa?”

“There was a path,” Dumaine told him. “At least, I think so.” He got up and crossed to his filing cabinet. He took from it a number of sketch maps. “Yes, indeed, but I don’t advise you to make use of it. It is dangerous. No one ever uses it now, and the soil must be loose.”

“Could I see the map?” Petrovka asked, sweat breaking out under his arms. So he had failed! he was thinking. There was a path and he had told Malik there was no path.

Shrugging, Dumaine handed the map across the desk.

Petrovka studied it. He saw at a glance that he had passed the opening to the path which was close to where the Jeep had been parked.

He made a mental note of the opening down to the path, then returned the map.

“It might be interesting,” he said and got to his feet. “I will let you know.”

Dumaine was scarcely able to disguise his disgust.

“As you will, monsieur,” he said, rose, bowed, shook hands and watched Petrovka depart.

Petrovka drove back to the Grande Corniche. He was uneasy and unhappy. He knew he had wasted valuable time. Glancing at his cheap watch, he saw it was now 1.10 p.m. Malik would be waiting impatiently for his report. But since the path did exist, he must get details.

The traffic had slackened and he drove past the Jeep without difficulty. A few metres farther on, there was a lay-by. He pulled into it and turned off the car’s engine.

There was now this problem of exploring the path without the sentry seeing him. He got out of the car and walked briskly back along the narrow sidewalk until he reached the bend in the road. Then waiting until there was a lull in the traffic, he climbed over the wall and lowered himself down onto the mountainside. He had a dangerous and difficult scramble to where the path was, but he managed it. Every now and then, his feet slipped, and he thought he was going to fall, but by grabbing a shrub here and thudding against a tree trunk there, he finally managed to reach the path without being seen.

He began a cautious descent.

Relaxing in the sun, Jo-Jo heard him coming. His first warning was a stone that came rattling past him. He got silently to his feet, snatched up the haversack and moved off the path into the thick undergrowth. He waited, crouching, his lips drawn off his discoloured teeth, his finger around the trigger of his gun.

Then he saw Petrovka, a Mauser 7.63 mm gun in his hand, coming cautiously down the path. Jo-Jo lifted the rifle. It was an easy shot. The .22 bullet smashed into Petrovka’s forehead and he died without a sound.

Jo-Jo wiped the sweat from his face, reloaded the rifle, then walking to Petrovka’s dead body, he dragged it into the scrub.

In the drab little villa at Cagnes, Malik waited, pacing up and down. Smernoff, sitting at the open window, watched the girls in their bikinis, displaying themselves on the beach.

It wasn’t until Girland was nearly at the end of Feng Hoh Kung’s file that he suddenly became alert. He began to read a cutting from The Art & The Connoisseur , dated 1937 that was clipped into the file.

Up to this moment he had ploughed through a mass of uninteresting reports from various Agents, a summary of Kung’s character, his past achievements, his general background and his present work. Then suddenly this article from a defunct magazine caught his interest.

The article stated that over the centuries the Kung family had been collectors of rare antiques, precious stones and jade and Feng Hoh Kung had inherited all these treasures.

“Among this amazing collection, second to none in the world,” the article went on, “is the famous Black Grape, the only known jet black pearl in existence. The pearl originally belonged to Shi Huang-ti who built the Great Wall of China in the 3rd Century, B.C. It was acquired by the Kung family in 1753 and has remained with the family ever since.”

Girland pushed the file aside, reached for a cigarette and stared out onto the sunlit terrace.

This, he thought, was what Erica had been talking about. It is beautiful and black like a grape. She had probably seen the pearl and it had made a big impression. He shrugged and again pulled the file towards him. Then he paused, his dark eyes narrowing. He remembered her sudden agitation and what she had said: I had it with me.

Was there a possible chance that she really had the pearl? Was this the reason why she had left Kung? He reread the article and then sitting back, he rubbed the side of his jaw while he thought.

He had many contacts. He was now asking himself who could tell him more about the Black Grape. His mind raced over the names of his contacts, then he snapped his fingers. He remembered Jacques Yew who owned a successful Oriental shop on the Boulevard des Moulins, Monte Carlo. Some years ago, Yew had run into trouble with one of his many boys who had turned vicious and had been trying to blackmail him. Girland had met Yew by chance in a Paris cellar club. Bored with waiting for a girl who hadn’t turned up, Girland had listened to Yew’s tale of woe. Blackmail was something that disgusted Girland. He handled the boy who was threatening Yew, reducing him to a terrified wreck, and Yew had said if Girland ever wanted his help, he could call on him.

This was the way Girland lived. He performed a service and never hesitated to collect payment later. Now, he thought, Yew could be useful.