France and England 1937
A woman’s voice, stricken with sniffles and maybe tears. He opened the door. Slowly and holding the pistol, although the voice was fairly familiar, but after men of various languages had pounded on him. What the hell. Why shouldn’t a woman give it a try?
“Sharon?”
“Oh my God, I…..I just….” Followed with a powerful hit from the other side of the open door!
The pistol went flying and his breakfast sparing partner showed his snarling face. This time Allain showed his stuff, carefully using kicks and fists to down the bastard, then landed with both knees on the man’s chest. If he wanted to breath he was going to have to earn it.
Sharon jerked Allain’s shoulder! “Please don’t hurt my husband!”
Allain quickly shook her hand away, hit the man again hard in the face, then again. Blood splattered! Already both cheeks had turned red, blood drippled down his chin.
Allain looked back at Sharon. “You brought him here! Now your turn to drag him away!
The man was just getting up, still on his knees. Allain turned, swung with his palm hard into the man’s jaw, probably breaking it. He yelled and clutched his face.
Allain got to his feet. “Now, Sharon, or whatever you call yourself, drag this worthless piece of slop down the stairs. The doorman is going to be waiting.”
Sharon did what she could, now speaking clearly in Italian slang. Allain didn’t grasp it, but guessed it wasn’t glad to see ya.
“And by the way, you don’t have kids, do you!”
She was no longer crying. More like snarling! Her finger nails scratched his face bringing blood, then pulled a knife!
Allain slapped her face, hard! And again, even harder. Now the tears came back. “I don’t smack women, but you don’t fit the profile!”
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Breakfast became just coffee. Sitting alone, not picking up the newspaper. Another waiter came by and oddly sat down at his table.
“I won’t tell you my name, but I am from….”
“MI6? I’m guessing.”
“Doesn’t matter. I was supposed to watch you, but I didn’t do a very good job.”
Allain shrugged. “And why are you watching me? What have I supposed to have done?”
“You? Nothing. You know Frank Howard?”
“I did. He’s dead.”
“We understand you’re a writer for the same newspaper and you’ve helped him spread anti-Fascist newspapers in Italy. We may need your help.”
Another shrug. “I’m not saying a thing. I don’t know you, or who you work for. Could be anyone.”
“Come with me, please. I have a better place to talk and explain things.”
“Where are we going?”
“Downstairs in this hotel. Don’t worry. I have an office right here.”
Thoughts fluttered. Maybe he is MI6. Seems likely since we are going to an office in the hotel.
Down they went, step after step, echoes on the close cement walls. The man didn’t push. Walked in front, chatting at bit.
They stopped in front of a steel door and stepped in, lights on, a desk, and the two men who had tried to capture him in his hotel room.
Allain turned quickly. The so-called waiter pushed back.
A lot of Italian spoken. One of the men pulled out a gun and pointed.
The MI6 guy, or whoever he was, said nothing. The man with the gun turned and said something. The English man nodded, then said in English. “This place is quiet. Might as well do it now.”
Before anyone had a chance to say another word, Allain put his hand in a pants pocket and shot the Beretta M1934 right through it. All three went down. One in the stomach, and one in the chest plus the English man took it in the hip, leaving him yelling in agony as he hit the floor.
“My God! You shot me!” The Italians said nothing. They couldn’t.
“You’re not MI6,” Allain say. “I am. Well not really. But FBI working with MI6. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”
The man was moaning, unable to speak. But soon he would. Allain asked this and that. The man held his hip, looking up at Allain standing over him, still saying nothing.
Allain kicked the man’s hurt hip. The man whined, rolling to his good hip.
“See, I can do his all day.” He kicked him once and again, making the man left screaming, this time loudly. Allain didn’t ask, just kicked harder.
Someone must have seen the unknown waiter with a customer going down stairs to the deep caverns of the hotel, where few are allowed.
Bobbies showed up and soon two MI6 men. Lots of obvious questions flowed: what, why and who?
“So why did you happen to have a pistol?”
“I took it off one of the Italian gentlemen.”
“And now two men are dead and another is seriously wounded?”
One of the other Secret Intelligent Service men spoke. “The two dead, I know them. OVRA. Been chasing them for weeks.”
“OK. You may find the waiter is something too.” The MI6 man who had spoken just shrugged his shoulders.
The conversation changed to Allain again. “You told the third man you were MI6? And obviously you are not.”
“True. I’m just a reporter.”
“Wait a moment. Why were these men chasing a reporter?”
“Does the Name Frank Howard ring a bell? There may be a couple of others, an Italian man and a woman you may want to look for. They had a room here.”
One of the MI6 men sighed. “You know where they are?”
“I only know where they were. If they come to bash my head in, I'l let you know.”
But he had an inkling.
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