James Chase - Whiff of Money

On this brilliantly sunny May morning, Paris was looking at its best.

From his large office window, John Dorey, head of the French division of the Central Intelligence Agency, surveyed the trees with their fresh green foliage, the young girls in their new spring outfits and the Place de la Concorde, besieged as usual by traffic. He felt it was good to be alive. He glanced at the few files on his desk and was glad there was nothing for his immediate attention. Relaxing back in his executive chair, he contemplated the view through the window with a benign smile.

With thirty-nine years’ service in Intelligence behind him, Dorey, aged sixty-six had good reason to be pleased with himself. Not only did he hold the exalted rank of Divisional Director (Paris), but he also had been practically begged to remain in office beyond the usual retiring age. This was unassailable proof that his work had been and was still beyond reproach and that he could consider himself indispensable.

Dorey was a small, bird-like man, wearing rimless spectacles. He looked more like a successful banker than what he was: the shrewd, ruthless Director of an extremely efficient organisation whose secret machinations and wealth were so vast that few people realised just how powerful it was.

As Dorey was thinking that the girl, waiting to cross the street and who was wearing a gay micro-mini dress, was the perfect picture of a spring morning, his telephone bell buzzed.

Dorey frowned. The telephone was the bane of his life. One moment he had peace and quiet: the next moment the telephone would shatter the atmosphere as nothing else could.

Lifting the receiver, he said, ‘Yes?’

Mavis Paul, his secretary, announced, ‘Captain O’Halloran on the line, sir. Shall I put him through?’

Captain Tim O’Halloran was in charge of all the CIA agents in Europe. He was not only Dorey’s right hand man, but also a close friend.

Dorey sighed. Whenever O’Halloran telephoned, there was usually trouble.

‘Yes… I’ll talk to him.’ When the line clicked, Dorey went on, ‘Is that you, Tim?

‘Good morning, sir.’ O’Halloran’s gravelly voice was curt. ‘Would you scramble, please?’

Trouble! Dorey thought as he pressed down the scrambler button. ‘Okay, Tim… what is it?’

‘I’ve had a report phoned in by Alec Hammer… he covers Orly airport. He tells me that Henry Sherman has just arrived off the overnight flight from New York. Sherman is wearing a disguise and travelling on a false passport.’

Dorey blinked. He wondered if his hearing was failing. When you reach the age of sixty-six.

‘Who did you say?’

‘Henry Sherman. The Henry Sherman.’

Dorey felt a rush of blood to his head.

‘Is this a joke?’ he demanded, his voice sharp. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Henry Sherman has just left Orly airport, heading for central Paris, wearing a disguise and with a false passport,’ O’Halloran repeated woodenly.

I don’t believe it! There must be a mistake! Sherman is in Washington! I…’

I know where he is supposed to be, sir, but right now he is on his way to the centre of Paris. Hammer is sure of this.

You may remember Hammer was Sherman’s bodyguard for four years before he was transferred to us. Hammer says Sherman’s walk, the way he swings his arms and jerks his head are unmistakable. This man, wearing a moustache and dark glasses travelled tourist class from New York. Hammer says this man is Henry Sherman. Hammer is one of my best men. He doesn’t make mistakes.’

‘But Sherman is guarded night and day by the F.B.I.! He couldn’t possibly have left Washington without them knowing and we would have been alerted. Hammer must be mistaken!’

‘No, sir.’ There was now a note of impatience in O’Halloran’s voice. ‘And another thing: this man is travelling on Jack Cain’s passport. You will remember Cain looks very much like Sherman and was used two or three times last year as a decoy to get the Press away from Sherman. Since then Cain has grown a moustache’

‘Are you sure this man isn’t Cain?’

‘I’m sure. I’ve been checking. Right now, Cain is in hospital with a fractured leg from a car accident. Sherman is supposed to be in bed at his residence with flu. Only his wife sees him. No one else goes into his room. Somehow, Sherman has evaded his guards while his wife is pretending he is still in bed. I am convinced that Hammer is right: Henry Sherman is footloose in Paris.’

‘Do you know where he is staying?’

‘No sir. Hammer lost him when Sherman took the only taxi from Orly airport. Hammer has the number of the taxi. He’s waiting at Orly to see if the taxi returns so he can get a line on Sherman, but it’s a long shot. Do you want me to check all the hotels?’

Dorey hesitated, his mind working swiftly. Finally, he said, ‘No. Did Sherman have any luggage with him?’

‘A small suitcase… that’s all.’

‘Then leave it, Tim. Warn Hammer to say nothing. If he spots the taxi he is to try to find out where Sherman was taken, but he mustn’t make a thing of it. This could be a very tricky one. Stay near a telephone, Tim. I could need you in a hurry,’ and Dorey hung up.

He pushed back his chair and stared sightlessly across the room his mind busy.

If this man was really Henry Sherman, the thought, what in the world was he doing in Paris? He was pretty sure that O’Halloran was right and this man was Sherman. Had Sherman gone out of his mind? Dorey dismissed this thought immediately. The fact that Mary Sherman had obviously helped her husband to make this dangerous and mysterious journey must mean that they were both involved in a very serious, personal matter which had forced Sherman to sneak out of the country and come to Paris.

Dorey wiped his damp hands on his handkerchief. If the Press got hold of this story! Henry Sherman of all people, in a disguise and travelling on a false passport!

Dorey had reason to be alarmed for Henry Sherman was running for the Presidency of the United States and so far he was well ahead of the small field. Apart from being the very possible future President, Sherman was one of the richest and most powerful men in America. He was the President of the American Steel Corporation, Chairman of the United American & European Airways, and he held innumerable directorships on various important boards. His influence was considerable and he was on first-name terms with all the important members of the present Government. He had always led an immaculate private life, and his wife, it had been generally agreed, would make the ideal First Lady.

Dorey had known Sherman for some forty-five years. As freshmen, they had shared a room together at Yale University.

Thinking back, Dorey realised what a dynamo Sherman had been even at the beginning of his spectacular career and how much Sherman had inspired him to work to gain his own position in the world when there had been times when he could have lagged behind. Dorey was very much aware that it was due to Sherman’s influence that he was still at his desk instead of eating his heart out in retirement. He had heard that Sherman had said: ‘Retire Dorey? Why? Because he is sixty-five? Ridiculous! He has years of experience behind him. He has tremendous drive still and he is utterly ruthless… we can’t afford to be without him… so keep him!’ Dorey remembered this. Although he had to admit that often Sherman was too tough, too anti-Russia, too anti-China and made enemies easily, Dorey felt an unshakeab le loyalty towards this man who had done so much for him. If there was anything he could do for Sherman, he wanted to do it. But what should he do in this situation? Sherman was no fool. He must know he was risking his chances of becoming President by coming to Paris as he had done. What a scandal would blow up if this reckless move were to be discovered! The Press of the world would make headlines of it!