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It was past eleven when he reached the dark, black alley he had been told was there. It led to his left and had no lights in it at all. The far end was blocked by a row of bollards, making it into a cul-de-sac. On each side the walls were blank and tall. Any light that might have entered the alley from the other end was muted by the bulk of the French truck that stood parked there, empty but with its rear doors open. Sha
Like most fighting men, he always preferred to face danger rather than knowing it was somewhere behind. He knew from past experience that, even when moving backward, it is safer always to face the danger source. At least, then, you can watch it. Moving up the alley with his back to the entrance, he had felt the hairs on his neck prickling. If the psychology was wrong, he could be very dead. But the psychology had been right. Keeping to empty streets, the man behind him had stayed well back, hoping for just such an opportunity as now presented itself.
Sha
The shadow in the alley moved softly forward. Sha
Still staring at Sha
Sha
The Cat looked up. There was another figure against the lamplight, small, spare, motionless, still standing fifteen yards from the body at the point where it had made its throw. Sha
“I thought you’d left it too late,” said Sha
“Non. Never too late. He could not have squeezed the trigger of that Colt at any time since you emerged from the hotel.”
The rear of the truck was already laid with a large sheet of tough industrial plastic over a canvas tarpaulin. The tarpaulin had loopholes all around the edge for easy lashing into a bundle, and plenty of cord and bricks were stacked at the far end. Each taking an arm and a leg, the two men swung the body up and inward. Langarotti climbed in to retrieve his knife, while Sha
Langarotti climbed into the front seat and started up. Slowly he backed out, down the alley and into the street. As he swung the truck around before driving off, Sha
“Have you had a good look at him?”
“Sure.”
“You know him?”
“Yes. Name of Thomard, Raymond. In the Congo once for a short period, more of a city type. Professional hit-man. But not quality. Not the sort one of the big contractors would use. More likely to work for his own boss.”
“Who’s that?” asked Sha
“Roux,” said Langarotti. “Charles Roux.”
Sha
He fell silent and thought for a while. Roux had to be discouraged, but in a way that would keep him out of the Zangaro affair once and for all.
“Hurry up,” said the Corsican, the engine still ru
Sha
Langarotti nodded. “All right. Actually, I like it. It should fix that bugger for a long time. But it will cost extra. Five thousand francs.”
“Done,” said Sha
They met Marc Vlaminck for lunch in the small South Belgian town of Dinant by agreement. Sha
He had driven the truck, carrying in the back five 200-liter drums of engine oil by Castrol, across Belgium without being stopped. There was no reason why he should be. His license was in order, as were the permit for the truck and the insurance.
As the three men sat over lunch at a main-street café, Sha
“Tomorrow morning, just before sun-up. It’s the quietest time. Did you two sleep last night?”
“Nope.”
“You’d better get some rest,” said Marc. “I’ll watch over both trucks. You can have till midnight.”
Charles Roux was another one who was tired that day. All the previous evening, since he had received the telephone call from Henri Alain about Sha
Roux was unshaven and puzzled. He knew Thomard was no match for Sha
At midmorning, as Langarotti and Sha
There did not seem to be anything wrong with the lock of his mailbox, a container some twelve inches tall, nine wide, and nine deep, screwed to the wall of the lobby along with a score more for the other tenants. There was no indication that it had been opened, but of course a clever burglar would have picked the lock.
Roux used his personal key to unlock the door and swung it open.
He stood for about ten seconds without moving. Nothing changed about him except the normal ruddy color of his face, which slid into a chalky gray. Still staring, mesmerized, he began to mutter, “Mon Dieu, O mon Dieu …” over and over again like an incantation. His stomach turned over; he felt as he had at the moment in the Congo when he had heard the Congolese soldiers questioning his identity as he lay inside the bandages on a stretcher while John Peters smuggled him out from certain death. He felt he wanted to urinate, run, but could only sweat with fear. With an air of almost sleepy sadness, eyes half closed, lips gummed together, the head of Raymond Thomard gazed back at him from inside the mailbox.