This is For Real (17 page)

First, he thought about Janine. She was a remarkable woman, but he was a little uneasy about her. The look she had given him just before he left her warned him she might be falling in love with him. That wouldn’t do. Girland had no intention of getting too involved with any woman. To him the act of love was a mutual appreciation of the senses. There had been times when women had become possessive and difficult, but the majority of them were content to give themselves to him for an hour’s enjoyment, sensing that he was never to be captured.

Impatiently, he switched his mind away from Janine and instead, he thought of Radnitz. This was the third morning since his arrival and Radnitz would be getting impatient. It was too dangerous to put a call through to Paris. Maybe he had better send a cable. If he sent it from the Dakar Post Office it could not be traced. Then there was Rosa’s father. Girland wondered if he would get any information from this man. He doubted it. Seeing him could do more harm than good. But what other lead had he? There was Awa, of course. She might find out who this mysterious Enrico was. Perhaps he had better wait another day just in case she did come up with something.

Just after ten, as he was deciding to go down to the beach, the telephone bell rang. Wondering who it could be, he picked up the receiver.

“A call for you, sir,” the operator told him. “Hold on a minute, please.”

He heard clicking on the line, then Awa’s sing-song voice.

“Mr. John? Is that you?” She sounded excited.

“That’s right. It’s Awa, isn’t it?”

He heard her giggle.

“I found him like I said I would, Mr. John. I know where he lives.”

“You mean our Portuguese friend?”

“Yes. I got talking to the girls last night and one of them said her boy friend knew him. So I went on my bicycle this morning and he told me. I had to give him a hundred francs, Mr. John.”

“That’s all right. I’ll let you have it back. Who is he and where is he?”

“I will take you to him.” The telephone exploded into excited giggles. “Then you can give me the money you promised me.”

“All right, but when?”

“Can you come now?”

“Yes, but where?”

“Meet me at the railway station. I am phoning from there. I’ll wait for you. You’ll have the money you promised me with you, won’t you, Mr. John?”

“I’ll have it. See you in half an hour.” He hung up. For a moment he stood thinking, then he unlocked the closet and took out his suitcase. He opened the false bottom and took out the .45 automatic. From another pocket in the case, he took a short, efficient looking silencer. He checked the gun to see it was loaded, then he buckled on the holster and adjusted the gun. He put on his jacket and examined himself in the mirror. The gun made a slight bulge under the thin coat, but it wasn’t too obvious that he was armed.

He looked in his wallet to make sure he had enough money, then leaving his room, he hurried down the corridor towards the lift.

Jack Kerman pulled up outside the American Embassy, parked his car and entered the building. He asked the doorman for Lieutenant Ambler who was Captain O’Halloran’s opposite number in Dakar.

Five minutes later, Kerman was seated before a big desk.

Ambler was a powerfully built, youngish man with an alert, clean-shaven face. His steady grey eyes regarded Kerman’s crumpled suit, his dusty shoes, his string of a necktie with disapproval.

“Yes, we know about you,” Ambler said. “We had a cable from Dorey. What can I do for you?”

“I want to know who owns a car with this licence number,” Kerman said, laying a scrap of paper on the desk. “Can you fix that for me?”

“Oh, sure.” Ambler reached for the telephone. He asked to be connected with Police Headquarters. He spoke to someone, held on while he lit a cigarette, then said, “Fine. Thanks. Yes, I’ve got it,” and hung up. To Kerman: “It’s a hire car rented from the Lotus Car Agency.”

“Can you find out who rented it?”

“Yeah. These people know us.” Again Ambler reached for the telephone. After a short conversation, he said, “Thanks. What? Oh, no; it’s just routine,” and replaced the receiver. “The car was hired for a month by Wilhelm Jenson, a Danish tourist. He’s staying at a furnished villa just outside Rufisque.”

“Jenson … a Dane?”

“Yeah. He had a Danish passport.”

“Would you know where this furnished villa is?”

Ambler got to his feet and crossed over to a large scale map of Dakar and district that was pinned to the wall.

Kerman joined him.

“There it is,” Ambler said and pointed. “About twenty kilometres the other side of Rufisque, up this lane.”

Kerman returned to his chair.

“You get any fresh dope on this woman Rosa?”

“Nothing new. All we were able to find out about her is she worked at the Florida Club.”

“Yep … Dorey told me.” Kerman paused, then went on. “Any Russians arrived recently?”

Ambler looked sharply at him.

“Not as far as we know. Why?”

“Just got the idea the Russians might be interested in this thing. I could be wrong. Janine Daulnay been to see you yet?”

“No. We know she’s at the N’Gor, but she hasn’t been here.”

“Well, thanks for your help.” Kerman got to his feet. “I’ll have to talk to Dorey some time. Can I use your scrambler?”

“Any time you want,” Ambler said and walked with him to the door.

Girland found Awa waiting for him at the railway station. Giggling excitedly, she got in the car and directed him to the
Bassin Ouest.
She said her brother had a motor-boat and would take them across to the island.

“You pay my brother a hundred francs.” She looked happily at Girland. “He will wait for you. You got my money?”

“Yes,” Girland said, slowing down as he passed through the open gateway that led to the quay.

She pointed.

“Leave the car there.”

He drove into the covered parking lot, got out, locked the car and then walked with her to where a line of fishing boats bobbed in the water.

Awa’s brother, who told Girland his name was Abdou, was a powerfully built African with a cheerful ebony coloured face and who wore an electric blue robe that reached to his enormous-splayed feet.

He led Girland to a fast looking motor-boat. Boarding the boat, Girland sat in the stern. Fluttering and giggling, Awa sat opposite him while Abdu cast off. He started the engine, and once clear of the shipping, he opened the throttle and the boat surged forward.

It took less than half an hour to reach the small island. Abdou steered the boat past the Ferry station and moored alongside the mole. As Girland clambered out of the boat he glanced at his watch. The time was eleven forty-five. In the distance, he could see the Ferry steamer coming from Dakar. Had he known that Ivan was on board, he would have hurried, but the mid-day sun was so hot, he was content to take things at a leisurely pace.

“My brother waits here,” Awa said. “I come with you. The house is not far.”

They walked down the mole together and across a sandy plaza. The surrounding buildings were old and shabby and the streets narrow. Swarms of coloured children, some naked, some wearing dirty white, shifts stared curiously at Girland as he walked with Awa, keeping to the meagre shade.

A five minute walk through the narrow, bakingly hot lanes brought them suddenly to the sea again. Awa paused and pointed.

“There’s his house. That one with the high walls.”

Girland could see little of the house except for the red sloping roof. The white surrounding walls hid the house from view.

“I wait here,” Awa said, sitting on a rock. “You will give me the money when you come back?”

“Yes,” Girland said and set off at a brisker pace towards the house.

Heavy wooden gates guarded the entrance and when he lifted the iron latch, he found the gates locked. He stepped back, wiping his sweating face with his handkerchief, then seeing a hanging iron chain, he pulled it. From somewhere in the hidden garden, he heard the bell toll and again he waited.

There was a long pause, then a judas window in the gate opened and a black face showed itself.

“I would like to see Mr. Fantaz,” Girland said.

Close-set black eyes studied him, then the man shook his head.

“Mr. Fantaz is not in.”

“I have important business with him. When will he be in?”

“Sometime after six this evening.”

“Will you say I will be here at half past six and that I am a friend of John Dorey? Will you remember that?”

The man nodded and closed the Judas window.

Girland walked back to where Awa was sitting. She looked anxiously at him.

“Why didn’t you see him?” she demanded. “He lives there. I know he does.”

“He isn’t in. I have to come back this evening.”

“Then you give me my money?”

He gave her the three thousand francs he had promised her.

She smiled happily as she put the money in her bag.

“You want to see the island? It is very interesting. There is a very interesting museum and a slave house. You will like it all very much.”

“Not right now,” Girland said. “Is there anywhere good were I can have lunch?”

“A very good hotel.” Awa stood up. “I will show you. My brother will wait all day.”

Girland decided now he was here, he might as well explore the island. He followed Awa down a narrow lane. For no reason at all, he felt an urge to look behind him. He stopped and turned. He was in time to catch a glimpse of Ivan as he walked slowly past the mouth of the lane, heading towards Fantaz’s house.

“Wait here,” Girland said sharply to Awa, and moving quickly, he walked to the end of the lane. He paused and cautiously looked around the wall.

Ivan was standing outside the gates of Fantaz’s house, his fiery red face a mask of sweat. Girland watched him pull the bell chain.

As Ivan waited in the sun, Girland examined him. A Russian! he thought, feeling a prickle of excitement. So he had guessed right. The Russians were in on this. He watched Ivan talk to the gatekeeper, then step back as the Judas window shut. There was a snarling expression of rage on Ivan’s face as he walked slowly to where Girland was concealed.

Girland looked around. Close by was an open doorway leading to a rubbish strewn courtyard. He stepped into the courtyard and concealed himself behind the open door. Through a crack in the door, he had a limited view of the bottom of the lane.

Ivan appeared and paused, wiping his face as he looked down the lane and then to right and left. A short, emaciated Arab, wearing a dirty robe and an even dirtier piece of cloth wrapped around his head, joined Ivan.

Ivan said, “He is not there and won’t be back until this evening. Surround the house and wait for him to come. Keep out of sight. I am going to the hotel. As soon as he returns send one of your men to the hotel. Do you understand?”

The Arab bowed his head.

“Which is the quickest way to the hotel?”

The Arab pointed down the lane where Awa was still waiting.

Ivan’s voice came clearly to Girland and he pressed himself against the wall as Ivan passed the courtyard. He waited several minutes, then moved cautiously into the lane. There was no sign of Ivan. Awa was squatting on her heels with native resigned patience. Seeing him, she stood up.

Girland joined her. He told her to take him to the hotel.

A ten minute slow walk brought them within sight of the hotel that overlooked the sea.

Girland said, “You can go back to Dakar now with your brother.” He gave her money to pay her brother.

“My brother will wait if you want him.”

“No. Tell him to go. And you: remember, don’t talk about me.”

She nodded, then turning away, she walked with long, lazy strides towards the mole.

Girland continued on to the hotel. He wondered if he were taking risks, letting the Russian see him, but decided it was safe enough. There were a number of white people on the beach and several Americans sitting at tables outside the hotel. He would be just another American tourist to the Russian.

He found a vacant table and sat down. There was no sign of the Russian. Glancing around, Girland found he was able to look through the windows into a small bar and there he saw him, leaning up against the bar, a bottle of Scotch and a half filled glass before him.

A waiter came languidly over to Girland. He ordered a beer. When the waiter returned a few minutes later, Girland asked him when lunch would be ready.

“It is ready now, sir. Upstairs.” The waiter pointed.

“I’ll go up in a minute.” Girland turned to watch the Russian who was pouring himself another drink. He saw the Russian beckon to the barman and there was a brief conversation, then the Russian went back to his drinking.

Having finished his beer, Girland went up the stairs and into the L-shaped restaurant. There were only a few tourists in the restaurant and the waiter led Girland to a table so placed he could see both arms of the room.

He ordered the set meal and a bottle of Muscadet. It was while he was eating the hors d’oeuvres that Ivan came into the restaurant. He sat at a table near the entrance and looked around with the quick searching glance of a man who misses no details. Girland looked away as the Russian’s eyes reached him. The next time Girland glanced in his direction, the Russian was studying the menu.

As Girland waited for his second course, two men came into the restaurant. The first man was bald and thin. He carried with him a briefcase, and as he followed the waiter to a secluded table, he took off his green sunglasses.

But it was the second man who held Girland’s attention. He was tall and bulky. His face was round and fat. He wore a black moustache and dark glasses. He looked extraordinarily like ex-King Farouk. Glittering on the little finger of his left hand was a large gold signet ring.

Girland had no doubt that this heavily built man, walking towards him, was Enrico Fantaz.

A number of gaily dressed Africans, walking in single file, converged on the Ferry steamer as it manoeuvred into position alongside the mole.

Girland watched them from the window of the restaurant. He had finished his meal, and was now idling over his coffee. The Russian had gone. Girland had overheard him ask the waiter where he could find Room 12, and Girland guessed he was going to sleep off his heavy lunch.