Whiff Of Money (8 page)

'You are a triple fool!' Kovski's voice was completely out of control. 'How many more times do I have to tell you, idiot?

What we want to know is why he came here ... go and find out! As long as Sherman believes he has come here and has got back safely to America, we have him where we want him!'

'But we have him where we want him by sending this cable', Malik said quietly.

'Get out!' Kovski slammed his fist down on the desk. 'Do what I tell you! Find out why Sherman has been here! That's your job!'

A thin smile lit up Malik's stone-like face.

'Those are your orders?'

'Yes! Get out and do your job!'

Malik nodded and rose to his feet.

I am compelled to obey your orders,' he said, staring at Kovski, 'but I only obey them because you are my superior.'

He left the office, quietly, shutting the door after him and returned to his own office. He turned off the tape recorder, rewound the tape, listened for a few seconds to the playback, then satisfied he had an excellent recording, he ran off the tape. He found a large envelope and wrote on it: Conversation between Comrade Kovski and myself. May 5th. Subject: Henry Sherman. He put the spool of tape into the envelope and sealed it with Sellotape, then dropped the envelope into his pocket, This was yet another tape to be added to a small collection he had in a safe deposit bank not far from the Soviet Embassy: yet another nail in Kovski's coffin.

* * *

Still careful he wasn't being followed, Girland made his way from the American Embassy to Pierre Rosnold's studio on Rue Garibaldi. The studio was housed on the fourth floor of an old-fashioned building, but there was nothing old-fashioned about the ornate elevator nor about Rosnold's entrace. The double doors that led to the studio were covered with white suede, embossed with gilt scrolls and which opened automatically when Girland broke an invisible beam as he approached them. He found himself in a small lobby, draped in red velvet with gilt chairs, and a glass-topped gilt table on which were spread the usual glossy magazines.

Girland decided that Rosnold's set-up was of better taste and smelt more of money than Benny's exotic studio.

As he was surveying the scene, a door facing him opened and an elderly man, wearing a black hat and a light-grey overcoat came into the lobby. He moved with the arrogance of the very rich. In his right gloved hand, he carried a bulky envelope. His long, thin aristocratic face, the lines around the weak, sensual mouth, the smudges under his baggy eyes made him look like an ageing Casanova. His satisfied expression swiftly changed to startled apprehension as he saw Girland. He gave Girland a quick, uneasy glance, then moving quickly, he left the lobby, clutching his envelope and Girland heard him entering the elevator.

'Yes?'

Girland glanced around.

A woman stood in the doorway, regarding him. She was tall, probably in her early thirties, slim, dark with a heart-shaped face that could have been a tinted plaster mask.

'Mr Rosnold please,' Girland said with his most charming smile.

The smile bounced off her like a golf ball slammed against a wall.

'Mr Rosnold is not here.'

'You mean he doesn't work here any more?'

'He is not here.'

'Then where do I find him?'

Again the dark eyes went over Girland, examining his clothes. From the bleak expression that showed in her eyes, the woman thought nothing of him.

'Do you want a sitting?'

The automatic doors swung open and another elderly, rich looking man came in. He hesitated for a brief moment at the sight of Girland, then gave the woman a wide, toothy smile.

'Ah, Mile Lautre, how well you are looking.' He again glanced uneasily at Girland.

The woman stood aside and smiled. The plaster mask cracked for a moment, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.

'Please go in, monsieur. I won't be a moment.'

The elderly man slid around her and passed through the open doorway.

'If you will give me your name, I will tell Mr Rosnold you have called.'

'It's urgent. When will he be back?'. Girland asked.

'Not before Monday. May I have your name?'

'It's very urgent. Where can I contact him?'

The woman stared at him. She was as hostile as a barbed-wire fence. 'Your name please?'

'Tom Stag. Mr Rosnold and I have business together.'

'I'll tell Mr Rosnold when he returns.' The woman began to back through the doorway. 'Perhaps you will telephone for an appointment on Monday,' then she closed the door.

Girland left and crossed to the elevator. He thumbed the call button and while he waited, his mind was busy. When the cage stopped before him, he got in and went down to the ground floor. Before leaving the elevator, he took out his wallet and extracted two ten franc notes. He walked over to the concierge's window and tapped.

A fat, elderly woman, her hair in steel curlers, a shawl around her shoulders opened the window and regarded him with that stony, indifferent stare that most Paris concierges cultivate.

'Excuse me,' Girland said and turned on charm. I am sorry to disturb you, madame. I want to see Mr Rosnold very urgently.'

'Fourth floor,' the concierge snapped and prepared to shut the window.

'Perhaps you could help me.' Girland put the two ten franc notes on the shelf of the window, keeping a finger on them.

The woman looked at the notes, then at Girland. She became visibly less hostile.

'I'm sure you are busy,' Girland went on. 'Of course, I expect to pay for your time.' He took his fingers off the notes. 'I've already been to the fourth floor. I am told Mr Rosnold is away. I need to see him urgently. Do you happen to know where he is?'

'Didn't you ask his secretary, monsieur?' the concierge asked, eyeing the notes that lay between them.

'I did, but she was evasive. You see, madame, Mr Rosnold owes me a sum of money. If I don't find him quickly and persuade him to pay me, I shall be in trouble.' Girland turned on his boyish smile. 'But perhaps you can't help me.' He extended his finger, but the concierge got there first. She drew the two notes out of Girland's reach and palmed them.

I know where he is,' she said, lowering her voice. 'His secretary had a letter from him yesterday. I know his handwriting and the stamp interested me. The Alpenhoff Hotel, Garmisch... that's where he is. When he left, he told me he would be away a month.' 'When did he leave, madame?' 'Last Monday.'

'You are very kind... thank you, madame.' T hope you get your money, monsieur,' she said. 'He is not a nice gentleman.'

Her old fat face crinkled into a grimace. 'He is mean.'

Girland again thanked her and walked out onto the busy street. He glanced at his watch. It was 16.20 hrs. He decided to visit Sammy's Bar and talk to Jack Dodge, the second lead Benny had given him.

He found Sammy's Bar on Rue Berry off Avenue des Champs Elysees: a typical, dimly lit bar like so many bars that grow like mushrooms around any tourist haunt. He pushed open the door and walked into a long narrow room, the bar to the left with the standard stools, to the right were banquettes and tables. At this hour the place was empty except for the barman who was browsing over a racing sheet, Biro in hand, a look of concentration on bis handsome face.

As soon as Girland saw him, he guessed he must be Jack Dodge. This man with his sandy-coloured hair, his sun lamp complexion, his bulky shoulders and the shadow of dissipation under his close-set eyes looked the part of a stallion: a sensual lump of muscle and flesh: whose brain and mind were as small as his sexuality was enormous.

The barman glanced up, then pushed the racing sheet away. He gave Girland a smirking grin and placed big hands on the bar counter.

'Yes, sir?' he said. 'What is your pleasure?'

Girland hoisted himself on a stool.

'Rye whisky and ginger ale.'

'Yes, sir... a nice reviving drink.'

'That's what I need. Have one with me.'

I won't say no.' The barman made two drinks with a lot of unnecessary flourishes. 'First one today.'

He placed one of the glasses before Girland and lifted the other.

'Sante.'

They drank, then Girland asked casually, 'Are you Jack Dodge?'

The barman lifted a sandy eyebrow.

'That's me. Can't say I've seen you before. I have a good memory for faces.'

"That's good news. I want you to remember a girl'

I get a lot of girls in here. I won't swear I can remember them all. It's the men I concentrate on.' He grinned slyly. 'They pick up the tab.'

I understand. Well, never mind about the girl for the moment. Are you still happy working for Pierre Rosnold?' Girland asked, his dark eyes on Dodge's face.

If he had leaned across the bar and punched Dodge in the eye, he wouldn't have got a bigger reaction.

Dodge reared back. His close-set eyes went blank with shock. The blood moved out of his face leaving his skin blotchy under the sun lamp complexion, but he recovered quickly. For a brief moment, when Girland could almost hear his brain creaking, he stood motionless, then pulling himself together, he eyed Girland with sudden suspicion.

I don't know him,' he said. 'Excuse me. I've things to do.'

'Don't be so obvious,' Girland said. 'You have nothing to do except talk to me. I know what your side-line is, but that doesn't mean I'll make trouble for you. How would you like to pick up an easy hundred bucks?'

'I told you, sir, I have things to do.' Dodge began to move away down the bar.

'If you don't want my money, I can always call Inspector Dupuis of the vice squad and turn you in. Please yourself.'

Dodge hesitated, then glared at Girland. 'Just who the hell are you?'

'Look on me as your pal,' Girland said and smiled. He took ten ten-dollar bills from his wallet. These he had got by cashing some of his traveller's cheques at the American Express on his way to the bar. 'All yours, buddy, for a little information which won't go further. Don't look so anxious. I'm not after you. I want to find a girl who went through a performance with you before Rosnold's camera.'

Dodge eyed the money, licked his full lips, took a drink, then looked at the money again.

'You mean that's for me?'

'That's right. No strings to it... just information.' Dodge hesitated, but the power of money was too much for him. He finished his drink, then made another while his brain creaked.

'What do you want to know?' he asked finally. T came across an 8 mm movie,' Girland said. 'It is labelled "A Souvenir from Paris". It shows you, wearing a hood, performing with a dark-haired girl. Three other films were shot, probably at the same time. Mean anything to you?'

Dodge again looked at the money. 'You really mean that's for me?' Girland pushed five ten dollar bills across the counter. 'You get the rest when you talk,' he said. Dodge snapped up the bills and stowed them away in bis hip pocket.

'This is strictly confidential.'

'You are right out of it,' Girland promised. 'What do you know about this movie?'

'Well, Rosnold called me. This was to be a special job. Okay, I make these movies. It's business and pleasure. I do a job for Rosnold two or three times a week. Last month, he called me. I went to the studio and there was this girl. I've never seen her before... a new one.' He thought for a moment. The memory seemed to please him because his face broke into a sensual leer. 'Very good... an amateur, you understand, but good.'

' Did you get her name?'

Dodge shook his head.

'No. Rosnold called her Cherie, but I did get she and he were buddy-buddies. We made four films. Rosnold paid me $50 a film.' Again the leer. 'It was a pleasure.'

'Let's do better than that,' Girland said. 'What makes you think Rosnold and the girl were buddies?'

'The way they behaved ... the way they talked. I could tell. I guess Rosnold digs for her.'

'Yet Rosnold took the shots while you were working on her?'

'That's nothing... that's business. I've worked with wives while their husbands took the shots. When you make a stag, it's strictly business. Besides, I got the idea the girl was stoned.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Well, you know... L.S.D. She was higher than a kite and as hot as a stove.'

'You think she had taken L.S.D.?'

'I'm damn sure she had.'

Girland grimaced.

'What did they talk about... did you hear anything?'

'Well... I had to rest between the shootings.' The leer irritated Girland. 'While I was building myself up, they got in a huddle. They were planning to go to Garmisch together as soon as the shooting was processed.'

'What do you know about Rosnold?'

Dodge shrugged.

'He's one of the bright boys. When he isn't making movies or photographing the snobs, he organises a group of nuts who call themselves Ban War. He tried to get me to join the organisation but it didn't interest me. How the hell can you ban war anyway? It's like bashing your nut against a wall. Anyway, he makes a good thing out of it. Every sucker who joins pays ten francs and the money goes into Rosnold's pocket.'

The door swung open and four American tourists, each with a camera slung around his neck, came into the bar, shattering the quiet atmosphere as they climbed thirstily onto stools away from Girland.

I see you're getting busy,' Girland said. He slid the other dollar bills over to Dodge. 'Forget you've seen me,' and he walked out onto the street.

It now looked as if his next stop would be Garmisch, but first he wanted more information. He headed back to the American Embassy.

Four

His hands clammy, his heart thumping, Henry Sherman handed his false passport to the blue-uniformed official at Orly airport. The man glanced at the photograph, glanced at Sherman, nodded, stamped the passport and returned it with a brief 'Merci, monsieur.'

Sherman walked through the barrier, consulted the index board and found his flight left from Gate 10. He glanced at his watch. He had twenty-five minutes before take-off. Nice, easy time, he thought as he walked down the long aisle towards Gate 10. He paused at the bookstall to buy the New York Times and a couple of paperbacks, then as he was starting on his way again, there was an announcment over the tannoy.