James Chase - The Whiff of Money

“What nasty ideas come into your little mind.” Girland looked sadly at Dorey, eased himself out of the room and closed the door.

At the sight of him, Mavis picked up the ruler.

Girland came slowly over to her desk, placed his hands on it and leaned towards her.

“My father told me never to be afraid of a pretty girl. Since you are the loveliest star in my sky... kiss me.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then slowly put down the ruler as Dorey opened his door.

“You still here, Girland?”

Mavis returned to her typing and Girland straightened up. He regarded Dorey with an exasperated expression.

“The only person who could ever have loved you was your mother,” he said, “and I am sorry for her.”

“Never mind about my mother,” Dorey snapped. “You get off and earn your money.”

Girland glanced at Mavis who was pounding away on her typewriter, shook his head and moved out into the corridor. As he closed the door after him, Dorey stamped back into his office.

Without pausing in her typing, Mavis smiled.

Malik sat behind his small, shabby desk and listened to what Labrey had to tell him. He thanked the gods that all his agents weren’t as stupid and as unreliable as Drina. He decided this longhaired boy with his ridiculous green tinted glasses was worth five of Drina. When Drina had reported that he had lost Girland, Malik couldn’t see how he was to make further progress. Now Labrey had come to him and had opened it all up again... or rather, Labrey’s girl had done so.

“Can you trust this girl?” Malik asked. His fiat green eyes surveyed Labrey.

“Can you trust any woman?” Labrey shrugged. So this is Malik, he was thinking. He had heard a lot about this man from Drina, and it gave him a kick to have direct contact with him. He was everything that Labrey would wish to be: big, muscular, ruthless and very efficient. “I’ve thrown a scare into her, but it might not stay thrown.”

“Have you anything you can use against her?”

“She steals from shops... she’s always at it”

“You have proof of this?”

“Her place is full of stolen stuff.”

“That is not proof. We will have to make use of her as Girland is interested in her. Would she work for us?”

Labrey hesitated.

“I don’t think so. She has no brains. She has no feeling for politics. All she thinks about is money, clothes and sex.”

Malik thought for a moment: a massive stone-like figure, his huge killer hands resting on the desk.

“Then we will pay her. What do we pay you?”

“Eight hundred a month.”

“We will pay her six hundred. Tell her she has no choice. Tell her we need her. If she won’t cooperate, then one night something bad will happen to her... frighten her. Make sure she understands that Russia rewards good agents, but punishes bad ones. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Arrange it then.” Malik regarded Labrey. “I shall have further work for you. You have done well. I will see you get more money.”

When Labrey had gone, Malik unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and switched on a tape recorder. From the drawer he took a sensitive button microphone, so sensitive it didn’t need leads to the recorder. He tapped the microphone gently to make sure the magic eye of the recorder reacted, then he clipped the microphone over his wristwatch and covered the watch with his frayed shirtsleeve.

He walked down the corridor to Kovski’s office.

Kovski was busy writing a minute. He started violently when he saw Malik who had moved silently to Kovski’s desk.

“Will you never learn to knock?” Kovski snarled, putting down his fountain pen.

Malik sat on the hard, upright chair.

“Sherman will be arriving at the Kennedy airport in another five hours,” he said. “We know he is travelling on a false passport and in disguise. I understand he would not be welcomed by us as the future President. It occurred to me that you could alert the American airport police that he is travelling on a false passport.”

Kovski stared at him.

“And suppose I do?”

“The police will have to take action: the Press will hear about it, there will be a scandal: Sherman won’t be elected President,” Malik said.

Little red patches or rage appeared on Kovski’s face. Had he thought of this himself, he might have acted, but coming from Malik made this impossible as Malik had foreseen.

“Since when have you been asked to dictate policy?” Kovski demanded, his voice shaking with fury. “This is not your job! Your job is to find out why Sherman came to Paris and why Dorey has talked to Girland!”

“An anonymous cable to the American police at the Kennedy airport would result in Sherman’s embarrassment,” Malik said woodenly. “I suggest it is your duty to send this cable.”

“Are you telling me what my duty is?” Kovski shouted.

“Yes.”

Kovski glared with hatred at the big man sitting so relaxed before him.

“Be careful,” he said viciously. “You are in disgrace! You are nothing! A word from me could send you for years to Siberia. You are to do what I tell you! Understand that! I will not listen to your views which are of no importance because you are stupid!” His rage so carried him away that he found he was no longer afraid of Malik.

“By sending this cable, you would be certain that Sherman could not become President of the United States,” Malik said, his face expressionless.

“You think so, you fool?” Kovski snarled. “Are we so sure this man is really Sherman? We have only the word of that idiot Drina! If this man is really Sherman — and there are doubts and we alert the American police, then how are we to find out why he came here? This is what we want to find out! As soon as the CIA know we know who he is, they will throw up a smokescreen and then we will find out nothing!”

“We don’t need to find anything out if you will send the cable. We will have achieved what we want... Sherman, won’t be elected President.”

“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 entrance. 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.