This is For Real by James Hadley Chase Page A

spot.
    “Very well then,” he said. “You may have some luck. You’ll need a visa.”
    “I’ve seen to that,” she said crisply. “If I find out anything important, I’ll telephone you. Goodbye, John,” and the line went dead.
    Dorey returned to his apartment a little after ten o’clock. He sat down at his desk and began to work on papers he had brought with him from the Embassy. Around midnight, he cleared his desk, locked up his papers and went over to sit in one of the big easy chairs. He kept looking at his watch. He sat there, waiting, and when the telephone bell finally rang at ten minutes to one, he got hastily to his feet and snatched up the receiver.
    “We’ve identified your man,” O’Halloran told him. “His name is Mark Girland. He has a top floor studio apartment on Rue de Suisses. He describes himself as a free-lance journalist. The reason why I am calling you so late is because I went around to his place with a couple of the boys and gave it a going over. There’s no doubt he’s an agent. He has all the tools of the trade. He’s not there, of course. The Concierge told me he left the apartment building around half past six, so he could still return. You want me to bring him down to H.Q. if we catch him?”
    “Yes,” Dorey said. “I want to talk to him. I don’t want anyone else to question him. This could be a tricky one and the responsibility must be mine.”
    “If he shows I’ll call you,” O’Halloran said.
    “He may be planning to go to Dakar with this woman,” Dorey said. “You’ll keep a watch at the airport for him?”
    “We’re already doing that,” O’Halloran said, and hung up.
     
    A little after ten o’clock the following morning, a tap came on Girland’s hotel bedroom door.
    He had just finished a substantial breakfast and was reading the New York Herald Tribune. He got silently to his feet and reached for his .45 automatic that lay on the table.
    “Who is it?” he called.
    “Me and a boyfriend.”
    As soon as Girland recognised Borg’s voice, he put the gun under the newspaper, crossed the room and unlocked the door.
    Borg came in, followed by a thin, elderly man with a mop of white hair. Girland closed and locked the door as Borg and his companion took off their overcoats.
    “This is Charlie,” Borg said, jerking his thumb at the elderly man. “He’s going to fix your face.” He grinned. “A goddam marvel is Charlie. Your own mother won’t recognise you by the time he’s through with you.”
    Charlie had opened a suitcase he had brought with him, and humming under his breath, began to get out various boxes, bottles, a pair of scissors, a comb and a barber’s towel.
    “Now, sir,” he said to Girland, “if you would just sit here.”
    Girland sat down and was enveloped in the towel. Borg took the only armchair, lit a cigarette and crossed one fat leg over the other.
    “You get that bag I left at the hotel last night?” “I got it,” Girland said.
    He had been surprised to find an expensive piece of air luggage in the room when the porter had shown him in. As soon as the porter had gone, Girland had opened the bag to find three expensive tropical suits, shirts, pyjamas, handkerchiefs, sports clothes, a dressing-gown, slippers, a selection of good ties, toilet accessories, a light-weight raincoat, sun glasses and a worn, but expensive looking wallet with the initial J.G. in gold and which was stuffed with Senegalese money. Once again, he had to admire Radnitz’s thoroughness.
    “It’s a trick bag,” Borg said. “There’s a false bottom to it. Inside, you’ll find everything you want for trouble. I’ll show you how it works when Charlie is through with you.”
    Charlie at this moment was busily cutting Girland’s thick hair to a crew cut. He then led Girland into the bathroom where he gave him a strong peroxide rinse. Girland lost count of time. Every so often, Borg would stare at him, mutter ‘Sweet Pete!’ and then return to reading