1965 - This is for Real Page 14

  A five minute walk through the narrow, bakingly hot lanes brought them suddenly to the sea again. Awa paused and pointed. “There's his house. That one with the high walls.”

  Girland could see little of the house except for the red sloping roof. The white surrounding walls hid the house from view.

  “I wait here,” Awa said, sitting on a rock. “You will give me the money when you come back?”

  “Yes,” Girland said and set off at a brisker pace towards the house.

  Heavy wooden gates guarded the entrance and when he lifted the iron latch, he found the gates locked. He stepped back, wiping his sweating face with his handkerchief, then seeing a hanging iron chain, he pulled it. From somewhere in the hidden garden, he heard the bell toll and again he waited.

  There was a long pause, then a judas window in the gate opened and a black face showed itself.

  “I would like to see Mr. Fantaz.” Girland said.

  Close-set black eyes studied him then the man shook his head.

  “Mr. Fantaz is not in.”

  “I have important business with him. When will he be in?”

  “Sometime after six this evening.”

  “Will you say I will be here at half past six and that I am a friend of John Dorey? Will you remember that?”

  The man nodded and closed the Judas window.

  Girland walked back to where Awa was sitting. She looked anxiously at him.

  “Why didn't you see him?” she demanded. “He lives there. I know he does.”

  “He isn't in. I have to come back this evening.”

  “Then you give me my money?”

  He gave her the three thousand francs he had promised her.

  She smiled happily as she put the money in her bag.

  “You want to see the island? It is very interesting. There is a very interesting museum and a slave house. You will like it all very much.”

  “Not right now,” Girland said. “Is there anywhere good hotel where I can have lunch?”

  “A very good hotel.” Awa stood up. “I will show you. My brother will wait all day.”

  Girland decided now he was here, he might as well explore the island. He followed Awa down a narrow lane. For no reason at all, he felt an urge to look behind him. He stopped and turned.

  He was in time to catch a glimpse of Ivan as he walked slowly past the mouth of the lane, heading towards Fantaz's house.

  “Wait here,” Girland said sharply to Awa and moving quickly, he walked to the end of the lane. He paused and cautiously looked around the wall.

  Ivan was standing outside the gates of Fantaz's house, his fiery red face a mask of sweat. Girland watched him pull the bell chain.

  As Ivan waited in the sun, Girland examined him. A Russian! he thought, feeling a prickle of excitement. So he had guessed right. The Russians were in on this. He watched Ivan talk to the gatekeeper, then step back as the Judas window shut.

  There was a snarling expression of rage on Ivan's face as he walked slowly to where Girland was concealed.

  Girland looked around. Close by was an open doorway leading to a rubbish strewn courtyard. He stepped into the courtyard and concealed himself behind the open door. Through a crack in the door, he had a limited view of the bottom of the lane.

  Ivan appeared and paused, wiping his face as he looked down the lane and then to right and left. A short, emaciated Arab, wearing a dirty robe and an even dirtier piece of cloth wrapped around his head, joined Ivan.

  Ivan said, “He is not there and won't be back until this evening. Surround the house and wait for him to come. Keep out of sight. I am going to the hotel. As soon as he returns send one of your men to the hotel. Do you understand?”

  The Arab bowed his head.

  “Which is the quickest way to the hotel?”

  The Arab pointed down the lane where Awa was still waiting. Ivan's voice came clearly to Girland and he pressed himself against the wall as Ivan passed the courtyard. He waited several minutes, then moved cautiously into the lane. There was no sign of Ivan. Awa was squatting on her heels with native resigned patience. Seeing him, she stood up.

  Girland joined her. He told her to take him to the hotel.

  A ten minute slow walk brought them within sight of the hotel that overlooked the sea. There was a snarling expression of rage on Ivan's face as he walked slowly to where Girland was concealed.

  Girland looked around. Close by was an open doorway leading to a rubbish strewn courtyard. He stepped into the courtyard and concealed himself behind the open door. Through a crack in the door, he had a limited view of the bottom of the lane.

  Ivan appeared and paused, wiping his face as he looked down the lane and then to right and left. A short, emaciated Arab, wearing a dirty robe and an even dirtier piece of cloth wrapped around his head, joined Ivan.

  Ivan said, “He is not there and won't be back until this evening. Surround the house and wait for him to come. Keep out of sight. I am going to the hotel. As soon as he returns send one of your men to the hotel. Do you understand?”

  The Arab bowed his head.

  “Which is the quickest way to the hotel?”

  The Arab pointed down the lane where Awa was still waiting. Ivan's voice came clearly to Girland and he pressed himself against the wall as Ivan passed the courtyard. He waited several minutes, then moved cautiously into the lane. There was no sign of Ivan. Awa was squatting on her heels with native resigned patience. Seeing him she stood up.

  Girland joined her. He told her to take him to the hotel.

  A ten minute slow walk brought them within sight of the hotel that overlooked the sea.

  Girland said, “You can go back to Dakar now with your brother.” He gave her money to pay her brother.

  “My brother will wait if you want him.”

  “No. Tell him to go. And you: remember, don't talk about me.”

  She nodded, then turning away, she walked with long, lazy strides towards the mole.

  Girland continued on to the hotel. He wondered if he were taking risks, letting the Russian see him but decided it was safe enough. There were a number of white people on the beach and several Americans sitting at tables outside the hotel He would be just another American tourist to the Russian.

  He found a vacant table and sat down. There was no sign of the Russian. Glancing around Girland found he was able to look through the windows into a small bar and there he saw him, leaning up against the bar, a bottle of Scotch and a half filled glass before him.

  A waiter came languidly over to Girland. He ordered a beer.

  When the waiter returned a few minutes later Girland asked him when lunch would be ready.

  “It is ready now, sir. Upstairs.” The waiter pointed.

  “I'll go up in a minute.” Girland turned to watch the Russian who was pouring himself another drink. He saw the Russian beckon to the barman and there was a brief conversation, then the Russian went back to his drinking.

  Having finished his beer, Girland went up the stairs and into the L-shaped restaurant. There were only a few tourists in the restaurant and the waiter led Girland to a table so placed he could see both arms of the room.

  He ordered the set meal and a bottle of Muscadet. It was while he was eating the hors d'oeuvres that Ivan came into the restaurant. He sat at a table near the entrance and looked around with the quick searching glance of a man who misses no details.

  Girland looked away as the Russian's eyes reached him. The next time Girland glanced in his direction, the Russian was studying the menu.

  As Girland waited for his second course, two men came into the restaurant. The first man was bald and thin. He earned with him a briefcase and as he followed the waiter to a secluded table, he took off his green sunglasses

  But it was the second man who held Girland's attention.

  He was tall and bulky. His face was round and fat. He wore a black moustache and dark glasses. He looked extraordinarily like ex-King Farouk. Glittering on the little fing
er of his left hand was a large gold signet ring.

  Girland had no doubt that this heavily built man, walking towards him, was Enrico Fantaz.

  chapter eight

  A number of gaily dressed Africans, walking in single file, converged on the Ferry steamer as it manoeuvred into position alongside the mole.

  Girland watched them from the window of the restaurant.

  He had finished his meal and was now idling over his coffee.

  The Russian had gone. Girland had overheard him ask the waiter where he could find Room 12 and Girland guessed he was going to sleep off his heavy lunch.

  From time to time, he glanced at Fantaz's table. The fat Portuguese had consumed an enormous lunch while he talked in low tones to his companion. Both men were now smoking cigars; coffee and brandy on the table.

  “That's the boat,” Fantaz said, slightly raising his voice and pointing at the steamer. “We have plenty of time. It doesn't leave until two o'clock.”

  The other man said, “You are sure you can spare the time. Mr. Fantaz? It is not really necessary to come all the way.”

  Fantaz waved a fat hand.

  “Of course, I'll come. I have nothing to do this afternoon.”

  Listening, Girland finished his coffee and signalled to the waiter for his bill. He paid, then pushing back his chair, he left the restaurant and walked slowly through the intense heat to the steamer.

  Now that he had found Fantaz, Girland was determined not to lose him. He decided to follow him until he parted with his companion, and then he would approach him.

  He bought a ticket and went on board. He chose a seat that would enable him to get off the steamer quickly when it arrived at Dakar, and he settled down to wait.

  Five minutes before the steamer was due to sail, Fantaz and his companion came across the sand, still talking. Fantaz, from time to time, gesticulated with his fat hands, his gold ring glittering in the sun.

  They came on board, brushing past Girland and taking seats in the shade.

  The half hour trip to the port of Dakar allowed Girland time for thought. What worried him particularly was he had no proof to give Fantaz that he did come from Dorey. It wouldn't be easy to persuade him to tell him where Carey was hiding. He would warn him about the Russians. This information might inspire confidence in him As the steamer bumped against the side of the mole.

  Girland, already on his feet, was the first off. followed by a crowd of chattering, laughing Africans.

  He hurried to where he had parked his car, unlocked it and slid under the driving wheel, cursing at the oven-heat that had built up in the car. Lowering the windows, he started the engine and waited.

  Fantaz and his companion, still talking, made their way towards a black Buick. The African chauffeur opened the car door and both men got in.

  The car slid away, and Girland drove after it. Five minutes later, the Buick nosed its way through the traffic, swirling around Place de L'Independence. and double parked outside Banque Internationale pour le Commerce et Industrie de Senegal.

  Girland drove past the stationary car and watching in his driving mirror, saw Fantaz and his companion leave the Buick and enter the bank.

  A car pulled out of a parking bay and Girland took its place.

  From where he sat he could see the entrance to the bank, and although his car was parked in the full sun he reluctantly settled down to wait.

  The Buick drove away. After ten minutes. Girland, unable to stand the heat any longer, left the car and took shelter in the shade of the bank's arcade. He bought a newspaper and propping himself up against a pillar, he spent the next half hour glancing at the paper and watching the bank.

  He was so preoccupied that he did not notice Janine coming towards him. The sound of her voice startled him.

  “Why, hello,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  Girland started.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, folding his newspaper and smiling at her. Again, he glanced at the entrance to the bank.

  He mustn't miss Fantaz, he told himself.

  “I came in on the hotel bus. I've been shopping. Are you waiting for someone?”

  Girland hesitated, then said, “Yes.” He waved towards the bank. “One of my business contacts went in there and I just missed him. I'm waiting to talk to him.”

  Janine showed her disappointment.

  “I was hoping we could go in your car and explore the town.”

  “I'm sorry. I have to talk to this guy ... you know how it is.” Girland grimaced. “Business.”

  Janine looked away. Her eyes were suddenly suspicious.

  Was this man who had gone into the bank someone who knew about Carey? she wondered.

  “Oh well never mind.” She smiled up at him. “I must show you what I have just bought.” She opened her bag and took from it a tiny, beautifully carved ivory idol. “The man who sold it to me . . .”

  Girland saw Fantaz come out of the bank alone.

  “Excuse me,” he said quickly. “There's my man. I'll see you at the hotel tonight.”

  Janine was looking after Fantaz as he began to walk away from them.

  “That's all right,” she said. “I mustn't keep you. Au revoir then until tonight.”

  Girland touched her hand and then set off after Fantaz.

  Janine watched him. When Girland was only a few metres from Fantaz he slowed his pace. He followed Fantaz around the comer and into rue Camot.

  Janine hesitated, then started after him. A dry, hot hand closed around her wrist, stopping her. She turned with a startled gasp to find Malik at her side.

  “Leave him to me,” Malik said curtly and pushing past her, he walked quickly after Girland.

  Janine remained still for a long moment, her heart racing.

  She was sure now that the fat man was Fantaz. She was sure also Girland was in danger. There was no knowing what Malik might do if he got these two men in a lonely place.

  It was then she realised how much in love she was with Girland. Ever since he had left her that morning, she had thought of him. She had never before been in love. Infatuated, yes but she had never before experienced this feeling for a man that sent the blood coursing through her body every time she thought of Girland.

  The thought of losing him was unbearable, and she realised she couldn't go on with this hunt for Carey. Whatever the consequences, she told herself, she must now side with Girland.

  She must warn him that Malik knew who he was. Even at the almost certain risk of losing her life, she would change sides if Girland would have her.

  Moving quickly, she went after Malik.

  Some way down rue Camot, she caught sight of his silver blond head. She quickened her pace, dodging around the slow moving Africans who looked at her in surprised amusement.

  Girland kept behind Fantaz who seemed in no hurry. Fantaz waited on the edge of the kerb for a break in the steady flow of traffic. Girland also waited behind him. Fantaz glanced at his watch, then crossing the road, he entered a corner cafe.

  Nodding to the barman, he made his way to a table at the end of the big room and sat down.

  Girland crossed the road and paused outside the cafe. He saw Fantaz speak to the African waiter, then take a cigar from a leather case.

  From across the street, Malik stopped to look in a shop window, his eyes shifting from the window to Girland. Further down the street. Janine stepped into a shop doorway, watching Malik.

  When the waiter had brought a beer to Fantaz's table, Girland walked into the cafe. He wandered down the long room and took a seat at a table next to Fantaz who glanced at him then looked away.

  Girland ordered a beer and lit a cigarette. He waited until the beer was before him and the waiter had gone, then shifting his chair closer to Fantaz, he said quietly. “I called at your house this morning. I wanted to speak to you.”

  Fantaz drew on his cigar and let smoke drift out of his small mouth. Slowly, he turned his head. From behind his black sun
glasses, his eyes scrutinised Girland. His fat face remained placid and expressionless.

  “Yes?” Fantaz's voice was husky and effeminate.

  “John Dorey sent me to see you.”

  “John Dorey?” There was no reaction. “An unfamiliar name, Mr.... Mr. ...?”

  “I'm Mark Girland.”

  Fantaz picked up his beer and studied the tiny bubbles that rose in the glass.

  “Another unfamiliar name.” he said and shook his head.

  “What did you want to speak to me about?”

  Girland glanced around the half empty cafe. There was no one who could overhear what they were saying. Lowering his voice, he said, “Robert Henry Carey.”

  Fantaz lifted his black eyebrows.

  “Now that is a familiar name. How extraordinary! Some twenty-five years ago, when I was a very young man, Robert Carey and I were friends.”

  “Does that mean he isn't your friend any longer?”

  “Twenty-five years, Mr. Girland, is a long time. We do sometimes outgrow our friends.” The heavy fat shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Still, it would be interesting to meet Carey again. From what I can remember of him, he was an agreeable person to know.”

  Girland took another cigarette from his pack and lit it.

  “Rosa told me you had seen Carey within the past two weeks.”

  “Rosa ... another familiar name.” Fantaz said and sipped his beer. “You met her?”

  “I was told to meet her by Dorey. I paid her seven thousand dollars for information she gave me. She was to have collected another three thousand dollars, but unhappily, she was not able to.”

  There was a long pause, then Fantaz said. “Most interesting. Just why wasn't she able to collect the rest of this handsome sum Mr. Girland?”

  “A gunman hired by Herman Radnitz shot her at Orly airport as she was leaving for Dakar.”

  The beer slopped a little in the glass Fantaz was holding.

  “Is she dead?” The voice was huskier.

  “She's dead.” Girland said. “We were leaving in the same plane. I came on alone.”