1967 - Have This One on Me

by James Hadley Chase

‘And this woman went to see him? She may be trying to get out,’ Malik said. ‘Why hasn’t Suk arrested this man Vlast?’

  ‘He says he has no proof against him ... just suspicions.’

  ‘We don’t need proof.’ Malik said angrily. ‘Arrest him and question him. Have his place searched. If he fakes passports, there will be evidence. Do it at once.’

  Smernoff got to his feet.

  ‘And Girland?’

  ‘Knowing Girland, he will be at the Alcron.’ The corners of Malik’s lips turned down ‘He always believes in luxury. Have him watched, but leave him alone for the time being. He could lead us to Worthington. Make sure he doesn’t find out he is being watched.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  ‘Leave her alone too. She could also lead us to Worthington. I want her room bugged. When she leaves tonight, send Zernov to her place. If Girland’s been there, he will go again. I want a record of their conversation.’

  ‘I’ll arrange it.’ Smernoff said and left the office.

  Malik picked up the photograph and again stared at it.

  The last time he and Girland had clashed, he had warned Girland when they next met, it would be their last meeting. With slow, savage viciousness. he tore up the photograph.

  * * *

  For the past hour Mala had discussed Girland’s visit with Worthington. They kept asking each other who this man was, who was Harry Moss, was this man one of Dorey’s agents, looking for Worthington?

  Worthington was nervous. He had hidden in the bathroom while Mala had talked to Girland, fingering his automatic, his body cold with the sweat of fear.

  ‘I just don’t know.’ he said finally in exasperation ‘We can’t go on and on like this. He might be harmless. We mustn’t work ourselves up for nothing.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Isn’t it time you went to Vlast?’

  Mala nodded.

  ‘All right ... yes, I’ll go.’

  Worthington had taken a number of photographs of her for the passport. He gave her the film cartridge.

  ‘He’ll want at least three hundred dollars.’ He took a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. ‘Give him this. Tell him we will pay the rest when he has the passport ready.’

  As Mala was leaving the apartment, Karel Vlast was sitting at his window nursing his aching hand. He had been to the hospital that morning. They had given him a shot of something, but it hadn’t done much good. He could see by the expression on the doctor’s face that his h and was bad. The doctor told him to come back the next day. As he sat at the window, worrying about Worthington’s passport, he saw a black Tetra car pull up in the street below. Four men spilled out of the car and walked quickly across the street and entered his apartment block

  Vlast felt his heart contract. He knew these men were from the Security Police. For the past two years he had been expecting just such a visit. He got hurriedly to his feet. He had his preparations ready. He took off the top of his dining table and wedged the oak board under the door handle of his front door.

  From the top of the cupboard in his tiny hall, he took a hammer and two six-inch nails. Breathing heavily, he hammered the two nails into the floor to act as an additional wedge for the board that now barricaded the front door.

  He could hear the tramping feet as the four men climbed the stairs. He reckoned it would take some fifteen minutes to batter down the door. It might, with luck, take them even longer.

  This was a precaution he had long ago planned to give himself time to destroy any evidence that might incriminate his friends.

  He returned to the sitting room. Opening a cupboard, he took out a large tin box, the lid tightly sealed with tape. He ripped off the tape and tossed the petrol soaked rags the box contained into the fireplace. As the front door bell rang, he lumbered into his bedroom, pulled out the bottom drawer in his chest of drawers, groped into the space and took out a number of passport blanks. The front door bell rang again. He groped into the back of the chest and found Worthington’s photographs, his passport and two more photographs of friends he had promised to help.

  He heard his front door creak as powerful shoulders thudded against it. He carried the passports, the photographs and several envelopes containing information he needed to complete a faked passport into the sitting room and dropped them into the fireplace, then as his front door began to come loose at its hinges, he struck a match and set the petrol soaked rags into a violent blaze. The front door began to split down the panels under the violence of the men in the passage. Vlast was quite calm. He picked up the poker and stirred the blazing mass of papers, scattering the ashes, making sure there would be nothing left to betray his friends. Then, satisfied, he took from his waistcoat pocket a tiny capsule he had carried around with him for months for such an emergency as this. He slipped the capsule into his mouth and sat down heavily in his favourite dusty armchair.

  The door was now half ripped open. He looked across the room, at Smernoff whose sweating face was vicious with fury.

  He waited that extra second until Smernoff was forcing his squat, broad shouldered body through the smashed doorway, then with a murmured prayer, he bit down on the capsule.

  * * *

  Worthington heard Mala coming up the stairs. He had now come to recognise her step and he got to his feet. For the past hour, he had been in a state of acute anxiety. He had tried to assure himself that Vlast’s injury was only trifling, and in a day or so he would have the passports ready, but at the back of his mind, there was a nagging warning that it was not going to be that easy. Yet in spite of the danger, he was now almost enjoying his stay with Mala. Their close association, and now she had agreed to go with him to Geneva, helped to still his fears. He had dreaded the thought of leaving Prague and passing through the Police Control alone. But with Mala, he could face the ordeal. In protecting her, he would forget about himself.

  He went to the door when he heard Mala fumbling for her key and opened it. One look at her white, tense face sent a cold chill crawling up his spine.

  She came quickly into the room and Worthington shut the door.

  ‘What’s happened?’ His voice was so husky, he had to clear his throat.

  She walked over to a chair and sat down, dropping her bag on the floor.

  ‘He’s dead. They were taking him away when I arrived. He’s dead.’

  Worthington stood petrified. This couldn’t be true. He collapsed in a chair opposite hers.

  ‘There must be some mistake ...’ The words came from him in a terrified croak.

  ‘The Security Police were there. There was an ambulance. They were bringing his body out on a stretcher as I passed.’

  Worthington marvelled at the steadiness of her voice. ‘The blanket, covering him, slipped as they put him in the ambulance. I saw him ... he was dead.’

  Worthington put his hands to his face and he shuddered.

  His hopes for the future, the money he had so painfully and carefully hoarded in Geneva, his plans to escape were wiped out with Vlast’s death. There was no chance now, he told himself, of ever getting out of Prague.

  Mala watched him. His despair stiffened her morale.

  ‘We have the money,’ she said. ‘We could still get away.’

  Worthington heard, but he knew this was worthless talk.

  Without a cleverly faked passport, it was impossible to get away.

  He made the effort and pulled himself together. He must now think of her and not of himself. He must leave her. She might not last long, but she would last longer if he wasn’t with her.

  He thought of the automatic under his arm. The best way would be to walk out of here, find some quiet spot and then shoot himself. He flinched at the idea. Would he find the courage to pull the trigger when the cold barrel was touching his forehead?

  ‘Alex!’ Mala’s voice had sharpened. ‘Are you listening to what I am saying? We have all this money ... thirty thousand dollars! Surely we can make use of it. We must make use of it? We can buy passports! We can still get a
way!’

  He lifted his head and stared at her, his eyes glazed.

  ‘I know of no one except Vlast and he is dead. There must be someone here who could fake a passport ... who would accept a large bribe ... but who?’

  Mala got up and began to move around the room. She now realised that she must depend on herself to get them out of this situation. She was aware of a sudden protective feeling for this tall, weak Englishman He had planned to save her, now she felt compelled to try to save him. She suddenly thought of Jan Braun.

  ‘I know someone who will help us,’ she said and came back to her chair. She sat down. ‘His name is Jan Braun. His father and my father were close friends. They were executed together. Jan is a farmer. He has a small farm thirty kilometres outside Prague. He could know someone who would get us passports. I’ll go and see him.’

  Worthington looked hopefully at her.

  ‘Are you sure you can trust him?’

  ‘Of course. His father died with mine ... of course, I can trust him.’

  Watching her, Worthington felt a new hope growing in him. He could see she was no longer frightened. Miraculously, she had become the dominant force of this uneasy partnership.

  ‘He brings his produce to Prague every week,’ Mala went on. ‘Tomorrow is market day. I’ll go to the market and tell him what is happening.’

  Worthington wiped his face with his soiled handkerchief.

  ‘No I’m going to leave you Mala. This could involve you. I don’t want that to happen. No ... I’ll leave you. I’ll find a way ...’

  ‘Oh be quiet!’ she said impatiently. ‘Where would you go? Be sensible!’ She suddenly smiled at him. ‘You tried to help me ... now it is my turn.’ She got to her feet, ‘I’ll get supper. It’s getting late.’

  Worthington remained in his chair while she went into the kitchenette. He thought with bitterness: God! How weak and useless I am!

  He had no appetite for the steak she grilled, but he forced himself to eat. Looking at him. seeing how frightened and hopeless he looked, she suddenly reached out and patted his hand.

  ‘It’ll work out, Alex,’ she said. ‘We’ll get away.’ She got to her feet. ‘I must get ready or I’ll be late.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Near to tears, Worthington went behind the screen and lay on the bed.

  * * *

  When Bruckman left Girland. he went immediately to his hotel. In his bedroom, sitting on the bed a cigarette burning between his thin lips, he put through a call to Paris. There was some delay, then a voice said, ‘International Credit.’

  ‘This is Bruckman, speaking from Prague. I had your telegram about those invoices.’

  ‘Yes. Mr. Bruckman. Will you hold a moment, please?’

  Bruckman waited. He knew he was being put through to Dorey. It was only in an emergency that he was permitted to call International Credit that would route an agent direct to the C.I.A. This was an emergency. Bruckman felt he had to have confirmation that his deal with Girland would be approved.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Bruckman?’ He recognised Dorey’s voice.

  ‘Those missing invoices.’ Bruckman said ‘Our third party found them. We are arranging a deal It’s cash on delivery. Okay?’

  There was a pause, then Dorey said, ‘You have the money deposited with you?’

  ‘Yes but there’ll be no change. Still okay?’

  ‘It’ll have to be.’ Dorey’s voice sounded sour. ‘I told you ... you have a free hand,’ and the line went dead.

  Bruckman grimaced and hung up.

  A little after ten o’clock, he left the hotel and took a tram that brought him within easy walking distance to Mala’s apartment. He arrived in the street a minute or so before ten-thirty. He saw no sign of Girland, but he knew Girland was concealed in some dark doorway, watching him.

  At this moment, Zernov had decided it would be safe to plant the bug Smernoff had given him in Mala’s apartment.

  He was mounting the stairs as Bruckman entered the lobby.

  Zernov heard him and looked over the banister rail. He could vaguely make out a heavily built man, starting to climb the stairs. Zernov took off his shoes and ran silently up to the fifth floor. He could hear Bruckman’s heavy approaching tread.

  Worthington also heard it. Jumping to his feet, Worthington turned off the light and darted out on to the balcony, carefully closing the french windows after him. He crouched down behind the shrub.

  Bruckman reached Mala’s front door and rang the bell, watched by Zernov who had gone up the next flight of stairs and was peering at Bruckman through the banister rails.

  Bruckman satisfied himself there was no one in the apartment, then he picked the lock and walked in, turning on the light and shutting the door.

  Watched by Worthington, Bruckman went immediately to the angel, lifted off the head and reached down into the body.

  He pulled out the brown paper parcel, replaced the head and moved quickly to the door. He hadn’t been in the apartment more than a minute or so. He turned off the light, stepped out on to the dark landing, relocked the door and then using a small flashlight, he started down the stairs.

  Zernov watched him. He saw Bruckman was now carrying a brown paper parcel in his left hand. This could be important for Zernov was sure Bruckman hadn’t had the parcel when he had entered the apartment. He decided he had to know what the parcel contained. Drawing his gun and leaving his shoes on the stairs, he sneaked silently down to the landing as Bruckman made his way heavily and slowly to the street level, lighting the stairs with the beam of his flashlight.

  Zernov groped and found the time switch button that controlled the light on the stairs. He turned the switch on. Light flared up on the stairs. Bruckman spun around, dropping his flashlight, his hand whipping out his automatic. His movements were so swift, Zernov was taken by surprise. Bruckman saw him at the head of the staircase and immediately fired. The bang of the gun crashed through the silent building, Zernov staggered back. Bruckman’s bullet had ripped through his sleeve, nicking his forearm, but even as he staggered, he fired three times, and his aim was more deadly than Bruckman’s.

  Hit in the chest and the left arm, Bruckman fell backwards, rolling and sliding down the stairs to the second landing. The time switch, set only for a minute and working badly, turned off the light.

  Cursing, Zernov, his arm burning, blood dripping down his fingers, once again groped for the switch, but couldn’t find it.

  He heard Bruckman get to his feet and start, with stumbling feet, down the stairs.

  Realising Bruckman might get away, not knowing how badly he had wounded him, Zernov started down the stairs in pursuit.

  Bruckman heard him coming. He turned and fired up the stairs.

  The bullet whipped past Zemov’s face. He crouched down in the darkness and waited, then he heard Bruckman resume his stumbling descent. The big man was moving slowly now.

  Shot through the lungs, Bruckman knew this was his finish. He could scarcely breathe and was slowly drowning in his blood, but his toughness kept him moving. He forced his body down the last flight of stairs and he staggered into the lobby. He paused there, still clutching the brown paper parcel under his left arm. He spat blood, then moved slowly and heavily, like a stricken elephant, out into the dimly lit street.

  Zernov crept down into the lobby. Bruckman’s broad back, outlined against the street lights, made a perfect target. Lifting his gun, Zernov squeezed the trigger.

  Bruckman reared back, then fell on his side, the brown paper parcel falling into the gutter.

  Nicalok. hearing the shooting, came charging down into the street, gun in hand, from the opposite building.

  Girland watched from a nearby doorway. He saw Bruckman fall and the parcel slide from under his arm into the gutter He had drawn his automatic, but the sudden blare of police sirens warned him it would be too dangerous to attempt to get the parcel.

  He ran silently down the street, keeping in the shadows, and ducked down the first narrow
lane he came to as the police cars skidded to a halt.

  Moving quickly, he headed back to his hotel. That was that, he thought in disgust. Thirty thousand dollars down the drain!

  Well, he would pack and get out There was now no point in staying in Prague. Then he thought of the T.S. document. There was now no Bruckman to take it back to Dorey. Why should you care? he asked himself, but he found he was slowing his pace and abruptly he came to a standstill, leaning against a shabby wall while his thoughts were busy. To hell with Dorey! he tried to tell himself. Then he grimaced. He couldn’t let a document of that importance fall into Russian hands. You sucker! he said to himself. He thought for some minutes. There was Malik to take into consideration. Girland knew he couldn’t hope to leave the country without being searched. Then he remembered Mala Reid. She was one of Dorey’s agents. It must be her job to get the papers to Dorey.

  Girland decided he would contact her, and slightly cheered, he looked around for a taxi. He was lucky to find one after a patient wait and was driven to the Alhambra nightclub. As he walked into the shattering noise of swing music and the buzz of voices, a waiter came out of the darkness.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, we have no free tables.’

  Girland took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet.

  ‘Squeeze me in somewhere,’ he said, allowing the waiter to get a good glimpse of the bill. ‘I want some privacy.’

  The bill changed hands.

  ‘I have a booth reserved for eleven-thirty, sir. You could have it for half an hour.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Girland said and followed the waiter along a narrow corridor to a small booth with a table set for four that looked directly on to the miniature stage.

  ‘Would this do, sir?’ the waiter asked.

  ‘Yeah ... don’t run away.’ Girland grimaced at the sound coming from the stage. Four underdressed, unattractive girls were singing. Their shrill, untrained voices magnified by the microphone, beat against his ear drums. He sat down at the table, took a blank card from his wallet and wrote: Would you join me? I am interested in buying your angel. He gave the card to the waiter.