This is For Real Read online

  From the suitcase he now produced a heavy well cut suit, a white shirt with J.G. embroidered on the pocket, a pair of expensive looking brogue shoes and invited Girland to change.

  Five minutes later, changed, Girland accepted a gold cigarette case, also bearing the initials J.G., a gold cigarette lighter, a monogrammed handkerchief, some small change in French currency, all of which he put in his various pockets. The nicest touch of all was a Diner Club ticket made out in the name of John Gilchrist which Borg handed to him with an expansive grin.

  “Well, now, Mr. Gilchrist, take a look at yourself,” Borg said and waved to the big mirror at the far end of the room.

  Girland approached the mirror, paused and stared. He found himself looking at a tall, blond man with a typical American crew cut, whose startled eyes regarded him with interest. Even the lines of his lean face had been altered by the use of small rubber suction pads inside his mouth. A pencil line moustache, put on hair by hair, gave him a rakish man of the world appearance and his complexion, instead of being sallow from constant late nights was now heavily sun tanned. Charlie hadn’t neglected his hands either and these matched his face. The transformation was so astonishing that Girland couldn’t believe he was looking at himself and it was only when he lifted his arms and moved about before the mirror that he was convinced.

  Charlie quickly packed away his things, nodded approvingly at Girland, then let himself out of the room.

  “Knock out, isn’t he?” Borg said. “I told you, didn’t I? Your own mother wouldn’t know you.”

  “I damn well don’t know myself,” Girland said, turning away from the mirror. “But will it all last? I mean this moustache? My hair will grow dark again.”

  “It’ll last long enough,” Borg said. “You can always touch up your hair if you have to. The moustache is waterproof. You can grow your own later. That sun tan will be replaced by your own tan as soon as you get into the African sun.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Girland put the wallet he had left on the table in his pocket.

  Borg went over to the bag and showed Girland how the false bottom operated. In the recess was a .38 automatic, a flick knife, a small bottle containing a number of tablets which Borg explained were tasteless knock-out drops. “You can even drop one of these in water: they dissolve immediately and the drinker is put away for at least six hours,” a lethal looking cosh and a box containing a hundred rounds of ammunition for the gun.

  “Well, that’s it,” Borg said. “If there’s anything else you can think of you’ll want, just say so and I’ll fix it. I was told to give you the V.I.P. treatment.”

  Girland shook his head.

  “That’s as complete an outfit as anyone would want,” he said.

  Borg picked up a bulky briefcase he had brought with him.

  “You’d better spend the rest of the day, going through these papers. You are representing the Orangeolo Corporation of Florida. Here’s all the dope. You’re visiting Dakar to see if it is worth while setting up a factory there. You want to know by heart the names of the directors, the sales manager and the complete background of the Corporation. It’s one of Radnitz’s babies and if anyone takes the trouble to check, they’ll back you.” He looked at his watch. “Time for lunch. I’ll pay your hotel check and take your bag to the air terminal. You’d better clear off now. Walk down the stairs. No one will recognise you. Take the briefcase … there’s five grand in big bills in there … and go somewhere where you can work through all the dope.” He grinned cheerfully at Girland. “Well, so long and good luck.”

  Girland nodded, picked up the heavy briefcase and after shaking hands with Borg, he let himself out of the hotel bedroom and walked quickly down the stairs.

  Away from the hotel, he went to a café and called the number Madame Foucher had given him. When he got her on the line, he told her would be on the aircraft that night.

  “I have your money,” he went on. “I don’t know what you are going to do with it. You’d better not take it through the Customs.”

  “I am at the Palace Hotel,” she told him. “Will you bring the money to the hotel and leave it with the hall porter for me?”

  “I’ll be around in half an hour,” Girland said. “Once again, don’t try to walk it through the Customs control.”

  “I’ll manage,” she said impatiently. “Just bring it to my hotel.”

  At 20.30 hours, Girland arrived at the Air terminal in a taxi. He walked briskly to where the bus to the airport stood waiting.

  He spotted Borg, sitting on a bench, Girland’s suitcase at his feet. He slowed his pace as Borg stood up and walked away. Without stopping, Girland picked up the suitcase and went on to the bus.

  At the airport, he checked in the suitcase, got his boarding ticket, and then joined the small queue passing through the Police control. Just ahead of him was a smartly dressed woman, and as she handed her French passport: Janine Daulnay. He admired her small waist and her long, slim legs, then as she passed through the barrier, it was his turn to hand in his faked passport. He became aware of a large, bulky man standing behind the control officer. By the cut of his hair and by the steady movement of his jaws as he chewed gum, Girland recognised him as an American. He guessed he would be one of Dorey’s security officers.

  Both the control officer and the American stared intently at Girland who looked back at them with an indifferent expression. The control officer examined his passport, then handed it to the American who also examined it.

  “What is your reason for going to Dakar, monsieur?” the control officer asked as the American handed back the passport.

  “Business purposes,” Girland said.

  “What business?”

  Girland zipped open the bulky briefcase, took from it a printed card and a letter. Both the control officer and the American examined the card and read the letter that came from Orangeolo Corporation of Florida, instructing John Gilchrist to investigate the possibilities of finding a site in Dakar for a branch factory.

  The control officer looked over his shoulder at the American who was scribbling down the address of the Corporation in a notebook. The American nodded and the control officer stamped Girland’s passport and waved him through.

  Girland walked into the enclosure where Customs officers were checking the baggage. He glanced back over his shoulder. At the end of the queue, Madame Foucher had suddenly appeared. She was carrying a large handbag and under her arm, the briefcase that Girland had given her.

  Girland winced. Surely she wasn’t crazy enough to attempt to pass through the Customs with all that money under her arm, he thought. Before she was within ten yards of the Passport control window, three men, one a French police inspector, the other two obviously American policemen in plain clothes, cut her out of the queue and surrounded her.

  Girland, his hands clammy, watched. He saw Madame Foucher protesting. People began to stare. Then quickly the three men moved away with her, heading for the Security Police office.

  No one noticed Schwartz as he sat on a bench by himself, his hand in his trench coat pocket, a cigarette hanging from his thin lips.

  Radnitz had given him his orders the previous night.

  “If this woman is arrested at the airport, she is not to talk. Is that understood?” Radnitz had said. “Take any risk. She’s not to talk.”

  Madame Foucher and the three policemen were coming towards him. One of the Americans walked behind, the French Inspector and the other American walked either side of her. Her big black eyes rolled with terror and her lips were trembling.

  Schwartz’s finger closed around the trigger of the hidden gun. He was confident the silencer on the gun, together with the noise of the jet aircraft warming up would conceal the sound of the shot.

  He lifted the gun inside his pocket. It was a difficult shot as it had to be lethal, but Schwartz was no stranger to difficult shots. He squeezed the trigger and felt the gun recoil in his hand. He heard a faint ‘plop’ as the gases from
the firing gun were trapped in the silencer. He saw Madame Foucher stagger, then fall forward as the French Inspector made a futile grab at her.

  Casually, Schwartz withdrew his hand from his pocket and flicked open a newspaper he had on his lap. As he began to open it, he seemed to become aware that something had happened. Already a crowd of people surrounded the three policemen and the fallen body of the Senegalese woman.

  Girland saw what had happened through the glass partition, then the Customs officer arrived and asked him if he had anything to declare.

  “No … nothing,” Girland said, an empty cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Would you please open your bag, sir?”

  Girland opened the bag.

  Quickly, but thoroughly, the official went through the contents of the bag. While he was doing this, Girland again looked through the partition. He caught sight of Schwartz who was standing on the fringe of the crowd peering over their heads, and Girland knew at once what had happened. He had no doubt that Schwartz had killed the woman on Radnitz’s orders.

  “Thank you, sir,” the Customs officer said and chalked Girland’s bag. “Straight through to your right.”

  Picking up his bag, Girland walked towards the embarkation bay where some thirty people were already waiting.

  As a number of police officers began to break up the crowd, Schwartz turned aside and walked out of the airport and across to where Borg was waiting in the black Citroen. He got in, and Borg, sweat showing on his fat face, drove carefully and without hurrying towards the Autoroute.

  The police quickly carried Madame Foucher’s body into the Police Security office and shut the door on the gaping crowd. One of the American officers put a call through to Captain O’Halloran while the other examined the body. He stood away and cursed.

  “Dead and shot,” he said. Turning to the French Inspector, he went on, “The killer’s out there somewhere. Get your men and check.” He knew it was a useless order. By now the killer would have vanished.

  John Dorey was thinking about going to bed when his front doorbell rang. He glanced at his watch and saw the time was twenty to twelve. Frowning, he went to the door and peered through the spy-hole. Seeing Captain O’Halloran waiting outside, he unlocked and opened the door.

  “Come in, Captain,” he said, standing aside. He saw by the grim expression on O’Halloran’s face that he had bad news.

  It wasn’t until O’Halloran had sunk into one of the big comfortable chairs and lit a cigarette that he said, “The Senegalese woman you wanted to talk to, Mr. Dorey, is dead. She was shot when we arrested her.”

  Dorey stood staring at him. His face seemed to become thinner, his eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses turned a shade darker.

  He walked slowly to his desk and sat down. “Who shot her?” he asked finally.

  “I don’t know. We spotted her as she was about to pass through the police control. Two of my men with Inspector Delrieu approached her and he asked her to go with them to the Security office. She became terrified, but she went with them. It was only a short walk, but suddenly she dropped, and at first, my men thought she had fainted. They carried her into the office and as soon as they examined her they found she had been shot and was dead. The gun was obviously silenced. There was a jet aircraft warming up. No one heard the shot or saw the killer.”

  Dorey rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers.

  O’Halloran opened a briefcase he had brought with him.

  “This belonged to her. It contains seven thousand dollars and a passport made out in the name of Rosa Arbeau. I’m having the passport checked with the Dakar police.”

  Dorey took the briefcase and examined the dollar bills.

  “Any hope of tracing these?”

  “No.”

  “Any news of Girland?”

  “Not yet. He certainly wasn’t on the plane that left for Dakar tonight. We checked everyone. My men will continue to wait there and we have alerted all shipping to Dakar.”

  Dorey wasn’t surprised. He was now firmly convinced that Girland had suffered the same fate as Rossland.

  “We don’t seem to have any luck, do we, Captain?” he said. “Well, all right, let’s leave it for tonight. I’ll keep this,” he waved to the briefcase. “No sign of this boy with the beard? He seems to be our only hope now.”

  “No sign of him. My men are still watching the hotel. He could show, of course, any time and if he does, we’ll have him.”

  When he had gone, Dorey sat for some minutes, thinking. He was thankful now that Janine had had the sense to leave for Dakar. He would have to send her a coded cable to tell her the Senegalese woman was dead. The scene of activity now seemed to Dorey to be shifting to Senegal. Abruptly, he decided to send Jack Kerman to Dakar in case Janine needed help. Kerman was a good man. Dorey now regretted he hadn’t sent Kerman to meet Madame Foucher instead of leaving her to Rossland to deal with.

  He reached for the telephone and in a few moments he was talking to Kerman.

  “I want you around here, Kerman,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

  Kerman said, “Can do … will do,” and hung up.

  Twenty minutes later he was sitting in the chair recently occupied by O’Halloran and listening to Dorey talk.

  Kerman was a small, wiry man, around thirty-three, with brown hair cut in a crew cut, alert eyes and a humorous, pleasing appearance. He made a reasonable living as partner in a garage which left him time to work for Dorey when Dorey needed him.

  Dorey gave him the picture of what had been happening, omitting no details.

  “This has now got a little out of hand,” he concluded. “Frankly, Kerman, I should have given O’Halloran’s report to Warley. It is obvious this woman had vital information to sell which Radnitz is determined should not be known. You know how I feel about Radnitz. It has always been my ambition to nail him. From the very beginning, I should have reported to Warley. I know that, but Warley being what he is and I being what I am, I didn’t do it. Now I am sure Radnitz is mixed up in this, I am even less inclined to bring Warley into it. If I can pull the rug from under Radnitz’s feet, I’ll have achieved something no one else has achieved in spite of trying their damnedest. You see that, don’t you?”

  Kerman nodded.

  “I’ll go along with you, Mr. Dorey. You tell me what you want done and I’ll do it.”

  “Janine Daulnay is already on her way to Dakar. She’s no fool and she may be able to pick up the trail out there, I want you to catch tomorrow’s plane and join her. Working together, you could find out what this woman had to sell and why Radnitz is involved.”

  Kerman bit his thumb as he stared at Dorey.

  “All this is going to cost money,” he pointed out. “If it is to remain unofficial, where’s the money coming from?”

  Dorey picked up the briefcase on his desk.

  “There’s seven thousand dollars in here, Kerman. The Foucher woman had it with her. It’s my bet the money came from Radnitz. It would be poetic justice if we used Radnitz’s money to bring him down. Take it. I’ll arrange the visa for you. Come to my office at nine tomorrow morning with your passport and photographs. I’ll have everything fixed for you by then.”

  “Well, okay,” Kerman said. “You’re still sure you shouldn’t bring Warley into it?”

  “Never mind Warley,” Dorey said sharply. “You do what I tell you.”

  “This guy Girland. I’ve heard of him although I’ve never met him. Do you think he’ll try to get to Dakar?”

  “I think he’s dead. The last I heard of him, he was in the hands of Radnitz’s men. They are almost certain to have treated him as they treated Rossland.”

  Kerman looked down at his hands.

  “Radnitz might have bought him, Mr. Dorey. Thought of that?”

  Dorey looked startled.

  “What do you men … bought him?”

  “Let’s face facts,” Kerman said. “You don’t pay all that well, Mr. Dore
y. Don’t think I’m complaining, I’m not, but Radnitz has all the money in the world. He could have made it worth while for Girland to change sides.”

  Dorey thought about this, then shook his head.

  “Radnitz has his own organisation. Why should he waste money on a man like Girland? It would be much simpler to get rid of him. Girland’s dead. I’m sure of it.”

  Kerman got to his feet.

  “Well, okay, then tomorrow at your office at nine.”

  Borg drove the Citroen back from the Airport to his apartment on Rue Louise-Michel. Neither he nor Schwartz had exchanged a word during the drive. Borg pulled up outside his apartment block and the two men took the lift to the fourth floor. Borg unlocked the door and entered a big, sunny room with lounging chairs, a table, a big mirror over the fireplace and on the walls, framed reproductions of naked girls he had picked up at a tourist boutique on the left bank.

  Thomas was sitting in one of the chairs, nervously flicking through a copy of Lui. He had been staying with Borg for the past two days, and he had been instructed by Radnitz to keep off the streets.

  “Well?” he asked, staring at Schwartz.

  Schwartz sneered at him and pointed to a small hole in his rainproof pocket.

  “Is she dead?”

  “I don’t make mistakes, white-headed boy,” Schwartz said and sat down.

  Borg went into the kitchen and took from the refrigerator two cans of beer. He poured the beer into glasses and gave Schwartz one and drank from the other himself.

  Thomas looked at the two men uneasily, then went back to his aimless fidgeting with the magazine.

  Schwartz lit a cigarette and leaning back in his chair, closed his eyes. Borg refilled his glass and went over to the window to stare out into the street below.

  Ten minutes later, the front doorbell rang. Borg opened the door.

  Radnitz entered and stood looking at the three men. Thomas and Schwartz got to their feet.

  “So you had to kill her,” Radnitz said to Schwartz.