“Well?”
“I was told to get the hell out of Acapulco.”
“And?”
“They also tried to kill me.”
We got into the elevator. Jean-Paul said, “I think you are in a bad spot, my friend.”
I made no answer. The elevator stopped at my floor. We got out and walked down the corridor. As we came up to my room, I took out my key.
“Wait,” said Jean-Paul sharply. He held out his left hand for the key, “Give it to me.”
I looked down. Jean-Paul held a gun in his right hand. I don’t argue with guns that close. I gave him the key.
“Now move to one side.”
I moved away. Jean-Paul inserted the key in the lock and turned it slowly. With a sudden movement, he flung the door open, dropping to one knee, the gun in his hand aimed into the room, ready to blast anyone inside.
“There’s no one there,” I told him.
Jean-Paul rose to his feet.
“I’m never ashamed of being cautious,” he said. We went into the room. I shut the door behind us and walked over to the terrace window and looked out. Behind me, Jean-Paul busied himself mixing drinks for us. I dropped my equipment bag on a chair and put my camera on top of it.
Staring across the bay, I could see the motor boats towing the waterskiers. At the Yacht Club, there were a number of motor-sailers at anchor. The tuna boat that I’d seen the afternoon before was still tied up at the malecon. I wondered about it.
Jean-Paul asked, “Aren’t you afraid to turn your back on me?”
“No.”
He stirred the drinks. “We had some excitement here while you were gone. The local police paid a visit to the hotel. They searched Stocelli’s penthouse suites.”
“So?”
“They also searched your room.” Jean-Paul was staring intently at my face, trying to catch even the smallest expression of surprise. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“I expected it.”
I turned back to stare out the window again. Td known from the moment I’d seen the fake laundry package on my bed that the police would call on me.
They’d probably been tipped off to search both Stocelli’s suites and my room for narcotics. Someone was trying to lay a heavy frame on Stocelli.
But that wasn’t what was bugging me.
“Why would the police want to search Stocelli’s penthouse?” Jean-Paul asked.
“Because five kilos of heroin wrapped like a package of laundry was delivered to him earlier today,” I said.
Jean-Paul whistled in surprise.
“Apparently, then, he got rid of it. Eh bien?”
“I got rid of it for him.”
“Oh?” Another long pause. “Is that why they searched your room?”
“No. Another package like it was delivered to my room, too,” I said, calmly, my back still toward Jean-Paul. “Five more kilos, wrapped exactly the same way.”
Jean-Paul digested the information thoughtfully. Then he said, “Since the police found nothing, may I ask what you did with the heroin?”
“I took it with me.”
“And you got rid of it this afternoon? How clever of you, mon amil.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s still in my equipment bag over there. All ten kilos of it. I’ve been carrying it around with me all afternoon.”
Jean-Paul turned to look at the bulky equipment bag that I’d placed on the chair near the window. He began to laugh.
“You have quite a sense of humor, my friend. You’re aware of what would have happened if the police had found it on you?”
“Yes. Thirty years at hard labor. So I’ve been told.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“Not as much as something else.”
Jean-Paul brought me a drink. He took his own and sat down in one of the chairs.
He raised his glass. “A voire sante!” He took a sip. “What bothers you?”
“You.” I turned around. “You’re not from Michaud’s organization.”
Jean-Paul sipped at his rum. There was a challenge in his gray eyes. “Why do you think that?”
“For one thing, you’re too friendly with me. You act more like my bodyguard. Second, you’re really not pushing to get Stocelli wiped out. Finally, you’ve known all afternoon that someone’s trying to frame Stocelli, just like Michaud was framed. It should have proved to you that Stocelli didn’t set up Michaud, and therefore you’re after the wrong guy. But you’ve done nothing about it.”
Jean-Paul said nothing.
I went on. “Not only that, but you’ve hung around the hotel all afternoon in spite of the fact that four cops were searching the joint for narcotics. If you really were from the Marseille organization, you’d have run like hell at the first sight of them.”
“So?”
“So who the hell are you?”
“Who do you think I am?”
“Police.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The way you came in the door a few minutes ago. That’s strictly a police technique. You were trained that way.”
“You are perceptive, mon vieux! Yes, I’m a policeman.”
“Narcotics?”
Jean-Paul nodded. “L’Office Central Pour la Suppression du Trafic des Stupifiants. We’ve been working with your Federal Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs, the BNDD.”
“And the Mexican police?”
“For this operation, yes. The Federates. They know I am working undercover.”
“Did Michaud’s organization really send someone over here to get the Acapulco mob to eliminate Stocelli? Or was it a cover story?”
“Oh, they sent a man, all right. That’s how we found out about it. We asked the Mexican police to detain him when he got off the plane in Mexico City.”
“And he told you all about their plans for Stocelli? I thought Corsicans didn’t talk. They’re supposed to be even more close-mouthed than Sicilians.”
Jean-Paul smiled at me. “The Mexican police are not as restrained as we are. Especially with foreign criminals. They attached electrodes to his testicles and turned on the current. He screamed for five minutes and then broke down. He’ll never be the same again, but he told us everything.”
I changed the subject. “How do you know about me?”
Jean-Paul shrugged. “I know you’re from AXE,” he said.” I know you are N3—a Killmaster in the organization. That’s why I would like you to cooperate With us.”
“Who’s ‘us’? And how?”
“The Americans want Stocelli. The Mexican police want the Acapulco organization broken up. And we French would like to break the connection between Michaud’s gang and Stocelli and the Acapulco crowd.”
“My orders come from Washington,” I told him. “I’ll have to check with them.”
Jean-Paul smiled at me. “You mean you’ll have to check with Hawk.”
I didn’t say anything. Jean-Paul had no business knowing about Hawk — or about me being N3, or my designation as a Killmaster. He knew far too much.
“HI let you know,” I said.
Jean-Paul got to his feet and put down his drink. He went to the door and opened it He started out and then turned in the doorway.
“I’d like your answer no later than this evening,” he said. “We intend to—”
Like a phonograph needle suddenly lifted from a record, his voice broke off in mid-sentence, the word ending in an unintelligible grunt of surprise. He took a stumbling, lurching, half step forward into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Then he sank back against it and slid to the floor.
I leaped across the room. Jean-Paul’s eyelids were closed. A frothy bubble of crimson suddenly welled from his lungs. Blood spewed out of his mouth. His legs twitched heavily against the floor in protest against death.