Wanted: Dead Men by M. E. Chaber

Author:M. E. Chaber [Chaber, M. E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: http://archive.org/details/wanteddeadmennew00chab
Amazon: B000MOHL7E
Publisher: Paperback Library Paperback #63-460
Published: 1970-08-15T04:00:00+00:00

7

That was the only warning I needed. I hit the sidewalk, rolling toward the nearest building. Another bullet bounced off the sidewalk and screamed off into the night. I had no right to carry a gun in Sweden so I did not have my regular gun with me. But I don’t like to feel naked so I did have a gun. It was an old American four-barreled derringer, which a gunsmith had adapted to use modem ammunition. It was tucked under my belt.

It was in my hand as I stopped rolling. The passenger in the car had just fired his second shot and was still leaning out of the window. I couldn’t see what he looked like, but I could see his outline. I steadied the gun and squeezed the trigger. I saw him jerk as if he had been hit and then the little car picked up speed, made a quick left turn, and disappeared.

Lights came on in several apartments on the street and I decided it might be a good idea for me to get out of the neighborhood. I got up, ran to the first street, and turned right. I slowed down to a fast walk, made three more turns, and finally found a taxi. I gave the driver the name of my hotel and relaxed against the back seat. I was well away from the neighborhood before any alarm could be given. I went directly to my room and went to sleep.

When I awakened the next morning, I called room service and ordered some breakfast and a newspaper. I took a quick shower while I was waiting for the food. The waiter came in shortly after I was out of the shower. I looked through the newspaper while I had breakfast. I found it on the third page. A man named Rolf Lind-holm had been found on the street early in the morning.

He’d been shot through the head and apparently thrown from a speeding car. There were no witnesses and no clues. The dead man did have a record. He had served time in both Sweden and France. The police had decided, according to the new paper, that he must have antagonized some of his associates and had been killed by them.

I phoned and made a reservation on a plane to Paris. The first flight I could get was in the early afternoon. Then I phoned Kerstin Lindborg. She said she would have lunch with me.

I got dressed and packed my clothes. Then I stopped downstairs at the desk and told them what time I would be checking out. I took a taxi to the airlines office and had it wait while I picked up my ticket. My next stop was the Stockholm office of Intercontinental. I was shown into the office of Herr Andersson, the local manager. He examined my credentials, shook my hand warmly, and assured me he was at my complete disposal—all in good but sing-song English.

“What is it that I can do for you, Herr March?” he asked.

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