Two minutes later a page came up to Girland.
“Will you please go up to Suite 127 sir?” he said. “Mr. Radnitz is waiting for you.”
Girland nodded, got to his feet, paid for his drink and then sauntered out into the lobby. He ignored the lift and walked up the stairs to the first floor. After making sure he had the long corridor to himself, he walked quickly past the numbered doors until he reached room number 127. He paused, looked to right and left, then knocked.
The door was immediately opened by a young Japanese servant, wearing a white coat and black silk trousers. Girland moved past him into a small hall. The Japanese opened a door and bowed him into a large, elegantly furnished room where Radnitz stood by the big window, looking down at the tightly packed, crawling traffic, struggling towards the Champs Elysees.
The Japanese closed the door behind Girland who waited.
Radnitz turned.
“Ah, Mr. Girland, come in and sit down. Will you have a drink?”
“No, thank you.” Girland selected a comfortable armchair and sank into it.
“A cigar?”
“No, thank you.”
Radnitz selected a cigar and took from his pocket a gold cigar cutter.
“What news?” he asked, coming over to another chair near Girland's and sitting down. He cut the cigar, examined it then glanced at Girland. “You have met Madame Foucher?”
“I've met her.” Girland said and briefly described the meeting.
Radnitz listened. When Girland gave him the photograph of Carey and Madame Foucher he took it and stared at it for a long moment.
“Yes that is Carey.” he said finally and put the photograph on the table beside him. “You have done well Mr. Girland. I am pleased with you.”
Girland didn't say anything.
“You will of course go with this woman tomorrow night.”
Radnitz paused to release a stream of expensive smelling smoke from between his thin lips. “I will arrange about your visa.” He paused again, then went on. “Well now. Mr. Girland, here is where you begin to earn the fifty thousand dollars I promised you. You must not forget that Carey will believe you are representing Dorey. You must give him no reason to suspect otherwise. When you meet him find out what he has to offer. I think he has got hold of something of considerable importance. Whatever it is, it is to come to me and not Dorey. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“When you are satisfied Carey has nothing more to tell you,” Radnitz went on, “and that he has given you whatever it is he has taken from Russia, you will kill him.” He got to his feet and walked over to a desk, opened a drawer and took from it a small box. He picked out a heavy gold signet ring. “See if this fits your finger, Mr. Girland,” he said, handing the ring to Girland.
Girland found the ring fitted the third finger of his right hand well enough. Watching him. Radnitz nodded with approval and then stretched out his hand for the return of the ring. Girland gave it to him.
“This ring, Mr. Girland, has its uses. If you will come here, I will show you how it works.”
Girland got to his feet and stood over Radnitz.
“This tiny plate bearing the initials slides off.” Radnitz explained. “Like this.” He pushed against the side of the ring and the flat top slid away without any trouble. In the tiny hollow, covered by the plate, was something that looked like a stiff hair that projected above the level of the plate. “When you say goodbye to Carey, you will naturally shake hands with him.”
Radnitz said. “You will be wearing this ring in the reversed position: that is, the seal will be turned inwards. This little bristle you see projecting from the ring will come into contact with Carey's fingers as you shake hands. That is all that is necessary. Within an hour after your handshake. Mr. Girland. Carey will be dead. As he is already ill I doubt if much attention will be paid to his death. Even if there should be a post-mortem, the poison on the bristle is so rare, no doctor would be able to identify it. So you see. I am making things absurdly easy for you.” He replaced the plate on the ring and then tossed the ring to Girland who caught it, stared at it. then slipped it on his finger.
“How expert are you. Mr. Girland, in changing your appearance?”
Radnitz asked as Girland sat down.
“Not bad... why?”
“We mustn't underrate Dorey. No doubt he has been to that cellar club and from the doorman and the staff, he now has a good description of you and of Madame Foucher. There is nothing we can do about Madame Foucher. If they are watching the airport, then I think it is likely they will pick her up. It is a chance we must take. What is important, they must not pick you up.” Radnitz touched ash off his cigar. “I have had the passengers' list examined. There are five American businessmen travelling on their own on the plane. You will be the sixth. Tomorrow morning, Borg will come to you with a new passport. You will be travelling under the name of John Gilchrist. The object of your visit to Dakar is to explore the possibilities of opening a factory in competition with Schweppes factory already installed outside Dakar. You must not overlook the fact that the Russians are also hunting for Carey. Their agents are almost certain to be in Dakar. They will be suspicious of you when you arrive as they will be of the other five businessmen. You will stay at the N'Gor Hotel for two days before trying to contact Carey. Leave the papers I will supply you with in your hotel room so that their curiosity will be satisfied. Then after two days, and not before, you will contact Carey. Is all that understood?”
“But suppose Madame Foucher gets picked up at the airport?”
Radnitz lifted his heavy shoulders in a shrug.
“That is not your concern. You will get on the plane without her. It may take a little longer to find Carey without her, but you have two important leads. The Florida Club and this Portuguese. He must know where Carey is. If Madame Foucher can't help you. then you must rely on this man to do so.”
“But if Madame Foucher is arrested and once she realises I'm not working for Dorey she will talk,” Girland said.
“Again that is no concern of yours. All that will be taken care of.” Radnitz got to his feet. “There is every possibility that she won't be arrested. You are not to return to your apartment. It is possible that Dorey knows now who you are. I have booked a room for you in the name of John Gilchrist at the California Hotel. I often put American businessmen up there. They will not ask you to fill in a police card. You will go there now and you will remain in your room until Borg comes to you at ten o'clock tomorrow. He will bring everything necessary for the journey.”
“Madame Foucher wants another three thousand dollars,” Girland said. “She was emphatic about this.”
Radnitz studied him.
“Still growing Mr. Girland?”
“I'm not asking for anything for myself,” Girland said. “It's for her.”
“Very well. I will see the money is available.” Radnitz said.
“Good luck, Mr. Girland. When next we meet I hope you will be able to tell me Carey is dead.”
Girland said good night, stared for a moment at Radnitz, then turning, he went out of the room.
Radnitz remained motionless, smoking his cigar until the Japanese servant came in and told him Girland had left the hotel.
“I want to talk to Schwartz,” Radnitz said. “Find him.”
The Japanese bowed and left the room.
chapter five
Captain O’Halloran was a tall, solidly built man of around thirty-eight years of age. He had a red fleshy face, the shapeless nose of a boxer and the eyes and mouth of a shrewd, ruthless cop.
He came into Dorey's office a few minutes after eight o'clock, closed the door, took off his peak cap and paused for an invitation to sit down.
Dorey pushed aside a file he was working on.
“Hello Captain. Come in and sit down. Any news?”
“We nearly caught up with her half an hour ago.” O'Halloran said, sinking into the big leather chair that faced Do
rey's desk. “She booked in at the Astor Hotel three days ago as Madame Foucher, Dakar. She checked out at six this evening. I'm pretty sure it's the same woman from the description. She is on her own, so that's something learned. She's probably moved to another hotel. The check is still going on and all the hotels are alerted to look out for her.”
“No sign of this young fellow with the chin beard?”
“He hasn't been near the George V Hotel. I have a couple of boys staked out. waiting for him. So far he's keeping clear of the place.”
“Radnitz have any interesting visitors?”
O'Halloran shrugged.
“A stream of them. Some we know, some we don't.”
Dorey moved his letter opener from the left side of his blotter to his right
“I’m trying to trace an American,” he said finally. “This man could be connected with this business Captain. I have a description of him here.” He took a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and handed it to O'Halloran. “Have you any suggestions as to how I find him?”
O'Halloran read the description, then looked at Dorey, a quizzing expression in his light blue eyes.
“Why do you imagine this man could help?”
Dorey rubbed the end of his beaky nose and avoided O'Halloran's cop stare. Until he had talked to this Senegalese woman, it would be dangerous to tell O'Halloran too many details.
“I can't tell you that Captain: not just yet. anyway. But it is important that we find this man.”
“Who gave you this description?”
“A man called Husson. He runs the ‘Alio Paris' club.”
O'Halloran looked interested.
“I know the joint. It's out of bounds to service men. We have had trouble with Husson in the past. Do you want me to go along and talk to him?”
“We want to find this man. Captain.”
“Is he a resident in Paris?”
“Yes.”
“Every American in Paris is registered with the Prefecture of Police.” O'Halloran said. “They hold their dossiers and their photographs. Do you want me to take Husson along there and see if he can spot your man?”
Dorey felt a rush of blood to his face so angry was he with himself for not thinking of this simple solution as soon as Husson had given him Girland's description.
“I would be most grateful Captain. When could you arrange to do it?”
“What's the matter with now?” O'Halloran asked. He looked at his watch. 'No, the club doesn't open 'til ten. I'll send a couple of boys down there at ten, collect Husson, run him down to the Prefecture and we'll know who your man is in a couple of hours or less.”
“And in the meantime, you will continue to search for this woman?”
“We'll keep hunting for her until we find her.”
“If you find out who this American is.” Dorey said, “call me at my apartment no matter how late it is.”
“I'll do that,” O'Halloran returned, and nodding, he left the office.
Dorey sat for some minutes, thinking, then he reached for the telephone and called Janine.
“The net's closing.” he told her when she came on the line.
“O'Halloran almost caught up with her this evening. He's now working on the identity of Rossland's man. I think by midnight we'll know who he is.”
“Or who he was.” Janine said. “Look, John. I'm in a rush, I'm catching the 21.50 plane to Dakar tomorrow night, and I have a lot to clear up.”
Dorey stiffened.
“You're ... what?”
“I'm going to Dakar.”
“I haven't authorised you to do that. You can't go rushing off without my say-so. It is a costly journey and I see no reason why you should go.”
“I'm going, and I'm paying for myself.” Janine said firmly. “I’ll be more use there than I am here. I think Rossland's man is dead by now. You might telephone the American Embassy at Dakar and alert them that I am coming. I may need help.”
Dorey thought for a moment. Now he was sure this wasn't going to cost the division anything, he began to see it was an excellent idea to have Janine out on the spot.
“Very well then,” he said. “You may have some luck. You'll need a visa.”
“I've seen to that,” she said crisply. “If I find out anything important, I'll telephone you. Goodbye, John.” and the line went dead.
Dorey returned to his apartment a little after ten o'clock.
He sat down at his desk and began to work on papers he had brought with him from the Embassy. Around midnight, he cleared his desk, locked up his papers and went over to sit in one of the big easy chairs. He kept looking at his watch. He sat there, waiting, and when the telephone bell finally rang at ten minutes to one he got hastily to his feet and snatched up the receiver.
“We've identified your man.” O'Halloran told him. “His name is Mark Girland. He has a top floor studio apartment on Rue de Suisses. He describes himself as a freelance journalist. The reason why I am calling you so late is because I went around to his place with a couple of the boys and gave it a going over. There's no doubt he's an agent. He has all the tools of the trade. He's not there, of course. The Concierge told me he left the apartment building around half past six. so he could still return. You want me to bring him down to H.Q. if we catch him?”
“Yes.” Dorey said. “I want to talk to him. I don't want anyone else to question him. This could be a tricky one and the responsibility must be mine.”
“If he shows I'll call you.” O'Halloran said.
“He may be planning to go to Dakar with this woman,” Dorey said. “You'll keep a watch at the airport for him?”
“We're already doing that.” O'Halloran said, and hung up.
***
A little after ten o'clock the following morning, a tap came on Girland's hotel bedroom door.
He had just finished a substantial breakfast and was reading the New York Herald Tribune. He got silently to his feet and reached for his .45 automatic that lay on the table.
“Who is it?” he called.
“Me and a boyfriend.”
As soon as Girland recognised Borg’s voice, he put the gun under the newspaper, crossed the room and unlocked the door.
Borg came in, followed by a thin, elderly man with a mop of white hair. Girland closed and locked the door as Borg and his companion took off their overcoats.
“This is Charlie.” Borg said, jerking his thumb at the elderly man. “He's going to fix your face.” He grinned. “A goddam marvel is Charlie. Your own mother won't recognise you by the time he's through with you.”
Charlie had opened a suitcase he had brought with him and humming under his breath, began to get out various boxes, bottles, a pair of scissors, a comb and a barber's towel.
“Now, sir,” he said to Girland. “if you would just sit here.”
Girland sat down and was enveloped in the towel. Borg took the only armchair, lit a cigarette and crossed one fat leg over the other.
“You get that bag I left at the hotel last night?”
“I got it,” Girland said.
He had been surprised to find an expensive piece of air luggage in the room when the porter had shown him in. As soon as the porter had gone, Girland had opened the bag to find three expensive tropical suits, shirts, pyjamas, handkerchiefs, sports clothes, a dressing gown, slippers, a selection of good ties, toilet accessories, a lightweight raincoat, sun glasses and a worn, but expensive looking wallet with the initial J.G. in gold and which was stuffed with Senegalese money. Once again, he had to admire Radnitz's thoroughness.
“It's a trick bag,” Borg said. “There's a false bottom to it. Inside, you'll find everything you want for trouble. I'll show you how it works when Charlie is through with you.”
Charlie at this moment was busily cutting Girland's thick hair to a crew cut. He then led Girland into the bathroom where he gave him a strong peroxide rinse. Girland lost count of time.
Every so often, Borg would stare at him, mutter “Sweet Pet
e!” and then return to reading the Tribune. Two and a half hours later, Charlie drew back and announced himself satisfied.
From the suitcase he now produced a heavy well cut suit, a white shirt with J.G. embroidered on the pocket, a pair of expensive looking brogue shoes and invited Girland to change.
Five minutes later, changed. Girland accepted a gold cigarette case, also bearing the initials J.G., a gold cigarette lighter, a monogrammed handkerchief, some small change in French currency, all of which he put in his various pockets. The nicest touch of all was a Diner Club ticket made out in the name of John Gilchrist which Borg handed to him with an expansive grin.
“Well, now. Mr. Gilchrist, take a look at yourself.” Borg said and waved to the big mirror at the far end of the room.
Girland approached the mirror, paused and stared. He found himself looking at a tall, blond man with a typical American crew cut, whose startled eyes regarded him with interest. Even the lines of his lean face had been altered by the use of small rubber suction pads inside his mouth. A pencil line moustache, put on hair by hair, gave him a rakish man of the world appearance and his complexion, instead of being sallow from constant late nights was now heavily sun tanned. Charlie hadn't neglected his hands either and these matched his face. The transformation was so astonishing that Girland couldn't believe he was looking at himself and it was only when he lifted his arms and moved about before the mirror that he was convinced.
Charlie quickly packed away his things, nodded approvingly at Girland, then let himself out of the room.
“Knock out, isn't he?” Borg said. “I told you, didn't I? Your own mother wouldn't know you.”
“I damn well don't know myself,” Girland said, turning away from the mirror. “But will it all last? I mean this moustache? My hair will grow dark again.”
1965 - This is for Real Page 8
