Have This One on Me

Two

‘Look, Kitten,’ Girland said, ‘in five minutes I have to go out. Would you please finish your drink and then put on your skates?’

The girl sitting opposite him swished the dying ice cubes around in her glass. Girland had picked her up at the Left Bank Drug Store. She was scarcely eighteen and sensationally beautiful. Dark, sensually built, wearing scarlet stretch pants and a red and white shirt, she had caught Girland’s roving eye, but now he had her back in his apartment on Rue des Suisses, he realised too late that she was too young, too eager and too generally too.

‘Are you telling me to get the hell out of here?’ she asked looking inquiringly at him, her head on her side, a pose she copied from a movie star who impressed her.

‘Sorry, but that’s it,’ Girland said with his charming smile. ‘I have to go out.’

‘Don’t we do anything? I’m good. What’s the rush?’

Girland sighed. Why in the world, he wondered, do I get myself into these kinds of situations? The trouble with me is I never know when to say no. She looked marvellous. Damn it! She is marvellous! Why is it when most women open their mouths, they become the biggest bores? If she had only kept her mouth shut, she could have been a sensational lay.

‘I invited you for a drink. You have had your drink. Now I have to go out.’ He got to his feet. ‘On with your skates, kitten!’

She nibbled at her drink, her full lips pouting. She looked up at his tall, broad shouldered figure, his lean hard face and the scattered white hairs in his jet black hair. What a bull of a beautiful man! she thought.

‘You’re not serious, are you?’ she asked. ‘I had the idea you and me were going into action. Back home, they call me Swivel Hips. I’ll give you an unforgettable experience, boyfriend. At this moment, there’s nothing between us but the zipper on my pants.’

Girland studied her. She made him feel middle-aged. This eager, brash sexual approach was like ice water thrown in his face.

‘Some other time perhaps,’ he said. ‘Fold your tent, kitten, and steal away.’

The telephone rang.

‘This I love,’ the girl said. ‘Every time I get close to a real man, the goddamn telephone starts up.’

‘That’s life,’ Girland said, picking up the receiver. He waved to his front door. ‘That’s the way out: down the stairs and you will find the Metro on your left. So long, kitten.’

A voice over the line, speaking with a strong New Yorker accent, said, ‘Girland?’

‘I suppose so,’ Girland said and dropped back in his chair.

‘This is Harry Moss,’ the voice told him. Behind the voice Girland could hear distant swing music. ‘You wouldn’t know me. Fred gave me your number.’

The girl walked over to Girland and emptied the dregs of her drink over his head. Two dying ice cubes bounded on his shoulder and slid to the floor. Carefully, she balanced the upturned glass on top of his head and then walked to the door, swinging her small, firm hips. Sighing, Girland took the glass off his head and put it on to the side table. He waved to the girl who gave him a V sign.

‘Fred... who?’ he said into the receiver.

‘I’ve a little job you could handle if you felt like it’ the voice went on. ‘It means money.’

Thinking of his empty wallet, Girland became attentive.

‘How much?’

‘Bullion up to your navel,’ the voice told him. ‘Want to talk about it?’

Girland looked across the big studio at the girl who had opened the front door. She smiled at him, then zipped down her stretched pants and peeled them off. She began to pull the shirt over her head.

‘Sure, but I can’t talk now,’ Girland said, hurriedly. It was just possible his concierge might be climbing the stairs. He could imagine how she would react if she saw what was going on his landing. The girl had shed her shirt, and now in only a pair of black briefs, she was striking a pose.

‘I’ll be at La Croix d’Or until ten. You know it?’ the voice went on.

‘Who doesn’t?’ Girland said. ‘I’ll be there,’ and he hung up.

The girl struck another pose.

‘Like me?’ she said and smiled invitingly.

Girland liked her very much, but she was still too young and too brash.

‘Gorgeous.’ he said. ‘Thanks for the show. There’s a launderette at the end of the street. Wash your mind, kitten, it needs washing.’ He hurriedly slammed the door and turned the key. He stood for some moments listening to her screams of rage and the names she hurled at him through the panels of the door. He was appalled at the extent of her vocabulary. Finally, she ran out of words and breath and he heard sounds of her dressing. He wondered what his neighbours were thinking. Finally, he heard her stamp down the stairs.

He lit a cigarette and sat down.

Who was Harry Moss? he wondered. Fred? The only Fred he knew was the barman at the Bressane bar where Girland went frequently. He telephoned the bar and asked for Fred.

‘This is Girland.’ There was the usual exchanges about their health and how life was, then Girland said, ‘Know anything about a guy who calls himself Harry Moss?’

‘That fella.’ Fred sounded disapproving. ‘Sure, he blew in a couple of hours ago. Young — around twenty-three — could be a fag, but I wouldn’t swear to it. I wouldn’t trust my wife with him: come to that, I wouldn’t trust my mother with him either. He wanted a job done... I wouldn’t know what it is. I got the hint it was smuggling. I didn’t know how you were fixed so I gave him your name. Did I do wrong?’

‘No. Thanks, Fred. Every door is a door of opportunity. If something jells, I’ll see you get a slice off the top,’ and Girland replaced the receiver.

He sat for some minutes thinking. He needed money. When didn’t he? he thought wryly. In fact, face up to it, Girland, he said to himself, you need money damned badly. That was a mistake staying in Hong Kong for so long[1]. He thought of Tan-Toy and sighed. What a girl! The Chinese girls certainly had technique. He had remained with her until the money he had gypped Dorey out of had been spent. He had been thankful he hadn’t cashed in his return air ticket otherwise he would have become a D.A.S., and Dorey would have loved that. Well, let’s see what Harry Moss has to offer, he thought and got to his feet. You never know. Life is still full of surprises. Bullion up to your navel. Moss had said. Girland grinned. What a way to talk!

La Croix d’Or was a sleazy night club off Rue du Bac, Girland had been there a few times. It was the haunt of ageing homosexuals, and generally, it was crowded with blond handsome boys looking for a client. There was also a Negro trumpeter who had the talent of a minor Armstrong. Very few women frequented the club, and those who did were unquestionably dykes.

As Girland walked down the dimly lit stairs that led into the cellar club, he could hear the golden notes of the Negro’s trumpet. He nodded to the doorman who gave him a blank stare, then entered the smoke-laden room. The smell of body sweat, the noise of shrill voices and the golden notes of the trumpet m a d e an impact on him. He paused, looking around the crowded room, then edging past the blond boys who were shrilling and looking like gaudy parakeets, he reached the bar.

The balding barman, fat and simpering, came quickly towards him.

‘Yes, dear?’ he said, laying his puffy white hands on the bar. ‘What can I make you happy with?’

‘Hello, Alice,’ Girland said and shook his hands. He knew the barman liked to be known by his professional name. ‘Harry Moss around?’

‘Yes, dear. He’s waiting for you.’ The barman rolled his eyes. ‘Such a lovely boy! He’s upstairs... room 4.’

‘Is he alone?’ Girland asked.

‘Of course, dear: he’s waiting for you.’

Girland grinned.

‘Be your age, Alice. You’re getting your lines crossed.’ He shouldered his way across the room, opened the door and climbed stairs. He paused outside Room 4, knocked and walked into a tiny cubicle where a youth was sitting at a table, a bottle of Scotch, two glasses and an ice bucket before him.

Girland closed the door.

‘Moss?’

The youth looked around. His thick blond hair rested on the collar of his cowboy shirt. His small green eyes his hooked nose, his thin mouth added up to a portrait of depraved viciousness.

‘Come on in,’ he said and waved to a chair. ‘Yeah, I’m Harry Moss.’ He had a strong New Yorker accent. ‘Glad to have you here.’

Girland sat down. He flicked out a Pall Mall cigarette and set fire to it.

‘You called... I’m here... so let’s make it snappy,’ he said.

The green eyes roved over Garland’s face.

‘I have a job I can’t do myself. It’s strictly dishonest, but there’s no blow back. The take is thirty thousand dollars. Half to you, half to me. You interested?’

‘I could be,’ Girland said. ‘You’ll have to convince me there’s no blow back.’

‘I’ve asked around,’ Moss said, staring at his glass. ‘You sound like the guy to help me, and brother! I need help.’ He sipped his drink, then squinted at Girland over the rim of his glass. ‘I’m telling you because I have to. I can’t stop you flapping with your mouth, but they said you didn’t talk.’

‘They?’ Girland asked, amused

‘I told you... I’ve asked around.’ Moss again stared at his glass. ‘I’ll put you in the photo. I got drafted into the goddamn army. Before I got over the shock, I was in West Berlin. Can you imagine? My divisional officer was such a dummy he could scarcely write his name. One of the jobs he had to do was to collect the payroll for the Officers. I drove the payroll truck while he sat on his fat fanny and looked important. A pal of mine, Ferdy Newman, went along as a guard. Well, to make this short, we decided to hi-jack the payroll. What the hell? It was asking to be hi-jacked. So one day, a month ago, we did the job. We had to tap my officer, but we didn’t hurt him much. His skull was solid bone. So we found ourselves with fifty thousand dollars and a lot of heat.’ He sipped his drink and looked thoughtfully at Girland. ‘Boy! Was the heat fierce! Well, keeping it short, we got to East Berlin. Ferdy had the bright idea of moving to Prague, and from there eventually to Cairo where he had friends.’ Again he paused, and this time he looked sharply at Girland. ‘You interested or am I boring you?’

‘Keep going,’ Girland said. ‘I’m never bored when anyone’s talking about money.’

Moss’s thin lips curved into a smile.

‘That goes for me too. Well, we finally made it to Prague. They were right on our tails. The Czech Security Police came after us. We thought the heat was fierce before, but Boy! did it get white hot!’ Moss frowned and shook his head. ‘A girl in West Berlin had given us the name of a contact. Did he turn out to be a snake! He hid us in an apartment and took twenty thousand dollars off us. The deal was he should supply us with food, keep us hidden and get us out of Prague when the heat cooled off. He certainly put us in this apartment and he certainly took the money, but that was it. We never saw him again. We stayed in that joint for three days, starving. You ever been without food for three days?’

‘Why should you care?’ Girland said. ‘Keep talking.’

‘Yeah... well, by the fourth morning, we were ready to eat each other,’ Moss said. ‘So we tossed up and Ferdy lost. He went out to buy food He hadn’t been gone three minutes when I heard police whistles. Did I lay an egg! I imagined he would bring them right to me. I beat it up on the roof. I was in such an uproar, I forgot to take the money with me.’ He paused to pick his nose, then went on, ‘From the roof, I saw Ferdy running like hell. There were two cops after him. They were running like elephants with ingrowing toenails. Ferdy was going like a streak. Then one of the cops lifted his automatic and let Ferdy have it. I saw bits of his shirt fly off his back and blood.’ He grimaced. ‘Well, that was the end of Ferdy.’ He took another drink. ‘I panic easily. I went down the fire escape, touching one step in six. Right at that moment, I had forgotten the money. I just blew.’ He paused. ‘You want to give me a cigarette? Don’t if you don’t want to.’

Girland tossed his pack of Pall Mall on the table. His face was thoughtful. This story could be true. Then again, it could be a lie, but why tell him if it was a lie?

‘I won’t bore you with details,’ Moss went on after he had lit a cigarette. ‘There was a girl...’ his thin lips curved into a sneering little grin. ‘What would creeps like me do without a girl? Anyway, she got me out of Prague and here I am. I’ve been here two weeks biting my nails. All I can think about is that money waiting for me in Prague.’

Girland sipped his drink.

‘Is that all?’ he asked.

‘That’s the story... that’s the problem. The money’s still there. I want someone like you to go to Prague, pick it up and bring it back here. We split the take. Fifteen thousand to you... fifteen thousand to me.’

‘How do you know it’s still there?’ Girland asked.

‘It’s there. That’s the one thing I’m certain about. We hid it where no one would think of looking for it. It’s all in one hundred dollar bills... three hundred of them. It doesn’t take up too much space.’

‘What gives you the idea I can get it if you can’t?’

‘They’re watching for me... they aren’t watching for you. Maybe you don’t know it but Prague is the softest touch of the Iron Curtain. The Czechs are in a financial mess. They must have foreign currency so they love tourists. You go in as a tourist, stay two or three days, pick up the money and then come out. It’s that simple. They don’t even check the bags of tourists. I tell you... they love them.’

Girland stubbed out his cigarette while he thought, then he asked, ‘Suppose I do find the money, what makes you think you’ll ever see any of it?’

Moss grinned.

‘It’s a gamble. I haven’t a hope of getting the money myself. So how am I worse off? It wouldn’t be that safe for you to gyp me. Sooner or later, I would catch up with you, and then you would be in trouble.’

Girland leaned back in his chair, his smile widened.

‘Or you would be, Harry,’ he said. ‘I’m tricky when little boys like you try to make trouble.’

Moss grinned amiably.

‘Oh, sure. I’ve asked around. You’re tough, but I would have a try. Anyway, it’s a gamble. What do you say?’

‘I’ll think about it. Where’s the money hidden?’

‘I’ll tell you that when we meet at the airport and when you show me your air ticket.’

‘Who’s paying for the trip? I’ll need at least two thousand francs.’

‘Yeah, I’ve thought of that. I can dig up two thousand francs.’

‘Well, I might do it,’ Girland said. ‘Suppose you call me tomorrow morning around ten o’clock?’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m not sold on the Iron Curtain. I don’t like it.’

‘That makes two of us,’ Moss said. ‘You talk around. Anyone will tell you, for a tourist, it is dead easy.’

‘I’ll do just that. So long for now,’ and Girland left the room.

Moss finished his drink. Then he went down to the Clubroom. Pushing his way to a telephone booth, he shut himself in He dialled a number. After a delay a curt voice said, ‘Yes?’

‘This is A for Apple,’ Moss said. ‘Your party is deciding by tomorrow morning. It’s my bet, he will go.’

‘I thought he would,’ Dorey said and hung up.

Girland was also telephoning. Opposite La Croix d’Or was a café. He had gone there immediately, and was talking to Bill Lampson of the New York Herald Tribune whose encyclopedic knowledge had often been useful to Girland.

‘Hi, Bill, I’m back,’ Girland said. ‘How’s life?’

‘Is that Girland?’ Lampson said. ‘Well, for Pete’s sake! I thought you were lost for good... and I repeat... for good.’

‘Don’t take it so hard Paris is big enough for both of us... so what’s biting you?’

‘Nothing yet. How was Hong Kong?’

‘Fabulous!’

‘How were the girls?’

‘Fabulous!’

‘Is it true what they say about Chinese girls?’

‘If you mean what I think you mean the answer is no but they are definitely to be recommended,’ Girland thought of Tan-Toy. ‘I’ll say that again.’

‘Are you calling me to make me envious or is there something else?’ Lampson asked.

‘A little information. Bill. Can you confirm that there was an Army payroll robbery in West Berlin around three or four weeks ago?’

There was a pause, then Lampson said, ‘Do you know something?’

‘I’m asking you. Bill. Don’t play hard to get.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. Two conscripted men got away with fifty thousand bucks.’

‘Know who they are?’

‘Harry Moss and Ferdy Newman. The cops are still looking for them. There’s a rumour they got behind the Iron Curtain. What’s all this about? You know something? Listen. Girland, this could be big news.’

Girland gently replaced the receiver. So it looked as if Moss was telling the truth. Thirty thousand dollars! He walked thoughtfully to his car. What had he to lose? Moss said he would pay his expenses. Even if the money wasn’t there, a trip to Prague would be interesting. He decided he would go.

He drove back to his apartment. There would be a visa to take care of, he reminded himself, but that shouldn’t take long. With any luck, he could get off in three or four days.

He spent ten minutes circling before he found space to park his Fiat 500, then he started the long climb to his apartment. Finally, he reached the seventh floor. Here, he paused.

The girl in the red stretched pants was sitting on the floor, her back against his front door. She was hugging her knees, and she looked up at him with a cheerful, jeering smile.

‘Hello, boy-friend... remember me? You’ve had a burglar.’

Girland contained his irritation with an effort.

‘I told you to go,’ he said. ‘I’m busy right now. One of these days, when you have grown up, we could have fun, but not right now... run away.’

‘Are your ears clogged with wax?’ the girl asked. ‘You have had a burglar.’

‘Okay, so I’ve had a burglar. Thanks. Up on your skates, kitten and disperse like a wisp of smoke.’

‘A big, heavily built man with a red, fat face,’ the girl went on, continuing to hug her knees. ‘He’s lost the lobe of his right ear. He was a pro. You should have seen the way he coped with your door lock. I was sitting on the stairs up there.’ She pointed a finger. ‘He didn’t see me. It was like a movie.’

Girland became alert. A big, heavily built man with a missing right ear lobe had to be Oscar Bruckman, one of O’Halloran’s toughs. There couldn’t be two men with missing right ear lobes interested enough to break into his apartment.

‘I see at last you are showing interest,’ the girl said and levered herself to her feet. ‘My name’s Rima. Let’s go in and start afresh.’

Ignoring her, Girland unlocked his front door and walked into his apartment. He looked around, then asked, ‘How long was he in here?’

‘Twenty minutes... I timed him.’ The girl joined him and stared around the room. ‘I wouldn’t have thought there was anything worth stealing in this dump.’

‘Nor would I.’ Girland began to prowl around the room while the girl went over to the bed and sat on it.

After a careful check, Girland decided nothing was missing. Bruckman’s visit puzzled him. Maybe, he wondered, Dorey had sent Bruckman in the hope of recovering some of the money Girland had lifted off him, but this seemed unlikely. Dorey couldn’t be that stupid as to imagine Girland would leave money in his apartment. Puzzled, irritated, Girland shrugged. It must be the answer, he told himself, Dorey’s thinking was always mean. He now became aware that Rima was in his bed, her clothes strewn on the floor. He looked at her exasperated and she smiled pertly at him.

‘Be big minded.’ she said, ‘You can’t win all the time.’

Women! Girland thought. She was right, of course, men never could win all the time... not even most of the time, but just for the hell of it, he walked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. He ran down the stairs and into the street.

When you are that young, that eager, that stupid, then a little frustration was good for the soul, he thought.

He spent a dreary night in a fifth-rate hotel. Halfway through the night, as he tossed and turned, trying to sleep, he remembered her as she posed half-naked before him.

I need my head examined he thought, and angrily thumped the floppy pillow. Around five o’clock, he was still sleepless. He suddenly decided he was allowing his conscience to rule his life.

He hurriedly threw on his clothes and went down to his car. Ten minutes later, he was climbing the seven flights to his apartment. No wonder, he thought, as he moved from stair to stair, I have no weight problem. He opened the door of his apartment and moved into the big room now dimly lit by the coming dawn.

The bed was empty; the apartment was empty.

Girland grimaced, then shrugged.

He went to the bed, stripped off the sheets and bundled them in a heap on the floor, then he undressed, took a shower and lying on the bare bed, he went to sleep.

Oscar Bruckman stood before Corey’s desk, his thick fingers holding his hat behind his back.

O’Halloran, Bruckman’s immediate boss, stood looking out of the window, chewing a dead cigar.

Dorey, seated at his desk, fiddled with a paper knife.

There was an uneasy tension in the room.

Dorey said, ‘I don’t know why it is but when I plan an operation — somewhere along the line — there is a mistake.’ His voice was low and angry. ‘I have had a report from O’Brien. He has failed. Worthington is still alive.’

O’Halloran turned from the window.

‘We can’t blame O’Brien. Cain’s information came too late.’

‘That’s the usual excuse. Now Malik on the scene and O’Brien has been kicked out. He can’t go back. If Malik catches up with Worthington and I suppose he is sure to eventually, then I lose two valuable agents.’

O’Halloran had nothing to say to this. He and Bruckman exchanged glances and waited.

‘Well, at least Girland seems to be going to Prague,’ Dorey went on. ‘This is something I handled myself.’ His angry eyes, slightly magnified by his bifocals, moved to Bruckman. ‘What have you to report?’

Bruckman was pretty pleased with himself. He had done his job well.

‘I went to Girland’s apartment,’ he said. ‘I planted the envelope you gave me in his suitcase. Unless he takes the case to pieces, he won’t find it, but they will once they have picked him up.’

‘You’re sure no one saw you break into his apartment?’ Dorey asked sharply.

Bruckman suppressed a superior smile, knowing Dorey wouldn’t stand smiles from him.

‘I am sure, sir.’

Dorey brooded, then relaxed.

‘Maybe I’d better explain this operation,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘We want to get Latimer into Prague so we use Girland as a smoke screen. Malik’s there and he knows all about Girland. He will assume Girland is our replacement. My problem was how to get Girland to go to Prague.’ Dorey picked up his paper knife and examined it, then went on, ‘A month ago, two conscripted men stole an Army payroll in West Berlin. Their names are Harry Moss and Ferdy Newman. They got to Prague. Newman was killed by the Czech police and Moss is now in jail. I have a young nephew here who is attending Dramatic School. I satisfied myself he could impersonate Harry Moss. He contacted Girland and spun him a yarn I had prepared. Girland apparently has fallen for it. He is going to Prague to collect what he imagines is the stolen payroll. It is necessary that he should find the money in Prague. This is part of the operation.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a package, wrapped in brown paper and sealed with Sellotape. ‘This contains thirty thousand dollars.’ He looked at Bruckman. ‘You are to go to Mala Reid’s apartment and plant this package somewhere where she won’t find it. Girland will then be told where to find it. As soon as Girland finds the money you will call the Security Police anonymously and tell them that Girland has this money to pay for information he hopes to get from Worthington’s contacts. They will of course, immediately go to his hotel, find the money and the envelope you have planted on him. The papers in the envelope will tell them that Girland is an agent. The police will turn him over to Malik who will assume Girland has replaced Worthington. While this is happening, Latimer will fly in. That is the operation.’ He passed a sheet of paper to Bruckman. ‘These are your instructions. The operation has to be carefully timed. Now get off. When I know Girland is leaving for Prague, I will alert you Do nothing until you get my green light.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Bruckman said and picking up the packet and his instructions, he left the room.

Dorey replaced the paper knife on his desk, then he looked at O’Halloran.

‘I wish Worthington was dead, Tim. He could complicate this.’

‘Without being asked, I think the whole operation is dicey,’ O’Halloran said bluntly. ‘I’ve always thought you underestimate Girland. You could run into trouble with him. We don’t even know for certain he will go to Prague.’

‘That is one thing I am certain about,’ Dorey said. ‘He’ll go.’

O’Halloran shrugged. It was his way of showing he wasn’t convinced.

‘Okay. Let us assume he does go. He could get away with your money. He’s a very bright boy.’

‘What makes you think he’s so bright?’ Dorey said impatiently. ‘He’s a small time crook and he isn’t so bright. I am prepared to lose the money... the Czechs will get it. Girland most certainly won’t. After all, it is Government money. The trouble with you, Tim, is you have an inferiority complex about Girland. I tell you... he isn’t all that bright.’

O’Halloran thought of the times Girland had swindled Dorey out of considerable sums of money, but he realised this wasn’t the time to remind Dorey.

‘Well, we’ll see what we’ll see,’ he said.

Pleased with his planning, Dorey frowned at him, then pulled a file towards him. This was his well-known gesture of dismissal.

Worthington wound off the film, then opening the back of the camera, he took out the film cartridge.

‘You mustn’t look so worried,’ he said. ‘I will be gone in two days. Surely, we can get along together for so short a time?’

Mala, by now, had become resigned to the fact that she was landed with him. She had got over the first initial shock, and she was prepared to help him if it meant that she would be rid of him quickly. She had taken twenty photographs of him. Looking through the reflex lens of the camera at his weak, scared face, she began to feel sorry for him.

‘I don’t know how we will manage,’ she said helplessly, ‘but I suppose we will.’

He smiled at her. Regarding him, she decided he had been a lot more impressive with his moustache.

‘Of course we will... two days... I promise... no more.’ He handed her the film cartridge and his British passport. ‘Would you take these to Karel Vlast? He has an apartment on Celetna ulice. He knows how urgent it is. He is old, but he is clever.’ Worthington stroked his upper lip experiencing a little start of surprise that there were no longer bristles to comfort him. ‘You know where it is? You take a tram.’

‘Yes.’ Mala hesitated, then she said. ‘Would you go into the bathroom, please? I have to dress.’

‘Of course.’

Worthington entered the bathroom and closed the door. He lowered the lid of the toilet and sat on it.

Listening to her move around the room, he thought back to the time he had first met her. He had been alerted by Cain that there was a reliable woman agent in Prague who worked at the Alhambra night club. Cain said it would be safer for Worthington to pass his messages and information to her since Cain often went to the club and she would then pass the information to Cain. In this way, he and Cain need no longer meet.

Worthington remembered his first visit to Mala’s apartment. He had with him what appeared to be a harmless shopping list, but that concealed, in invisible ink, information he wanted Cain to have. The moment he saw her, he had fallen in love with her. The comparison between her and Emilie was fantastic: one gross, stupid and disagreeable, the other, lovely, slim and gay. But he had never let Mala know his feelings. He kept reminding himself that he was so much older than she was and besides he was married.

But during the two years they had worked together, he had become more and more infatuated by her. It hurt him that she was so indifferent to him, meeting him only as a means to make extra money.

Since he had been in her apartment, he was finding their close association a great strain. He wanted her. His body ached for her, but he knew it would be fatal even to give her a hint of his love for her. Not once, during the time they had been together so intimately had she shown anything but a wish to see him gone.

With a determined effort, he switched his mind to Vlast. He had first met him at a secret anti-communist meeting. Vlast had taken a liking to him. He said Englishmen were always reliable. They had talked. After meeting several times, Vlast had confided to Worthington that at one time he had been a master engraver. He was now working a night shift as an elevator attendant at one of the better hotels. This work gave him his days free. Lowering his voice, he had said that if ever Worthington needed a passport, he should come to him. ‘You never know. There is no better man at the game than me.’

At that time Worthington had been, very sure of himself, but he had filed this offer away in his mind. He knew there might come a time when he would have to leave Prague and with a false passport.

Up to two weeks ago things had continued well for Worthington. He had an English Public School appearance and a pleasant manner. He was also an intelligent listener. Every now and then his pupils — professors, politicians. Civil servants — let slip information that he passed to Cain who, in his turn, passed to Dorey. Worthington had watched the dollars grow in his Swiss bank account. Then all of a sudden Malik, a giant with silver coloured hair, had appeared on the scene. Worthington knew this man was the most dangerous agent of the G.R.U., the Soviet Intelligence Service. Worthington had always been aware that he wasn’t made of hero material. When he heard that Malik had arrived in Prague, he began immediate preparations to leave. He contacted Vlast. The old man agreed to fake a passport, but he wasn’t doing it for nothing. It took Worthington several anxious days to get together enough money by borrowing, dipping into his meagre savings and by persuading some of his more reliable pupils to let him have an advance. During those days, Worthington discovered he was being watched and he guessed Malik suspected him. He also realised another frightening fact. If he were arrested, he would be forced to betray Mala and Cain. The very thought of what Malik’s thugs would do to him to extract this betrayal from him sickened him. He knew he would be a babbling, screaming mine of information once in their hands. Dorey would know this. He hated Dorey. He had only met him once and he knew Dorey had distrusted him. Dorey valued Mala and Cain. So what would Dorey do? Sitting on the toilet seat, cigarette smoke staining his thin fingers, Worthington mentally shivered. Dorey would send someone to liquidate him. It was as simple as that. A dead mouth was a silent mouth. So now, he not only had Malik hunting for him, but also one of Dorey’s killers.

There came a tap on the bathroom door and then it opened.

‘I’m going,’ Mala said.

He got hastily off his undignified seat. She was wearing a simple blue dress and he thought she looked lovely. A spasm of desire ran through him. For a long moment he stared at her, then controlling himself, he took an envelope from his breast pocket.

‘It’s the money for Vlast,’ he said, giving the envelope to her. ‘For God’s sake don’t lose it. You have the film and the passport?’

‘Yes.’ She put the package in her bag and turned to cross the room. His eyes moved down her long, slim back. ‘There is something in the fridge if you are hungry.’

‘Thank you. Make certain no one is following you.’

She looked sharply at him. She knew that their close association disturbed him and it worried her. She was sure he would control himself, but the sooner he left the better for both of them. He aroused no feelings in her. She just felt embarrassed and uneasy to have him with her.

‘I’ll watch it,’ she said and made for the door.

It took her some twenty minutes to reach Celetna ulice. She began to climb to Vlast’s fifth floor apartment. On the third floor, she paused and looked down into the well below. Then satisfied she wasn’t being followed, she ran up the other two flights of stairs and rang on Vlast’s door bell.

There was a long pause, then the door opened. She was confronted by an enormously fat old man, wearing a grey flannel shirt and stained black corduroy trousers. The fringe of hair that climbed over his ears was white. His small eyes, button nose and three chins made him a character that Hollywood would have loved.

‘Come in,’ he said and made a creaking bow. ‘I can’t remember ever having such a lovely visitor.’ He turned and waddled into the small living-room, grey with dust, with two broken-down armchairs, a table and a threadbare carpet. ‘I lost my wife.’ He slapped dust out of the seat of one of the chairs. ‘That’s a pretty dress you are wearing. It would be a pity to spoil it.’ He lumbered across the room for a copy of The Morning Sun and spread it on the seat of the chair. ‘There... your dress will be quite safe. Please sit down.’

Mala sat down. She took the money, the film cartridge and the passport from her bag. Then she stiffened, staring at the old man’s right hand which was heavily bandaged.

‘Have you hurt yourself?’ she asked.

He looked at his bandaged hand and shrugged.

‘It isn’t very bad. I cut myself. When you reach my age, cuts can be nasty. Now tell me why I should have so much pleasure.’

‘I have come from Mr. Worthington,’ she said, trying to control her rising panic. She put the three articles she was holding on the table. ‘He said you would do the work quickly.’

Vlast looked at the passport, then shook his head.

‘It is unfortunate. Things like this happen... always at the wrong time. As soon as my hand has healed, I will of course do it quickly.’

He eyed the envelope. ‘Is that the money?’ He opened the envelope and counted the notes. Then he nodded, satisfied. ‘I like Mr. Worthington. I promised to help him. It won’t take long.’

‘How long?’ Mala asked, tense and wide-eyed.

‘A couple of weeks... certainly not longer.’

She stared at him and her hands turned into fists.

‘But it is now terribly urgent. They are already looking for him!’

Vlast rubbed his unshaven chin. His thick fingers rasped against his stubble and his fat face darkened.

‘That is very bad. I’m sorry... I can’t do it under two weeks. I assure you I would if it were possible.’

Two weeks! Mala was thinking. I can’t have him in my room for two weeks!

‘Can’t you really do it before then?’

‘It has to be perfect. If I did it badly, I would be sending him to his death. In two weeks, I should be able to make a perfect job... I wouldn’t risk it before.’

Mala sat for a long moment in despair, then she got to her feet.

‘I’ll tell him.’

‘Tell him I am very sorry.’ The old man’s eyes feasted happily on her trim figure. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No... no thanks.’

She was already moving to the door. He watched her leave, feeling depressed that someone so attractive, so colourful should be going out of his life. He put the articles she had given him in a drawer and locked it. Then he walked heavily over to the open window and leaned out. He watched her as she walked down the street and until she was out of sight.

Well, Worthington was lucky, he thought, wishing he was forty years younger. He wondered if they were lovers. Sighing, he went back to his dusty armchair and sat down. His bandaged hand was beginning to throb. He would go to the hospital in the afternoon. He must get his hand well so he could keep his promise to Worthington.

Left on his own, Worthington examined Mala’s apartment with care. It consisted of a fair size living-room. A narrow divan bed stood in an alcove. There was a minute kitchenette and a bathroom with a toilet. A range of cupboards stood along one of the walls of the living-room. There was also a small balcony reached by french windows at the far end of the living-room. The balcony, containing two big flowering shrubs in tubs, looked on to a high blank wall of a church. In an emergency, if someone came unexpectedly. Worthington could hide himself on the balcony sure that he wouldn’t be seen either from the street or from the living-room. This gave him a little comfort.

He put his suitcase under the divan bed and then sat down in the armchair. Standing in one of the corners of the living-room was a life-size, kneeling angel carved from wood... a church ornament that someone had found in some antique shop... probably the owner of the apartment. He felt more relaxed as he contemplated the angel, admiring the sweep of the wings, the pious expression of the wooden face and the simple robes. It was a masterpiece of carving, he thought. This was something he would like to own. Well, when he finally reached Geneva and got his money, he would look around. He might be lucky enough to find something as good.

He was still thinking about his money and where he would eventually settle once he reached Geneva when he heard someone coming up the stairs. Getting swiftly to his feet, he stepped out on to the balcony, and leaned against the wall, alert and frightened. His fingers touched the butt of his Colt .32 automatic which he carried in a holster under his left armpit. He heard the lock turn and then there was a pause. Cautiously, he peered around the big flowering shrub. He caught a glimpse of Mala as she looked anxiously around the room. He came from behind the shrub.

‘Oh!’ She caught her breath sharply. ‘I... I thought you had gone.’

Worthington smiled bitterly. Her disappointment was so apparent.

‘No. One must always take precautions. I heard you coming up the stairs.’ He paused, looking expectantly at her. ‘When will Vlast have my passport ready?’

‘He has hurt his hand. He thinks two weeks.’

Blood rushed into Worthington’s face, then receded, leaving his face a blotchy white.

‘Two weeks? That’s ridiculous!’

‘I know, but he can’t use his hand.’ She paused, then said violently, ‘You can’t stay here for two weeks! You must go! I won’t have you here!’

Worthington sat down. Two weeks! Every day and night of those two weeks would be dangerous with Malik hunting for him. There would also be Dorey’s killer hunting for him. He felt himself cringe. Leave her? That would be asking for death. This little apartment was his only refuge.

Mala was saying, ‘Please go!’ Her voice was hysterical. ‘I don’t want any more to do with you! Don’t just sit there... take your bag and go!’

Worthington shifted his mind from his troubles to hers. He could understand how she was feeling. How different it would have been if she loved him as he loved her, he thought bitterly. When there is love there is kindness and a willingness to make a sacrifice.

‘If I go,’ he said quietly, ‘they would pick me up quickly. Make no mistake about that. We have already discussed this. I have never been brave... few people are really brave. It wouldn’t be difficult for them to make me talk. How long do you imagine you would last if they caught me? I must stay here for both our sakes. There is nowhere else for me to go.’

Mala looked at him in despair, realising what he was saying was the truth.

‘Then I will go. I’ll ask one of my girlfriends to put me up.’

‘Would that be wise?’ Worthington lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand. ‘Your friend would want to know why you have left here. Isn’t that telling her that I am here?’

She sat down abruptly.

‘We can manage,’ Worthington went on soothingly. ‘You don’t leave the club till midnight. I can get all the sleep I need while you are at the club. I promise you I won’t be a nuisance.’

She said nothing, but continued to stare down at her hands, tightly clenched in her lap.

Although he loved her, Worthington began to lose patience. Couldn’t she show some kindness? Was she so completely indifferent to him?

‘I’m trying to be reasonable about this,’ he said, an edge to his voice. ‘Will you please pull yourself together? Can’t you see if they catch me, they will kill both of us?’

She looked up, her face white, her lips trembling.

‘Why did you do this to me? I was safe. Why were you so cowardly and selfish as to come here?’

Worthington flinched.

‘No one is ever safe,’ he said. ‘That is a stupid thing to say. I know I am a coward, but you are also cowardly. You are thinking only of yourself. I’m thinking of both of us.’ Then as she said nothing, he went on, ‘Let us think about lunch. Is there anything to eat? I’m hungry.’