Chapter 9

C. Eldon Fleming was sitting at a sidewalk table in front of the approved cafe. Le Cafe Noir did not look like its name. Its facade was a grayish white, with red trim. The only black thing around was visible under the nails of the waiter who brought Fleming his vermouth.

Other than the neglect of his manicure, Maurice -as the waiter had introduced himself-could not be faulted. His courtesy and the speed with which he appeared when required were much better than the American had found in the hotel dining room. He wondered how much of the service was due to the "coupons" Frenchmen vied for. These clever paper incentives were furnished tourists when they entered the country, and they were to be given to citizens who met high standards of courtesy and service in dealings with the visitors.

Fleming listened to the accordionist inside the cafe. He was playing Julie la Rousse. The American remembered sitting in sidewalk cafes in 1945> when other tunes were more in vogue. He looked at his pocket watch. Still almost an hour before he was due at the bank.

He'd spent all of this morning in planning and preparing for what was ahead. He unconsciously patted the breast of his jacket, feeling the papers which he'd put in the inside pocket. A rough map of the Salon area, pinpointing the farmhouse, a slightly less rough sketch of the floor plan, with suggested approaches for the Surete when they closed in, and a brief few paragraphs describing the situation there.

He didn't pat his hip pocket where he again carried the Beretta. But he could feel its reassuring hardness as he leaned back in the chair. What worried him was the probability that he would be given some kind of search when they picked him up. He argued with himself that he had lost their original bloodhound only for a few minutes. He was sure that they also had the hotel staked out, and that they knew he hadn't had time for any lengthy conversations.

He'd checked the suite, and knew that it had been searched thoroughly during the family's absence. He knew that it hadn't been the Surete, because his.38 DA Special was missing from his luggage. It had been registered upon entering the country, and would not have been confiscated. So presumably Gerault and Company wouldn't expect him to be armed. They knew how much cash he had on him-he seldom carried a lot of cash-and the American Express money orders had been in the hotel suite, so they should know he couldn't have purchased a pistol in the short time he'd had after evading their "tail" up to the moment he arrived at the hotel.

Still, they might want to be certain he hadn't acquired a knife or something. Yes, he had to expect that he would be frisked again. He gambled that it would happen after he'd entered the car. He'd try to slip it into the seat while they went over him, then get it back before they arrived at the farmhouse.

He ordered shrimp and a green salad, and Maurice brought a fine bowl of bouillabaisse to start him off. It was the best version of the famous fish soup which he'd had since his army days here. He mentally saluted Gerault's taste in restaurants, as he enjoyed the rest of his meal. He promised to bring the family here after he'd gotten them out of this mess.

He ate slowly, and after he'd tipped Maurice and paid the cashier, he returned and gave the waiter one of the prized coupons. The man's face flowed as he thanked Fleming profusely, begging him to return.

At the bank, Monsieur Guiyesse took Fleming through the wooden gate into the plush office area reserved for VIP's. Guiyesse was a thin, tall man with graying black hair-a typical Man of Distinction. He presented the draft for Fleming to sign, took it to one of the clerks, and returned to sit with his patron until the cash was ready.

Fleming slipped the papers from his inside jacket pocket, and handed them to Guiyesse.

"Wait until after I leave here, then find some way to get these to the Surete without being followed. It shows exactly where and how to apprehend the kidnappers who are holding me and my family."

Guiyesse's eyes narrowed as he accepted the papers, then he put them in the top drawer of his desk.

"I could telephone them and have them send a man over here to get them," he suggested.

"No!" Fleming insisted. "They may have someone watching the bank who might know the man they send. Better if you phone them and have them pick them up somewhere else after you drop them off in a safe place. We can't take any chances. The leader of this gang is very vindictive, and a sadist. He would enjoy the excuse to torture us more than he has already." Guiyesse nodded understandingly.

The clerk arrived with the money, and Guiyesse counted it out into the attache case Fleming had brought with him from the hotel. The moment the case was latched, the American stood up, shook hands with the banker, and thanked him.

"We'll be very grateful for your help in delivering those papers, Monsieur Guiyesse," Fleming said.

"Please call me Henri," said the banker. "I am happy to be of service."

The taxi which pulled up as Fleming came out of the bank could very likely be a plant, he knew. But it didn't matter. All that counted was that he would appear to be following orders. If he conducted himself properly from here on, and came back with the money, they would have little to say about the few minutes during which he'd shaken off his first tracker. After all, he had made it look very innocent and accidental.

When he was again in the hotel, he talked to the desk clerk.

"Do you have a paper cutter in your office that I could use in my room for a while?" he asked. "You mean scissors?" queried the clerk.

"No. A cutter for working with a small stack of paper. Something to cut several thicknesses at once."

"Ah, yes. I believe there is one in the manager's office. I'll send up a boy with it."

"No. I'll take it with me, now. And wrap it before you bring it out of the office. This is a very private matter, and I wouldn't want any of the other members of your staff to know about it."

The clerk looked at him curiously, then disappeared into the manager's office. In a few minutes he came out with a newspaper- wrapped bundle. Fleming thanked him, then went up to his suite, where he phoned down, requesting that all the newspapers available be sent up to him. Today's and for the previous two days, including the American editions.

The stack which a bellboy brought up later was much larger than Fleming had expected, and more than he required. He busied himself cutting packs of newsprint into the exact size of the banknotes.

Then he opened the attache case and laboriously duplicated the packets of money. He placed a genuine banknote on top and bottom of each phony pack. When he'd completed the project, anyone looking inside the case would believe it to contain exactly what it looked like: a hell of a lot of money.

He took the loose bills which had piled up on the bed, and put them into one of the travel cases which were a part of his wife's luggage, then shoved it under the bed.

He took the remnants and scraps of newspaper into the bathroom and tore the larger pieces until they could be flushed down the big drain. After he'd erased all the evidence of his trickery, he rewrapped the paper cutters went back down to the desk, and returned it to the clerk, who carried it back into the office.

Fleming then went into the boutique in the lobby and pretended to browse for a while, after which he went back up to his room.

He was thinking about the timing of the events to come, as he undressed and got into bed. If he could get to sleep this early, he'd be up very early, refreshed, and able to think fast when the time came. What bothered him was whether the Surete would do as he asked, and wait until he'd been taken back to the farmhouse before closing in. He wanted to be there with the family, in case of anything unforeseen.

He dreaded the first moments following his return. If Gerault looked at the money packets closely, there would be trouble. But he hoped that he could convince the Frenchman that he wasn't trying to be cheap and greedy. He just wanted the payoff to be on his own terms.

If Gerault would let the others go back to the hotel suite, then phone him, Fleming would remain at the farmhouse under captivity as hostage, and when he was convinced that Ann and the kids were safe and could not be recaptured, then he would tell Gerault where to get the money. He planned to wait until Ann phoned him from the hotel suite, make sure from her that they were safe, then have her get the money from the suitcase under the bed, and have a bellhop or other messenger deliver it to wherever Gerault wanted it.

He tossed for quite a while, and was just getting drowsy enough to sleep when his phone rang. It was Gerault's voice that greeted him.

"The schedule has changed. Bring the money down and get into the taxi which is waiting for you in front of your hotel."

"But, I'm in bed! It will take me a while to get dressed."

"You have five minutes. Hurry!" There was a click as the Frenchman hung up. Fleming started to worry. Things were bad, this way. The Surete~ would not come to the rescue until late in the morning! He'd better be able to convince Gerault about the phony money!

When he came out of the hotel, a taxi pulled up from the rank and opened its door. He got in; the driver pulled out into traffic without asking the destination, so Fleming sat there quietly, expecting to be driven to the garage where he'd been dropped.

But within ten or twelve blocks, the cab parked at the curb. The Citroen limousine pulled up beside it, and Gerault got out and paid the taxi driver. Fleming was hustled into the car, and they drove off. Yvette was again driving, and the sadist was seated beside the American, who wondered why he wasn't being blindfolded.

When they were well on the road to Salon, he turned and looked at Gerault, noting the tight corners of the Frenchman's mouth, and the way his eyes were narrowly slitted, even though very little light entered the darkly tinted windows. "No blindfold?" Fleming finally asked.

"Of what use would it be to a man who can map the route we take and diagram the house to which we go?" The Frenchman's voice was hard and sharp, and it made a warning bell ring in Fleming's mind. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"You heard me quite well, Monsieur Fleming Let us not play any more games with each other. You have tried to enlist the aid of the Surete, and you have failed. You have attempted to double cross me and you have failed. Let us see if you have the money." He pulled the attache case onto his lap and opened it, then stared down at the packets for a moment before he closed the case.

"At least in this you have not failed. It is the only thing which has saved you and your family from a number of unpleasant experiences. Now, scoot forward in your seat, while I see if you have brought with you anything we do not want you to have in your possession."

Fleming put his hands behind him as if to push himself forward. He pulled the Beretta from his pocket, and almost decided to use it there and then. But Gerault's silenced gun was aimed at him. He tucked the Beretta behind the seat cushion and scooted forward. The Frenchman used his free hand to feel and pat around for a few moments, then he leaned back and kept the gun aimed at Fleming.

"Pull out your pockets, one by one, while I see what you have." Fleming obeyed, and when he had exhibited the contents of every one of his pockets, including the lining itself, the Frenchman lowered the pistol slightly. "Bien. Sit back in your seat and relax.

They drove on, and Fleming studied the countryside, remembering the times he had driven through it in a jeep or truck. He wished that his reflexes were as fast now as they had been in those days. And that he had been sharp enough to guess that Gerault might have recruited someone at the bank, for it had to be that which had tipped him off. Whoever it was undoubtedly had followed Guiyesse and grabbed the papers before the Surete picked them up. It was a hell of a note!

His only hope now was that Guiyesse might have studied them before he dropped them off. And that the Surete, having missed the pickup, would check back with the banker and get enough information to find the place.

When they pulled up in front of the farmhouse, Gerault forced him out of the car before he could manage to get the Beretta back into his pocket. He barely had time to shove it down far enough behind the cushion to hide it from the Frenchman, who stayed inside until Fleming was clear of the car.

The hidden gun had been his last hope to turn the tables by himself. If the Surete didn't come through, the Flemings could be tortured to death!

Damn! Damn! Why the hell did I fool with that phony money? I only wanted to get Tommy and the girls out of there before the shooting started between Gerault and the Surete#. Now, it looks like I've killed us all!

All the way down to the cellar, Fleming was sweating cold drops which beaded on his brow and upper lip. It would be only a matter of time before the newsprint "banknotes" would be discovered.