This is For Real (2 page)

“Well, all right, then I will stay.”

He nodded, then crossed the room and opened a door that led into a shower cabinet and toilet. He shut himself in. To the right of the shower was a ceiling high closet. He opened it, reached inside and found a cleverly hidden spring which he pressed. The back of the closet slide aside. He reached inside and took out a leather gun holster containing a small, flat ammonia gun. Taking off his jacket, he slipped the holster straps around his broad shoulders and put on his jacket again. He satisfied himself the gun showed no bulge, then he glanced at himself in the mirror above the toilet basin.

Girland was tall and dark. His face was thin, his eyes dark and deep-set, his mouth hard and his jaw aggressive. A few scattered white hairs either side of his temples made him look slightly older than his thirty-five years.

He ran a comb through his hair, then for the sake of appearance, he flushed the toilet and opened the door.

Tessa was kneeling before his bookcase, examining his books. She looked over her shoulder as he came to her and she smiled at him.

“Graham Greene, Chandler, Hemingway … we share the same taste in reading.”

He bent and kissed her.

“There’ll be other things we’ll share,” he said and his hand moved down her long back and across her buttocks.

She remained motionless, but her eyes became hostile.

“You mustn’t be too free with me. I don’t like men who take me for granted,” she said.

He stood away from her.

“I never take anything for granted,” he said, “but I live under pressure. I feel life is always trying to escape me. I used to spend too much time manoeuvring with women. Now, I try the direct approach. Sometimes, more often than not, it succeeds.”

She had nothing to say to this, but she asked, “Where are you going?”

He smiled. He looked young and guileless when he smiled.

“To see a man about a dog. Wait for me. If the telephone rings, don’t answer it. Keep the door locked. You won’t be disturbed. There’s a beautiful steak in the refrigerator. It’s all yours. See you sometime tonight.”

He left the apartment and began the long descent to the street.

Tessa remained on her knees, staring blankly at the books on the shelves. She listened to Girland’s fading footfalls, then she got to her feet and walked silently to the door and opened it. She stepped out onto the dusty, dimly lit landing and leaned over the banister rail. Far below, she caught a glimpse of Girland as he pushed open the street door. Turning quickly, she re-entered the apartment and closed and locked the door.

Then with methodical patience, she began to search the room.

Girland walked quickly down Rue de Suisses to where he had parked his Fiat 600. The little car was on its last legs. He paused to inspect the blister on the front offside tyre. He decided the tyre might or might not survive another fifty kilometres. Climbing into the car, he coaxed the engine to start, then engaging gear, he edged the car into the continuous stream of traffic.

When eventually he arrived at the Odéon Métro, he found Rossland impatiently waiting for him. He pulled up by him.

Rossland came over, and with difficulty, squeezed himself into the passenger’s seat.

“You’re late, damn it!” he complained. “Let’s go. Just keep driving.” He shifted his bulk in the small seat as Girland started the Fiat moving again. “God! What a car! When are you getting rid of this horrible
poubelle?
”

“It gets me around,” Girland said indifferently. “I’m no millionaire.” He glanced at Rossland. “Not that you care, but you’ve ruined what could have been a very interesting evening.”

“A woman again,” Rossland said and snorted. “Why can’t you leave women alone? You worry me, Mark. Seriously … there are too many women.”

“How’s your sex life?” Girland asked and laughed. “Don’t tell me you live like a monk.”

“Never mind how I live. I manage, but I don’t let women dictate my life … that’s the important thing. You think too much about women.”

“Skip it,” Girland said, suddenly impatient. “What’s cooking?”

“A job … it’s a queer one. Could be something; could be a hoax.”

“Is there any money in it? Right now I could do with some money.”

“When can’t you?” Rossland said sourly. “Women and money … that’s all you think about.”

“What else is there to think about?” Girland was studying in his driving mirror a black Citroen car that had been sitting on his tail now for the past three minutes. The driver had his hat pulled down to hide his face and he sat hunched behind the driving wheel. Girland abruptly swung the Fiat into a narrow street, leaving the boulevard and accelerated. He watched the Citroen swing into the street after him. He interrupted what Rossland was about to say. “I think we’re being tailed, Harry.”

Rossland immediately became alert. He looked back over his shoulder at the cruising Citroen.

“Could be wrong. Let’s see if we can lose him,” Girland went on.

He turned right at the next intersection, drove down a one-way street, made narrow by parked cars, then turned right again where he was forced to stop at the traffic lights.

The black Citroen crawled to a stop some ten feet behind him.

“Don’t look around,” Girland said, peering into the driving mirror. “He’s still with us.” He drove on as the lights changed to green. “I’ll stop and fix him.”

“No! Let him alone. I want to talk to you,” Rossland said sharply. “You keep driving. He can’t hear what we’re saying.”

Girland shrugged. He drove in silence for a few minutes, then crossed Pont Sully and turned down Quai d’Anjou. When he had driven half way down the Quai, he saw the Citroen crawling after him. Ahead of him, a car pulled out from the line of tightly parked cars and went roaring down the Quai.

Girland swung the little car into the vacant space, stopped and turned off the engine.

“Now, let’s see what he’ll do.”

The driver of the Citroen abruptly accelerated and swept past them without looking in their direction. At the end of the Quai, the car turned right and disappeared into the fast moving traffic crossing Port Marie.

“That’s got rid of him for the moment,” Girland said and lit a cigarette. “What’s all this about? How did you get yourself tailed, Harry? He was after you; not me.”

Rossland looked worried.

“I was tailed by a young punk with a beard. I lost him in the Métro. Looks like there were two tails.”

Girland grimaced.

“You ought to know there are always two tails: one working in front, the other behind.”

“You telling me this guy tailed me in the Métro in a goddamn Citroen?” Rossland demanded angrily.

“Another stooge was the front man. He saw you waiting for me. He telephoned this guy in the Citroen and he was ready for us when I arrived.” Girland said with offensive patience. “But never mind. What’s it all about?”

“This morning Dorey had a telephone call from a woman who calls herself Madame Foucher,” Rossland said. “She claims to have something to sell. Dorey doesn’t know if it is a hoax or not. She hinted she might approach others. He wants to be sure she isn’t a nut. She wants to meet someone who’ll discuss price and so on. Dorey has dropped this into my lap. I’m dropping it into yours. It’s simple enough. She’ll be at ‘Allo, Paris’ at eleven o’clock tonight. I want you to contact her and find out what she has to offer and what she wants for it.”

“What’s the rest of it?”

“That’s all. You’ll have to decide whether or not she does have anything worth buying. Don’t commit us to anything. This first meeting is merely exploratory.”

“But why bring me into it? Why don’t you handle it yourself, Harry? It sounds right up your alley.”

Rossland went through the routine of shaking out a cigarette from a crumpled pack and lighting it, before he said, “I always keep to the sidelines. That’s why I’m useful to Dorey.”

“You know something?” Girland said seriously. “You’re now as useful to Dorey as a hole in the head. Why don’t you grow up? This isn’t a hoax, sonny boy: this is for real. She’s already talked to others and they’re watching their interests. They’re on to you and they’re now on to me, thanks to your dumbness. You’ve led them direct to me. All they have to do is to check the number of my car to know who I am and where I live. How smart can you get, Harry? What’s happening to that white thing in your head you call a brain?”

Rossland shifted his bulk uncomfortably.

“Don’t talk that way to me!” he blustered. “I don’t like it!”

“You’re not meant to like it,” Girland said in a bored, flat voice. “You’re beginning to show signs of being washed up in this racket. You’re now too fat, too damned sleek, too sure of yourself. You’ve had a long, long run for your money and now you’re over confident. You think this is a parlour game: giving orders, raking in the money, waving your tiny wand and letting others do the dirty work. Two years ago, you wouldn’t have let a front tail get onto you. This isn’t a game, Harry. This is one of the most lethal rackets you can get into. Mugs like us who are crazy enough to work for drips like Dorey have to look out for trouble all the time. You’ve become so smug and stale you can’t even recognise trouble when it actually sits in your fat lap.”

“My God!” Rossland exclaimed, sweat breaking out on his forehead. “No cheap shyster like you can talk this way to me! You’re not the only agent I have who can handle this and be glad to! I’m doing you a favour because I know you want the money. You stop picking on me or I’ll …”

“No, you won’t, Harry,” Girland said and there was a bored note in his voice. “I happen to be the last of the suckers who are willing to do your dirty work and you know it. Jason’s gone. Gray, Fauchet and Pierre … they saw the red light as I’m seeing it now. I’m the last of your shabby little stable who you can rely on, so don’t wave threats in my face.”

Rossland breathed heavily. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and stared furiously through the dusty windshield of the car.

“What’s it worth?” Girland asked finally. “I won’t even consider it until I get some money.”

Rossland hesitated, then groped in his hip pocket. He gave Girland two one hundred franc notes.

“Where’s the rest of it?” Girland demanded.

“That’s all for the moment. You know the way Dorey pays.”

Girland put the notes in his limp wallet.

“I need my head examined working for this kind of money,” he said in disgust.

“I want action,” Rossland said. “I’m going back to my place right now and I’ll be waiting. Watch it they don’t tail you.”

“Very funny … coming from you,” Girland said.

Herman Radnitz sat in an alcove in the bar of the George V Hotel: a square, fat man with hooded eyes and a thick hooked nose. He wore an immaculate Savile Row suit, a dark red carnation in his button hole and Lobb brogue shoes. From time to time he drew on an expensive cigar which he held in his short, fat fingers.

He had been sitting in the bar for the past half hour, his ruthless face clouded with thought.

Radnitz was a well-known figure at the hotel. He was believed to be one of the richest men in the world. His financial machinations spread like the tentacles of an octopus over the whole globe.

A young man, wearing a chin beard and a shabby overcoat belted like a dressing-gown, came quietly into the bar. He paused, then at a sign from Radnitz, sat down in a vacant chair by Radnitz’s side.

This young man whose name was Michel Thomas, said softly, “Dorey has had an interview with Rossland. They met at the Crillon Bar and talked for some time. As they were leaving, Dorey gave Rossland something … could have been money. I wasn’t close enough to see. Rossland then went to the bar at the Normandy Hotel and made a telephone call. Borg was with me. He followed Rossland from in front: I from behind. Rossland lost me in the Métro, but Borg stayed with him. Borg has just now telephoned that Rossland met an American in a Fiat car. We don’t know who this American is, but we have his car number and Borg is making inquiries.”

Radnitz stared down at his spade shaped finger nails. There was a long pause, then he said, “This must be handled quickly. Make Rossland tell you what he discussed with Dorey. I don’t care what you do to him. He’s expendable.”

Thomas nodded and got to his feet.

“I’ll be waiting here,” Radnitz said. “Be quick about it.” He reached for his drink as Thomas made his way quietly out of the bar.

On the Avenue, Thomas walked to where a black Citroen was parked. The driver, a short, heavily built man with a round fat face and cruel little eyes looked at Thomas inquiringly as he opened the car door and slid into the front seat.

There was another man sitting in the back of the car. He was tall and thin and dark. His lean hatchet shaped face was as expressionless as a mask. His very stillness gave him an extraordinary look of menace.

“The boss wants us to talk to Rossland,” Thomas said. “He has an apartment on Rue Castiglione.”

Borg, the driver, grunted, started the engine and pulled away from the kerb.

It took them ten minutes to reach Rossland’s apartment block. Thomas and the tall man, Schwartz, got out and Borg drove away in search of parking space.

“We can handle this without Borg,” Thomas said.

“You mean I can,” Schwartz said with a sneer.

Thomas looked sharply at him. He was getting worried by Schwartz’s undisguised contempt, but he decided this wasn’t the time for a showdown. They entered the lobby, moving quickly past the concierge’s window and reached the lift. Pressed close together in the small cage, the two men were drawn up to the top floor.

They got out, closing the lift door silently.

Thomas pointed to the tiny spy-hole set in the panel of the front door which allowed anyone inside to have a view of the caller outside.

Schwartz nodded and stood aside. Thomas took from his overcoat pocket a .38 automatic. He screwed a small, but efficient silencer to the barrel, then he rang the front door bell as Schwartz put his hand over the spy hole.

There was a long pause, then they heard the sound of heavy footfalls.

Rossland was drunk enough to be careless. He didn’t even bother to use the spy-hole. Unlocking the door, he jerked it open.