I don’t know him,’ he said. ‘Excuse me. I’ve things to do.’
‘Don’t be so obvious,’ Girland said. ‘You have nothing to do except talk to me. I know what your side-line is, but that doesn’t mean I’ll make trouble for you. How would you like to pick up an easy hundred bucks?’
‘I told you, sir, I have things to do.’ Dodge began to move away down the bar.
‘If you don’t want my money, I can always call Inspector Dupuis of the vice squad and turn you in. Please yourself.’
Dodge hesitated, then glared at Girland. ‘Just who the hell are you?’
‘Look on me as your pal,’ Girland said and smiled. He took ten ten-dollar bills from his wallet. These he had got by cashing some of his traveller’s cheques at the American Express on his way to the bar. ‘All yours, buddy, for a little information which won’t go further. Don’t look so anxious. I’m not after you. I want to find a girl who went through a performance with you before Rosnold’s camera.’
Dodge eyed the money, licked his full lips, took a drink, then looked at the money again.
‘You mean that’s for me?’
‘That’s right. No strings to it… just information.’ Dodge hesitated, but the power of money was too much for him. He finished his drink, then made another while his brain creaked.
‘What do you want to know?’ he asked finally. T came across an 8 mm movie,’ Girland said. ‘It is labelled "A Souvenir from Paris". It shows you, wearing a hood, performing with a dark-haired girl. Three other films were shot, probably at the same time. Mean anything to you?’
Dodge again looked at the money. ‘You really mean that’s for me?’ Girland pushed five ten dollar bills across the counter. ‘You get the rest when you talk,’ he said. Dodge snapped up the bills and stowed them away in bis hip pocket.
‘This is strictly confidential.’
‘You are right out of it,’ Girland promised. ‘What do you know about this movie?’
‘Well, Rosnold called me. This was to be a special job. Okay, I make these movies. It’s business and pleasure. I do a job for Rosnold two or three times a week. Last month, he called me. I went to the studio and there was this girl. I’ve never seen her before… a new one.’ He thought for a moment. The memory seemed to please him because his face broke into a sensual leer. ‘Very good… an amateur, you understand, but good.’
‘ Did you get her name?’
Dodge shook his head.
‘No. Rosnold called her Cherie, but I did get she and he were buddy-buddies. We made four films. Rosnold paid me $50 a film.’ Again the leer. ‘It was a pleasure.’
‘Let’s do better than that,’ Girland said. ‘What makes you think Rosnold and the girl were buddies?’
‘The way they behaved… the way they talked. I could tell. I guess Rosnold digs for her.’
‘Yet Rosnold took the shots while you were working on her?’
‘That’s nothing… that’s business. I’ve worked with wives while their husbands took the shots. When you make a stag, it’s strictly business. Besides, I got the idea the girl was stoned.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, you know… L.S.D. She was higher than a kite and as hot as a stove.’
‘You think she had taken L.S.D.?’
‘I’m damn sure she had.’
Girland grimaced.
‘What did they talk about… did you hear anything?’
‘Well… I had to rest between the shootings.’ The leer irritated Girland. ‘While I was building myself up, they got in a huddle. They were planning to go to Garmisch together as soon as the shooting was processed.’
‘What do you know about Rosnold?’
Dodge shrugged.
‘He’s one of the bright boys. When he isn’t making movies or photographing the snobs, he organises a group of nuts who call themselves Ban War. He tried to get me to join the organisation but it didn’t interest me. How the hell can you ban war anyway? It’s like bashing your nut against a wall. Anyway, he makes a good thing out of it. Every sucker who joins pays ten francs and the money goes into Rosnold’s pocket.’
The door swung open and four American tourists, each with a camera slung around his neck, came into the bar, shattering the quiet atmosphere as they climbed thirstily onto stools away from Girland.
I see you’re getting busy,’ Girland said. He slid the other dollar bills over to Dodge. ‘Forget you’ve seen me,’ and he walked out onto the street.
It now looked as if his next stop would be Garmisch, but first he wanted more information. He headed back to the American Embassy.
Four
His hands clammy, his heart thumping, Henry Sherman handed his false passport to the blue-uniformed official at Orly airport. The man glanced at the photograph, glanced at Sherman, nodded, stamped the passport and returned it with a brief ‘Merci, monsieur.’
Sherman walked through the barrier, consulted the index board and found his flight left from Gate 10. He glanced at his watch. He had twenty-five minutes before take-off. Nice, easy time, he thought as he walked down the long aisle towards Gate 10. He paused at the bookstall to buy the New York Times and a couple of paperbacks, then as he was starting on his way again, there was an announcment over the tannoy.
‘There will be a one hour delay on Flight AF 025 to New York. Will passengers for New York please go to the reception centre? They will be informed when to proceed to Gate 10.’
Sherman flinched. This could be dangerous. The longer he remained at the airport, the greater the chances were of his being recognised.
‘Tiresome, isn’t it? Especially for you,’ a quiet voice said at his side.
Sherman started and swung around, then stiffened as he stared at the short, squat man who had come up silently and was now standing before him.
This man had hooded eyes, a thick hooked nose and the deeply tanned complexion of a man who travels a lot in the sun.
He wore a black slouch hat and a dark English tweed suit, impeccably cut. Over his arm, he carried a light-weight black cashmere overcoat. A large diamond glittered in his tie. Another large diamond set in a heavy gold ring, glittered on his thick, little finger. His shirt, the handkerchief in his top pocket, his lizard skin black shoes were immaculate. He exuded power, money and luxury as he might well do for that squat man was Herman Radnitz, internationally known as one of the richest men in the world whose thick ringers spread like the tentacles of an octopus over the whole of the financial globe; a deadly spider sitting in the middle of his web moving bankers, statesmen and even minor kings as a chess player moves his pawns.
Radnitz was the last man on earth Sherman expected or wanted to see. He knew immediately that Radnitz was far too astute not to have recognised him. There was no question of attempting a bluff.
‘We mustn’t be seen talking together,’ Sherman said hurriedly. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘Yet we will talk,’ Radnitz said in his guttural voice. ‘The door marked A.’ He pointed. ‘Go in there, I will join you.’
I am sorry, Radnitz, I…’
‘You have no alternative,’ Radnitz said. He paused, his hooded eyes were little pools of ice water as he stared up at Sherman, ‘Or do you imagine you have?’
The threat was unmistakable. Sherman only hesitated for a brief moment, then he nodded and walked away, his heart now hammering, his breathing uneven. He reached the door marked A, opened it and stepped into a luxuriously furnished waiting-room — a room, he guessed, reserved for V.I.Ps.
A few seconds later, Radnitz joined him. He closed the door and turned the key.
‘May I ask what you are doing here, Sherman?’ he asked with deadly politeness. ‘You are travelling on a false passport and wearing a ridiculous false moustache. Are you mentally ill?’