Colin Forbes - Deadlock

'DST.' The Parrot showed him a folder. Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire. Counter-Espionage. 'You have a girl staying here. Early twenties. Auburn hair. With a room on the second floor. I need to see a copy of her registration slip.'

That is Miss Lara Seagrave. An English girl,' the receptionist said.

'Leave this to me,' the manager snapped. 'Go and get a cup of coffee. Come back in five minutes…'

He had been sorting through a card index box. He brought out a printed form and handed it to The Parrot, who noted the details in his book. He handed back the form, staring hard at the manager.

'I have never been here. Warn your girl. If she opens her mouth she'll be charged with an offence against state security.'

The Parrot walked back down the hill and round the harbour to the infamous Canebiere, the street where a German woman had been robbed of thirty thousand francs crossing it the day before on her way from a bank to Cook's. At five in the afternoon the city was like an oven.

The Parrot had taken up station at Noire Dame de la Garde out of pure chance. Rumours were rife about a plot to hijack a ship. And Miss Lara Seagrave had taken an awful lot of pictures of the harbour from the best vantage point in Marseilles. She'd also studied it carefully through her binoculars.

He mused over the idea until he reached his hotel. It would give him something to report to the rue des Saussaies in Paris. They liked reports – it showed their superiors the agents in the field were active. Then it would be filed away. Forever.

After a meal which took ages to serve, Valmy went up to bed. The heat persisted throughout the night. He had trouble sleeping, rolling from side to side, covered in sweat. That girl came back into his mind. Why?

After breakfast he phoned the manager at the Sofitel. It was the same man. Still feeling it could all be a waste of time, he made his request.

'If Lara Seagrave checks out, I'd like to know – here is my phone number…'

'But she is leaving soon, sir. She has called down for the bill to be made up.'

Thank you…'

The Parrot slammed down the phone, grabbed his bag which he kept packed, went down to the lobby, paid his own bill, rushed out of the hotel and jumped into his hired Deux-Chevaux. It was too early yet for heavy traffic and ten minutes later he parked in the drive to the Sofitel. He was just in time. Within minutes he saw her, carrying a suitcase, climbing into a cab. He followed.

She alighted at the Gare St Charles. He walked after her to the ticket counter, queued behind her. He had changed into a lightweight shabby blue suit and no longer wore his tinted glasses. She bought a one-way ticket to Paris and headed for the platform.

Valmy was careful. The Paris express was not due for another fifteen minutes. He bought a ticket for the first place that came into his head. Aix-en-Provence. Then he strolled on to the platform, standing close to a woman with a child.

Lara slipped the ticket into her purse and casually glanced round, checking the other passengers. A family of three, one man and woman with a child, several men carrying brief-cases, four women on their own. No one she had seen before.

The express arrived, people boarded the train. Lara waited, checking her watch. She glanced round again. Valmy was out of sight, standing by the wall of a waiting room, watching her through the window. Just before the express left, he saw Lara leap aboard, slamming the door behind her. Curious.

He was walking back to his car when he saw the phone box and took his decision. He called rue des Saussaies, identified himself, then the stupid operator went off the line. A new and familiar voice answered. Rene Lasalle, Chief of the DST.

'Who is it?'

'Leon Valmy… I didn't ask for you… the girl…'

'Now you've got me, what is it?'

Valmy explained, keeping his story short. Lasalle couldn't stand wafflers. Terse and decisive, the chief believed words were to communicate information. He listened, thinking there wasn't much to all this.

'What made you phone?' he asked eventually.

'A hunch. Nothing more, Chief,' Valmy said apologetically, wishing now he hadn't made the call.

Hunch? Lasalle was instantly alert. It was a hunch of The Parrot's which had elevated him to his present position. He reached for a railway timetable, telling Valmy to hang on, then checked the time by the wall-clock.

'That express arrives in Paris at 1650 hours. Assuming she stays aboard, doesn't get off en route…'

'She did book through to Paris…'

'We'll take a chance. Get to Marignane Airport fast, catch a flight to Paris. You'll beat her to it. We'll have a car waiting at the airport, take you to the Gare de Lyon -you'll be here in time to identify her.'

'I'd better rush…'

'Do that.'

Klein was also up early. He had stayed overnight at the Hotel Roi Rene in Aix-en-Provence. Never linger at the same place for more than twenty-four hours. That defeated the system of hotel registration the French employed -with the police calling for their copies of the registration form during the night.

He drove off at six for his appointment in Cassis, the small resort east of Marseilles. He arrived at the iron grille gates of the luxurious villa overlooking the sea at 7.30 a.m. A guard checked his passport, then operated the mechanism which opened the gates. Who would dream that the head of the local Union Corse lived in a place like this?

Emilio Perugini was waiting for him in a lounging chair by the side of the obligatory status symbol, a swimming pool. A large Alsatian swam in the water, heading for a rubber ball the small fat man in the chair had thrown.

'Sit down, Mr Klein. What can I do for you?'

'Find me a specialist with very specific qualifications. For a fee.'

Klein handed the fat envelope containing two hundred thousand French francs to the tanned man with brown hair and a face like that of a cadaver. Perugini opened the envelope, made a quick flip through the banknotes, dropped the envelope on the table as though it were nothing.

'What qualifications, Mr Klein?'

'Someone you can spare for several months. An expert with a hand-gun, an automatic weapon, a knife, also,' he added as though an afterthought, 'a first-rate scuba diver.'

'You don't ask for much, do you?'

'I pay quite a lot. It's a while since we last met – but you will have what I need, I know.'

'The hand-gun, the automatic weapon, the knife. He is a hard man you're wanting?'

Dressed in a white shirt open at the front and shorts, Perugini reached for a bottle of red wine, Klein shook his head and the Union Corse chief refilled his own glass. He patted his fat belly, sprawled short thick legs under the table as the Alsatian dropped the ball by his side.

The animal stared at Klein, bared his teeth and gave a snarl. Klein turned and gazed straight at the animal. He pushed his chair back a few inches. 'Cesar doesn't like you,' Perugini remarked. The dog backed away when Klein half-rose from his chair, gave a low yelp and flopped some distance away.

'Yes, a hard man,' Klein said, sitting down again. 'And he needs to have experience with explosives…'

Perugini threw his bony head back and laughed contemptuously, a weird cackling sound. 'All that for two hundred thousand francs! And my man is out of action for several months? You must be joking…'

Klein took out another fat envelope, tossed it on the table, waited. Perugini regarded it without touching it, drank more wine.

'How much in there?'

'Another two hundred thousand…'

'Double it and I may help…'

'Nonsense time is over.'

Klein's tone was cold, bleak. He reached forward under the low table, wrenched something attached to the under surface and produced a miniature tape recorder. His long fingers tore out the recorded tape reel, he turned to the dog and hurled the reel far out into the pool. Cesar dived in, swam underneath, came up with the mangled tape in his teeth.