This is For Real

by James Hadley Chase

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Dorey. We’re now ready for her. She can’t get out. We’ve sewn up the airports, the trains, and the ships. We may take time to find her, but if she tries to leave, we’ll have her.”

  Dorey thought bitterly, She’ll probably be dead by then. “Okay, Captain, do your best. This is urgent.”

  “We’ll keep working on it,” O’Halloran said and hung up.

  Janine looked inquiringly at Dorey who shrugged.

  “You’re right: we’re too late. They can’t hope to trace her within five days.” He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “What has a woman from Senegal got to sell that’s important enough for Radnitz to have a man killed?”

  “Why don’t you send one of your men to Rossland’s place and search it? He might have kept records of his men,” Janine said. “We should have looked ourselves.”

  “If someone had walked in on us, we would have been in a hell of a mess,” Dorey said. He thought for a moment, then reached for the telephone. “Jack Kerman could do it.” He dialled, then waited. A sleepy voice demanded who was calling. Dorey quickly explained what he wanted done. “This is top priority, Kerman. I must have a list of Rossland’s operators. Go over there and take the place to pieces.”

  The man at the other end of the line was alert now.

  “Can do … will do,” and he hung up.

  Dorey nodded to Janine.

  “He might find something.”

  “We’re late starters,” Janine said. “This man of Rossland’s could be dead by now.”

  Dorey said, “I’ll put two men to watch Radnitz’s hotel. If they spot this youth with a beard, we’ll pick him up and we’ll talk to him the way they talked to Rossland.”

  Janine got stiffly to her feet.

  “Now you’re getting into gear, John. I’m going home. I need my beauty sleep.”

  Dorey hesitated, then he waved to a door.

  “You can use my spare room. Go ahead. Save yourself a journey.”

  Janine smiled as she shook her head.

  “I like sleeping in my own bed: even if I don’t always sleep in it alone. I like my own night clothes and my own toothbrush. Good night.”

  “If I have any news, I’ll call you,” Dorey said, not getting up. He was reaching for the telephone.

  “But not before ten unless it is urgent,” Janine returned and put on her mink coat.

  “I won’t call you at all unless it’s urgent,” Dorey said and dialling, he began to talk into the mouthpiece.

  Janine let herself out of the apartment and rode down in the lift to where her car was parked.

  A little after eleven o’clock the following morning, Girland was frying eggs and bacon and grimacing with pain every time he moved his head when someone rapped on his front door.

  He cursed under his breath, lowered the flame of the gas, then patting his hip pocket to make sure he was carrying his gun, he walked softly over to the door and peered through the spy hole.

  Borg, wearing a leather hat and a leather coat, stood just by the head of the stairs, waiting.

  Girland opened the door.

  “There you are, palsy,” Borg said, his thick lips moving into a friendly grin. “How’s the neck?”

  “Like hell,” Girland said, moving aside to let Borg come in. He noted Borg was carrying a black leather briefcase.

  “I’ll fix that,” Borg said, sniffed and lifted his scanty eyebrows. “Hmm … smells good!”

  “Want some? There’s plenty,” Girland said, shutting the door.

  “Not for me. I’ve had mine.” Borg slapped his paunch. “I gotta watch this: like twins: grows all the time, but don’t let me stop you.”

  “You won’t,” Girland said and going back to the stove, he expertly dished up the bacon and eggs and carried the meal over to the table.

  Borg looked around.

  “Nice nest you have here: except for those goddamn stairs.”

  “Coffee?” Girland asked, pouring a cup for himself.

  “Always ready for coffee,” Borg took off his hat and coat and sat down opposite Girland. He helped himself to black coffee without sugar, lit a cigarette and watched Girland as he began to wolf down his meal.

  Neither of the men said anything until Girland had finished. Then with a sigh of satisfaction, Girland carried the plate to the sink. He lit a cigarette and came back to the table and sat down.

  “You remember Kid Hogan?” Borg asked. “The best lightweight for years? I bet you do. At one time I used to be his trainer. He went on the skids after he lost the world title. That put me on the skids too. What I mean is if that neck of yours is bothering you, I can fix it.”

  “Go ahead and fix it,” Girland said and finished his coffee.

  Borg took a small white pot from his pocket.

  “Get on the bed. This is bear’s grease. Stinks a bit, but it fixes anything.’’

  Ten minutes later, Girland sat up, moved his head cautiously, then more violently and jumped to his feet.

  “You’ve fixed it!”

  Borg grinned happily and went over to the toilet basin to wash his hands.

  “I told you: it fixes anything.” Then he looked over at the briefcase lying on the bed. “Got the money for you,” he went on. “The boss gave it to me for you this morning.”

  Girland crossed over to the briefcase, but Borg, still grinning, blocked him off.

  “Hold it, palsy,” he said. “There are strings to this dough. There are seven thousand bucks in there. You have to be sure she knows where this guy Carey is before you give her the rest. Understand?”

  Girland thought about this. It was fair, he decided. This woman could be leading them on.

  “That’s okay,” he said, opened the briefcase and counted the money. Satisfied it was in order, he put it back in the case and snapped the fastening shut.

  “I’m glad you have joined our mob,” Borg said, helping himself to more coffee. “It’s been run too long by that spineless wonder, Thomas. Okay, he’s smart, and he’s done a couple of jobs that made an impression, but if there’s one thing that drives me nuts it’s being bossed around by a kid.”

  “Stone-face seems a little dangerous,” Girland said, also pouring more coffee. “Has he been with your outfit long?”

  “Too long,” Borg grimaced. “He’s an animal, but he serves his purpose. We have to have one toughie and he’s just that. The things that guy has done makes me puke to think about. Radnitz pays well, but look at the way that guy lives … worse than a hog.”

  “What does Radnitz want men like you for?” Girland asked casually. “Just what do you do for him?”

  “Oh, jobs,” Borg said vaguely, finished his coffee and stood up. “I have to run along. I have a date with a blonde who works nights and sleeps days. Don’t lose that money. So long,” and he was gone.

  Girland locked the door after him, then went back to the briefcase, opened it and spread the money out onto his bed. He had never seen so much money in one lot, but beside what fifty thousand dollars would look like, this was chick-feed.

  He stared at the money for some time, then once more counted it. He put aside five thousand dollars and put two thousand in the briefcase. He decided he would give Madame Foucher two thousand dollars and put the rest in his bank. When she had told him where Carey was, he would get the rest of the money from Radnitz and give it to her: this way, he would be sure of keeping his own profit.

  He lit a cigarette and considered the situation.

  He had a slight feeling of guilt. Rossland had given him an assignment and had paid him to do it. Girland knew the money had come from Dorey. If Radnitz hadn’t appeared on the scene with his offer of fifty thousand dollars, Girland would have, by now, contacted Dorey.

  He moved uneasily. Then he thought of how he had nearly lost his life crossing the roofs to the cellar club, how Schwartz had nearly broken his neck and he thought of Dorey’s mean payment.

  Radnitz is right, he thought. I’m a small man
in a badly paid job. This is my big chance. I’d be a dope not to go along with Radnitz. Somehow I have to get fifty thousand dollars out of him and still let Carey live and keep alive myself. Now, how do I do that? Then he remembered what Madame Foucher had said about Carey being ill and wouldn’t live long. It would be lucky for me if Carey conveniently dies after I’ve talked to him. Then I would be in a sweet position. But why is Radnitz so anxious to get rid of Carey? He frowned, then shrugged. That’s not my affair. I’ve worked for Dorey for years for peanuts. Now, I’m heading for the big money.

  He discovered to his irritation that he had still a feeling of guilt. Until now, he hadn’t realised what a grip Rossland had had on his life. He knew he should contact Dorey, but he also knew he wasn’t going to.

  While Girland was eating his breakfast, watched by Borg. Dorey sat at his desk in the Embassy, talking on the telephone to Jack Kerman.

  “No luck,” Kerman said. “I really took that apartment to pieces, but he didn’t keep his records there … if he kept any records at all.”

  Dorey made an exasperated movement with his hand.

  “All right, Jack, thanks. Forget it.”

  “Look, Mr. Dorey, Rossland is getting a little high. Shouldn’t we do something about it?”

  “Yes, of course. Call the nearest police station from a café and report a dead man in Rossland’s apartment. Get away quickly.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Dorey,” Kerman said and hung up.

  Dorey rubbed his tired eyes, then looked distastefully at the pile of files in his In tray. He kept asking himself what this Senegalese woman had to sell that was big enough for Rossland to be murdered. As he reached for a file, the telephone bell rang.

  It was Captain O’Halloran calling.

  “Could be we have a little luck, Mr. Dorey,” he said, his cop voice bouncing against Dorey’s ear-drum. “A Senegalese woman answering the description you gave me was on board a cargo Motor Vessel that berthed at Antwerp three days ago. I’ve talked to the ship’s captain. He knows nothing about her. She remained in her cabin for the length of the trip. According to him, she was a bad sailor and they certainly hit bad seas. I’ve sent a telex to Dakar and our man there checked the address on her Embarkation card. No such place exists. She could have rented a car and driven to Paris. I’m checking.”

  Dorey was very alert now.

  “Check the Belgium and French frontier police to see if they remember her,” he said. “You instructed Dakar really to dig for information about her? If her passport is in order …”

  O’Halloran said, a slightly bored note in his voice, “All that’s being looked after. She could have been travelling on a faked passport. I have the French police working on this: they’re checking the Paris hotels. This can’t be wrapped up in five hours, Mr. Dorey. I said five days. Anyway, at least we are making progress. I’ll be willing to bet this Rosa Arbeau is the woman you want.”

  “Good work. Captain,” Dorey said. “Keep at it,” and he hung up.

  He sat for some minutes thinking, then glanced at his watch. The time was twenty to twelve. He called Janine. After a little delay, she answered and her voice sounded cross.

  When she learned it was Dorey calling, she said, “I was in my bath, John. What is it now?”

  “Have lunch with me at one o’clock,” Dorey said. “We seem to be making a little progress. Shall we say Lasserre?”

  “All right,” Janine said and broke the connection.

  At ten minutes to seven, Girland, carrying the briefcase under his arm, walked into a noisy café off Avenue Mozart. He went up to the bar and shook hands with the barman.

  “I’m expecting a telephone call at seven, Jean,” he said. “I’ll be over there in a corner.”

  Jean, grey-haired, big, his face cheerful, winked.

  “A woman, of course.”

  Girland grinned.

  “What else? A monkey?” He ordered a Scotch on the rocks then carried his drink to a corner table and sat down.

  He glanced at his watch, a movement that revealed his impatience, then drank some of the whisky.

  At exactly seven o’clock, he saw Jean waving to him. He hadn’t heard the telephone bell above the uproar of voices in the café.

  He went quickly to the end of the bar and picked up the receiver.

  “This is Girland,” he said.

  “Is it yes or no?” He recognised Madame Foucher’s voice. “The answer is yes.”

  He heard her draw in a quick, sharp breath.

  “You have the money with you?”

  “I have some of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll get the rest when you’ve shown me where he is.” “How much are you giving me now?”

  “Two thousand.”

  There was a long pause and Girland wondered, suddenly uneasy, if he had been too generous to himself.

  “Very well,” she said finally. “I will be in the first-class waiting-room, St. Lazare station at half past eight.” And she hung up.

  Girland replaced the receiver, waved to the barman, then went through to the restaurant. He ordered an Entrecôte with fried potatoes, a green salad and a carafe of Beaujolais.

  Just after eight o’clock, he settled his bill and went out into the crowded street. He had some trouble in finding a taxi, and when the taxi finally pulled up outside the station, the time was one minute after eight-thirty.

  He walked briskly to the first-class waiting-room and paused for a moment to peer through the glass doors.

  A woman and a small child were sitting on one of the benches: further along, an elderly man, nursing an untidy brown paper parcel, was dozing. On the opposite side of the room, sitting in a corner, was a handsome coloured woman, dressed in a black coat and skirt. Her long slim legs were crossed and her hands were folded in her lap. She had the stillness and the unreality of an ebony statue.

  Girland pushed open the door and walked into the room. A train crawled to a halt at the platform beyond the waiting-room. The woman with the child took the child’s hand and hurried out.

  Girland hesitated, then as he was about to sit down, the coloured woman gave him a slight nod and signed for him to sit by her side.

  Girland was startled. The last person he was expecting to deal with was an African. He went over and sat down.

  “Madame Foucher?” he asked, aware of the sensual attractiveness of the woman.

  “Yes.” He saw her large liquid black eyes look intently at the briefcase he was carrying. “You have the money?”

  “Two thousand dollars in cash.”

  “May I see?”

  Girland glanced across the room at the old man who was still dozing, then he unzipped the case and handed it to her. She peered at the contents.

  “You are sure there are two thousand dollars in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I must have more.”

  “You will, later.”

  She hesitated, then zipped up the case and put it on the bench on her far side.

  “Well? Where is he?” Girland asked.

  “Diourbel, some miles from Dakar.”

  Girland stared at her.

  “You mean he’s not in Paris?”

  “I never said he was in Paris. He’s in the bush outside Diourbel, where no one can possibly find him.”

  Girland’s mouth hardened.

  “Suppose he’s not there? Suppose this is a gag to pick up some easy money?”

  “I will take you to him.”

  Girland rubbed the side of his jaw, frowning.

  “Well, all right. Now about you. Who are you and how did you get mixed up in this?”

  “I work in a nightclub in Dakar. I …”

  “Don’t rush it. What’s the name of the nightclub?”

  “The Florida. It is the best nightclub there.”

  “Well, go on.”

  “A client of mine … he often comes to the club … asked me if I would like to make ten thousand dolla
rs.”

  “What is his name?”

  “I don’t know. I call him Enrico. He is a Portuguese.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “He is heavily built with a moustache. He wears a very large gold signet ring on his left little finger. He dresses well and he pays very well.”

  “Go on.”

  “He said I was to go to Paris and I was to telephone Mr. Dorey about a certain man. He said Mr. Dorey would give me ten thousand dollars.”

  “So you haven’t actually seen Robert Henry Carey?”

  “Yes, I have seen him. When Enrico said he would pay all my expenses, I didn’t see what I had to lose. So I said I would go. He took me out into the bush where I met this man.” She opened her handbag and took from it a quarter plate sized photograph which she offered to Girland.

  He studied the photograph. It was a close-up shot of Carey and Madame Foucher. He recognised Carey although he looked much older and thinner than when Girland had last seen him. It was unmistakably Carey. The photograph had been taken from a low view point and only the sky showed as the background.

  “May I keep this?”

  “Yes.”

  Girland put the photo in his wallet. At least, he thought, that should convince Radnitz. “You talked to Carey?” “Yes. He told me what I told you last night.”

  “Last night, you said he was ill.”

  “Yes, he is ill.”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  She lifted her shoulders.

  “I don’t know … something bad. I have seen men look like that before. I don’t think he will live very long.”

  “Enrico was there when you two met?”

  “Of course. He took the photograph because he said it would be convincing proof that I had met Carey.”

  “Did he and Carey seem friendly?”

  “I suppose so. We didn’t stay long. Enrico said I was to go by ship. He booked a cabin on a cargo vessel for me and I left three days after meeting Carey. I want to fly back tomorrow. If you will come with me, I will take you to Carey.”

  “I can’t come tomorrow,” Girland said. “I have to get a visa. As soon as I get it I will contact you and then we’ll go.”

  “I must go tomorrow,” she repeated.