There was no hope whatsoever of his getting a grip on the stone to pull it out. And even if he could, he then could not reach lower to feel around for the bundle which just might still be there. And he couldn't fool around any longer, because his tail might accidentally run across his path again. He had to get out of here!
As he started to leave, heavy-hearted, he knew he'd been foolish to waste the time on such a hopeless longshot. Before he could reach the alley, he heard footsteps approaching. There was no sound of the heel plates, but if that were Fleming tailing someone, he'd be walking on his toes about now, anyhow. He quietly tiptoed back to the chimney and got behind it, keeping it between himself and the alley. He was down on his hands and knees, peering between the base of the chimney and the craggy hunk of concrete which leaned against it. He tried not to breathe loudly.
The figure moved into sight and on up the alley. It was a gendarme. Fleming started to move, but caught himself in time. He couldn't take the risk of being spotted talking to the law. He'd have to make contact with them where he couldn't be seen.
He watched as the figure disappeared up the alley, then his eyes took in something that made his pulse pound again. The light coming between the chimney base and the concrete chunk had shown him the reddish-brown outline of a rusty iron door.
Of course! This was the cleanout-access for the chimney! He struggled with the rough surface of the concrete. It was pretty heavy for one man to move, but he managed to shift it enough so he could pull open the corroded iron door. It shrieked in protest at being disturbed after so long a time. The brittle hinge pins broke, and he grabbed to keep the door from falling loudly to the ground, where chips and pieces of cement could make the ringing sound that might bring unwanted attention!
He reached inside and felt something dank and slippery. He pulled at it, and the pieces of stone inside the chimney opening rattled as their foundation was shifted. Then it was in his hands. He peeled away the slimy, musty layers of the raincoat, and the grayish-white of the Irish linen handkerchief was exposed. He unwrapped the pistol and rewrapped it in the handkerchief he carried in his pocket. Then he shoved the old wrappings back into the chimney hole and got to his feet. Stuffing the pistol into his coat pocket, he returned to the alley and headed in the wake of the now-vanished gendarme.
He caught a taxi two blocks farther from the spot where he'd intended to hail one. And soon he was at his hotel. The desk clerk looked at him strangely, then gave him his key.
"There 'as been some concern for you, Monsieur Flam-meeng," he said. Fleming wondered why a first class hotel would have desk clerks whose accent was stronger than that of a hoodlum like Gerault. He forced a smile.
"We decided suddenly to take a short trip in the country," he lied, not knowing belt what the clerk might be on Gerault's payroll. Even if he weren't, Fleming didn't want anything to occur which might bring the Surete to the hotel. That would be bad for Ann and the kids! "They are staying with friends for another day or two. I had to return on business." He smiled again as he headed for the elevator.
The gingerbread grillwork of the iron-caged elevator moved downward past his eyes as the car moved up to his floor. Then he was in his suite, going into every room to make sure that he was alone.
He sat on the chaise longue near the Winslow by his bed, took the package from his pocket, and unwrapped the handkerchief. As he looked at the gummy surface of the pistol, he realized two things. The preservative had done its job. The metal was still in excellent shape. Blat what good would it do him? The preservative itself told him it was new, fresh from a factory or a miltary arsenal. Such guns do not come loaded!
And where could he obtain ammunition for it without being spotted?
Fleming, you're a damned fool. You keep proving that to yourself every time you turn around. You took the risk to get this useless gun without even thinking about ammo. Christ! Have you ever gotten rusty!
He sat there with the gummy weapon in his hand, marking time. The bank would not be open for a while. Idly, he activated the clip release, and felt the slow response as the preservative clung to the clip, impeding its ejection. Then it was in his palm, and the weight of it made his heart pound inside him.
He looked at the top of the clip, gave a little yip of delight, then went to the drawer of the nightstand beside the bed. He opened it and removed a can of lighter fluid and a couple of handkerchiefs.
Reseating himself on the chaise, he began to clean the gummy preservative from the weapon with the petroleum product, thanking his lucky stars that he'd decided against making the trip with butane lighters.
By the time he'd cleaned the entire weapon, stripping it down with the sure hand of a gun lover, removing the goop, then covering every part with a fine film of oil from his electric shaver kit, it was a beauty. But it wasn't new!
That dirty, double-crossing Senegalese! He cosmolened this damned gun to make it look like a new one, fresh off the line! But he didn't know that it wouldn't come from the factory loaded. The sneaky sonovabitch! But he may have saved my ass, he and good old Lady Luck!
He finished reassembling the little Italian marvel, and then worked the slide, ejecting cartridge after cartridge. It had been loaded with four rounds in the clip and one in the chamber when he disassembled it. Another stroke of luck. With four instead of the six rounds the clip normally held, the spring had not been under complete compression, and it was forcing the top cartridge into exactly the right position each time, right up to the last round.
He reloaded all five in the clip, slammed it into the handle, and cocked it, throwing the top round into the chamber. Then he flicked on the safety, wiped the outside again to remove all visible oil, and put the gun in his hip pocket.
He went into the bathroom and shaved and washed, performed a few other functions, and then dug up some clean clothes. He changed quickly, then went to the phone and had the switchboard get the bank for him.
In less than fifteen minutes, he had completed initial arrangements for picking up the funds he requested. He would have to go down to the bank at two o'clock to pick up the money.
Then he flaked out on the bed for a while, resting as he tried to visualize all the possibilities of what might occur in the next twenty-four hours or more. The longer he thought, the shakier he became.
He called room service and ordered up some whisky, ice and soda. When it came, he built him self a triple load, and as he sipped at it appreciatively, he thought with guilt of the others, chained in the musty cellar back at the farm.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It had been so early when Gerault unshackled Fleming and escorted him up the stairs, that the rest of the family were hardly aware of the procedure until the door at the top of the stairwell closed loudly.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence as each of them felt the finality of the way the morning had begun. All night long, everyone had slept fitfully. The small mattresses which were tossed at their feet at night padded the hardness of the floor, but it could not be said to be plush accommodations for the Flemings, who were used to the best of everything.
Now, the three of them were shifting their positions miserably, as they sensed the separateness of their plight and that of the man who had gone to get their ransom. In addition to their apprehension about the outcome of today's events, they were all suffering with the pressure of full bladders.
Just as both Ann and Darla doubted their ability to hold out a moment longer, Le Boeuf came down and unshackled the two women. He preceded them up the stairs, then herded them to the bathroom, where he stood in the doorway, watching, as they relieved themselves.