This is For Real

by James Hadley Chase

  Girland grimaced. Women were meant to be glamorous, he thought, but they were only so long as they didn’t get boils, spots and the many other things they seemed cursed with.

  The man in the green smoking jacket stood waiting, holding open the door. Girland followed him. The door swung shut and the strident noise from the club room faded to a murmur.

  They were now in a narrow corridor. Either side were doors.

  The man pointed to the far end of the corridor.

  “Madame Foucher is in room six, monsieur,” he said, then moving around Girland, he opened the door, letting in the violent sound of people clapping and the final roll from the drums. He shut the door behind him and the welcome hush made Girland sigh with relief.

  He walked down the corridor to room number six. He eased the .45 automatic from its holster and tapped on the door.

  No one told him to come in.

  He tapped again. Still hearing nothing, he opened the door and looked into a square-shaped room. Facing him was a wide, ceiling high mirror. In the middle of the room stood a double divan bed. The room was well carpeted and comfortable, it was also empty.

  Satisfied he was alone, he returned the gun to its holster.

  A woman’s voice said, “Sit down, please, on the bed and face the mirror.” Her voice, with an accent that puzzled Girland, was slightly distorted. He quickly realised that she was talking through a microphone.

  Then he got it and grinned. Madame Foucher had chosen their meeting place to her advantage. He was in one of those rooms where girls took drunken suckers to go through with them sexual manoeuvres while paying customers watched through this big trick mirror. The side Madame Foucher was on was like a window. The side he was on was a mirror.

  He sat on the bed facing the mirror, thinking he wasn’t as young looking as he imagined himself to be.

  “Who are you?” the woman’s voice asked and Girland had the feeling, although he couldn’t see her, she was examining him with disturbing intensity.

  “Do you have to be so mysterious?” he asked.

  “Who are you?” she repeated.

  Girland shrugged. This situation began to bore him.

  “My name’s Mark Girland. You called Dorey who called Rossland who I work for. Rossland has dropped this in my lap. I’m a sucker who does dirty work for dirty people. Is that the kind of information you want?”

  There was a pause. Girland had the disconcerting feeling, as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, he was talking to himself.

  “Well, go on,” the woman said, her voice impatient.

  “Go on? What about? What’s your proposition? I’m here to listen … not to talk. You started this thing.”

  “How do I know you are from Dorey?”

  “Why else should I be here?” Girland said. “I was told you have something to sell. I was told to find out exactly what it is and how much you want for it. You take it from here.”

  “Who is this man Rossland you speak about?”

  Girland rubbed the side of his jaw. He was getting used to examining his lean features in the mirror.

  “You don’t have to worry about him. He’s dead. The last time I saw him, he was lying on his bed with the nails of his right hand torn off and he was very much strangled.”

  He caught the sound of a swift intake of breath over the microphone.

  “Dead? You mean he’s been murdered?” The woman’s voice went a little shrill.

  “He was strangled,” Girland said. “So that makes it murder.”

  “Who - who did it?”

  “Why should you care?” Girland leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring fixedly at his reflection, knowing he was staring at this woman hidden from his sight. “Rossland thought you were a joke. Dorey thinks you are a joke, but I didn’t, so I’m alive at the moment. I think you’ve talked too much. We have competition. You should know who the competitors are. You must have talked to them. I’ll tell you this in case you don’t know: they play it very rough. They tortured and murdered Rossland. Knowing Rossland the way I do, he spilled everything he knew. He has told them we are meeting here. I came in by the roof. If they get their hands on you, they’ll treat you as they treated Rossland. If they start pulling your nails out, I doubt if you will be any braver than Rossland. You’ll talk, and then you’ll have nothing to sell.”

  There was a long pause, then she said, “I don’t understand any of this. I’ve only contacted Mr. Dorey.”

  Girland shrugged.

  “Well, okay, if you say so, then someone else has talked. That makes the price less exclusive. So, suppose we get down to business? What is it you have to sell?”

  Again a long pause, then the woman said, “I know where Robert Henry Carey is.”

  Girland cocked his head on one side, his eyes alert.

  “You mean the American Agent who went over to the Russians four years ago?”

  “That’s who I mean.”

  “He’s in Russia, isn’t he?”

  “He left Russia ten days ago.”

  “Where is he now then?”

  “That’s the information I have to sell.”

  Girland took out a cigarette and lit it. He remembered Robert Carey, a tall, blond man who Rossland had once said was the finest agent in the racket. Girland had met him with Rossland and the two men had liked each other. That had been five years ago, but Girland still remembered the man’s pleasant, strong face and the straight blue eyes that gave his face its personality. There had been a hell of an uproar when Carey had defected. It was generally believed he was now being used as an instructor, coaching learner agents who would eventually work in the West. Now and then news filtered through from behind the Iron Curtain that hinted of a very efficient school for agents that had been recently formed, but no one knew nor could find out where the school was situated nor who was in charge, but it was thought to be Carey.

  “You mean he’s defected again?” Girland asked, leaning forward.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, fine. Then why doesn’t he just walk in and say so?”

  “He knows too much. He wouldn’t be allowed to get near the West.” She paused, then went on. “He’s ill. He hasn’t long to live.”

  “So what happens?”

  “I can tell you where to find him and you go to him. I want ten thousand dollars. He said you would give me that amount if I helped him.”

  “What do you mean … he knows too much?”

  “He had access to certain files. He has them with him. He says they are important to the security of America,” the woman said.

  Girland got the idea that she was repeating a lesson carefully learned. Again he was puzzled by her French. She had an accent he hadn’t heard before.

  “My people aren’t likely to part with any money on a claim like that,” Girland said, alert and intrigued. “What else has he got?”

  “During the years he was in Russia, he reorganised much of the Soviet spy system. He has all that information.”

  “That’s a little better.” Girland thought for a moment. “Well, I’ll talk to Dorey. He might not be interested. Double Agents can be unreliable.”

  “I’m in a hurry,” the woman said. There was an edge of panic in her voice. “I’ll call Mr. Dorey tomorrow night. He must say either yes or no. There are other people who would be interested.”

  “Don’t do that,” Girland said hurriedly. “We now have competitors. If you haven’t talked, then someone else has, so there could be a leak in Dorey’s office. You telephone me. That’ll be safer. I’ll be waiting on Jasmin 00051 at seven o’clock tomorrow evening. Will you do that?”

  “Will you have the money with you?”

  “If Dorey wants to play, I’ll have it.”

  “Then I will telephone you.”

  “Just a minute,” Girland said. “Is Carey in Paris?”

  “Good night,” the woman said and he heard the sound of a door gently closing beyond the mirror.

&
nbsp; Girland lit a cigarette. He wondered if he could persuade Dorey to let him handle this. He was pretty sure Dorey wouldn’t. He was also pretty sure Dorey would be willing to pay much higher than ten thousand dollars to have Robert Henry Carey in his office and talking.

  This wanted thinking about, Girland said to himself. There could be some nice money in it for him if he played it carefully. It was time he made some nice money out of the American Government.

  He was still thinking, trying to find an angle when a faint sound behind him made him look up and into the big mirror.

  Reflected in the mirror was Thomas, gun in hand, and behind him, mask-like, dark and tall was Schwartz.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The two men moved like shadows into the room and closed the door.

  Girland’s right hand itched to fly to his gun, but his position was hopeless. He had his back to these two and he saw the silencer screwed to Thomas’s gun. He remained motionless, feeling a chill crawl up his spine as he realised these must be the two who had tortured and murdered Rossland.

  “Where is she?” Thomas asked. His voice was husky, and looking at him in the mirror, Girland saw his sallow face was shining with sweat.

  Thomas was so frightened he could scarcely keep his voice steady. He had failed! Radnitz had said that Girland must not talk to this woman. Through his own stupidity, somehow Girland had got into the club and had talked to her! This was the first time he had failed to carry out an order from Radnitz.

  Girland thought quickly. He had a feeling he was within seconds of death.

  “She’s gone,” he said, not moving. “She’s been gone a good ten minutes.”

  Thomas turned his head for a brief moment to look at Schwartz.

  “I’ll kill him. See if you can stop her.”

  Girland said quickly, “Do you know what she looks like? I don’t. We talked through that trick mirror. And why kill me? We could do a deal.”

  He was relieved to see Schwartz was still leaning against the door, showing no intention of moving.

  “Find her!” Thomas snarled and raised the gun so the sight was aiming at Girland’s head.

  So this is it, Girland thought and suddenly he was afraid to die. Instinctively he lifted his shoulders and crouched forward in a hopeless attempt to evade the bullet. He stared into the mirror at the gun, then he saw Schwartz move forward with the speed of a striking snake and knock Thomas’s gun arm down.

  There was a faint plop as the gun went off and Girland saw a sudden small hole in the carpet at his feet.

  If he hadn’t been afraid to die, he thought afterwards, he could have spun around, got his gun out and have killed those two, but fear had paralysed him and in those necessary split seconds before he could recover, he saw Schwartz was covering them both with a gun. There was that cold professional look in Schwartz’s eyes that warned him this man was far more dangerous than the bearded boy.

  Thomas felt Schwartz’s cold, damp hand clamp over his and wrench his gun away. He turned, panting, to stare at Schwartz who was looking at Girland.

  There was a long pause. Girland was careful not to move. Thomas backed away from Schwartz.

  “You’ll be sorry for this!” he exclaimed shrilly. “I’ll tell him! He said we were to get rid of Girland! You …”

  “There’s a phone over there,” Schwartz interrupted. “Call him. Tell him what’s happened.”

  “I don’t have to! He’s left this to me! I don’t have to tell him anything!” Thomas said, trying to keep his voice down. “It’ll be you who’ll suffer! You fool! Don’t you see we have made a mistake? If we kill him now, no one will know! Kill him!”

  Girland listened to all this with cold sweat running down his ribs.

  “You made the mistake,” Schwartz said. “Your first mistake. Go on, tell him, or it’ll be you who’ll get killed.”

  Thomas backed against the wall, his face livid.

  Girland watched in the mirror, aware that if he made the slightest move, this tall, dangerous looking man would shoot him.

  “Go on!” Schwartz repeated. “Tell him his white-headed boy has made his first mistake.”

  There was a further pause, then Thomas moved to the telephone that stood on a table close to Girland. As he reached for the receiver, Girland said, “That’s through the club switchboard. It’s your business, but the girl is certain to listen in.”

  He was aware that Schwartz was staring at him. Thomas turned slowly and also stared at him.

  “Do you have to act so tough?” Girland went on. “I’m ready to do a deal. Not with you two, but with your boss. This set-up could mean money to me. I need money. I can tell your boss how I got in here and I’ll keep you both in the clear. Let’s work together on this thing.”

  Thomas began to relax a little. He looked at Schwartz. Watching them, Girland saw he was nearly home, but not quite.

  “You guys are in the same racket as I am,” he said. “Okay, so let’s work together. I’ll go with you to where you can telephone. No fuss … no trouble. All I want you to do is to call your boss and tell him I want to make a deal with him. I have a date with this woman tomorrow, but she won’t meet anyone but me. Tell him that.”

  Still they remained motionless, staring at him.

  “My gun’s in a holster,” Girland said. “Take it.” That, at last, got some action. Thomas moved cautiously up to him. Girland sat as still as a stone man while Thomas found the gun and jerked it free from its holster. Then raising his hands and clasping them on top of his head, Girland slowly stood up. Thomas’s hands ran over him, making sure he had no other weapon, then he stood away.

  Thomas looked at Schwartz who nodded.

  “Let’s go then,” Schwartz said. To Girland he went on, “This gun is silenced. You start something and you’re dead.”

  “Don’t be so unfriendly,” Girland said, lowering his hands. “I tell you, I want to make a deal.”

  He walked to the door, opened it and stepped out into the corridor.

  The two men, Schwartz in front, Thomas behind, followed him closely. Girland could almost feel the barrel of the concealed gun grinding into his spine.

  Opening the end door, the blare of the dance band made him wince. He moved into the dimly lit, smoke laden cellar. The small stage was spot lit. There was a young redhead, naked, standing in a small bathtub with an enormous sponge in her hand. She was hiding parts of her body with the sponge while water from a shower trickled over her.

  The tourists, crammed together at the tiny tables like well-arranged sardines, were leering at her.

  Even so close to death, Girland had to pause to look at the girl. A rough shove, just when he was thinking she had a nice shape, sent him forward and he walked on, out into the lobby.

  The doorman grinned at him.

  “I hope you enjoyed yourself, monsieur,” he said.

  Girland smiled crookedly.

  “You bet,” he said, then urged on by Schwartz, he left the club and climbed the stairs.

  “Wait,” Schwartz said when they reached the lobby.

  Thomas moved around them and walked into the street. After a short delay, Schwartz urged Girland forward again. They moved into the crowded Boulevard to where the black Citroen was double parked. The drivers of cars behind the Citroen began to sound their horns. Girland quickly slid into the back seat. Schwartz joined him. Thomas was already in the front seat and a bewildered Borg sat behind the driving wheel.

  Girland said, “There’s an automatic telephone at the café at the far end of this street.”

  Schwartz turned swiftly and before Girland could avoid it, he received a crushing blow against his jaw. As he lurched forward, Schwartz hit him on the back of his neck with the barrel of his gun.

  “All right,” Schwartz said, “now back to my place. He won’t make trouble.”

  “What the hell’s all this about?” Borg demanded as he wrestled the Citroen into the heavy traffic.

  “Shut your mouth!” Thomas snarle
d.

  Borg gave him a startled glance, then concentrated on his driving.

  Thomas, huddled in his seat, stared through the windshield. For a long time he had had an instinctive suspicion that Schwartz hated him: now it was out in the open. From now on, he would have to be very careful. He thought of Radnitz and his mouth turned dry. What would happen to him when Radnitz learned he had let Girland and this woman meet and talk?

  Borg swung the Citroen down a narrow cul-de-sac. Schwartz had three rooms in the basement below a bread and cake shop. It was a convenient place. After eight o’clock the shop and the cul-de-sac were deserted.

  He and Schwartz dragged Girland’s unconscious body from the car and down the narrow stairs that led to Schwartz’s rooms. They dropped him on the floor while Schwartz unlocked the door and turned on the light, then they dragged him into the big, sparsely furnished room. Thomas, following, closed and locked the door.

  This was the first time Borg had been to Schwartz’s place. He looked around curiously.

  What a hole! he thought and wrinkled his fat nose. The walls had damp stains. There was one filthy, threadbare rug on the floor. Against one of the walls was a divan bed: the sheets and pillow case were grey. There were four upright chairs covered in pale green, frayed velvet. A cigarette scarred table stood in the centre of the room. A naked electric light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a harsh light over the room’s sordidness.

  Leaving Girland lying by the table, Schwartz crossed the room to the telephone that stood on a dusty shelf near the bed. He dialled a number, then waited while Thomas and Borg watched him.

  “Mr. Radnitz,” Schwartz said when he got his connection.

  Thomas felt his stomach contract as Schwartz offered him the receiver.

  “Go ahead and talk to him,” Schwartz said.

  Thomas took the receiver the way a snake-hater touches a snake.

  There was a short wait, then Radnitz said, “Yes?”

  “This is Thomas, sir. The operation did not go according to plan,” Thomas said huskily. “We have him at Schwatz’s place. He and she have talked.”

  He waited, feeling sick. Sweat beads ran down the fringe of his beard.