He nodded, slowed, and did as she suggested. Suddenly she surged over and kissed him lightly on the lips. He grinned and said, "What was that for?"
"For trusting me."
"Why shouldn't I trust you?"
She shrugged. "It is a world of distrust, is it not?"
He murmured, "Trust ends when doubt begins. Have you given me any reasons to doubt you, Cici?"
"No," she replied softly. "And 'ave you given Cici the reasons to betray you, stand-in?"
He chuckled and found himself relaxing. "I hope not, for both our sakes."
Bolan had not meant the remark as a threat. He realized, though, that it sounded like one. He felt her eyes on him but she said nothing. When he finished his drink she took the bottle from him and got onto her knees to place the carton and bag in the rear. Then she stayed that way and melted over against him, head on his shoulder, arms going about his neck. "Does this bothair your driving?" she whispered.
He replied, "Yes, but let it be bothered."
She laughed softly. "Do you truly have a gun?"
He said, "Yep," and unbuttoned his jacket.
Her fingers crawled down his chest and lightly caressed the pistol grip. "You do not break Cici's arm?" she asked, faintly mocking.
"Not yet," he replied.
"But when?"
He chuckled. "Don't put me on the spot, Cici."
She withdrew the hand and left it lying across his waist. Bolan drove on in silence. Some minutes later he decided that she was again sleeping. He used one arm to try to gently rearrange her on the seat. She clung to him. He sighed and merely held her clutched to him, and they went on that way until the outskirts of Lyon.
The sun was up and the city was coming alive. Bolan stopped again for service and the girl quietly disentangled herself. He asked her, "Have a nice nap?"
"I was not sleeping," she said. Her eyes flashed playfully and she added, "You are vairy 'andsome when deep in thought, did you know this?"
He gently squeezed her arm and said, "You couldn't even see me."
"One sees with more than one's eyes, stand-in." She pushed herself away and out the door.
Bolan watched her enter another telephone booth, then he gave instructions to the station man and got out to stretch himself. She was still in the booth when he went to the rest room, and she was still there when he returned. He paid the bill and moved the car clear of the pumps.
When Cici finally returned to the car he casually asked, "Get through okay this time?"
She dropped a folded newspaper in the floor and replied, "Yes."
He put the car in motion and the trip was resumed. When they were clear of Lyon and again rolling free, she told him, "I also call Cannes. To 'ave the villa made ready."
Bolan had no comment to this. She pulled her legs beneath her and knelt on the seat, facing him. He glanced at her and smiled. "You make me self-conscious," he told her. "What are you looking at?"
She laughed lightly and said, "This was your idea. I, too, can sit and look, cheri."
Bolan laughed, then silence descended for several minutes. Presently she said, "For many years I 'ave 'eard the rumors of young girls disappearing from the streets of France. Do these tales reach America?"
He replied, "Probably not. We have enough of our own disappearing. Why?"
"Why? Well, I jus' wondair if you believe them, such tales. It is said that girl-stealers keednap these girls and sell them in Africa. The white slave markets. Do you believe this?"
Bolan shrugged his shoulders. "I wouldn't disbelieve it. Lot of rotten things happen, Cici."
"Officially these rumors are disclaimed. Not one year ago such stories were discussed in the newspapairs and declared false. Jus' now, when I call Paris, I 'ear another of these stories. It sounds most diabolical."
Bolan did not comment. He wondered if she was simply making conversation. She seemed to be studying his face for reactions. She went on. "I am told that ten all at once 'ave been spirited away this time. A 'ouse full of girls, from the Latin Quarter. A 'ouse on Rue Galande."
She got her reaction. A muscle quivered in Bolan's jaw and he said, "That sounds like more film stuff, Cici. Where'd you get a story like that?"
"It is being repeated throughout Paris. It is said that gangstairs were killed at this 'ouse by a man called L'Executioner. These girls were thought to 'ave 'elped this man. As punishment, the gangstair boss is 'ave these girls stolen and sent on the underground trail to Algiers."
Bolan saw his Eden rapidly disappearing, flaring out like a shooting star in a black sky. His foot moved from the accelerator to the brake and the big car rolled to a smooth halt.
She asked, "What are you doing?"
"Turning around. I'll be leaving you at the Lyon airport."
"No! Paris is too dangerous for you now! And you could do nothing there!"
"I have to go back, Cici." He was thinking of a humiliated man with the mark of a pistol muzzle burned into his forehead. "I have to see a man on some urgent business."
"The man you seek is no longair in Paris," she declared quietly.
He shifted into reverse, then hesitated with his foot on the brake and asked her, "How do you know that?"
Even more quietly she said, "Would you believe me if I mention the name Thomas Rudolfi?"
The gearshift returned to neutral and Bolan glared at her, frozen frames of his mind flipping slowly into overlaying positions. He asked, "just what do you know about Rudolfi?"
They were halted on the shoulder of the road. The girl reached into the floor and picked up the newspaper she had brought from Lyon. She unfolded and refolded it and lay it across the steering wheel. The composite likeness of Bolan was there, blown up and occupying half of the front page beneath a heavy black headline: L'EXECUTIONER EN PARIS?
She whispered, "L'Executioner is in Paris no longer, is this not true?"
Bolan's face was frozen. He repeated, "What do you know about Rudolfi?"
"I 'ave known Rudolfi for a long time, stand-in. This is not the point. The point is that you cannot return to Paris, and also there is no reason to do so. You will find nothing there."
Bolan's mind was beginning to whirl. He snapped, "You seem to know much more than I do. So what are you suggesting?"
She showed him a wan smile and said, "On to Cannes, stand-in. You may plan your plans there, in safety. And perhaps you will be closair there to the problem."
He took her hand and squeezed it, hard. "Let's get it all on the table, Cici. I want the whole story, all of it."
"Non. Not now. But please trost me, Mack Bolan." She made the name sound like Mawk Bo-lawn. "And let me 'elp you."
He started the vehicle moving again, then his eyes flicked back to her and he said, "No go, Cici. Everybody I touch turns to ashes. I'm getting off at the next town."
"I weel not turn to ashes," she quietly assured him.
Bolan could almost believe it. He asked, coldly, "Who the hell are you, Cici? I mean, for real?"
"I am Cici Carceaux, for very real," she solemnly informed him. Her eyes moved in a somewhat muted echo of the coquette she had shown him back at the hotel. "Not many men in France would decline an invitation to Cici's villa."
An idea was beginning to form in Bolan's mind. Perhaps, he was thinking, the potential danger posed by this female enigma seated so demurely beside him would be a calculated risk worthy of challenging. Suddenly he said, "Okay. So long as you know the name of the game. You know who I am and what I have to do. If you'll risk me, then I'll risk you."