IT W WAS 2:40 in the afternoon. Osborn had called McVey three times at his hotel, only to be told that Monsieur McVey was out, had left no time when he would be expected back, but would be checking in for messages. By the third call, Osborn was going through the roof, the built-up anxiety of what he had decided to do made all the worse by the fact that McVey was nowhere to be found. Rationally and emotionally he'd already put himself in the policeman's hands and, in doing so, had prepared himself for whatever that meant: a fellow American who would understand and help, or a quick ride to a French jail. He felt like a balloon stuck to a ceiling, trapped but free at the same time. All he wanted to do was be hauled down but there was no one to pull the string. 2:40 in the afternoon. Osborn had called McVey three times at his hotel, only to be told that Monsieur McVey was out, had left no time when he would be expected back, but would be checking in for messages. By the third call, Osborn was going through the roof, the built-up anxiety of what he had decided to do made all the worse by the fact that McVey was nowhere to be found. Rationally and emotionally he'd already put himself in the policeman's hands and, in doing so, had prepared himself for whatever that meant: a fellow American who would understand and help, or a quick ride to a French jail. He felt like a balloon stuck to a ceiling, trapped but free at the same time. All he wanted to do was be hauled down but there was no one to pull the string.

Standing alone, showered and freshly shaved, in Philippe's basement flat, he struggled with what to do next. Vera was on her way to her grandmother's in Calais, transported there by the police who had been guarding her. And even though Philippe had made the call, Osborn wanted to think she had realized it was he who was telling her, that Philippe was only his beard. He hoped she understood that he was asking her to go there not only for her own safety but because he loved her.

Earlier, Philippe had looked at him and told him to use his apartment to clean up. Laying out fresh towels, he'd unwrapped a new bar of soap and given him a razor to shave. Then, saying to help himself to whatever he found in the icebox, the doorman had done up his tie and gone back to work. From his position in the front lobby he would know what the police were up to. If something happened, he would telephone Osborn immediately.

Without doubt, Philippe had been an angel. But he was tired and Osborn had the sense he was one surprise away from coming unglued. Too much had happened in the last twenty-four hours to test not only his loyalty but his mental balance. Generous as Philippe was, he was, after all, and by his own choice, simply a doorman. And nobody, least of all himself, expected him to be daring forever. If Osborn went back up to his hiding place under the eaves there was no knowing how long he'd be safe. Especially if the tall man found a way to elude the police and came back looking for him.

Finally, he had realized there was only one choice. Picking up the phone, he rang Philippe at the front desk and asked if the police were still outside.

"Oui, monsieur. Two in front, two at the rear." Two in front, two at the rear."

"Philippe-is there another way out of the building besides the front door or the service entrance?"

"Oui, monsieur. Right where you are. The kitchen door opens into a small hallway; at the end of it is a stairway up to the sidewalk. But why? Here you are safe and-" Right where you are. The kitchen door opens into a small hallway; at the end of it is a stairway up to the sidewalk. But why? Here you are safe and-"

"Merci, Philippe. Merci beaucoup," Osborn said, thanking him for everything. Hanging up, he made one more call. The Hotel Vieux. If McVey was picking up his messages, this would be one he. would want. Osborn would give him a time and a place to meet. Osborn said, thanking him for everything. Hanging up, he made one more call. The Hotel Vieux. If McVey was picking up his messages, this would be one he. would want. Osborn would give him a time and a place to meet.

7:00 P.M. P.M. The front terrace room of La Coupole, on the boulevard du Montparnasse. It was where he had last seen the private detective, Jean Packard, alive, and the one place in Paris he was familiar enough with to know it would be crowded at that hour. Thereby making it difficult for the tall man to risk taking a shot at him. The front terrace room of La Coupole, on the boulevard du Montparnasse. It was where he had last seen the private detective, Jean Packard, alive, and the one place in Paris he was familiar enough with to know it would be crowded at that hour. Thereby making it difficult for the tall man to risk taking a shot at him.

Five minutes later, he opened an outside door and climbed the short flights of stairs to the sidewalk. The afternoon was crisp and clear and barge traffic was passing on the Seine. Down the block he could see the police standing guard in front of the building. Turning, he walked off in the opposite direction.

At 5:20, Paul Osborn came out of Aux Trois Quartiers, a stylish department store on the boulevard de la Madeleine, and walked toward the Metro station a half block away. His hair was cut short and he was wearing a new, dark blue pin-stripe suit, with a white shirt and tie. Hardly the picture of a fugitive.

On the way there, he had stopped in the private office of Dr. Alain Cheysson on the rue de Bassano, near the Arc de Triomphe. Cheysson was a urologist two or three years younger than he with whom he'd shared a luncheon table in Geneva. They'd exchanged cards and promised to call one another when Osborn was in Paris or Cheysson in L.A. Osborn had forgotten about it entirely until he decided he'd better have someone look at his hand and tried to think how best to approach it.

"What happened?" Cheysson asked, once the assistant had taken X rays and Cheysson had come into the examining room to see Osborn.

"I'd rather not say," he said, trying to effect a smile.

"All right," Cheysson had replied with understanding, wrapping the hand with a fresh dressing. "It was a knife. Painful, perhaps, but as a surgeon you were very lucky."

"Yes, I know . . . ."

It was ten minutes to six when Osborn came up out of the Metro and started down boulevard du Montparnasse. La Coupole was less than three blocks away. That gave him more than an hour to play with. Time to observe, or try to observe, if the police were setting a trap. Stopping at a phone booth, he called McVey's hotel and was told that yes, Monsieur McVey had been given his message.

"Merci."

Hanging up, he pushed open the door and went back outside. It was nearing dark and the sidewalks were filled with the restless flow of people after work. Across the street and down a little way was La Coupole. Directly to his left was a small cafe with a window large enough for him to observe the comings and goings across the street.

Going inside, he picked a small table near the window that gave him a clear view, ordered a glass of white wine and sat back.

He had been lucky. The X rays on his hand had, as he'd thought, shown no serious damage and Cheysson, though a urologist and hardly an expert on hands, had assured him that he felt no permanent damage had been done. Grateful for Cheysson's help and understanding, he'd tried to pay for the visit, but Cheysson wouldn't hear of it.

"Mon ami," he'd said, tongue in cheek, "when I am wanted by the police in L.A. I know I will have a friend to treat me who will say nothing to anyone. Who will not even make a record of my visit. Eh?" he'd said, tongue in cheek, "when I am wanted by the police in L.A. I know I will have a friend to treat me who will say nothing to anyone. Who will not even make a record of my visit. Eh?"

Cheysson had seen him immediately and treated him without question, all the while knowing Osborn was wanted by the police and jeopardizing himself by helping. Yet he had said nothing. In the end they'd hugged and the Frenchman had kissed him in the French way and wished him well. It was little enough he could do, he said, for a fellow doctor who had shared his lunch table in Geneva.

Suddenly Osborn put down his glass and sat forward. A police car had pulled up across the street. Immediately two uniformed gendarmes got out and went into La Coupole. A moment later they came back out, a well-dressed man in handcuffs between them. He was animated, belligerent and apparently drunk. Passersby watched as he was hustled into the backseat of the police car. One gendarme got in beside him, the other got behind the wheel. Then the car drove off in a singsong of sirens and flashing blue emergency lights.

That was how fast it could happen.

Lifting his glass, Osborn looked at his watch. It was 6:15.

68.

AT 6:50 McVey's taxi crawled through traffic. Still, it was better than being in the Opel and trying to fight his way across Paris on his own. McVey's taxi crawled through traffic. Still, it was better than being in the Opel and trying to fight his way across Paris on his own.

Pulling out a tattered date book, he looked at the notes for that day, Monday, October 10. Most notably the last, Osborn-La Coupole, boulv. Montparnasse, 7 P.M. Osborn-La Coupole, boulv. Montparnasse, 7 P.M. Scribbled above it was a memo regarding a message from Barras. The Pirelli tire representative had examined the tire casting made at the park by the river. The pattern of that tire was found on tires specially manufactured for a large auto dealer who had an ongoing contract with Pirelli to put their tires on his new cars. That tire was now standard equipment on two hundred new Ford Sierras, eighty-seven of which had been sold in the last six weeks. A list of the purchasers was being compiled and would be ready by Tuesday morning. Further, the glass shard of the auto mirror McVey had picked up in the street after the shooting at Vera Monneray's had been put through the police lab. It too had come from a Ford vehicle; though it was impossible to tell which make or model. Parking Control had been alerted and its officers directed to report any Ford or Ford Siena with a broken exterior mirror. Scribbled above it was a memo regarding a message from Barras. The Pirelli tire representative had examined the tire casting made at the park by the river. The pattern of that tire was found on tires specially manufactured for a large auto dealer who had an ongoing contract with Pirelli to put their tires on his new cars. That tire was now standard equipment on two hundred new Ford Sierras, eighty-seven of which had been sold in the last six weeks. A list of the purchasers was being compiled and would be ready by Tuesday morning. Further, the glass shard of the auto mirror McVey had picked up in the street after the shooting at Vera Monneray's had been put through the police lab. It too had come from a Ford vehicle; though it was impossible to tell which make or model. Parking Control had been alerted and its officers directed to report any Ford or Ford Siena with a broken exterior mirror.

The last notation on McVey's October 10 page was the lab report on the broken toothpick he had uncovered among the pine needles just before he'd found the tire track. The person who had held the toothpick in his/her mouth had been a "secretor"-a group-specific substance sixty percent of the population carry in the bloodstream that makes it possible to determine the blood group from other body fluids such as urine, semen and saliva. The blood group of the secretor in the woods was the same as the blood group found in the bloodstains on the floor in Vera Monneray's kitchen. Type O.

The taxi stopped in front of La Coupole at precisely seven minutes past seven. McVey paid the driver, got out and walked into the restaurant.

The large back room was being set up for the dinner crowd that had yet to arrive, and only a few tables were occupied. But the glassed-in terrace room facing the sidewalk in front was packed and noisy.

McVey stood in the doorway and looked around. A moment later, he squeezed past a group of businessmen, found a vacant table near the back and sat down. He was exactly as he wished to appear, one man, alone.

The Organization had tentacles reaching far beyond those who were members of it. Like most professional groups it subcontracted labor, often employing people who had no idea for whom they actually worked.

Colette and Sami were high-school girls from wealthy families who were into drugs, and consequently did whatever was necessary to feed their habit and at the same time keep their addiction hidden from their families. That put them on call at almost any hour, for any reason.

Monday's request was simple: Watch the lone exit at the apartment building at 18 Quai de Bethune that the police were not watching, the entrance to the doorman's living quarters. If a good-looking man about thirty-five came out, report it and follow him.

Both girls had followed Osborn to Dr. Cheysson's office on rue de Bassano. Then Sami had trailed him to Aux Trois Quartiers on boulevard de la Madeleine, even flirted with him and asked him to help pick out a tie for her uncle while he was waiting for his suit to be tailored. After that, Colette had followed him into the Metro and stayed with him until he'd gone into the cafe across from La Coupole.

That was when Bernhard Oven took over, watching as Osborn left the cafe and crossed boulevard du Montparnasse to enter La Coupole at five minutes after seven.

At five foot ten and in dark hair, jeans, leather jacket and Reeboks, with a diamond stud in his left ear, Bernhard Oven was no longer a blond, tall man. He was, however, no less deadly. In his right jacket pocket, he carried the silenced Cz .22 automatic he'd used so successfully in Marseilles.

At 7:20, convinced that McVey had come by himself, Osborn got up from where he sat near the window, eased past several crowded tables and approached him, his bandaged hand held gingerly at his side.

McVey glanced at Osborn's bandaged hand, then indicated a chair next to him, and Osborn sat down.

"I said I'd be alone. I am," McVey said.

"You said you could help. What did you mean?" Osborn asked. His new suit and haircut meant nothing. McVey had known he'd been there all along.

McVey ignored him. "What's your blood type, Doctor?"

Osborn hesitated. "I thought you were going to find out;"

"I want to hear it from you."

Just then a waiter in a white shirt and black pants stopped at the table. McVey shook his head.

"Cafe," Osborn said, and the waiter walked off. Osborn said, and the waiter walked off.

"Type B."

LAPD Detective Hernandez's preliminary report on Osborn had finally reached McVey by fax just before he'd left Lebrun's office. Among other stats it had included Osborn's blood type-type B. Which meant that not only had Osborn told the truth but that the tall man's blood was type O.

"Doctor Hugo Klass. Tell me about him," McVey said.

"I don't know a Doctor Hugo Klass," Osborn said, deliberately, still nervously wondering if there weren't plainclothes detectives somewhere in the room waiting for McVey to give the signal.

"He knows you," McVey lied purposefully.

"Then I've forgotten. What kind of medicine does he practice?"

Either Osborn was very good, or very innocent. But then he'd lied about the mud on his shoes, so there was every possibility he was doing the same here. "He's a Ph.D. A friend of Timothy Ashford." McVey shifted gears in an effort to make Osborn stumble.

"Who?"

"Come on, Doctor. Timothy Ashford. A housepainter from South London. Good-looking man. Age twenty-four.

You know who he is."

"I'm sorry, I don't."

"No?"

"No."

"Then I guess it wouldn't make any difference if I told you I had his head in a freezer in London."

A middle-aged woman in a lightly checked suit at the next table reacted sharply. McVey kept his eyes on Osborn. His statement had been offhand but loaded, designed to elicit the same kind of reaction from Osborn it had from .the woman. But Osborn hadn't so much as blinked.

"Doctor, you lied to me before. You want me to help you. You've got to give me something I can use. A reason to trust you."

The waiter came with Osborn's coffee, set it on the table in front of him and then left. McVey watched him go. Several aisles away he stopped at the table of a dark-haired man wearing a leather jacket. The man had been sitting alone for ten minutes and so far had ordered nothing. He had a diamond stud in his left ear and a cigarette his left hand. The waiter had stopped once before but he'd been waved off. This time the man glanced in McVey's direction, then said something to the waiter. The waiter nodded and walked away.

McVey looked back to Osborn. "What is it, Doctor, you feel uncomfortable talking here? Want to go somewhere else?"

Osborn didn't know what to do or think. McVey was asking him the same kind of questions he had the first time they'd met. He was obviously looking for something he thought Osborn was involved in, but he had no idea what it was. And that made it all the harder because every answer he gave seemed to be calculated avoidance, when, in fact, he was only telling the truth.

"McVey, believe me when I tell you I have no idea what you're talking about. If I did maybe I could help, but don't."

McVey tugged at an ear and looked off. Then he looked back. "Maybe we should try a little different approach," he said, pausing. "How come you pumped Albert Merriman full of succ-een-ill-choline? I pronounce it ' right?"

Osborn didn't panic, his pulse didn't even jump. McVey was too intelligent not to have found out, and he'd prepared himself for it. "Do the Paris police know?"

"Please answer the question."

"Albert Merriman-murdered my father."

"Your father?" That surprised McVey. It was something he should have considered, but hadn't, that Merriman had been an object of pursuit for revenge.

"Yes."

"You hire the tall man to kill him?"

"No. He just showed up."

"How long ago did Merriman kill your father?"

"When I was ten."

"Ten?"

"In Boston. On the street. I was there. I saw it happen. I never forgot his face. And I never saw him again, until a week ago, here in Paris."

In an instant McVey fit the pieces together. "You didn't tell the Paris police because you weren't finished with him. You hired Packard to find him. And when he did, you looked for a spot to do it and found the riverbank. Give him a shot or two of the drug. Get him in the water, he can't breathe or use his muscles, he floats off and drowns. Current is heavy there, the chemical dissipates quickly in the body and he's so bloated nobody thinks to look for puncture wounds. That was the idea."

"In a way."

"What way?"

"First, I wanted to find out why he had done what he did."

"Did you?" Suddenly McVey's eyes tracked off. The man in the leather jacket was no longer at the table where he had been. He was closer. Two tables away in a clear line to Osborn's immediate left. A cigarette was still in his left hand but his right was out of sight, under the table.

Osborn started to turn to see what McVey was looking at when suddenly McVey was on his feet, stepping between Osborn and the man at the table.

"Get up and walk ahead of me. Out that door. Don't ask why. Just do it."

Osborn got up. As he did, he realized who McVey had been looking at. "McVey, that's him. The tall man!"

McVey whirled. Bernhard Oven was standing, the silenced Czechoslovakian Cz coming up in his hand. Somebody screamed.

Suddenly the air was shattered by two booming reports, one right on top of the other, followed almost immediately by a hailstorm breaking of glass.

Bernhard Oven didn't quite understand why the older American had hit him so hard in the chest. Or why he felt he had to do it twice. Then he realized he was flat on his back on the cement sidewalk outside, while his legs were still inside the restaurant, dangling across the sill of the window he had crashed through. Glass was everywhere. Then he heard people screaming, but he had no idea why. Puzzled, he looked up and saw the same American standing over him. A blue-steel .38 Smith & Wesson revolver was in his fist, its barrel pointed at his heart. Vaguely he shook his head. Then everything faded.

Osborn moved in and felt Oven's carotid artery. Around them was pandemonium. People were yelling. Screaming Crying out in shock and horror. Some stood back watching. Others were shoving their way out, trying to get away, while still others moved closer, trying to see. Finally Osborn looked up to McVey.

"He's dead."

"You're sure it's the tall man."

"Yes."