Girland looked at Dorey.
‘I would never have expected to hear you make such a statement,' he said. 'Well, well... of course it's Sherman's money you're spending, but even at that. ..'
Dorey banged his fist on the desk.
‘I want action and I want results! You'll be paid, but I want results.'
'Take it easy. I know a couple of toughies who can take care of Benny. Instead of screaming for results, Dorey, let's have some money.'
Dorey took from his drawer a thick envelope which he tossed across the desk.
'Here's ten thousand in traveller's cheques.'
'Thank you... now I can get to work.'
Girland stowed the envelope away in his pocket.
'Don't lose them! They're unsigned!' Dorey hated to see Girland take so much money from him so casually.
'The way you're working yourself up, you're heading for an ulcer.' Girland reached for the telephone. He spoke quietly, then replaced the receiver. That takes care of Benny.' There was a pause, then he went on, 'Maybe you had better alert Sherman the Soviets are interested in him.'
'How can I?' Dorey lifted his hands and slammed them down on his desk. ‘I can't send him a coded cable. He's never learned to decode a cable for himself. I'm cut off from him. This is unofficial, and it has to remain unofficial.'
Girland stroked the end of his nose while he thought. 'I'm beginning to see now that I'll have to earn my money,' he said with a crooked smile. 'I'm not so sure I'm going to like this job.'
'If you don't want it then give me back my money!' Dorey barked.
'I'm not as sure as all that' Girland got up and began to move to the door.
'And leave my secretary alone!' Dorey said.
'What nasty ideas come into your little mind.' Girland looked sadly at Dorey, eased himself out of the room and closed the door.
At the sight of him, Mavis picked up the ruler.
Girland came slowly over to her desk, placed his hands on it and leaned towards her.
'My father told me never to be afraid of a pretty girl. Since you are the loveliest star in my sky... kiss me.'
She stared at him for a long moment, then slowly put down the ruler as Dorey opened his door.
'You still here, Girland?'
Mavis returned to her typing and Girland straightened up. He regarded Dorey with an exasperated expression.
'The only person who could ever have loved you was your mother,' he said, 'and I am sorry for her.'
'Never mind about my mother,' Dorey snapped. 'You get off and earn your money.'
Girland glanced at Mavis who was pounding away on her typewriter, shook his head and moved out into the corridor.
As he closed the door after him, Dorey stamped back into his office.
Without pausing in her typing, Mavis smiled.
***
Malik sat behind his small, shabby desk and listened to what Labrey had to tell him. He thanked the gods that all his agents weren't as stupid and as unreliable as Drina. He decided this longhaired boy with his ridiculous green tinted glasses was worth five of Drina. When Drina had reported that he had lost Girland, Malik couldn't see how he was to make further progress. Now Labrey had come to him and had opened it all up again ... or rather, Labrey's girl had done so.
'Can you trust this girl?' Malik asked. His fiat green eyes surveyed Labrey.
'Can you trust any woman?' Labrey shrugged. So this is Malik, he was thinking. He had heard a lot about this man from Drina, and it gave him a kick to have direct contact with him. He was everything that Labrey would wish to be: big, muscular, ruthless and very efficient. 'I've thrown a scare into her, but it might not stay thrown.'
'Have you anything you can use against her?'
'She steals from shops ... she's always at it'
'You have proof of this?'
'Her place is full of stolen stuff.'
'That is not proof. We will have to make use of her as Girland is interested in her. Would she work for us?' Labrey hesitated.
‘I don't think so. She has no brains. She has no feeling for politics. All she thinks about is money, clothes and sex.'
Malik thought for a moment: a massive stone-like figure, his huge killer hands resting on the desk.
'Then we will pay her. What do we pay you?'
'Eight hundred a month.'
'We will pay her six hundred. Tell her she has no choice. Tell her we need her. If she won't cooperate, then one night something bad will happen to her ... frighten her. Make sure she understands that Russia rewards good agents, but punishes bad ones. Do you understand?'
‘I understand.'
'Arrange it then.' Malik regarded Labrey. 'I shall have further work for you. You have done well. I will see you get more money.'
When Labrey had gone, Malik unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and switched on a tape recorder. From the drawer he took a sensitive button microphone, so sensitive it didn't need leads to the recorder. He tapped the microphone gently to make sure the magic eye of the recorder reacted, then he clipped the microphone over his wristwatch and covered the watch with his frayed shirtsleeve. He walked down the corridor to Kovski's office. Kovski was busy writing a minute. He started violently when he saw Malik who had moved silently to Kovski's desk.
'Will you never learn to knock?' Kovski snarled, putting down his fountain pen.
Malik sat on the hard, upright chair.
'Sherman will be arriving at the Kennedy airport in another five hours,' he said. 'We know he is travelling on a false passport and in disguise. I understand he would not be welcomed by us as the future President. It occurred to me that you could alert the American airport police that he is travelling on a false passport.'
Kovski stared at him. 'And suppose I do?'
'The police will have to take action: the Press will hear about it, there will be a scandal: Sherman won't be elected President,' Malik said.
Little red patches or rage appeared on Kovski's face. Had he thought of this himself, he might have acted, but coming from Malik made this impossible as Malik had foreseen.
'Since when have you been asked to dictate policy?' Kovski demanded, his voice shaking with fury. 'This is not your job! Your job is to find out why Sherman came to Paris and why Dorey has talked to Girland!'
'An anonymous cable to the American police at the Kennedy airport would result in Sherman's embarrassment,' Malik said woodenly. ‘I suggest it is your duty to send this cable.'
'Are you telling me what my duty is?' Kovski shouted.
'Yes.'
Kovski glared with hatred at the big man sitting so relaxed before him.
'Be careful,' he said viciously. 'You are in disgrace! You are nothing! A word from me could send you for years to Siberia. You are to do what I tell you! Understand that! I will not listen to your views which are of no importance because you are stupid!' His rage so carried him away that he found he was no longer afraid of Malik.
'By sending this cable, you would be certain that Sherman could not become President of the United States,' Malik said, his face expressionless.
'You think so, you fool?' Kovski snarled. 'Are we so sure this man is really Sherman? We have only the word of that idiot Drina! If this man is really Sherman - and there are doubts and we alert the American police, then how are we to find out why he came here? This is what we want to find out! As soon as the CIA know we know who he is, they will throw up a smokescreen and then we will find out nothing!'
'We don't need to find anything out if you will send the cable. We will have achieved what we want . . . Sherman, won't be elected President.'
'You are a triple fool!' Kovski's voice was completely out of control. 'How many more times do I have to tell you, idiot? What we want to know is why he came here ... go and find out! As long as Sherman believes he has come here and has got back safely to America, we have him where we want him!'
'But we have him where we want him by sending this cable', Malik said quietly.
'Get out!' Ko
vski slammed his fist down on the desk. 'Do what I tell you! Find out why Sherman has been here! That's your job!'
A thin smile lit up Malik's stone-like face.
'Those are your orders?'
'Yes! Get out and do your job!'
Malik nodded and rose to his feet.
‘I am compelled to obey your orders,' he said, staring at Kovski, 'but I only obey them because you are my superior.'
He left the office, quietly, shutting the door after him and returned to his own office. He turned off the tape recorder, rewound the tape, listened for a few seconds to the playback, then satisfied he had an excellent recording, he ran off the tape. He found a large envelope and wrote on it: Conversation between Comrade Kovski and myself. May 5th. Subject: Henry Sherman. He put the spool of tape into the envelope and sealed it with Sellotape, then dropped the envelope into his pocket, This was yet another tape to be added to a small collection he had in a safe deposit bank not far from the Soviet Embassy: yet another nail in Kovski's coffin.
* * *
Still careful he wasn't being followed, Girland made his way from the American Embassy to Pierre Rosnold's studio on Rue Garibaldi. The studio was housed on the fourth floor of an old-fashioned building, but there was nothing old-fashioned about the ornate elevator nor about Rosnold's entrance. The double doors that led to the studio were covered with white suede, embossed with gilt scrolls and which opened automatically when Girland broke an invisible beam as he approached them. He found himself in a small lobby, draped in red velvet with gilt chairs, and a glass-topped gilt table on which were spread the usual glossy magazines.
Girland decided that Rosnold's set-up was of better taste and smelt more of money than Benny's exotic studio.
As he was surveying the scene, a door facing him opened and an elderly man, wearing a black hat and a light-grey overcoat came into the lobby. He moved with the arrogance of the very rich. In his right gloved hand, he carried a bulky envelope. His long, thin aristocratic face, the lines around the weak, sensual mouth, the smudges under his baggy eyes made him look like an ageing Casanova. His satisfied expression swiftly changed to startled apprehension as he saw Girland. He gave Girland a quick, uneasy glance, then moving quickly, he left the lobby, clutching his envelope and Girland heard him entering the elevator.
'Yes?'
Girland glanced around.
A woman stood in the doorway, regarding him. She was tall, probably in her early thirties, slim, dark with a heart-shaped face that could have been a tinted plaster mask.
'Mr Rosnold please,' Girland said with his most charming smile.
The smile bounced off her like a golf ball slammed against a wall.
'Mr Rosnold is not here.'
'You mean he doesn't work here anymore?'
'He is not here.'
'Then where do I find him?'
Again the dark eyes went over Girland, examining his clothes. From the bleak expression that showed in her eyes, the woman thought nothing of him.
'Do you want a sitting?'
The automatic doors swung open and another elderly, rich looking man came in. He hesitated for a brief moment at the sight of Girland, then gave the woman a wide, toothy smile.
'Ah, Mile Lautre, how well you are looking.' He again glanced uneasily at Girland.
The woman stood aside and smiled. The plaster mask cracked for a moment, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.
'Please go in, monsieur. I won't be a moment.'
The elderly man slid around her and passed through the open doorway.
'If you will give me your name, I will tell Mr Rosnold you have called.'
'It's urgent. When will he be back?' Girland asked.
'Not before Monday. May I have your name?'
'It's very urgent. Where can I contact him?'
The woman stared at him. She was as hostile as a barbed-wire fence. 'Your name please?'
'Tom Stag. Mr Rosnold and I have business together.'
'I'll tell Mr Rosnold when he returns.' The woman began to back through the doorway. 'Perhaps you will telephone for an appointment on Monday,' then she closed the door.
Girland left and crossed to the elevator. He thumbed the call button and while he waited, his mind was busy. When the cage stopped before him, he got in and went down to the ground floor. Before leaving the elevator, he took out his wallet and extracted two ten franc notes. He walked over to the concierge's window and tapped.
A fat, elderly woman, her hair in steel curlers, a shawl around her shoulders opened the window and regarded him with that stony, indifferent stare that most Paris concierges cultivate.
'Excuse me,' Girland said and turned on charm. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, Madame. I want to see Mr Rosnold very urgently.'
'Fourth floor,' the concierge snapped and prepared to shut the window.
'Perhaps you could help me.' Girland put the two ten franc notes on the shelf of the window, keeping a finger on them.
The woman looked at the notes, then at Girland. She became visibly less hostile.
'I'm sure you are busy,' Girland went on. 'Of course, I expect to pay for your time.' He took his fingers off the notes. 'I've already been to the fourth floor. I am told Mr Rosnold is away. I need to see him urgently. Do you happen to know where he is?'
'Didn't you ask his secretary, monsieur?' the concierge asked, eyeing the notes that lay between them.
'I did, but she was evasive. You see, Madame, Mr Rosnold owes me a sum of money. If I don't find him quickly and persuade him to pay me, I shall be in trouble.' Girland turned on his boyish smile. 'But perhaps you can't help me.' He extended his finger, but the concierge got there first. She drew the two notes out of Girland's reach and palmed them.
‘I know where he is,' she said, lowering her voice. 'His secretary had a letter from him yesterday. I know his handwriting and the stamp interested me. The Alpenhoff Hotel, Garmisch... that's where he is. When he left, he told me he would be away a month.'
'When did he leave, Madame?'
'Last Monday.'
'You are very kind... thank you, Madame.'
‘I hope you get your money, monsieur,' she said. 'He is not a nice gentleman.'
Her old fat face crinkled into a grimace. 'He is mean.'
Girland again thanked her and walked out onto the busy street. He glanced at his watch. It was 16.20 hrs. He decided to visit Sammy's Bar and talk to Jack Dodge, the second lead Benny had given him.
He found Sammy's Bar on Rue Berry off Avenue des Champs Elysees: a typical, dimly lit bar like so many bars that grow like mushrooms around any tourist haunt. He pushed open the door and walked into a long narrow room, the bar to the left with the standard stools, to the right were banquettes and tables. At this hour the place was empty except for the barman who was browsing over a racing sheet, Biro in hand, a look of concentration on his handsome face.
As soon as Girland saw him, he guessed he must be Jack Dodge. This man with his sandy-coloured hair, his sun lamp complexion, his bulky shoulders and the shadow of dissipation under his close-set eyes looked the part of a stallion: a sensual lump of muscle and flesh: whose brain and mind were as small as his sexuality was enormous.
The barman glanced up, then pushed the racing sheet away. He gave Girland a smirking grin and placed big hands on the bar counter.
'Yes, sir?' he said. 'What is your pleasure?'
Girland hoisted himself on a stool.
'Rye whisky and ginger ale.'
'Yes, sir... a nice reviving drink.'
'That's what I need. Have one with me.'
‘I won't say no.' The barman made two drinks with a lot of unnecessary flourishes. 'First one today.'
He placed one of the glasses before Girland and lifted the other.
'Sante.'
They drank, then Girland asked casually, 'Are you Jack Dodge?'
The barman lifted a sandy eyebrow.
'That's me. Can't say I've seen you before. I have a good memory for faces.'
"That's good news. I want you to remember a girl.'
‘I get a lot of girls in here. I won't swear I can remember them all. It's the men I concentrate on.' He grinned slyly. 'They pick up the tab.'
‘I understand. Well, never mind about the girl for the moment. Are you still happy working for Pierre Rosnold?' Girland asked, his dark eyes on Dodge's face.
If he had leaned across the bar and punched Dodge in the eye, he wouldn't have got a bigger reaction.
Dodge reared back. His close-set eyes went blank with shock. The blood moved out of his face leaving his skin blotchy under the sun lamp complexion, but he recovered quickly. For a brief moment, when Girland could almost hear his brain creaking, he stood motionless, then pulling himself together, he eyed Girland with sudden suspicion.
‘I don't know him,' he said. 'Excuse me. I've things to do.'
'Don't be so obvious,' Girland said. 'You have nothing to do except talk to me. I know what your sideline is, but that doesn't mean I'll make trouble for you. How would you like to pick up an easy hundred bucks?'
'I told you, sir, I have things to do.' Dodge began to move away down the bar.
'If you don't want my money, I can always call Inspector Dupuis of the vice squad and turn you in. Please yourself.'
Dodge hesitated, then glared at Girland. 'Just who the hell are you?'
'Look on me as your pal,' Girland said and smiled. He took ten ten-dollar bills from his wallet. These he had got by cashing some of his traveller's cheques at the American Express on his way to the bar. 'All yours, buddy, for a little information which won't go further. Don't look so anxious. I'm not after you. I want to find a girl who went through a performance with you before Rosnold's camera.'
Dodge eyed the money, licked his full lips, took a drink, then looked at the money again.
'You mean that's for me?'
'That's right. No strings to it... just information.' Dodge hesitated, but the power of money was too much for him. He finished his drink, then made another while his brain creaked.
'What do you want to know?' he asked finally.
‘I came across an 8 mm movie,' Girland said. 'It is labelled ‘A Souvenir from Paris.’ It shows you, wearing a hood, performing with a dark-haired girl. Three other films were shot, probably at the same time. Mean anything to you?'
1969 - The Whiff of Money Page 6
