James Chase - You Have Yourself a Deal

Malik stared down at his powerful hands, his face wooden.

“This is our first failure, Boris,” he said. “We could be in trouble.”

“There is always a first time,” Smernoff said philosophically. He was glad this was Malik’s responsibility. He couldn’t see how he himself could be blamed. “What do we do now?”

“I must be absolutely certain this woman is dead,” Malik said. “Get one of your men to talk to the Press.”

“I have already arranged that. He should be calling any moment now.”

Five minutes later, the call came through. Smernoff listened, grunted and then said, “You can return to Paris,” and he hung up. Turning to Malik, he went on, “There’s no doubt about it. The reporter for Nice Matin has seen the body. The dead woman is Erica Olsen.”

Malik shrugged.

“Then we leave at once.” He crossed the room and picking up the telephone receiver, he called Kovski at the Russian Embassy.

While he was breaking the news to Kovski, Dorey arrived at his villa. He came by military aircraft and by fast car from Nice. It was probably the fastest journey he had ever made in his life.

Girland, his eyes bleak and his face pale, explained what had happened.

“O’Halloran’s men didn’t take the job seriously,” he concluded bitterly. “Chandy and Malik’s man got past the guards on the Corniche. That’s something for you to sort out, but I want you to remember that this sentry is responsible for Ginny Roche’s death.”

“All right... all right,” Dorey said impatiently. He wasn’t interested in Ginny Roche. “What about Erica Olsen?”

Girland ignored this.

“At least the French police are efficient. They have made Chandy talk, and they are picking up his two pals. They all work for Yet-Sen.”

“Never mind that. That is a police affair. Is this woman talking yet?”

Girland looked at him in disgust.

“You have a one track mind, haven’t you? It means nothing to you that that kid is dead. Well, she isn’t talking. She’s in shock. She saw Ginny murdered.”

Dorey moved impatiently around the room. Girland watched him, then he said, “I have told the press the murdered woman is Erica Olsen.”

Dorey paused and peered at Girland over the top of his glasses.

“Will they believe it?”

“They do believe it. The Nice Matin man is a friend of mine. I let him see the body. I told him she was the mysterious woman who had lost her memory. He didn’t question it. When the Russians and the Chinese hear Erica Olsen is dead, they will lift the pressure. We can’t go on the way we have been going on. I’m taking Erica out of here. She will leave as Nurse Roche. I’m getting her a dark wig and she’ll wear Ginny’s uniform. Once I get her away from here and the guards, I am sure I can get her to talk.”

Dorey studied him suspiciously.

“Where are you taking her?”

“To an apartment in Monte Carlo. I have made all the necessary arrangements. She will be safe there for a week or so. Look, Dorey, it was your bright idea I should pretend to be her husband. She now accepts this fact, so you are stuck with your idea. You take care of the funeral, give it all the publicity you can and I’ll take care of Erica. All I need is money. Give me a hundred thousand francs. She thinks I am a successful business man and I have to act the part.”

“Where is the apartment?”

Girland scribbled an address on a scratch pad, tore off the sheet and gave it to Dorey.

“Don’t telephone me unless it is urgent. When she talks, I’ll call you.”

Dorey hesitated. He decided the idea might work and he couldn’t think of an alternative. He would have been very uneasy had he overheard the telephone conversation between Girland and Jacques Yew that had taken place half an hour before he had arrived at the villa. In that conversation, Girland had asked Yew if he could accommodate a girl and himself in his apartment overlooking the Beach hotel. He also asked Yew to buy a woman’s brown wig and to come with it at 5.30 p.m. to Dorey’s villa.

Girland had concluded the conversation by saying. “You remember what I was saying, Jacques, about a grape? This has to do with it. Your cooperation now could put you right in the middle of a deal.”

Jacques had said, “You can rely on me, dear boy. Of course you can use my apartment. You can have anything else you want.”

But Dorey didn’t know of this conversation; all the same he was a little dubious about Girland’s plan.

“Nurse Roche could have relations,” he said. “We can’t bury her as Erica Olsen.”

“I will only want a week. There’ll be an inquest. Delay it as long as you can,” Girland said impatiently. “If I can’t get Erica talking in a week, then I never will.”

“Isn’t she remembering anything yet?”

“She remembered staying at the Astorg hotel. You have her suitcase.”

“There were two suitcases. We have only found one.”

Girland looked sharply at Dorey.

“Two suitcases?”

“She left Pekin with two. She had them with her at Hong Kong. O’Halloran is trying to trace the second one, but so far, without success.”

Girland shrugged.

“I want some money. I’ll need at least a hundred thousand francs.”

“I will give you twenty thousand, and you will have to account for every franc,” Dorey said firmly, and sitting down, he took out his cheque book.

“That’s my Dorey,” Girland said in disgust. “Mean in every emergency.”

“Not mean... careful,” Dorey said and signed the cheque with a flourish.

Sadu Mitchell sat in Ruby’s little garden, his eyes going constantly to his wristwatch. It was now seven hours since he had left Jo-Jo on the mountain path. He was worried and uneasy. Pearl, relaxed, waited with oriental calm which irritated Sadu.

Suddenly they both heard Ruby’s high-pitched voice crying out in alarm. They looked at each other. Sadu started to his feet, his fingers closing over the butt of Jo-Jo’s gun.

“What is it?” Pearl said, without moving.

Ruby’s cry of alarm abruptly ceased. There was a moment of silence, more sinister than when she had been screaming. Sadu cursed, kicked away his chair and drew the gun.

“Drop it!” a man’s voice snapped from the open french window.

In a panic, Sadu fired blindly in the direction of the voice. Then he heard the bang of gunfire and felt a violent blow on his chest. He found himself lying on the hot, dry grass. He tried to lift his gun, but he had no strength left and the gun slipped from his grasp. He looked wildly at Pearl who was sitting motionless, her pretty face expressionless, then he became aware of a pair of black, highly-polished jackboots just in range of his darkening vision.

By 17.00 hrs. the activity at the villa had died down. Dorey had gone with Inspector Dulay to the Nice Police Station. Ginny’s body had been taken away in an ambulance. The newspaper men had gone. Sergeant O’Leary had taken his men in three Jeeps to the Airport.

Diallo, wide-eyed and nervous, Erica Olsen and Girland were at last on their own.

From time to time, Girland had gone into Erica’s room where she was lying on the bed, her back turned, her face hidden. Girland didn’t speak to her. He felt it best to wait for her to make her own recovery. At 5.30 p.m. he saw Jacques Yew’s black Cadillac come up the drive and he went out onto the terrace to greet him.

Carrying a paper bag, Yew climbed the steps and the two men went over to lounging chairs, shaded by a sun umbrella. They sat down.

“I don’t know what this is all about, dear boy,” Yew said, putting the bag on the table. “Here is the wig you asked me for. You are being intriguingly mysterious.”