came upon an arcade, leading to the entrance of the Alhambra night club. He was passing it when he came to an abrupt stop. On a bill posted to the wall was Mala Reid’s name and a photograph of her, wearing black tights and a bra. The Czech letter press meant nothing to him, but the photograph was all he wanted. So ...
He moved on. Well, he now knew where she worked. Tonight, he would go to the Alhambra. He reached the hotel and asked for his key. The Hall Porter handed it to him.
‘There was a gentleman inquiring for you, sir,’ he said.
‘He said he would telephone later.’
‘Is that right?’ Girland was puzzled. ‘I can’t imagine who it would be. Do you remember him?’
‘Yes. sir.’ The Hall Porter was proud of his memory. ‘A tall, heavily built gentleman. He has had an accident to his right ear.’
Girland grinned.
‘Oh sure. I didn’t know he was here. He’s an old friend of mine. Thanks.’ He slid a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes across the desk. He had quickly discovered that cigarettes were much more appreciated in Prague than money.
He rode up in the elevator. So Bruckman was asking for him, he thought. Watch it, he told himself. This could be action stations.
He reached his bedroom door, unlocked it and swung the door open. Then he walked in. The sight of Bruckman sitting in the easy chair came as no surprise. He was glad he had been tipped off by the Hall Porter.
‘Hello. Oscar, nice to see you again,’ he said, moving into the room and closing the door. ‘How’s the wife and kids?’
Bruckman stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray that was now overflowing with cigarette butts. He shifted his weight slightly so he could get at his gun. His red, fleshy face was expressionless, his cold, grey eyes never left Girland.
‘Sit down, punk,’ he said in his cop voice. ‘You and me have to talk.’
Girland smiled at him.
‘Now, Oscar, try to act your age,’ he said, leaning against the door. ‘You’re getting a little long in the tooth for that kind of talk and you’ve put on too much weight. With that fat belly you’re carrying around like a pregnant cow and all the booze you have been swilling, you’re not in my class. Do you want to start something? It would be a pleasure. Where’s your buddy boy O’Brien? Remember what I did to him the last time you tried to get tough?’
Bruckman produced his gun. He was still lightning fast and the gun jumped into his hand in one dazzling movement.
‘I said sit down, punk!’ he said, with a snarl in his voice.
Girland laughed.
‘Oscar, you slay me. You should be in the movies ... strictly B features, but you might make quite a decent living. Go ahead and shoot me.’ He walked deliberately up to Bruckman. When he was close to the big man, he looked down at him, still smiling. ‘Go on, Oscar. Fire away.’ then the side of his hand smashed down on Bruckman’s wrist, sending the gun flying across the room.
Bruckman cursed and started to his feet, but Girland shoved him back in the chair.
‘Relax, Oscar. You can’t murder me just yet. We have to talk ... remember?’
Bruckman nursed his wrist. His eyes glowered hate at Girland who walked over to the bed and dropped on to it. He stretched out, folding his hands behind his head.
‘Go ahead, Oscar,’ he said, staring up at the ceiling. ‘What’s on the thing you call your mind?’
Bruckman continued to massage his wrist, then at last getting some feeling back into it, he got up and picked up his gun. He put it on the table near him, then sat down again.
Glaring at Girland, he said, ‘You know ... you have a T.S., Girland. I want it.’
‘You want it?’ Girland grinned. ‘What an understatement! I’ll tell you who also wants it: Mr. Johnson wants it. Mr. Kosygin wants it. Mr. Ho Chi Minh wants it ... and more than any of them, my dear old pal Dorey wants it.’
Bruckman contained his fury with an effort that turned his face dark.
‘Let’s have it, Girland, and
He moved on. Well, he now knew where she worked. Tonight, he would go to the Alhambra. He reached the hotel and asked for his key. The Hall Porter handed it to him.
‘There was a gentleman inquiring for you, sir,’ he said.
‘He said he would telephone later.’
‘Is that right?’ Girland was puzzled. ‘I can’t imagine who it would be. Do you remember him?’
‘Yes. sir.’ The Hall Porter was proud of his memory. ‘A tall, heavily built gentleman. He has had an accident to his right ear.’
Girland grinned.
‘Oh sure. I didn’t know he was here. He’s an old friend of mine. Thanks.’ He slid a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes across the desk. He had quickly discovered that cigarettes were much more appreciated in Prague than money.
He rode up in the elevator. So Bruckman was asking for him, he thought. Watch it, he told himself. This could be action stations.
He reached his bedroom door, unlocked it and swung the door open. Then he walked in. The sight of Bruckman sitting in the easy chair came as no surprise. He was glad he had been tipped off by the Hall Porter.
‘Hello. Oscar, nice to see you again,’ he said, moving into the room and closing the door. ‘How’s the wife and kids?’
Bruckman stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray that was now overflowing with cigarette butts. He shifted his weight slightly so he could get at his gun. His red, fleshy face was expressionless, his cold, grey eyes never left Girland.
‘Sit down, punk,’ he said in his cop voice. ‘You and me have to talk.’
Girland smiled at him.
‘Now, Oscar, try to act your age,’ he said, leaning against the door. ‘You’re getting a little long in the tooth for that kind of talk and you’ve put on too much weight. With that fat belly you’re carrying around like a pregnant cow and all the booze you have been swilling, you’re not in my class. Do you want to start something? It would be a pleasure. Where’s your buddy boy O’Brien? Remember what I did to him the last time you tried to get tough?’
Bruckman produced his gun. He was still lightning fast and the gun jumped into his hand in one dazzling movement.
‘I said sit down, punk!’ he said, with a snarl in his voice.
Girland laughed.
‘Oscar, you slay me. You should be in the movies ... strictly B features, but you might make quite a decent living. Go ahead and shoot me.’ He walked deliberately up to Bruckman. When he was close to the big man, he looked down at him, still smiling. ‘Go on, Oscar. Fire away.’ then the side of his hand smashed down on Bruckman’s wrist, sending the gun flying across the room.
Bruckman cursed and started to his feet, but Girland shoved him back in the chair.
‘Relax, Oscar. You can’t murder me just yet. We have to talk ... remember?’
Bruckman nursed his wrist. His eyes glowered hate at Girland who walked over to the bed and dropped on to it. He stretched out, folding his hands behind his head.
‘Go ahead, Oscar,’ he said, staring up at the ceiling. ‘What’s on the thing you call your mind?’
Bruckman continued to massage his wrist, then at last getting some feeling back into it, he got up and picked up his gun. He put it on the table near him, then sat down again.
Glaring at Girland, he said, ‘You know ... you have a T.S., Girland. I want it.’
‘You want it?’ Girland grinned. ‘What an understatement! I’ll tell you who also wants it: Mr. Johnson wants it. Mr. Kosygin wants it. Mr. Ho Chi Minh wants it ... and more than any of them, my dear old pal Dorey wants it.’
Bruckman contained his fury with an effort that turned his face dark.
‘Let’s have it, Girland, and
Similar Books
