Wanted dead men, p.13
Wanted: Dead Men, page 13
We had a fine dinner, including blanquette de veau d Vancienne and a very good wine. This time we did not talk about the event of the night before, but about almost every subject we could think of. He was a charming man and we had almost finished our coffee and brandy when I realized it was time to move on. I mentioned it, with apologies, but he was most understanding. He also insisted on paying the entire bill.
“I have my car here,” he said as we left the restaurant “May I drive you to your destination?”
I looked up the street and did not see the car that had followed me to the restaurant. “No, thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll walk off some of that excellent dinner and then take a taxi. I thank you, Jean, for an enjoyable evening. We must do it another time soon—on*me.”
“It was my pleasure, Milo. I wish you a wonderful evening.” He gave me a jaunty wink and walked away. I watched him get into his Mercedes and drive off. I knew there was a taxi stand a couple of blocks down the street and I headed for it.
I had gone a block before it really registered. There were footsteps behind me, footsteps that were matching mine almost perfectly. I was still being followed, this time on foot.
Instead of continuing ahead in the direction of the taxi stand, I turned to the right at the next street. I stopped, pushing my body up against the wall, and pulled the derringer from my belt. I kept lifting my feet up and down so that it would sound as if I were walking, and tried gradually to soften the sound so it would seem to be going farther away.
I could hear his steps. They slowed down and stopped altogether. Then there was a scuff of leather on concrete as he once again started moving carefully. He came around the corner, but stopped the minute he saw me.
It was Joe Pitcher. There was a gun in his hand. “Smart guy, huh?” he said. “You thought you had me botded up with the cops. Now, I’m going to make sure that you’re buttoned up.”
“So you are a button man?”
“Like I said, you’re a smart guy.”
“And Jason,” I said, “hired you for a few executions in New York and then to finish with me?”
He hadn’t yet spotted the small gun in my hand, which was my only advantage. But I didn’t want to kill him; I wanted him alive to go back to face trial.
He laughed. “Sure. He got in touch with me again after some jerk he hired over here fell down on the job. Well, let’s not waste any more time, smart guy.”
10
He looked down the street to make sure there wasn’t a witness. It didn’t give me much time, but I decided to try. I had to lift my gun only slightly to bring it into line. Even so he caught some movement, for his head snapped back to face me.
“What the—” he began.
That was when I squeezed the trigger. I saw the little jump of cloth at his kneecap and knew I’d hit where I’d aimed. If I had any doubts, his strangled scream as he went down would have settled it. I moved forward quickly, and when he tried to lift his gun I stepped on his hand. I leaned over and smashed my derringer against the point of his jaw. He subsided, unconscious.
There was still no one in sight. I tucked the derringer under my belt and swiftly crossed the street. I heard a window go up somewhere behind me.
“De quoi s’ agit-il?” a voice called out.
“There has been an accident,” I called back. “If you have a telephone please call for an ambulance. I will go for a gendarme.” And I kept on going without waiting for an answer.
I reached the taxi stand and luckily there was a car there. I got in and told the driver to take me to Ma Petite.
It was a cellar place and I suddenly remembered it as I went down the steps and stood in the doorway. The room was full of smoke, people, and scurrying waiters. A small combo was playing jazz and a beautiful Negro girl was singing. I looked around and finally spotted Henri Flambeau. He was sitting alone at a table against the
wall. It was one of the few tables in the room that was not jammed up against other tables.
I made my way across the room, fending off waiters who wanted to lead me to a table. On the way, I glimpsed Chaland sitting in another spot. I gave a slight signal of recognition and continued on my way. I slipped into the chair opposite Henri.
“Welcome, my friend,” he said. He nodded at a waiter and a moment later there was a glass of brandy in front of me. Henri paused until the waiter was gone. “I have some news for you, Milo, but not yet enough.”
“You didn’t have much time,” I admitted.
“Your Joseph Pitcher,” he said, “there is no record of him entering France, so he must have entered with a false passport. I’ve started a search for him, but I don’t know how long it will take to get results. In the meantime I got a report on him from America. Do you want to hear it now?”
“Sure.”
“His real name is Joseph Picci. He is a naturalized American citizen from Sicily. He is a known member of an organized crime syndicate, mostly known as a killer. He has a very long record, although he has spent very little time in prison. At the moment he is wanted very badly in your city of Philadelphia on suspicion of murder.”
“Why didn’t they grab him while the New York police had him?” I asked sourly.
He laughed. “It seems that your New York police are covered with chagrin. They thought they were merely arresting a drunk, so they were not too careful. He recovered consciousness while they were taking him in, hit one of the policemen, and took his gun. They are still looking for him. But we will soon find him, my friend.” “I know you will,” I said with a smile. “I just left him.” “What?” he exclaimed. “Where?”
“On the street just around the corner from Le Cabaret.” “You killed him?”
“No. I want him to be extradited and tried. He expected to kill me, but he was careless. I shot him through the right kneecap, then knocked him out. Somebody in one of the buildings was curious and I said there had been an accident and suggested that an ambulance be called while I went for the police. I came directly here. By this time he should be in some hospital and the object of a certain amount of police interest, since he was shot and his gun was on the sidewalk next to him.”
“I see that time has not changed you, Milo,” he said drily. “Please excuse me while I take some steps to assure that he isn’t treated as a tourist who happened to wander in front of a stray bullet.”
“Don’t mention me.”
“Naturally not. I will be right back as soon as I have made a telephone call.”
I watched him cross the room, saying hello to many persons at various tables, then start up the stairway. He obviously was not going to make the call from the club.
I sipped my brandy and waited. Suddenly I was aware that someone was standing beside the table. I looked up. It was Chaland.
“Pardon,” he said. There was a touch of respect in his attitude so I could guess that Henri had already spread his propaganda about me. “I did not realize that you were a friend of M’sieu Flambeau.”
“There was no reason why you should realize it,” I said coldly.
“True,” he admitted. “I don’t suppose you have yet learned anything?”
“No. And you?”
“Only that I am told that Piquet is definitely in Paris no matter what is said. But I do not know where. He is not at his apartment or in any of the places he usually visits.”
“We will find him,” I said.
“I was not sure,” he said hesitatingly, “if you had come to see me or not. Otherwise I would not have intruded.”
Henri’s rumor must have been a big one. “It is nothing,” I said. “When I have something to tell you, I will come directly to see you.”
“Of course, M’sieu,” he said, and left.
Henri was back almost immediately. “It will be seen to,” he said as he slipped into his chair.
I looked at him. “Henri, what did you say about me here?”
“Why?”
“Chaland came over to see me while you were gone and he was showing considerable respect. Why?”
He laughed. “I merely spread the word that I was meeting a very important international operator and that I needed a special table so that our conversation could not be overheard. Their own imaginations supplied the rest. As soon as you entered and came to my table, one of the waiters went and talked to Chaland and was tipped. The same waiter also, I noticed, observed the gun under your belt. They have very sharp eyes for such things around here. Is that the gun you used tonight?”
“Yes. Perhaps I’d better do something about getting another one. I asked the police today to look into Joseph Pitcher and I am sure they will remember. Any ideas?” He frowned. “I could get you one, but it might not be too intelligent. You can buy one here if you like. Of course, it will be stolen so that you shouldn’t keep it long.” .
“All right.”
He beckoned to the waiter and whispered in his ear. The waiter nodded and left.
“I told him,” Henri said, “that you would pay in dollars. You will get a better deal that way.”
“Okay. How much?”
“Because you are a friend of mine,” he said with a smile, “it will be a special price. It will cost you only fifty dollars and that will include ammunition.”
I took out fifty dollars and passed it to Henri. Holding it in his lap, he placed franc notes on top and underneath it, folded all of the money, and put it in his pocket.
The waiter returned with more brandy and a long loaf of bread wrapped loosely in an old newspaper. He placed it on the table between us, put the brandy in front of us, and accepted the money from Henri.
“It is inside the loaf of bread,” Henri said when the waiter was gone. “It is hollowed out and all you have to do is pull the two halves of the loaf apart. Tomorrow I will see what I can learn about Piquet. But there is one more thing, my friend . .
“What is that?”
“I also learned today that there is no way that I can interfere officially in your problem. An order came through saying that you might be here, but, if so, would be on civilian business. It added that we were to watch you but give you no assistance of any sort unless special permission was granted. I am sorry.”
“That’s the way it started back in the States,” I told him.
“You understand, Milo, I will continue to do anything I can, but none of it will be official.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Now, perhaps, we—” he broke off. “Here comes a countryman of yours who is a bore. Don’t be too friendly with him.”
The man who was approaching the table was of medium height, walking with a slightly stooped gait. His hair and mustache were peppered black and white. He stopped at the table and looked at Henri.
“I hope I am not intruding,” he said.
“Of course not,” Henri said flatly, but he did not invite him to sit down.
“I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks,” the man said. His gaze was going back and forth between Henri and me. His French bore a strong American accent.
“I’ve been busy,” Henri said. He suddenly seemed aware of the man’s interest in me. “Oh, this is a compatriot of yours. M’sieu Milo March, M’sieu Doc Black.”
So this was the man the detective had mentioned to me, I thought, as he reached out to shake my hand.
“Hello,” he said in English. “Glad to meet someone from back home.”
“I imagine you are,” I said.
“I see you are fond of the bread they make here at Ma Petite,” he said, nodding toward thS loaf on the table. “Yes,” I said.
There was a moment of awkward silence. Neither Henri nor I did anything to break it
“Well,” he said finally, going back to French, “it was nice meeting you. I will see you soon, Henri.”
There was another moment of silence and he left “I am sorry, my friend,” Henri said, “but there are some of your countrymen I cannot stand. I think there is something false about him.”
“What does he do?” I asked.
Henri shrugged. “He is supposed to do a number of things, but the only thing I ever see is his women. Now, as I started to say, perhaps we should break up. I have work to do early in the morning so that I can spend some time trying to help you. Let us not leave together. Do you want to leave first or last?”
“I’d better leave first. It’ll look less suspicious that way.”
He nodded. “I will see you tomorrow, my friend.”
I picked up my loaf of bread and left I was aware that someone was coming up the stairs behind me, but I didn’t look back. I reached the street and looked around. There were a couple of empty taxis in the next block so I headed for them.
“Well,” he said in English, “I didn’t realize you were leaving at the same time as I was.”
I looked around. It was Doc Black. There was something phony about his appearance. I didn’t believe in coincidences.
“It’s been a long day,” I said curdy. “I decided I’d better get some sleep.”
“I have a car. Can I drop you at your hotel?”
“No, thanks. I’ll get a taxi. It’ll be quicker.”
“Sure,” he said. “You know, I keep thinking that we have met before.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m sure of it,” he persisted. “I think we may have met here a few years ago. I remember that you had something to do with insurance. I suppose you’re back here now on an interesting case, eh?”
Then I began to get it. I stopped and turned to face him. “Yes, I am,” I said evenly. “A fascinating case. Did you ever hear of a man who called himself C. Jackson?” His eyes shifted and I knew I had him. “I don’t recall the name,” he said.
“Sure you don’t,” I said in disgust. “You must be new in this game.”
“New in this game?” he repeated. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“You will. Are you a betting man, Doc?”
“Well, I take a little flyer once in a while out at the track. Why?”
“Do you have a hundred dollars?”
“Yes.” He looked puzzled.
“I’ll make you a bet of one hundred dollars. We will go to the nearest public telephone and call Washington. I’ll pay for the call. If General Sam Roberts never heard of you, you win my hundred dollars; if he knows you, I win your hundred dollars. Now, that’s a fair bet, isn’t it?” “Well,” he said nervously, “I don’t mind betting on a horse now and then, but that seems like a pretty strange bet. I—I don’t know this General you mentioned, but I don’t think I’d like to make such a bet You might have arranged it just to win the bet.”
“Merde,” I said. “In the meantime, you might check back on your orders. Unless the old bastard has changed his mind again, the orders are that you will not interfere with me, although is is also understood that you will give me only a minimum of co-operation. I accept this, but I don’t want to have to be combing you out of my hair every few minutes. So get lost before you get hurt. This is a case that separates the men from the boys.”
I turned and walked swiftly toward the taxis without waiting for a response. I gave the driver the name of my hotel and we took off—which is the only way to describe the way a French taxi driver begins driving.
When we reached the hotel, I went in and decided to stop at the bar for a last drink. I had brandy in my room but I didn’t feel like having any more of that. I went in to the bar and took a seat and ordered a whiskey sour.
It was only after I had given my order that I realized I was only two seats away from Jean Nicot. He spotted me at about the same time.
“Milo, my friend, I didn’t expect to see you so early.” “It’s not so early,” I said, glancing at my watch. “It’s one o’clock in the morning.”
“One’s appointments,” he said, winking as only a Frenchman can, “may sometimes last all night. I trust that you were not disappointed.”
“Not especially,” I said. I didn’t feel too much like talking and apparently he didn’t either, so we sat, drinking and exchanging occasional remarks, mostly about Paris.
I had a second drink with him and we agreed to meet the following day. Then I went upstairs.
I took my loaf of bread apart and there was a nice little Belgian automatic and two clips of bullets. It wasn’t my idea of an ideal gun but it would do. I tore the rest of the bread into small bits and flushed it down the 1 toilet. I put one clip in the gun and then hid it and the other clip where it wouldn’t be found without a thorough search. I put away my derringer, undressed, and went to bed.
It was almost ten o’clock when I awakened the next morning. I had a small shot of brandy to get my eyes fully open, then took a shower and shaved. After that I called room service and ordered some breakfast and a bucket of ice.
The waiter arrived promptly. While he was arranging the table I put some ice in a glass and poured brandy over it. The waiter saw what I was doing and shook his head, clucking to himself.
“M’sieu,” he said, “brandy drinkers do not live long.”
“I know,” I said solemnly, “but look how much pleasure they have while they do live.”
He shook his head again. I had the impression that he was about to rush out and light a candle for me.
“Attend ” I said sternly. “Did you ever stop to wonder what the wine vendor buys one-half as precious as he sells?”
His expression indicated that he had already given me up as a lost cause. “Perhaps, M’sieu, you are right,” he said cautiously, “but I think that a good wine would be better.”
“Brandy comes from a good wine,” I said. “At least, I hope so.”
“Of course, M’sieu,” he said, resigned—and thinking of his tip.
I paid him and he left. I settled down to my breakfast, including the brandy. In most European hotels you need the brandy first so that you can put up with the coffee.
