1967 - Have This One on Me

by James Hadley Chase

  When Bruckman asked for his room key, the clerk handed him the key and a telegram Up in his shabby room. Bruckman read the telegram. It was a request for certain missing invoices, followed by a list of numbers and letters. These, Bruckman knew, were the real guts of the message in code.

  Twenty minutes later, he had decoded the message which now ran:

  Ult. Urg. Grl. Pa.s.c. Im Rt. T.S. Ay dl. Liq. i.n. Rt. a.a.c.rpt. a.c. vt. D.

  Translated, this told Bruckman:

  Ultimate urgency. Papers in Girland’s suitcase must be returned immediately. They are Top Secret. Make any deal with him. If necessary, liquidate him. Return these papers at any cost, repeat at any cost. Vital. Dorey.

  Bruckman reread the message, then sitting back in his chair, he blew out his cheeks. Just what the hell is this? he thought. Again he read the message. The sense of urgency infected him and he got to his feet. He had his orders. It shouldn’t be difficult to get the papers back. Girland had no idea they were in his suitcase. He set fire to Dorey’s cable and to the decoded message and let the ashes drop in the ashtray.

  Then he unlocked his briefcase that was lying on the desk and took from it a .32 police automatic. He checked the magazine, then slid the gun into his pocket Again from the briefcase he took a black three-inch silencer which he also dropped into his pocket. If necessary, liquidate him. He would rather knock Girland off than try to make a deal with him. Girland was too tricky to make a deal with. Bruckman thought as he moved heavily from his room

  His hotel was five minutes walking distance from the Alcron Hotel. He reached the Alcron at twenty minutes past three. The American tourists who infested the big luxury hotel were out, sightseeing. There was a quiet calm in the lobby and the lounge. Bruckman walked over to the Head Porter’s desk.

  The Head Porter gave him a little nod and looked expectantly at him.

  ‘You have Mr. Girland here?’ Bruckman asked.

  The Hall Porter consulted his register.

  ‘Yes, sir. Room 347.’ He turned and looked at the key rack.

  ‘Mr. Girland is out right now. Do you wish to leave a message?’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Bruckman said. ‘I’ll telephone him. Thanks.’

  He wandered over to the Boutique shop and looked at the souvenir gifts, then when he was sure the Hall Porter had forgotten him, he walked over to the elevators.

  ‘Floor three,’ he said.

  As he walked down the long corridor, checking the room numbers, he thought that this was a dead easy assignment.

  With Girland out, he could collect the papers and then telegram Dorey for instructions.

  He had his flexible steel pick in his hand as he reached the door of room 347. The corridor was deserted. In ten seconds, Bruckman had unlocked the door and entered the bedroom. He looked around, his heavy red face disapproving. This punk knows how to live, he thought, remembering his own tiny, shabby hotel room. He shut the door and slid the bolt. Then he walked over to Girland’s suitcase that was on the luggage rack He opened it relieved to find it wasn’t locked, then he had a rush of blood to his head. The lining had been ripped out ... the suitcase was empty.

  Bruckman stood staring down into the empty suitcase and he cursed under his breath. How the hell had this goddamn layabout found out about the papers? Well, he had! Bruckman dropped the lid of the suitcase and looked around the room.

  He knew it would be a waste of time to search the room.

  Girland was a trained agent. He had either taken the document with him or had hidden it so securely that Bruckman would have to take the room apart to find it. If he did this, the fact would be reported, and the Security Police would move in. This was something Bruckman wanted to avoid at all cost.

  He took out his gun and screwed on the silencer. He had now to talk Girland into making a deal. Obviously, Girland would have read the document, so even if he parted with it, he could still be in a position to blackmail Dorey. Bruckman rubbed his fleshy jaw. He could promise him anything. Girland was only interested in money. So he would agree to pay any sum Girland asked for. Then once Girland parted with the document, he would kill him. One well directed silent shot and Bruckman could walk out of the hotel, get on the next plane to Paris and his assignment was finished.

  Pleased with his thinking, Bruckman crossed the room and slid back the bolt, then sat down in the easy chair. He put his silenced gun under his fat thigh, lit a cigarette and prepared himself for Girland’s return.

  While Bruckman was waiting, Girland had reached Chivatova ulice. He was now satisfied no one was following him.

  Away from the main streets and once in the narrow lanes that branched like veins off the busy thoroughfares he could be sure he wasn’t being tailed. He found the apartment block he was looking for and he paused outside the high doorway that led to a dark, dirty lobby. He looked to right and left, then certain no one was watching, he moved into the lobby. A line of mailboxes on the shabby paint peeling wall told him that Mala Reid occupied an apartment on the fifth floor which Harry Moss had said had been his hideout.

  He climbed the stairs and finally reached the front door on which was pinned a card which read: Mala Reid.

  Girland thumbed the bell push, moved back and waited.

  There was a long pause, then as he was about to ring again, the door opened.

  He regarded the sable-haired girl with unexpected pleasure.

  Quite a doll! he thought and turned on his charming smile. His eyes ran over her. She was wearing a light blue sleeveless frock that clung to her figure with the caress of a well-fitting glove.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Do you happen to speak English?’

  Mala had been preparing to visit Vlast again. She had been to his apartment in the morning, only to find him out. The sight of this tall, broad shouldered American made her heart skip a beat.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice a little shrill ‘What is it?’

  Girland looked beyond her into the big living room. He saw the wooden angel in the comer. Well, at least, that part of Harry Moss’s story was true.

  ‘Would Harry Moss live here?’ he asked, wondering why the girl was so obviously frightened.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, heck!’ Girland looked rueful. ‘That’s too bad. He gave me this address. I’ve come all the way from New York ... he’s an old friend of mine. Would you know where he’s got to?’

  ‘No,’ Mala said, ‘I can’t help you,’ and she closed the door in his face.

  Girland hesitated. Don’t push your luck too far, he told himself. At least there’s a wooden angel. This needs thinking about and careful handling. He turned and walked down the stairs to the street. Who was Mala Reid? A nice dish, he thought.

  What made her so scared? He paused outside the building while he thought. Could it be the money was really inside that angel?

  If it was, how could he get at it? He would have to find out when the girl left the apartment and if she lived alone. Did she know the money was there? Girland shook his head. It wasn’t going to be easy, but if it meant picking up thirty thousand dollars, he couldn’t expect it to be easy.

  It was while he stood in the sunshine, outside the building that Zerov, one of the men Smernoff had planted in the opposite building, photographed him. It was a routine picture. Everyone entering and leaving the opposite apartment block was photographed. Zerov had already taken thirty-five pictures and he now wound off the film which he passed to his companion Nicalok.

  ‘Get it processed,’ he said. ‘Comrade Smernoff will be expecting something from us.’

  Nicalok took the film cartridge and left the apartment. By then, Girland was walking back to the Alcron, pondering how he could find out more about Mala Reid. As he walked up the main street, leading to his hotel, he came upon an arcade, leading to the entrance of the Alhambra night club. He was passing it when he came to an abrupt stop. On a bill posted to the wall was Mala Reid’s name and a photograph of her, wearing black tights and a bra. The C
zech letter press meant nothing to him, but the photograph was all he wanted. So ...

  He moved on. Well, he now knew where she worked. Tonight, he would go to the Alhambra. He reached the hotel and asked for his key. The Hall Porter handed it to him.

  ‘There was a gentleman inquiring for you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘He said he would telephone later.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Girland was puzzled. ‘I can’t imagine who it would be. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Yes. sir.’ The Hall Porter was proud of his memory. ‘A tall, heavily built gentleman. He has had an accident to his right ear.’

  Girland grinned.

  ‘Oh sure. I didn’t know he was here. He’s an old friend of mine. Thanks.’ He slid a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes across the desk. He had quickly discovered that cigarettes were much more appreciated in Prague than money.

  He rode up in the elevator. So Bruckman was asking for him, he thought. Watch it, he told himself. This could be action stations.

  He reached his bedroom door, unlocked it and swung the door open. Then he walked in. The sight of Bruckman sitting in the easy chair came as no surprise. He was glad he had been tipped off by the Hall Porter.

  ‘Hello. Oscar, nice to see you again,’ he said, moving into the room and closing the door. ‘How’s the wife and kids?’

  Bruckman stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray that was now overflowing with cigarette butts. He shifted his weight slightly so he could get at his gun. His red, fleshy face was expressionless, his cold, grey eyes never left Girland.

  ‘Sit down, punk,’ he said in his cop voice. ‘You and me have to talk.’

  Girland smiled at him.

  ‘Now, Oscar, try to act your age,’ he said, leaning against the door. ‘You’re getting a little long in the tooth for that kind of talk and you’ve put on too much weight. With that fat belly you’re carrying around like a pregnant cow and all the booze you have been swilling, you’re not in my class. Do you want to start something? It would be a pleasure. Where’s your buddy boy O’Brien? Remember what I did to him the last time you tried to get tough?’

  Bruckman produced his gun. He was still lightning fast and the gun jumped into his hand in one dazzling movement.

  ‘I said sit down, punk!’ he said, with a snarl in his voice.

  Girland laughed.

  ‘Oscar, you slay me. You should be in the movies ... strictly B features, but you might make quite a decent living. Go ahead and shoot me.’ He walked deliberately up to Bruckman. When he was close to the big man, he looked down at him, still smiling. ‘Go on, Oscar. Fire away.’ then the side of his hand smashed down on Bruckman’s wrist, sending the gun flying across the room.

  Bruckman cursed and started to his feet, but Girland shoved him back in the chair.

  ‘Relax, Oscar. You can’t murder me just yet. We have to talk ... remember?’

  Bruckman nursed his wrist. His eyes glowered hate at Girland who walked over to the bed and dropped on to it. He stretched out, folding his hands behind his head.

  ‘Go ahead, Oscar,’ he said, staring up at the ceiling. ‘What’s on the thing you call your mind?’

  Bruckman continued to massage his wrist, then at last getting some feeling back into it, he got up and picked up his gun. He put it on the table near him, then sat down again.

  Glaring at Girland, he said, ‘You know ... you have a T.S., Girland. I want it.’

  ‘You want it?’ Girland grinned. ‘What an understatement! I’ll tell you who also wants it: Mr. Johnson wants it. Mr. Kosygin wants it. Mr. Ho Chi Minh wants it ... and more than any of them, my dear old pal Dorey wants it.’

  Bruckman contained his fury with an effort that turned his face dark.

  ‘Let’s have it, Girland, and let’s cut out the funny talk.’

  Girland raised his head, his eyebrows lifting.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought any of this funny, Oscar,’ he said.

  ‘Suppose we begin at the beginning. You broke into my Paris apartment and planted this T.S. in my suitcase. I can only imagine you were obeying Dorey’s orders. There was a time when I began to wonder if you had turned double agent, but I decided you wouldn’t have the brains for that kind of a job.’

  Bruckman nearly fell out of his chair.

  ‘What the hell are you saying? Me ... a double agent?’

  ‘Relax. Oscar. You’ll bust your truss if you go on like this. I decided you weren’t a double agent. This T.S. is dynamite, so Dorey must have made a mistake in giving it to you. Right?’

  ‘I’m not talking to you. Hand it over Girland!’ Bruckman leaned forward, his heavy face flushed, his eyes glittering. ‘I know you’re a crook, but I hope you won’t be that low as to start a third world war! Now, hand it over and I’ll take it back to Paris.’

  ‘The trouble with you. Oscar,’ Girland said sadly, ‘is you have no appeal. Don’t give me that stuff about a third world war. Dorey started this. He picked on me, and he couldn’t care less what happened to me so I couldn’t care less what happens to him. Just what had he in mind? And Oscar, don’t try any bright lying. I haven’t been wasting my time since I’ve been here. I know all about Mala Reid. Let’s have the whole story, then I could give you the T.S., but you’re not getting it until I know the story.’

  Bruckman’s eyes shifted to the gun on the table.

  ‘Oh Oscar, don’t revert to type,’ Girland said, watching him. ‘The T.S. is somewhere where you won’t find it, but if you murder me - as I know you’re longing to - sooner or later. Mr. Kosygin will have it. Now come on what was this plan Dorey dreamed up in his retarded mind?’

  Bruckman hesitated.

  ‘How do I know if I tell you, you’ll hand it over?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well, of course, you don’t know, but I will. Don’t laugh right now, but you will have to trust me.’

  ‘One of these days,’ Bruckman said furiously, ‘I’ll fix you! Make no mistake about that! I’ll fix you for good!’

  ‘What dialogue,’ Girland said, shutting his eyes. ‘Boy! Have you missed your vocation! Television would love you.’

  Bruckman considered his position He wondered if he should cable Dorey for further instructions. This situation was something he couldn’t handle. Then he remembered what Dorey had told him ... make any deal. His job was to get this document back to Dorey. It was then up to Dorey to take it from there.

  ‘Okay.’ he said. ‘This was the setup,’ and he told Girland of Dorey’s plan to use him as a smoke screen to get Latimer into Prague.

  Girland listened, his eyes closed. When Bruckman stopped talking, Girland opened his eyes and smiled at Bruckman.

  ‘So the money is in the wooden angel?’

  ‘It’s there. I put it there myself.’

  ‘Dorey! What a lovable little midget he’s turned out to be,’ Girland said ‘Well. I guess he has reason to try to fix me. I’ll give him that. Okay, Oscar, now we go to work.’ He sat up and swung his legs off the bed. ‘Tonight, you will go to Mala’s apartment and collect the money. I’ll be watching on the sidelines. We will meet at the airport. You will give me the money ... I will give you the T.S. You will then fly off to Paris and give Dorey my love. But don’t get any bright ideas about alerting the police that I will be leaving with thirty thousand dollars. I assure you, if they arrest me, I’ll buy myself out of trouble by telling them the contents of the T.S. Does all this sink into the thing you call a brain?’

  Bruckman glared at him.

  ‘I couldn’t have believed any decent American could act like this.’ he said. ‘All you think about is money. You are ...’

  ‘Oh, skip it, Oscar. You’ll have me sobbing on your shoulder. What’s so wrong about money anyway?’ He got up and walked to the door which he opened. ‘Shove off.’

  Bruckman put his gun into its holster and walked out into the corridor.

  ‘Tonight, around ten-thirty,’ Girland said. ‘I’ll be there, watching. So long for now, Oscar, and watch your blo
od pressure.’ He closed the door as Bruckman walked heavily towards the elevator.

  * * *

  Smernoff came into the big, sparsely furnished office and closed the door. Malik, dwarfing the desk at which he was sitting, glanced up, pushing aside a pile of decoded cables that had arrived an hour or so ago from Moscow; cables of no interest to him, but which he had to read to keep abreast with G.R.U.’s European activities.

  Smernoff pulled up a chair and sat down.

  ‘The situation develops,’ he said. ‘I have a photograph that will interest you.’ He took from his briefcase a glossy print which he handed to Malik.

  Malik looked at the photograph. His expression didn’t change, but his green eyes darkened.

  ‘Girland!’ he said quietly.

  ‘It was pure luck. I told Zernov to photograph everyone leaving the building, and this fish comes into the net.’

  ‘Girland,’ Malik repeated, then sat for some moments, thinking. Finally, he said, ‘He could be Worthington’s replacement.’ He looked at Smernoff. ‘This surprises me. I thought Girland had fallen out of favour.’ He frowned. ‘I can’t see Girland as Worthington’s replacement, can you? Something’s wrong here. Girland would have no reason to stay in Prague. The man who will replace Worthington will work here ... have a job here ... we know Girland never works.’

  ‘Could be a temporary replacement until the permanent man arrives.’

  Malik shook his head.

  ‘Dorey doesn’t work like that.’ He thought again. ‘Girland could be a smoke screen. Could be Dorey wants us to think he is the replacement.’

  Smernoff shrugged. It was Malik’s job to do the thinking.

  ‘Anything else?’ Malik asked, still staring at the photograph.

  ‘The Reid girl went this morning to the apartment of Karel Vlast who was out. I’ve checked on Vlast. He is suspect,’ Smernoff said. ‘At one time he was an engraver, now he is a night elevator attendant. Suk suspects that lie fakes passports. He has no proof.’