Adele and Lia were on holiday from Paris and, apart from their company and the truly excellent meal, they gave Mark and Sama a hot lead in this affair of the Global Globules—as Mark now referred to it.
"Tin dresses?" said Sama Paru. "Tell us again."
Lia giggled. "It is so funny. A lot of the girls—they want to be models, like Adele, you see. But it is not all so easy and big fun like they think. It is very much training and long hours, and many jealousies and back-kicking."
"Biting," said Sama. "Back-biting."
"Ah yes—these English sayings! So, you see, it is all a dream with these girls."
"And no big money just for the asking," said Adele. She shrugged. "Oh! I do not complain. I have plenty of work, but it has taken a long time to become known. These stupid little innocents, they think all the couturieres—and, oh yes, the men—will fall over themselves to offer jobs and mink coats."
Lia roared with laughter. "So when a man chooses many of these girls and offers them big money, they all fall—plomp! They think of gorgeous gowns, and costumes and furs, and what do they model in? Tin dresses!"
Mark and Sama exchanged glances.
"An advertising agency, eh?" Mark suggested.
"Not advertising," said Adele. "They were picked by a—how you say?—a big no-good. He is an agent, yes, but not for the real model business. The fringe man—very nasty."
"But he offered high fees—or payment of some sort?"
"In pieces," said Lia. "First he say: you model these dresses where we tell you. We pay you five thousand francs. These girls—their little eyes go pop and they sign the papers. Like a contract it is, and they receive one hundred francs and their ticket to Lyons or Chartres or Monte Carlo—lots of towns. Then they are paid another hundred when they wear these tin dresses. So they don't have five thousand francs in one big piece like they think."
"To Lia, it is a joke," said Adele. "And to me at first, because always there are these silly girls who call themselves models. But I think it is a bad joke. Some of these girls are in strange towns with little or no money. Some have not returned to Paris. Such business should be stopped, but there is no law against it, only—what is it you say?—expiation?"
"Exploitation," said Mark. "Are these girls trained, or told who are the buyers of these tin dresses?"
"Ah no—not trained," said Adele. "But one or two older girls—not so good girls, you know what I mean?—took these jobs, went away for a time. Training, they said, but they had plenty of money. And they have been taught to ride little motor bikes. I think perhaps these tin dresses might be a new kind of 'mod-gear', like they say in London."
Mark questioned them further, but they knew only a few first-hand facts and a great deal of rumor. He left for a while, saying he needed some fresh air, found a pay-phone and got through to the Le Havre laboratory.
April was annoyed at the interruption.
"This is going to take hours to crack—maybe weeks. Why are you still local?" She listened. "Oh, yes? Well, sorry I sparked off—this is certainly another angle. The chicks in Carnaby Street were a mixture of ga-ga teenagers kidding they were models and some hard-bitten floosies. There's a whale of a market all over for that mixture—a veritable army could be mobilized. This means there must be training and selection centers where the tough ones are picked, probably as leaders or local organizers."
"Separate centers from the distilling and testing and packing centers," Mark suggested.
"Well—those don't have to be very large. Moorfell could produce enough K.S.R.6 for a mammoth spraying fiesta. Any large country house in a quiet area subject to fogs, mists or above-average rainfall would do. But a training and selection center would attract more attention. I'm contacting Mr. Waverly at four a.m., our time. I'll pass this idea of yours to him. Is that all, Mark?"
"For now, for me—it's enough. The idea of thousands of bright young bints welded into a tin-dress army, captained by floosies, riding Noddy bikes through every town in the country scares the sanctimonious hell out of me! Cheerio, darling—be good and clever!"
"Aren't I always?"
"Yum!" He hung up, went back to the bistro, slept for an hour, then kicked Sama Paru awake. The chopper took off at first light. By sunrise it was over the olive hills behind the shimmering sea, slipping and wheeling for Mark to sight a suitable landing area.
They found the spot where Count Kazan had come down. The chopper was in a small clearing, its rotors leaning at an unusual angle. Efforts had been made to camouflage it by lacing leafy tree branches over it, but the blades peeped through enough to attract a searching gaze.
Mark said: "I think I sighted buildings among the trees. That must be near where Kazan last called in."
"Okay—I'll put down on that farm."
The farmer ran up as they climbed out, jabbering furiously. Sama Paru flashed money and the jabbering grew less explosive. When he produced more money, the farmer smiled a cracked smile. Then they conversed like old chums.
At last Sama turned to Mark "Yes, there is a hush-hush building in the woods," he said. Local rumors say it's a Government-research training center, but they are not curious around here." He grinned. "Not while someone at the center lays a wad of folding money in the local kitty. I have arranged transport."
"Comical," said Mark ten minutes later as they proceeded down a dusty-white lane on the back of a donkey. "Dead comical, you are, mate! Transport, you call this?"
"His car is broken down. His farm cart and horse delivering produce—what would you?"
"I would de-louse this brute for a start." Mark scratched several delicate places.
They parked the donkey at the edge of the woods, for Sama Paru had bought information not normally found on maps.
"Expensive, these small farmers," he observed. "How do I describe it on my expense sheet?"
"Local produce." Mark grinned. "If Karadin and his outfit succeed in this Globules affair, all you'll get is a wad of ugly money anyway! What the hell are you looking for?" he demanded as Sama moved, crouching, through the trees.
"Truffle tracks."
"Listen, chum—truffles and caviar come later." Mark hesitated. "Is this part of your pricey farmer's info?"
Sama nodded. "Better to follow his tracks than a clear patch. He says there are booby-traps—trip wires and such—over the main paths into the forest. We follow where he has found truffles. He marks the trees—see?" Sama pointed to a whitish nick in a nearby tree. "The farmer can go right up to the fence without their seeing him."
"So he's been truffle-picking and peeking?"
"Must have—he says lots of the girls sun-bathe. He seemed annoyed that they did it during milking time so he couldn't always get away from the farm. But they do some sort of training or practicing in silver dresses and trouser suits in the morning. They never come into the village. They have their own transport which takes them down to the coast."
"Well organized, huh?"
"It would seem to be so." Sama halted. "Look!" He parted the branches of thick bushes. A fence just beyond the bushes encircled a compound which had been smooth-layered with asphalt.