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  “They were on to her. When she reached the barrier, they jumped her. She looked ready to spill her guts so I shot her.”

  Radnitz moved around the room, his heavy face dark and scowling.

  “If Girland doesn’t produce something in three days, you and Borg are to go to Dakar,” he said, pausing to look at Schwartz. “You are to work with him. I don’t entirely trust him. Understand?”

  Schwartz nodded.

  “But What about me, sir?” Thomas asked. “Don’t I go?”

  “You are going to London,” Radnitz snapped. “Get rid of that ridiculous beard. Dorey’s men are looking for you. For the time being you are of no use to me. Report to my London office. They might find something for you to do.”

  Thomas turned red, then white. “Yes, sir.”

  “And be careful how you leave Paris.” Radnitz took a roll of money from his pocket and tossed it on the table. “Split this amongst you. You, Schwartz are to have fifty per cent of it. You have done well,” then ignoring Thomas, he left the apartment.

  As Schwartz crossed the room to the money on the table, he said with a sneer, “He doesn’t seem to love our little pal any more, does he?”

  Girland gave the air hostess his embarkation ticket, then mounted the steps behind the slowly moving line of passengers making their way into the tourist section of the aircraft.

  He moved down the aisle, saw an outside vacant seat just ahead of him, slid into it and sat down. He became aware that he was sitting next to Janine Daulnay, the smartly dressed woman whose name he had read on her passport. She was occupying herself with fastening her safety belt and with a quick, approving glance at her, Girland also fastened his belt. He then put his briefcase on the floor and settled himself comfortably in his seat.

  It was now Janine’s turn to look at him. Their eyes met and she said, “Did you see what happened to that coloured woman? They were arresting her, weren’t they? I saw you watching. From where I was I couldn’t see much. I thought she fainted. Is that right?”

  Girland looked into her large worldly eyes. He thought she was one of the most attractive women he had seen for a long time.

  “Well, she certainly fell down,” he said. “I wouldn’t know what happened. It’s my guess she was trying to smuggle something through and they got on to her. That’s just my guess for what it’s worth.”

  The jet engines started up with a roar, silencing any further conversation. Girland lay back and closed his eyes. Janine looked at him. She thought: Hmmmm … quite a man. Speaks French fluently, but he’s an American. I like the line of his jaw and his hands: strong but gentle. Yes … quite a man.

  Girland was worried. His only lead now to Carey was through this Portuguese known as Enrico. If he couldn’t find him, he wouldn’t find Carey.

  The aircraft began to race along the runway and in a few seconds was airborne. Girland released his safety belt and took out his cigarette case. He offered it to Janine who took a cigarette. When they were smoking, he said, “My name’s John Gilchrist. Is this your first trip to Dakar?”

  “I’m Janine Daulnay. Yes, it is my first trip,” Janine replied. “I’m only going for a couple of weeks: just to get some sun.”

  “Madame Daulnay?” Girland asked, smiling at her.

  She laughed.

  “No. I find life more amusing being single. Are you married?” Girland shook his head. “For the same reason.”

  They both laughed, then she said, “You speak French very well, but you are an American, aren’t you?”

  “My mother was French. They tell me it’s pretty hot in Dakar right now, but the N’Gor Hotel beach is something special.”

  “They told me that too. Are you on vacation?”

  “No, worse luck. I’m on business.”

  Janine lowered the back of her seat slightly, then stubbed out her cigarette.

  “We get in around three o’clock, don’t we?” “That’s right.”

  “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to catch up with my beauty sleep.”

  “It’s an idea,” Girland said. “Me too.”

  Janine closed her eyes, and after a while she seemed to be sleeping. Girland finished his cigarette, then he too closed his eyes, but his mind remained active for an hour or so. He thought of Madame Foucher. The ruthlessness of Radnitz angered him. Maybe there would come a time when he would level the scores and revenge both her death and Rossland’s death. Later, he relaxed and drifted into a heavy sleep. He was aroused by the air hostess.

  “Please fasten your safety belt, sir,” she said. “We will be landing in three minutes.”

  Girland sat up, yawned and fumbled with his belt. Janine was touching up her face.

  “It seemed to take no time at all,” she said. “I slept. Did you?” “I guess,” Girland said.

  She looked through the window at the lights of the airport as the plane circled to come in. “Africa! It’s exciting, isn’t it!”

  When the aircraft had landed and the exit doors were opened, a blast of hot humid air surged into the aircraft.

  “Phew!” Girland said as he got to his feet. “This is hot!”

  He walked with Janine across the tarmac and into the airport building. They passed through the various control points with little delay and found the N’Gor Hotel bus waiting.

  A tall, coloured porter, wearing a red uniform, took their bags and put them in the bus. Three American business men also got into the bus with them for the short drive by the sea road to the hotel.

  There was a slight delay as they checked in at the hotel and Girland noticed that this woman who interested him had a room next to his.

  “Why, you’re my neighbour,” he said. “This is a coincidence. I hope we’ll see more of each other.”

  “But you’re going to be busy, aren’t you?”

  They entered the lift.

  “Oh, sure,” Girland said airily, “but not all that busy. I’ll have time to try out the beach.”

  “Good … then we’ll meet.”

  The lift took them to the seventh floor and they followed the porter down a long corridor, down a short flight of stairs and into a tiny lobby. To the right and left of the lobby was a door. The porter unlocked one of the doors and carried Janine’s luggage into a big, airy room.

  “Well, good night again,” she said, offering her hand.

  Girland held it a shade longer than necessary and when she lifted her eyebrows, he released it.

  “Good night,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” and he followed the porter into his room.

  CHAPTER SIX

  At half past nine the following morning, Girland ordered breakfast. He then spoke on the telephone to the Hall Porter, telling him he wanted to hire a car for three days. The Hall Porter said a car would be outside the hotel within an hour.

  After breakfast, Girland unpacked his suitcase, dressed in a tropical suit and locked the suitcase in one of the closets. He left his bulky briefcase on a chair, and went down to the reception hall.

  The Hall Porter told him the car had arrived, and after tipping him, Girland walked down the long flight of steps to where a D.S. Citroen stood parked in the shade.

  He drove along the wide Autoroute to Dakar. Parking the car in Place de l’Independence, he set off on foot to explore the town. The streets, crowded with gaily dressed Africans, had much to offer and for the first hour, he was content to wander around and get the feel of the town. He visited a bookshop and bought maps of the town, the surrounding district and a guide book. As the girl wrapped his purchase, he asked her where the Florida nightclub was to be found.

  “At the far end of rue Carnot,” she told him. “Second on the left past Place de l’lndependence.”

  Girland returned to his car and drove down rue Carnot until he located the nightclub. He parked a few yards past the club, then walked back to it. From the outside it looked dingy. There was a rusty iron grille drawn across the entrance. A shabby, painted sign told hi
m the club opened at 21.15 hrs.

  The time now was just after midday and the shops were closing. Girland decided there was nothing further he could do, so he drove back to the hotel.

  A few minutes after he had set out for Dakar, Janine had been awakened by the telephone bell. Sleepily, she picked up the receiver.

  “A cable for you, Madame,” the clerk said. “Shall I send it up?”

  “Yes, please and let me have coffee and orange juice,” she said and replaced the receiver. She got out of bed, slipped on a wrap and went into the bathroom.

  Some minutes later, a waiter, his white teeth gleaming against the blackness of his skin, put down a tray and handed her the cable.

  When he had gone, Janine opened the cable and saw at a glance that it was from Dorey and would have to be decoded. She drank the, orange juice, lit a cigarette, poured coffee and then taking a pencil from her bag, set to work to decode the cable which read:

  Women murdered at airport. Sending Kerman, arriving on 15.50 plane to work with you. Relying on you. Dorey.

  She set fire to the cable with her cigarette lighter and dropped the ash on the tiled floor, then carrying her cup of coffee out onto the balcony, she sat in one of the reclining chairs, her mind busy.

  A little after eleven o’clock, she put on a swim-suit and slipping on a beach wrap, she went down to the beach.

  There were already a number of people on the beach, either swimming or lying under sun umbrellas. An African set up an umbrella for her and laid out a Li-lo mattress.

  Opening her beach bag, she took out the last novel by Franchise Sagan and stretching out on the mattress, she began aimlessly to turn the pages of the book.

  But her mind was too occupied for reading and she laid down the novel and reached for a cigarette. As she began to hunt for her lighter, a shadow fell across her and looking up sharply, she saw a tall man, wearing only brief swimming trunks, had come up silently and was now offering her a light from a gas lighter.

  She had seldom seen such a powerfully built giant of a man. His muscular body was burned to a golden brown by the sun. He was so blond, his hair, cut short, was the colour of silver. His square shaped face, with its high cheek bones, its powerful, aggressive jaw, its short blunt nose told her he was of Slav extraction. He would be twenty-eight or nine: a splendid looking athlete until she looked into his flat green eyes that were windows revealing a ruthlessness combined with something so evil that Janine recoiled from him.

  Staring intently at her, he bent, thrusting the flame of his lighter towards her cigarette. Recovering, Janine lit her cigarette.

  She forced a smile of thanks.

  “Four and two and six are twelve,” he said in guttural French. “I’m Malik.”

  She stiffened, staring at him, her violet coloured eyes opening wide.

  “A car will be outside the hotel at 15.00 hrs.,” he said. “Be ready,” and turning, he walked with long, swinging strides across the hot sand and into the sea.

  Janine watched the movements of his muscles as he walked and watched as he dived into the sea. He began swimming away from the beach with the power and ease of a professional.

  She inhaled a lungful of smoke, then settled down on the mattress again.

  Malik! She had heard of him. So this was Malik. She had once heard someone say of him: “The only difference between Malik and a Black Mamba is that Malik can walk and the snake only crawl.”

  She was still thinking about him when Girland, wearing swimming trunks, came across the sand and paused at her side.

  “Hello,” he said, his eyes moving with inquisitive frankness over her body. “Have you been in yet?”

  She sat up.

  “No.” She suddenly wondered now Malik had appeared on the scene if it was wise to get friendly with this handsome American.

  “Let’s go in and then have lunch, shall we?” Girland offered his hand.

  She grasped it and let him pull her to her feet, then together, they ran down to the water. She saw that he, like Malik, was a powerful, expert swimmer.

  They swam for ten minutes, then came in. Slipping into beach wraps, they walked to the thatched roofed open air restaurant that was only a few yards from the beach.

  “That was fine,” Girland said as they sat down at a table for two. “Let’s have a drink.”

  An African waiter approached.

  Janine asked for a vodka martini and Girland a double gin and tonic. He then studied the menu.

  “How about king sized prawns, cold chicken and green salad with a bottle of very cold Chablis?” he asked, looking at her.

  “Perfect for me.” When he had given the order, she asked, “Did you have a successful morning?”

  “I’ve been exploring Dakar. I’m supposed to find a site for my Company,” Girland said glibly. “What are you doing this afternoon? I have hired a car. Will you come for a drive with me? I thought I’d go inland and see what the country looks like.”

  The waiter brought their drinks.

  “I can’t this afternoon. I have a friend to see.”

  Girland glanced at her.

  “You have friends here?”

  “Just a girl friend.”

  They drank, sighed and smiled at each other. “This is a lot better than Paris,” Girland said.

  “You don’t live in Paris, do you?”

  “No. Florida.” He paused and a quizzing expression came into his eyes. Janine followed his glance and she saw Malik coming towards the restaurant.

  “Wow!” Girland said softly. “Now there’s a real hunk of gorgeous male.”

  Malik went up the bar and ordered a coke.

  Janine studied his long, muscular back and nodded.

  “You’re right. Perfectly cast to play Samson.”

  “A Russian,” Girland’s expression was thoughtful. “I wonder what he’s doing here?”

  He didn’t notice Janine’s slight start nor the quick hard look she threw at him.

  “He’s probably thinking the same about you,” she said.

  At this moment the waiter came with their order and Malik, finishing his drink, turned and walked with his long, swinging strides towards the hotel.

  Girland watched him go. He remembered Radnitz’s warning about the Russians who were also hunting for Carey. Was this blond giant one of them?

  “You’ve become very thoughtful all of a sudden,” Janine said as she peeled an enormous prawn. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Don’t insist or you’ll be embarrassed.”

  “About me?”

  “Well, of course.”

  She laughed.

  “Oh, I can guess. I have lived long enough in the company of men to know what they often think when they are with me.”

  “You have only your beauty to blame for that.”

  She deliberately changed the subject, asking him to tell her about Florida. It was some years since Girland had been to Great Miami, but he managed to give an interesting account of the City. They were still chatting idly when he paid the bill.

  “I must run,” she said, getting to her feet, “or I’ll be late.”

  “I’m coming up too. You’re sure I can’t give you a lift in my car?”

  “No, a car’s being sent for me, thank you.”

  They rode up together in the lift and parted at their doors.

  Girland took a shower, dressed, and then moved to the window that looked down on the entrance to the hotel. He was in time to see Janine, wearing a sleeveless emerald green frock, get into a black Cadillac, driven by an African, wearing a red fez, and he watched the car drive rapidly towards the Autoroute.

  Janine had no idea where she was being driven. She stared at the back of the chauffeur’s black neck and wondered if she should ask him, but decided not to.

  The chauffeur slowed the big car and turned to the left and she saw a signpost that read: Rufisque. That meant nothing to her. She found the heat of the afternoon sun stronger than she had imagined it would be,
but she didn’t dislike it.

  After driving for some miles, the car left the main road and slowing, began to bump along a sandy road, throwing up a cloud of fine sand either side of the car. An avenue of trees made a welcome shade, and finally, the car turned into a concealed drive and pulled up outside a large, bungalow type house, each window covered with green sun shutters.

  The chauffeur got out and opened the car door for her. Janine stepped into the violent sunshine, and then followed the chauffeur onto the terrace and to the front door of the bungalow. He opened the door and waved her to go on ahead.

  She moved into a cool, dimly lit lobby and the driver went away.

  Malik appeared from a room off the lobby. He was wearing white shorts, a white sports shirt and sandals.

  He stood aside, motioning her to enter the room which she found to be large and cool, sparsely furnished and pinned on one of the walls, a big map of Senegal.

  Malik waved her to one of the chairs and sat down at the table.

  “The reason why we told you to come here,” he said, staring at her, “is that we want to know exactly what has been going on in Paris and how much Dorey knows or guesses. The situation here is complicated.”

  Without omitting any details, Janine told him what had been happening since Madame Foucher had first telephoned Dorey.

  Malik listened intently. When she had finished, he said, “So the fool has no idea what she had to sell?”

  “He has no idea.”

  The evil green eyes examined her.

  “And you have no idea?”

  “No.”

  “So the only other people who know are Radnitz and this man Girland.”

  Janine didn’t say anything.

  “Dorey thinks Girland is dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “He isn’t dead. He’s here,” Malik said. Janine looked sharply at him.

  “What makes you think that? Dorey told me if he happened to be alive, it would be impossible for him to leave Paris.”

  “Dorey is a fool. Girland is here. You lunched with him this afternoon.”

  Janine lost colour.

  “The man I had lunch with is an American business man. I have a description of Girland. These two men are utterly unlike. I think you have made a mistake.”