Marcia stroked the fur of her stole. Her smile was a little rueful.
“Here’s your taxi, Harry. Thanks, and I’ll be waiting for a call from you... Christmas.”
“You’ll get it. You know something? I’ve begun to ask myself why the hell I haven’t married.”
When he had driven away in the taxi, Marcia walked to where she had parked her Mini-Cooper on the Ponte de la Tournelle. She unlocked the car door and slid into the driving seat. For a moment or so, she stared through the dusty windshield. Did Harry mean anything by that last remark? she wondered. She was now thirty-five. She was getting bored being Dorey’s slave. Although she loved Paris, how much nicer it would be to have her own home in New York.
Don’t jump to conclusions, girl, she said, shrugging, then thumbing the starter, she drove rapidly to her three-roomed apartment on the Rue de la Tour.
Humming under her breath, she parked her little car, walked briskly through the dark courtyard, pressed the door release, then entered the lobby. She rode up in the elevator to the third floor. Leaving the elevator, she took from her bag her front door key and inserted it into the lock. She had some trouble opening the door, and this puzzled her. Up to this moment, the lock had worked efficiently. But by pulling the door towards her and putting pressure on the key, she managed to get the door open.
This was something she must look at tomorrow morning, she thought, but right now, she wanted her bed. There was nothing nicer than to have a first-class meal and good company, then come back, throw off your clothes and get into bed with a good book. She would read for twenty minutes, then turn out the light.
She snapped on the lights and walked into her living room. Then she stopped short, her blood turning cold, her mouth opening to scream.
The chill of cold steel touched her throat as Smernoff snarled, “One sound out of you, you bitch, and I will cut your throat.”
Malik lounged in her favourite armchair. A Russian cigarette burned between his thick fingers and his silver-coloured hair made a sharp contrast against the wine-coloured chair back.
“Don’t be foolish,” he said in his bad French. “All right, Boris, let her alone.”
Marcia recognised Malik. She had seen his photograph often enough in the various files she handled daily. She knew him to be the most dangerous of the Russian agents. Her heart quailed as Smernoff gave her a hard shove towards Malik.
“Sit down, Miss Davis,” Malik said politely. “We have no time to waste. I must know where Erica Olsen is. Please tell me.”
It said much for Marcia’s courage and self-control that by the time she had sat down and was facing Malik, she had recovered from the shock of finding these two men in her apartment, and she had also recovered her composure. She knew she was in deadly danger. She knew these two men would get the information they wanted from her unless she outwitted them. Her mind worked swiftly. She remembered Girland had already told Malik that Erica Olsen was to go to the American Embassy. This, she decided, must be her story. It would be hard to disprove, and she must be careful to convey to these two that she was giving the information reluctantly.
“You are Malik, aren’t you?” she said, looking steadily at the silver-haired giant.
“Never mind who I am. Where is Erica Olsen?”
“Where you can’t possibly get at her.”
“Miss Davis, I dislike being disagreeable to women,” Malik said, flicking ash on the carpet. “My companion has no such compunctions. You are wasting my time which is valuable. I am going to ask you again, and then if I don’t get a satisfactory answer, I will allow my companion to take over the interrogation. Where is Erica Olsen?”
Marcia appeared to hesitate. She shrank back in the chair. Her hands moved to her throat and her eyes became wide.
“I told you... where you can’t possibly get at her. She’s in the Embassy.”
“I was expecting you to say that,” Malik said. “My information is that she is on the Côte d’Azure. Where is Erica Olsen, please?”
Marcia stared into the expressionless eyes and she knew she had lost her gamble.
“Go to hell!” she said quietly, then starting up, she groped for the glass ashtray on a nearby occasional table with the intention of throwing it through the closed window.
She felt a blinding pain on the side of her neck, then she felt herself falling.
Smernoff who had chopped her with the side of his hand, caught hold of her and pulled her back into the chair.
Malik stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.
“Go ahead,” he said, and began to look around the room. He thought how comfortable it was and how he would like to own it. Everything was in good taste. There were several good etchings on the walls. One by Springer, a movement of birds, particularly pleased him. These Americans certainly knew how to live well. He thought of his own one-roomed home in Moscow, and he wrinkled his nose.
Smernoff had taken a hypodermic from his pocket. He stabbed a heavy dose of scopolamine into a vein on Marcia’s arm.
A half an hour later, Marcia was talking sleepily.
“Dorey has a villa in Eze,” she told Malik. “Erica Olsen is there with Girland. There are six of O’Halloran’s men guarding the villa.”
“How is the villa called?” Malik asked quietly.
“Villa Hélios.”
Malik moved away from her and looked at Smernoff.
“I think that covers it.”
Smernoff nodded.
“Well, all right.” Malik collected five butts of his Russian cigarettes from the ashtray and put them in a matchbox. “Then she’s yours. It is a pity. She’s attractive, isn’t she?”
Smernoff shrugged. Women bored him.
“All cats are grey in the dark,” he said indifferently. “What is one woman less in the world?”
“Be careful.” Malik moved to the door. “Give me five minutes.”
Smernoff smiled.
“You don’t have to tell me. I know my job.”
Malik nodded and left the apartment. He rode down in the elevator. The time was now 11.50 p.m. The concierge was in bed. No one saw him as he let himself out, crossed the street to where his car was parked. He got in and drove away.
Alone in the apartment, Smernoff helped Marcia to her feet.
“You need some fresh air,” he said and led her willingly to the open french window and out onto the balcony. He stood by her side looking down at the Rue de la Tour. At this hour, the street was deserted.
Marcia, drugged, sleepy and relaxed, put her hands on the damp balcony rail and breathed in the close night air.
Smernoff looked up and down the street. He looked intently at the lighted windows of the various nearby apartments. No one was out on their balconies. He stepped behind Marcia, bent, gripped her ankles tightly and heaved upwards.
She fell soundlessly, breaking her neck, her back and her right arm as she landed on the top of a parked Dauphine.
Ginny came out onto the terrace. Girland lifted his head and laid down the paperback he was reading.
“Well? How is she?”
“She’s all right,” Ginny said and sat in a chair near him. “She’s sleeping. I’ve given her a mild sedative. She should be able to get up tomorrow.” She looked at him. “Then you will have to play your role as her husband.”
Girland shrugged.
“I told you... it’s a job. I get paid for it.”
“I don’t think I want to stay here,” Ginny said, looking down at her hands. “I would rather return to the hospital.”
“This is your job, Ginny,” Girland reminded her. “You’re getting paid for it too.”