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A half hour later, Lieutenant Washington telephoned Commissioner Mariani to report that he was having trouble getting O’Hara’s number but he was working on it, and hoped to have it shortly.
He also reported that they had made reservations for someone to fly to Paris. It had yet to be determined who would go, but there would be plenty of time to make the decision. The next available seat to Paris was on a flight leaving New York tomorrow afternoon. When he added that only first-class seats were available, he anticipated the commissioner’s next question:
“It would appear we’re in the tourist season, sir,” Washington concluded.
“In that case, I would suggest that you make every effort to get O’Hara’s phone number,” Commissioner Mariani said. “Keep me advised, Lieutenant. I’m about to tell the mayor we are making every effort to comply with his wishes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Two hours after that, Lieutenant Washington called the commissioner again.
“Sir, I have the number. I had to get it from Mr. Casimir Bolinski. But when I call it, the recording says that it’s been turned off. Probably overnight, sir. I’ll try again in the morning.”
“No,” Commissioner Mariani said, “you, or some one you delegate, will try that number every thirty minutes until someone answers.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Michael J. O’Hara rose at first light and, without disturbing Sergeant Payne, went down the narrow corridor to the communal bath, took one look at it, and decided he would just have to remain unwashed until they found a decent hotel.
Then-with less trouble than he expected to have-he got directions in the form of a hand-drawn map to the Piaf Mill, and got in the Jaguar and drove there.
He had a little trouble getting the shots he wanted. There were half a dozen French gendarmes guarding the place, and when they spotted him, they tried to run him off. But he finally got what he wanted, and even a shot of Isaac “Fort” Festung, standing in the doorway of the ancient mill house.
Then he drove back to Le Relais with a sense of mission accomplished. He had all he needed. He’d wake Matty up, they’d get some breakfast, and then “Say
onara, Cognac-Boeuf! Or whatever the hell this place is called.”
He had already stopped the Jaguar when he remembered he had forgotten to take the telephone with him. He had planned to see how much of a charge it would take plugged into the Jaguar’s cigarette lighter hole.
He went to their room, turned the light on, woke Matty and told him to get his ass out of bed, as soon as they had breakfast they were out of here, and took the telephone down-the battery of which was now really dead, he having apparently failed to turn it off correctly the night before-to the Jaguar.
The clever Englishmen had designed the interior to frustrate him. It took him almost five minutes to find the cigarette lighter hole. It was in the ashtray, mounted in such a position that it couldn’t he seen by the driver unless he bent nearly flat and looked around the gearshift lever.
Matt was just coming into the combined bar and dining room of Le Relais when Mickey finally went in.
Mickey explained that he had had difficulty finding the cigarette lighter holder, but that he had finally succeeded, and the phone was now being charged.
“Maybe not, Mick,” Matt said. “Sometimes the lighter hole is hot only when the ignition is on.”
“Shit!”
Mickey went back out to the Jaguar and immediately discovered that Matt had been in error. The cigarette lighter hole was hot, even with the ignition off. The proof was that the once dead-as-a-doornail device was chirping.
Mickey wondered what the hell Casimir-the only person who had the number-wanted this time of night. It was eight-fifteen here, which meant that it was 2:15 A.M. in the States.
“What’s up, Casimir?”
“That you, Mickey?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Jason Washington.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“Is Matt somewhere around? And how is he?”
“He’s fine. We’re about to have breakfast. Can I give him a message?”
