This is For Real (14 page)

“Try to persuade him to stay in Dakar. If he becomes troublesome, I’ll arrange something. Your job now is to work on Girland.”

“He spotted you were Russian,” Janine said. “He wondered what you were doing here.”

“I will keep away from the N’Gor. I will remain here. If you want me, telephone me.” He gave her a telephone number. “Just say you want to see me and I’ll send the car for you.” He got to his feet. “Remember this is as important to you as it is to me. I want quick results.”

Janine followed him to the front door. The Cadillac was waiting under the shade of a tree. The chauffeur opened the car door.

Without looking at Malik, she walked down the steps and got into the car.

Girland arrived back at the N’Gor Hotel a little after six. He had spent the afternoon in Diourbel. It had been roasting hot in the straggling, but pleasant little town. Madame Foucher had said Carey was in the bush outside Diourbel. It was only when Girland attempted to leave the main road and branch off into the bush that he realised how easily and quickly he could get lost. He found too that the Citroen wasn’t the car to use on the narrow, sand packed lanes leading into the bush. Several times the rear wheels sank into the sand and he had a struggle that left him soaking with sweat and exhausted to get the car moving again. He hadn’t driven more than a kilometre or two before he turned back and was thankful to regain the main road.

He entered his hotel room, threw off his clothes and took a cold shower. Dressing again in a light-weight suit, he took the lift down to the bar. As he walked down the long flight of stairs leading to the bar, he thought he hadn’t wasted his afternoon. He now had a good idea of Diourbel, he had seen something of the bush and he had seen the difficulties that faced him of finding Carey. He decided he would go to the Florida Club that evening in the hope Enrico would be there.

As he moved to a table, he saw Janine sitting at a table at the far end of the big room. She looked cool and beautiful in a simple white frock. She waved to him as he looked in her direction and he joined her.

“Did you have a nice drive?” she asked as he sat down at her side.

“A little too hot for me,” he said and when the African Waiter came to his side, he ordered a double gin and tonic. He saw she was drinking Campari soda with ice. “And you? Did you enjoy your afternoon?”

“Very much, thank you.” She looked thoughtfully at him as he lit a cigarette. It was hard to believe this powerfully built, blond American could be the mysterious Girland.

They chatted, sipping their drinks.

“Will you keep me company for Dinner?” Girland asked. “I have a business date at half past eight, but if you don’t mind eating early, I’d welcome company.”

“That’s lovely,” she said. “I hate eating alone.” She leaned back, arching her full breasts. “I’m not at all sure I’ve been wise coming out here on my own. I could get bored.”

Girland grinned. “You won’t. Not when I’m around.”

“Are going to Dakar tonight?”

“Yes. Do you want a lift?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t want to wander around Dakar on my own. No, I think I’ll stay here. I have a good book.”

Girland was tempted to ask her to come with him to the Florida Club, but decided she might be in the way if he had the luck to run into Enrico.

“Will you be back late?” she asked casually. “We might have a drink together before turning in.”

“I don’t know what time I’ll get back,” Girland said. “You know how it is with business men. Yak … yak … but I’ll look for you here if it’s anything like a reasonable time.” He glanced at his watch. “Shall we go in and eat?”

“Give me three minutes,” she said, getting to her feet, “and I’ll be with you.”

It would have shocked him if he had known what Janine did when she left him. Moving quickly, she shut herself in one of the telephone kiosks in the lobby and called Malik’s number. He answered almost at once.

“My American business friend is leaving the hotel at 20.30 hrs. for Dakar,” she said. “He expects to be back late,” and she hung up.

Leaving the kiosk, she went to the Ladies’ Room and touched up her face, then she returned to the bar. Seeing her coming, Girland got to his feet and joined her.

Together, they walked into the restaurant. They ordered smoked salmon and vodka, veal in a rich cream sauce and fruit. During the meal, they talked, and this time it was Girland who asked questions. He was now curious about this lovely looking woman.

“You live in Paris on your own?” he asked as he squeezed lemon juice on his smoked salmon.

“Yes. My father left me quite a lot of money and an apartment.” She smiled at him. “I’m rather spoilt. I don’t do anything but amuse myself, buy clothes and travel.”

“Don’t you get bored?”

“Sometimes, but not often. There is so much to do in Paris.”

A few minutes to half past eight, after coffee and brandy on the terrace, Girland got to his feet.

“I hate to go, but I must. I’ll look for you here tonight.”

“I’ll be here until eleven,” she said. “Have a good time.”

Leaving her, he went up to the reception lobby, handed in his key and then went out into the hot night air to his car.

He took his time driving to Dakar and arrived outside the Florida Club a little after half past nine. He was in a relaxed mood and off his guard so he didn’t notice a black Dauphine car had been following him from the hotel to the club. The Dauphine, driven by a young African, passed him as he parked the Citroen. The driver noted that Girland walked across the road and entered the club. He then parked his car and getting out, he walked slowly towards the club. Tall and thin, wearing a shabby European suit, the African attracted no attention. He paused outside the club, then entered, going immediately to the bar where he hoisted himself on a high stool and called for tonic water.

Girland was already sitting at a table in an arched recess.

The club room was large and air conditioned. At one end was a dais on which a band of five Africans played expert swing. Around the room were tables and chairs. The dance floor took up the major part of the room. In a big alcove opposite him a number of African girls sat at tables chattering to one another with the incessant, noisy volubility of magpies.

A waiter brought Girland a whisky on the rocks, and Girland lit a cigarette, resigning himself to a long, boring wait.

People, mostly well-dressed Africans, kept coming in. Some of them danced, but most of them preferred to sit at the tables, drinking soft drinks and listening to the band. Girland kept a sharp look out every time the door pushed open, but he saw no one remotely resembling a Portuguese.

Suddenly a tall, good looking African girl came from the opposite recess. Giggling nervously, she paused at Girland’s table.

“Do you care to dance?” she asked, rolling her big, black eyes at him.

She was wearing a white dress over which she had draped pale green nylon, and on her head, she wore a turban, also of green nylon. Clattering on her thin, bony wrists were heavy gold bracelets and long gold ear-rings made a sparkling frame to her face.

“Why not?” Girland said and stood up.

All the other girls in the recess were giggling and pushing at each other as if it was the greatest joke in the world. As they moved onto the floor, the girl said, “They betted me I wouldn’t ask you. You’re American, aren’t you?” She spoke in a sing-song French and she looked directly at him, showing him her magnificent white teeth in a happy smile.

“That’s right,” Girland said. He found she was an expert dancer, so light and quick to follow his lead, she made him feel slightly clumsy.

“I’m Awa. My sister’s over there. She’s Adama. We’re twins. It is the custom in this country to call girl twins Awa and Adama. What is your name?”

“John,” Girland said.

They lapsed into silence and gave themselves to the music. When the band stopped playing, they paused and smiled at each other.

“Have a drink with me, Awa,” Girland said. “Keep me company.”

She giggled, shooting a look of triumph across the room at the other girls.

“Yes. I would like to.”

Returning to his table, they sat down and Girland signalled to the waiter. He ordered a Schweppes Orange for the girl and another whisky for himself.

It wasn’t until they had had several more dances and more drinks that Girland said casually, “There used to be a girl here. She was tall and good looking. I don’t see her here tonight.”

“We’re all here except Rosa,” Awa said. “But you haven’t been here before, have you?”

“No, I happened to meet her. She told me she worked here. Do you know where she lives?”

“With her father in Medina.”

“Is that far?”

“No. It’s just outside Dakar.”

“What is her father’s name?”

“Momar Arbeau. He owns a fruit stall.”

“Doesn’t Rosa have a boyfriend? Enrico I think his name is.”

Awa nodded eagerly.

“Yes. He is very rich. He used to come here every night, but I haven’t seen him now since Rosa went away.”

“Where does he live?”

She shook her head, and he saw there was now an uneasy expression in her eyes. All these questions were beginning to worry her.

“I owe Rosa some money,” Girland said, feeling some explanation was necessary. “If I can’t find her, I would give the money to Enrico for her.”

The uneasy expression went away and Awa smiled widely.

“I don’t know where he lives. Rosa never told me.”

“Do you know his other name?”

“No. Rosa always called him Enrico. I don’t think she knows where he lived, otherwise she would have told me.”

Girland experienced a deflated feeling of disappointment. He had been relying on the Florida Club to produce this Portuguese. Now, it seemed, his only lead was Rosa’s father. If what Awa had said was true, why should Rosa’s father know where Enrico lived if Rosa didn’t?

“Listen, Awa,” he said. “If you can find out where Enrico lives, I will pay you well.” He felt in his trouser pocket and separated a thousand franc note from the roll of money he was carrying. He slipped the note across the table. “I’ll give you three more of these if you find out for me.”

Awa’s slim black fingers snapped up the note so quickly that the tall, thin African who had been watching them in the mirror over the bar, failed to see the transaction.

“My name is John Gilchrist,” Girland went on. “Will you telephone me at the N’Gor Hotel if you find him?” She nodded excitedly.

“I’ll find him. I’ll ask all my friends. Someone will know where he lives.”

“One more thing, Awa,” Girland said. “Don’t mention my name to anyone, and don’t tell them that I want to meet Enrico. Do you understand?”

She began to look uneasy again, but the feel of the thousand franc note in her fingers gave her confidence.

“Yes.”

“All right.” Girland finished his drink. “I must go now. Try to find Enrico quickly.”

He left the club and walked into the stifling night air. He paused to glance at his watch. The time was five minutes after eleven. Walking slowly, he crossed to where he had parked the Citroen.

In the club, Awa became aware of the tall, thin African coming towards her. His name was Samba Dieng. She knew him to be a wastrel who lived on the earnings of two old prostitutes who worked in the Arab quarter. She knew too he had been in and out of prison for petty theft. As he sat at the table, she looked at him with frank contempt.

“Who was the white man?” he demanded, his vicious eyes staring hard at her.

“I don’t know. I asked him to dance and we danced. What is it to you, black boy?”

“What did he talk about?”

“Nothing. What do white men talk about?”

“Did he ask about Rosa?”

Awa got to her feet.

“He asked about no one,” and with a contemptuous swagger in her walk, she crossed the dance floor and joined her giggling friends.

As soon as Girland had left the hotel, Janine had gone up to her room. She changed out of her white frock into a white blouse and black skirt, then she telephoned down for a taxi.

“I want to go to the airport and then to Dakar and then come back here,” she told the Hall Porter. “I am meeting the Paris plane.”

The Hall Porter said the taxi would be at the hotel in ten minutes.

She took the lift down to the reception lobby and sat in one of the lounging chairs, glancing through a day old copy of
France-Soir.
After a short wait, one of the porters came over to her and told her the taxi had arrived.

It took only five minutes to reach the airport. Getting out of the taxi, she told the African driver to wait.

The girl at the information desk said the Paris plane was on time and would be arriving in five minutes. Janine sat down, lit a cigarette and waited.

A little after nine o’clock, she heard a plane touch down, and getting to her feet, she walked over to the arrival gate.

Some minutes later, passengers began to filter through the gate, and among the first of the arrivals was Jack Kerman. He was wearing a crumpled lightweight suit and was carrying a shabby hold-all. When he saw her, he waved.

“Hello there,” he said, reaching her. “Phew! It’s hot! Let’s have a drink and talk.”

She greeted him and fell into step beside him. They walked to the bar.

Janine was nervous of Kerman. She knew him to be the most shrewd and clever agent working for Dorey. He wasn’t like Rossland. She told herself she would have to be very careful how she handled him.

She asked after Dorey.

“He’s in a flap,” Kerman said. He hoisted himself onto a stool by the bar. “What’ll you drink?”

“I think a gin and tonic.”

He ordered a beer for himself. At this hour the bar was empty, and the barman, having served them, Went to the far end of the bar and opened a newspaper.

“Why is he in a flap?” Janine asked, holding her drink in her hand.

“Because he’s dropped a clanger. You had a cable from him?”

She nodded.

“Not very bright of him to let that woman get murdered, was it?” Kerman said. He drank some of his beer. “Obviously, she had vital information. Well, she’s dead now, so she can’t help us.” He gave Janine a sudden searching glance. “Just why did you come out here?”