James Chase: The Whiff of Money

“Perhaps we had better not discuss this, Max,” he said uneasily. “Nothing good ever conies of discussing personalities.”

“That’s true.”

The two men remained sitting on the terrace in silence until they saw Dorey appear and walk towards his parked Jaguar.

“There’s my man,” Lintz said. “I leave you to pay the bill. Good luck... and be careful.” He got to his feet and crossed to where he had left his shabby Renault 4, climbed to and drove after the Jaguar.

Drina watched him disappear, then putting three francs on the table, he lit a Gauloise and continued his wait. He was nervous. Lintz was right. Girland was a professional. He would have liked Lintz to have taken care of Girland, but his pride wouldn’t allow it. Now, thinking that in a little while, he would have to follow this man wherever he went and remain out of sight brought him out into a cold sweat. Suppose he lost him? Suppose Girland spotted him? He licked his dry lips, trying to assure himself that for the past fifteen years he had followed suspects and had always been successful.

He was so unnerved he could no longer sit at the table. He got up, waved to the waiter, indicating he had left payment and walked across the narrow street to where he had parked his Deux Chevaux. He got in and waited.

Ten minutes later, he saw Girland come from his apartment block and saunter down the street. Girland was wearing a short leather coat over his sweater and hipsters. He was smoking, his hand thrust into his coat pocket.

Drina started his car. He watched Girland cross the road and tuck himself into a shabby, beaten-up Fiat 600. Drina followed the Fiat into the mass of traffic, struggling along Rue Raymond Losserand and finally into Avenue du Maine. Here, Girland turned left. Allowing two cars to be between Girland and himself, Drina kept after the Fiat. At Rue de Vaugirard, Girland turned right and drove a few metres down the traffic-packed road before edging his car into a courtyard.

Forced to continue on down the street by the traffic behind him, Drina had just time to see Girland get out of his car before he lost sight of him. Cursing, he drove on, turned off into a side street and was lucky to find a car pulling away from the kerb. He edged the Deux Chevaux into the space. Snapping off the engine and without waiting to lock the car door, he ran back to the courtyard.

The Fiat was still there, but Girland had disappeared. Drina looked around. There were several doorways leading into the courtyard building that stood in a half square. A brass plate on one of the doors caught his eye.

Remembering the movie projector, Drina decided that Girland was paying Benny Slade a visit. He now wished Lintz had taken this assignment. When Girland eventually came out of this building, he would drive away. Drina would have to run down the street, get in his car, and by the time he had got back to Rue de Vaugirard, he would have lost Girland. He hesitated for a long moment, then decided he had to have help.

He walked to the entrance of the courtyard, spotted a café further up the road and ran to it.

A few minutes later, he was once more talking to Kovski.

Unaware that he was being followed, Girland climbed the three flights of stair to Benny Slade’s studio. He leaned on the bell push and waited.

He had known Benny Slade for some years. Benny was an enormously fat, jovial homosexual with a brilliant flair for photography. He ran a very special and lucrative business supplying the luxury hotels where the Americans were to be found with coloured slides and 8 mm colour films of The Girls of Paris. There was nothing pornographic about his work: every shot was artistic, but somehow managed to be titillating. His slides and films had a very brisk sale. Most of the American tourists bought them to show their neighbours back home just what they were missing.

Benny was onto a good thing and he knew it. He kept clear of any smut. He was the Playboy of Paris, and he prospered.

The door was opened by a fair, beautiful looking youth clad in skintight trousers and a white shirt worn outside the trousers. He gave Girland a coy little smile and lifted carefully plucked eyebrows as he asked, “Yes, monsieur?”

“Is Benny hatching an egg?” Girland asked.

The eyebrows went up and then down.

“Mr Slade is shooting.”

“When isn’t he? Okay, I’ll wait.” Girland moved forward, driving the youth into a long corridor lit by rose-pink lamps held in golden hands fixed to the wall. Everything about Benny’s studio was artistic. Girland thought it was terrible.

The youth shut the door.

“Who shall I say, monsieur?”

“Girland... he knows me.”

The youth led the way down the corridor and opened a door.

“Will you wait in here, please, monsieur?”

Girland walked into a glossily furnished room with chairs along the walls, a table in the centre littered with the latest magazines, several of Benny’s masterpieces of nude girls enormously blown-up, hanging in gilt frames on the wall.

As the youth closed the door, Girland became aware of a girl sitting on a chair in the far corner of the room, a cigarette in her slim fingers, leafing through a copy of Elle .

She glanced up and looked Girland over as he was looking her over. Quite a doll, he thought.

The girl was possibly twenty-three or four years of age. She had long silky blonde hair that reached below her shoulders and concealed most of her face. Her eyes were large and the colour of first grade sapphires. Her mouth was made for kissing. Girland eyed her legs: long and slim, the way he liked them. She was wearing a white silk wrap that hung open revealing the swell of her breasts. She seemed to be wearing nothing under the wrap although Girland couldn’t be sure about this. She pulled the wrap close to her when she saw Girland was staring.

He gave her his most charming smile.

“Like waiting at the dentist, isn’t it? Are you modelling for Benny?”

“That’s right.” He could see by the sudden interest in her eyes that he appealed to her. “Are you?”

“Me?” Girland laughed and sat down two chairs away from her. “Benny wouldn’t want to shoot me. I’m just paying a social call. I’m Mark Girland.”

“I’m Vi Martin.”

Again they regarded each other. This was a girl, Girland told himself, who could be exciting in bed.

“Do you do much work for Benny?” he asked.

She grimaced.

“About once a month. The competition is fierce. Every little cow with good legs and tits comes rushing here. They’ll even be shot for nothing.”

“That’s tough. What else do you do beside work for Benny?”

“Oh, I model clothes.” She was vague enough for Girland to guess this wasn’t strictly the truth. “What do you do?”

“I live off the fat of the land,” Girland said airily. “I don’t believe in work. It’s against my principles.”

“It’s against mine too, but I have to eat.”

“A doll with your looks shouldn’t have to worry.”

She smiled.

“I didn’t say I worried. Do you mean you don’t do any work?”

“Not if I can avoid it.”

“And you live off the fat of the land?” She let the wrap slip a little and Girland had a glimpse of firm, well-rounded thighs before the wrap was whipped into place.

“I get by. Perhaps one of these evenings we could get together over a dinner and I’ll tell you about it... that is if you are interested.”

She regarded him, then nodded.

“I could be. I’ve always wanted to live off the fat of the land and not do any work.”

“This sounds as if we have a lot in common. Do you know Chez Garin restaurant?”