This is For Real (9 page)

“That’s okay,” he said, opened the briefcase and counted the money. Satisfied it was in order, he put it back in the case and snapped the fastening shut.

“I’m glad you have joined our mob,” Borg said, helping himself to more coffee. “It’s been run too long by that spineless wonder, Thomas. Okay, he’s smart, and he’s done a couple of jobs that made an impression, but if there’s one thing that drives me nuts it’s being bossed around by a kid.”

“Stone-face seems a little dangerous,” Girland said, also pouring more coffee. “Has he been with your outfit long?”

“Too long,” Borg grimaced. “He’s an animal, but he serves his purpose. We have to have one toughie and he’s just that. The things that guy has done makes me puke to think about. Radnitz pays well, but look at the way that guy lives … worse than a hog.”

“What does Radnitz want men like you for?” Girland asked casually. “Just what do you do for him?”

“Oh, jobs,” Borg said vaguely, finished his coffee and stood up. “I have to run along. I have a date with a blonde who works nights and sleeps days. Don’t lose that money. So long,” and he was gone.

Girland locked the door after him, then went back to the briefcase, opened it and spread the money out onto his bed. He had never seen so much money in one lot, but beside what fifty thousand dollars would look like, this was chick-feed.

He stared at the money for some time, then once more counted it. He put aside five thousand dollars and put two thousand in the briefcase. He decided he would give Madame Foucher two thousand dollars and put the rest in his bank. When she had told him where Carey was, he would get the rest of the money from Radnitz and give it to her: this way, he would be sure of keeping his own profit.

He lit a cigarette and considered the situation.

He had a slight feeling of guilt. Rossland had given him an assignment and had paid him to do it. Girland knew the money had come from Dorey. If Radnitz hadn’t appeared on the scene with his offer of fifty thousand dollars, Girland would have, by now, contacted Dorey.

He moved uneasily. Then he thought of how he had nearly lost his life crossing the roofs to the cellar club, how Schwartz had nearly broken his neck and he thought of Dorey’s mean payment.

Radnitz is right, he thought. I’m a small man in a badly paid job. This is my big chance. I’d be a dope not to go along with Radnitz. Somehow I have to get fifty thousand dollars out of him and still let Carey live and keep alive myself. Now, how do I do that? Then he remembered what Madame Foucher had said about Carey being ill and wouldn’t live long. It would be lucky for me if Carey conveniently dies after I’ve talked to him. Then I would be in a sweet position. But why is Radnitz so anxious to get rid of Carey? He frowned, then shrugged. That’s not my affair. I’ve worked for Dorey for years for peanuts. Now, I’m heading for the big money.

He discovered to his irritation that he had still a feeling of guilt. Until now, he hadn’t realised what a grip Rossland had had on his life. He knew he should contact Dorey, but he also knew he wasn’t going to.

While Girland was eating his breakfast, watched by Borg. Dorey sat at his desk in the Embassy, talking on the telephone to Jack Kerman.

“No luck,” Kerman said. “I really took that apartment to pieces, but he didn’t keep his records there … if he kept any records at all.”

Dorey made an exasperated movement with his hand.

“All right, Jack, thanks. Forget it.”

“Look, Mr. Dorey, Rossland is getting a little high. Shouldn’t we do something about it?”

“Yes, of course. Call the nearest police station from a café and report a dead man in Rossland’s apartment. Get away quickly.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Dorey,” Kerman said and hung up.

Dorey rubbed his tired eyes, then looked distastefully at the pile of files in his In tray. He kept asking himself what this Senegalese woman had to sell that was big enough for Rossland to be murdered. As he reached for a file, the telephone bell rang.

It was Captain O’Halloran calling.

“Could be we have a little luck, Mr. Dorey,” he said, his cop voice bouncing against Dorey’s ear-drum. “A Senegalese woman answering the description you gave me was on board a cargo Motor Vessel that berthed at Antwerp three days ago. I’ve talked to the ship’s captain. He knows nothing about her. She remained in her cabin for the length of the trip. According to him, she was a bad sailor and they certainly hit bad seas. I’ve sent a telex to Dakar and our man there checked the address on her Embarkation card. No such place exists. She could have rented a car and driven to Paris. I’m checking.”

Dorey was very alert now.

“Check the Belgium and French frontier police to see if they remember her,” he said. “You instructed Dakar really to dig for information about her? If her passport is in order …”

O’Halloran said, a slightly bored note in his voice, “All that’s being looked after. She could have been travelling on a faked passport. I have the French police working on this: they’re checking the Paris hotels. This can’t be wrapped up in five hours, Mr. Dorey. I said five days. Anyway, at least we are making progress. I’ll be willing to bet this Rosa Arbeau is the woman you want.”

“Good work. Captain,” Dorey said. “Keep at it,” and he hung up.

He sat for some minutes thinking, then glanced at his watch. The time was twenty to twelve. He called Janine. After a little delay, she answered and her voice sounded cross.

When she learned it was Dorey calling, she said, “I was in my bath, John. What is it now?”

“Have lunch with me at one o’clock,” Dorey said. “We seem to be making a little progress. Shall we say Lasserre?”

“All right,” Janine said and broke the connection.

At ten minutes to seven, Girland, carrying the briefcase under his arm, walked into a noisy café off Avenue Mozart. He went up to the bar and shook hands with the barman.

“I’m expecting a telephone call at seven, Jean,” he said. “I’ll be over there in a corner.”

Jean, grey-haired, big, his face cheerful, winked.

“A woman, of course.”

Girland grinned.

“What else? A monkey?” He ordered a Scotch on the rocks then carried his drink to a corner table and sat down.

He glanced at his watch, a movement that revealed his impatience, then drank some of the whisky.

At exactly seven o’clock, he saw Jean waving to him. He hadn’t heard the telephone bell above the uproar of voices in the café.

He went quickly to the end of the bar and picked up the receiver.

“This is Girland,” he said.

“Is it yes or no?” He recognised Madame Foucher’s voice. “The answer is yes.”

He heard her draw in a quick, sharp breath.

“You have the money with you?”

“I have some of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll get the rest when you’ve shown me where he is.” “How much are you giving me now?”

“Two thousand.”

There was a long pause and Girland wondered, suddenly uneasy, if he had been too generous to himself.

“Very well,” she said finally. “I will be in the first-class waiting-room, St. Lazare station at half past eight.” And she hung up.

Girland replaced the receiver, waved to the barman, then went through to the restaurant. He ordered an Entrecôte with fried potatoes, a green salad and a carafe of Beaujolais.

Just after eight o’clock, he settled his bill and went out into the crowded street. He had some trouble in finding a taxi, and when the taxi finally pulled up outside the station, the time was one minute after eight-thirty.

He walked briskly to the first-class waiting-room and paused for a moment to peer through the glass doors.

A woman and a small child were sitting on one of the benches: further along, an elderly man, nursing an untidy brown paper parcel, was dozing. On the opposite side of the room, sitting in a corner, was a handsome coloured woman, dressed in a black coat and skirt. Her long slim legs were crossed and her hands were folded in her lap. She had the stillness and the unreality of an ebony statue.

Girland pushed open the door and walked into the room. A train crawled to a halt at the platform beyond the waiting-room. The woman with the child took the child’s hand and hurried out.

Girland hesitated, then as he was about to sit down, the coloured woman gave him a slight nod and signed for him to sit by her side.

Girland was startled. The last person he was expecting to deal with was an African. He went over and sat down.

“Madame Foucher?” he asked, aware of the sensual attractiveness of the woman.

“Yes.” He saw her large liquid black eyes look intently at the briefcase he was carrying. “You have the money?”

“Two thousand dollars in cash.”

“May I see?”

Girland glanced across the room at the old man who was still dozing, then he unzipped the case and handed it to her. She peered at the contents.

“You are sure there are two thousand dollars in there?”

“Yes.”

“I must have more.”

“You will, later.”

She hesitated, then zipped up the case and put it on the bench on her far side.

“Well? Where is he?” Girland asked.

“Diourbel, some miles from Dakar.”

Girland stared at her.

“You mean he’s not in Paris?”

“I never said he was in Paris. He’s in the bush outside Diourbel, where no one can possibly find him.”

Girland’s mouth hardened.

“Suppose he’s not there? Suppose this is a gag to pick up some easy money?”

“I will take you to him.”

Girland rubbed the side of his jaw, frowning.

“Well, all right. Now about you. Who are you and how did you get mixed up in this?”

“I work in a nightclub in Dakar. I …”

“Don’t rush it. What’s the name of the nightclub?”

“The Florida. It is the best nightclub there.”

“Well, go on.”

“A client of mine … he often comes to the club … asked me if I would like to make ten thousand dollars.”

“What is his name?”

“I don’t know. I call him Enrico. He is a Portuguese.”

“What’s he look like?”

“He is heavily built with a moustache. He wears a very large gold signet ring on his left little finger. He dresses well and he pays very well.”

“Go on.”

“He said I was to go to Paris and I was to telephone Mr. Dorey about a certain man. He said Mr. Dorey would give me ten thousand dollars.”

“So you haven’t actually seen Robert Henry Carey?”

“Yes, I have seen him. When Enrico said he would pay all my expenses, I didn’t see what I had to lose. So I said I would go. He took me out into the bush where I met this man.” She opened her handbag and took from it a quarter plate sized photograph which she offered to Girland.

He studied the photograph. It was a close-up shot of Carey and Madame Foucher. He recognised Carey although he looked much older and thinner than when Girland had last seen him. It was unmistakably Carey. The photograph had been taken from a low view point and only the sky showed as the background.

“May I keep this?”

“Yes.”

Girland put the photo in his wallet. At least, he thought, that should convince Radnitz. “You talked to Carey?” “Yes. He told me what I told you last night.”

“Last night, you said he was ill.”

“Yes, he is ill.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

She lifted her shoulders.

“I don’t know … something bad. I have seen men look like that before. I don’t think he will live very long.”

“Enrico was there when you two met?”

“Of course. He took the photograph because he said it would be convincing proof that I had met Carey.”

“Did he and Carey seem friendly?”

“I suppose so. We didn’t stay long. Enrico said I was to go by ship. He booked a cabin on a cargo vessel for me and I left three days after meeting Carey. I want to fly back tomorrow. If you will come with me, I will take you to Carey.”

“I can’t come tomorrow,” Girland said. “I have to get a visa. As soon as I get it I will contact you and then we’ll go.”

“I must go tomorrow,” she repeated.

“What time does the plane leave?”

“Twenty-one fifty.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Where can I contact you if I can’t make it?”

She gave him an Odéon number and got to her feet. He was startled to see she was as tall as himself.

“I will expect to see you on the plane,” she said. “There is one thing more. I must have three thousand more dollars before I will go with you. You must give it to me at the airport.”

“I’ll do that,” Girland said, hoping he would be able to persuade Radnitz to part with more money.

She moved to the door which Girland opened for her. Without looking back, she went away, walking quickly towards the entrance to the Métro.

Girland watched her go. This could be the last time he set eyes on her, he told himself. If the money had belonged to him, watching her walk away with it so quietly and calmly would have given him a sleepless night. But the money belonged to Radnitz and Girland had five thousand of it already stashed away in his bank. He could afford to take a chance. If this finally turned out to be a hoax, he at least had been paid for his trouble.

He walked over to the taxi rank and told the driver to take him to George V Hotel.

The hotel bar was crowded as Girland paused in the doorway, then seeing an empty table for two near the door, he went over and sat down. A waiter appeared and Girland ordered a whisky on the rocks. He looked around the room and quickly spotted Radnitz sitting with two other men at a corner table across the room. Both his companions were elderly: one of them held an expensive looking briefcase on his knees. Radnitz was talking, making stabbing emphases with his thick finger. Girland lit a cigarette and sipped his drink. The millionaire showed no signs of recognising him. Finally, the three men got to their feet and moved out of the bar, still talking. As Radnitz passed Girland, he looked blankly at him, then passed on. Girland finished his drink. From where he sat he could see the three men talking in the lobby. They all shook hands, then the two men left and Radnitz went over to the desk and spoke to the clerk. Then he crossed to the lift and was whisked out of sight.