James Chase: The Whiff of Money

Dorey watched all this uneasily.

Neither man said anything until Sherman had switched on the projector, quickly focusing the picture on the grubby white wall in front of Dorey, then he said, “I’ve seen this. I don’t want to see it again.” He crossed the room, his body cutting off the picture on the wall for a brief moment, then he sat on the bed, his face in his hands, his eyes staring bleakly at the threadbare carpet by the bed.

Dorey watched the film. It was one of those blue films so popular at American stag parties: obscene, crude, sexually brash and to Dorey utterly disgusting. The male participant had a black hood over his head, disguising his features. The girl was around twenty-two years of age, dark, suntanned and sensually and sensationally built. The film lasted some five minutes and Dorey was relieved when the spool ran out. He had often heard of these blue films, but he had never seen one before. He was shocked to see living proof on this film that a man and a woman could behave in a way no animal would behave. He felt a sense of outrage. What was Sherman thinking of, showing him this filth?

As the end of the film began to flick around in its spool, Sherman got up, switched off the projector, then walked across the room and drew back the curtains. He turned and looked at Dorey who had taken off his spectacles and was looking anywhere but at Sherman.

Sherman said quietly, his voice unsteady, “The girl in that film, John, is my daughter.”

As Captain O’Halloran was pleased that his agent, Alec Hammer, had been alert enough to identify Henry Sherman so too was Serge Kovski, head of the Paris division of Soviet Security, pleased that his agent, Boris Drina, had also identified Sherman.

Drina, a fat, suety-faced, nondescript-looking man in his late forties, spent much of his time hanging around Orly airport. Kovski had placed him there because he knew Drina lacked courage and brains and was idle. The only reason why Drina was retained as an agent was because he possessed an extraordinary photographic memory. Once he had had a glimpse of someone, he could identify him, even after a long period of time. Imprinted on his mind were this man’s characteristics, his features and even the sound of his voice.

Four years ago, Henry Sherman, with his wife, had arrived at Orly for a dinner with the President of France. Drina had seen this tall, massively built man leave Orly, and the camera in Drina’s mind had photographed this man’s movements, his swinging walk, the quick jerk of his head and the sound of his voice. All this remained an undeveloped negative in Drina’s mind until he spotted Sherman, now wearing a moustache and dark glasses move from behind the Douane barrier and make his way quickly to the taxi rank.

Drina knew immediately that this man was the likely President of the United States. Unlike Alec Hammer who couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes and hesitated, Drina relied on his photographic memory and immediately moved into action. He followed Sherman, and as Sherman was taking the only taxi on the rank, Drina was close enough to hear him say, “Hôtel Pare, Rue Meslay.”

Drina had managed to get this close by pretending to take the taxi while Sherman was speaking to the driver.

Seeing him about to get into the taxi, Sherman said curtly, “This is mine, monsieur.”

Drina lifted his shabby hat that looked like a drowned cat and backed away.

“Excuse me.”

As soon as the taxi had driven off, Drina walked quickly to the nearest telephone kiosk. Any exertion made him breathless as he lived on a diet of vodka, onion soup and too much bread. Before putting through the call to Kovski, he paused to get back his breath.

His report electrified Kovski. Knowing Drina’s reliable, photographic memory, Kovski didn’t waste time querying if Drina just might be mistaken.

The two men spoke in Russian.

Kovski said, “Go to the Hotel Pare immediately. I will send Labrey there. Every move Sherman makes must be reported to me. I will see Labrey has a radio car. Go at once. You have done well.”

Drina had his own car parked at Orly. Even while Alec Hammer was still talking to O’Halloran, Drina half-ran, half-walked to his car, then scrambling breathlessly into the car, he started the engine.

You have done well was music to his ears. He couldn’t remember when last Kovski had given him any praise. His heart beating fast, his breath wheezing through his fat covered lungs, Drina sent his Renault shooting along the auto route towards Paris.

The girl in this film is my daughter.

For a moment Dorey again wondered if his hearing was failing, but one look at Sherman’s haggard face and the cold misery in his eyes told him he had heard aright.

Dorey’s mind worked swiftly. Vaguely now, he remembered hearing that Sherman had a daughter. The last time he had heard anything of her was that she was being educated at an expensive school in Switzerland. When was that? Possibly six or seven years ago. Since then he had heard nothing of her. Whenever Sherman and his wife went on vacation, attended premieres or important dinners, the daughter was conspicuous by her absence. Dorey recalled the girl in the film. Now he knew who she was, he realised she took after her mother. She had Mary’s beauty, Mary’s slimness, long legs and beautiful hands.

“I’m sorry, sir,” was all he could say.

“Yes.” Sherman sat on the bed. “You’d better hear the whole, sordid story, John.” He paused, rubbing his hands across his face. “Gillian and I have never hit it off.” He looked directly at Dorey. “I guess it was half my fault... half hers. Maybe more my fault than hers because I didn’t want children. Anyway, from the very beginning when she was a baby, we resented each other and she was a complete little hellion. She deliberately set out to be difficult, making blackmailing scenes, yelling and screaming if she didn’t get her own way. When she reached her teens she became insufferable... anyway to me. How the hell can a man work when there is pop music, longhaired creeps, shouting and yelling, Gillian kicking up trouble every hour of the day? I just couldn’t stand it any longer. Why the hell should I? It was my house and Gillian turned it into a goddamn zoo. So I packed her off to Switzerland. The school was top class and they promised to discipline her. She remained in Switzerland, not coming home at all, for four years. God! It was a relief to get her out of my hair... you have no idea the peace I had once she had gone! Well, she stayed at the school until she was nineteen. By then Mary and I were used to living without her.” Sherman looked down at his massive hands, frowning. “Both of us were constantly busy. When we found time to take a vacation we went with a group of people who were helping me build my political career... there was no place for a teenage daughter. Anyway, Gillian would have been bored stiff with the people I moved around with, so we arranged for her to stay in Europe. We wrote regularly, of course. She didn’t seem to be interested in anything so I suggested she should study architecture. She agreed. I found a woman professor to go around with her, teach her, take her to France, Germany and Italy and generally keep an eye on her. Then eighteen months ago, I heard from her professor that she had packed her things and had gone off into the blue.” Sherman paused. I thought maybe this was the best thing that could happen. I was busy... Mary, of course, was worried, but frankly, John, Mary was also busy... she wants to become the First Lady as much as I want to become the President.”

Dorey was only half-listening to this. He couldn’t get out of his mind the pictures of the naked girl he had watched with so much disgust. Sherman’s daughter! He felt a chill run up his spine. If this film got into the wrong hands, not only would Sherman be politically finished, but his social life would also be ruined.