James Chase: Vulture Is a Patient Bird

“That’s fine,” Fennel said with a little sneer, “but suppose we get to the house… how do we get in?”

“Although Mr. Jones has a fair knowledge of Kahlenberg’s background,” Shalik said. “He has omitted — or perhaps he doesn’t know — the fact that although Kahlenberg is a cripple, he is fond of beautiful women.” He leaned back in his chair. “Every fortress has its soft underbelly if you know where to look for it. I have a woman who will act as your Trojan Horse. If she can’t get you into Kahlenberg’s house, no one can.”

He pressed a button his desk.

There was a long pause, then the door behind Shalik opened and the most sensational, beautiful woman any of the three men, gaping at her, had ever seen, came slowly into the room and paused by Shalik’s desk.

Some ten years ago, Armo Shalik, sick of his small way of life, let it be known by a discreet advertisement in an Egyptian newspaper that he was prepared to undertake for a reasonable fee any assignment that presented difficulties. He received only one answer to his advertisement, but it was enough, since his client was an Arabian Prince who wished to have inside information concerning a future oil deal between a rival of his and an American oil company. By using the Prince’s money and his own brains, Shalik obtained the information. The deal netted him $10,000, a modest enough fee, but the Prince was grateful, and he passed the word around that if you were in difficulties, if you wished for inside information, Shalik was the man to consult.

The following year with the capital he had saved, Shalik moved to London. He acquired a small list of extremely wealthy clients who continually consulted him. Money, of course, was no object. Shalik’s fees rose sharply, but he always delivered. Among his clients were three Texas oil millionaires, four Arabian princes, two enormously wealthy American women, a Greek shipping tycoon and a number of British, French and German industrialists.

He was often to say, “Nothing is impossible with unlimited money and brains.” He would pause to stare at his client. “You will supply the money… I the brains.”

Armo Shalik prospered. In the early days, he considered whether to have a permanent staff to work under him, but he decided this was economically unsound. Shalik never wasted a dime. To keep a staff of experts on his payroll would mean half of them most of the time would be drawing on his money and doing nothing. He decided to fit men and women to the job when the job arrived. He discovered a not too scrupulous Detective Agency who were prepared not only to recommend likely applicants without asking awkward questions, but also to screen them, giving him intimate details of their background. It was in this way that he had found Lew Fennel, Kennedy Jones and Garry Edwards.

His permanent staff was small: consisting of Natalie Norman who acted as his receptionist and personal assistant, and GeorgeSherborn who was his private secretary and valet.

But Shalik soon found that his assignments became more complicated and therefore more lucrative, he needed a woman in the field to be permanently at his disposal: a woman who had to be trained to work with and for him: a woman of exceptional talents and exceptional looks. Such a woman could be more useful to him than a dozen male experts. During the past years, he had hired a number of women to work with his experts, but more often than not they had failed him: either losing their nerve at a crucial moment or becoming sentimentally attached to the men they were working with, and this was something Shalik abominated.

So he set out to find a woman he could train to become his ideal woman operator. She had to be beautiful, perfectly built, talented and to be prepared to dedicate herself to his work.

Shalik travelled extensively, and while visiting the major cities of the world, he was constantly on the look-out for the woman he needed. He came across several likely applicants, but when he approached them, they either would have nothing to do with his proposition or proved to be beautiful but brainless. After some six months, he began to despair, wondering if he had set his sights too high.

Then one day he had a letter from one of his rich, spoilt women clients, living in Tokyo, who asked him to buy her a leopard skin coat, a mink stole and a broadtail coat for evening wear. He was to get these furs from Finn Larson, a Copenhagen furrier who had her measurements and knew exactly what she required. Since the woman paid Shalik $21,000, a year as a retaining fee and since he charged fifteen per cent on all purchases made on her behalf and since he was in need of a brief vacation, he was happy to oblige.

Natalie Norman telephoned Finn Larson in Copenhagen to alert him that Shalik was coming and what he wanted. She was told that there was to be a lunch held at L’Angleterre Hotel for a number of Larson’s special clients when models would display his furs and the clients would eat interesting Danish food, Larson hoped Mr. Shalik would attend.

Shalik arrived at the hotel the following day and went to theprivate room that Larson used for his excellent lunches and was welcomed by Larson, a balding, heavily-built Dane who gripped his hand and led him to a table before hurrying away to welcome yet another of his clients.

While Shalik was eating his lunch, girls came in to display Larson’s beautiful furs.

Then suddenly, as a girl swept in, wearing a magnificent leopard skin coat, Shalik paused in his eating. After six months of searching, this was his moment of truth. He was certain this time this was the girl he was looking for.

Above average height, with tawny hair, hanging in silken waves to her shoulder blades, this girl — possibly twenty-six or so years of age — was the most sensationally, sensually beautiful feminine creation he had ever seen. Her jade green eyes, her full lips that gave promise of sexual excitement, her long tapering legs, her slim lovely hands made a picture of a male dream of desirability.

Shalik lost interest in his lunch as he watched her move with the arrogant walk of a trained model to the end of the room. She turned and walked back past him. He scarcely glanced at the leopard skin coat. When she had gone, to be replaced by another girl, wearing a seal skin coat, Shalik beckoned to Larson who came over.

“I’ll take the leopard skin coat,” Shalik said. “It is for Mrs. Van Ryan.” He paused, then looked up and asked, “Who is the girl who modelled the coat?”

Larson smiled.

“Almost as magnificent as my coat, don’t you think? She is Gaye Desmond… An American freelance model who comes here from time to time. I use her for my leopard skins… no other girl has such flair to show off leopard.”

Shalik took out his wallet, extracted his card and handed it to Larson.

“Would you be so kind as to give her my card?” he asked. “I believe I can employ her should she need employment. You might mention to her who I am.” Shalik regarded Larson. “You know, Mr. Larson, I am always serious. This is strictly business. You will be doing the girl a favour.”

Larson, who knew Shalik, had no hesitation.

Later, while Shalik was sitting in his suite, reading a complicated legal document, the telephone bell rang.

He lifted the receiver.

“This is Gaye Desmond.” He liked her rich contralto voice. “You sent me your card.”

“Thank you for ringing, Miss Desmond. I have a proposition I would like to discuss with you. Could we have dinner together at the Belle Terresse, Tivoli, at 21.00 hrs?”

She said yes, and hung up.

She arrived punctually which pleased Shalik, and together they went to a table on the terrace that overlooked the lighted pool and the flowers that make Tivoli famous.