Cross of Fire by Colin Forbes

Henri. That's how they were dressed then.'
    'Does anyone at the Bar Miami know your address?'

'The chief barman. I left a silk scarf there once. I phoned him, he said they'd found it. He asked for my address -there was an expensive scarf ring attached to it. He made me repeat my address when I went to collect it.'
    'And he'd know you were Henri's girlfriend?'
    'He could hardly avoid realizing that.'
    'You have to leave here. Tonight. Can you go out to Arcachon and stay with your mother? I'll drive you there. Do you want to pack? Urgently?'
    'So many questions, Robert...'
    'My friends call me Bob. Now, can you?'
    'Yes. But not with my mother. I have a sister with an apartment there where I could stay - Lucille, my sister, is abroad and left me the keys. The advertising agency is having a slack time and owes me two weeks' holiday. I could phone them, say I'm leaving for San Trop. I can pack in ten minutes, maybe less.'
    'Is there some way we can get to my car in the alley without using the main entrance? Those aren't real DST men - they're far more dangerous. DST don't go round murdering people.'
    'Yes, Bob. There is a back way direct into the alley. I have a key.'
    'Next point. Have you two sharp knives? I suppose you wouldn't have a French coat I could wear?'
    'There is one which Henri left. He was about your size. In a wardrobe in the bedroom. And a hat, if you want one. We'll be lucky if that fits.'
    Closing the door, when they were inside the bedroom, she switched on the light, went to a huge, old-fashioned wardrobe, took out a dark overcoat, a trilby hat - both shabby. Carey's method of passing for a Frenchman. New man slipped on the coat, pulled up the collar. Rather tight under the arms but it would pass in the dark. He rammed the hat on his head, pulled the brim low over his forehead.
    'It's not big enough,' Isabelle decided.
    'Big enough at night. Now, the knives.'
    She was a girl who never wasted time asking unnecessary questions, which impressed Newman. In the kitchen she opened a drawer, stood back, invited him to take his pick. The wooden box divided into compartments fitted snugly inside the drawer contained an amazing selection. He chose two short-bladed knives with strong handles, slid them blade first carefully inside the coat pockets.
    'Show me how to get out of the rear entrance. While I'm away do your packing. Oh, I suppose you haven't an empty bottle of wine?'
    'Only in the trash can. I could wash and clean it thoroughly.'
    'I'll be drinking out of it. Fill it with water ...'
    She led him down to the rear entrance, unlocked the door and he found himself in the alley leading to the main street.

    A raw wind slashed at his face. Newman cowered under his floppy hat, staggering slowly along the sidewalk, waving the bottle with his left hand. The wind grew in fury, sheets of newspaper flew in the air, Newman leaned against a wall, tilted the bottle, drank from the neck. He stumbled into the deserted street closer to the parked Renault.
    Behind him the two men in trench coats peered out at his erratic progress. Newman rammed the hat tighter over his head as the wind almost blew it away. He spun round in a drunken circle. The trench coat men had retreated deep into the shelter of their doorway.
    He lurched across to the car, sprawled on the cobbles alongside the rear wheel of the Renault. Letting go of the bottle, he grasped the first knife, plunged the blade deep into the tyre, the handle protruding close to the cobbles in the direction the car would move. Swiftly he gripped the second knife, repeated his performance, driving the second knife alongside the first. The wind was blowing away the bottle when he grabbed it by the neck, staggered to his feet. No sign of Trenchcoats.
    He began his weaving walk back the way he had come, watching the doorway from under the brim of his hat. Still no sign of the enemy. He resisted the temptation to move faster, arrived at the entrance to the alley, tottered out of