Rudolfi sat in a thoughtful silence. Roxanne reappeared with dainty sandwiches and wine on a tray. Lavagni accepted a sandwich and waved away the wine. Rudolfi would not even look at the offering. Wilson Brown graciously accepted the entire tray and placed it on the floor beside him.
Presently Lavagni said, "Well Monzoor, I guess I better cut out. Mrs. Loureau knows where I'll be. I need a car."
"Take the Ferrari," Rudolfi muttered.
"Okay, thanks. Hey don't be so down in the dumps. We'll get Bolan. And you'll get your cut."
"My cut!" Rudolfi sneered.
"Yeah". Lavagni was giving him a curious look. "What's eating you?"
"My cut is the heart, Lavagni."
"The heart of what?"
"The heart of the lion. I will cut it out of him myself!"
"Th' hell you will. You got the directive, Monzoor. I got six or seven witnesses to that. You better not go off on no cocky..." Lavagni left the warning uncompleted, nodded his head to the woman, and went to the couch to collect his companion.
Brown scooped up a handful of sandwiches, waved to the couple at the bar, and followed his boss outside.
As the Ferrari roared away, Rudolfi told Roxanne, "Tonight I met myself."
"What does this mean?" she asked, her eyes worried.
He brushed the half-finished glass of bourbon off the bar. It hit the tiles of the floor and smashed, the liquid spreading out in quivering streamers from the center of impact. "As that," he whispered. "Smashed and everything inside spilling out."
"Are you all right? Your hand..."
"The hand will heal itself. The soul, never!"
"Let me help you," she whispered.
"No, I... well yes. There is a detail you may attend. Contact our friend, M'sieur l'Androix. Tell him the House of Celeste, on Rue Galande. All of the girls, all of them, plus the madame, I want them taken to Algiers."
"Thomas, non!"
"Yes. Tell l'Androix they must go to the most devilish of markets, he will know. And tell him that he must find each of them leave none unpunished. And tell him that I want this known, I want all to know."
"Thomas, this is..."
"This is justice, Roxanne. But for them, I would have bagged the lion tonight."
"But Thomas... Algiers! It is better that you simply have them killed!"
"That would not be enough. No. I want them taken to Algiers. I want them sold there, and I want them to know why they are being sold there, and I want them to contemplate their sins, and I want all of Paris to contemplate both the sins and the punishment. The example must be made. You will do this, Roxanne, without further question."
"Oui. Oui, Thomas. What else shall I do?"
"Nothing. I will do the rest. Let Lavagni's crew run with the sieve. Rudolfi has the aces."
The fear surfaced and spread across Roxanne's face. "Thomas, let them have him!"
"No. Rudolfi has the aces, and Rudolfi is even now playing a few of them. Rudolfi will bag the lion, Roxanne or Rudolfi will die."
Roxanne was thinking that perhaps Rudolfi was already dead. This strange man with the wild eyes who would sell young girls on the hideux African slave markets and who defied the formidable powers of America this man was not her Thomas. Where, she wondered, had he died?
A tired and troubled group of law officers were assembled in a small office in the Paris police headquarters. The ranking officer present, a slender young-old man with graying temples and quick eyes, tilted his chair back and slid a clipboard of reports to the center of the conference table. "We must conclude," he announced softly, "that Mack Bolan is in Paris. Stories concerning L'Americaine Formidable are being whispered throughout the Latin Quarter and never since the days of the Algerian terrorists has such violence been done in a single day."
A young officer at the other side of the table quietly pointed out, "But there is nothing in the evidence, Inspector, to definitely establish that the man Bolan is this same L'Americaine Formidable."
"Let us tabulate," replied the Inspector. "First, we receive a flash from the United States that the man known as The Executioner is suspected of having boarded Overseas Flight 721, Washington to Paris. At Orly, we encounter a man who meets every description of the one in question. But we are embarrassed. This American is identified as the film star, Gil Martin, beyond any doubt. We learn later that another American who fits the general description has been passed through with only a peremptory challenge."
"Yes, but this is merely..."
"Continue the tabulation with me, please. Less than one hour after the arrival of Flight 721 at Orly, a battle erupts in the St. Michel neighborhood. The victims are identified as known underworld figures, and the whispering is begun concerning L'Americaine Formidable. Approximately one hour after this, the same Gil Martin arrives at his hotel on Champs d'Elysees. Or is this the same Gil Martin? If so, where has he been for these past two hours? Sightseeing in the fog? The doorman at the hotel insists that this man arrived on foot. He is surly with the desk clerk and orders a rental auto even before going to his room."
"But what are you... Why are we back to Gil Martin, Inspector?"
"Let us see. Tabulate with me. Gil Martin goes to his suite and apparently to bed. Late in the afternoon he again appears. Again he is surly with the clerk, spurns an offer to speak with the most beautiful woman in all France, and departs in his rented auto.
"Now let us jump ahead in the tabulation. At thirty minutes past the hour of ten, this same evening, another battle erupts in almost the precise same spot as the earlier one. This is L'Americaine Formidable with a vengeance. When our..." he gestured to a young officer at the end of the table, "...investigating team arrive on the scene, they find incredible carnage at the House of Celeste. The dead are scattered about all three levels of the house, two are lying in the street outside but one, one, remains alive. This is none other than the esteemed M. Rudolfi, man of many involvements and influential connections but, an American citizen American, mind you."
"Surely you do not think Rudolfi is L'Americaine Formidable!"
"Wait awhile. Let us proceed with the tabulation. M. Rudolfi cannot explain what has happened. He was driving by. He saw what he thought to be a business acquaintance entering this questionable establishment. He goes inside, finds a madman killing everyone in sight, is himself wounded and left for dead. Now... to move back a bit in the tabulation." The Inspector's eyes went to a man down the table. "Would you repeat the events at Orly this evening, Claude?"
A heavyset detective removed a dead pipe from his mouth and reported, "A chartered jet landed at nine-forty, Washington to Paris. A large delegation of American businessmen were hurried through customs by some official prearrangement and were met by a special bus. These businessmen did not look like businessmen. The bus took them to a fashionable section near the Arc de Triomphe. There the bus awaited while three men went into the town house of M. Thomas Rudolfi..." his eyes flashed to the Inspector, "...man of many involvements and influential connections."
A man at the end of the table sighed loudly.
The heavyset one continued. "The bus was there until some time past ten o'clock. The passengers sat complacently, patiently, penned up in there, uncomplaining. At shortly before ten-thirty, the three men returned to the bus and the entourage proceeded to the chateau of M. Rudolfi. At last report, the bus remained at that location, as did all its occupants."