fit in with our way of life nor we with hers. I thought it best to let her make her own life. I was ready to give her money, but she never asked for it.' He paused to stare at Dorey who sat motionless, his legs crossed, his hands in his lap. 'We tried to bury her, and this is the result.'
'Yes,' Dorey said, feeling he was expected to say something. 'I understand.'
Sherman forced a rueful smile.
'That's because you are loyal to me, John. Most people would say I deserve what I'm getting. We have been neglectful parents and now we are reaping the whirlwind . . . and my God! . . . what a hell of a whirlwind!' He took from his wallet a piece of paper and handed it to Dorey. 'Take a look at this.'
Dorey unfolded the paper. The typewritten note ran:
To the Sucker who imagines he is going to be the President.
We send you a souvenir from Paris. We have three other similar souvenirs even better (or worse) than this one. If you continue to run for election, these souvenirs will be sent to your Opposition Party who will know what to do with them.
Dorey studied the uneven typing. He held the letter up to the light, studying the faint watermark. 'You have the envelope, sir?'
'The film and the letter came in the Diplomatic bag,' Sherman said. He opened a brief-case, lying on the bed and took out a stout manilla envelope. He handed it to Dorey. The envelope was addressed to: Mr. Henry Sherman, 134, Whiteside Crescent. Washington. c/o American Embassy. Paris. Please forward. Personal & Urgent.
There was a pause, then Sherman said, 'Well, John? You see why I am here. Someone in Paris - and this is your territory - is blackmailing me to give up running for the Presidency. Mary and I have talked it over. She wanted me to give up, but then I thought of you. Jack Cain has always served me well. I went to see him in hospital, told him I had to come to Paris and asked him to lend me his passport. He gave it to me without hesitation even though he knew if this leaked, he'd lose his job. So, here I am. If you can't come up with a solution, I'll have to withdraw from the election. I don't have to tell you that being the President means more to me than anything that has happened in my life so far. Can you come up with a solution?'
Dorey's agile mind was already busy with the problem. Seeing his expression of concentration, Sherman sat back and lit a cigar with an unsteady hand. He had to wait several minutes before Dorey said, T could find this blackmailer in a few days and I could put him out of business. I have the men and the organisation to do it. That's why I'm in office. But this isn't the solution, I'm afraid.' He looked directly at Sherman. 'You and I are friends. We have things in common. You have done a lot for me, and I would more than welcome the opportunity to do something for you. But you have enemies. Some of my men wouldn't want you as President. They don't agree with your views ... that's their privilege. It would be impossible for me to use my network on this problem without one or maybe more of my agents deliberately leaking the news that your daughter is in a blue film. I'm putting this bluntly because we haven't much time. As I see it, I can't, use my organisation to help you. You know how my system works. Every assignment I work on has its own file; a copy always goes to Washington. To open a file on this problem is unthinkable. I'm sorry, sir, but that is the position.'
Sherman rubbed his hand over his face, then lifted his massive shoulders in a resigned shrug.
'Mary said more or less the same thing. I know you are right, John. I had a faint hope that you might be able to help, but I didn't pin much on that hope.' Again he shrugged. 'So, okay, I'm caught. At least it was a try.'
'I didn't say I can't help you, sir. I said my organisation can't help you,' Dorey said quietly.
Sherman looked sharply at him.
'You can help me?'
'I think so. It will cost money.'
Sherman made an impatient movement.
'What's money to me? I don't give a damn what it costs. How can you help me?'
'I could offer this assignment to Girland, If anyone can swing it, he can.'
'Girland? Who is he?'
Dorey smiled wryly.
'You may well ask. Girland was once one of my top agents, but I had to get rid of him. He was too much the rebel. He always put himself first. He has no social conscience and he moves so close to dishonesty I marvel he isn't in jail. He has swindled me out of considerable sums of money. He is tough, ruthless, an expert Karate fighter and a first-class shot. He is dangerous, calculating, shrewd and tricky. He has a lot of courage and I am not saying this lightly. He has lived for years in Paris. He knows Paris the way I know the back of my hand. He mixes with every kind of crook, con-man, swindler, tart and queer. He has shady contacts everywhere. Those who live in the shadows trust him. He has two obsessions: money and women. If there is anyone who can solve your problem, it is Girland.'
Sherman looked uneasily at Dorey.
'Are you sure, John? A character like that could also attempt to blackmail me once he knew the set-up. Surely you're not serious?'
'Girland would never blackmail anyone. In his odd way, he has his standard of ethics. I know Girland. He is a rebel and he is tricky, but if he accepts an assignment, I have never known him not to deliver the goods. He is your only hope, sir.
I wouldn't say this unless was sure.'
Sherman hesitated, then raised his hands helplessly.
I have no alternative then, have I? If you really believe we should hire this man and he can fix it, then let's hire him.
Will he take the assignment?'
Dorey smiled sourly.
'Give Girland a whiff of money and there is no job he won't do. It'll probably cost you twenty thousand dollars. I'll try to get him for less of course. With that kind of money hanging in front of his nose, Girland would undertake to kidnap Charles de Gaulle.'
Drina found Paul Labrey lounging at a table outside a cafe that faced Hotel Pare. He sat down heavily beside Labrey, took off his hat and wiped his balding, sweating forehead.
'Anything happened?' he asked.
'Your man arrived fifteen minutes ago,' Labrey said, not looking at Drina. 'He's in there now.'
'Nothing else?'
'No.'
Drina continued to mop his face. He scowled at Labrey whom he disliked, knowing Labrey regarded him with contempt and looked on him as a joke.
Paul Labrey was twenty-five years of age. His French mother, now dead, had been a waitress in a lowly bistro. His father, whom he had never known, had been a passing American soldier.
Labrey was tall, painfully thin with thick flaxen hair that reached to his shoulders. His skin was milky-white, his mouth wide and hard and his hazel eyes shifty. Green tinted sunglasses were never off his face. Some of his friends thought he even slept in them. He wore a black turtle neck sweater and black hipsters that seemed to be painted on him. He was known to be dangerous and vicious in a fight. He was also known to be cunning, quick witted and a Communist.
One of Kovski's agents had come across him in a cellar club, addressing a group of hippies, explaining to them the theory of Communism. The agent was so impressed by what he heard that he alerted Kovski. Labrey had been interviewed and accepted as an agent, and was now drawing enough money from the Russian Security police to live the life he wanted to live, but he, in turn, gave service.
Kovski often found Labrey useful since American tourists were only too happy when Labrey introduced himself and offered to show them the more seamy side of Paris night life. The Americans talked to him and he listened and reported back. Kovski often marvelled at the amount of loose talk that went on among V.I.P. American tourists when they came to Paris and had too much to drink and were enjoying themselves. Labrey had a good memory. Much of what he reported
was of no interest, but every now and then something would crop up of importance and this was relayed to Moscow.
