James Chase: The Whiff of Money

Dorey thought for some minutes, then he made his decision. The best thing he could do for Sherman was to do nothing. He knew Sherman was very capable of looking after himself. O’Halloran had been warned to do nothing. Hammer was a good agent and he wouldn’t talk. Dorey decided to let Sherman remain anonymous, to do what he had come to do, then return to his supposed sick bed. If no one interfered, Sherman would do exactly this, but suppose someone did?

Dorey looked out at the sunshine and at the green trees. The view no longer held any charms for him. Suppose the French police picked Sherman up and charged him with travelling on a false passport? Suppose some crackpot who hated him — as many crackpots hated him — recognised him and assassinated him? Suppose...

Dorey flinched. Anything could happen to a man of Sherman’s stature. But what was he to do?

As if in answer to this question, the telephone bell buzzed. “What is it?” Dorey snapped, anxious not to be disturbed from his line of thinking.

“I have a caller on the line, sir,” Mavis Paul said. “He won’t give his name. He says you and he were at Yale together.”

Dorey drew in a long breath of relief.

“Put him through at once.”

There was a brief pause, then a man’s voice said, “Is that you, John?”

“Yes. Don’t identify yourself. I know who you are. I am entirely at your service. Is there anything I can do?”

“I want to see you... it’s urgent.”

Dorey cast a quick eye at his engagement diary. He had two appointments set up within the next two hours, but neither of them was important.

“Where are you?”

“Hôtel Parc, Rue Meslay.”

“I’ll be with you in twenty minutes. Please remain in your room. I take it I ask for Mr Jack Cain?” Dorey couldn’t resist this and it pleased him to hear a startled catch of breath at the other end of the line.

“Yes, but...”

“I’m on my way.” Dorey hung up, snatched his coat and hat from the rack and walked quickly into the outer office.

Mavis Paul, dark, beautifully built and very assured, paused in her typing. She had been with Dorey now for a little over a year, and both of there had come to respect each other. Mavis was conscientious, serious, in spite of her glamour, ambitious and a ferocious worker: all qualities that Dorey admired, but at this moment, he was not in an admiring mood.

His cold, set expression startled Mavis.

“I may not be back before three,” he said, scarcely pausing. “Cancel my appointments. Say I am not well,” and he was gone.

Mavis was too experienced not to put two and two together. O’Halloran had telephoned: a stranger had telephoned, and now her boss had shot off like a rocket. These brief events added up to trouble, but Mavis was used to trouble. She shrugged her pretty shoulders and reached for her address book to cancel the appointments.

Dorey drove his Jaguar to Hotel Pare, a small, dingy hotel near Place de la Republique. As was to be expected in this arrondissement — as in all arrondissements of Paris — he found no parking space. He finally left the Jaguar on a pedestrian crossing within a minute’s walk from the hotel, certain a contravention would be waiting under his windscreen wiper on his return.

Reaching the hotel, he paused to regard the entrance, thinking at least Sherman had been discreet. No one in their right minds would imagine the future President of the United States would stay at such a place.

He pushed open the glass door, smeared with fingerprints, and entered the tiny lobby that smelt of garlic and faulty drains. A bald-headed, fat man sat behind the reception desk, aimlessly turning the pages of Le Figaro . Behind him was a rack of keys and by his side, a small, antiquated telephone switchboard.

“Monsieur Jack Cain?” Dorey said, coming to rest in front of the desk.

The bald-headed man blinked sleepily.

“Who, monsieur?”

Dorey repeated the name.

Reluctantly, the bald-headed man took a tattered register from a drawer and examined it. Then he nodded his head as he said, “Room 66, monsieur. Third floor.” He then returned to his aimless reading.

As he climbed the three flights of stairs, covered by green, threadbare carpet, the smells seemed to grow stronger and Dorey wrinkled his nose. He reached the third-floor landing, walked along a dimly lit corridor until he found Room 66. He paused, aware that his heart was beating a little too fast. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the climb or because he was about to face the future President of the United States.

He rapped gently on the door. After a brief pause, the door opened.

“Come in, John.”

Dorey moved into a small, shabbily furnished bedroom and Henry Sherman closed and locked the door. The two men regarded each other.

Sherman was an imposing, massive figure of a man in his late fifties. Some six feet three inches tall, he had broad shoulders, a fleshy, deeply tanned face, piercing, steel-blue eyes and a thin hard mouth. He was not only handsome, but he exuded that authoritative air and personality that put him in the top echelon of V.I.Ps.

Dorey hadn’t seen him now for some five years. He could see the change in him. Something pretty bad must have happened, Dorey decided, for Sherman to look so haggard and to have these black smudges of worry under his steel-blue eyes.

“It’s good to see you again, John,” Sherman said. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” He paused, looking at Dorey, then went on, “How did you get onto Jack Cain?”

Dorey slid out of his coat. As Sherman sat on the bed, Dorey took the only upright chair.

“You were spotted leaving Orly, sir,” he said quietly. “Your embarkation card was checked. O’Halloran called me. I told him to lay off.”

Sherman passed his hand over his face. His massive shoulders sagged a little.

“But how could I have been spotted?” he asked without looking up.

“Alec Hammer covers Orly. You remember him? He recognized your walk.”

Sherman looked up. His tired face split into a rueful grin.

“You have good men working for you, John.”

“Yes. When do you plan to leave here, sir?”

“I’m booked out on the next flight in three hours” time. Can you guess why I am here?”

Dorey shook his head.

“No, sir. Something pretty urgent, of course. You’re taking one hell of a risk... but I don’t have to tell you that.”

Again Sherman smiled wearily.

“I know it, but Mary and Cain cooperated. Otherwise, I would never have got here.” He leaned forward, his massive hands on his knees and stared directly at Dorey. I am here because you are the only man I can rely on to keep me in the Presidential race... and I mean that.”

Dorey shifted uneasily, but his deadpan expression didn’t change.

“It will be my pleasure, sir, to do the best I can. What am I to do?”

Sherman continued to stare at him.

“You mean that?”

“Yes... I mean it”

“I knew I could rely on you, John. Goddamn it! You and I are old friends. When this mess blew up, I told Mary you were the only one I could trust to help. Mary fixed it. Without her, I’d never have got here.” There was a pause, then Sherman went on, “I haven’t much time. I want you to see something, then we’ll talk. Sit where you are.”

He got to his feet, crossing the room to where his suitcase stood against the wall. From the suitcase he took an 8 mm film projector, neatly stowed away in its blue carrying case. Quickly, he assembled the machine, threaded on a spool of film, then set the projector on the shabby dressing table. He plugged into the lamp socket, pulled the thick, dusty curtains, shutting out the late morning sunlight.