Maid in Paris Read online

  “Now that we’re In business together,” Liddell said, “how are you on orgies?”

  The tip of Andrea’s pink tongue wet her lips. “With me it is a matter of mood. Why?”

  “I believe it’s customary to bring your own partner.”

  There was a new sparkle in the brunette’s eyes. “Well, since we’ll be working together that closely, I suppose we must become better acquainted…”

  Johnny Liddell goes abroad and finds that women and murder are the same in any language—and just as deadly.

  Published by

  DELL PUBLISHING CO., INC.

  750 Third Avenue

  New York, N.Y. 10017

  Copyright © 1966 by Frank Kane

  Dell ® TM 681510, Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

  All rights reserved

  First Dell Printing—September, 1966

  Printed in U.S.A.

  Maid in Paris

  Chapter 1

  THE APARTMENT on Boulevard Saint-Germain was within easy walking distance of the Deux Magots. It was small, dim and hot.

  A man sat sprawled in a well-worn leather armchair, his feet extended full length in front of him, staring at the tips of his unpolished shoes. He was heavyset and sported a full beard. The corduroy jacket had once been green, but had faded to a bluish gray. His worn jeans, looking as if they had been painted on him, had a few picturesque rents in the sides of the legs. He reached up and raked half-clenched fingers through the thick mane of his hair.

  Finally, he pulled himself out of the chair, walked to the window, stared out over the roofs and chimney pots of the adjoining houses, and noted the length of the shadows. He checked his wristwatch and snorted.

  The woman had promised to bring the verification he needed by noon. Now, it was almost four.

  The tap on the door, when it came, was so light he almost missed it.

  He hurried over and pulled the door open.

  The woman stood in the doorway; a chunky man in a square cut blue suit stood beside her. The bearded man squinted at the woman.

  “Do you ask us in or do we discuss your business from the hallway?” the woman asked. She was taller than her companion, wore her hair short. The top buttons of her blouse were unbuttoned, a snug skirt hugged the curves of her long legs.

  The bearded man stood aside, gestured for them to come in, closed the door behind them.

  “This is Auguste DuClos. During the Resistance he was known as Colonel Duc,” she introduced the chunky man. “This is Barry Lee, the writer I told you about,” she informed DuClos.

  Lee eyed the man incuriously. His fedora was pushed to the back of his head, baring a balding pate, his tie was off center in his collar. There was a faint stubble along the side of his jowls, his eyes were beady, red-rimmed.

  “You would know Fritz Mendl Stein by sight?” the bearded man asked.

  “Mademoiselle Gregory has told you I was a leader in the Resistance during the war. Mendl Stein was head of the Gestapo in Paris during that time. Would I be likely to ever forget him?”

  Barry Lee thought for a moment, then turned to the girl. “What have you told him, Helena?”

  Helena shook her head. “Just that he would be well paid for a few minutes’ work. You told me it must be very confidential.”

  The writer bobbed his head, turned back to DuClos. “I’m a writer. I am about to publish a book called The Redoubt. Does that mean anything to you?”

  The short man screwed his features into a scowl. “During the last days of the war, there was such a place. Not the mythical Bavarian Redoubt, but a real one. It was a Nazi stronghold somewhere in Austria—”

  “Alt Aussee,” Lee told him. “It was never defended because Hitler’s elite ran out on him.” He walked back to a curtained recess where a percolator was beating out a bongo rhythm on the counter. He brought out three cups. “They buried their loot and escaped into Switzerland. The rank and file, with no leadership, just laid down their guns.” He filled the cups, added some cognac. “For the past twenty years, the big shots have been showing up there, digging up their loot.” He brought a cup to Helena and DuClos, went back for his own.

  “Wouldn’t the natives have gotten it first?” she asked. Barry Lee shook his head. “They wouldn’t know where to look. The British and American troops tried everything, even mine detectors. There was too much iron in the ground to do them any good.”

  DuClos noisily sipped a mouthful of his coffee. “What does this have to do with Mendl Stein?” he asked.

  Lee sniffed the fragrant steam rising from his glass and studied DuClos over the rim. “Stein was one of the Nazis who buried their loot at the Redoubt He’s been back for it since the war.”

  DuClos snorted derisively. “Mendl Stein died in Berlin in 1945. In the bunker with Hitler.”

  “Mendl Stein was alive as late as 1960,” Lee said. “You would have to prove it to me.”

  “That’s why you’re here,” Lee told him. “I want you to help me prove it to the world.”

  “You have seen a man you believe to be Mendl Stein?”

  “Not exactly. But I have a picture of him. A picture taken in 1960, fifteen years after he is supposed to have died. I’m sure it’s Stein but I need someone who knew him to verify it.” He turned to the woman. “Helena said she knew someone who could identify the man in the picture as Stein.”

  The chunky DuClos shrugged elaborately. “You are wasting your time, but I will look at your picture.”

  Lee walked into the bedroom, came back with two photographic prints in his hand. He passed over a postcard-sized picture to DuClos.

  DuClos took the picture and glanced at it incuriously. He rolled his eyes up to the bearded man’s face. “There are many men in this picture. Which one did you think was Stein?”

  Lee failed to mask his disappointment. “You don’t see him in that group?”

  “The faces are too small,” DuClos complained. “I could not identify anyone from such a picture.”

  “How about this one?” Lee passed the second picture to the other man. “It’s a blow-up of the face identified to me as Stein.”

  DuClos took the second picture, walked over to the window. He studied it for a moment, puffed his lips in and out. “There is a resemblance,” he conceded. He looked up. “If you have never seen Mendl Stein, what made you think this was he?”

  “I was in Alt Aussee, researching my new book. The local innkeeper was full of stories about the Nazis who returned after the war to dig up what they’d hidden there. His father had told him that Fritz Mendl Stein, who was second only to Himmler, had come back. He had the group picture to prove it.”

  “Then this old man could identify him for you,” DuClos pointed out.

  “The old man is dead. His son did not know Stein, just had his father’s word for it.” He eyed the man at the window glumly. “Ever since I returned from Austria, I have been trying to find a picture of Mendl Stein or someone who would know what he looked like. Helena told me about your activity in the Resistance and offered to bring you here.”

  “May I see the picture?” Helena asked.

  Lee picked the group photo off the table and handed it to her.

  “Which one is he?”

  Lee transferred his coffee to his left hand, leaned over and indicated a face with his pudgy right forefinger. “That one.”

  Lee’s back was to the man at the window. DuClos started toward him.

  Something in the woman’s expression caused Lee to start to turn. It was too late. The chunky man was on his back, his thick forearm around the writer’s throat in a murderous mugger’s grip.

  The cup fell from Lee’s hand and spilled its contents on the floor at his feet. He clawed at the arm that was cutting off his breath. DuClos p
ut his knee in the small of Lee’s back, bent him back, slowly, inexorably. Lee’s struggles to break the hold that was strangling him became frantic; beaded perspiration popped out on his forehead.

  Relentlessly, DuClos tightened his grip. Lee’s eyes started to pop, his struggles began to weaken. Finally, his arms became too heavy to claw at the mugger’s arm. They dropped to his sides, fingers clenching and unclenching spasmodically. After a few minutes, even the fingers stopped moving. Lee’s body went completely limp.

  Satisfied that Lee was beyond further resistance, DuClos released his stranglehold. The unconscious man collapsed into a heap on the floor.

  DuClos wiped the wet smear of his mouth with the back of his hand. “We’d better make sure there are no other copies.” He walked over, picked up the pictures, slipped them into his pocket. “I’ll take the bedroom. You take this room.” He shrugged out of his jacket, hung it over the back of a chair. The armpits of his shirt were half-mooned with sweat; the back stuck damply to his body. A .38 was stuck in the rear waistband of his trousers. He pulled it out and laid it on the table.

  On the floor, Lee was breathing with gargling snores.

  DuClos frowned at him, brought his foot back and kicked viciously at the fallen man’s head. It made a sound like an overripe melon. The breathing became noisier and more irregular.

  “I thought it was supposed to look like suicide,” Helena protested.

  DuClos grinned at her. “Don’t worry. A contact wound will cover any damage.” He walked into the bedroom.

  Fifteen minutes later, he came out again. The woman was standing at the window, looking out. A heat mist shimmered over the city. There was no indication that any relief was in sight. Helena turned as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  DuClos shook his head. “You?”

  “Nothing.”

  The man’s eyes hopscotched around the room for evidence that Lee had company. “The coffee cups?”

  “Back in the cupboard.”

  The man nodded his satisfaction. He walked to the table and picked up the gun. He brought out a handkerchief and wiped the gun carefully. He laid the handkerchief-wrapped gun on the table, reached down and caught Lee under the arms. He grunted as he wrestled the dead weight onto the chair. Perspiration glistened on his forehead and upper lip. He held the unconscious man upright by the collar of his jacket, reached for the gun.

  He brought the muzzle of the .38 to within inches of Lee’s temple and squeezed the trigger. The impact of the slug toppled the body sideways out of the chair. DuClos leaned down, pressed the gun into the dead man’s hand.

  When he straightened up, he grunted at the greenish tinge in Helena’s face. She seemed to be losing the struggle to tear her eyes away from the body on the floor.

  “You’ve seen dead men before,” he snapped at her.

  She nodded. “I’ve seen dead men before.”

  “You’d better get some air. I’ll report that everything’s taken care of.” DuClos lifted his jacket off the back of the chair and shrugged into it. Then he turned and headed for the door. Helena hurried after him.

  Chapter 2

  IN PARIS, Faubourg Saint-Honoré is a district filled with fashionable hotels, apartments and private homes. One of the apartments in the most desirable section of Rue Faubourg Saint-Honoré was listed in the name of André Leroux. It is a district where one tenant knows his neighbor only by name and where social intercourse is restricted to an occasional nod to pass the time of day.

  Auguste DuClos looked out of place in his old fedora and old-fashioned square-cut suit as he hustled up the avenue. He turned into the building housing Leroux’ apartment, passed up the elevator as too slow, and climbed up the broad stone staircase two steps at a time.

  He was breathing heavily when he stopped in front of the apartment on the third floor. He pushed the bell, submitted impatiently to a scrutiny through the one-way glass set in the door. Finally, it opened and a tall, slim man stood in the doorway. He held a cigarette holder between his fingers. He stepped aside, nodding for DuClos to enter. He closed the door after him and led the way to a magnificently appointed living room.

  A girl was sprawled comfortably on the oversized couch near the window. Her blonde hair, cascading down over her shoulders, was caught behind her ears with a piece of blue ribbon. The dressing gown she wore, matching the ribbon, was slashed deeply enough to reveal that Nature needed no assistance in the strain she put on the fragile fabric.

  “Wait for me inside, chérie,” the slim man told her.

  The girl pouted, gave no sign that she noticed the expanse of thigh she exposed as she slid her legs off the couch to stand up. She flashed an indignant look at the men as she headed for the bedroom door.

  DuClos watched hungrily as her rounded hips worked enticingly against the seat of the gown. When she slammed the bedroom door behind her, he managed to tear his eyes away.

  Leroux stood waiting. He had a high forehead, his fair hair was slicked down in a three-quarter part His middle-aged good looks were spoiled only by the thinness of his lips and the expression around his eyes. “I presume you have something for me other than appreciation of my taste?” he asked coldly.

  DuClos reached into his pocket, brought out the group picture and the enlargement of the face.

  The slim man unfolded them, walked over to the window to study them in the light. A scowl ridged the smoothness of his brow. “Where did this come from?”

  “Alt Aussee. You were part of a tour booked out of Paris. In 1960.”

  The scowl deepened. “This picture. Who took it?”

  The squat man submerged his neck in an expressive shrug. “I don’t know. It was in the possession of a man whose father recognized you from the days of the Redoubt.” He walked over to the table where a silver pitcher, its sides beaded with sweat, stood. He poured himself a drink. “The old man is dead and no one believed him, I guess. When this writer was digging around to do a book on the Redoubt, the son gave him this, and told him what the old man said.” He lifted his drink to his lips and took a deep swallow.

  “And the writer?”

  DuClos swished the remains of the drink around the side of the glass. “By now he can be getting it first hand from the old man. He committed suicide this afternoon.”

  Some of the tenseness drained out of the thin man. He walked to the fireplace, brought a lighter from his pocket, touched it to the corner of the pictures, held them as they curled up in flame. When he dropped the ash into the fireplace, he used a poker to stir the ash into powder.

  “You left nothing to arouse the curiosity of the police?” he asked.

  DuClos snorted. “I am not an amateur.”

  The thin man took the cigarette lighter from between his lips, detached the butt, dropped it into the fireplace. “You are not an amateur,” he conceded. “But there have been times when you have been known to grow careless.” The cold eyes rolled up from the cigarette holder. DuClos tried to outstare him, but dropped his eyes.

  It had been carelessness, he knew. Carelessness that could have been fatal.

  As Colonel Duc, leader of his cell, the word had come to him of a shipment of arms from one police precinct to another to reinforce the Nazi garrison there. The shipment would pass through his district. It would be a feather in the cap of Colonel Duc if he could capture it. Since the news came on the day of the shipment, there was little time for planning or for checking out the information. A quick study of the map showed a short cul de sac where the truck would be most vulnerable.

  His men were carefully deployed and waiting when the truck rumbled into sight The driver tried to swing the heavy truck when three figures suddenly appeared in front of him. There was a stutter of a submachine gun, the windshield shattered and came apart. The truck slewed crazily from side to side. There was a screech of metal, the smashing of glass as the truck headed for the side of the road, came to a shattering stop against the brick wa
ll of a building.

  More figures materialized from the shadows along the road, converged on the rear of the truck. Some of them clambered up and started to remove the tarpaulin.

  There was a frightened yell from one of the men as he hastily scrambled from the side of the truck. His yell was drowned out by the chatter of the machine guns mounted in the truck and by the hoarse yells of the Gestapo men who were swarming over the side overpowering the raiders. When it was all over, the raiders had lost four men, two were wounded and the legendary Colonel Duc was at last in the hands of the Gestapo.

  He was lodged in the old fortress at Fresnes where he was “interrogated” daily by Colonel Fritz Mendl Stein. When his answers were too long in coming, uniformed guards lashed him until he either lost consciousness or talked.

  His nights were filled with the screams of other prisoners who were more expendable than Duc and whose survival under questioning was a matter of little importance.

  His mornings were filled with the sound of the vans rumbling into the fortress to take on the daily shipment of condemned to Dachau and Buchenwald.

  Day after day, there were raids in Colonel Duc’s district One by one, the members of his cell were captured, executed in the fortress yard or shipped out Day after day, Duc underwent interrogation until he miraculously effected his escape from the fortress.

  Outside, he threw in his lot with other Resistance cells and moved ahead in the Resistance. But things went from bad to worse. The Gestapo stepped up its activities. Nightly, men and women were dragged out of their beds, never to be seen again.

  When the day finally came that word was received that General LeClerc and the Allied forces were approaching Paris, Mendl Stein had summoned him and Colonel Duc had responded to the summons.

  Stein wanted a prisoner who bore some resemblance to him, one who was not overburdened with family, one whose identity Stein could assume.