by W E Johns
“That was smart work.”
“Most taxi-owning companies are in touch with their drivers and the police are in touch with the companies. Marcel would know from his records who the taxi belonged to so he had only to call the firm and ask them to send the driver of that particular cab to police head-quarters. He remembered picking up Ginger, and what’s more important, where he dropped him.”
“Where was it?”
“At a night club called the Laughing Horse in the Rue Manton, which is a little street between the Place Pigalle and Montmartre. The Laughing Horse happens, not surprisingly, to be the joint run by Macula’s pal, Del Grikko. The driver says he was told to follow another taxi and that’s where it went, and where it dropped its fare. Ginger sat in his cab for about ten minutes, watching. Then he paid off his driver who saw no more of him.”
“Did the cab go straight there?”
“Apparently.”
“Then Ginger must have been there for hours.”
“Not necessarily. He may have gone off on another trail. But he may have gone inside. I’m going along to see if he’s still there. Marcel hopes to join me there when he’s finished what he’s doing. In case Ginger should come in while I’m away I’ll leave a message with the hall porter telling him to wait here for us. I’ll do that on the phone so that I shan’t have to show myself to Macula. I shall leave by the service lift.”
“You talk as if you were going alone.”
“That was the idea. Do you want to come?”
“Of course.”
“That’s all right with me, but you realize you may be recognized as the man who had a lot to say about drugs this morning?”
“So what? I shan’t get any place by shutting myself in a hotel bedroom.”
“True enough.”
“You think this club might be a dope den?”
“I don’t know. Could be.”
“What about you? You might be recognized as a cop, if it comes to that.”
“It’s possible, but unlikely. It was you, not me, who started the ball rolling this morning. I thought plenty but I said nothing.”
“Okay—Okay. Don’t rub it in. That was a mistake I shan’t repeat.”
“Macula would recognize me, no doubt, as one of the party you were with this morning on the Rue de Rivoli, but he’s below, watching for you, so let’s hope he stays there.” Biggles thought for a moment. “I think it might be as well if we didn’t go into this Laughing Horse dive together. You follow me in. I shall soon know if you’re under observation. That goes for me, too, of course. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t sit near each other as long as we behave as strangers. We might get into casual conversation later, as one does in these places.”
“You talk as if you were going to stay there.”
“I might, or I might not. That will probably depend on Ginger. I’m going there primarily to look for him. If I see him I shall join him, to find out what he knows. Take your cue from me. If I leave, follow me out.”
“What sort of place is this Laughing Horse?”
“I don’t know, but I can imagine. The sort of place where fool tourists pay high prices for inferior stuff and kid themselves they’re seeing Paris by night. It’s unlikely there will be many people there yet. This is early for Paris, where things don’t really get warmed up till around midnight. But let’s stop guessing and get there.” Biggles picked up his hat and rang for the floor waiter.
When the man came Biggles told him: “There’s a friend of mine in the hall but I’d rather not go out with him tonight. Take us down by the service lift so that he won’t see us go out.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
The ruse worked without a hitch and a few minutes later Biggles and Eddie were getting into a taxi that had just dropped its fare near the hotel. A quick peep through the glass of the revolving doors had revealed Macula still watching the lift and the stairs with cat-like patience.
“It looks to me as if they’re not going to let you out of their sight,” said Biggles. He told the driver where they wanted to go and off they went.
The Rue Manton turned out to be a narrow, badly lighted, insalubrious-looking little street of old houses and shops, although, as Biggles was aware, in Paris such outward appearances can be deceptive. The taxi paid, he walked on ahead of Eddie to where a hanging sign depicting the grotesque head of a laughing horse indicated the objective. A big negro in a resplendent uniform was on door duty. He swept off his hat and opened the door for Biggles to enter, to be greeted by bright lights and the blare of swing music being hammered out by a five-man coloured orchestra. A hard-faced female among them was crooning to the music. One or two couples were jiving in an open space left for the purpose, but for the most part the customers were at the seats and tables, placed round the walls, with drinks and snacks in front of them.
Biggles’ eyes swept round the assembly seeking Ginger, but failing to see him he made his way to a sparsely occupied bench well inside the room. From there he made another reconnaissance to confirm that Ginger was not there. He couldn’t see him. Eddie came in and found a seat close at hand. A waiter came up.
“Have you a restaurant here?” Biggles asked him.
“Non, monsieur. We have the snack only.”
“This is the only room?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
Biggles ordered a drink and a ham sandwich, and while he was waiting, lit a cigarette, uncertain as to what he should do next. He decided to wait a few minutes and watch events. Nobody appeared to be taking any notice of Eddie, which suggested he had not been recognized.
Twenty minutes or so passed without incident. A steady trickle of people were coming into the club. Occasionally one would move aside a velvet curtain near the band and disappear for some minutes behind it. Once Biggles caught sight of a door, marked private, behind the curtain.
“Ginger must have gone home,” said Eddie, without looking at Biggles. He had to speak loudly to make himself heard above the band.
“I think so,” answered Biggles. “Presently I’ll find a phone and ask the hall porter if he’s come in.”
It so happened however that events took a turn that prevented him from doing this. A man who had gone behind the curtain came back within a minute and flopped down on a wall seat, close to Biggles, chin in hand in an attitude of dejection. In view of what he was doing there Biggles had naturally taken an interest in the visitors to the private room behind the curtain.
Catching Biggles’ eyes the man’s face twisted in what presumably was intended to be a smile; but it was a pathetic effort. Biggles, who was in no mood for casual conversation with strangers, did not respond to the obvious overture. He looked away. The next thing he knew the man had sidled along the seat and was sitting next to him.
“I say, old man, you’re English, aren’t you?” said the man, in a cultured but wheedling voice.
Biggles considered the speaker with an uncompromising expression on his face. “What of it?” he asked, coldly.
The man forced a vacuous grin. Of early middle age, Biggles knew from his voice that he was British; but he was not a good specimen. His clothes, well cut and of good quality material, had seen better days, and his linen was not as clean as it might have been. His face was thin to the point of being haggard. His hair, which badly needed cutting, was thin and streaked with grey. Biggles decided he was one of those pieces of human debris which, for reasons known only to themselves, eke out a precarious existence, sponging on tourists, in the sordid atmosphere of Parisian night-life. Wherefore he merely said: “Go away.”
“Lend us a thousand francs, old boy; just a measly quid’s worth, that’s all,” pleaded the man.
Biggles did not answer.
“I’m up against it, really I am,” went on the man, almost cringing. “Come on. Be a sport. I haven’t had a bite of food all day.” He looked on the point of bursting into tears.
For the first time Biggles studied the face close to his own. He looked
him up and down, from his staring eyes with dilated pupils to hands that shook as if with ague.
“If I gave you money you wouldn’t spend it on food,” alleged Biggles, frostily.
“Would it matter to you what I spent it on?”
“The question doesn’t arise. I’ve a better use for my money than to—”
“Go on. Say it. I’m past taking offence at anything. You wouldn’t give me a franc to save my life, would you,” said the man, bitterly.
“You’re ending your life fast enough without any help from me.”
“How right you are. The sooner I finish the job the better for me and everyone else.”
“What’s your name?”
“Burton. Noel Burton.”
“What got you into this mess, booze or dope?”
“What does it matter? I’m sick. I’m due for a shot in the arm. If I don’t get it I shall go and jump in the river. You can see the state I’m in.”
“So it’s heroin.”
Burton glanced around furtively. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Where did you start this lunacy?”
“Right here. Now I can’t get away from it.”
“You still get it here?”
“When I’ve money to pay for it. Now I’m broke.”
“Do other people come here for the same reason?”
“Of course.”
“Are there any here now?”
“No. Most of them go when they’ve got what they came for. That’s the rule.”
“Why did you stay?”
“Because having no money the swine who runs this place has packed up on me. I hoped you’d be charitably disposed.” Burton spoke viciously.
“You don’t seem to like him.”
“I hate his guts.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know, but they call him Del Grikko.”
“Is this the only place in Paris where you can get the stuff?”
“As far as I know the Laughing Horse has the monopoly. Nothing else would bring me to the stinking hole. That devil Del Grikko used to give me a shot in the arm for five hundred francs, but now he knows he’s got me where he wants me he’s raised the price to a thousand.”
“Why don’t you go to the police?”
“And get myself knifed?” Burton spoke with biting sarcasm.
“And now you’re right out of money?”
“If I had any I wouldn’t be sitting here cadging.” Burton spoke with bitter emphasis.
“How does this fellow Del Grikko get the stuff you want?”
Burton looked at Biggles through eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why do you want to know?”
Biggles shrugged. “Call it curiosity. Del Grikko must be a fool to antagonize you. Isn’t he afraid you might give him away to the police?”
“He’s no fool. He knows I wouldn’t dare talk.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not exactly in love with life but I could think of better ways of dying than those he hands out to squealers.”
Biggles took out his note-case and fingered it suggestively. “Would a couple of thousand francs overcome your fears if I promised not to give you away?”
Burton’s eyes glistened at the sight of the notes. “What do you want to know?” he breathed, after a quick, furtive glance around. “Are you a cop?”
“What would an English policeman be doing in Paris?”
“Yes. Of course. That’s right. Silly question. What do you want to know?”
“How does heroin get to a place like this?”
“A man brings it once a month. He came today. That’s why I’m here.”
“Is he still here?”
“Yes. That’s him, the flashy half-caste sitting over there swilling champagne with the woman in a red sweater. The overdressed little beast with the oily skin and drooping black moustache. Just look at that ridiculous imitation diamond ring on his finger! And that tie—like a rainbow. About time he had a haircut.”
Biggles nodded assent. “He certainly is a nasty-looking piece of work. What’s his name?”
“Alfondez.”
“Nationality?”
“They say he’s an Egyptian. Probably is. He speaks English like you or me, as he would if what he says is true.”
“So you’ve spoken to him?”
“Yes. I once tried to get him to sell some of the stuff direct to me. He laughed in my face. Told me he’d once been a doctor in London but was struck off for some funny business. That’s why he took up dope. That’s what he told me. He’s a man of education, anyhow. You can tell that by the way he speaks.”
“How does he get the stuff?”
“I don’t know. Now can I have the money, please?”
“In a moment. Where does he come from when he comes here?”
“I’ve no idea. But I’m saying no more. I’ve said so much already I’m scared stiff.” Burton put out his hand for the notes.
“One last question. How long have you been here?”
“Since noon.”
“Did you see an Englishman come in—a little before five o’clock? He was wearing grey flannel bags and a greenish sports jacket. Has reddish hair.”
“Yes. I saw him. Spotting he was British I tried to touch him for a thousand but he brushed me off.”
“Did you see him go?”
“No. That is, the last I saw of him he was being carried out.”
Biggles’ eyes opened wide. “Carried?”
“Yes. He was drunk.”
Biggles stared. “Did you say drunk?”
“Tight as a lord. Couldn’t stand. In fact, he passed out.”
“Who carried him out?”
“Louis and Rastus. Rastus is the big fellow at the door.”
“Where did they take him?”
“Through to the back, to sleep it off I suppose. They couldn’t very well dump him in the street. Anyway, the last I saw of him he was going feet first behind the curtain. He a friend of yours?”
“Yes,” answered Biggles, tight lipped, and thinking fast. As Ginger never touched spirits he knew he couldn’t have been drunk. He couldn’t believe that he had so suddenly been taken ill, so what had happened was fairly obvious. He had been spotted by the man he was shadowing. Or something of the sort.
“What’s behind that door behind the curtain?”
“The office.”
“Is that where people go to get their dope?”
“Yes, but for God’s sake don’t say I said so or my body will be in the river before morning.”
“If I gave you these two notes what would you do?”
“Go and get a dose. I’m past salvation but I could get temporary relief, which is all I care about.”
“Is that door open or kept locked?”
“Locked.”
“How do you get in?”
“I knock. There’s a special knock for regular customers.”
“I imagine you know the knock?”
“Of course. Louis opens the door, and if he knows you lets you in. He’s Del Grikko’s bodyguard. But why are you so interested?”
“I’m looking for the Englishman we’ve spoken about. He’s a friend of mine.” Biggles handed over the two notes. “I’ll give you five more of these to get me behind that door,” he suggested.
“Nothing doing.” Burton was emphatic. He rose, making it clear that now he had the money he had no further interest in the conversation.
Biggles walked quickly to Eddie. “Ginger’s in trouble,” he said, tersely. “He’s in the office. I’m going through to get him. There’s a job for you. Tail that half-caste-looking type sitting against the wall with the girl in red. He’s a dope runner. Follow him wherever he goes. Don’t lose him. Be careful. Contact me later.”
“Sure I can’t help you to—”
“No. Do as I say. Can’t stop now. See you later.”
“Okay.”
Biggles strode on to overtake Burton, already at the curtain.
He reached it in time to hear the special knock. The door was opened. There followed a brief argument, Burton protesting that he now had money. This settled the argument. He was admitted. Seeing the door closing Biggles took a swift pace forward and jammed it with his foot. This move he followed up by putting a shoulder to the door and giving it a shove. This served its purpose. The man holding it, caught unprepared for anything of the sort, reeled back. He recovered instantly, but by that time Biggles was in the room. For a second his eyes rested on Ginger, who was lying on a couch; they then switched to a man, presumably the one Burton had referred to as Louis, who was advancing towards him menacingly.
“What do you think you’re going to do?” inquired Biggles, icily. “Keep your hands off me.”
There must have been something in Biggles’ voice, or perhaps his expression, that caused Louis to hesitate and glance across the room, presumably for instructions, to another man, a tall white man, who was standing by a table littered with papers, bottles, glasses, ash-trays and the like. Not counting Burton, who with jaw sagging in comical dismay was staring at the scene, he was, Biggles noted, the only other person present.
CHAPTER V
DEL GRIKKO CALLS THE TUNE
BIGGLES stood still, looking at the man for whose orders Louis was obviously waiting. Was this Del Grikko? He thought so.
He was tall, powerfully built, clean shaven, of early middle age. His nationality might have been almost anything, although his skin was of that curious smooth texture and indefinable tint peculiar to countries bordering on the eastern Mediterranean. His hair, which began low on his forehead, was jet black and gleamed with an oil dressing. A prominent nose and firm mouth suggested a strong character, a man who was not to be trifled with. When younger he might have been handsome, but pouches under his eyes and jowls beginning to sag, apparently the result of too much good living and too little exercise, now destroyed any illusion of good looks.
