1967 - Have This One on Me Read online

  There came a tap on the bathroom door and then it opened.

  ‘I’m going,’ Mala said.

  He got hastily off his undignified seat. She was wearing a simple blue dress and he thought she looked lovely. A spasm of desire ran through him. For a long moment he stared at her, then controlling himself, he took an envelope from his breast pocket.

  ‘It’s the money for Vlast,’ he said, giving the envelope to her. ‘For God’s sake don’t lose it. You have the film and the passport?’

  ‘Yes.’ She put the package in her bag and turned to cross the room. His eyes moved down her long, slim back. ‘There is something in the fridge if you are hungry.’

  ‘Thank you. Make certain no one is following you.’

  She looked sharply at him. She knew that their close association disturbed him and it worried her. She was sure he would control himself, but the sooner he left the better for both of them. He aroused no feelings in her. She just felt embarrassed and uneasy to have him with her.

  ‘I’ll watch it,’ she said and made for the door.

  It took her some twenty minutes to reach Celetna ulice.

  She began to climb to Vlast’s fifth floor apartment. On the third floor, she paused and looked down into the well below. Then satisfied she wasn’t being followed, she ran up the other two flights of stairs and rang on Vlast’s door bell.

  There was a long pause, then the door opened. She was confronted by an enormously fat old man, wearing a grey flannel shirt and stained black corduroy trousers. The fringe of hair that climbed over his ears was white. His small eyes, button nose and three chins made him a character that Hollywood would have loved.

  ‘Come in,’ he said and made a creaking bow. ‘I can’t remember ever having such a lovely visitor.’ He turned and waddled into the small living room, grey with dust, with two broken down armchairs, a table and a threadbare carpet. ‘I lost my wife.’ He slapped dust out of the seat of one of the chairs.

  ‘That’s a pretty dress you are wearing. It would be a pity to spoil it.’ He lumbered across the room for a copy of The Morning Sun and spread it on the seat of the chair. ‘There ... your dress will be quite safe. Please sit down.’

  Mala sat down. She took the money, the film cartridge and the passport from her bag. Then she stiffened, staring at the old man’s right hand which was heavily bandaged.

  ‘Have you hurt yourself?’ she asked.

  ‘It isn’t very bad. I cut myself. When you reach my age, cuts can be nasty. Now tell me why I should have so much pleasure.’

  ‘I have come from Mr. Worthington,’ she said, trying to control her rising panic. She put the three articles she was holding on the table. ‘He said you would do the work quickly.’

  Vlast looked at the passport, then shook his head.

  ‘It is unfortunate. Things like this happen ... always at the wrong time. As soon as my hand has healed, I will of course do it quickly.’

  He eyed the envelope. ‘Is that the money?’ He opened the envelope and counted the notes. Then he nodded, satisfied. ‘I like Mr. Worthington. I promised to help him. It won’t take long.’

  ‘How long?’ Mala asked, tense and wide-eyed.

  ‘A couple of weeks ... certainly not longer.’

  She stared at him and her hands turned into fists.

  ‘But it is now terribly urgent. They are already looking for him!’

  Vlast rubbed his unshaven chin. His thick fingers rasped against his stubble and his fat face darkened.

  ‘That is very bad. I’m sorry ... I can’t do it under two weeks. I assure you I would if it were possible.’

  Two weeks! Mala was thinking. I can’t have him in my room for two weeks!

  ‘Can’t you really do it before then?’

  ‘It has to be perfect. If I did it badly, I would be sending him to his death. In two weeks, I should be able to make a perfect job ... I wouldn’t risk it before.’

  Mala sat for a long moment in despair, then she got to her feet.

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Tell him I am very sorry.’ The old man’s eyes feasted happily on her trim figure. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No ... no thanks.’

  She was already moving to the door. He watched her leave, feeling depressed that someone so attractive, so colourful should be going out of his life. He put the articles she had given him in a drawer and locked it. Then he walked heavily over to the open window and leaned out. He watched her as she walked down the street and until she was out of sight.

  Well, Worthington was lucky, he thought, wishing he was forty years younger. He wondered if they were lovers. Sighing, he went back to his dusty armchair and sat down. His bandaged hand was beginning to throb. He would go to the hospital in the afternoon. He must get his hand well so he could keep his promise to Worthington.

  * * *

  Left on his own, Worthington examined Mala’s apartment with care. It consisted of a fair size living room. A narrow divan bed stood in an alcove. There was a minute kitchenette and a bathroom with a toilet. A range of cupboards stood along one of the walls of the living room. There was also a small balcony reached by french windows at the far end of the living room.

  The balcony, containing two big flowering shrubs in tubs, looked on to a high blank wall of a church. In an emergency, if someone came unexpectedly. Worthington could hide himself on the balcony sure that he wouldn’t be seen either from the street or from the living room. This gave him a little comfort.

  He put his suitcase under the divan bed and then sat down in the armchair. Standing in one of the corners of the living room was a lifesize, kneeling angel carved from wood ... a church ornament that someone had found in some antique shop ... probably the owner of the apartment. He felt more relaxed as he contemplated the angel, admiring the sweep of the wings, the pious expression of the wooden face and the simple robes.

  It was a masterpiece of carving, he thought. This was something he would like to own. Well, when he finally reached Geneva and got his money, he would look around. He might be lucky enough to find something as good.

  He was still thinking about his money and where he would eventually settle once he reached Geneva when he heard someone coming up the stairs. Getting swiftly to his feet, he stepped out on to the balcony, and leaned against the wall, alert and frightened. His fingers touched the butt of his Colt .32 automatic which he carried in a holster under his left armpit.

  He heard the lock turn and then there was a pause. Cautiously, he peered around the big flowering shrub. He caught a glimpse of Mala as she looked anxiously around the room. He came from behind the shrub.

  ‘Oh!’ She caught her breath sharply. ‘I - I thought you had gone.’

  Worthington smiled bitterly. Her disappointment was so apparent.

  ‘No. One must always take precautions. I heard you coming up the stairs.’ He paused, looking expectantly at her. ‘When will Vlast have my passport ready?’

  ‘He has hurt his hand. He thinks two weeks.’

  Blood rushed into Worthington’s face, then receded, leaving his face a blotchy white.

  ‘Two weeks? That’s ridiculous!’

  ‘I know, but he can’t use his hand.’ She paused, then said violently, ‘You can’t stay here for two weeks! You must go! I won’t have you here!’

  Worthington sat down. Two weeks! Every day and night of those two weeks would be dangerous with Malik hunting for him. There would also be Dorey’s killer hunting for him. He felt himself cringe. Leave her? That would be asking for death.

  This little apartment was his only refuge.

  Mala was saying, ‘Please go!’ Her voice was hysterical. ‘I don’t want any more to do with you! Don’t just sit there ... take your bag and go!’

  Worthington shifted his mind from his troubles to hers. He could understand how she was feeling. How different it would have been if she loved him as he loved her, he thought bitterly.

  When there is love there is kindne
ss and a willingness to make a sacrifice.

  ‘If I go,’ he said quietly, ‘they would pick me up quickly. Make no mistake about that. We have already discussed this. I have never been brave ... few people are really brave. It wouldn’t be difficult for them to make me talk. How long do you imagine you would last if they caught me? I must stay here for both our sakes. There is nowhere else for me to go.’

  Mala looked at him in despair, realising what he was saying was the truth.

  ‘Then I will go. I’ll ask one of my girlfriends to put me up.’

  ‘Would that be wise?’ Worthington lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand. ‘Your friend would want to know why you have left here. Isn’t that telling her that I am here?’

  She sat down abruptly.

  ‘We can manage,’ Worthington went on soothingly. ‘You don’t leave the club till midnight. I can get all the sleep I need while you are at the club. I promise you I won’t be a nuisance.’

  She said nothing, but continued to stare down at her hands, tightly clenched in her lap.

  Although he loved her, Worthington began to lose patience.

  Couldn’t she show some kindness? Was she so completely indifferent to him?

  ‘I’m trying to be reasonable about this,’ he said, an edge to his voice. ‘Will you please pull yourself together? Can’t you see if they catch me, they will kill both of us?’

  She looked up, her face white, her lips trembling.

  ‘Why did you do this to me? I was safe. Why were you so cowardly and selfish as to come here?’

  Worthington flinched.

  ‘No one is ever safe,’ he said. ‘That is a stupid thing to say. I know I am a coward, but you are also cowardly. You are thinking only of yourself. I’m thinking of both of us.’ Then as she said nothing, he went on, ‘Let us think about lunch. Is there anything to eat? I’m hungry.’

  chapter three

  Oscar Bruckman had been in Prague now for two days. He was staying at a modest hotel in the Stare Mesto district, and had been acting like a staid American tourist. One of the first places of entertainment he had visited was the Alhambra night club. He had seen Mala Reid’s act, and had noted the time she came on and when her act finished. Bruckman, who was tone deaf, had no idea if this attractive girl could sing or not. He didn’t care, but he did appreciate her figure.

  He had also been to her apartment block. His keen photographic eyes had recorded all the necessary details he would have to use later. He had stepped into the doorway to light a cigarette. He had noted there was no concierge nor elevator.

  Around five o’clock on this second day in his stay in Prague he received the green light from Dorey in a coded cable. Girland had obtained a visa for Prague and would be leaving the following morning.

  As Mala was beginning her act at the Alhambra, Bruckman put the package, containing the thirty thousand dollars Dorey had given him, into a shabby briefcase and left his hotel.

  He walked to Mala’s apartment. At this time of night, the streets were practically deserted. Only a few tourists wandered around, gaping at the beautiful buildings, pausing to examine the various old house signs used before house numbers came into fashion.

  He entered the apartment block and walked cautiously up the steep spiral staircase, making no attempt to deaden his footfalls on the bare boards. He was far too astute ever to appear furtive. He climbed the stairs as an expected visitor, and Worthington heard him coming.

  The past two days had been a big strain on Worthington.

  Every sound outside the apartment had sent him scurrying out to the balcony. Mala had been understandably frightened of him, and to his distress, she now spent all her waking hours out of the apartment, sitting in cafes, wandering around various museums, going to a movie ... anything, rather than stay alone with him in the apartment, only returning at eight o’clock when she had to prepare for her act at the Alhambra.

  Time hung heavily on Worthington’s hands. He had only his uneasy thoughts for company.

  Mala had screened the alcove, containing the bed, with a sheet hung over a length of string. On her return from the nightclub, she would have a few brief, casual words with Worthington, then she would retire behind the screen, leaving Worthington to spend the rest of the bleak hours in an armchair until she again left the apartment early in the morning.

  When she was dressing for the nightclub. Worthington went behind the screen and lay on the bed. He had to listen to her movements, taking a shower and dressing. He wished that she could love him as he loved her. They were two lonely people, he kept telling himself: people hovering on the brink of disaster and certain death. But she gave him no hint of encouragement. She was distant, polite and so obviously anxious to see the last of him.

  Now, once again, she had gone to the club, leaving a faint smell of perfume some American admirer had given her lingering in the room and he was faced with four hours of restless sleep on his own. He was about to undress when he heard Bruckman coming up the stairs.

  His heart missed a beat. Looking quickly around to make sure he had left no telltale sign that he was living in this room, he snapped off the light and tiptoed out on to the balcony, easing the french windows shut behind him. He drew his Colt automatic and got behind the flowering shrub. The gun in his hand gave him no confidence. Even in the worse kind of emergency, he couldn’t imagine himself ever pulling the trigger.

  Bruckman paused outside the front door. The building was silent. He thumbed the doorbell and waited. He had his story ready if anyone came to the door. From the mailboxes downstairs, he had taken the name of the owner of the apartment above. He would apologise for his mistake and then walk up the stairs.

  He waited patiently, then rang again. After a further wait, he was satisfied the apartment was empty. He took from his wallet a flexible piece of steel and expertly unlocked the door.

  He moved into the dark room, groped for the light switch and turned it on.

  Peering around the shrub, Worthington caught a brief glimpse of Bruckman as he moved into the room. He immediately recognised the big heavily built man. Fear, he knew was in him but up to now had never truly experienced, paralysed him.

  He knew Bruckman was O’Halloran’s strong arm thug who did most of O’Halloran’s dirty work. He was an executioner for the C.I.A. used when an Agent with important information threatened to defect.

  Who had betrayed him to Bruckman? Worthington wondered, his heart hammering. He thumbed back the safety catch on his gun, but he knew he could never shoot Bruckman.

  There was this weak, compassionate streak in him that made it impossible for him to take human life. He knelt on the balcony, cold with fear, waiting for Bruckman to discover him.

  Minutes passed: nothing happened. Terrified, Worthington again peered into the room.

  Bruckman was coming out of the bathroom. He was massively menacing as he looked around the room, then he walked over to the lifesize wooden angel and stared thoughtfully at it.

  Worthington watched him, puzzled. Bruckman’s broad back blocked the angel from Worthington’s view. Then Bruckman half-turned and Worthington saw he was holding the angel’s wooden head in his hands. This he placed on the floor, then he opened his briefcase and took from it a small package done up in brown paper. He forced the package down the hollow neck of the angel into the body. He worked quickly and without fuss, and in a moment the angel’s head had been replaced. He looked around the room, picked up the empty briefcase, walked to the door, turned off the light and closed the door behind him.

  Worthington waited, unable to believe his luck, then he gently pushed open the french windows. He could hear Bruckman clumping down the stairs and he moved cautiously across the dark room to the front door. He eased it open.

  Bruckman’s heavy tread was dying away. Then Worthington heard the entrance door slam shut.

  He turned on the light and went shakily to the armchair and sat down. He had been too close to death, he thought. He was so badly frightened th
at he could only sit motionless, staring at the wooden angel, thankful he was still alive. His mind crawled with alarm.

  He was still sitting in the chair, now half asleep, his body and mind beginning to relax when Mala returned. As soon as she saw his face, tight with fear and the sweat beads on his forehead, she knew something had happened. Quickly she closed the door and shot the bolt.

  ‘What is it?’

  Worthington got slowly to his feet. He made a desperate effort to conceal his fear, but he could see her growing terror.

  ‘Bruckman’s been here. He picked the lock. I - I hid on the balcony.’

  Mala stared fearfully at him.

  ‘Who is he? What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s one of Dorey’s men,’ Worthington said, trying to control his impatience. ‘When I saw him come in, I was sure someone had given me away.’ He rubbed his dry lips with the back of his hand. ‘I thought he was going to murder me.’