He sat down, sipped his drink and again thought about the microphone. Would it be possible, he wondered, to get the microphone back? Certainly not until Monday. He would have to think of some excuse to call on Dorey on Monday morning, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. He relaxed a little. The brandy was soothing. He would leave for Paris by tomorrow afternoon, he decided. In the meantime what was he to do to pass the time?
There was that girl with the mole on her cheek he had met the other week at that dreary cellar club. She had given him her telephone number. She might prove amusing. He wondered if she would come down for the weekend. It was worth a try. He finished his drink, got to his feet and walked over to the telephone. As he reached for the receiver, he paused.
From the open french windows he had a view of his short curving drive. Coming up the drive was a shabby Fiat 500 which pulled up outside his front door.
Frowning, puzzled, Wolfert peered through a side window. A girl got out of the car and he immediately eyed her with interest. She was wearing a black close-fitting sweater, skintight white capri pants and sandals. Her black hair fell to her shoulders. He couldn’t see her face from where he was standing, but his eyes travelled down her long back and the lust in him stirred.
The girl took from the car a shabby holdall, then walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
Wolfert finished his drink, wiped his sweating hands on his handkerchief and walked to the door. He opened it.
It came as a little shock to see the girl was Chinese, but he was now sufficiently drunk not to be suspicious.
For a Chinese girl, she was extremely attractive, he thought: a little too thin perhaps and the nose a little flat, but his glassy eyes moved over her body. Nothing to complain about there.
He judged rightly that she was a Cantonese and, smiling, he said in the dialect, “What do you want here, my pretty?”
“You speak my language?” The black, almond-shaped eyes regarded him expressionlessly, but Wolfert was used to that.
“Certainly. Is there something I can do for you?”
She bent and opened her holdall. Wolfert’s eyes regarded her charming little derrière sharply outlined by the stretched pants and he drew in an unsteady breath.
She took from the holdall a vulgar looking, giant size packet of Pic-White, the detergent soap he had seen so often advertised in the press and on television.
“I would like to give you this,” the girl said and offered him the packet.
“You are very kind, but I don’t need it,” Wolfert said. “I never use that sort of thing. What are you doing in France?”
The girl regarded him with her deadpan expression.
“I am trying to make a living. If you don’t take it, then I will have more work to do. I have to get rid of all these packets before I get paid.”
“That’s too bad. Well, come in. Let’s talk about it,” Wolfert said, opening the door wide.
“No, thank you. I am very busy. I can’t come in. Thank you.”
“But why not? You can leave all your packets with me. I will throw them away for you. That way, you will get your money quickly.”
The girl giggled. Wolfert knowing the Chinese knew she was embarrassed.
“Come along,” he said. “Come in. I would like you to tell me about yourself.”
She shook her head and pushed the packet into his hand. He had taken it before he could stop himself. Now he was getting a little annoyed.
“Oh come in!” He wasn’t used to being refused. “You are not afraid of me, are you? Besides, we could amuse each other.” He leered at her. “A little girl like you could use a hundred francs, couldn’t you?”
She bent and closed the holdall. Then picking it up, she regarded him with such cold contempt that Wolfert, clutching the packet of Pic-White retreated a step. Then she turned and walked back to her car. She got in and drove away.
Wolfert watched the little car disappear around the bend in the drive. He grimaced. Obviously this wasn’t to be his lucky day, he thought. He regarded the packet of detergent and shrugged. Maybe his cleaner could use it. He took it into the kitchen and set it down on the table.
Well, now, he said to himself, this girl from the cellar club.
As he started towards the lounge, the bomb concealed in the detergent packet exploded. It blew out all the windows of the Villa. It also blew Nicolas Wolfert into several messy pieces.
It was sheer bad luck that Jean Redoun, a rabid Communist, who worked as a luggage porter at Orly airport and who was in the pay of the Soviet Embassy should spot Jack Kerman as he came through the Customs barrier after his flight from Nice.
Redoun, a bitter-faced, elderly man, had a good memory. He had spent many hours going through a photograph album at the Soviet Embassy examining photographs of men and women in whom the Soviets were interested. He received a hundred francs for any information he telephoned to the Embassy, whether or not the information was useful. So, having seen Kerman without luggage come briskly through the Customs barrier, and knowing he was a man the Embassy was interested in, he went to the nearest telephone booth and put through his call.
The information was immediately conveyed to Malik.
Smernoff was with him and the two men looked at each other.
“Kerman is Dorey’s special agent,” Malik said, his thick, strong fingers playing with a Biro pen. “If Dorey hasn’t a great deal of confidence in Girland, he would call on Kerman. Kerman has returned from Nice without luggage. That means he could have driven down there with Girland and come back by plane. That makes sense. Girland and the woman could be there. Make inquiries, Boris. This is our only lead.”
Smernoff nodded. He left the office. Malik continued to play with the Biro pen.
He was thinking the next time he met Girland, he wouldn’t hesitate. This wastrel was proving himself more than a nuisance. He would kill him. How he wished he had done so when he had had him in the ambulance. Well, next time, he would make no mistake.
His mind switched to Dorey. Merna Dorinska had been right. He had underestimated Dorey. Well, that was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat.
Dorey would have been flattered if he had known these thoughts. He was at this time reading a routine file, satisfied that he had now taken every precaution of guarding Erica Olsen and still a little irritated with his talk with Girland.
His intercom buzzed.
He flicked down the switch.
“What is it?”
“Captain O’Halloran wants you. He’s here,” Marcia Davis told him.
“Let him in.” Dorey flicked up the switch and pushed aside his file.
O’Halloran came in. With him was a tall, lean man who Dorey knew to be O’Halloran’s top investigator. His name was Joe Danbridge.
“What’s it now?” Dorey asked impatiently.
“You have a bug in here,” O’Halloran said. “We have been running a check and we get an affirmative signal from your office.”
Dorey stiffened.
“That’s impossible. The office is always checked before I arrive. No one has been here. What are you talking about?”
“You’ve got one,” O’Halloran said. “There’s no mistake. There’s a bug somewhere in here.”
“Go ahead and find it,” Dorey said and moved out of his chair. He knew Danbridge. This man never made a mistake. While the search was in progress, he thought quickly back on his various telephone conversations during the morning. There had only been one of importance: his call to Washington.
It took Danbridge exactly six minutes to locate the limpet microphone.
“Here it is,” he said, pointing to the under shelf of the desk.
Dorey bent to stare at the small betrayer, then he straightened. An unwired microphone couldn’t function without a powerful receiving set not far away.