Oomfrey Bogarr!”
“To hell with the accent of this one! Let us see the proof.”
A hand dug into his pocket and brought out the folded dust jacket and Kendall Flanagan’s passport.
“Voilà! It is the passport of ours.”
“And the faces are not the same.”
“Writers put other names on their books, why not other faces?”
“Regard! If you had the face of ours, would you put the face of that one on your book?”
“So! You too!” It was the girl’s voice. “Maybe I should keep the key to her room.”
“I am only stating what anyone can see—”
“You are as sickening as Jean-Jacques. You would need the equipment of alpinisme. I see you, roped together, mounting the north wall of this blonde Alp—”
“Quiet! We must decide.”
“What is there to decide? Truly, she is not Mademoiselle Manning. We take the money and we go.”
“But thirty thousand francs—”
All the voices erupted at once, but it was the girl’s Colby was following. She was full up to here with Uncle Anatole’s farm. This was the Paris she’d been promised? The discothèques, the Moulin Rouge, the Champs Élysées, champagne? For five days she’d been up to her knees in fumier, taking care of an idiot of a cow, and cooking food and opening bottles of wine for the unbelievable appetite of this unbelievable species of woman who was the wrong woman to begin with. And besides, Uncle Anatole might return tomorrow—
She was immediately pounced upon and silenced, but Colby had caught it. He was going to win; they had to settle tonight. He gave no sign he’d heard, but said curtly, “Nobody gets anything until I’ve talked to Mademoiselle Flanagan.”
“You shall talk to her.”
“Good. Give me back the passport. And your letter is in my left-hand pocket.”
The passport was placed in his hand. He returned it to his pocket. Someone else removed the letter.
“What a species of imbecility, in your own handwriting,” the girl’s voice said. “It’s a good thing you have an American gangstair to tell you how to conduct an affair of this sort.”
“Come,” one of the voices said. He stood up, and was turned, marched forward, and turned again. He thought they were going down a hallway. They stopped. He heard a key being inserted in a lock, and had an impression of a door opening.
“She will tell you she is all right,” the man said. It was the one called Jean-Jacques. Then he warned, “No English.”
“Mademoiselle Flanagan?” Colby asked, addressing the blackness directly ahead of him.
“Yes. Who are you?” There was no fear in the voice, which seemed to be coming from the far side of a room. It was pure American French; they weren’t running in a ringer on him.
“Duke Colby, from Chicago,” he said. “I work for Carl. Trouble-shooter, enforcer—like that.” He wasn’t sure how much of this she could understand, but it was for the others anyway. “I flew in today to see if I could cool this thing before it got loused up with cops or newspapers.”
“How is Carl?”
“Chewing nails, you know him. He wanted to move in with a bunch of muscle, but I talked him out of it. Bad for business. You’re okay, then?”
“No complaints.”
“That’s all I wanted to know. Dudley’s just waiting for word from me to deliver the payoff. I’ll see you.”
The key turned in the lock again. “Now, are you satisfied?” Jean-Jacques asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Call the same number. When Monsieur Dudley answers, say only one word. Bingo.”
“Beengo.”
“That’s it. He’ll deliver the money as soon as he can get there.”
“Beengo. Remember it well, Rémy.”
He was marched back along the hallway a few steps and apparently into another room. His hands were tied behind him, and he was pushed backward onto a bed. “We are being robbed,” Jean-Jacques complained bitterly. “Thirty thousand francs—hah! But what can one do? We will drop you with the Cicero.”
They went out. He could hear them
“To hell with the accent of this one! Let us see the proof.”
A hand dug into his pocket and brought out the folded dust jacket and Kendall Flanagan’s passport.
“Voilà! It is the passport of ours.”
“And the faces are not the same.”
“Writers put other names on their books, why not other faces?”
“Regard! If you had the face of ours, would you put the face of that one on your book?”
“So! You too!” It was the girl’s voice. “Maybe I should keep the key to her room.”
“I am only stating what anyone can see—”
“You are as sickening as Jean-Jacques. You would need the equipment of alpinisme. I see you, roped together, mounting the north wall of this blonde Alp—”
“Quiet! We must decide.”
“What is there to decide? Truly, she is not Mademoiselle Manning. We take the money and we go.”
“But thirty thousand francs—”
All the voices erupted at once, but it was the girl’s Colby was following. She was full up to here with Uncle Anatole’s farm. This was the Paris she’d been promised? The discothèques, the Moulin Rouge, the Champs Élysées, champagne? For five days she’d been up to her knees in fumier, taking care of an idiot of a cow, and cooking food and opening bottles of wine for the unbelievable appetite of this unbelievable species of woman who was the wrong woman to begin with. And besides, Uncle Anatole might return tomorrow—
She was immediately pounced upon and silenced, but Colby had caught it. He was going to win; they had to settle tonight. He gave no sign he’d heard, but said curtly, “Nobody gets anything until I’ve talked to Mademoiselle Flanagan.”
“You shall talk to her.”
“Good. Give me back the passport. And your letter is in my left-hand pocket.”
The passport was placed in his hand. He returned it to his pocket. Someone else removed the letter.
“What a species of imbecility, in your own handwriting,” the girl’s voice said. “It’s a good thing you have an American gangstair to tell you how to conduct an affair of this sort.”
“Come,” one of the voices said. He stood up, and was turned, marched forward, and turned again. He thought they were going down a hallway. They stopped. He heard a key being inserted in a lock, and had an impression of a door opening.
“She will tell you she is all right,” the man said. It was the one called Jean-Jacques. Then he warned, “No English.”
“Mademoiselle Flanagan?” Colby asked, addressing the blackness directly ahead of him.
“Yes. Who are you?” There was no fear in the voice, which seemed to be coming from the far side of a room. It was pure American French; they weren’t running in a ringer on him.
“Duke Colby, from Chicago,” he said. “I work for Carl. Trouble-shooter, enforcer—like that.” He wasn’t sure how much of this she could understand, but it was for the others anyway. “I flew in today to see if I could cool this thing before it got loused up with cops or newspapers.”
“How is Carl?”
“Chewing nails, you know him. He wanted to move in with a bunch of muscle, but I talked him out of it. Bad for business. You’re okay, then?”
“No complaints.”
“That’s all I wanted to know. Dudley’s just waiting for word from me to deliver the payoff. I’ll see you.”
The key turned in the lock again. “Now, are you satisfied?” Jean-Jacques asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Call the same number. When Monsieur Dudley answers, say only one word. Bingo.”
“Beengo.”
“That’s it. He’ll deliver the money as soon as he can get there.”
“Beengo. Remember it well, Rémy.”
He was marched back along the hallway a few steps and apparently into another room. His hands were tied behind him, and he was pushed backward onto a bed. “We are being robbed,” Jean-Jacques complained bitterly. “Thirty thousand francs—hah! But what can one do? We will drop you with the Cicero.”
They went out. He could hear them
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