Hollow-eyes stayed that way. Short and pudgy s lips were twisted into a grotesque grin.
"Good show… we're off!"
He rolled forward in low, then pressed the accelerator halfway as he shifted into second.
Fifty yards short of the bottom of the hill, he pointed the little gray instrument forward, pushed the «open» button, and sighed with relief as the huge iron gates rolled inward.
At the edge of Rue Emile Zola, he floored the car for two seconds, then shifted into neutral.
Ten feet short of the gate he rolled from the car and hit the soft, grassy ditch in a tuck.
One roll brought him to his knees and then to his toes. Without a second's pause, he scrambled back up the drive.
The Cortina was already through the opening and careening directly down the hill toward the courtyard.
Carter hit the «close» button, and the gates swung swiftly and silently shut. The latch had barely clicked before he was pumping shells into the black box just inside the gate that controlled the electric eye.
When the Walther clicked on empty, he threw it and the gate opener over the wall and took off in a sprint up the hill.
He did not turn around until he heard the crash. By that time he was in the darkness at the top of the hill.
The smile that creased his face was pure satisfaction as he crouched on one knee and brought the glasses to his eyes.
The Cortina had sideswiped the Citroen and kissed grille to grille with the Mercedes. The bigger, heavier, and better-made car was far from out of commission, but cosmetically it was a mess.
There had been only two or three lights on in the house. Now it was like a Christmas tree, and men were pouring through the front door and around the side of the house from the garage.
Two of them assessed the situation in the Cortina instantly. They both looked toward the now closed gate, gestured, and sprinted toward the Citroen. The driver's side door was unopenable, so they both had to get into the car through the passenger side.
In no time they had the car started and were roaring up the hill toward the gate.
Through the glasses, in the Citroen's dashboard lights, Carter could see the man on the right feverishly pumping the button on an electronic device similar to the one Carter had just used and tossed over the wall.
When both men realized that the gate was not going to work, the driver slammed on his brakes. The sound of screaming tires broke the night stillness, and the car rocked to a halt with its front bumper inches from the gate.
Carter replaced the glasses in their case under his arm and jogged on over the hill. Sure now that there would be no pursuit, he slowed to a leisurely walk when he hit a main boulevard and made for the port.
About a mile from Rue Emile Zola, he stepped into a small bistro. Inside, there was a young crowd, mostly college age. They sat at tables surrounding a small stage where a girl strummed a guitar and sang a lamentation about the state of French politics.
"Monsieur?"
"Calvados, s'il vous plaît."
"Oui. monsieur."
Carter sipped the brandy and smoked for the next twenty minutes.
"Is there a phone?"
"In the rear, monsieur, in the Gentlemen's."
"Merci."
Carter made his way down a dark hallway and entered the men's room. Inside, he checked the two booths, found them empty, and dropped coins into the phone.
"Oui?" It was answered on the second ring.
Carter squeezed his nostrils with a thumb and forefinger and spoke with his tongue hitting his teeth to simulate a lisp.
"Monsieur LeClerc, s'il vous plaît."
"Un moment."
LeClerc's voice, raspy with tension, was on the line in ten seconds.
"Yes?"
"Monsieur LeClerc?"
"Yes, yes, who is this?"
Carter dropped the lisp and removed the fingers from his nose.
"This, Pepe, is Bluebeard."
The silence from the other end of the line was like a tomb. Carter waited until he was sure that LeClerc had digested the fact that his cover for Pepe was blown, then he spoke again.
"Did you get my message, LeClerc?"
"So it was you. I suspected as much. Did you have to kill Petri to make your point?"
"I didn't. It was an accident. He killed himself. How about the other one?"
"A broken back."
"Too bad," Carter said. "The misfortunes of a dangerous business. You should have called them off."
"I think it's clear why I didn't. You now have the advantage of knowing who I am, and I know nothing about you."
"In fairness, LeClerc, I am willing to rectify that. If you see my face and can identify me, will that give you some insurance that I plan on carrying out my part of the bargain?"
"I think that would be acceptable."
"Good. Do you know the vista drive above the Hippodrome?"
"Of course, the Pont de Vivaux."
"Very well. Tomorrow morning, I want you to drive to the very top… just you and a driver."
"What time?"
"The forecasters tell us that sunrise tomorrow will be at six fifty-eight. Shall we say, two minutes past dawn?"
"Agreed."
"Au revoir, monsieur," Carter said. "Sleep well!"
He moved back through the bistro, pausing only long enough to drop a few bills on the bar.
Three blocks away, he hailed a cab and rode directly to the Vieux Port and the hotel.
"Wait," Carter said to the cab driver, dropping some francs over the seat.
"Oui, monsieur."
He took the tiny elevator to the fifth floor and walked down to the fourth. It took less than five minutes to gather all of Lily's things and take them back to his room, where he packed them in his own duffel bag.
At the desk, Carter dropped the keys in the slot and regained the taxi.
"La gare principle, s'il vous plaît."
It was ten minutes to the main railway station. There he paid the cabbie and made directly for the transient bag claim area.
"Your claim check, monsieur?"
The old man paid little attention to the seedy-looking sailor picking up the two very expensive leather bags. Carter tipped him just enough francs to keep him happy but not enough to crease his memory.
A block from the station he deposited the duffel bag in a large garbage container and continued on to the public baths.
A half hour later he emerged, clean-shaven, in a conservative black suit with gray pinstripes, soft leather loafers from Italy that could not be purchased anywhere for less than two hundred dollars, and a crisp white-on-white shirt with a narrow, unpatterned indigo tie.
On the street, he shunned a cab and walked the ten blocks to an all-night rent-a-car.
"I ordered a car by phone this morning," he said, passing over his passport and credit card.
"Oui, monsieur. It is ready for you."
An attendant loaded the car with his bags while Carter filled out the papers under the clerk's watchful and appreciative eyes.
It was not often he had a customer who could afford a month's rental on a forty-thousand-dollar automobile.
The doorman was just as appreciative of Carter's style of arrival when he pulled into the drive from Rue la Canebiere and rocked the impressive little car to a halt in front of the Hotel Grand et Noailles.
The crisply attired concierge waited behind the huge mahogany desk with a beaming smile.
"May I be of assistance, monsieur?"
"You may. I have a suite reserved."
"The name, monsieur?"
"Carstocus. Nicholas Carstocus."