Bolan unscrewed the light bulb, allowed his eyes to find their adjustment, then moved silently along the hall to the floating stairway to the roof. A small door at the top was bolted on the inside; both lock and wood framing were ancient; perfect, if typical, and Bolan suspected that it was.
He moved on to the roof and stood quietly for several minutes getting the layout. A common rooftop served the entire line of buildings; this, also, he had gathered during his earlier recon of the area. There was no moon and no stars; the only illumination of the night was being provided by the dull castings of the neighborhood's artificial lighting. He moved to the rear of the building and found the rusted fire escape. A very narrow and dark alleyway below, a door standing open down the way, a line of garbage cans. He paused at a chimney outlet and lightly smudged his face with soot, then moved cautiously across the rooftop to the end building, a moving shadow in the blackness.
Bolan watched for the Citroen, marked its passage, and quickly descended the steel ladder. A quiet moment later he was on the opposite side of Rue Galande and ascending to the rooftop of that line of ancient buildings. Here the going was a bit different, the roofs uneven and roughly joined, occasionally a low parapet separating individual buildings.
He took his time getting the lie and sniffing the atmosphere for human presence. Halfway back toward his goal he came upon a heavily breathing man of about middle age, mumbling to himself and hanging out a washing of underwear and socks, that area dimly lighted from an open doorway. Bolan watched and waited as the man completed his chore and went inside, then Bolan went on, considering himself warned of clothesline hazards.
He was using his own hotel as a reference point. He drew abreast of it with utmost caution and settled down to another breathless wait. Ten minutes passed. Satisfied that he was entirely alone up there, he found the door and went to work on it. Several minutes of patiently restrained labor was rewarded by a dull snap; the door swung open, and the Executioner had constructed his avenue to another hell.
He spurned the creaking mechanism of the floating stairway and dropped lightly into the hall. Something moved down by the main stairwell. Bolan froze and became part of the wall. Muted light spilled up the stairwell from the second floor; six doors at the third level, slivers of light defining each of them, behind him, a window to the outside. Utter silence marked the third floor, except for soft music and an occasional murmur of voices from below.
Bolan allowed the minutes to drift on, then he began his move, working his way in inches toward the stairwell, swiftly transiting each light-defined doorway, until he could see the skinny man sitting quietly hunched on the top step.
The guy was either asleep or half-asleep. Bolan closed the distance in one cat-like leap, seizing throat and mouth in the same motion, lifting the sentry clear of all reference to the floor, carrying him quietly back into the shadows and not releasing the throat-lock until the possibility of outcry was gone forever.
He deposited the remains in a darkened corner of the hallway and began his exploration of the third-level rooms. He did not score until the final try. Beyond the sixth door, a young girl with shoulder-length red hair was seated at a dressing table and applying a scarlet substance to puffy nipples with a make-up brush. She wore a transparent negligee and shortie gown; the gown was pulled down from the top to allow free access to the task at hand. Their eyes met in the mirror, hers widening in immediate alarm. Bolan whispered 'Silence!' and moved on inside and closed the door.
Plump breasts popped back into the confines of the see-through gown and she swivelled about to look him over with a shrinking gaze. He asked her, 'Comprenez-vous angling?'
She shook her head negatively but whispered, 'A little.'
Bolan showed her the machine pistol and told her, 'Pour les femmes, non. I have come for the men. Je veux les hommes. Comprenez-vous?'
The girl nodded her head and tried to say something in reply. The words stuck. She cleared her throat and placed a hand daintily to the side of her face. 'L'Americaine Formidable!' she hissed.
'Yeah, maybe so. The point is, I don't want you girls getting hurt. Cette blessure pour les femmes, non.'
She again jerked her head in understanding, but the eyes revealed confusion.
'I want you to get all the girls up here. Can you do that?'
A blank look, a hesitant nod, and, 'You wish me... go elsewhere?'
Bolan was not certain that he was getting through, or that he ever would. He pulled her to her feet and told her, 'La femme Anglaise, blonde, bring her here, to me.'
Comprehension dawned. The girl nodded her head vigorously and replied, 'Oui, Judy Jones, I will bring her.'
Bolan cautioned her with a finger across her lips. He patted the pistol and shook his head warningly, then went to the door, checked the hall, and motioned for her to join him. They went together to the stairs. Bolan stood at the railing, pistol at the ready, and sent her down alone.
Sure, he was taking a chance. That was the name of the game. Getting a bunch of women, even whores, in a crossfire was not. He stood tensely waiting, safety off, hair-trigger tickling the finger. Then came a sound, a movement at the bottom of the stairs.
He stepped back into the shadows, merged with them, and took up the briefest yet hardest wait of the night.
In his own mind Bolan was settling once and for all that age-old question about the heart of a whore.
8
Maison de Mort
Monzoor Rudolfi sat stoney-faced in the rear of the Citroen. Beside him was the somber Vito Bertelucci, Rudolfi's strong right hand. Driving and alone in the front was a weary native of Philadelphia, Charley 'Roller' Guevici, who was at the moment complaining of dizziness.
Rudolfi muttered, 'Shut up, Roller,' and opened the miniature bar in the armrest. He poured himself a brandy and closed the bar, ignoring the needs of his companions. His rear end was paralyzed and he had a headache and he had long ago began to wonder about the wisdom of this hardset. Bolan was not stupid enough to return to the scene of his crime; he would not push his luck that far. But where did one begin? If not here, then where? Also, if Bolan had a terroristic interest in the Paris operation, would he not use this same starting point for an extension of further adventures?
Rudolfi sniffed the brandy and tugged at an earlobe, then he turned to Bertelucci and said, 'Try the house again, Vito.'
Bertelucci grunted and picked up the mobile telephone, placed the call, and settled back with a gloomy gaze at his boss. He got his connection. 'Roxanne? Vito. Anything?' He listened for a moment, then spoke past the mouthpiece to Rudolfi. 'We have company. Lavagni and crew. What shall I tell her?'
'Tell her to get Lavagni and crew drunk.'
'Seriously, Tom.'
Rudolfi sighed. 'Tell Roxanne to escort them to the chateau. Give them the full VIP treatment. She knows.' He glanced at his watch. 'Tell her we should be there by midnight. Perhaps with a prize.'
Bertelucci nodded and relayed the instructions through the telephone, then he hung up and sat back with a sigh, lit a cigarette, and resumed the surveillance at the window. Around and around they went, and where they'd stop, nobody would... He flashed a quick glance at his boss and told him, 'I need to take a piss.'
Rudolfi downed the brandy before signifying receipt of the request. Then he kicked the driver's seat and said, 'The place on St. Jacques, Roller. I suppose we all should get out and refresh ourselves.'
Guevici's eyes in the rearview mirror were grateful. 'Yeah, Tom, this ring around the rosy is making me dizzy as hell. Of course if it was accomplishing anything...'
'Shut up, Roller,' Rudolfi commanded. He did not like to hear his own doubts voiced. Bolan would come. He knew that he would come. An empire awaited that coming. A lion with a roar could not for long remain mute. 'Go on around,' he said suddenly, changing his mind about the stop at St. Jacques. 'Stop at the house of Celeste. We will refresh ourselves there.'
