Authors: Gil Brewer
Tags: #murder, #noir, #Paris, #France, #treason, #noir master, #femme fatale
77 Rue Paradis (21 page)
“We can’t hook on,” somebody said from the other boat. “It would make things very bad.”
“All right,” Gorssmann said. “What shall I do?” he asked the captain of the launch.
“My boat leaks,” he said, apparently referring to the dinghy.
“You’ll have to come over here,” Gorssmann said.
“Is it ready?” somebody said.
“Certainly.”
Baron could hear Gorssmann breathing. The hissing of the man’s breath reached even above the sound of the yacht’s engines.
“All right,” somebody called. “We’re coming over.”
Gorssmann was standing near the dinghy softly muttering curses in English.
“Let us not pray now,” the captain of the launch said.
The yacht’s engines ceased. Baron heard the oars.
“You are alone?” somebody in the rowboat said.
“Certainly,” Gorssmann said. “As I promised.”
“Good.”
The boat bumped alongside. “Stay there,” somebody said. “Hand me up.”
Gorssmann muttered futilely to the captain and the captain came down beside the dinghy where Baron lay and knelt and reached overboard, and pulled up a hand and an arm. Baron watched quietly underneath the dinghy and saw the face come up into his line of vision, the eyes turned sharply up, watching.
And it drove down into him coldly. The blond hair came up and the blue eyes and the smile and the thick scar on the forehead. John Graff. The man kept right on coming and finally stood and Baron looked out at the feet of John Graff.
“Well, Hugo,” Graff said in English. “We meet again.”
“True,” Gorssmann said. “True, true. Exciting and of extreme pleasure, I assure you.”
“Still the same old Hugo, eh?”
Baron lay there with his memories.
“We will make this fast, Hugo. I haven’t much time. I’m going straight to Italy.”
“Which means you are heading for Spain,” Gorssmann said.
“Well,” Graff said.
And each time he spoke it was as if somebody drove another spike deeply into Baron and he twisted upon the spike, feeling the pain of it. This was the man. The man he had sought for two and a half years. The man who had taken his wife, and destroyed him, ruined him—the man who had been the cause of Bette’s….
“The money?” Gorssmann said.
“Right here,” Graff said. “I must see the papers.”
“Start the engine,” Gorssmann said to the captain.
“Comment?”
“Leave us! Fool!”
The captain stumped back along the deck. Baron watched their feet. They moved forward on the launch’s deck and they were facing away from him. He felt for the gun. He got it in his hand. He was dizzy with wanting to see Graff, wanting to show him the gun, wanting to get his hands on the man. He went out of his head then. He knew what was happening, but the control was gone. He held the gun and thrust the dinghy up and came out, springing to his feet.
They had not even heard him. A man beside the launch in the rowboat called, shouting.
Graff turned and saw Baron.
“Well,” Graff said. He had one hand on the rail of the launch. The man in the rowboat kept shouting. Baron glanced quickly toward the yacht over there and saw them running up and down the deck.
Gorssmann was staring at him, his eyes protruding in his head. The pale darkness was sliced from the yellow glow of the lights in the launch’s cabin.
Gorssmann clutched the papers and Graff held a small black leather brief case, about half the size of an ordinary brief case.
“You didn’t tell me this would happen,” Graff said to Gorssmann.
Still Gorssmann could not speak. Baron stepped lightly along the deck, until he could see Graff quite plainly. Graff had not moved. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man and he wore a dinner jacket and white shirt, but no tie. He stood stiffly at the rail. Then abruptly the hand with the case swung out, striking Baron’s gun arm.
Gorssmann began to run toward the far side of the deck cabin. Baron snapped a shot at him, saw Gorssmann go to his knees, and bright blinding lights suddenly shot all over the launch.
Baron swung the gun across at Graff. Graff swung the leather case again.
“Afraid to shoot?” Graff said.
The lights flashed into Baron’s eyes and he dived after Graff. He felt the man’s face against his hand and he battered, and Graff cursed and Baron heard a splash.
“For that—” Graff said.
They came together, wrestling on the deck. Graff was a tremendous man and Baron found that he was strong, too. He battered at him. He still held the gun.
“Stop!” somebody called. A shot banged and the slug whined, ricocheting off the cabin.
Gorssmann yelled something. Somebody was shouting over on the yacht. Baron slammed and slammed at the bright-dark figure before him. Graff’s face was twisted with fury, and he lashed out at Baron with his fists. Baron swung the gun and felt it contact with Graff’s face. Then the gun spun from his hand.
“Get the boat ready!” Graff called overboard.
Nobody said anything. Baron went after him. Graff turned and ran along the deck. Again the gun shot and again and again. The lights were bright and Baron saw they were coming from still another boat that was quite near, a low launch. Two lights splayed from the bow.
Baron leaped past Gorssmann, who still knelt on the deck. Graff turned and watched him come, leaning against the rail. He cursed Baron, then ran straight at him.
“Everybody stand still, don’t move!” a voice called loudly over a loud-speaker.
Graff kept coming. Baron dived at him and Graff leaped over him and the voices shouted over the loudspeaker. Baron turned, getting to his feet, and he saw John Graff poised on the rail of the launch getting ready to jump, and from the other launch with the searchlights out there, Baron saw the sudden flashing arch of the tracers and heard the machine gun and John Graff stood on the rail receiving the slugs in his white shirt and in his throat.
Graff crumpled, still standing, his knees bending with the slugs pounding into him. The machine gun stopped yammering. Graff folded and sprawled out and down into the water.
“Get a boathook,” somebody called. A rowboat was coming from the other launch. Baron stood by the rail and watched and he heard Gorssmann bubbling nearby. He turned and looked. Gorssmann was still there on his hands and knees, spitting blood across the sheaf of papers and blueprints still clutched in his hand.
* * * *
Baron stood on the quiet deck of the police launch and talked with Follet. They watched them fish Graff’s body from the water and a medic was on the deck of the other launch trying to help Gorssmann now.
“Well?” Follet said.
Baron looked at him. He could not think. He could do nothing but listen and watch. He had talked for a few moments, but now he could not speak. All he could do was think of the image of his daughter.
“I cannot tell you all,” Follet said. “I want to thank you, though, monsieur.”
Baron watched him. He saw Gorssmann over there, seated on a canvas chair. The big man sat quietly, staring out across the sea, into the night.
“Look,” Follet said. “I—”
“Never mind,” Paul Chevard said.
Baron turned. Chevard had come up out of the companionway. He stood there with the light passing over his shoulders. Then he closed the door and came across the deck and said to Follet, “I’ll explain.”
“Merci,” Follet said. He grinned at Baron, then began touching his pockets, probing for his tobacco.
Baron stared at Chevard.
“It was a dirty trick, in a way,” Chevard said. “Follet and I have worked together on this, Frank.”
Baron turned away. The rowboat with Graff’s body was alongside now. He could see the wet crumpled figure lying across the bow of the rowboat. He listened to Chevard speak, the words filtering aimlessly into his mind.
“Those papers weren’t real, Frank. It was the only way Follet could get to Graff, you see? It simply happened this way. I’m sorry, but we are very proud of you. You thought you were lying to me, and I thought I was lying to you—so now….” Baron turned and saw Chevard shrug. “Everything is the same as before, see? These things come to pass, Frank.”
“I see,” Baron said.
“Frank,” Chevard said, “I know what you’ve been through. But don’t you see, this will clear you of everything. I am coming to the States with you. We will get you set up again.”
Baron kept on watching him, not letting the thoughts come into his head at all, and he was dead inside, all dead, and his head was like the night out there.
“Frank,” Chevard said. “I have something for you—something that will make you feel better.” He walked over to the companionway and opened the door and Lili came out, bringing Bette with her. Bette broke free of Lili’s hand and rushed to Baron.
She came into his arms. He did not know whether to hold her or what and he could not think at all. He could not speak.
“I didn’t know what to do!” Bette said. “Lili took me and we ran away last night. We’ve been with Monsieur Follet ever since. Lili is wonderful, Dad.” She stepped back and looked at him. He stared woodenly. He looked up past Bette and Lili smiled at him.
“All right?” Chevard said.
Lili smiled slyly at him and moved across the deck toward him. Bette turned and watched her. He stared at Bette, at the way the freshening wind blew her coat, at her hair, at his daughter and his hope.
Then Lili was in his arms. And suddenly he began to wake up as she pressed close against him, speaking softly against his throat. He closed his eyes and let her continue to speak softly against his throat like that, and her fine dark hair brushed against his face.
“You trust me now?” Lili said.
He opened his eyes and held her off and looked at her. Somebody coughed, and he heard Follet giving orders about Gorssmann, and Chevard slapped him hard on the back.
He just kept right on looking.
THE END
of a novel by
Gil Brewer
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