1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal (4 page)

Dorey lifted the telephone receiver and called O’Halloran.

“Tim . . . do you remember Mark Girland?”

“Girland? Why, sure, he used to work for Rossland, didn’t he?”

“That’s the fellow. He’s in Paris right now and I want him. He has a studio apartment on Rue des Suisses. I don’t give a damn how you get him but get him. I want him here in an hour.”

“Just a second, sir, if I remember right, this Girland is a toughie. Suppose he won’t come?”

“Girland? Tough? He’s not working for me now. I hear he’s a street photographer or something. Anyway, pick him up, Tim. Send a couple of good men after him. I want him here within an hour.”

He replaced the receiver and leant back in his executive chair.

He felt pretty pleased with himself. He felt he was handling this situation with some brilliance.

Mark Girland!

Not many people would have thought of Girland.

He was the man to handle Dorey’s problem. Girland was tailor-made for the job.

Dorey frowned. Tailor-made . . . if of course he could persuade Girland to do the job.

Marcia Davis had left a plate of chicken sandwiches and a glass of milk on the desk before she had gone home. Now, Dorey, his mind busy as to how he should handle Girland, reached for a sandwich and thoughtfully bit into it.

Chapter Two

M
ark Girland felt depressed. If there was one thing he disliked more than another it was to spend an evening alone in his cheerless one-room apartment which was on the seventh floor of an old, shabby building on Rue des Suisses.

It was raining, his shoes leaked and he was temporarily out of money. He had eight francs and seventy-two centimes in his pocket. It didn’t seem possible, he thought ruefully, that three months ago he had had $5000 safely stashed away in a bank.

The trouble with me, he said to himself, trying to make himself comfortable in the canvas deck abortion that served him as an armchair, is that I am a layabout and a wastrel. I had all kinds of ideas how I was going to spend that nest egg. Who would have believed three miserable horses could have put up such a performance? He remembered with regret the afternoon at Long-champs racecourse, when all his money went into the satchel of a grinning bookmaker.

In spite of losing what he had hoped to have been the means to a new career, Girland firmly decided, after the Robert Henry Carey affair, that espionage was strictly for suckers. He had had the satisfaction of telling that old goat, John Dorey, to drop dead.

Regarding him over the tops of his rimless glasses, Dorey had said, “I don’t think you are the type of man I can use, Girland. You are not to be trusted. You always put yourself first and your work a poor second. I can’t use a man who thinks of himself first. So you will no longer work for me.”

Girland had grinned cheerfully.

“Who in his right mind wants to work for you? When I think of the dirty, smelly little jobs I did for your stooge Rossland - may he rest in peace - and the centimes I got out of it, I should have had my head examined. So I no longer work for you. Goodbye, and drop dead.”

But that speech of independence had been made when he was the owner of $5000, not entirely honestly gained, but gained.

But in spite of the depressing fact that he was now continually short of money, he still had no regrets that he had parted with the C.I.A.

For the past two months, he had made a somewhat precarious living as a street photographer. Armed with a Polaroid camera he had spent his days haunting the tourist byways on the lookout for a pretty American tourist on her first visit to Paris, and there were many of them. The photograph once taken, the print produced, he then spent a few minutes persuading the girl to part with a ten-franc note. Girland could charm a bird off a tree, and his technique with women had to be seen to be believed. Often, the transaction successfully concluded, the girl, flushed and aroused, would go with him back to his seventh floor apartment.

There were worse ways of making a living, he thought, scowling at the Polaroid camera that lay on the worm-eaten refectory table, but not much worse.

This day had been a complete write-off. It had rained steadily, and although Girland had wandered the streets, he had found no suitable subject. The two fat women he did finally photograph in desperation had threatened to call a gendarme when they learned they were expected to part with 20 francs for a rather indifferent photograph.

Girland regarded the big room with its two uncurtained windows that overlooked the roofs, the chimneys and the television aerials of Paris. At the far end of the room was a kitchen sink and an ancient gas cooker. There was a big radio and gramophone against another wall. A wardrobe and a bookcase with American and French paperbacks completed the furnishing, Girland, lean, tall and dark, wrinkled his nose. What a hole! he thought. What it needs is a coat of paint, a vase of long-stemmed roses and an erotic blonde with a Bardot body, but right now I would settle for the blonde.

He got up and walked to the open window and stared out at the black, glistening roofs. Rain was still coming steadily. In the far distance he saw a flash of lightning. Shrugging, he was moving to the radio in the hope that there was something on he could listen to when the front door bell rang.

He looked at the door, cocking his left eyebrow, then he crossed the room and peered through the tiny peephole at the two men standing in the passage. He recognised the military raincoats and the snap-brimmed hats and he hesitated, his brain Suddenly very alert.

Then he relaxed and grinned. Probably an identity card check, he thought. These guys have very little to do with themselves except to be a nuisance. It seemed a long time now since he had had callers from the Central Intelligence Agency. Who knows?

Dorey might have had a heart attack. He might even have left him something in his will. He opened the door.

Two massively built men, their faces the colour of old teak and as hard, moved in, riding him back. He recognised one of them, but not the other. The one he recognised was getting on in years. He was probably fifty. His name was Oscar Bruckman and he was one of Captain O’Halloran’s strong-arm squad, notorious for his brutality, his courage and his fast, deadly shooting.

The other man was younger. He seemed very sure of himself and he balanced himself on the balls of his feet as if ready to throw a quick, damaging punch: a sandy-haired, flat-faced Irishman with freckles and ice-grey eyes.

“Get your coat,” Bruckman snapped. “You’re wanted.”

Girland moved back, relaxed, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his eyes watchful.

“That’s nice to know. Who wants me?” he asked.

The younger man whose name was O’Brien said, “Come on! Come on! Let’s go. Who cares what you want to know?”

Girland regarded him, then he looked at Bruckman, then he shrugged. “Well, don’t get yourself worked up,” he said mildly. “I’ll come along.”

He walked casually to his wardrobe, took his short white raincoat off the hanger, his hand sliding into the coat pocket, his body hiding the movement, then dropping the coat, he whirled around, a squat, black ammonia gun in his hand. “Don’t move!”

The two men froze, glaring at him, their eyes shifted to the gun, well knowing what it was and its effects.

“Okay, okay, Girland, relax,” Bruckman said, controlling his temper. “Maybe we were a little rough. Dorey wants you. Come on! Let’s quit this fooling. This is an emergency.”

Girland smiled at him.

“You know something? I hate your kind. I hate you big, blustering sonsofbitches who shove people around just for the fun of it. Get out! I’ll give you ten seconds, and if you’re not out by then, you’ll get a blast from this gun! You’ll go down stairs and wait ten minutes, then you’ll come up, nice and polite, and then perhaps I’ll listen to you. Now get out!”

O’Brien said, “I’ll take your yellow guts apart! I’ll . . .”

Bruckman’s big hand slapped across O’Brien’s face, sending him staggering back.

“Shut your trap!” he barked for he knew Girland didn’t bluff.

“You still act fast, Oscar,” Girland said. “I was just going to give this stupid ape a squirt.”

“I know . . . I know,” Bruckman said and grinned. “They told me you had gone soft. Still the same troubleshooter, huh? Okay, we’ll do it all over again, and this time we’ll be nice.” He shoved O’Brien out of the room and Girland kicked the door shut.

He stood hesitating for a long moment, then he crossed over to the telephone and dialled Dorey’s number. He had a little trouble getting Dorey, then when he did, he said, “This is Girland. What’s the idea sending a couple of apes to pick me up? I told you to drop dead. Can’t you stay dead?”

“I have a job for you,” Dorey said, his voice soft and as smooth as butter. “There’s money in it. Don’t act hard to get, and besides there’s a woman in it too.”

Girland thought of his eight francs and seventy-two centimes.

“How much money?”

Dorey knew this wasn’t the time for cheeseparing.

“Ten thousand francs,” he said promptly.

Girland suppressed a whistle.

“Have you been drinking, Dorey?”

“Get over here and don’t be insolent!” Dorey snapped.

“How about the woman . . . what’s she like?”

“Swedish, young, blonde and beautiful,” Dorey said.

“Oh, boy!” Girland laughed. “Sounds right up my alley. You could have yourself a deal.”

He hung up, struggled into his raincoat and turning off the light, started down the stairs, three at a time. Halfway down he encountered Bruckman and O’Brien ponderously climbing towards him. He stopped on the third landing and waited for them to join him.

“I’ve just been talking to your pinheaded boss,” Girland said as the two men glared at him. “Seems like I’ve become a V.I.P.”

O’Brien’s small eyes gleamed.

“I’ve heard about you, Girland,” he said. “You’re the kind of goddam layabout I don’t like. One of these nights, I hope I run into you, then we can have some action.”

Girland looked at Bruckman.

“Your little pal sounds pretty tough, Oscar. You look after him. He might get himself hurt.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Bruckman growled. “Let’s go. We are wasting time.”

Girland took a handkerchief from his pocket, made to blow his nose, dropped the handkerchief and bent to pick it up. His movements were so casual the two men merely watched with impatience.

Girland suddenly snatched at O’Brien’s trousers cuffs, got a grip and heaved upwards.

O’Brien gave a choked yell as he somersaulted down the stairs.

His back crashed against the banister rail, smashed through it and he thudded to the lower floor. A shower of broken woodwork and dust fell on him. He moved weakly, then flopped over on his side.

His eyes popping, Bruckman looked over the broken banister rail, then turned and stared at Girland who was putting his handkerchief in his pocket, his lean, dark face expressionless.

“You crazy bastard!” Bruckman gasped. “You’ve probably killed him!”

“Not him . . . he’s tough,” Girland said mildly, then with a lightning movement, he grabbed Bruckman’s hat brim in both hands and crammed the hat over Bruckman’s eyes. As the big man staggered back, cursing, Girland slammed a punch low down into Bruckman’s solid belly. Bruckman dropped onto his knees, gasping. Humming happily, Girland started down the stairs, jumped over O’Brien’s prostrate body and continued on down to the street.

As he emerged into the rain and crossed to where his dilapidated Fiat 600 was parked, he decided that life, after all, wasn’t so bad. This was the first time he could remember in months that he had really enjoyed himself.

* * *

A number of nurses came hurrying out of the Staff exit of the American hospital and began walking down the broad Boulevard Victor Hugo towards the Nurses’ Annex. Some of them sheltered under umbrellas, others made do with their capes against the fine drizzle that was falling.

Jo-Jo sitting in Sadu’s sports car, jerked a dirty thumb towards the group of girls as they passed the car.

“One of them will know which room she’s in,” he said. “Time’s getting on. Ask them.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Sadu snapped. “Is it likely they would tell me? Besides, we would attract attention.”

“Look . . . here’s one coming on her own. Tell her you’re a newspaperman. We’ve got to know where this bitch is.”

Sadu hesitated.

The group of nurses had disappeared into the wet darkness.

He saw a girl on her own, wearing a cloak, coming down the boulevard which had suddenly become deserted. He knew what Jo-Jo had said made sense. They couldn’t just sit there. Somehow he had to find out where this woman was.

He got out of the car which was parked outside one of the vast apartment blocks that was under construction. The blank, glassless windows made black squares in the face of the white wall, towering above him. The inevitable clutter and mess, the big concrete mixer, the planks of wood and the coils of wire choked up the entrance to what would be before very long more homes for the wealthy of Paris.

The nurse came abreast of him. In the half-darkness he could see she was young and dark.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said with an exaggerated bow.

“I am representing
Paris Match.
Could you kindly tell me on what floor and. in what room this woman is who has lost her memory?”

The nurse stopped and looked at him.

“Pardon, monsieur?”

“It is of interest to my paper,” Sadu said, restraining his impatience with difficulty. “We would like to know on what floor and in what room this woman is . . . the woman with the tattoo marks.”

The nurse retreated a step.

“I can’t tell you that. You must ask at the Information desk,” she said. “If they want you to know, they will tell you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sadu saw Jo-Jo leave the car, moving as swiftly and as silently as an attacking snake. He came up behind the nurse as she was beginning to move away. His right hand flashed up and the nurse gave a choked cry and then fell forward. Instinctively, Sadu grabbed her, holding her against him. He looked wildly down the long dark boulevard. In the far distance he could see two men coming briskly towards them.