This is For Real Read online

  Rossland immediately became alert. He looked back over his shoulder at the cruising Citroen.

  “Could be wrong. Let’s see if we can lose him,” Girland went on.

  He turned right at the next intersection, drove down a one-way street, made narrow by parked cars, then turned right again where he was forced to stop at the traffic lights.

  The black Citroen crawled to a stop some ten feet behind him.

  “Don’t look around,” Girland said, peering into the driving mirror. “He’s still with us.” He drove on as the lights changed to green. “I’ll stop and fix him.”

  “No! Let him alone. I want to talk to you,” Rossland said sharply. “You keep driving. He can’t hear what we’re saying.”

  Girland shrugged. He drove in silence for a few minutes, then crossed Pont Sully and turned down Quai d’Anjou. When he had driven half way down the Quai, he saw the Citroen crawling after him. Ahead of him, a car pulled out from the line of tightly parked cars and went roaring down the Quai.

  Girland swung the little car into the vacant space, stopped and turned off the engine.

  “Now, let’s see what he’ll do.”

  The driver of the Citroen abruptly accelerated and swept past them without looking in their direction. At the end of the Quai, the car turned right and disappeared into the fast moving traffic crossing Port Marie.

  “That’s got rid of him for the moment,” Girland said and lit a cigarette. “What’s all this about? How did you get yourself tailed, Harry? He was after you; not me.”

  Rossland looked worried.

  “I was tailed by a young punk with a beard. I lost him in the Métro. Looks like there were two tails.”

  Girland grimaced.

  “You ought to know there are always two tails: one working in front, the other behind.”

  “You telling me this guy tailed me in the Métro in a goddamn Citroen?” Rossland demanded angrily.

  “Another stooge was the front man. He saw you waiting for me. He telephoned this guy in the Citroen and he was ready for us when I arrived.” Girland said with offensive patience. “But never mind. What’s it all about?”

  “This morning Dorey had a telephone call from a woman who calls herself Madame Foucher,” Rossland said. “She claims to have something to sell. Dorey doesn’t know if it is a hoax or not. She hinted she might approach others. He wants to be sure she isn’t a nut. She wants to meet someone who’ll discuss price and so on. Dorey has dropped this into my lap. I’m dropping it into yours. It’s simple enough. She’ll be at ‘Allo, Paris’ at eleven o’clock tonight. I want you to contact her and find out what she has to offer and what she wants for it.”

  “What’s the rest of it?”

  “That’s all. You’ll have to decide whether or not she does have anything worth buying. Don’t commit us to anything. This first meeting is merely exploratory.”

  “But why bring me into it? Why don’t you handle it yourself, Harry? It sounds right up your alley.”

  Rossland went through the routine of shaking out a cigarette from a crumpled pack and lighting it, before he said, “I always keep to the sidelines. That’s why I’m useful to Dorey.”

  “You know something?” Girland said seriously. “You’re now as useful to Dorey as a hole in the head. Why don’t you grow up? This isn’t a hoax, sonny boy: this is for real. She’s already talked to others and they’re watching their interests. They’re on to you and they’re now on to me, thanks to your dumbness. You’ve led them direct to me. All they have to do is to check the number of my car to know who I am and where I live. How smart can you get, Harry? What’s happening to that white thing in your head you call a brain?”

  Rossland shifted his bulk uncomfortably.

  “Don’t talk that way to me!” he blustered. “I don’t like it!”

  “You’re not meant to like it,” Girland said in a bored, flat voice. “You’re beginning to show signs of being washed up in this racket. You’re now too fat, too damned sleek, too sure of yourself. You’ve had a long, long run for your money and now you’re over confident. You think this is a parlour game: giving orders, raking in the money, waving your tiny wand and letting others do the dirty work. Two years ago, you wouldn’t have let a front tail get onto you. This isn’t a game, Harry. This is one of the most lethal rackets you can get into. Mugs like us who are crazy enough to work for drips like Dorey have to look out for trouble all the time. You’ve become so smug and stale you can’t even recognise trouble when it actually sits in your fat lap.”

  “My God!” Rossland exclaimed, sweat breaking out on his forehead. “No cheap shyster like you can talk this way to me! You’re not the only agent I have who can handle this and be glad to! I’m doing you a favour because I know you want the money. You stop picking on me or I’ll …”

  “No, you won’t, Harry,” Girland said and there was a bored note in his voice. “I happen to be the last of the suckers who are willing to do your dirty work and you know it. Jason’s gone. Gray, Fauchet and Pierre … they saw the red light as I’m seeing it now. I’m the last of your shabby little stable who you can rely on, so don’t wave threats in my face.”

  Rossland breathed heavily. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and stared furiously through the dusty windshield of the car.

  “What’s it worth?” Girland asked finally. “I won’t even consider it until I get some money.”

  Rossland hesitated, then groped in his hip pocket. He gave Girland two one hundred franc notes.

  “Where’s the rest of it?” Girland demanded.

  “That’s all for the moment. You know the way Dorey pays.”

  Girland put the notes in his limp wallet.

  “I need my head examined working for this kind of money,” he said in disgust.

  “I want action,” Rossland said. “I’m going back to my place right now and I’ll be waiting. Watch it they don’t tail you.”

  “Very funny … coming from you,” Girland said.

  Herman Radnitz sat in an alcove in the bar of the George V Hotel: a square, fat man with hooded eyes and a thick hooked nose. He wore an immaculate Savile Row suit, a dark red carnation in his button hole and Lobb brogue shoes. From time to time he drew on an expensive cigar which he held in his short, fat fingers.

  He had been sitting in the bar for the past half hour, his ruthless face clouded with thought.

  Radnitz was a well-known figure at the hotel. He was believed to be one of the richest men in the world. His financial machinations spread like the tentacles of an octopus over the whole globe.

  A young man, wearing a chin beard and a shabby overcoat belted like a dressing-gown, came quietly into the bar. He paused, then at a sign from Radnitz, sat down in a vacant chair by Radnitz’s side.

  This young man whose name was Michel Thomas, said softly, “Dorey has had an interview with Rossland. They met at the Crillon Bar and talked for some time. As they were leaving, Dorey gave Rossland something … could have been money. I wasn’t close enough to see. Rossland then went to the bar at the Normandy Hotel and made a telephone call. Borg was with me. He followed Rossland from in front: I from behind. Rossland lost me in the Métro, but Borg stayed with him. Borg has just now telephoned that Rossland met an American in a Fiat car. We don’t know who this American is, but we have his car number and Borg is making inquiries.”

  Radnitz stared down at his spade shaped finger nails. There was a long pause, then he said, “This must be handled quickly. Make Rossland tell you what he discussed with Dorey. I don’t care what you do to him. He’s expendable.”

  Thomas nodded and got to his feet.

  “I’ll be waiting here,” Radnitz said. “Be quick about it.” He reached for his drink as Thomas made his way quietly out of the bar.

  On the Avenue, Thomas walked to where a black Citroen was parked. The driver, a short, heavily built man with a round fat face and cruel little eyes looked at Thomas inquiringly as he opened the car door and slid into
the front seat.

  There was another man sitting in the back of the car. He was tall and thin and dark. His lean hatchet shaped face was as expressionless as a mask. His very stillness gave him an extraordinary look of menace.

  “The boss wants us to talk to Rossland,” Thomas said. “He has an apartment on Rue Castiglione.”

  Borg, the driver, grunted, started the engine and pulled away from the kerb.

  It took them ten minutes to reach Rossland’s apartment block. Thomas and the tall man, Schwartz, got out and Borg drove away in search of parking space.

  “We can handle this without Borg,” Thomas said.

  “You mean I can,” Schwartz said with a sneer.

  Thomas looked sharply at him. He was getting worried by Schwartz’s undisguised contempt, but he decided this wasn’t the time for a showdown. They entered the lobby, moving quickly past the concierge’s window and reached the lift. Pressed close together in the small cage, the two men were drawn up to the top floor.

  They got out, closing the lift door silently.

  Thomas pointed to the tiny spy-hole set in the panel of the front door which allowed anyone inside to have a view of the caller outside.

  Schwartz nodded and stood aside. Thomas took from his overcoat pocket a .38 automatic. He screwed a small, but efficient silencer to the barrel, then he rang the front door bell as Schwartz put his hand over the spy hole.

  There was a long pause, then they heard the sound of heavy footfalls.

  Rossland was drunk enough to be careless. He didn’t even bother to use the spy-hole. Unlocking the door, he jerked it open.

  Thomas lifted the automatic and pointed it at Rossland’s paunch.

  “No fuss,” he said quietly. “Walk backwards and keep your hands still.”

  As Schwartz appeared behind Thomas, Rossland’s face sagged and turned grey. He walked slowly backwards into the living-room. Thomas followed him while Schwartz closed the front door and locked it.

  Girland ran up the flights of stairs to his apartment. He had time to take the girl, waiting for him, to the little bistro across the way, he thought as he reached the top landing. After dinner, he would bring the girl back here, persuade her to wait for him again, and then see this woman at the ‘Allo Paris’ club. When he was through with her, and after calling Rossland, he would return to his apartment. The girl and he would have fun together for the rest of the night. It was typical of the confidence he had in himself that it never occurred to him that the girl might not be co-operative.

  He unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped into the lighted room, then he paused, frowning. There was no sign of the girl.

  “Tessa?” he called, raising his voice.

  Only silence greeted him.

  He looked into the shower room, then satisfied that she had gone, he sat on the bed.

  In disgust, he thought, well, she certainly had me for a sucker. She must have gone as soon as I. I really thought I was on to a sure thing. Then he frowned. But why? Why did she come back here and give me the treatment if she didn’t intend to play? His eyes became alert and he got to his feet. He looked around the big room. Everything seemed to be just as he had left it.

  He crossed the room to the big wardrobe and looked at the three drawers in the wardrobe. The lower drawer which he didn’t use was his warning of alarm. He had gummed a hair across the opening to alert him if someone searched his room. He saw the hair was broken.

  He went into the shower room, pressed the spring in the panel and looked inside. In the recess, he hid his professional equipment: an Exakta camera with its accessories, two microphones, a tape recorder, a set of burglar’s tools, several guns and various other pieces of equipment he needed from time to time. The recess also contained an odd assortment of clothing for there were times when Girland had to change his appearance.

  A tiny electric light in the ceiling glowed green. It told him the girl hadn’t discovered the recess.

  He snapped the panel shut and returned to the living-room. He stood for some seconds, thinking. He had criticised Rossland unjustly, he thought. Whoever these people were, they had known about him before he had met Rossland. He was angry with himself. The girl had been cleverly planted, and he had been stupid enough to have fallen for her.

  He crossed the room to the telephone and dialled Rossland’s number. He listened to the steady ring of the bell, and when he finally convinced himself there was going to be no answer, he replaced the receiver. He ran his hand thoughtfully up and down the nape of his neck.

  Rossland had said he was returning to his apartment. He had said he would be waiting for Girland … so why didn’t he answer his telephone?

  Girland went to the shower room and exchanged his ammonia gun for a .45 automatic. Leaving his apartment he descended the stairs and moved cautiously to where he had parked his car.

  It took him twenty minutes to reach Rossland’s apartment block. He parked the car around the corner and then walked back to the entrance to the block.

  Leaving the lift at the fifth floor, he rang Rossland’s bell. He didn’t expect an answer, and after a minute wait, he opened the door with a piece of thick wire that he used expertly with any lock.

  Gun in hand, he moved silently into the tiny hall, and then into the living-room.

  He paused at the sight of Rossland, lying on the velvet covered settee. The muscles in Girland’s face tightened at the sight of the fat man as he lay in painful death.

  Rossland had been brutally strangled. The nails of his right hand had been torn off. Blood from his nail-less fingers made a small pool of dark blood on the carpet.

  The mutilated hand told Girland all he needed to know. He knew Rossland hadn’t the guts to withstand such torture. Whoever had killed him now knew that a woman calling herself Madame Foucher had a meeting with Girland at ‘Allo Paris’ club at eleven o’clock this night.

  Girland touched Rossland’s dead shoulder. He had worked for Rossland now for five years. He had watched Rossland grow fat and soft. The other men who had worked for Rossland had gradually deserted him. Girland had hung on because he had been too lax to look elsewhere. Rossland had provided him with just enough money to live the way he liked to live.

  Girland looked down at the dead face with its bulging eyes, the tongue, a red ball, protruding between big yellow teeth, and he felt a sudden sorrow for what remained of Rossland. He had warned him. He had said, “This is for real.” But Rossland had been too drunk and stupid to heed the warning.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I have been able to identify the American in the Fiat car, sir,” Thomas said. He was standing respectfully before Radnitz who was sitting in a lounging chair, looking up at Thomas. They were in the sitting-room of Radnitz’s luxury suite. The hands of the gilt ornate clock on the overmantel pointed to twenty-five minutes to ten. “His name is Mark Girland, and he has a one-room apartment on Rue de Suisses. He calls himself a Freelance Journalist, but he doesn’t appear to have any money. Under pressure, Rossland admitted this man is one of his agents. Girland does not deal direct with Dorey. Rossland has told him to meet this woman, Madame Foucher, at the ‘Allo Paris’ club at eleven o’clock tonight. Neither Rossland nor Dorey know what it is she has to sell. I am a little late, sir, because we went to Girland’s place, but he had gone. I had hoped to get rid of him as we got rid of Rossland.”

  Radnitz drew on his cigar.

  “You are doing very well, Thomas, but understand this: Girland is not to meet this woman. Make sure he doesn’t get near the club. Have it completely sealed off. Get rid of him. Get hold of this woman. I must talk to her. Don’t hurt her. Take her to Schwartz’s place. I’ll wait here until you telephone me. I repeat: Girland is not to talk to her. It is imperative I see and talk to her before anyone does. Is that understood?”

  You are doing very well.

  Such praise came seldom from Radnitz and Thomas flushed with pleasure. He was Radnitz’s slave, admiring him with adulation bordering on
fanaticism.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I will arrange everything.”

  Radnitz dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He thought Thomas ridiculous with his little beard and in his shabbiness, but he was content to use him as long as he served him efficiently.

  Thomas left the hotel, walking on air. He returned to where the Citroen was parked. He and Borg discussed the instructions he had received. Schwartz sat motionless in the back seat. He never took part in plan making. His job was to eliminate. Both Thomas and Borg regarded him as a savage and were secretly afraid of him.

  Thomas said, “We will need more men. You wait here. I’ll telephone. If we are to seal off the club, I must have at least another four men.”

  Borg watched him return to the hotel and he put a cigarette between his thin lips. He regarded Schwartz in the driving mirror. Schwartz was staring with brooding intensity before him. Borg grimaced uneasily. Thomas had told him what Schwartz had done to Rossland. There were times, Borg thought, when he wondered if the money Radnitz paid him was enough to compensate him for the way he was living.

  A blonde girl, wearing a New York Herald Tribune sweater came up to the car and jerked the door open.

  “Tribune?” she asked, offering the paper. Her blue eyes examined Borg, and they then shifted to Schwartz.

  Borg grinned at her. He liked blondes especially when they had a shape like this girl had.

  “Don’t you peddle anything else besides newspapers, baby?” he asked and leered at her.

  The girl stepped back and slammed the car door. He watched her walk away.

  “I bet the guy who’s lucky to have her has himself a good time,” he said wistfully. “Selling newspapers! She must be crazy! With a tail like that, she could make a fortune.”

  Schwartz remained silent. Women meant nothing to him. Borg hated him for his superior disinterest.

  A minute later, Thomas came out of the hotel. The blonde girl, her newspapers in her hand, was standing in the shadows. Thomas didn’t notice her. As he got into the Citroen, the girl scribbled on the front page of the Tribune, the number of the car.