This is For Real by James Hadley Chase Page B

the Tribune. Two and a half hours later, Charlie drew back and announced himself satisfied.
    From the suitcase he now produced a heavy well cut suit, a white shirt with J.G. embroidered on the pocket, a pair of expensive looking brogue shoes and invited Girland to change.
    Five minutes later, changed, Girland accepted a gold cigarette case, also bearing the initials J.G., a gold cigarette lighter, a monogrammed handkerchief, some small change in French currency, all of which he put in his various pockets. The nicest touch of all was a Diner Club ticket made out in the name of John Gilchrist which Borg handed to him with an expansive grin.
    “Well, now, Mr. Gilchrist, take a look at yourself,” Borg said and waved to the big mirror at the far end of the room.
    Girland approached the mirror, paused and stared. He found himself looking at a tall, blond man with a typical American crew cut, whose startled eyes regarded him with interest. Even the lines of his lean face had been altered by the use of small rubber suction pads inside his mouth. A pencil line moustache, put on hair by hair, gave him a rakish man of the world appearance and his complexion, instead of being sallow from constant late nights was now heavily sun tanned. Charlie hadn’t neglected his hands either and these matched his face. The transformation was so astonishing that Girland couldn’t believe he was looking at himself and it was only when he lifted his arms and moved about before the mirror that he was convinced.
    Charlie quickly packed away his things, nodded approvingly at Girland, then let himself out of the room.
    “Knock out, isn’t he?” Borg said. “I told you, didn’t I? Your own mother wouldn’t know you.”
    “I damn well don’t know myself,” Girland said, turning away from the mirror. “But will it all last? I mean this moustache? My hair will grow dark again.”
    “It’ll last long enough,” Borg said. “You can always touch up your hair if you have to. The moustache is waterproof. You can grow your own later. That sun tan will be replaced by your own tan as soon as you get into the African sun.”
    “I guess you’re right.” Girland put the wallet he had left on the table in his pocket.
    Borg went over to the bag and showed Girland how the false bottom operated. In the recess was a .38 automatic, a flick knife, a small bottle containing a number of tablets which Borg explained were tasteless knock-out drops. “You can even drop one of these in water: they dissolve immediately and the drinker is put away for at least six hours,” a lethal looking cosh and a box containing a hundred rounds of ammunition for the gun.
    “Well, that’s it,” Borg said. “If there’s anything else you can think of you’ll want, just say so and I’ll fix it. I was told to give you the V.I.P. treatment.”
    Girland shook his head.
    “That’s as complete an outfit as anyone would want,” he said.
    Borg picked up a bulky briefcase he had brought with him.
    “You’d better spend the rest of the day, going through these papers. You are representing the Orangeolo Corporation of Florida. Here’s all the dope. You’re visiting Dakar to see if it is worth while setting up a factory there. You want to know by heart the names of the directors, the sales manager and the complete background of the Corporation. It’s one of Radnitz’s babies and if anyone takes the trouble to check, they’ll back you.” He looked at his watch. “Time for lunch. I’ll pay your hotel check and take your bag to the air terminal. You’d better clear off now. Walk down the stairs. No one will recognise you. Take the briefcase … there’s five grand in big bills in there … and go somewhere where you can work through all the dope.” He grinned cheerfully at Girland. “Well, so long and good luck.”
    Girland nodded, picked up the heavy briefcase and after shaking hands with Borg, he let himself out of the hotel bedroom and walked quickly down the