James Chase - You Have Yourself a Deal

Sergeant O’Leary sent him up onto the Corniche to relieve Pfc Fairfax. The change of guard took place at 13.00 hrs., and now Jackson with his police dog, was taking his duties seriously.

He had been given a black mark by his Commanding Officer and that had hurt Jackson’s feelings. He decided that anyone acting suspiciously on this sun — roasted road should be challenged. He didn’t even sit in the Jeep nor did he allow his dog to sleep. Jackson was breathing fire and was very much on the ball.

A little after 1.30 p.m. with the traffic crawling past him in a steady stream, Jackson saw a young beatnik, carrying a violin case on the narrow sidewalk which ran along the low wall of the mountainside.

A few moments previously, there had been a gap in the traffic, and Jackson had had a clear view of the long strip of the Corniche he was guarding. There had been no pedestrians in sight, and now this young beatnik had materialised from nowhere.

Jackson hesitated only for a moment, then he shouted, “Hey, you! Just a moment!”

Jo-Jo flinched, but kept walking. He controlled the urge to run and looked as casually as he could at the distant view as if he hadn’t heard Jackson’s shout.

“You!”

Jo-Jo kept on.

Jackson snapped his fingers at his dog and pointed. The dog was out of the Jeep like a black flash, whipped in front of a crawling car, got ahead of Jo-Jo and planted itself in front of him. Jo-Jo came to an abrupt halt. There was something deadly in the way the dog stared up at him. For the first time in his short vicious life, Jo-Jo knew fear.

Carrying his automatic rifle at the alert, Jackson crossed the road, his eyes coldly suspicious. He came up to Jo-Jo.

“Didn’t you hear me tell you to stop?” he demanded in his excruciating French.

“Why should I stop for you, Yank?” Jo-Jo said, licking his dry lips.

“What have you got in there?” Jackson said, pointing his rifle at the violin case.

“A violin, and what’s it to you? Listen, Yank, I don’t know what you think you’re doing. I’m a French subject. Take your dog and get lost.”

“Where did you come from?”

“What’s it to you?”

“You’ve come up the mountainside, haven’t you?”

“What should I be doing on the mountainside?” Jo-Jo sneered. “If you don’t want to land yourself in trouble, you’d better leave me alone. I’m a French subject and...”

“I heard you the first time. Open that fiddle case!”

If it hadn’t been for the dog, Jo-Jo would have whipped out his knife, stabbed this fool and made a bolt for it. But the dog made this impossible. Jo-Jo was really scared of the dog.

“You don’t talk this way to me, Yank,” he said. “Get the hell out of my way.”

Jackson hesitated. He realised he had no right to interfere with a French subject, but this dirty, vicious looking little rat had come up the mountainside. He was sure of that and he wasn’t going to let him go.

“Look, sonny, why don’t you act sensibly? If you have nothing to hide, open the fiddle case and you can go. It’s as simple as that.”

“I don’t open anything for a goddamn Yank,” Jo-Jo snarled.

Then out of the crawling traffic appeared a French road cop, immaculate in his white helmet, his blue uniform and his glittering knee-high boots.

Jackson waved to him.

Dropping his violin case, Jo-Jo, frantic now, made a grab at Jackson’s automatic rifle. Two things happened to him at once. Jackson’s left fist thudded against his jaw and the dog pounced, pinning his right wrist.

Girland tapped on Erica’s door. She called for him to come in. He opened the door, then paused in the doorway.

Erica was dressed. She had on a black and green sleeveless frock and she was standing in front of a full-length mirror admiring herself. She turned and smiled at him.

“Well?”

Girland, who adored beautiful women, was for a brief moment so full of admiration that he said nothing, but just looked at her. Then he came into the room, closed the door and walked over to her.

“You look wonderful. That dress... it suits you beautifully.”

She again looked at herself in the mirror.

“I think it does.” She came to him and put her long fingers on his arm. “Mark, can’t I go out into the sun? I am sure I will feel so much better if only I could.”

“Not yet. Please be patient. Come and sit down. I want to talk to you.”

She sat down away from the window, crossed her long, shapely legs and looked inquiringly at him.

“Yes, Mark?”

“I want to try to help your memory,” Girland said. He took a chair near hers. “Does the name Naomi Hill mean anything to you?”

She frowned, thought, then shook her head.

“No... should it mean anything to me?”

From the despairing expression in her blue eyes, Girland was satisfied she wasn’t faking.

“Never mind. The one thing you do seem to remember is this black grape.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Yes. It keeps coming into my mind, but it isn’t a grape, Mark. I think it’s a pearl.”

“That’s right,” Girland said. “It is a pearl, and it is set on the back of a Chinese dragon.”

She stared at him, then nodded.

“Yes... I remember that now. Do you know about it?”

“I know a little about it. Have you got it, Erica?”

She moved uneasily. “Should I have it?”

“I think so. Try to remember. It belonged to Feng Hoh Kung.”

He could see from her expression the struggle going on in her mind. Finally, she threw up her hands.

“It’s no use. It is like trying to open a door that won’t open. There is a black pearl. I do know that. Kung... does he live in Pekin?”

“Yes.”

“Let me think for a moment.” She got up and walked slowly to the open window. Girland watched her. He saw her look down onto the terrace. He saw her stiffen, lean forward, stare, then her hands went to her face and she gave a loud piercing scream that set Girland’s nerves tingling.

She spun around, horror in her eyes.

“What’s the matter with her? Something’s happened to her!”

Girland reached the window in two strides. He looked down onto the terrace where Ginny lay on the chaise lounge. He felt his heart kick against his side.

Ginny lay in an unnatural position. From where he stood, Girland could just make out a tiny red hole in the centre of her forehead. From it oozed a line of blood that ran down the side of her nose, across her parted lips and dripped onto her white, sun suit.

As he turned and started for the door, Erica gave a low, gasping sigh and fell at his feet in a faint.

At the sound of the bell, Malik snatched up the telephone receiver. He had been sitting in the hot, stuffy little room of the villa now for three hours and he was in a white heat of fury.

“Boris,” Smernoff said over the line. “Things have been happening. The woman is dead. The police are looking for us. Do nothing until I get back,” and he hung up.

Malik slowly replaced the receiver. He contained his fury with an effort that brought thick veins out on his forehead. He lit another cigarette and continued to wait.

Half an hour later, Smernoff came into the room.

“Well?”

“There was a path at the back of the villa,” Smernoff said. “Petrovka found it. He walked into an ambush and he’s dead. The police have picked up Jo-Jo Chandy... Yet-Sen’s agent. They caught him with a .22 rifle. He killed the woman with a long distance shot.”

“Are you certain it was the woman?” Malik demanded, glaring at Smernoff.

“There was only one blonde woman in the villa. The nurse was dark. This blonde woman was on the terrace and Chandy picked her off like a sitting duck. Dorey’s flying down...”