Sergeant Goodyard moved into the room. He stared at Sherborn, then lifted heavy eyebrows.
“Why, hello George… I thought you were dead.”
“No, sir,” Sherborn said, sweat on his face.
“A pity. You keeping out of trouble?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Goodyard surveyed the outer room with a critical eye.
“You’ve found a nice little nest here, haven’t you, George? Better than Pentonville I dare say.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sherborn opened the door to Shalik’s office.
After staring at him for a long moment, Goodyard walked into the impressively luxurious room.
Shalik glanced up. He regarded the police officer as he came slowly to the desk.
“Sergeant Goodyard?”
“Yes, sir.”
Shalik waved him to a chair.
“Sit down, sergeant. What is it?”
Goodyard settled himself in the chair and looked stonily at Shalik who felt the unease that all guilty people feel when under police scrutiny, although his face remained expressionless.
“I believe Miss Natalie Norman works for you?”
Surprised, Shalik nodded.
“That is right. She hasn’t come in this morning. Has something happened to her?”
“She died Saturday night,” Goodyard told him in his flat, cop voice. “Suicide.”
Shalik flinched. He had a horror of death. For some moments he remained motionless, then his quick, callous mind became alive. Who was he going to find to replace her? Who was now going to look after him? The fact that she was dead meant nothing to him. The fact that he had relied on her for the past three years to arrange his social and business life meant a lot.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He reached for a cigar and paused to clip the end. Was there any reason?”
What a bastard! Goodyard thought, but his cop face revealed none of his disgust.
“That is why I am here, sir. I hoped you could tell me.”
Shalik lit the cigar and let the rich smelling smoke roll out of his
mouth. He shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but I know nothing about Miss Norman… nothing at all. I have always found her an efficient worker. She has been with me for three years.” He leaned back in his executive chair and looked directly at Goodyard. “I am a busy man, Sergeant. It is impossible for me to take much — if any — interest in the people who work for me.”
Goodyard felt in his overcoat pocket and produced a small object which he laid in front of Shalik on the white blotter. “Would you know what that is, sir?”
Shalik frowned at the thick paper clip: the kind that is used to clip together heavy legal documents.
“Obviously a paper clip,” he said, curtly. “I hope you have reason for asking me such a question, Sergeant. You are taking up my valuable time.”
“Oh, yes, I have a reason,” Goodyard was unperturbed by Shalik’s sharp note. “I understand, Mr. Shalik, that you are engaged in many transactions about which rival companies could be interested.”
Shalik’s face hardened. “Surely that is no business of yours?”
“No, sir, but it could explain this object here,” and Goodyard tapped the paper clip.
“Just what do you mean?”
“This apparent paper clip is a highly sensitive microphone which is illegal to possess and which is used only by authorized bodies. In other words, sir, this gadget is only used in espionage work.”
Shalik stared at the paper clip, feeling a sudden rush of cold blood up his spine.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“This paper clip was found in Miss Norman’s flat,” Goodyard explained. “Fortunately the district detective investigating her death was smart enough to recognize what it was. It was passed to the special branch. That is why I am here.”
Shalik licked his dry lips as he said, “I know nothing about it.”
“Have you seen it before?”
“I don’t think so… how can I tell?” Controlling a feeling of panic, Shalik waved to a pile of documents on his desk, each held together with big paper clips, but none quite as big as the clip lying on his blotter. “It is possible… I don’t know.”
“To use this microphone successfully,” Goodyard said, picking up the microphone and putting it in his pocket, “a special taperecorder is required. Could I examine Miss Norman’s desk?”
“Of course.” Shalik got to his feet and led the way into Natalie’s office. “That is her desk.”
Goodyard’s search was quick and thorough. He also looked into the many filing cabinets and into the closet where Natalie used to hang her coat.
“No…” He turned to Shalik. “Have you any reason to believe that Miss Norman was spying on you?”
“Certainly not.”
“You know nothing about her private life? I understand she had a young man living with her. Several people in her building have seen him entering her flat. Would you know who he is?”
Shalik’s face showed his astonishment.
“I can scarcely believe that… still, if you say so. No, I know nothing about her.”
“Further inquiries will be made, sir. I shall want to see you again.”
“I am usually here.”
Goodyard made for the door, then paused.
“I don’t know if you are aware that your servant is George Sherborn who has served six years for forgery.”
Shalik’s face was expressionless.
“Yes, I know. Sherborn is a reformed character. I am very satisfied with him.”
Goodyard’s bleak, cop eyes stared at him.
“Do they ever reform?” he asked and left.
Shalik sat down at his desk. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his damp hands while he thought.
Had the microphone ever been on his desk?
Suppose it had? Had that white faced bitch been recording his transactions? He thought of the dangerous currency deals. Then there was the information given him by the P.A. to the Chancellor of the Exchequer which had netted four of his clients fortunes. There was the merger leak he had got from a typist frantic for money. The list was endless. If she had planted the microphone on his desk, how many of his deals had been taped? There was also the Kahlenberg affair. Had she recorded that? He screwed his handkerchief into a ball, his face vicious. Where was the tape-recorder? Maybe, he thought, someone had got at her and she had only been halfconvinced. Maybe, he thought, she had taken the microphone and had second thoughts about taking the tape-recorder. She could have felt soiled. She was a neurotic type. Maybe she had decided to kill herself rather than to betray him. But, suppose she had recorded the conversation he had had with the four who were going after the Borgia ring? Suppose the tapes were already on their way to Kahlenberg?
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the opposite wall while his mind worked swiftly.
Should he warn them?
He considered the risk. The three men were expendable. He would be sorry to lose Gaye Desmond. He had taken a lot of trouble to find her, but, after all, he told himself, Gaye wasn’t the only woman in the world. If he did warn them that the operation might already be blown, wouldn’t they back out? His fee for regaining the ring was to be $500,000 plus expenses. He grimaced. It was too large a sum to give up because of four people. In a situation like this, he told himself, he must keep his nerve and gamble that this dead bitch hadn’t recorded what was said.
After more thought, he decided to say nothing and to wait.
He reached for his mail and because he had a trained mind, a few minutes later, he had completely dismissed Goodyard’s visit and had dismissed the thought that Kahlenberg could know that he was to lose the Borgia ring.
Charles Burnett sailed majestically into his office. He had lunched well on smoked salmon and duck in orange sauce and was feeling well fed and satisfied with himself.