It's What Up Front That Counts

by Troy Conway

I turned to her and waited for a reaction. There wasn’t any. Keeping her head lowered so that I couldn’t see her eyes, she busied herself with the zipper on her miniskirt.

  “Well?’’ I prodded. “How about it? You know your thing with Christopher Smythe is falling apart. And you know that when it does you’re going to be in worse trouble than you are now. I can bail you out. I’ll arrange transportation to the States, police protection, all your expenses and”—an afterthought— “all the drugs you need. Interested?”

  She zipped up the miniskirt and put on her shoes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jack,” she murmured, suddenly in a big hurry to get out of the room.

  I stood in front of the door to block her way. “You know damned well what I’m talking about. And you’re a very foolish girl if you don’t take me up on my offer.”

  “I’m a very foolish girl,” she said, her expression now one of impatience. “So let me out of here, will ya? Or do I . . . I . . .” She fumbled around, apparently in search of an appropriate threat. Then she abandoned the attempt. “Who are you, Jack? Why are you so interested in me?”

  “I’m a representative of the United States government,” I replied. “I’m working hand in hand with the British Secret Service. We know that you and Diane are doing a number on Christopher Smythe and James Whelan. What we don’t know is why.”

  She smiled sardonically. “So you want me to tell you why, right? And then you’ll set me up in a rose-covered cottage in San Francisco, just because you think I’m a nice girl.” She made another start for the door. “No thanks, Jack. I’ll take my chances without you.”

  I held the door closed behind me. “Don’t be foolish, Andi. I’m the only chance you’ve got.”

  She tried to force her way past me. Then, realizing she wasn’t strong enough, she backed away. “Look, Jack,” she said defeatedly, “if you’re going to arrest me, go ahead and arrest me. And if you aren’t, how’s about getting the hell out of the doorway?”

  “I want to know what you’re trying to do with Christopher Smythe. Some people think you’re playing ball with the Communists. I don’t think so, and I want to find out who you’re actually playing ball with.”

  The mention of the Communists seemed to bewilder and frighten her. I’d only been playing a hunch so far, but her expression told me that my hunch was right on target.

  She backed away from me. “I think I’d like a cup of coffee,” she said.

  I motioned her toward the armchair, then poured two cups from the percolator. “Who are you playing ball with, Andi?”

  “Tell me more about that cottage in San Francisco.”

  I handed her one cup. “I’ll get you out of England within twenty-four hours after you say you want to go. You’ll have police protection, and all the money you need. All I want from you in return is the complete story about your affair with Christopher Smythe.”

  “How do I know I won’t be arrested?”

  I almost asked, “For what?” But I caught myself in time. Following up on my hunch, I said, “You mean for extortion?”

  She looked away from me. “I’m not admitting anything just yet.”

  “I know you’re extorting Smythe. But I’m playing for bigger stakes. You see, the Communists know you’re extorting Smythe also, and they’re trying to beat you to the punch. But they’re not just looking for money. They want a lot more. That’s why the British Secret Service is interested in you, and that’s why I’m interested. Now, tell me, who put you up to it?”

  She sipped her coffee. “Look,” she said after a moment, “I’ve got to think about this. I mean I’m all shook up right now, and I need some time to get my head together. I’m scared; I won’t deny it. But I’ve got to have time to think.”

  “There isn’t any time to waste.”

  She took another sip of coffee, then put the cup on the nighttable and stood up. “I’m getting out of here, Jack,” she said suddenly. “I don’t think I like you anymore.”

  Again I blocked the door. “Don’t be foolish, Andi. Take the chance while you have it.”

  “Get out of the way, Jack. I’m tired of playing games.”

  I sensed that further resistance on my part would only harden her resistance. “Okay, take some time to think. Meet me tonight and we’ll talk some more.”

  “Okay. I’ll come over on my first break, just like I did last night.”

  I smiled. “Promise?”

  She smiled back. “No promises. If I decide yes, I’ll be here. If I decide no, I won’t.”

  “One thing before you go: if you feel you want to see me before then—if you need my help, or if you want to see me for any reason whatever—call me. My name is Rod Damon. The hotel switchboard will take the message if I’m not in. Let them know where I can find you, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  Her smile broadened. “Thanks. I’m beginning to like you again.”

  “One more thing: I’d like to talk to Diane Dionne. How about introducing me to her?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe later. Not now.”

  I opened the door. She kissed me goodbye before walking through it. Then she waved another goodbye before she turned the corner and started down the hall toward the elevator. I waved back and closed the door. Suddenly, I found myself beginning to like Andi Gleason too.

  Back in the room, I took my coffee to the window overlooking the street. Standing there, I made one of the silly little bets I occasionally make with myself. In a minute or two, Andi would walk out the front door of the hotel. According to my bet, if she looked up toward my window as she left, that would mean she’d be back that night ready to tell me all I wanted to know. If she didn’t look up, she wouldn’t be back and I’d have to find another way of getting to the bottom of the mystery.

  A minute passed, then another. Then Andi walked out the door, crossed the street, and headed toward Picadilly Circus. She never so much as glanced toward my window. I hoped against hope that my silly little bet was just a silly little bet and not a valid indication of what to expect. But I had a strange feeling that I had lost both the bet and Andi.

  I continued to stare out the window. The street was all but deserted—or had been before she left the hotel. Now, suddenly, it wasn’t deserted anymore.

  No sooner had she crossed the street than a man came out of the hotel. From my angle, I couldn’t see his face. But I got a good look at his clothes. He was wearing evening attire, just as most of the older men at The Safari Club had been the night before.

  Keeping about fifty yards behind her, he crossed the street. A black Austin-Healy was parked at the curb. He rapped on the window, which promptly opened. Then he said something to the driver.

  Another man now got out of the passenger side of the car—a man wearing a rumpled business suit. He crossed the street and disappeared inside the Eros. The guy in evening clothes started walking after Andi. She turned left at the next block, and he turned left behind her. She seemed to have no idea that he was tailing her. A minute later, the Austin-Healy slowly pulled out of its parking place and joined the parade.

  So all of a sudden Andi Gleason was a Very Important Person.

  But important to whom? It seemed unlikely that the Friends of Decency would be tailing her.

  It seemed even less likely that the British Secret Service would be involved. They had told Walrus-moustache that the Smythe-Whelan affair was our baby, and they’d never been known to reneg on a deal with us.

  That narrowed the field down to a single candidate: the Communists. Or was it possible that someone else—someone The Coxe Foundation never suspected of having an interest in the case—was on the scene?

  Now that I thought about it, it was very possible. And the list of potential candidates was virtually inexhaustible.

  It couldn’ve been the press. London’s newspapers—especially the Sunday sheets like News of the World and The Mirror—were always on the lookout for a scandal. One or more papers could’ve got wi
nd of the Smythe-Whelan case, just as the Coxe Foundation had. If so, they’d be sure to have reporters trailing the principals every step of the way.

  It could’ve been the spies of some other nation.—France, for example, or Germany. Everybody in the Western Bloc was supposed to be part of one happy family. But members of even the happiest families sometimes turn against each other, and who could say what sort of strategies were being cooked up behind the closed doors of any of these nations’ equivalents of The Coxe Foundation.

  It could’ve been Smythe and Whelan’s rivals for office in the upcoming elections. Quite possibly they had heard some rumors and had put a team of investigators on the trail to find out what was what—and to get proof of it.

  For that matter, it could’ve been Smythe and Whelan themselves. The two M.P.’s, obviously enough, were being extorted by Andi and Diane. I had guessed that very early in my conversation with Andi, and her subsequent remarks confirmed the guess. It was entirely possible that the two extortion victims were now trying to drum up some information that would help them get out of the hold Andi and Diane evidently had on them.

  Walrus-moustache had suggested that some sort of brainwashing might be involved. But this suggestion bad been based on the assumption that the Communists were behind the deal—an assumption now all but proven false.

  He had also suggested drugs. But judging from what I’d seen of Andi, she couldn’t handle drugs herself, much less use them to manipulate other people.

  In any case, Andi and Diane evidently had their hooks firmly into Smythe and Whelan—as evidenced by Smythe and Whelan’s refusal to walk out of the affair when they were approached through diplomatic channels by The Coxe Foundation.

  And, sure as shooting, the two girls weren’t playing the game on their own. Andi’s allusions to being in big trouble made this plain enough.

  But, if the girls weren’t playing the game on their own, who was playing it with them? And what were the stakes?

  The stakes, it now seemed, were cash—nothing more, nothing less. I’d first guessed that when I found Andi working at The Safari Club. I could think of no reason why she possibly would’ve gone back to work there unless she really needed the money—money which she could no longer earn as a prostitute because, perhaps, something or other about her caper with Christopher Smythe made it too dangerous for her to work as a prostie.

  I became convinced that my guess was on target when she declined my offer of thirty pounds for a roll in the hay. A down-at-the-heels dame like her didn’t rate ten pounds, let alone thirty. And yet she had turned me down cold. Why? Presumably because she had some reason to believe that turning a trick with a John—any John—would jeopardize the Smythe-Whelan caper.

  Then I had upped the ante to sixty, and she almost didn’t accept even then. When she finally—and reluctantly—did accept, she still nixed the offer of one hundred pounds for an all-night shot. Evidently whoever had masterminded the Smythe-Whelan caper had firmly warned her against turning any tricks, and while she might risk a quickie because she desperately needed the cash, she wouldn’t risk an all-nighter.

  All this had led me to theorize that she envisioned a big bundle of cash at the end of the rainbow when the Smythe-Whelan caper was over.

  So now the question arose: What made Smythe and Whelan such lucrative targets? Fortunately I could get some help answering that one from Walrus-moustache—and I planned to send out my call for help just as soon as I could get to a telephone that I was sure wasn’t bugged.

  Meanwhile, the old question—the question of who was behind Andi and Diane in the Smythe-Whelan caper—remained. I’d have to answer that all by myself.

  I glanced at my watch. It read seven fifteen. I’d been standing at the window for close to twenty minutes, and the guy in the rumpled business suit still hadn’t come out of the hotel. Evidently he was going to tail me while his two buddies tailed Andi.

  It would’ve been interesting to play counter-tail with him. I’d been doing the spy thing long enough now that I was pretty sure I could give him the slip once he started following me, then double around and tail him until he finally gave up and returned to whomever it was that had sent him after me. Once I found out, I’d know who was so interested in Andi Gleason—and, if I was lucky, why.

  But playing counter-tail might take all day, and I had more important ways to spend my time—like setting up shop for my sex survey at the Big Prig’s mansion. Besides, for all I knew, I might just counter-tail the guy back to the Fleet Street offices of one of the Sunday newspapers. There’d be no profit in that.

  After shaving and dressing I went down to the hotel’s dining room. A hefty plate of wheatcakes and a pot of tea later, I made my way to the lobby. Sure enough, the guy in the rumpled suit was there. He sat in an armchair pretending keen interest in the latest edition of The Daily Mail.

  I asked the desk for messages, of which I knew there wouldn’t be any. Through the corner of my eye, I watched Rumpled Suit. No question about it, he was an expert at his job. He never so much as glanced up from his paper.

  I bought a pack of gum from the desk clerk, got a surprised “Thank you, sir!” when I told him to keep the change from a ten-shilling note, then ambled outside. Next door to the Eros was a discount men’s clothing store. I ducked into the foyer and pretended to study the window display. Rumpled Suit came strolling out of the hotel, his Daily Mail tucked neatly under his arm.

  Yep, he was an expert. He didn’t look around frantically to see which direction I’d gone off in, as a novice might. Instead, he very casually surveyed the street, as if contemplating what a lovely morning it was. Then, when he didn’t see me, he turned nonchalantly to his right and began walking toward Picadilly Circus—the direction, presumably, in which he guessed I’d be most apt to go.

  I waited until he was a block away. Then, while he was checking out intersecting street to see if I had gone down it, I ducked back inside the Eros, slipped the desk clerk a pair of five-pound notes, and asked if anybody had questioned him about me during the course of the night.

  He said that nobody had and gave me back the notes. Evidently he didn’t consider it cricket to take the money without earning it.

  I tucked the bills into his shirt pocket and asked him to tell me all the he knew about Rumpled Suit.

  This time he kept the money and more than earned it. Rumpled Suit, he reported, had checked into the hotel around three a.m. He was sharing a room with another man, who had checked in about an hour earlier. The first man, who wore evening clothes, had sat in the lobby until about six thirty that morning, then left. Rumpled Suit, meanwhile, had left a few minutes after he checked in, then returned right after Evening Clothes left and had sat in the lobby ever since.

  Real experts, these boys were. Checked into the hotel as guests, rather than trying to do a freebie stakeout in the lobby, and never revealed their hand by asking questions about me. But they were up against another expert—namely yours truly, who, with good old American know-how, realized that the best way to get inside info was to grease the right palms. I gave the clerk another ten pounds and asked him not to say anything about me to anyone. Then I headed back outside.

  Rumpled Suit was making his way back toward the Eros as I walked out. Ever the expert, he gave no indication that he saw me. I was tempted to bid him good morning, just to let him know I was on to his game. But the dumber he thought I was, the easier it’d be to get the better of him. I passed him without a nod, then hailed a cab to the American Express Office. If there was one place in London where I could be sure I could safely phone Walrus-moustache, that was it.

  My Coxeman-in-Chief was not, of course, available at the other end of the telephone cable. But I was sure he’d get the message soon enough. I told the secretary who answered that I wanted a complete financial statement on Christopher Smythe and James Whelan plus all their immediate relatives; also, any newspaper clippings I could get that might relate to their financial activities and/or their so
cial lives; also, any newsclips about the financial doings of anyone else in London or elsewhere named Christopher Smythe or James Whelan, or anyone who might conceivably be mistaken for a relative of the real Smythe or Whelan. I suggested that The Coxe Foundation’s London people could dig up most of this data locally, then deliver it to me at the Eros. It was, I knew, a lot of work to put my colleagues through just to satisfy a hunch of mine. But, at this stage of the proceedings, the hunch was all I had to go on, and I needed all the help I could get.

  The phone call having been accomplished, I left American Express and hailed a cab for The Big Prig’s mansion. As we pulled out from the curb, I noticed a guy who had been standing nonchalantly outside the American Express office pretending great interest in The Morning Telegram. I don’t know how he had managed to follow me there, but he sure as hell had. It was none other than my old friend, Rumpled Suit.

  No doubt about it, he was a ballplayer’s ballplayer—a real pro. What a shame we happened to be on opposite teams.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The rest of the morning passed uneventfully. I spent my time organizing the crew of administrative assistants The Big Prig had placed at my disposal for the proposed study of the connection, if any, between the free dissemination of erotic literature and sexual permissiveness in contemporary London. The crew consisted of frumpy Gretchen Stark, who was its captain, and six girls ranging in age from twenty-two to twenty-five and ranging in appearance from just-plain-unattractive to downright-hideous. I naturally would have preferred a more comely group, but I had to admit that the present situation wasn’t without its advantages: at least I was able to keep my mind on my work. I can’t recall ever accomplishing so much in such little time.

  For lunch I was the guest of Lord and Lady Brice-Bennington. Lord B-B, I found, was a stiff-upper-lip sort who evidently operated under the assumption that table conversation shouldn’t involve any topic more controversial than the weather or yesterday’s soccer scores. I tried to draw him into a chat about the upcoming election, but he deftly sidestepped the subject. I also tried to sound him out on his wife’s pet project, the proposed sexual reformation of England; but he wouldn’t talk about that either.