Solo - Jack Higgins [15]
'All three,' he said. 'My God, what kind of man are you?'
Mikali produced an envelope which he dropped on the table. 'Fifteen thousand francs as agreed.' He took the Colt from his pocket. 'I'll hang on to this. I prefer to get rid of it myself.'
He turned to the door. Jarrot said, 'Where are you going?'
'I have a concert,' Mikali told him. 'Or had you forgotten?' He glanced at his watch. 'In exactly thirty minutes, so I'll have to get moving.'
'Jesus Christ,' Jarrot said and then added violently, 'What if something goes wrong? What if they trace you?'
'You'd better hope they don't. For your own sake as much as mine. I'll come back after the concert. Say eleven o'clock. Okay?'
'Sure,' Jarrot said wearily. 'I got no place to go.'
Mikali got into his hire car and drove away. He felt calm and relaxed, no fear at all, but it seemed obvious that Claude Jarrot had very much outlived his usefulness. Plus the fact that his attitude left a great deal to be desired. He was certainly not the man he had been in the old days in Algeria. It was unfortunate, but it seemed painfully apparent that he was going to have to do something about Jarrot. But for the moment, there was the concert.
He reached the opera house with only fifteen minutes in hand, had barely time to change. But he made it and stood watching in the wings, as the conductor went on stage.
He followed him to a storm of applause. There was a full house and he noticed Melos and the Greek Ambassador and his wife in the third row, Melos sitting in the aisle seat.
The Concerto in A Minor was written by Schumann originally as a one-movement fantaisie for piano and orchestra for his wife Clara, herself a concert pianist. Later, he expanded it into a three-movement concerto which the music critic of the London Times once described as a laboured and ambitious work and praised Madame Schumann's attempts to pass her husband's rhapsody off as music.
In Mikali's hands that night it sparkled, came alive in a way that totally electrified the audience. Which was why there was considerable surprise, to say the least, when half-way through the intermezzo, in response to a message brought by a footman, the Greek Ambassador, his wife and the cultural attache got up and left.
Jarrot watched the news on television. The killing was obviously political, according to the commentator, which was proved by the fact that the assassin had allowed the chauffeur to go free; had referred to the victims as fascists. Probably a member of one of the many disaffected political groups of Greeks living in exile in Paris. In this case, the police had an excellent lead. The man they were seeking was a Cretan - a Cretan peasant. The chauffeur was definite on that. He had recognized the accent.
The pictures of the bodies, particularly in the rear of the Mercedes, were graphic to say the least and made Jarrot remember some of Mikali's exploits from the old days. And he had said he was coming back after the concert. Why? There could really only be one reason.
He had to get out while there was still time, but to whom could he turn? Certainly not to the police and not to any of his criminal associates. Quite suddenly, in spite of his half-drunken state, he thought of the obvious answer. The one person. Maitre Deville, his lawyer. The best criminal lawyer in the business, everyone knew that. He'd saved him from prison twice now. Deville would know what to do.
He wouldn't be at his office now, of course, but at the apartment where he lived alone since his wife had died of cancer three years previously. Rue de Nanterre, off the Avenue Victor Hugo. Jarrot found the number and dialled it quickly.
There was a slight delay then a voice said, 'Deville here.'
'Maitre? It's me, Jarrot. I must see you.'
'In trouble again, eh, Claude?' Deville laughed good-humouredly. 'I'll see you at the office first thing. Let's say nine o'clock.'
'It can't wait, Maitre.'
'My dear chap, it will have to. I'm going