Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5) by Jack Higgins Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jack Higgins
died of pneumonia in a Siberian coalmine in 1945. And then, in 1947 he had been sent home - home to France.
Deville poured Jarrot another brandy. 'Go on, drink up, I can see you need it. An amazing story.'
'I can trust you, Maitre, can't I?' Jarrot demanded wildly. 'I mean, if the flics got even a hint of this...'
'My dear fellow,' Deville said soothingly, 'haven't I told you before? The relationship between a lawyer and his client is like that between priest and penitent. After all, if I'd disclosed what I knew of your OAS connection to the SDECE...'
'But what do I do?' Jarrot demanded. 'If you saw the news on television, you know what he's capable of.'
'Fantastic,' Deville said. 'I've often heard him play, of course. He's quite brilliant. I remember vaguely reading in some magazine that he'd served in the Legion for a couple of years as a boy.'
Jarrot said, 'He was never a boy, that one. If I told you some of the things he pulled off out there in Algiers in the old days. Why, at Kasfa, he took two bullets in the lung and still managed to kill four fellagha with a handgun. A handgun, for Christ's sake.'
Deville poured him another brandy. 'Tell me more.'
Which Jarrot did. By the time he was finished, he was thoroughly drunk. 'So what do I do?'
'Eleven o'clock, I think he said he'd return.' Deville glanced at his watch. 'It's ten now. I'll get my coat and we'll go back to the garage. I'd better drive. You're in no fit state to cross the street on your own.'
'The garage?' Jarrot's speech was slow and heavy. 'Why the garage?'
'Because I want to meet him. Reason with him on your behalf.' He slapped Jarrot on the shoulder. 'Trust me, Claude, to help you. After all, that is the reason you came to see me, isn't it?'
He went into his bedroom, pulled on a dark overcoat and took down the black Homburg hat he always wore. He opened the drawer in his bedside bureau and took out an automatic pistol. He was, after all, going to confront a man who, if everything he had heard tonight was true, was a psychopathic killer of the first order.
He weighed the pistol in his hand, then taking, on hunch alone, the biggest chance of his life, he put it back in the drawer. He returned to the other room where he found Jarrot at the brandy again.
'Right, Claude,' he said cheerfully. 'Let's go.'
The concert was a total success. Mikali was called back again and again with many sections of the audience clamouring for an encore. Finally, he obliged. There was an excited murmur, then complete stillness as he seated himself at the piano. A pause and he started to play Le Pastour by Gabriel Grovlez.
He parked the hire car some distance from the garage and walked the rest of the way on foot through the heavy rain, letting himself in quietly through the judas in the main gate. He still had the Colt in the right-hand pocket of his raincoat. He felt for the butt as he stood there in the darkness listening to music faintly playing in the apartment above.
He went upstairs quietly and opened the door. The living-room was in half-darkness, the only light the lamp on the table at which Jarrot snored gently in a drunken sleep.
One bottle of Napoleon beside him was empty, another already a quarter down. A portable radio played music softly and then the announcer's voice interrupted with more details on the massive police hunt for the assassin of Vassilikos and his men.
He reached over and switched it off, then took the Colt from his pocket. A soft voice said in excellent English with a slight French accent, 'If that's the gun I think it is, it would be really an error of the first magnitude to kill him with it.'
Deville stepped from the shadows at the back of the room. He still wore his dark overcoat and carried a walking stick in one hand, his Homburg in the other.
'They would extract the bullet from his corpse, forensic tests would show it had come from the same gun which was used on Vassilikos and his men. I am right, am I not? It is the same gun?'
Deville poured Jarrot another brandy. 'Go on, drink up, I can see you need it. An amazing story.'
'I can trust you, Maitre, can't I?' Jarrot demanded wildly. 'I mean, if the flics got even a hint of this...'
'My dear fellow,' Deville said soothingly, 'haven't I told you before? The relationship between a lawyer and his client is like that between priest and penitent. After all, if I'd disclosed what I knew of your OAS connection to the SDECE...'
'But what do I do?' Jarrot demanded. 'If you saw the news on television, you know what he's capable of.'
'Fantastic,' Deville said. 'I've often heard him play, of course. He's quite brilliant. I remember vaguely reading in some magazine that he'd served in the Legion for a couple of years as a boy.'
Jarrot said, 'He was never a boy, that one. If I told you some of the things he pulled off out there in Algiers in the old days. Why, at Kasfa, he took two bullets in the lung and still managed to kill four fellagha with a handgun. A handgun, for Christ's sake.'
Deville poured him another brandy. 'Tell me more.'
Which Jarrot did. By the time he was finished, he was thoroughly drunk. 'So what do I do?'
'Eleven o'clock, I think he said he'd return.' Deville glanced at his watch. 'It's ten now. I'll get my coat and we'll go back to the garage. I'd better drive. You're in no fit state to cross the street on your own.'
'The garage?' Jarrot's speech was slow and heavy. 'Why the garage?'
'Because I want to meet him. Reason with him on your behalf.' He slapped Jarrot on the shoulder. 'Trust me, Claude, to help you. After all, that is the reason you came to see me, isn't it?'
He went into his bedroom, pulled on a dark overcoat and took down the black Homburg hat he always wore. He opened the drawer in his bedside bureau and took out an automatic pistol. He was, after all, going to confront a man who, if everything he had heard tonight was true, was a psychopathic killer of the first order.
He weighed the pistol in his hand, then taking, on hunch alone, the biggest chance of his life, he put it back in the drawer. He returned to the other room where he found Jarrot at the brandy again.
'Right, Claude,' he said cheerfully. 'Let's go.'
The concert was a total success. Mikali was called back again and again with many sections of the audience clamouring for an encore. Finally, he obliged. There was an excited murmur, then complete stillness as he seated himself at the piano. A pause and he started to play Le Pastour by Gabriel Grovlez.
He parked the hire car some distance from the garage and walked the rest of the way on foot through the heavy rain, letting himself in quietly through the judas in the main gate. He still had the Colt in the right-hand pocket of his raincoat. He felt for the butt as he stood there in the darkness listening to music faintly playing in the apartment above.
He went upstairs quietly and opened the door. The living-room was in half-darkness, the only light the lamp on the table at which Jarrot snored gently in a drunken sleep.
One bottle of Napoleon beside him was empty, another already a quarter down. A portable radio played music softly and then the announcer's voice interrupted with more details on the massive police hunt for the assassin of Vassilikos and his men.
He reached over and switched it off, then took the Colt from his pocket. A soft voice said in excellent English with a slight French accent, 'If that's the gun I think it is, it would be really an error of the first magnitude to kill him with it.'
Deville stepped from the shadows at the back of the room. He still wore his dark overcoat and carried a walking stick in one hand, his Homburg in the other.
'They would extract the bullet from his corpse, forensic tests would show it had come from the same gun which was used on Vassilikos and his men. I am right, am I not? It is the same gun?'
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