This is For Real (8 page)

Quickly, he told her what he had learned.

She said, “Don’t you think you should now report the whole thing to Warley, John?”

“Certainly not!” Dorey said without hesitation. “I can handle this. I’m going to find this Senegalese woman. I’ll have a check made at the airports. She might have arrived only within the last few days. It shouldn’t be too difficult. I have a good description of her. Someone at the airports might remember her.”

“By now they are persuading Rossland’s man to talk,” Janine said. “In a little while, they will know who this woman is and where to find her. I think you’re going to be too late, John.”

“I must chance that. If I’m too late, then Warley will also be too late. He can’t do better than I can.”

With an obstinate expression in his eyes, Dorey drove fast in the direction of his apartment.

Seconds after Radnitz had driven away, Thomas came into the room and looked anxiously at Girland.

“Did he say anything about me?” Thomas demanded.

Girland rubbed the back of his aching neck while he looked at Thomas’s white, frightened face.

“I told him I was in the club an hour before you sealed it off,” he said. “It seemed to make him happy: should make you happy too.”

Borg and Schwartz came into the room. Borg grinned at Girland.

“You’re pretty smart,” he said. “I was getting ready to dig a hole for you.”

“I’m smart all right.” Girland looked at Thomas. “It’s getting past my bedtime. I’ll have my gun.”

Thomas hurriedly gave him the .45 which Girland pushed into his holster.

“This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Girland said and moved to the door. He paused and looked directly at Schwartz, “Business before pleasure, Stone-face. I’ll even the score when we have wrapped up this little job.”

He went out of the room to the sound of Borg’s explosive laugh.

The time now was a little after one o’clock, but Girland had something to do before he went to bed. With some difficulty he found a taxi and told the driver to take him to
Le Figaro
building on Champs Elysée.

When the taxi pulled up before the arched entrance leading to the offices of the newspaper, Girland paid, got out and walked to the busy reception desk.

“Mr. Verney in?” he asked the elderly woman who looked at him with tired eyes.

“He’s in his office. Who shall I say?”

Girland spelt out his name.

The woman spoke on the telephone, then beckoned to a girl in a blue overall who came over. She told her to take Girland to Verney’s office. The girl had a nice figure, but it was a pity, Girland thought that her nose was too sharp and her mouth bad-tempered. He followed her into the small lift, reached the third floor, then followed her swaying hips down a long corridor to a tiny office where Jacques Verney was sitting behind a desk, talking on the telephone.

Verney was a leg man for the paper’s gossip columnist. He was thin and dark with close cut hair, a chin beard and a taste for loud sports clothes that set Girland’s teeth on edge.

He waved to a chair when he saw Girland, completed his conversation and then hung up.

“Hello, Mark,” he said. “What’s it this time?”

He and Girland had known each other for a long time. Verney had his suspicions that Girland was some kind of agent, but there had been a time, some three years ago when Girland had given him money to help him out of a very tight jam. Verney had known that Girland couldn’t afford to part with the money, but he had parted with it. This was something Verney hadn’t forgotten. He was happy to give Girland any information he could supply without asking questions.

Girland sat down and offered Berg’s pack of cigarettes. When the two men were smoking, he said, “What do you know about Herman Radnitz, staying at the George V Hotel?”

Verney squinted at Girland through the cigarette smoke.

“Radnitz? Why, surely, everyone knows about him.”

“I don’t,” Girland said, a slight edge to his voice. “I wouldn’t be here if I did.”

“Sorry, Mark,” Verney said. “I just assumed everyone did know about him.”

“Who is he and what is he?”

“Well, suppose you want to build a dam in Hong Kong. Suppose you want to put up a power plant in Bombay. Suppose you want to launch a car ferry service between England and Denmark. Before you start even to think about it, you’d consult Radnitz who would fix the financial end. Radnitz handles anything big that costs big money.” Verney tapped ash off his cigarette. “He’s in practically everything: ships, oil, building construction, aircraft. You ask who he is. He’s Mr. Big Business.”

Girland frowned. His neck was aching again.

“Then why the hell haven’t I heard of him if he’s that big?”

Verney smiled.

“He hates publicity. He knows all the newspaper bosses. He helps them, so they lay off him. He’s the Rasputin of finance: probably the most powerful magnate in the world.”

“Any idea what he’s worth?”

“None at all. I’ll bet he could lay ten million pounds sterling on the table without disturbing his financial balance. He’s big Mark: really Mr. Big.”

Girland shifted on the hard seat of his chair.

“Does he live permanently at George V?”

“He doesn’t live permanently anywhere. He has a château in the Loire district. He has his own place in Paris. He has places all over the world, but he seldom lives in them. He prefers a good hotel. He lost his wife a couple of years ago, so why should he worry about a permanent home? He moves around all the time. He’s just back from Moscow. It wouldn’t surprise me if he hadn’t put in a bid for the Kremlin as a week-end place. He’s that kind of a man.”

Girland became alert.

“What was he doing in Moscow?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Verney said and shrugged. “More big business.” He looked thoughtfully at Girland. “You come in from time to time and ask all kinds of questions, but this is the oddest. I wouldn’t have thought you would have interested yourself in Radnitz.”

“It’s for my scrapbook,” Girland said and got to his feet. “Well, thanks, Jacques. I’ll leave you to get on with your work. Don’t pine for me. You’ll see me before long.”

“I don’t ask questions,” Verney said, his face serious, “but as you are my friend, I have to warn you to have nothing to do with Radnitz. He’s dangerous.”

“Thanks.” Girland smiled. “When I have saved up enough money, I’ll buy you a beautiful dinner.”

He waved his hand and left the office. After he had taken the lift to the ground floor, he walked out into the chilly wind that blew up the Champs Elysées.

He found a taxi to take him back to his apartment. He climbed the stairs slowly, thinking, so this is how it feels like to be old. It had been quite a night, he thought, but now, at last, I’m free of Rossland, and I’m heading for the big money.

In his apartment, he stripped off his clothes and took a hot shower, then he put on pyjama trousers and flopped into bed.

In the darkness, he thought about this mysterious woman, Radnitz and Robert Henry Carey. He thought too of Rossland, lying alone in his room, his finger nails torn off, his face congested and very dead.

His final thought before he fell asleep was of Tessa, with her long legs, her blonde hair and her compactly built, beautiful body.

Sleep closed over him and washed even her out of his mind.

The telephone bell brought Dorey out of a light doze. He was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. He stiffened to attention, glanced at his desk clock and saw it was twenty minutes after three.

Janine, lying on the settee, started out of an uneasy sleep and half sat up.

Dorey lifted the receiver.

“Hello, yes? Dorey here.”

“This is O’Halloran. I’m calling from Orly airport,” a tough cop voice said. Captain Tim O’Halloran was one of the best officers of the American Security Branch. “Drawn blank down here. We’ve checked thoroughly. During the past week, around a hundred or so Senegalese have passed through the barriers. She might have been amongst them, but I doubt it. We’ve gone through all the embarkation cards. Most of the women were with men and those on their own were old. Do you think she was travelling with a man, Mr. Dorey?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see why not.”

“Well, okay, I’ll get some of the boys to check all the married couples. It’ll be a job, but it can be done. She might have come in by boat. S.S.
Ancerville
berthed a couple of days ago. I’ve alerted the police at Marseilles to check. There was also a cargo boat from Dakar, berthing at Dunkirk. She could have been on that.”

“How long will all this take?” Dorey demanded.

“For a complete check at least five days. Best we can do.”

“She could have left the country by then,” Dorey said.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Dorey. We’re now ready for her. She can’t get out. We’ve sewn up the airports, the trains, and the ships. We may take time to find her, but if she tries to leave, we’ll have her.”

Dorey thought bitterly, She’ll probably be dead by then. “Okay, Captain, do your best. This is urgent.”

“We’ll keep working on it,” O’Halloran said and hung up.

Janine looked inquiringly at Dorey who shrugged.

“You’re right: we’re too late. They can’t hope to trace her within five days.” He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “What has a woman from Senegal got to sell that’s important enough for Radnitz to have a man killed?”

“Why don’t you send one of your men to Rossland’s place and search it? He might have kept records of his men,” Janine said. “We should have looked ourselves.”

“If someone had walked in on us, we would have been in a hell of a mess,” Dorey said. He thought for a moment, then reached for the telephone. “Jack Kerman could do it.” He dialled, then waited. A sleepy voice demanded who was calling. Dorey quickly explained what he wanted done. “This is top priority, Kerman. I must have a list of Rossland’s operators. Go over there and take the place to pieces.”

The man at the other end of the line was alert now.

“Can do … will do,” and he hung up.

Dorey nodded to Janine.

“He might find something.”

“We’re late starters,” Janine said. “This man of Rossland’s could be dead by now.”

Dorey said, “I’ll put two men to watch Radnitz’s hotel. If they spot this youth with a beard, we’ll pick him up and we’ll talk to him the way they talked to Rossland.”

Janine got stiffly to her feet.

“Now you’re getting into gear, John. I’m going home. I need my beauty sleep.”

Dorey hesitated, then he waved to a door.

“You can use my spare room. Go ahead. Save yourself a journey.”

Janine smiled as she shook her head.

“I like sleeping in my own bed: even if I don’t always sleep in it alone. I like my own night clothes and my own toothbrush. Good night.”

“If I have any news, I’ll call you,” Dorey said, not getting up. He was reaching for the telephone.

“But not before ten unless it is urgent,” Janine returned and put on her mink coat.

“I won’t call you at all unless it’s urgent,” Dorey said and dialling, he began to talk into the mouthpiece.

Janine let herself out of the apartment and rode down in the lift to where her car was parked.

A little after eleven o’clock the following morning, Girland was frying eggs and bacon and grimacing with pain every time he moved his head when someone rapped on his front door.

He cursed under his breath, lowered the flame of the gas, then patting his hip pocket to make sure he was carrying his gun, he walked softly over to the door and peered through the spy hole.

Borg, wearing a leather hat and a leather coat, stood just by the head of the stairs, waiting.

Girland opened the door.

“There you are, palsy,” Borg said, his thick lips moving into a friendly grin. “How’s the neck?”

“Like hell,” Girland said, moving aside to let Borg come in. He noted Borg was carrying a black leather briefcase.

“I’ll fix that,” Borg said, sniffed and lifted his scanty eyebrows. “Hmm … smells good!”

“Want some? There’s plenty,” Girland said, shutting the door.

“Not for me. I’ve had mine.” Borg slapped his paunch. “I gotta watch this: like twins: grows all the time, but don’t let me stop you.”

“You won’t,” Girland said and going back to the stove, he expertly dished up the bacon and eggs and carried the meal over to the table.

Borg looked around.

“Nice nest you have here: except for those goddamn stairs.”

“Coffee?” Girland asked, pouring a cup for himself.

“Always ready for coffee,” Borg took off his hat and coat and sat down opposite Girland. He helped himself to black coffee without sugar, lit a cigarette and watched Girland as he began to wolf down his meal.

Neither of the men said anything until Girland had finished. Then with a sigh of satisfaction, Girland carried the plate to the sink. He lit a cigarette and came back to the table and sat down.

“You remember Kid Hogan?” Borg asked. “The best lightweight for years? I bet you do. At one time I used to be his trainer. He went on the skids after he lost the world title. That put me on the skids too. What I mean is if that neck of yours is bothering you, I can fix it.”

“Go ahead and fix it,” Girland said and finished his coffee.

Borg took a small white pot from his pocket.

“Get on the bed. This is bear’s grease. Stinks a bit, but it fixes anything.’’

Ten minutes later, Girland sat up, moved his head cautiously, then more violently and jumped to his feet.

“You’ve fixed it!”

Borg grinned happily and went over to the toilet basin to wash his hands.

“I told you: it fixes anything.” Then he looked over at the briefcase lying on the bed. “Got the money for you,” he went on. “The boss gave it to me for you this morning.”

Girland crossed over to the briefcase, but Borg, still grinning, blocked him off.

“Hold it, palsy,” he said. “There are strings to this dough. There are seven thousand bucks in there. You have to be sure she knows where this guy Carey is before you give her the rest. Understand?”

Girland thought about this. It was fair, he decided. This woman could be leading them on.