Wanted dead men, p.15
Wanted: Dead Men, page 15
On the way back to my room I stopped at the desk and asked the clerk if Jean Nicot had returned. He had not. I told the clerk to inform M’sieu Nicot, when he did come in, that I had asked about him and had been concerned for his welfare. Then I continued on to my room.
I undressed once more, poured myself a brandy, and got on the bed again. I felt lousy; in fact, I felt like getting drunk. I always feel that way when I know how a case is going to end. But I knew it was a luxury I couldn’t afford at that moment, so I sipped sparingly on the brandy and read Match. It was an interesting issue, but I found it difficult to concentrate on what I was reading.
The time passed slowly, but there was no way that I could speed it up. I read some of the articles twice and looked at the pictures of the pretty girls several times. I had another brandy, but it didn’t alleviate my tension. Maybe, I thought, I had been wrong. . . .
Then, suddenly, shortly after midnight, there was a soft knock on my door. As soon as I heard it, I felt all right. I relaxed, lying on my side with my arm under the pillow.
“Come in,” I called.
The door opened and Jean Nicot came in, closing the door behind him.
“I am sorry to intrude, Milo,” he said with a smile. He looked around the room, then his^ gaze came back to me. “They told me at the desk that you had asked for me and I thought it was something very important.”
“Not in that sense,” I said. “I decided not to go out tonight and I guess I was lonely. Help yourself to a brandy and sit down for a few minutes.”
He poured himself a brandy and went to a chair. He hesitated a moment, staring at the derringer on the dresser, then sat down. He lifted the glass.
“Your health, Milo,” he said.
“And your health, Jean,” I responded. “I also wanted to see you because I owe you so much.”
“You owe nothing,” he murmured. “It was merely . lucky that I was present. Anyone would have done the same.”
“I owe you more than that,” I said. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. And I wanted to express my feelings about it before I left Paris.”
“You are leaving?”
“Tomorrow. I have accomplished what I came here to do and it is time that I return home. There remain only one or two small details, so I should be off early tomorrow.”
He lifted his glass again. “I will miss you, Milo,” he said. He drank and put the glass down. He took the handkerchief from his breast pocket, pressed it to his Ups, then reached inside his coat and came out with a gun.
“I will miss you, Milo,” he said. “You are an adversary to be admired.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” I told him. “I know that you are C. Jackson, Carl Johnson, Calvin Johns, Jason Johansson, George Piquet, and Jean Nicot. How did you know that I was looking for you?”
The gun in his right hand was steady as he reached with his left hand for the glass and took a drink. “An excellent brandy,” he said with a smile. “It was really careless of you to put your gun on the dresser. Is that the one you used to shoot poor Joseph Picci?”
“Yes. But you haven’t answered my question.”
“I knew about you, my dear boy,” he said, “before I even went to America. I am very familiar with insurance, and whenever I embark on an endeavor I make a careful study of the insurance company, or companies, involved and who they depend upon to solve their cases. I had a healthy respect for you before I even went to America. I know that I did not overestimate you; my only advantage was that I was always one step ahead of you.”
“Well, sometimes that’s the way it goes,” I said.
“Since your gun is on the dresser,” he said, “tell me how you knew that Jean Nicot was the man you were looking for?”
“Cases are funny,” I told him. “Most of the time the man I’m looking for trips himself up. In a way that is true of you. I had some luck in tracing you to Paris, but it was here that you overplayed your hand by being too anxious to know what I was doing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. Let’s take it step by step. First, although you claimed that you make regular business trips to Paris, this is the first time you have ever stayed at this hotel. And you checked in about fifteen minutes after I did.”
“Yes, I was informed you had asked about the time I checked in here. Go on.”
“Then, there was the attack on me that night. No one knew where I was going to stay. Also I do not think the attack was genuine. I was careless when I opened the door because I was expecting a hotel employee. If he’d really meant to kill me, he would have had the knife in me before I knew what was happening. And you showed up to the rescue very conveniently, then fussed over me like a mother hen until he could escape. It finally dawned on me that the whole thing was arranged so that you could meet me under circumstances that would make you seem friendly to me.”
“Very good reasoning,” he said, nodding.
“The man who pretended to attack* me was found murdered the next morning. You had him killed, didn’t you, so that he couldn’t identify you?” .
“It is an efficient method.”
“Of course. Then there was the case of your friend Joseph Pitcher, or Joseph Picci, who made two attempts on me—not counting the one in New York. Someone had to tell him where I was staying, or he couldn’t have followed me when he tried to run me down on the street. Then last night I was having dinner with you just before he made his second attempt.”
“And poor Joseph failed,” he said. “It isn’t often that he does. I am curious about something. Why did you not kill him? I presume that you shot him where you intended to and it was not an accident that you hit him in the knee.” “I wanted him alive so he can testify against you.” “He will never testify against me,” he said firmly.
“He will. I promise you.”
He smiled. “M’sieu March, you are very clever or you would never have followed me this far, but you rate yourself too high. Joseph will not testify against me because by tomorrow night he will be dead. You will not be able to prevent this since, unfortunately, you will not then be alive yourself. I assure you, M’sieu, that I regret this. I have formed a fondness for you and I also possess a certain admiration for you—the only man who has ever come near to ruining my way of life. But it is necessary.” “You touch me deeply,” I said drily. “You do have an interesting theory. You seem to believe that all you have to do is kill off everyone who has worked with you or for you or has known what you do, and in that way you will never be caught.” .
“It has worked very well for ten years. I see no reason why it should not continue to do so for another ten years.
By then I should be worth fifty million dollars and be ready to retire.”
“You can be traced through your companies, you know. To some degree that is what I did.”
“Yes, I know. Companies can also be killed. As a matter of fact, my friend, I have just tonight completed arrangements to sell my French and my Swedish interests. There will be new companies.”
“The people in those companies with whom you worked will be able to identify you.”
“They, too, will vanish.”
“What about Angus Watson?” I asked. “He saw you. Did you also kill him?”
“One does not kill something that is extremely valuable. But you may be sure that he will never appear against me.” “Everything is neatly worked out,” I said. Suddenly I felt tired. “Do you object if I have a cigarette and some of my brandy?”
“Of course not,” he said promptly. “Your cigarettes and brandy are right next to the bed. Reach out and help yourself. As long as you are there and your gun is here on the dresser, that is fine. Since you are wearing nothing but shorts you cannot have any concealed weapons— except possibly for the ladies.” He laughed heartily at his own joke.
I reached with my left hand for a cigarette and then for my lighter. When the cigarette was burning, I put it in the ash tray and picked up my glass of brandy. The feel of the brandy in my throat was a relief.
“Why didn’t you kill me as soon as you walked in?” I asked.
He shugged. “There is no hurry. Who will stop me? It is already late at night and the sound of the shot will mean nothing, even if someone hears it. Besides, as I told you, I am fond of you.”
Oh, yes, I forgot that, didn’t I? You know, you are all exactly alike.”
“What do you mean?”
“Criminals,” I said. “You live on inflated egos. No = matter what happens, you think that you are smarter than anyone else. Others may get careless or make mistakes, but you think you won’t. That’s what is really funny about all of you—from hub-cap thieves to you so-called international swindlers.”
His face darkened with anger. “What are you talking about?” he asked harshly.
“I could make a whole list of the times you’ve been careless from the time you made a phone call in Connec- * ticut from your hotel to a public phone at a gas station right up to tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight,” I repeated firmly. “You’ve been talking a lot about how careless I was in leaving my gun on the dresser, but I haven’t heard you say anything about being careless yourself.”
“In what way?” he asked. He was still angry and the gun was held steadily on me.
I put my cigarette down and took another drink of brandy. I picked up the cigarette and drew on it.
“You saw the gun on the dresser and that answered all of your questions. You started out by thinking that I am stupid. You didn’t think of checking the rest of the room or the closet.” I hesitated while I concentrated on my cigarette for a second. “You didn’t even think of checking the bathroom.”
That was the one that stopped him. He hesitated, the gun wavering. But I had presented him with a compulsion that he could not resist. He looked at the bathroom.
When his gaze shifted back to me, I already had the Belgian automatic out and there had been plenty of time to sight on the target. His eyes widened as he saw it.
“You were careless again,” I said, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck just above the point where his jacket, was buttoned. His white shirt twitched and suddenly became red. A look of disbelief spread over his face even as he was falling off the chair. The tendons in his hand stood out as he tried to pull the trigger of his gun, but he couldn’t quite make it. He hit the floor with a thud, the gun bouncing out of his hand. The chair fell immediately after he did.
I waited a minute because you can never tell about small-caliber guns. His body twitched a couple of times but that was all. I got out of bed and walked over to look at him. I couldn’t see any signs of life. I put my automatic down on the dresser and thought about the situation for a minute. It was not the ideal end, but it was better than if I were the one lying on the floor.
It was one-thirty in the morning. I put on a pair of pants, a shirt, and my shoes. I tucked the automatic in my pocket. Then I bent over the body on the floor and looked through his pockets until I found the key to his door. I had just straightened up with it when the phone rang. I picked it up and answered.
“M’sieu,” a voice said apologetically, “this is the clerk. I am sorry to disturb you but a tenant has claimed that he thought he heard a gunshot from your room.”
I gave an embarrassed laugh. “I am terribly sorry, M’sieu,” I said. “I am planning a trip through France in the morning—I have already rented a car through the hotel—and I was getting my camera equipment ready. I’m afraid that I dropped a flashbulb. Please extend my apologies to the tenant. It will not happen again.”
“Very well, M’sieu,” he said patiently. He hung up. I lit a fresh cigarette and waited ten minutes. Then I opened my door and checked the corridor. It was empty and there were no sounds from any of the rooms. I stepped out and unlocked the door to the next room. I put the key in my pocket and went back to m'y own room.
I put my hands under the arms of Jean Nicot, or whatever his name was, and dragged him to the door.
Once more I checked the corridor. It was empty. I dragged Nicot out of my room and into his, closing the door behind us. I arranged him tastefully on the floor not far from the bed. I went back to my own room and used my pen to pick up his gun, thrusting it through the trigger guard. I looked outside again, then returned to his room. I placed his gun near his body. I took out my automatic, used my handkerchief to remove any fingerprints that might be on it, and put it on the floor next to the bed.
Deciding I might as well be artistic, I mussed up the bed. The French love to think that many crimes are ones of passion. I didn’t want to disillusion them. I mussed up Nicot’s clothing. Then I looked through his things and found a bottle of heavily-scented cologne. I sprinkled some of it over the bed and replaced the bottle in his case. I put his key back in his pocket, snapped the lock on his door, and then used my handkerchief to remove any prints that might be on the door knob.
I went back to my room. I checked everything in it. There wasn’t anything out of order. I had a final drink of brandy, put my derringer out of sight, and went to sleep.
At eight o’clock I was awake. While it was dangerous, I had already decided it would be too suspicious if I checked out, so I dressed, put everything that was important in my pockets, and went downstairs. I had a fast breakfast and by eight-thirty I was behind the wheel of my rented Citroen. A few minutes later I was parked not far from the Russian embassy. I lit a cigarette and waited.
It was exactly nine o’clock when a Mercedes-Benz limousine pulled out of the embassy and started down the street. There was a uniformed chauffeur behind the wheel and some sort of box in the rear. Praying that I was right, I swung out into the street and followed him.
If he were heading for the airport, my best chance would be in the first few blocks, because we were on a quiet street. Once we hit the business sections of Paris, I wouldn’t have a chance. So I made my move when we were about three blocks from the embassy. I gunned the motor and started to pass him. Then, just as I was even with his car, I swung sharply to the left. The two cars clashed with a shrieking of metal and the Mercedes went up on the sidewalk and hit a tree.
I was out of my car almost before it stopped, shouting at the chauffeur in French. He wasn’t hurt, but he was dazed as he climbed out of the car, trying to protest in very bad French, meanwhile pointing at the diplomatic license plates on his car.
There was no reason for wasting time. As soon as I was within reach, I hit him as hard as I could. He went down and was out. I grabbed a tire tool from my car and opened the back door of the Mercedes. I went to work on the box and quickly pried off one side.
Then I breathed a sigh of relief. There was a man inside. He was all doubled up and completely unconscious, but he had a faint pulse, so he was probably only drugged. I pulled him out of the box and carried him to my car, putting him flat on the rear seat. He looked like the description of Angus Watson.
When I had pulled him from the box I noticed a small package that was placed between his feet. I went back and got it. I shook it and something rattled inside. I took it with me back to the Citroen. The left front fender was badly crumpled, but that seemed to be the only damage.
Two people had appeared on the street and the chauffeur was beginning to twitch as I slid behind the wheel.
I started the motor and took the Citroen out of there as fast as I could.
Even as I was driving, I was thinking about the situation. I decided then that it was a mistake for me to try to get Watson back to America on my own. I switched routes and a few minutes later arrived at the American embassy. I parked on the side street where I hoped the car wouldn’t be noticed. I put the package in my pocket, picked up Angus Watson, and carried him to the embassy.
Inside, I placed him on a sort of couch and then looked at the startled receptionist. “Get me somebody,”
I said, “but not just anybody. There is not much time.”
I have to give her credit for one thing. She didn’t ask any questions but got right on the phone. And a minute later there was a well-dressed young man at my elbow.
“I am the ambassador’s secretary,” he said, ignoring the prone body beside me. “May I help you?”
“You’d better,” I said grimly.
I had my identification, including my passport, out, and I shoved it into his hands. —
“I don’t have much time so listen carefully the first time. This man is an American named Angus Watson. He is very important to the security people in the States, where he was kidnaped some time ago. I suggest that you check with General Sam Roberts in Washington as quickly as you can.”
He nodded at the receptionist and she was on the phone immediately.
I took the package from my pocket. “I think,” I said, “that this is also something which they are very interested in back home, something that Angus Watson in- 1 vented. It has such a top security rating that I wouldn’t look at it if I were you.”
He accepted it gingerly, as though he were afraid it would go off in his hands. “This is most unusual, Mr.— ! er—March. Where did you find this gentleman and what is wrong with him?”
“For the moment let us merely say that he was in the possession of another government and was about to be shipped out of France to the home country of that other government. He is heavily drugged, but I imagine he will be all right once he comes out of it.”
“I see,” he said in a tone of voice that indicated he didn’t see at all. “How did you happen to get—er—custody of him?”
“It’s better if we don’t talk about that at the moment. , It might be embarrassing to you.”
Just then the girl made a noise in her throat and he j went to the phone. He made sure that he was speaking to General Roberts and then mentioned my name and that of Angus Watson, and gave a brief but somewhat incoherent version of what was happening. Then he merely began to make noises of agreement.
That was all I wanted to know. I eased over to the desk and took my identification from his hands.
