Free 1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal by James Hadley Chase Page A

please keep your pretty nose out of this? Who cares what you think?” He looked at Malik. “How about it, my Russian comrade? How about a deal?”
    Malik regarded him with contempt.
    “I would rather trust a rattlesnake than you, Girland. I can handle this woman. I don’t need you. What surprises me is that Dorey should use you.”
    “You’re right. It surprises me.” Girland laughed. “The trouble with Dorey is he is a romantic. He hasn’t learned to distrust anyone. Well, okay, if you’re sure we can’t make a deal, what’s going to happen to me?”
    By now the ambulance was racing along the broad AutoRoute de l’Ouest.
    “In a little while we stop and let you out,” Malik said. “You can then return to Dorey and tell him you have failed. But be careful, the next time we meet may not be so pleasant for you. I have no orders to kill you, but if we should meet again, then I could be tempted.”
    Girland gave an exaggerated shiver.
    “I’ll keep clear of you, Comrade. I wouldn’t want to put temptation in your way. And how about our pretty little nurse?”
    Malik glanced at Ginny and shrugged.
    “She can get out with you. Just for your information, after we have driven a few miles from the place we leave you, we change cars. You will be wasting your time trying to follow us.”
    “Why should I follow you?” Girland asked. “I’ve gone through the motions. I haven’t been successful. I have had some money so it is now Dorey’s funeral.”
    Malik drew in a long breath of exasperation. This attitude, this talk coming from an American agent infuriated and baffled him.
    He had always taken his work seriously and had been ready to sacrifice his life for the Cause. This man . . . Malik controlled his exploding temper. He knew about him . . . a man who thought only of himself.
    But thinking about Girland, as the ambulance roared along the AutoRoute, Malik felt a slight qualm. How much easier life would be, he thought wistfully, if he had this kind of philosophy of always putting yourself first and always thinking of money. He stared at Girland whose eyes were shut as he lolled in his seat, completely relaxed and humming the latest Beatles’ hit.
    Then Malik stiffened. Even to think this way was decadent, he reminded himself. Leaning forward, a snap in his voice, he told Smernoff to drive faster.
     
    * * *
     
    The time was 10.10 p.m. and Mahler’s 2nd Symphony was coming to a blazing end when the shrill, persistent ringing of the front door bell made Nicolas Wolfert start to his feet, his fat, dimpled face showing his irritation.
    Wolfert lived in a luxury apartment in Rue Singer: a penthouse that overlooked the old and soot-blackened roofs of Paris. He had bought this three-room apartment with the money he had inherited from his father, Joel Wolfert, who had been a successful merchant, selling American goods to the Chinese people. Joel Wolfert’s original idea had been to turn his business over to his son, but he found to his consternation that his son wished to be a scholar. After a longish period which had disappointed the father, Nicolas Wolfert emerged as one of the world’s experts on Chinese jade and a rare being who could write, read and speak several Chinese dialects fluently.
    His father dead, the fortune he had inherited wisely invested, Wolfert now made an acceptable living attending auctions, writing articles on jade and when necessary working for Dorey when Dorey needed advice on Chinese problems.
    Dorey had accepted this short, fat rather unattractive man as his Chinese expert. Wolfert, of course, had been screened by Security, but they had been so dazzled by his talents they hadn’t dug as deeply into his private life as they should. What would have worried Dorey had he known was Wolfert’s liking for Oriental women. His sexual activities, carefully concealed, would have made Dorey’s remaining hairs stand on end.
    Wolfert, muttering to himself, turned down his expensive Quad hi-fi set