This is For Real

by James Hadley Chase

  “You mean you have her there,” Radnitz said in his cold, impersonal voice.

  “No. She got away. Girland is here.”

  A long pause, then Radnitz said in a much sharper tone. “I see. Very well, I will come,” and there was a click as he hung up.

  Thomas replaced the receiver.

  “He is coming,” he said. In an attempt to regain his authority, he went on, “Get him on the divan.”

  Neither Schwartz nor Borg moved. Schwartz sat on one of the upright chairs. Borg took out a pack of cigarettes and began to smoke.

  Thomas said shrilly. “I said get him on the divan!”

  Schwartz sneered at him.

  “You get him on the divan if you want him on the divan.”

  Girland moved, groaned and opened his eyes. He stared up at the damp stained ceiling. The three men watched him. As he began to struggle to sit up, Schwartz got to his feet and kicked him solidly in the ribs.

  The sudden shock of the kick cleared Girland’s brain. He rolled over, flung out his hand, grabbed Schwartz’s trouser cuff and jerked. Schwartz sprawled on the floor. Girland groped for him but Borg reached him and catching him by his thick hair, dragged him away from Schwartz who was struggling to his feet.

  Schwartz, his face white with rage, had his gun in his hand. Holding the gun by its barrel, he made to club Girland with the butt, but Thomas caught his arm and pulled him back.

  “He wants to talk to him,” Thomas said. “Cut it out!”

  Borg moved away from Girland who sat up and peered at Schwartz.

  “One of these days, Stone-face,” Girland said, “we’ll meet on more equal terms, then watch out.”

  Schwartz shoved Thomas away, sneered at Girland and went back to his chair.

  Girland got unsteadily to his feet, holding the back of his neck. The three men watched him as he went over to the divan and sat on it.

  Borg took a flat flask containing brandy from his hip pocket. He drank greedily, then offered the flask to Girland.

  “Have a swig,” he said. “You look like you need it.”

  Girland took the flask and let the cheap brandy trickle down his throat. He grimaced, then sighed as he screwed the cap on the flask. He handed the flask back to Borg who grinned at him.

  “As you’re giving things away,” Girland said, “I could use a cigarette.”

  Borg tossed him a pack which Girland caught. He shook out a cigarette and lit it, then he made to toss the pack back but Borg said, “You keep it.”

  Thomas watched all this. He was now beginning to become frightened of Borg. Why should Borg treat this man this way unless he was now sure that he (Thomas) was finished?

  Silence brooded over the sordid room while Girland smoked and slowly recovered from the blow on the back of his neck. From time to time, Borg took out the flask and drank. Schwartz remained motionless, his glittering eyes on Girland. Thomas got tired of leaning against the wall. He pulled a chair towards him, away from the other two and sat down.

  Minutes dragged by, then they heard the sudden sound of a door shutting. Thomas got to his feet and went to the door. He opened it and stood back as Radnitz, cigar between his fat fingers, came in.

  Radnitz wore a black cloak that hung from his square shoulders.

  The cloak was scarlet-lined and looked impressive as well as theatrical. He came into the room like a man moving into a leper’s hut.

  Thomas said in a small, tight voice, “This is Girland, sir.”

  Radnitz glanced briefly at Girland, then waved his hand to the three men.

  “Wait outside,” he said curtly.

  When they had gone and the door was closed, Radnitz took off his cloak and laid it carefully on a chair. He looked around the room, his face registering disgust, then he walked over to a green velvet covered chair and sat down.

  As if speaking to himself, he said, “A pig would be unhappy in such a sty.”

  Girland watched him.

  Radnitz went on looking around the room. Finally his small ice-cold eyes eventually came to rest on Girland.

  “I am Herman Radnitz,” he said. “You will have heard of me.” As Girland said nothing, Radnitz went on, “I have heard something about you, Mr. Girland. You are a professional agent, working for the Americans. You undertake difficult work for very little money. It seems to me you are a very small man in a dangerous job. I believe you have certain talents and some courage which are being wasted. You have little to show for the years you have been working as an agent. I repeat, Mr. Girland, you seem to be a very small man in a dangerous job.”

  Girland grinned as he continued to rub his aching neck.

  “Big trees from little acorns grow,” he said. “I’m patient. Now, I’m beginning to become a big man.”

  Radnitz touched off the long ash from his cigar. He was indifferent that the ash fell on the filthy carpet, making a tiny grey puddle.

  “You could become a big man, Mr. Girland, but on the other hand, you could become a dead man.”

  Girland took out Borg’s pack of cigarettes and lit one.

  “Could we talk business?” he said, letting smoke drift down his nostrils. “If you killed me, where would it get you? I don’t bluff easily. You and I could make a deal.”

  “I hope we can, Mr. Girland,” Radnitz said. “We either make a deal or you don’t leave this room alive.”

  “So we make a deal,” Girland said.

  Radnitz shifted his bulk in the uncomfortable chair, then he asked abruptly, “You met Madame Foucher?”

  “I met her.”

  “I told my men you were not to meet her.”

  “I was there long before they sealed off the club,” Girland lied.

  Radnitz stared at him and Girland stared back at him. Radnitz shrugged.

  “She knows where Carey is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she tell you?”

  Girland shook his head and was immediately sorry. The stabbing pain that shot through him made sweat break out on his face.

  He rubbed his neck, scowling before saying, “She wants to be paid for the information. I have a date with her tomorrow night.”

  “How much?”

  Girland said without hesitation, “Fifteen thousand dollars in cash.”

  Radnitz studied him.

  “I see, Mr. Girland, you are beginning to grow.”

  “Well, I warned you, didn’t I?”

  “So for fifteen thousand dollars, this woman will tell you where Robert Henry Carey is to be found. Am I correct?”

  “That’s it,” Girland returned. “She is to call me at a certain telephone number tomorrow night. I have to convince her I have the money, then she’ll tell me where he is.”

  “From whom will you get fifteen thousand dollars?” Radnitz asked and again touched off the ash from his cigar.

  “From Dorey. I don’t have to tell you about him, do I?”

  “I know of Dorey.” Radnitz’s face was expressionless. “It seems to me, Mr. Girland, you are working for the wrong people. I want to find Carey. Fifteen thousand dollars, you said? What do you propose to make out of that?”

  “I’ll arrange something,” Girland said, thinking that five thousand dollars profit would repay him for a bruised neck.

  “It would be better, wouldn’t it, if you put fifty thousand dollars in your pocket?”

  Girland drew in a deep breath. This was the kind of money he had often dreamed about.

  “It would be a lot better,” he said cautiously.

  “I would pay you that.”

  “I’ll be talking to this woman tomorrow night. Give me fifteen thousand dollars and I’ll be able to tell you where he is,” Girland said. “I need the fifteen for her. We’ll talk about my end when I’ve seen her.”

  Radnitz drew on his cigar. The end glowed red like a warning signal.

  “If everything were as simple as that, Mr. Girland,” he said, letting smoke drift out of his mouth as he talked, “life would have very fe
w complications. It is not enough to know where he is. I want to make sure he is wiped out. I will certainly let you have fifteen thousand dollars, but before you earn your end, you will have to convince me that you can find Carey, that you are prepared to kill him when you find him and that you will bring back with you all the papers he took from Russia.”

  Girland again rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Suppose I talk to this woman first, then we can develop this thing,” he said finally.

  Radnitz crossed one short, fat leg over the other. He regarded Girland.

  “Mr. Girland, you have been an agent for the past five years,” he said. “You have been content to pick up a hundred dollars here and there. You are now in a position where you can make a great deal of money, but I suspect your mind is so small, you don’t really understand the meaning of fifty thousand dollars. You could be planning to cheat me. You could be planning to put this fifteen thousand dollars in your pocket and try to disappear from Paris. But I do assure you if you are thinking along those lines, it would be most unwise. You wouldn’t survive for very long.”

  Girland stared steadily at Radnitz.

  “I’ll meet this woman, give her the money and tell you what she says,” he said quietly. “It’s up to you whether you trust me or not.”

  “I never trust anyone,” Radnitz said. “But when I want something, I make arrangements to see I get it. I want to find Carey, I think you can find him for me. I think once you find him, you’re the right man to kill him. I will pay you fifty thousand dollars to do this. Will you accept such an assignment?”

  Girland thought of Robert Henry Carey. No one could ever offer him enough money, no matter how big the sum, to bribe him to take a life, least of all Carey’s life. But Girland also thought of owning fifty thousand dollars. He had a lot of confidence in himself. This fat, squat man could be out-smarted. He decided he would go along with him. After all, he had time and the room in which to manoeuvre.

  “It’s a deal,” he said. “There’s not much I wouldn’t do for money like that.”

  Radnitz looked around the room as if thinking, then he asked, “You are quite sure about this, Mr. Girland?”

  Girland caught the note of menace in Radnitz’s voice.

  “I’m sure,” he said.

  “You must be careful not to allow your previous small-minded methods to tempt you into cheating,” Radnitz said with deceptive mildness. “I know quite a lot about you, Mr. Girland. Once you commit yourself to me, you stay committed.”

  “I said it was a deal, and it is a deal,” Girland said.

  Radnitz nodded and got to his feet.

  “The money will be delivered to you at your apartment tomorrow afternoon. You will contact this woman and find out Where Carey is hiding. You will then come to the George V Hotel and tell me where he is. We will then decide the best method of getting rid of him.”

  “I’ll do that,” Girland said.

  Radnitz swung his cloak over his shoulders and walked to the door.

  “Then sometime tomorrow evening, Mr. Girland, at the George V Hotel. You are committed.” He paused to stare at Girland. “I do assure you that you won’t live very long if you have a change of mind.”

  He left the room. Propelled by a sudden draught, the door gently swung shut.

  John Dorey walked down the steps leading from the American Embassy, slightly hunching his shoulders against the cool wind. He nodded to the guard at the gates who saluted him, then he crossed to where his Peugeot 404 was parked, again nodding to the gendarme who was patrolling around the block of parked cars and who, on recognising him, also saluted.

  Dorey unlocked the car door, slid under the driving wheel and put on the side lights. He looked at his modest silver Omega he had bought some years ago in Geneva. The time was twenty minutes to ten.

  It was his habit to work late. While he had been working he had eaten a sandwich and drunk a glass of milk, brought to him by one of the messengers. It was also his habit to eat this kind of supper before returning to his apartment. He lived alone. It was so long since he had divorced his wife, he never even thought of her. He preferred living alone.

  John Dorey had worked in the American Embassy in Paris for thirty-eight years. He had had a variety of jobs and had finally ended up as Head of the French Division of the Central Intelligence Agency. He had become engrossed in this particular work, and for some years he had run the division successfully. But now, at the back of his mind, was the constant and dreaded thought that he would be retired in another three years’ time. It had come as a considerable shock when Washington had sent Thorton Warley to Paris to take over the division two months ago. They had said that Dorey was to carry on with his own agents and with his own contacts, but that Warley was to supervise and reorganise the division.

  Although Dorey would admit it to no one but himself, he was convinced that Washington had become dissatisfied with his work and had put Warley over him to find some excuse to get rid of him before his three years were up. Dorey had told himself often enough that it would be through no fault of his own if Warley succeeded.

  It was true what Rossland had said. Anything that looked promising that arrived through the mail or over the telephone, Dorey kept to himself. He was now living in hopes that he would pull off something so big that Washington would relent and not only remove Warley but extend his three years to even five.

  Thinking about Warley, Dorey drove across Pont de la Concorde, edged his way into the rush of traffic that roared along the Quai d’Orsay and finally reached Avenue Bosquet. In one of the small side streets off the avenue, he had his apartment. He spent five or six minutes of irritating frustration, trying to find parking space for his car. Finally, he had to leave the car at the far end of the road and then walk back. Although this happened every night, it never failed to anger him.

  As he entered the lobby of the building, the concierge who he tipped regularly and well, nodded and smiled at him through her window. He nodded back and got in the lift that took him to the fourth floor.

  He entered his apartment and closed the door. Taking off his light overcoat, he hung it in the hall closet, then walked into his large, well-furnished living-room, clicking on the lights as he did so.

  He crossed to the desk and sat down, took keys from his pocket and unlocked a drawer. Just as he was about to take from the drawer a thick file of papers, the telephone bell rang.

  He frowned, hesitated, then lifted the receiver.

  “John?” A woman’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Janine. I wanted to be sure you were back. I am coming over in half an hour.”

  “Certainly,” Dorey said and hung up.

  He sat for some minutes staring down at the snowy white blotter on his desk, then he closed and locked the desk drawer. He got up and walked over to one of the big easy chairs. His thin bird-like face was thoughtful. His eyes, behind the glittering lenses of his spectacles were a little uneasy. He picked up a copy of the New Yorker that was lying on an occasional table and began to flick through it. He was flicking through it for the fourth time without having registered any of its contents when the front doorbell rang.

  He looked carefully through the spy-hole before opening the door.

  Janine Daulnay moved quickly past him into the hall. Dorey closed the door as she turned, pulling off her gloves, to give him a faint impersonal smile. She was a woman between thirty and thirty-five years of age: trim, medium height, dark and wearing an expensive mink coat. She had big, dark eyes: their mocking expression gave her a sophistication that most men found irresistible, but not Dorey. Long ago, he had decided that women were not only dangerous, but a nuisance. He disliked dealing with them, although he accepted the fact they were necessary.

  “Come in and sit down,” he said, leading the way into the living-room. “I have still a lot of work to do. I’m afraid you can’t stay long. What is it?”

  She took off her coat, dropped it on a chair, then fol
lowed him into the living-room. As she sat down, she gave the hem of her Dior dress a little tug to hide her beautiful knees.

  “Have you given Harry Rossland a job?” she asked.

  This unexpected question so startled Dorey that for a split second his usual poker face expression slipped.

  Janine noted the slip as she noted every change in any man’s expression.

  “Why do you ask?” Dorey said carefully.

  “Look, John. I either work with you or I don’t,” Janine said quietly. “I’m asking you a simple question: is Rossland working for you tonight?”

  Dorey regarded this immaculate, cold-faced woman and he remembered various things she had done for him in the past. He wished now he had consulted her before he had talked to Rossland.

  “He is working for me tonight,” he said.

  “Something important?”

  “Could be. I don’t know yet.”

  She opened an expensive handbag, took out a gold cigarette case, removed a cigarette and lit it with a gold lighter.

  “Do you want to tell me about it, John?”

  Dorey hesitated.

  “What is all this? It is really nothing to do with you, Janine.”

  She let smoke drift down her small nostrils and she smiled.

  “All right. If that’s the way you want to play it.” She smoothed down her skirt. “Then I’ll go and let you get on with your work.”

  As she made no move, Dorey said, “You know I rely on you, Janine. You know something, don’t you? What is it?”

  She sighed and flicked ash onto the Persian carpet.

  “All right. It was mere chance. I saw Harry Rossland tonight. He was being followed by a youngish man with a beard. Ahead of him was another man. Harry caught on to the bearded man, but not to the front tail. He lost the bearded man in the Métro. I didn’t think it was all that important so I let him go. Then I remembered seeing the bearded man before.” She paused, then went on, “He works for Herman Radnitz.”

  Dorey sat forward.

  “You’re sure?”

  She made an impatient gesture.

  “You should know by now, John: I’m always sure.”

  “Well?”

  “I wondered, knowing Rossland worked for you. I had a date, but I passed it up. I went to the George V Hotel. Radnitz was in the bar, waiting. The bearded young man appeared, talked with Radnitz, then left. He returned after five minutes and made a telephone call. I was, by then curious, so I called Harry’s apartment. There’s no answer. So I called you and here I am.”