“I’ve already contacted Inspector Dulay,” O’Halloran said as if reading Dorey’s thoughts. “He’s checking. Who has been here this morning?”
“Wolfert, Sam Bentley, and Merl Jackson.”
“Wolfert? Bentley and Jackson are out.”
“Wolfert has gone down to his place at Amboise,” Dorey said. “You handle this, Tim. I must alert Girland. Someone now knows where he is. Not that I’m worrying. They can’t get near them. I have six of your men down there and the place is so situated, they can’t be got at. Still, I must alert him,” and he reached for the telephone.
An hour later, while Sadu Mitchell, Pearl Kuo and Jo-Jo Chandy were driving to Orly airport, Inspector Jean Dulay of the Sûreté together with a young gendarme arrived at Dorey’s office.
O’Halloran was still there. Danbridge had confirmed that the fingerprints surrounding the microphone had been Wolfert’s. A fast car was racing down to Amboise with two Security officers to make the arrest.
The gendarme, nervous and sweating, under the glaring eyes of his superior, told of the Renault that had broken down near the U.S. Embassy at 09.00 hrs. that morning.
Dorey became very alert when the gendarme described Sadu Mitchell.
“He had Chinese eyes, sir,” the gendarme said. “I thought he was a tourist. There was a woman with him: a Vietnamese I think. She could have been Chinese. She was wearing a deaf aid.”
Dorey smiled grimly. They must be the two who had listened in to his conversation with Washington. The deaf aid would be hooked to a receiving set. So now he had not only Malik to worry about, but the Chinese also had taken the field.
“I want those two found,” he said to Dulay.
“At least he remembers the number of the car,” Dulay said, glaring at the gendarme. “We are checking now.”
Twenty minutes later, it was found the car had been hired by Sadu Mitchell, the owner of a boutique on the Rue de Rivoli.
By the time the Nice Police had been alerted, Sadu and his party had passed through the police barrier at Nice Airport and were heading for Eze.
Chapter Five
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Ginny said wistfully.
She and Girland were standing side by side by the sleeping woman’s bed.
“I guess,” Girland said and moved away.
She was certainly beautiful, he thought. It made him a little uneasy that he was to pretend to be her husband. He realised suddenly that he was not looking forward to the moment when she recovered consciousness.
“How is she going?” he asked, looking out of the window.
“All right. Sometime tonight she will wake up,” Ginny said. “Her pulse beat is returning to normal. I’d say around two or three in the morning.”
Girland moved to the door. Together they went down to the terrace. The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, turning the sky and the sea a dark, vivid red. Girland was still wearing shorts and sandals, and Ginny, now in a white cotton frock, walked to the balustrade of the terrace and rested her hands on the hot stone. She looked down at the twinkling lights of Eze village, then beyond at the darkening outline of Cap Ferrat.
“I wish I were as beautiful as she is,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “I would love to be blonde.” She turned, resting her small hips against the balustrade and looked at Girland, “Do you think I would look better if I were a blonde?”
Girland groaned silently.
“Why not buy a blonde wig and then you’ll know,” he said. Women’s problems about their beauty bored him. To him a woman was either beautiful or not. “You look lovely as you are.” He looked at his watch. “I must have a word with Sergeant O’Leary. I won’t be long.”
As he walked down the steps into the garden, Ginny looked after him. His strong muscular shoulders, his straight back, his massive suntan gave her a little pang. She now discovered she was falling in love with him and this realisation came as a shock to her. She watched him out of sight, then turning abruptly, she hurried into the villa and up to her room.
Girland found O’Leary sitting on a stool outside the lodge. Near him was the black Alsatian dog which stiffened at Girland’s approach. Girland walked straight up to the dog and put his hand around the dog’s black muzzle.
O’Leary caught his breath sharply and began to get to his feet.
“Hello, chum,” Girland said, looking straight into the dog’s eyes.
The dog regarded him, then pushed its muzzle deeper into Girland’s hands.
“Hell!” O’Leary said, relaxing. “You gave me a fright. I thought you were going to lose your hand. That dog’s vicious.”
Girland continued to caress the dog.
“I like dogs,” he said. “They seem to like me.” He gave the dog a final pat and then sat on a rock by O’Leary’s side. “Looks like we have the yellow boys as well as the Commies to watch out for.”
“Yeah. Let them all come,” O’Leary said indifferently. “We can handle them. There was a guy here around a couple of hours back. He wanted to know if this was Lord Beaverbrook’s old home. I didn’t dig for him. Beaverbrook had a place further down the coast, didn’t he?”
“Cap d’Ail. Who was this guy?”
“Search me. A beatnik: dirty, young. I told him to beat it... he did.”
Girland rubbed the side of his nose.
“Look, O’Leary, suppose they threw a bomb at this gate... they could get in, couldn’t they?”
“Sure they could, but it wouldn’t get them anywhere. I have two boys at the head of the drive, nicely placed and concealed with machine guns. We can’t get taken from behind. All we have to bother about is our front, and by the time they get those gates down, we’ll be ready for them.”
The two men talked of this and that for half an hour, then Girland got to his feet.
“Maybe I’d better have a gun up there,” he said. “If we do have trouble, I’d be happier with a gun.”
O’Leary grinned.
“I have just the job for you.” He went into the lodge and returned with a.38 automatic and three clips of ammunition.
Back in the villa, Girland put the gun on the undershelf of the terrace table, then stretched out on the chaise lounge.
Diallo came onto the terrace.
“Dinner will be ready in half an hour, sir,” he said. “Another drink?”
Girland grinned at him. He was thoroughly enjoying this feeling of luxury.
“Why not? A Cinzano Bitters. What are we eating, Diallo?”
“Well, sir, I thought an avocado with crab, then a gigot with a touch of garlic. I have a very fine Pont-l’Évêque and a beautiful Brie. Perhaps a citron sorbet to follow.”
Girland closed his eyes.
“Hmmmm... don’t tell me, give me.”
With now a feeling of complete security, he relaxed. After all, O’Leary had told him that trouble was his business. O’Leary was one of O’Halloran’s bright, Irish fighters. Girland told himself he now had nothing to worry about until Erica Olsen recovered consciousness, and that would be some hours ahead. He dozed.
“Hey!”
The blonde girl, wearing a flame-red sleeveless dress, who stood before him brought him upright.
He stared, then grinned.
“Well! For a moment you had me fooled.”
Ginny looked anxiously at him.
“Do you like it? It took a whole bottle of peroxide.”
Girland regarded her small, immature figure, her bright, expectant eyes, her young alert face and he smiled.
“Ginny... you look gorgeous. Yes, of course, I think you look more beautiful blonde. Come and sit down. Tell me the story of your life.”
She regarded him, an exasperated expression in her eyes.
“I don’t want to tell you the story of my life... it is far too dull. Tell me the story of your life.” She came and sat by his side, self-consciously touching her hair. “Are you sure you like me better this way?”