Read 1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal for Free Online

sake!” Bruckman growled. “Let’s go. We are wasting time.”
    Girland took a handkerchief from his pocket, made to blow his nose, dropped the handkerchief and bent to pick it up. His movements were so casual the two men merely watched with impatience.
    Girland suddenly snatched at O’Brien’s trousers cuffs, got a grip and heaved upwards.
    O’Brien gave a choked yell as he somersaulted down the stairs.
    His back crashed against the banister rail, smashed through it and he thudded to the lower floor. A shower of broken woodwork and dust fell on him. He moved weakly, then flopped over on his side.
    His eyes popping, Bruckman looked over the broken banister rail, then turned and stared at Girland who was putting his handkerchief in his pocket, his lean, dark face expressionless.
    “You crazy bastard!” Bruckman gasped. “You’ve probably killed him!”
    “Not him . . . he’s tough,” Girland said mildly, then with a lightning movement, he grabbed Bruckman’s hat brim in both hands and crammed the hat over Bruckman’s eyes. As the big man staggered back, cursing, Girland slammed a punch low down into Bruckman’s solid belly. Bruckman dropped onto his knees, gasping. Humming happily, Girland started down the stairs, jumped over O’Brien’s prostrate body and continued on down to the street.
    As he emerged into the rain and crossed to where his dilapidated Fiat 600 was parked, he decided that life, after all, wasn’t so bad. This was the first time he could remember in months that he had really enjoyed himself.
    * * *
     
    A number of nurses came hurrying out of the Staff exit of the American hospital and began walking down the broad Boulevard Victor Hugo towards the Nurses’ Annex. Some of them sheltered under umbrellas, others made do with their capes against the fine drizzle that was falling.
    Jo-Jo sitting in Sadu’s sports car, jerked a dirty thumb towards the group of girls as they passed the car.
    “One of them will know which room she’s in,” he said. “Time’s getting on. Ask them.”
    “Don’t be a fool!” Sadu snapped. “Is it likely they would tell me? Besides, we would attract attention.”
    “Look . . . here’s one coming on her own. Tell her you’re a newspaperman. We’ve got to know where this bitch is.”
    Sadu hesitated.
    The group of nurses had disappeared into the wet darkness.
    He saw a girl on her own, wearing a cloak, coming down the boulevard which had suddenly become deserted. He knew what Jo-Jo had said made sense. They couldn’t just sit there. Somehow he had to find out where this woman was.
    He got out of the car which was parked outside one of the vast apartment blocks that was under construction. The blank, glassless windows made black squares in the face of the white wall, towering above him. The inevitable clutter and mess, the big concrete mixer, the planks of wood and the coils of wire choked up the entrance to what would be before very long more homes for the wealthy of Paris.
    The nurse came abreast of him. In the half-darkness he could see she was young and dark.
    “Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said with an exaggerated bow.
    “I am representing Paris Match. Could you kindly tell me on what floor and. in what room this woman is who has lost her memory?”
    The nurse stopped and looked at him.
    “Pardon, monsieur?”
    “It is of interest to my paper,” Sadu said, restraining his impatience with difficulty. “We would like to know on what floor and in what room this woman is . . . the woman with the tattoo marks.”
    The nurse retreated a step.
    “I can’t tell you that. You must ask at the Information desk,” she said. “If they want you to know, they will tell you.”
    Out of the corner of his eye, Sadu saw Jo-Jo leave the car, moving as swiftly and as silently as an attacking snake. He came up behind the nurse as she was beginning to move away. His right hand flashed up and the nurse gave a choked cry and then fell forward. Instinctively, Sadu