Vulture Is a Patient Bird

Chapter Two

Some ten years ago, Armo Shalik, sick of his small way of life, let it be known by a discreet advertisement in an Egyptian newspaper that he was prepared to undertake for a reasonable fee any assignment that presented difficulties. He received only one answer to his advertisement, but it was enough, since his client was an Arabian Prince who wished to have inside information concerning a future oil deal between a rival of his and an American oil company. By using the Prince’s money and his own brains, Shalik obtained the information. The deal netted him $10,000, a modest enough fee, but the Prince was grateful, and he passed the word around that if you were in difficulties, if you wished for inside information, Shalik was the man to consult.

The following year with the capital he had saved, Shalik moved to London. He acquired a small list of extremely wealthy clients who continually consulted him. Money, of course, was no object. Shalik’s fees rose sharply, but he always delivered. Among his clients were three Texas oil millionaires, four Arabian princes, two enormously wealthy American women, a Greek shipping tycoon and a number of British, French and German industrialists.

He was often to say, “Nothing is impossible with unlimited money and brains.” He would pause to stare at his client. “You will supply the money… I the brains.”

Armo Shalik prospered. In the early days, he considered whether to have a permanent staff to work under him, but he decided this was economically unsound. Shalik never wasted a dime. To keep a staff of experts on his payroll would mean half of them most of the time would be drawing on his money and doing nothing. He decided to fit men and women to the job when the job arrived. He discovered a not too scrupulous Detective Agency who were prepared not only to recommend likely applicants without asking awkward questions, but also to screen them, giving him intimate details of their background. It was in this way that he had found Lew Fennel, Kennedy Jones and Garry Edwards.

His permanent staff was small: consisting of Natalie Norman who acted as his receptionist and personal assistant, and GeorgeSherborn who was his private secretary and valet.

But Shalik soon found that his assignments became more complicated and therefore more lucrative, he needed a woman in the field to be permanently at his disposal: a woman who had to be trained to work with and for him: a woman of exceptional talents and exceptional looks. Such a woman could be more useful to him than a dozen male experts. During the past years, he had hired a number of women to work with his experts, but more often than not they had failed him: either losing their nerve at a crucial moment or becoming sentimentally attached to the men they were working with, and this was something Shalik abominated.

So he set out to find a woman he could train to become his ideal woman operator. She had to be beautiful, perfectly built, talented and to be prepared to dedicate herself to his work.

Shalik travelled extensively, and while visiting the major cities of the world, he was constantly on the look-out for the woman he needed. He came across several likely applicants, but when he approached them, they either would have nothing to do with his proposition or proved to be beautiful but brainless. After some six months, he began to despair, wondering if he had set his sights too high.

Then one day he had a letter from one of his rich, spoilt women clients, living in Tokyo, who asked him to buy her a leopard skin coat, a mink stole and a broadtail coat for evening wear. He was to get these furs from Finn Larson, a Copenhagen furrier who had her measurements and knew exactly what she required. Since the woman paid Shalik $21,000, a year as a retaining fee and since he charged fifteen per cent on all purchases made on her behalf and since he was in need of a brief vacation, he was happy to oblige.

Natalie Norman telephoned Finn Larson in Copenhagen to alert him that Shalik was coming and what he wanted. She was told that there was to be a lunch held at L’Angleterre Hotel for a number of Larson’s special clients when models would display his furs and the clients would eat interesting Danish food, Larson hoped Mr. Shalik would attend.

Shalik arrived at the hotel the following day and went to theprivate room that Larson used for his excellent lunches and was welcomed by Larson, a balding, heavily-built Dane who gripped his hand and led him to a table before hurrying away to welcome yet another of his clients.

While Shalik was eating his lunch, girls came in to display Larson’s beautiful furs.

Then suddenly, as a girl swept in, wearing a magnificent leopard skin coat, Shalik paused in his eating. After six months of searching, this was his moment of truth. He was certain this time this was the girl he was looking for.

Above average height, with tawny hair, hanging in silken waves to her shoulder blades, this girl — possibly twenty-six or so years of age — was the most sensationally, sensually beautiful feminine creation he had ever seen. Her jade green eyes, her full lips that gave promise of sexual excitement, her long tapering legs, her slim lovely hands made a picture of a male dream of desirability.

Shalik lost interest in his lunch as he watched her move with the arrogant walk of a trained model to the end of the room. She turned and walked back past him. He scarcely glanced at the leopard skin coat. When she had gone, to be replaced by another girl, wearing a seal skin coat, Shalik beckoned to Larson who came over.

“I’ll take the leopard skin coat,” Shalik said. “It is for Mrs. Van Ryan.” He paused, then looked up and asked, “Who is the girl who modelled the coat?”

Larson smiled.

“Almost as magnificent as my coat, don’t you think? She is Gaye Desmond… An American freelance model who comes here from time to time. I use her for my leopard skins… no other girl has such flair to show off leopard.”

Shalik took out his wallet, extracted his card and handed it to Larson.

“Would you be so kind as to give her my card?” he asked. “I believe I can employ her should she need employment. You might mention to her who I am.” Shalik regarded Larson. “You know, Mr. Larson, I am always serious. This is strictly business. You will be doing the girl a favour.”

Larson, who knew Shalik, had no hesitation.

Later, while Shalik was sitting in his suite, reading a complicated legal document, the telephone bell rang.

He lifted the receiver.

“This is Gaye Desmond.” He liked her rich contralto voice. “You sent me your card.”

“Thank you for ringing, Miss Desmond. I have a proposition I would like to discuss with you. Could we have dinner together at the Belle Terresse, Tivoli, at 21.00 hrs?”

She said yes, and hung up.

She arrived punctually which pleased Shalik, and together they went to a table on the terrace that overlooked the lighted pool and the flowers that make Tivoli famous.

“It is a pity we didn’t meet in Paris, Miss Desmond,” Shalik said as he began to examine the menu. “The food here is indifferent. In Paris I could have offered you a meal worthy of your beauty.”

She was wearing a simple blue dress with a mink stole. Diamonds glittered at her ears as she tossed her tawny coloured hair back from her shoulders.

“I believe in eating what a country offers,” she said. “Why yearn for better food in Paris when you are in Copenhagen?”

Shalik liked that. He nodded.

“So what will you have?”

She had no hesitation, and this also pleased Shalik. Women who stare vacantly at a menu and can’t make up their minds bored him.

She chose Danish shrimps and the breast of duck in wine sauce.

Having taken a little longer to examine the menu, Shalik decided her choice was not only safe, but sound. He ordered the same.

“Miss Desmond,” Shalik said when the waiter had gone. “I am looking for a woman to help me in my work. I am a rather special agent who looks after extremely wealthy, spoilt people, clever business men and even princes. I boast that nothing is impossible. Nothing is impossible if you have money and brains.” He paused, regarding her. “However, I believe my work would be made easier if I had a woman like yourself working for me permanently. I must warn you it would be exacting work: sometimes dangerous, but always within the law of the country in which I operate.” This statement was untrue. Recently, Shalik had pulled off a number of illegal currency deals in London that could have landed him in jail had they been discovered, but Shalik’s philosophy was that so long as he wasn’t found out, any deal was within the law. “The pay will be good. You will have your own apartment at the Royal Towers Hotel in London, paid by me. You will have many opportunities to travel.” He regarded her with his black, beady eyes. “And I assure you, Miss Desmond, this will be a strictly business association.”

The tiny, pink, delicious shrimps now arrived with slices of toast, and there was a pause.

While Gaye buttered her toast, she asked, “What makes you imagine I am suitable for such a post, Mr. Shalik?”

Shalik nibbled at his shrimps. He regretfully avoided the toast. He was four kilos overweight and was determined to make a sacrifice.

“Instinct, I suppose. I think you are just the woman I am looking for.”

“You say the pay will be good… just what does that mean?” He ate another three shrimps before saying, “Suppose you tell me about yourself. I can then make a valuation.”

She sipped the chilled Hock and regarded him with her green eyes: thoughtful, shrewd, calculating eyes that pleased him.

“Well…” She suddenly smiled and her smile lit up her face, making it gay and charming. “As you can see, I am beautiful. I am intelligent. You will discover this. I speak French, Italian and Spanish fluently. I can get along in German. I was practically born on a horse. My father bred horses in Kentucky. I ski well. I can handle a sailing boat and, of course, any kind of motorboat. I have been a racing driver and there is nothing I don’t know about cars. I understand men and what they what. Sex doesn’t frighten me. I know how to please men if… and only if… I have to. I earn a comfortable living modelling specialized clothes, but I like money and want to make more.”

Shalik finished his shrimps and then stroked his thick nose.

“Is that all?”

She laughed.

“Isn’t it enough?”

“Yes, I think so. Can you handle firearms?”

She lifted her eyebrows.

“Why should I need to?”

“Since you are otherwise so well equipped, I think you should have weapon training and also training in self-defence. This I can arrange. When a woman is as beautiful as you and when she may have to mix with dubious types of men, it is sound for her to understand the art of self-defence.”

They paused while the waiter served the duck and poured a Margaux ’59 which Shalik had ordered in a moment of recklessness. The price was outrageous, but the wine excellent.

“Now it is your turn,” she said. She cut into the duck and grimaced. “It’s tough.”

“Of course. What did you expect? This is Copenhagen, not Paris.” He looked at her across the candle-lit table. “My turn… . for what?”

“Your turn to make a valuation. I’ve told you about myself. Value me.”

Shalik liked her direct approach.

“If you are prepared to do exactly what I tell you, Miss Desmond,” he said as he began to cut the duck into small pieces. “If you are prepared to be at my beck and call for eleven months in each year… the remaining month will be yours to do as you wish. If you are prepared to take a course in self-defence, then I will pay you $10,000 a year with a one per cent cut on whatever I make on assignments you help me with. At a rough guess this should net you $25,000 a year.”

She drank a little of the Margaux.

“At least the wine is good, isn’t it?”

“It should be, at the price they charge for it,” Shalik said sourly. He hated wasting his money. “What do you say?”

She toyed with her glass as she considered his proposal, then she shook her head.

“No… I am not interested. I could become an old man’s mistress for twice that sum. You are asking me to hand myself over to you as a slave for eleven months, leading no life of my own during those months, to be entirely at your beck and call.” She laughed. “No, Mr. Shalik, that is no kind of a price for what you are offering.”

Shalik would have been disappointed if she had said otherwise.

“So… suppose you tell me under what conditions you will work for me?”

He was pleased she told him without hesitation.

“$30,000 a year whether I work or not, and five per cent of whatever you make in the deals in which I am concerned.”

Shalik shook his head slowly and sadly.

“Then I’m sorry, Miss Desmond. I must look elsewhere.” They looked at each other and she gave him a charming smile, but he saw there was a jeering light in her eyes.

“Then I’m sorry too. So I must also look elsewhere.”

Shalik now knew she was the woman he was looking for and he settled down to bargain, but here he found his master and this pleased him. He hated to be defeated, but he realized if she could defeat him, the men she would have to mix with at his bidding would be as pawns in her hands.

At the end of the meal, and after Shalik had paid the outrageous bill, they had come to an agreement. A basic salary of $30,000 a year, plus four per cent of Shalik’s earnings which involved her cooperation, to be paid into a Swiss bank, tax free, which Shalik decided ruefully would net her at least seven per cent of his take.

Once this was agreed, she came to London and went through a self-defence course that Shalik arranged for her. Her instructors were delighted with her.

“This woman is now highly proficient in defending herself,” they told Shalik. “She can cope with any emergency.”

Completely satisfied with his find, Shalik installed her in a small suite on the floor below his at the Royal Towers Hotel, and within two months she had quickly proved her worth.

She handled two assignments not only successfully, but with a polish that delighted Shalik. The first assignment was to obtain a chemical formula required by a rival company. The second assignment was to obtain advance information about a big shipping merger which netted the client a considerable profit on the Stock Market: part of which he handed to Shalik. In both cases, Gaye had had to sleep with the two men who supplied the information required. Shalik asked for no details. He was only too pleased to turn the information she gave him into cash.

Now, she had worked for him for six months and she had more than earned her basic salary.

Delighted with her, he had sent her off on a skiing vacation. He was sure she hadn’t gone alone, but what was left of her private life was no concern of his. Then the Borgia ring affair came up and he had sent a telegram to Gstaad telling her to return immediately.

She returned by the first available aircraft and when she walked into his office, burned golden brown by the Swiss sun, her tawny hair around her shoulders, Shalik thought she looked magnificent.

He explained about the Borgia ring and was pleased by her interest.

“You will like Natal,” he said. “The country is splendid. The three men who will work with you are all experts and should present no difficulties for you.” He stared at his evenly burning cigar. “I think I should warn you that there are risks. Kahlenberg is dangerous.”

She shrugged her beautiful shoulders. Her smile was confident.

“Many men are dangerous,” she said quietly, “so are many women.”

As Gaye Desmond paused beside Shalik, the three men got to their feet. While Shalik introduced them, Gaye regarded them searchingly. She liked the look of Kennedy Jones. She decided he was harmless and would be easy to handle and could be fun. Her green eyes swept over Fennel. This man was not only dangerous but he could be tricky to handle. Her experience of men and the expression in his washed out grey eyes as he looked at her, told her sooner or later, there would have to be a showdown with him. Then she took in Garry Edwards who was looking at her with an appreciative expression that she found flattering and pleasing. He was all right, she decided. Well, they were a mixed bunch to travel with, but at least two of them could be handled. The fat one was bound to be a nuisance.

“This is Miss Gaye Desmond… our Trojan Horse,” Shalik said.

“That I love,” Gaye laughed. “I would rather be Helen than the horse.”

“Sit down, please.” Shalik drew up a chair for Gaye. “Miss Desmond will travel with you. You will be flying to Johannesburg on Tuesday. I have arranged for your rooms at the Rand. International hotel. You will stay there until Mr. Jones has organized the expedition. I have also arranged for the hire of a helicopter which Miss Desmond and Mr. Edwards will use.” He touched ash off his cigar, then went on, “I have managed to obtain a certain amount of information about Kahlenberg’s place, but none of this information is completely reliable. Before you can hope to get at the ring, it is essential for Miss Desmond to get into Kahlenberg’s house and check the information I have obtained: this information is to do with various security measures and where the museum is located. Miss Desmond will pose as a professional photographer after wild game. I have arranged that she is credited to Animal World which is a sound, small American magazine for whom I have done past favours. It is possible that Kahlenberg might check, and it would be stupid not to be covered. Mr. Edwards will be her professional pilot. A helicopter is the ideal machine from which to get photographs of wild animals. Kahlenberg has an airfield. You two…” Here Shalik looked at Gaye and Garry, “will land on the airfield. Your story will be that you saw the house from the air and can you take photographs? You will be refused, of course, but I am certain Kahlenberg will want to meet Miss Desmond.”

“But suppose he doesn’t?” Garry said.

Shalik frowned at him.

“I said I was certain, and that means he will. I don’t use words lightly.” The snub administered, Shalik went on, “I have no idea where the museum is. I imagine it must be somewhere in the house which is a vast one storey building. As the museum contains many stolen treasures, it will be well hidden and well guarded. One of my agents in Durban, some eight years ago, happened to be watching a ship unload and noticed a considerable number of crates coming ashore with Kahlenberg’s name on them. Knowing I was interested in Khalenberg, he investigated. The crates came from Bahlstrom of Sweden who you may know are the best safe makers and security experts in the world.” He glanced at Fennel. “Am I telling you anything new?”

Fennel grinned.

“I know all about Bahlstrom. Years ago, I worked for them. They are good.”

“Yes, Mr. Fennel,” Shalik said. “This is the main reason why I am hiring you.” He again touched off his cigar ash and continued, “Fortunately, my agent was intelligent. He obtained a copy of the invoices from the shipping agent at some cost and sent it to me. I give it to you now to examine. It is possible with your knowledge of Bahlstrom’s security system and with these invoices, you may get some idea of Kahlenberg’s security setup.” He handed a plastic envelope to Fennel who glanced at it and then shoved it in his hip pocket. “You have until Monday morning to let me know what you think.”

“Okay,” Fennel said, crossing one fat leg over the other. “I’ll tell you.”

Shalik turned to Garry.

“Mr. Edwards, I have aerial maps of the Drakensberg range and of Kahlenberg’s estate.” Again another plastic envelope passed across the desk. “I will want you to tell me if you can land the helicopter from a place chosen by Mr. Jones on the Kahlenberg airfield. This we will also discuss on Monday.”

Garry nodded, taking the envelope.

Shalik now turned to Kennedy Jones.

“You will be responsible for fitting out the expedition and for transport. You and Mr. Fennel will go by road while Miss Desmond and Mr. Edwards fly. You can spend what you like but you must insure against the many difficulties which you could meet on the way in. The route to Kahlenberg’s estate is exceptionally difficult at this season when the rains can be expected. But this is your affair. You will also have to find a way through the circle of Zulus who guard the approaches. You are the expert, so I don’t propose making any suggestions.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Jones said.

“Well then, we will have our final meeting on Monday,” Shalik said. “We will then clear up the final details. Any questions?”

Fennel leaned forward.

“How about some money? We are being paid nine thousand each for this caper, but how about something in advance?”

Shalik made a grimace that could pass for as a smile.

“I was expecting that request from you.” He took from a drawer four envelopes and handing One to Gaye, he passed the other three across his desk. “You will find in each envelope blank Travellers Cheques to the total of $3,000. When you have successfully completed your mission, you will get the balance.” He glanced at his gold Omega. “Then we meet here at 09.30 hrs. on Monday.”

Gaye left the room by the door behind Shalik. Garry and Ken Jones watched her going with regret. They started towards the far door as Fennel got to his feet.

“Mr. Fennel…”

Fennel looked at Shalik.

“There are a few additional things to discuss without wasting the time of these other gentlemen,” Shalik said quietly.

Fennel shrugged and sat down again. Shalik waved to the other two, dismissing them.

When they had gone, Shalik selected another cigar, clipped the end and lit it while he looked stonily at Fennel.

“It is necessary, Mr. Fennel, to have a straight talk with you. Your two companions have both served jail sentences, but you can hardly describe them as criminals. However, you are not only a criminal, but a dangerous and vicious one. I have selected you for this operation because of your expertise, but don’t imagine I am ignorant of your criminal background. I know you are on the run and anxious to get out of England. You betrayed five criminals in order to reduce your own sentence and the leader of this gang — a man called Moroni — has sworn to kill you. An attempt was made last night, but failed. The second attempt might not fail.” Shalik paused to stare at Fennel who was now sitting up straight, his eyes glittering. “So from what I am telling you, Mr. Fennel, you will see I keep myself well informed about the people I employ. Now I have received additional information about you. You are wanted for three vicious murders in Hong Kong, Cairo and Istanbul. Two of your victims were females: the third was a male prostitute. I have evidence of these crimes that Interpol would gladly receive. Does all this that I am telling you, Mr. Fennel, interest you?”

Fennel moistened his lips with his tongue.

“Are you threatening me? I got the idea we are working together.”

“Yes… we are working together, but that doesn’t mean I can’t threaten you. There are two things you are to keep constantly in mind.” Shalik pointed his cigar at Fennel. “The first point is you will leave Gaye Desmond strictly alone. As soon as she came into this room, your disgusting mind began to wonder about her. You were thinking that in the African bush you would have opportunities to behave in the animal way that comes naturally to you. So I am warning you: try something like that with Miss Desmond, and I promise you Interpol will have your dossier from me. Is that clear?”

Fennel forced an uneasy grin.

“You hold the aces,” he said with an attempt at bravado. “You are reading me wrong, but okay, so she is like my mother.”

Shalik grimaced.

“If you will excuse the personal remark… I feel sorry for your mother.”

Fennel gave a hard, barking laugh.

“You don’t have to. She was one of the smartest thieves in the racket. If you want to be sorry for anyone, be sorry for my old man. He cut this throat when they put my mother away for ten years.”

“I am not interested in your family history,” Shalik said curtly. “My second point is this. I want this ring. The operation won’t be easy, but a man of your experience and ruthlessness should be able to handle it. However, if you fail, I see no reason why I shouldn’t pass your dossier to Interpol… so you must understand that I will not tolerate failure.”

Fennel bared his teeth in a snarling grin.

“I’ll get the goddam ring for you, but if so much depends on me, how about some extra money?”

“I will consider that when I have the ring. Now get out!”

Fennel stared at him, but Shalik was reaching for the telephone. As he began to dial a number, Fennel got up and went into the inner room where Natalie Norman was typing. He didn’t look at her, but went out into the corridor and to the lift.

When he had gone, and when she was satisfied she could hear Shalik talking on the telephone, she turned off the hidden tape- recorder and removed the spool.

Garry shut himself in a telephone booth and called Toni who answered immediately.

“We’re celebrating, chicken,” he said. “I’m hungry. Meet me at the Rib Room, Carlton Towers in exactly one hour from this minute,” and he hung up cutting off her squeal of excitement.

He knew he had to give her at least an hour to get ready. Toni was a languid and slow dresser. By the time he reached the Rib Room he was pleasantly high, having drunk four vodka martinis in the bar of the Royal Towers Hotel.

Ken Jones had left him, saying he had a date with a girl friend. They had paused in the crowded lobby of the hotel and Jones had asked, “What do you think of it all?”

“It’s a job and the money’s nice,” Garry returned. “You and I will get along. I feel that. It’s Fennel…”

Jones grinned.

“What are you worrying about? You have Gorgeous and a chopper. I have Fennel.”

“Well, watch him.”

“You bet… so long, see you Monday. Happy bed bouncing,” and Jones went off into the cold, wet night.

Toni, looking ravishing, turned up at the Rib Room just when Garry was losing patience.

“I’m damn well starving,” he complained. “You’re late!”

“I know, sweetie, but I just can’t help it.” She flicked her long eyelashes at him. “Like me?”

But now Garry had met Gaye Desmond, Toni White seemed suddenly a little young, trying a little too hard, and less exciting.

“You’re wonderful.” The four martinis gave his voice conviction.

They moved into the restaurant. As they sat down, Toni asked, “So you got the job?”

“You don’t imagine we would be here if I hadn’t?”

“Let’s order and then you tell me, huh?”

“Don’t say huh… only American businessmen say that.” Toni giggled.

“God! I’m starving too! Let’s order quickly.”

The maitre d’hôtel came over. Garry ordered a dozen 0ysters each with a half bottle of Chablis, followed by the Scotch beef with a baked potato in jacket and a bottle of Batailley 1961. The dessert, it was decided, should be a lemon sorbet.

“Mmmmmm!” Toni purred. “This job must be marvellous. You do realize this is going to cost a f-o-r-t-u-n-e?”

“So what? I’m worth a fortune.” Under the cover of the table, Garry slid his hand up Toni’s mini skirt, but she clamped her legs together.

“Mr. Edwards! I’m surprised at you!” she said.

Garry disengaged his hand.

“I’m continually surprising myself, Miss White.”

The oysters arrived.

“Well, tell me… what is the job?” Toni asked as she cut a fat oyster from its shell. “God! I adore oysters!”

“Don’t be greedy,” Garry said, forking an oyster into his mouth. “It’s never becoming for a young and sexy girl to sound greedy.”

“Shut up! Tell me about the job.”

“Well, it’s a dilly. I go to Natal, and as your geography is as dodgy as mine, Natal is somewhere in South Africa. I lug an American photographer around in a helicopter so she can take photos of wild animals. It is a three week assignment and the money is very acceptable.”

Toni’s oyster hovered before her mouth. She looked searchingly at Garry who avoided her eyes.

“She? You mean you are flying a woman around jungles for three weeks?”

“That’s it,” Garry said carelessly. “Now don’t start getting into a state. I’ve met her. She’s around forty-five, looks pregnant, and is the type who slaps you on the back and picks her teeth immediately after a meal.”

Toni stared at him.

“But that sounds horrible.”

“Doesn’t it? Still the money is good and after all she could have had a beard and a wooden leg, couldn’t she?”

Toni nodded and attacked another oyster.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

There was a long silence while the waiter removed the debris and a longer silence while the beef was served.

Garry stole a look at her face and then grimaced. Hell! he thought, she knows I’m lying. Now what am I going to do?

He said gently, “Toni, darling, have you got something on your mind?”

“Should I have?” She didn’t look at him but concentrated on her beef. “They have here the most marvellous beef in the world.”

“I wouldn’t say in the world. I remember in Hong Kong…”

“Never mind Hong Kong. Please tell me how much you are being paid to convey a pregnant woman around the jungle.”

“I didn’t say she was pregnant, I said she looks pregnant. Not quite the same thing.”

“How much?”

“Three thousand dollars,” Garry lied.

“Well, that’s very nice. So you will be away for three weeks?”

“Yes.”

Toni continued to eat. There was a dazed expression in her eyes that began to bother Garry.

“I hear Natal is pretty interesting,” he said. “It could be quite a trip.”

“Shall we try to enjoy our dinner, Garry? This is the first time I’ve been to the Rib Room.”

“I thought we were enjoying it. Are you trying to be dramatic?”

Her long lashes flickered at him, then she dug into her baked potato.

“Please let us enjoy something even if we can’t enjoy each other.”

That spoilt his meal. Impatiently he pushed aside his plate and

lit a cigarette. Toni ate slowly, obviously enjoying the beef. They said nothing until she had finished, then when the waiter had removed the plates, Garry said, “Just what the hell has suddenly bit you, Toni? This is supposed to be a celebration.”

“I love sorbets. Queen Victoria used to stuff sorbets down the throats of all her over-stuffed guests half-way through the menu. The sorbets allowed them to go on stuffing.”

“I didn’t know you were so well educated, darling. I asked what is biting you.”

The lemon sorbets arrived. Garry, in a fit of frustrated rage, crushed his cigarette in the ice.

“Is that how you feel, Mr. Oxfam?” Toni asked, spooning ice into her pretty mouth.

“Look, Toni, I don’t know what’s come over you, but this has turned into a drag.”

“Has it?” She put down her spoon. “Garry, dear, I am always asking myself how it is I land up with a lover who lies to me. It is beginning to bore me.”

They stared at each other.

“Women who are able to spot my lies bore me too,” Garry said quietly.

“There it is.” Toni lifted her hands helplessly. “Damn you, I love you. Let’s get out of here and go home and have sex.”

He paid the bill without shuddering with one of the $50 Travellers’ Cheques Shalik had given him.

In the taxi, Toni sat away from him, putting her feet up on the tip-up seat.

“This photographer… she’s marvellous, isn’t she?” she asked. “Darling Garry, don’t lie to me… tell me.”

He watched the street lights and the rain beating on the pavement, and he sighed. “Okay… yes… she’s marvellous.”

Toni’s small, pretty face tightened with misery.

“Will you be coming back, Garry?”

“Now look, Toni…”

“I’m asking you… will you be coming back to me?”

He hesitated, thinking of the tawny-haired woman who now filled his mind.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, thanks for being truthful.” She moved closer to him and slid into his arms.

Fennel told the taxi driver to take him to the end of Hornsey Road where Jacey had his shabby flat. As the taxi passed Jacey’s building, Fennel peered through the rain splashed window, looking for trouble, but saw nothing to alarm him. At the end of the long road, he paid off the taxi and walked back, keeping in the shadows, his eyes alert for trouble.

He reached the entrance of the block, stepped inside and looked at the steep stairs leading to the upper floor of the building, lit by a yellow light bulb.

Instinct warned him he could be walking into danger. He hesitated, then moving silently into the smelly lobby, he stepped into the telephone booth behind the stairs. He dialled Jacey’s number. He listened to the steady ringing for some minutes, then he hung up. It was unlikely Jacey would be out in this cold rain at this hour… it was after 22.00 hrs. Jacey got up early and went to bed early. Fennel hesitated. His equipment which he had to have for the Natal trip was up there. He had to get it. It was securely hidden in the rafters of Jacey’s attic. It would want some finding if they search for it. He hadn’t told Jacey where he had hidden it so they would have no success if they had put pressure on Jacey.

He grinned suddenly as an idea came into his mind. He lifted the receiver and dialled 999. To the answering police voice, he said, “There’s bad trouble at 332 Homsey Road… top flat… could be murder,” and he hung up.

He then moved cautiously out of the booth, listened, then walked into the darkness and the rain. Keeping in the shadows, he crossed the road and stood in the entrance of a dark alley to wait.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Two police cars came swiftly out of the night, pulled up outside the building and four policemen ran up the steps.

Fennel looked up at Jacey’s darkened windows. After a few moments a light flashed up. He waited, leaning against the damp wall of the alley, shivering slightly in the bleak cold. After some twenty minutes, three of the policemen came out, shoving two powerfully built men into the police cars. The two men were handcuffed. They drove away. That left one policeman up there.

What had happened to Jacey? Fennel wondered. Well, he couldn’t wait. He had to get his equipment. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and tied it across his face, making a mask, then he crossed the street and entered the building and ran silently up the stairs. When he reached Jacey’s floor, he paused to listen. Jacey’s front door stood open. He could hear the policeman moving around in the room.

Fennel crept like a ghost to the door and glanced in. The far wall was splashed with blood. His back turned to him, the policeman was kneeling by Jacey’s body.

Fennel grimaced. So Jacey, the poor stupid sod, had been carved. He didn’t hesitate. Moving swiftly, he was on the policeman before the man realized he was being attacked. With laced fingers, Fennel smashed his hands down on the man’s bent neck with one shattering, terrible blow. The policeman spread out over Jacey’s blood-stained body.

Fennel darted into the tiny, evil smelling bedroom and up the ladder that led to the attic. In seconds, he had got the bag containing his equipment, then slid down the ladder, out on to the landing. He paused to listen, then went down the stairs to the ground floor, three at the time. Panting, he reached the front door where he paused again, hearing the distant sound of a police siren. He slid out into the rain, ran across the road and backed against the wall of the alley as an ambulance and two police cars came roaring to a standstill.

Fennel grunted… well timed, he thought, then set off by the back alleys until he reached a main road. He saw a cruising taxi and waved. The taxi pulled up and he told the driver to take him to the Royal Towers Hotel.

He arrived outside Shalik’s suite and rapped on the door. There was a delay, then the door opened. George Sherborn, a pertly, elderly man who acted as Shalik’s confidential secretary and valet regarded Fennel with startled disapproval. He knew all about Fennel and after hesitating, stood aside and let him in.

“Mr. Shalik is away for the weekend,” he said. “What is it?”

“I’ve got to get the hell out of the country fast,” Fennel said wiping his sweating face with the back of his hand. “I’m in dead trouble. The creeps after me found my pal and carved him. The cops are there now. It won’t take them long to find my fingerprints all over the goddamn place, and when they do, I’m blown.”

Sherborn was never flustered. He could rise to any emergency with the calmness of a bishop presiding over a tea party. He knew without Fennel the Borgia ring operation couldn’t succeed. He told Fennel to wait and went into the inner room, shutting the door. Half an hour later, he returned.

“A car is waiting for you downstairs to take you to Lydd,” he said. “You fly by air taxi to Le Touquet. There will be another car at Le Touquet to take you to the Normandy hotel, Paris where you will stay until the Johannesburg plane leaves. Your ticket will be at Orly, waiting for you.” Sherborn’s round gooseberry eyes regarded Fennel impersonally. “You understand the cost of all this will be deducted from your fee?”

“Who says so, fatty?” Fennel snarled.

Sherborn looked at him with contempt.

“Don’t be impertinent. Mr. Shalik will be most displeased by what has happened. Now get off.” He handed Fennel a sheet of paper. “All the necessary details are here for you. You have your passport?”

“Oh, get stuffed!” Fennel snapped and snatching the paper, hurried to the lift.

Five minutes later, seated in a hired Jaguar, he was being whisked down to Lydd.