The man behind the desk took a cigarette from an exquisite cloisonneé box. Pete refused and fumbled for his crumpled pack of Pall Mall. Smoke spiraled upward toward the groined and coffered ceiling.
"First things first," said the man. "Do you remember a man named Paul Jacobi?"
"Yes." And he did. Nick Carter did. Sometimes the hours, days, of toiling through photographs and files paid off. Paul Jacobi. A Dutch Commie. Minor agent. Known to have worked in Malaya and Indonesia for a time. Dropped out of sight. Last reported in Japan.
Pete Fremont waited for the man to do the leading. How did Jacobi fit into it?
Philston opened a drawer. There was. a rustle of paper. "Three years ago Paul Jacobi tried to recruit you. He offered you a job, working for us. You refused. Why was that?"
Pete scowled and drank. "I wasn't ready to sell out then."
"Yet you never informed on Jacobi, never told anyone he was a Russian agent. Why?"
"None of my damned concern. Maybe I didn't want to play with Jacobi but that didn't mean I had to blow the whistle on him. All I wanted, all I want now, is to be left alone to drink myself to death." He laughed harshly. "It's not as easy as you might think."
Silence. He could see Philston's face now. A soft handsomeness blurred by sixty years of indulgence. A hint of jowl, the nose blunt, the eyes wide set and void of color in the semi-gloom. The mouth was the betrayer — loose, a trifle moist, a whisper of effeminacy. The flaccid mouth of the too tolerant bisexual. The files clicked over in the AXEman's brain. Philston was a lady killer. Man killer, too, in more ways than one.
Philston said: "You have not seen Paul Jacobi lately?"
"No."
A hint of smile. "That is understandable. He is no longer with us. There was an accident in Moscow. Too bad."
Pete Fremont drank. "Yeah. Too bad. Let's forget Jacobi. What do you want me to do for the fifty thousand?"
Richard Philston was setting his own pace. He crushed out his cigarette and reached for another one. "You would not work for us at the time you turned Jacobi down. Now you will work for me, so you say. May I ask why this change of heart? I represent the same, er, clients that Jacobi did. As you must know."
Philston leaned forward and Pete got a good look at his eyes. Pale, washed-out gray. Brushed in with limpid water color.
Pete Fremont said: "Look, Philston! I don't give a damn who wins. Not a single damn! And things have changed since "I knew Jncobi. A lot of whisky has gone under the bridge. I'm older. I'm broker. Right now I've got about two hundred yen to my name. That answer your question?"
"Hmmmm — to a degree, yes. All right." Paper rustled again. "You were a newspaperman in the States?"
It was a chance for a little bravura acting and Nick Carter let Pete leap at it. He exploded in a nasty little laugh. He let his hands tremble a bit and he looked with longing at the Scotch bottle.
"Good Christ, man! You want references? All right. I can give you names but I doubt that you'll hear anything good."
Philston did not smile. "Yes. That I understand." He consulted the paper. "You worked for the Chicago Tribune at one time. Also the New York Mirror and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, among others. You also worked for the Associated Press and the Hearst International Service. You were fired from all these positions for drinking?"
Pete laughed. He tried to touch up the sound with just a hint of mild insanity. "You missed a few. The Indianapolis News and a few country papers." He remembered Tonaka's words and went on, "There is also the Hong Kong Times and the Singapore Times. Here in Japan there's Asahi and Osaka and a few others. You name the paper, Philston, and I've probably been fired from it."
"Hmmmm. Just so. But you still have connections, friends, among newspaper men?"
Where was the bastard heading? Still no light at the end of the tunnel.
"I wouldn't call them friends," Pete said. "Acquaintances, maybe. An alcoholic hasn't got any friends. But I know a few guys I can still borrow a buck from when I'm desperate enough."
"And you could still plant a story? A big story? Let us suppose that you were given the story of the century, a really tremendous scoop as I believe you chaps call it, and it was exclusive with you. Only you! You could arrange that such a story would get immediate and full worldwide coverage?"
They were beginning to get to it.
Pete Fremont pushed back the battered hat and stared at Philston "I could do that, yes. But it would have to be authentic. Fully confirmed. You offering me such a story?"
"I may," said Philston. "I just may. And if I do, Fremont, it will be fully confirmed. No worry about that!" The high, fluting, Establishment laugh was at some private joke. Pete waited.
Silence. Philston moved in his swivel chair and stared at the ceiling. He stroked a well-manicured hand through silver gray hair. This was the crux. The sonofabitch was about to make up his mind.
While he waited the AXEman pondered the vagaries, the breaks, the chancy bits of his profession. Timing, for instance. Those girls snatching the real Pete Fremont's body and hiding it in the few moments that the cops and Pete's girl friend were off stage. A one in a million chance, that. And now the fact of Fremont's death hung over his own head like a sword. The minute that Philston, or Johnny Chow, found out the truth the fake Pete Fremont was in the soup. Johnny Chow? He began to think along a new line. Maybe it was a way out for Tonaka…
Decision. Richard Philston opened another drawer. He came around the desk. In his hands was a thick packet of green bills. He tossed the money into Pete's lap. There was contempt in the gesture which Philston did not bother to conceal. He stood nearby, teetering slightly on his heels. Beneath the tweed jacket he wore a thin tan sweater that did not conceal a small paunch.
"I've decided to trust you, Fremont. I've no choice, really, but perhaps it isn't such a risk after all. It has been my experience that every man looks out for himself first. We are all selfish. Fifty thousand dollars will take you a long way from Japan. It means a new start, my friend, a new life. You've reached rock bottom — we both know that — and I can't think that you'll refuse this chance to get out of the gutter. I am a rational man, a logical man, and I think that you are too. This is absolutely your last chance. I think you realize that. So I'm gambling, you might say. Gambling that you will do the job efficiently and that you will stay sober until it is done."
The big man in the chair kept his eyes hooded. He riffled the crisp notes through his fingers and registered greed. He nodded. "For this kind of money I can stay sober. You can believe it, Philston. For this kind of dough you can even trust me."
Philston paced a few steps. There was something dainty, mineing, about his walk. The AXEman wondered if the guy really was queer. There was no proof in his files. Only hints.
"It is not," said Philston, "altogether a matter of trust. As I am sure you understand. For one thing, if you do not carry out the assignment to my complete satisfaction you will not be paid the remainder of the fifty thousand. There will be a time lapse, naturally. If everything works out — then you will be paid."
Pete Fremont scowled. "Looks like I'm the one that has to trust you."
"To a point, yes. I might also point out something else — if you betray me or in any way attempt to double-cross, you will most certainly be killed. I am much esteemed by KGB. You will have heard of their long arm?"