"Remember now," the Inspector reminded the conference, "that all items of the tabulation continually reflect American involvement. Rudolfi we all know what he is and who he is. The American 'businessmen' we know also who and what they are. The..."
The young officer across the way again interrupted. "Why do we not bring in this M. Rudolfi and put to him some cogent questions?"
The Inspector released a harsh sigh. "The impatience of youth. You will 'bring in' this man of many involvements only when you have resigned yourself to a premature retirement, or when you have caught him in an indefensible act of murder preferably with 100 eyewitnesses and substantiating photographs. Now let us again shuffle the tabulation." His eyes sought the young detective at the end of the table. "Petreau, you conducted the investigation at Rue Galande. Was there an American involved in this investigation?"
"Yes," came the soft reply. "I did not know at the time, Inspector..."
"I know, I know. Give us your item of tabulation, please."
"In the hotel directly across from the scene of the crime, I questioned an American citizen as a possible eyewitness. I became convinced that he had no useful information." The detective sighed. "I left him in peace. He was in a... compromised situation... with a young woman."
"And you verified his identity, of course."
"I accepted the management's passport inspection. The manager identified the man I questioned as the same man who had checked into the hotel earlier that same day, at which time of course his passport was presented and registered."
"An American passport, I have noted."
"Yes."
The Inspector's gaze swept about the table. Obviously he enjoyed the dramatic. "And the name of this man, found directly across from the scene of the crime, this man who registered at the hotel under an American passport?"
"The name on the registry was Gill Martin."
"Yes, the name on the registry was Gil Martin. Could it not as well have been L'Americaine Formidable or Mack Bolan or The Executioner?"
The conference broke up shortly after that dramatic moment.
An item of reasonable proof had been established.
The Paris police had arrived at a logical course of action.
And a man who was then calling himself Gil Martin was moving into an area of jeopardy never before encountered during his young and savage career.
There was a uniqueness here a quality of beauty which had nothing to do with the flawless skin, saucy eyes, and the raven sheen of contoured hair. He knew that he was looking at the most beautiful woman in his experience but he would have been hard-put to describe that beauty to another.
Bolan was not absolutely certain as to just "oo" he should be. He dragged a chair over beside the bed and sat down.
The girl shrank back from his brooding gaze and said, "I demand to know 'oo you are."
He smiled suddenly and told her, "Since this is my room, and that is my bed, I think you should first tell me 'oo the 'ell you are."
She said, "Thees ees Gilbear Martin's suite."
Bolan nodded his head agreeably. "That's right. And I'm standing-in for him. So 'oo the 'ell is in my bed?"
She was peering at him with mounting perplexity. "Standing-een? But I do not well, thees ees crazy!"
Bolan told her, "If you belonged to me, I'd spend about half my time just sitting and looking at you."
She moved head and shoulders in what he read as an unconsciously coquettish gesture and asked him, "And the othair time?"
Bolan chuckled. "Guess."
She remembered where she was, and demanded, "Well, where ees Gilbear?"
"Cooling it, relaxing. So don't you go lousing him up, eh."
"Do you know 'oo I am!"
"I don't care if you're Joan of Arc. Blow the whistle on Gil and you're a louse a beautiful one, but still a louse."
"Blow the wheestle?" She laughed suddenly and cried, "Oh, oui! But this is delicious! Quickly now, 'and me my wrap and turn your 'ead."
Bolan did both. She moved out of the bed and into the flimsy garment in a single fluid movement, then leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I am not the louse," she assured him. "Eeny-way, I am leave for Cannes een a few hours. I 'ave not the time for blow the wheestle. Tell Gilbear that Cici sends 'er love."
Bolan asked, "Ceci who?"
"Oh, m'oui, you are the lousy stand-een. You do not know of Ciei Carceaux?" The girl was getting into a bulkier garment and fishing about with one foot for a pair of furry little bedroom slippers. She gave him a sharp gaze and told him, "Not eentirely lousy. The face ees strong, eet 'as character, more so than Gilbear. Cici could grow to love thees face, Meester Stand-een. Tell me, stand-een, what would you do weeth Cici othair than seet and look at 'er?"
Bolan chuckled and said, "I'd think of something."
She laughed again and said, "Well, eef I were not going to Cannes..."
"Isn't that on the Riviera?"
"Yes, eet ees on the Riviera."
"Close to Nice and Marseilles?"
"Nice, yes. Marseilles, not so close. Are you going there?"
Bolan grinned. "Someone suggested tonight that I may be happier there."
She was watching him through partially lowered lashes, the coquette resurfacing. "I do not like to drive alone. Come weeth me."
"You're driving?"
She made a wry face and told him, "Pairhaps you would do the driving?"
Bolan said, "Great. Let's leave right now."
"Agreed! Do you mind eef I stop by my suite and get some clothing?"
He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "You look great to me just the way you are."
"Americains I love them!" she shrieked. "So eem-pulsive!" She ran to the door, turned back to him, and said, "Meet me een the lobby een feefteen meenutes."
"In the garage," he suggested.
"Oh-kay!"
The door closed and she was gone.
Bolan put a hand to his head and gazed about the room, wondering if she had actually been there.
He had never been in the presence of such an exciting, enchanting woman.
"Yes, she had been there. He could still smell the lingering traces of her.
Maybe, he was thinking, the game had changed. Maybe he would snatch a few golden moments from his jungle of death and discover what Eden was all about.
The Executioner should have known better.
Very shortly, he would.
11
Right On
Bolan took the elevator straight to the garage, again bypassing the lobby. He dropped his bags at the pickup station and told the attendant, "Le voiture de Mlle. Carceaux."
He was informed that the car was ready, and was directed to a gleaming Rolls waiting in the exit lane. The attendant turned over the keys and Bolan approached the car with sudden misgivings. He was stowing his gear in the luggage compartment when the woman arrived. She was almost quivering with excitement as she hurried over; a porter burdened with two large suitcases was laboring to keep up with her.
Bolan took her bags and stowed them himself. He noted that Cici was tipping the porter, then she opened a rear door and climbed in without a word to Bolan.
He secured the luggage compartment and went around to the driver's side, leaned in, deliberately measured the distance separating the front and rear seats with his eyes, and told her, "I didn't exactly have this in mind."