Wanted dead men, p.9
Wanted: Dead Men, page 9
There was a strange look on her face as she gazed at me. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“Of course. I cannot force you to do something you don’t want to do. And I refuse to try to buy you. If you want to talk, fine. If you don’t want to talk, fine. Then we’ll just enjoy ourselves.”
“You mean that too, don’t you?” she asked.
“Of course I do. It is impossible to force people to do things they don’t want to do—unless you want to start putting burning splinters under their fingernails. I’m not the type for that. It makes me sick at my stomach.” Suddenly she laughed. It wasn’t a fun laugh, but it was a laugh. “All right,” she said. “Let’s enjoy the day and forget that there was ever such a person as Jason Johansson. We just met. I like you and you like me. We will have fun and that is all.”
“It sounds like a wonderful idea,” I said. “Where do we go next?”
“I know just the place,” she said. “Shall we go?”
“By all means,” I said. I signaled for the waiter and paid the check. We went outside and hailed a taxi. She gave him the address.
Eventually we ended up in a night club that was exactly like five thousand other night clubs but that the girls were more undressed—except possibly in Paris. The table was small—as they always are—and we had to sit close together—as you always do—and before the floor show was over we were holding hands. The music was a Swedish version of American jazz, which also helped.
It was after midnight when we left.
“Where now?” I asked as we waited for a taxi. v “I don’t know about you,” she said with a giggle, “but I think I have stayed up too late and had too much to drink. I think you had better take me home.”
“It is a pleasure,” I said.
A taxi pulled up and she gave the driver the address. It was no more than a twenty-minute drive. I was going to tell the driver to wait when he pulled up in front of a very modern apartment building, but she beat me to it.
“Would you like to come up for a last drink?” she asked.
“I’m always ready for a last drink,” I said gravely.
I paid the driver and we went into the building and took the elevator to the third floor.
Her apartment was small but it was attractive and well-furnished. She immediately poured two drinks and we sat down in the kitchen to have them. She kicked off her shoes.
“Lycka till,” she said, lifting her glass.
“I’ve already had good luck,” I said, lifting my own glass. “To you, Kerstin.”
We both took a healthy drink.
“Do you mind if I get comfortable?” she asked.
“Of course not,” I said.
She stood up and went into the bedroom. I continued to work on my drink. After a bit I heard a soft sound behind me.
“Now, I feel much better,” she said as she passed me. I took a look—and then did a double take. She had removed all of her clothes—and had not replaced them.
She sat down at the table and picked up her drink.
“Well, you certainly got comfortable,” I said. “I am not, however, quite certain that it makes me comfortable.” .
She laughed, a soft sound in her throat. “Then you can go take your clothes off. There are plenty of hangers in my bedroom. And then we will be the same, eh?”
“Equal, perhaps,” I said, “but not quite the same, thank goodness. Or maybe goodness has nothing to do with it.” I thought about her suggestion and decided it was a good one. You may feel silly sitting around and having a drink, with your clothes off, but not as silly as you do sitting there fully dressed across from a nude broad. I went into her bedroom and took my clothes off. I plucked a package of cigarettes and matches from my coat and went back to the kitchen—feeling pretty foolish about the whole thing.
She looked me over as I came into the room. “You are a very handsome man,” she said as I sat down. “Perhaps you should never wear clothes.”
“It might cause problems,” I said.
I lit a cigarette and picked up my drink in an effort to be nonchalant.'*' Then I thought to hell with it and took a good look at her. It was worth it. She had a wonderful body; everything in the right place and the right size.
“You like?” she asked.
“I like,” I said. That was an understatement. She had large, firm breasts that stood straight out. Her stomach was flat until there was just a slight oval before it reached the loins. Her hair was reddish-blonde and silky. Her hips were just wide enough, with generous curves in the rear, and her legs were long and tapering.
She stood up. “If you like,” she said, “why do you not kiss me?” She came over and sat on my lap. What could I do except kiss her? As a matter of fact, after kissing her, I could think of only one thing better that I could have done. We left the drinks and the cigarettes and moved into the bedroom.
Later—much later—she propped herself up on one elbow and looked at me. “We were good?” she asked.
“We were very good,” I said. “We were the very best.”
She leaned over and nibbled briefly on my cheek. Then she sat up. “Would you like a drink or coffee?”
“Both,” I said.
She pulled at me and we both got out of bed and went into the kitchen. She poured me a drink, put a cigarette in my mouth, and lit it. Then she started the coffee.
“I could make breakfast here,” she said. “I am a good cook.”
“I’m sure you are,” I said. I was feeling very satisfied with the world. “But why should you slave over a hot stove. We’ll go out to the best place you can think of.”
“You are rich?” .
“No, but my company is and they’ll pay for it.”
“Good,” she said. She went back to watch the coffee. When it was done, she poured out two cups and brought them over. “I remember from lunch,” she said. “You like yours without cream or sugar.”
“Right,” I said.
She put a small amount of sugar in her coffee and stirred it. Suddenly she lifted her head and looked at me. “Now, I will tell you about the pig,” she said.
“The pig?” I asked. To tell the truth, I had forgotten the reason we had started talking.
“Johansson,” she said, spitting his name out.
“Oh,” I said.
She laughed. “It is good that you acted that way. I was afraid that you only made love to me so that I would talk.”
“You must be joking,” I said. “As far as I am concerned, my only reason for being in Stockholm was to meet you.”
“That is good,” she said. She took one of my cigarettes and lit it. “You are looking for him because he went to America a few months ago, yes?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“I was there with him,” she said.
I hadn’t expected that, but I thought about it for a minute. “You,” I said finally, “are Ann Brent.”
It was her turn to look surprised. “Yes. It was his idea because I speak English well. But I didn’t know the terrible things he was going to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“We were in a city called—Philadelphia, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“He made me go to bed with a man there—as if I was a whore. Then I heard later that the man killed himself. It was terrible. When I spoke to Jason about it he merely laughed at me. And he had been telling me that he loved me. Can you imagine?”
“From what I know of him, I can imagine,” I said.
“You want to find him?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “there are several reasons. First, in all honesty, it is my job, but I’ve become involved in it. One nice guy disappeared. I don’t know whether he’s dead or not. But I do know that there are four other men who are dead. If they hadn’t died, they would have *been ruined. I don’t like your Herr Johannson.”
“I also do not like him,” she said. ‘‘Once I did, but no more. What will you do if you find him?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “If I can, I will try to get him back to the United States for trial. If I can’t,
I don’t know. I may kill him.”
A slight shudder ran over her body. “He is a bad man,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you know,” I said.
“He has another company,” she said, “and spends much of his time there. It is in Paris. The company is known as Jason Chimique Societe, but I do not know what name he uses there. I’m sure it is not Johansson. He travels most of the time and he keeps most of his money in Switzerland.”
“Johansson got something very valuable in Connecticut,” I said, “and the man who invented it disappeared. He was either killed or kidnaped. Do you know anything about that?”
“No,” she said. “I know that he was only kidnaped at first. I don’t know what happened after that. But Jason was responsible for the death of the four men in your Philadelphia.”
“Did you know Joe Pitcher?” I asked.
“He was what you call a creep,” she said, “but he worked for Jason. I do not think he was a nice man.” “That is certainly one way of putting it,” I admitted. “Does Johansson have a house or an apartment in Paris?” “Yes, but I do not know where it is. He would never tell me. From the way he acted, I am also sure that he uses another name there.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Once he had too much to drink. I said that if I got lonely I would send him a message at his Paris company. He laughed and told me not to bother because no one would know who to give it to. So he must use another name.”
“But he is Swedish?”
“Yes. But he speaks five or six languages like a native, so I suppose he can pretend to be almost anything.”
“I know one thing about him,” I said. “He specializes in stealing inventions, both industrial and military. I gather that the industrial processes are put through his company here and I would imagine that he sells the others to the highest bidder. How many people in the company are involved in it or know about it?”
“I do not know,” she said. “I think that at the most it would be only the manager—perhaps not even him. Jason is not a man to share his secrets—or his money. It may be that even the manager believes that he buys the inventions he brings back.”
One thing bothered me. “Why did he let you know so much about his business?”
“My father,” she said, “worked for him. Jason claimed that my father stole money from the company. My father says that he did not, but he cannot prove it. I became Jason’s mistress to keep my father from going to prison. And Jason used me in America, feeling sure that I would never betray him. That was bad enough. But in America he made me go to bed with another man. I will not go into court and destroy my father, but I think perhaps you will destroy Jason. . . . And you made love—glorious love—to me without asking any questions or making any demands.”
“I will do my best,” I said, “but not because we made love.”
“That is why I talked to you.”
“Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know, Milo,” she said. “I only know the name of the French company.”
“Joe Pitcher,” I said, more to myself than to her, “was certainly not his only employee, nor were you the only person he used by other means.”
“You must be right,” she said. “But I don’t know who they are—and I’m sure they all have even less information than I have. He was careless with me a few times because he felt that I would do nothing against him. I wouldn’t have—if ..he hadn’t made me become a whore.”
“I understand,” I said gently. “Now, suppose we get dressed, go out, and have the finest breakfast Stockholm can boast.”
“All right, Milo.” She stood up and then kissed me on the cheek.
We both took showers and dressed. Then we went out on the town.
It was quite a day. I had never been in Stockholm before but she certainly gave me a grand tour. Finally we went back to her apartment.
It was even better the second time. She wanted me to stay—and I wanted to—but there was still a lot of work ahead of me, so I used enough will power to say no. I told her that I would come back and see her to tell her what happened. Then I got dressed, kissed her on the mouth, and slipped out of the apartment while she was falling asleep.
It was midnight and the street was pretty much deserted. There wasn’t a taxi in sight. I waited a few minutes, then decided I should try to find a taxi stand. I started briskly down the street.
I heard a car start up behind me but I didn’t think much about it at first. Then I heard the snarl of the motor, showing that the driver was accelerating as fast as he could. I’d had enough experience with that sound before not to be fooled into thinking that it was merely a driver in a hurry to get home.
I looked around. It was a small European car and there were two men in it. I suddenly realized that the passenger on my side of the car was leaning out of the window and the street light was glinting on something in his hand. The realization of this had barely materialized when there was a flash of red from his hand—and a bullet whistled past my head and splattered against the wall.
7
That was the only warning I needed. I hit the sidewalk, rolling toward the nearest building. Another bullet bounced off the sidewalk and screamed off into the night. I had no right to carry a gun in Sweden so I did not have my regular gun with me. But I don’t like to feel naked so I did have a gun. It was an old American four-barreled derringer, which a gunsmith had adapted to use modem ammunition. It was tucked under my belt.
It was in my hand as I stopped rolling. The passenger in the car had just fired his second shot and was still leaning out of the window. I couldn’t see what he looked like, but I could see his outline. I steadied the gun and squeezed the trigger. I saw him jerk as if he had been hit and then the little car picked up speed, made a quick left turn, and disappeared.
Lights came on in several apartments on the street and I decided it might be a good idea for me to get out of the neighborhood. I got up, ran to the first street, and turned right. I slowed down to a fast walk, made three more turns, and finally found a taxi. I gave the driver the name of my hotel and relaxed against the back seat. I was well away from the neighborhood before any alarm could be given. I went directly to my room and went to sleep.
When I awakened the next morning, I called room service and ordered some breakfast and a newspaper. I took a quick shower while I was waiting for the food. The waiter came in shortly after I was out of the shower. I looked through the newspaper while I had breakfast. I found it on the third page. A man named Rolf Lind-holm had been found on the street early in the morning.
He’d been shot through the head and apparently thrown from a speeding car. There were no witnesses and no clues. The dead man did have a record. He had served time in both Sweden and France. The police had decided, according to the new paper, that he must have antagonized some of his associates and had been killed by them.
I phoned and made a reservation on a plane to Paris. The first flight I could get was in the early afternoon. Then I phoned Kerstin Lindborg. She said she would have lunch with me.
I got dressed and packed my clothes. Then I stopped downstairs at the desk and told them what time I would be checking out. I took a taxi to the airlines office and had it wait while I picked up my ticket. My next stop was the Stockholm office of Intercontinental. I was shown into the office of Herr Andersson, the local manager. He examined my credentials, shook my hand warmly, and assured me he was at my complete disposal—all in good but sing-song English.
“What is it that I can do for you, Herr March?” he asked.
“I’m not sure you can do anything,” I said. “I am leaving very shortly for Paris. But I am interested in a Jason Johansson who owns Jason Aktiebolag here in Stockholm. Do you know him?”
He pursed his lip?. “Not personally, you understand. I know of the man. He is well-known here. A very successful man. But he spend much of his time traveling and I have never actually met him.”
“If he has so much success, I imagine he also gets considerable publicity?”
“Oh, yes. His name often appears in the financial or society pages.”
“I would like,” I said, “to get a photograph of Herr Johansson. Do you suppose it could be arranged?”
“Of course,” he said with a wave of his hands. “At once.”
He picked up the phone and put through a call to a
Stockholm newspaper which I recognized as the one I’d read that morning.
Several calls later Herr Andersson was sweating and looking distressed. “I do not understand,” he said unhappily. “No one has a photograph of Herr Johansson. They all say that he does not like to have his picture taken.”
“I don’t blame him,” I said. “How about the police? Perhaps they have a photograph of him.”
“The police? Herr Johansson?” He looked stunned. It was obvious that Herr Andersson was an admirer of successful men. But he picked up the phone and made the call. He identified himself twice and finally got someone who would listen to his questions. He didn’t look too happy as he listened to the answers. Finally he hung up and looked at me.
“They do not have any photographs either, but I’m afraid that they do not look upon Herr Johansson with too much pleasure. They say that he is suspected of international operations which are not in the best interests of the Crown.”
“Did they say what sort of operations?”
He shook his head sadly. “They would not tell me. I can’t understand it. Herr Johansson is thought so well of in the best of circles.”
