'An American passport, I have noted.'
'Yes.'
The Inspector's gaze swept about the table. Obviously he enjoyed the dramatic. 'And the name of this man, found directly across from the scene of the crime, this man who registered at the hotel under an American passport?'
'The name on the registry was Gill Martin.'
'Yes, the name on the registry was Gil Martin. Could it not as well have been L'Americaine Formidable — or Mack Bolan — or The Executioner?'
The conference broke up shortly after that dramatic moment.
An item of reasonable proof had been established.
The Paris police had arrived at a logical course of action.
And a man who was then calling himself Gil Martin was moving into an area of jeopardy never before encountered during his young and savage career.
There was a uniqueness here — a quality of beauty which had nothing to do with the flawless skin, saucy eyes, and the raven sheen of contoured hair. He knew that he was looking at the most beautiful woman in his experience — but he would have been hard-put to describe that beauty to another.
Bolan was not absolutely certain as to just 'oo' he should be. He dragged a chair over beside the bed and sat down.
The girl shrank back from his brooding gaze and said, 'I demand to know 'oo you are.'
He smiled suddenly and told her, 'Since this is my room, and that is my bed, I think you should first tell me 'oo the 'ell you are.'
She said, 'Thees ees Gilbear Martin's suite.'
Bolan nodded his head agreeably. 'That's right. And I'm standing-in for him. So 'oo the 'ell is in my bed?'
She was peering at him with mounting perplexity. 'Standing-een? But I do not — well, thees ees crazy!'
Bolan told her, 'If you belonged to me, I'd spend about half my time just sitting and looking at you.'
She moved head and shoulders in what he read as an unconsciously coquettish gesture and asked him, 'And the othair time?'
Bolan chuckled. 'Guess.'
She remembered where she was, and demanded, 'Well, where ees Gilbear?'
'Cooling it, relaxing. So don't you go lousing him up, eh.'
'Do you know 'oo I am!'
'I don't care if you're Joan of Arc. Blow the whistle on Gil and you're a louse — a beautiful one, but still a louse.'
'Blow the wheestle?' She laughed suddenly and cried, 'Oh, oui! But this is delicious! Quickly now, 'and me my wrap and turn your 'ead.'
Bolan did both. She moved out of the bed and into the flimsy garment in a single fluid movement, then leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. 'I am not the louse,' she assured him. 'Eeny-way, I am leave for Cannes een a few hours. I 'ave not the time for blow the wheestle. Tell Gilbear that Cici sends 'er love.'
Bolan asked, 'Ceci who?'
'Oh, m'oui, you are the lousy stand-een. You do not know of Ciei Carceaux?' The girl was getting into a bulkier garment and fishing about with one foot for a pair of furry little bedroom slippers. She gave him a sharp gaze and told him, 'Not eentirely lousy. The face ees strong, eet 'as character, more so than Gilbear. Cici could grow to love thees face, Meester Stand-een. Tell me, stand-een, what would you do weeth Cici othair than seet and look at 'er?'
Bolan chuckled and said, 'I'd think of something.'
She laughed again and said, 'Well, eef I were not going to Cannes...'
'Isn't that on the Riviera?'
'Yes, eet ees on the Riviera.'
'Close to Nice and Marseilles?'
'Nice, yes. Marseilles, not so close. Are you going there?'
Bolan grinned. 'Someone suggested tonight that I may be happier there.'
She was watching him through partially lowered lashes, the coquette resurfacing. 'I do not like to drive alone. Come weeth me.'
'You're driving?'
She made a wry face and told him, 'Pairhaps you would do the driving?'
Bolan said, 'Great. Let's leave right now.'
'Agreed! Do you mind eef I stop by my suite and get some clothing?'
He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. 'You look great to me just the way you are.'
'Americains I love them!' she shrieked. 'So eem-pulsive!' She ran to the door, turned back to him, and said, 'Meet me een the lobby een feefteen meenutes.'
'In the garage,' he suggested.
'Oh-kay!'
The door closed and she was gone.
Bolan put a hand to his head and gazed about the room, wondering if she had actually been there.
He had never been in the presence of such an exciting, enchanting woman.
'Yes, she had been there. He could still smell the lingering traces of her.
Maybe, he was thinking, the game had changed. Maybe he would snatch a few golden moments from his jungle of death and discover what Eden was all about.
The Executioner should have known better.
Very shortly, he would.
11
Right On
Bolan took the elevator straight to the garage, again bypassing the lobby. He dropped his bags at the pickup station and told the attendant, 'Le voiture de Mlle. Carceaux.'
He was informed that the car was ready, and was directed to a gleaming Rolls waiting in the exit lane. The attendant turned over the keys and Bolan approached the car with sudden misgivings. He was stowing his gear in the luggage compartment when the woman arrived. She was almost quivering with excitement as she hurried over; a porter burdened with two large suitcases was laboring to keep up with her.
Bolan took her bags and stowed them himself. He noted that Cici was tipping the porter, then she opened a rear door and climbed in without a word to Bolan.
He secured the luggage compartment and went around to the driver's side, leaned in, deliberately measured the distance separating the front and rear seats with his eyes, and told her, 'I didn't exactly have this in mind.'
She said, 'In the box — the compartment — what the 'ell you call — is chauffeur's 'at.'
'You want me to wear a chauffeur's 'at?'
'Not that I want, but that I suggest. Also I suggest you should 'urry.'
Something in her eyes told him not to argue. He slid into the seat and found the blue cap. It was a bit small but not hopelessly so. Bolan put it on, added his dark glasses, cranked the engine, and eased out of the garage.
They were stopped immediately at the curb just outside by a uniformed policeman. A quick glance right and left disclosed a swarm of them in the immediate area. Bolan's heart went into a tango and his mind shifted into survival mode. He had a hand on the door mechanism, waiting for the cop to step over to him, his thoughts racing
