77 Rue Paradis
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It began here for Baron - the whole grotesque skein of terror - here in this Marseilles street of despair, the street called the Rue Paradis.
There was Gorssmann, fat and corrupt, who waited until Baron scraped bottom - and then blackmailed him into treason.
And Lili, the dark, lovely gain, who fell in love with Baron - and worked for the man determined to destroy him.
Altogether for Frank baron it was a small hell on the street called Paradise...
possibly. But there is only the one, you see? Anyone can equal the building of the engine. But the breather, no. It is so secret it even makes me perspire to speak its name. Can you guess what your job will be?” Baron watched Gorssmann. He could say nothing. He could not trust his voice. Gorssmann shrugged. “It is just as well. I will talk with you again, and explain. For now, then, here….” He opened a drawer in the desk, took out a bundle of franc notes with a rubber band around them, and
handed them to Baron. “Take this and get yourself in order. We will contact you. Do not move from your present address.” “Suppose I fail?” “You will not fail.” Gorssmann came around the desk, pressed him to his feet, guided him toward the door. Arnold stood up and looked at them. “You are the only man who can do this job. There is no such thing as failure. Every move is blueprinted, Baron. And, Baron — I can never tell you how important this is. You are the man. You go home now. Rest, become a
three hours you have not spoken. I will return quickly, and we will talk.” “We owe money here,” he said. “Pooh!” “All right. See that you don’t open the brandy before you get here. See you don’t forget to come home.” She grinned wickedly and winked. “When I get back, you’ll tell me everything,” she said. “I love your nose, but I think a nose is not enough. You are holding it inside you, chéri. This is bad. If I thought it could be a woman, I would laugh. It would be to laugh at. But it is not
through the fog between the heads and the tinkling tables, beyond the throbbing glare of red music, at the woman with the billy goat on the stage. Good Lord! He ordered another cognac, suddenly sober in the turgid scarlet interim of drunkenness. They shouted out there amid the tables and the wild sound. They shouted for the billy goat. They shouted for the girl. They shouted and screamed for the both of them and everything went silent and he stood there listening to the slow, pulsing,
angle, hating himself as he preyed on the man’s sympathies. He found himself using every slight advantage he could think of. He talked it all out, in detail, and he watched Chevard’s face closely. “When I’m back in the game, one way or another, and can see a way to some money, then I’ll return to America and set up shop. In their faces. Somehow they’ll know I was not at fault. They’ve got to know this. I’m — I’m flat broke, you know. I have nothing — nothing at all.” It was done. He had said all