James Chase - The Whiff of Money

It was while he was driving along a narrow road bordered by wild flowers that he saw ahead of him a scarlet sports car, parked on the side of the verge. He slowed, seeing the hood was open and Gillian Sherman sitting in the passenger’s seat. He slowed to a crawl, and as he approached, he saw Rosnold peering at the motor.

My lucky day, Girland thought and pulled up.

“Do you want any help?” he asked in French. Rosnold regarded him. He was a man in his middle forties, but in good trim with a well-built, muscular body. His eyes were a little too close-set and his mouth hard, but he was reasonably handsome. He smiled, a tight-lipped smile, then raised his hands helplessly.

“The damn thing just stopped. Do you know anything about cars?”

Girland slid out of the Mercedes and went over to the TR4. He purposely didn’t look at Gillian.

“Try to start her,” he said. “Let’s hear what she sounds like.”

Rosnold got under the driving wheel. The dynamo whirred, but the engine remained dead.

“All right for gas?”

“Three-quarters full.”

“Then you could have dirt in the petrol feed. Got any tools?”

Rosnold found the tool wallet and handed it over. It took Girland ten minutes to get the engine restarted. He stepped back and smiled.

“There you are... simple when you know how.”

Rosnold said gratefully, “Thank you very much. You are most kind.”

“Glad to be of help.” Girland now looked at Gillian who gave him a wide, fascinating smile.

“I think you are wonderful,” she said.

“If you will permit me, Madame, I will return the compliment,” Girland said. He gave her his long stare of admiration that had so often sent tingles up the spines of so many a girl, then he returned to his car and drove off.

At the hotel he had a good lunch, then went up to his room, stripped off, put on a shortie dressing-gown and stretched out on the bed. Girland believed in rest when there was time to rest. Within a minute or so, he was asleep.

He woke a little before 18.00 hrs., took a shower, shaved and put on a midnight blue suit, a white polo-neck sweater, black suede shoes. He surveyed himself in the full-length mirror. Satisfied, he pushed a small armchair up to the door, opened the door a crack and sat down to wait.

At 19.30 hrs. he heard a door open and he became alert. Leaning forward, he peered through the crack to see Rosnold come out of his room, insert a key in the lock and turn it. Girland shoved the armchair away and moved out into the corridor. He too locked his door and turned to make for the elevator.

Rosnold recognised him and smiled.

“So we meet again,” he said and offered his hand.

Girland shook hands.

“I didn’t know you were staying here,” he said. “No further trouble with your car?”

“No... thanks to you. If you’re not in a hurry, give me the pleasure of buying you a drink,” Rosnold said. “I am most grateful to you.”

“Not at all.” Girland fell into step beside Rosnold. “I’m here for a short vacation. I’ve been cooped up in Paris too long and I felt the need to stretch my legs. Would you know of a good restaurant around here? I get bored with hotel meals all the time.”

They reached the elevator and went down to the ground floor as Rosnold said, “You mean you are on your own? Come and dine with us. I would take it as a favour.”

“But your wife...” Girland let this hang.

Rosnold laughed.

“She’s not my wife. We go around together. She’ll be delighted. She’s already told me she thinks you are dreamy.”

Girland laughed.

“You certainly know how to pick them.”

They went into the tiny bar and got the only, corner table. Both ordered double Scotch on the rocks.

“I’m in the photographic racket,” Rosnold volunteered as they waited for their drinks. “What’s your racket?”

“I can’t say I have one single racket,” Girland said and grinned. “I work a number: agent for this and that. I work when I feel like it which isn’t often. I guess I’m lucky. My old man left me some heavy money which I take care of.”

Rosnold looked impressed. He eyed Girland’s clothes which had been bought with Dorey’s money from a top tailor in London.

“Some people have all the luck. I have to work for my living.”

“You don’t look as if you have to grumble.”

“Oh, I get by.”

As the drinks arrived, Gillian Sherman came into the bar. She was wearing a scarlet trousered cocktail suit of light nylon and wool with a gold link-chain around her slim waist. Girland thought she looked sensational. The two men got to their feet.

“This is Gilly... Gillian Sherman.” Rosnold blinked, then turned to Girland. “I’m sorry... damn it! I haven’t introduced myself. Pierre Rosnold.”

Girland was looking at Gilly.

“Mark Girland,” he said and took the hand she offered. Her grip was cool and firm. Mischief and sex danced in her eyes and she surveyed him. “Miss Sherman, this brief encounter has made my vacation.”

“What makes you think it is going to be brief?” Gilly asked as she sat down. “Pierre, a Cinzano bitter, please.”

As Rosnold went to the bar, Girland said, “Two’s company...”

She regarded him.

“Can’t you do better than that?”

“I could.”

They stared at each other. Girland gave her his intense look he had cultivated for just such an occasion. It was completely insincere, but it usually had a devastating effect on most women. Gilly reacted to it as he hoped she would. She leaned forward and smiled at him.

“Yes... I think you could,” she murmured.

Rosnold joined them with the drink and set it before her. They talked. When Girland wished, he could be witty, amusing and often bawdy. Smoothly, he went into his act, and after a few minutes, he was holding the stage with Rosnold grinning appreciatively and Gilly doubled up with laughter.

It was while he was being his most entertaining that a tall, lean man came into the bar. He was about forty years of age with thick, flaxen hair taken straight back off a narrow forehead. His deeply tanned face was long and narrow and his alert eyes a washed-out blue. He wore a bottle-green velvet smoking jacket, a frilled white shirt, a green string tie and black trousers. Around his thick muscular left wrist was a heavy platinum chain. On his right wrist a platinum Omega watch. He had that confident, slightly arrogant air reserved for the immensely rich. He merely glanced at the three sitting at the corner table, then sat on a stool up at the bar.

“Good evening, Count von Goltz,” the barman said, bowing. “What is your pleasure?”

“A glass of champagne... my usual,” the man said, and taking a heavy gold Cigarette case from his pocket, he selected an oval-shaped cigarette which the barman moved forward to light.

“Phew!” Gilly breathed. “Some doll!”

Girland found her concentration in him had snapped. She was now studying the back of the blond man, her eyes calculating.

Rosnold touched her arm.

“Do you mind getting your eyes back on me, chérie?” he said, a slight rasp in his voice.

“Buy him for me, Pierre... he’s simply gorgeous.” Gilly had deliberately raised her voice.

The blond man turned and regarded her. He smiled, an easy, pleasant smile.

“Your French tells me you are an American, mademoiselle, and I adore uninhibited Americans.” He slid off his stool and gave a stiff little bow. Then looking at Rosnold, he said, “But I may be intruding, sir. If I am, I will take my drink into the lounge.”

Both Rosnold and Girland got to their feet.

“Intruding? Of course not,” Rosnold said. “Perhaps you would care to join us?”

“For a few minutes... I would be delighted.” Von Goltz pulled up a chair. “Count Hans von Goltz,” and he bowed.