Free Corsican Death by Marc Olden Page A

it. He has killed, yes?”
    Bolt studied Staggers’ face. The beard didn’t hide any of the ex-GI’s weakness and cruelty. He had the face of a man who would do anything for money. But never anything on a grand scale except scream like hell when he got his balls caught in the wringer. Bolt had seen that face, seen it on other men—white, black, yellow—wherever illicit narcotics were sold. A small-time hustler who’d stick his thumb in your eye for a nickel.
    “Tonight. Ansel’s,” said Bolt.
    “Ah yes. Staggers goes with a whore who works there, a woman called Anna Tellers. Staggers can tell you a lot about Alain, even some things I don’t know. Alain has a lot of women. He thinks he’s a lover. He has a wife and children somewhere in Marseilles, but they keep far away from him, and the Count sees that they have enough money to prevent them from making trouble. You talk to Staggers and learn what Alain might do if he gets away from the French police.”
    Bolt looked at the back of Jean-Paul’s head. “Friend-to-friend, what do you think will happen when the boat lands?” Tell me the truth, old friend, thought the narc. Your brother cops have busted your ass, held you back from promotions, tried to kill you once or twice, tried to frame you—all because you won’t go along with being nice to Corsican dope dealers. You’ve survived hard times, and it’s made you sad and wise. Let’s hear it.
    Jean-Paul didn’t answer for almost a minute. When he spoke, his voice was very low. “Alain’s the Count’s brother, and the Count is very powerful. The Count has friends in the police and with the politicians. I think … I think Alain Lonzu will never see the inside of a jail, no matter how many telegrams Washington sends to Paris. That is what I think. I think, rather I know, that the Count and Remy Patek will have men at Le Havre waiting for that boat, and even now Remy has men checking with Alain’s friends, his women, to see if Alain planned a double-cross in America. I think you are in danger, my friend, that is what I think.”
    Bolt shrugged. Can’t quarrel with that. Everything the big man said was true. Patek’s killers would be prowling around looking for any information that would shed light on what happened in America to Remy’s brother and the four million dollars. Alain Lonzu was a bigmouth, a lover who liked to brag to his women.
    Yeah, Remy and his goons would be out with their clipboards, asking questions, except that they wouldn’t have clipboards. They’d have guns, knives, fists, acid, fire—whatever it took to get Remy what he wanted. Watch out, Bolt. You’ve got a return-trip ticket, and you want to use it.
    “I took some more information for you,” said Jean-Paul. “Roger did, too. It’s all there. Roger thought the two of us might be noticed at the airport, even though I’m wearing the worst suit I own and I borrowed the cab. He’ll get in touch with you sometime today.”
    Bolt grinned. “Tell the little bastard to wash his moustache.” Roger Dinard. Thirty-five years old and looking fifteen years older because of a bald head, thick moustache, and round face. Funny way of walking, with feet turned out like a duck’s, and always wearing clothes with food stains or grease spots on them. A funny little man who really believed that cops should be straight and not on the take.
    Like Jean-Paul, Roger had paid for that moral outlook by being overlooked for promotion and getting shot at, among other things. Both were plainclothesmen, but neither was going any further in the police department. Yet both refused to quit or give in. They stuck together, with Jean-Paul spending an occasional evening with Roger Dinard, his wife, and two kids.
    Two good cops who were paying through the nose for being both good and cops. And now Bolt had placed his life in their hands, at least for the next five days.
    “Did Alain get a look at you?”
    Bolt nodded. “Think so.”
    Jean-Paul shook his