silly of me to give you back the gun, right?”
Without another word Palmer plunged off up the corridor. He had to knock three times at Tremaine's door before anything happened. When it opened Jules Tremaine stood in the door and stared out at them irresolutely. The Frenchman was badly in need of a shave, and his eyes were bloodshot. “What d'you two birds of ill omen want?” he asked thickly. “In, I suppose,” he answered his own question, and walked back inside as though it were a matter of indifference to him whether they followed or not. When Johnny got inside Jules Tremaine was pouring himself half a water glass of Armagnac from a bottle two-thirds empty.
“Goddammit, Tremaine, I want to talk to you,” Harry Palmer bristled.
“Unfortunately I hear you.” Tremaine raised his glass and swallowed three times rapidly. He bowed exaggeratedly when he found Johnny's eyes upon him. “Sacrilegious, I know, to gulp in such a manner, but circumstances alter cases.”
Not drunk, Johnny decided, but not far from it, either. The room could have used a good cleaning. It appeared different to him from the last time he had been there, and he suddenly realized why. The large short wave radio and the table upon which it stood were both gone. “What happened to your radio, Tremaine?” he asked the Frenchman.
Harry Palmer cut in, angrily malicious. “After so many years a man can get tired of his hobby of listening to the short wave marine band, you know.”
Johnny looked at him. “So what's with the marine band?”
“Don't be naive, Killain. In certain lines of business it pays a man to know on which tide a certain ship is going to dock, even at what hour. If he knew that he might know, not only specific workmen unloading freight, but the customs crew checking it in.”
“You've got a lot to say, Harry,” Tremaine said from the sofa upon which he'd seated himself. He didn't appear particularly concerned. Glass in hand, he leaned back and closed his eyes.
“I'll have a damn sight more to say, you murdering bastard!” the little man flared. “I'm going-”
“Murdering?” Johnny interrupted. “Madeleine Winters died?”
“No, no,” Palmer said impatiently. “Although she still could. It's Jack Arends he killed. There's no-”
“Harry-”
“Shut up, you!” Palmer's complexion was mottled from the violence of his emotion. “For that matter, Madeleine might have been better off if you had killed her. The doctors say there's a serious question as to what her mental condition will be. If she recovers at all.”
Jules Tremaine re-opened his eyes, which had remained closed. “I didn't lay a finger on Madeleine, Harry,” he said softly. “I have an alibi.” He smiled. “Attested to by the police.”
“I don't believe y-” Harry Palmer swung to Johnny. “I don't believe him. He hated her. He'd said time and time again he'd get her.”
“True,” the Frenchman said unruffledly. He raised his glass and drank from it, his bloodshot eyes on the little man. “But someone saved me the trouble. And through a most fortunate circumstance I have an alibi. I very nearly didn't.”
“You weren't here,” Johnny inserted.
“I wasn't,” Tremaine agreed. His glance that had difficulty in focusing moved over to Johnny speculatively. “Although I don't know how you knew. I was-disturbed, last evening. Upset, if you like. I am given to moods. I have a-treatment for them. Early in the evening I repaired to a little place I know where the bartender is an artist in the preparation of that much neglected drink, the French Seventy-five.” He smiled at Johnny, not quite vacuously despite the clouded eyes. “You're familiar with the drink? Champagne over a cognac base? Terrific morale builder. I had-several, after which I decided a spot of visiting was in order. I've no idea, actually, how long my stay lasted, but upon my departure-”
“Who'd you go to see?” Johnny drilled at him.
“A friend.” Tremaine took a long, meditative pull at his glass. “Yes, I believe that covers it. A friend. As I say, I'm not clear as to my departure time. For some reason, also unclear to me at the moment, it had been decided that despite the hour I was to drive up to the Bronx and deliver a package. Really a most inconsequential package.”
He waved his hand, nearly dropping his glass. “I actually started, before it occurred to me that I could accomplish the same thing far more conveniently today by messenger. Having arrived at this brilliant conclusion, I drove back to my bartender and more French Seventy-fives. Magnificent drink, really. It was latish when I got in downstairs to find that damnably narky Rogers waiting in the lobby. You will agree, gentlemen, that if I'd made the trip to the Bronx I'd have been unable to take Rogers to my bartender friend who assured him of my presence at the critical time? In my relief I insisted that Rogers have a French Seventy-five. I'm afraid his palate needs cultivating.”
Johnny glanced sardonically at a discomfited Harry Palmer. “Want your gun back now, hot shot? I'll steady your hand for you.”
“He still killed Arends,” Palmer blustered. “You know he did.”
Jules Tremaine re-opened the bloodshot eyes he had again closed. “Gun? You were going to kill me, Harry, because of what I'd done to Madeleine?” He looked surprised. “Why?”
“Why!” Palmer shouted emotionally. “Anyone who'd do that to a woman's not fit to live, that's why!”
“But why you, Harry?” Tremaine persisted gently. “It's a bit thick you're passing yourself off as her protector, or avenging angel, either. I know she's been blackmailing you for years.”
For the first time since he had known him, Johnny thought the brash-looking little man appeared completely taken aback. Tremaine winked at Johnny gravely. “I owed him a dig for that bit about the wireless,” he confided. He transferred his attention to Palmer. “Did you suppose no one knew about your financial arrangements, old boy?”
“That was a long time ago,” Palmer said quickly, recovering. “The relationship has-changed.”
“Recently? For the better?” the Frenchman inquired significantly. He drained his glass, stooped and groped for the bottle alongside the sofa. “I'm sorry, but you people will have to excuse me now. I'm getting drunk. Disgusting, I know, but my own method of-ah-reassessing certain — ah-ambiguous assets.”
“You want a ride downtown?” Harry Palmer said abruptly to Johnny, who nodded. Jules Tremaine did not accompany them to the door. The last Johnny saw of him he had again half-filled his glass and was contemplating it in the light. “Doesn't know what he's talking about,” Palmer said jerkily with a side glance at Johnny at the elevators. “It's not like that at all now.” The elevator doors opened, and they stepped aboard. “Not like that at all,” Harry Palmer repeated loudly.
Johnny was still trying to catch up with the sudden reversal of the no-motive feeling he'd had about the aggressive little man. He wondered cynically about Palmer and Arends.
Palmer was watching Johnny's face. “Ridiculous listen drunken clown-” he was rattling off in verbal shorthand when the car stopped in the lobby. Johnny looked out at Ernest Faulkner waiting to get on. Ernest Faulkner looked in at them, obviously flustered.
“Visitin' the sick?” Johnny asked him blandly. He maneuvered the lawyer away from the elevator as he and Palmer got off.
“Is he sick?” Faulkner asked anxiously.
“He's drunk!” Palmer sneered caustically.
“Oh. He sounded-upset when he called me,” the lawyer said. “I'll-I'll see what I can do for him.” He flushed under Johnny's eyes. “Jules is my friend,” he said importantly.
“What'd he call you about?” Johnny asked.
“Really, Killain. You're the crudest-I dislike having to descend to your level and inform you that it's none of your business.” Ernest Faulkner drew a deep breath, trying to strengthen the sensitive features behind the heavy glasses. “Now if you'll kindly get out of my way-”
Johnny silently stepped aside. He watched until the doors closed behind the slender lawyer.
“Let's go, if you're coming with me!” Palmer ordered brusquely. Johnny followed him out to the curb. He thought for a minute they were waiting for a cab until a Lincoln Continental pulled slowly in to them from the traffic stream. Tiny bulked up behind the wheel, the preposterous chauffeur's cap perched squarely on top of his head.
The little man took a quick look at Johnny as they settled down in the back seat. “Listen,” he began rapidly.
