He reached for the telephone and in a few moments he was talking to Kerman.
“I want you around here, Kerman,” he said. “It’s urgent.”
Kerman said, “Can do … will do,” and hung up.
Twenty minutes later he was sitting in the chair recently occupied by O’Halloran and listening to Dorey talk.
Kerman was a small, wiry man, around thirty-three, with brown hair cut in a crew cut, alert eyes and a humorous, pleasing appearance. He made a reasonable living as partner in a garage which left him time to work for Dorey when Dorey needed him.
Dorey gave him the picture of what had been happening, omitting no details.
“This has now got a little out of hand,” he concluded. “Frankly, Kerman, I should have given O’Halloran’s report to Warley. It is obvious this woman had vital information to sell which Radnitz is determined should not be known. You know how I feel about Radnitz. It has always been my ambition to nail him. From the very beginning, I should have reported to Warley. I know that, but Warley being what he is and I being what I am, I didn’t do it. Now I am sure Radnitz is mixed up in this, I am even less inclined to bring Warley into it. If I can pull the rug from under Radnitz’s feet, I’ll have achieved something no one else has achieved in spite of trying their damnedest. You see that, don’t you?”
Kerman nodded.
“I’ll go along with you, Mr. Dorey. You tell me what you want done and I’ll do it.”
“Janine Daulnay is already on her way to Dakar. She’s no fool and she may be able to pick up the trail out there, I want you to catch tomorrow’s plane and join her. Working together, you could find out what this woman had to sell and why Radnitz is involved.”
Kerman bit his thumb as he stared at Dorey.
“All this is going to cost money,” he pointed out. “If it is to remain unofficial, where’s the money coming from?”
Dorey picked up the briefcase on his desk.
“There’s seven thousand dollars in here, Kerman. The Foucher woman had it with her. It’s my bet the money came from Radnitz. It would be poetic justice if we used Radnitz’s money to bring him down. Take it. I’ll arrange the visa for you. Come to my office at nine tomorrow morning with your passport and photographs. I’ll have everything fixed for you by then.”
“Well, okay,” Kerman said. “You’re still sure you shouldn’t bring Warley into it?”
“Never mind Warley,” Dorey said sharply. “You do what I tell you.”
“This guy Girland. I’ve heard of him although I’ve never met him. Do you think he’ll try to get to Dakar?”
“I think he’s dead. The last I heard of him, he was in the hands of Radnitz’s men. They are almost certain to have treated him as they treated Rossland.”
Kerman looked down at his hands.
“Radnitz might have bought him, Mr. Dorey. Thought of that?”
Dorey looked startled.
“What do you men … bought him?”
“Let’s face facts,” Kerman said. “You don’t pay all that well, Mr. Dorey. Don’t think I’m complaining, I’m not, but Radnitz has all the money in the world. He could have made it worth while for Girland to change sides.”
Dorey thought about this, then shook his head.
“Radnitz has his own organisation. Why should he waste money on a man like Girland? It would be much simpler to get rid of him. Girland’s dead. I’m sure of it.”
Kerman got to his feet.
“Well, okay, then tomorrow at your office at nine.”
Borg drove the Citroen back from the Airport to his apartment on Rue Louise-Michel. Neither he nor Schwartz had exchanged a word during the drive. Borg pulled up outside his apartment block and the two men took the lift to the fourth floor. Borg unlocked the door and entered a big, sunny room with lounging chairs, a table, a big mirror over the fireplace and on the walls, framed reproductions of naked girls he had picked up at a tourist
boutique
on the left bank.
Thomas was sitting in one of the chairs, nervously flicking through a copy of
Lui.
He had been staying with Borg for the past two days, and he had been instructed by Radnitz to keep off the streets.
“Well?” he asked, staring at Schwartz.
Schwartz sneered at him and pointed to a small hole in his rainproof pocket.
“Is she dead?”
“I don’t make mistakes, white-headed boy,” Schwartz said and sat down.
Borg went into the kitchen and took from the refrigerator two cans of beer. He poured the beer into glasses and gave Schwartz one and drank from the other himself.
Thomas looked at the two men uneasily, then went back to his aimless fidgeting with the magazine.
Schwartz lit a cigarette and leaning back in his chair, closed his eyes. Borg refilled his glass and went over to the window to stare out into the street below.
Ten minutes later, the front doorbell rang. Borg opened the door.
Radnitz entered and stood looking at the three men. Thomas and Schwartz got to their feet.
“So you had to kill her,” Radnitz said to Schwartz.
“They were on to her. When she reached the barrier, they jumped her. She looked ready to spill her guts so I shot her.”
Radnitz moved around the room, his heavy face dark and scowling.
“If Girland doesn’t produce something in three days, you and Borg are to go to Dakar,” he said, pausing to look at Schwartz. “You are to work with him. I don’t entirely trust him. Understand?”
Schwartz nodded.
“But What about me, sir?” Thomas asked. “Don’t I go?”
“You are going to London,” Radnitz snapped. “Get rid of that ridiculous beard. Dorey’s men are looking for you. For the time being you are of no use to me. Report to my London office. They might find something for you to do.”
Thomas turned red, then white. “Yes, sir.”
“And be careful how you leave Paris.” Radnitz took a roll of money from his pocket and tossed it on the table. “Split this amongst you. You, Schwartz are to have fifty per cent of it. You have done well,” then ignoring Thomas, he left the apartment.
As Schwartz crossed the room to the money on the table, he said with a sneer, “He doesn’t seem to love our little pal any more, does he?”
Girland gave the air hostess his embarkation ticket, then mounted the steps behind the slowly moving line of passengers making their way into the tourist section of the aircraft.
He moved down the aisle, saw an outside vacant seat just ahead of him, slid into it and sat down. He became aware that he was sitting next to Janine Daulnay, the smartly dressed woman whose name he had read on her passport. She was occupying herself with fastening her safety belt and with a quick, approving glance at her, Girland also fastened his belt. He then put his briefcase on the floor and settled himself comfortably in his seat.
It was now Janine’s turn to look at him. Their eyes met and she said, “Did you see what happened to that coloured woman? They were arresting her, weren’t they? I saw you watching. From where I was I couldn’t see much. I thought she fainted. Is that right?”
Girland looked into her large worldly eyes. He thought she was one of the most attractive women he had seen for a long time.
“Well, she certainly fell down,” he said. “I wouldn’t know what happened. It’s my guess she was trying to smuggle something through and they got on to her. That’s just my guess for what it’s worth.”
The jet engines started up with a roar, silencing any further conversation. Girland lay back and closed his eyes. Janine looked at him. She thought: Hmmmm … quite a man. Speaks French fluently, but he’s an American. I like the line of his jaw and his hands: strong but gentle. Yes … quite a man.
Girland was worried. His only lead now to Carey was through this Portuguese known as Enrico. If he couldn’t find him, he wouldn’t find Carey.
The aircraft began to race along the runway and in a few seconds was airborne. Girland released his safety belt and took out his cigarette case. He offered it to Janine who took a cigarette. When they were smoking, he said, “My name’s John Gilchrist. Is this your first trip to Dakar?”
“I’m Janine Daulnay. Yes, it is my first trip,” Janine replied. “I’m only going for a couple of weeks: just to get some sun.”
“Madame Daulnay?” Girland asked, smiling at her.
She laughed.
“No. I find life more amusing being single. Are you married?” Girland shook his head. “For the same reason.”
They both laughed, then she said, “You speak French very well, but you are an American, aren’t you?”
“My mother was French. They tell me it’s pretty hot in Dakar right now, but the N’Gor Hotel beach is something special.”
“They told me that too. Are you on vacation?”
“No, worse luck. I’m on business.”
Janine lowered the back of her seat slightly, then stubbed out her cigarette.
“We get in around three o’clock, don’t we?” “That’s right.”
“Well, then, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to catch up with my beauty sleep.”
“It’s an idea,” Girland said. “Me too.”
Janine closed her eyes, and after a while she seemed to be sleeping. Girland finished his cigarette, then he too closed his eyes, but his mind remained active for an hour or so. He thought of Madame Foucher. The ruthlessness of Radnitz angered him. Maybe there would come a time when he would level the scores and revenge both her death and Rossland’s death. Later, he relaxed and drifted into a heavy sleep. He was aroused by the air hostess.
“Please fasten your safety belt, sir,” she said. “We will be landing in three minutes.”
Girland sat up, yawned and fumbled with his belt. Janine was touching up her face.
“It seemed to take no time at all,” she said. “I slept. Did you?” “I guess,” Girland said.
She looked through the window at the lights of the airport as the plane circled to come in. “Africa! It’s exciting, isn’t it!”
When the aircraft had landed and the exit doors were opened, a blast of hot humid air surged into the aircraft.
“Phew!” Girland said as he got to his feet. “This is hot!”
He walked with Janine across the tarmac and into the airport building. They passed through the various control points with little delay and found the N’Gor Hotel bus waiting.
A tall, coloured porter, wearing a red uniform, took their bags and put them in the bus. Three American business men also got into the bus with them for the short drive by the sea road to the hotel.
There was a slight delay as they checked in at the hotel and Girland noticed that this woman who interested him had a room next to his.
“Why, you’re my neighbour,” he said. “This is a coincidence. I hope we’ll see more of each other.”
“But you’re going to be busy, aren’t you?”
They entered the lift.
“Oh, sure,” Girland said airily, “but not all that busy. I’ll have time to try out the beach.”
“Good … then we’ll meet.”
The lift took them to the seventh floor and they followed the porter down a long corridor, down a short flight of stairs and into a tiny lobby. To the right and left of the lobby was a door. The porter unlocked one of the doors and carried Janine’s luggage into a big, airy room.
“Well, good night again,” she said, offering her hand.
Girland held it a shade longer than necessary and when she lifted her eyebrows, he released it.
“Good night,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” and he followed the porter into his room.
At half past nine the following morning, Girland ordered breakfast. He then spoke on the telephone to the Hall Porter, telling him he wanted to hire a car for three days. The Hall Porter said a car would be outside the hotel within an hour.
After breakfast, Girland unpacked his suitcase, dressed in a tropical suit and locked the suitcase in one of the closets. He left his bulky briefcase on a chair, and went down to the reception hall.
The Hall Porter told him the car had arrived, and after tipping him, Girland walked down the long flight of steps to where a D.S. Citroen stood parked in the shade.
He drove along the wide Autoroute to Dakar. Parking the car in Place de l’Independence, he set off on foot to explore the town. The streets, crowded with gaily dressed Africans, had much to offer and for the first hour, he was content to wander around and get the feel of the town. He visited a bookshop and bought maps of the town, the surrounding district and a guide book. As the girl wrapped his purchase, he asked her where the Florida nightclub was to be found.
“At the far end of rue Carnot,” she told him. “Second on the left past Place de l’lndependence.”
Girland returned to his car and drove down rue Carnot until he located the nightclub. He parked a few yards past the club, then walked back to it. From the outside it looked dingy. There was a rusty iron grille drawn across the entrance. A shabby, painted sign told him the club opened at 21.15 hrs.
The time now was just after midday and the shops were closing. Girland decided there was nothing further he could do, so he drove back to the hotel.
A few minutes after he had set out for Dakar, Janine had been awakened by the telephone bell. Sleepily, she picked up the receiver.
“A cable for you, Madame,” the clerk said. “Shall I send it up?”
“Yes, please and let me have coffee and orange juice,” she said and replaced the receiver. She got out of bed, slipped on a wrap and went into the bathroom.
Some minutes later, a waiter, his white teeth gleaming against the blackness of his skin, put down a tray and handed her the cable.
When he had gone, Janine opened the cable and saw at a glance that it was from Dorey and would have to be decoded. She drank the, orange juice, lit a cigarette, poured coffee and then taking a pencil from her bag, set to work to decode the cable which read:
Women murdered at airport. Sending Kerman, arriving on
15.50
plane to work with you. Relying on you. Dorey.
She set fire to the cable with her cigarette lighter and dropped the ash on the tiled floor, then carrying her cup of coffee out onto the balcony, she sat in one of the reclining chairs, her mind busy.
A little after eleven o’clock, she put on a swim-suit and slipping on a beach wrap, she went down to the beach.