'Hold on.'
'What is it?'
'Sergeant Goodyard of the Special Branch is asking to speak to you, sir.'
The two men looked at each other. Shalik's mind flew to those three dangerous currency transactions he had recently made when he had moved some nine hundred thousand pounds out of England. Could Scotland Yard have possibly got on to that? He felt his hands turn moist.
Steadying his voice and not looking at Sherborn, he said, 'Tell him to come up.'
Three minutes later, Sherborn opened the door of the suite to be confronted by a large, heavily-built man with probing eyes, a mouth like a fly trap and a jaw like the prow of a ship.
'Come in, sir,' Sherborn said, stepping aside. 'Mr. Shalik will see you immediately.'
Sergeant Goodyard moved into the room. He stared at Sherborn, then lifted heavy eyebrows.
'Why, hello George . . . I thought you were dead.'
'No, sir,' Sherborn said, sweat on his face.
'A pity. You keeping out of trouble?'
'Yes, sir.'
Sergeant Goodyard surveyed the outer room with a critical eye.
'You've found a nice little nest here, haven't you, George? Better than Pentonville I dare say.'
'Yes, sir.'
Sherborn opened the door to Shalik's office.
After staring at him for a long moment, Goodyard walked into the impressively luxurious room.
Shalik glanced up. He regarded the police officer as he came slowly to the desk.
'Sergeant Goodyard?'
'Yes, sir.'
Shalik waved him to a chair.
'Sit down, sergeant. What is it?'
Goodyard settled himself in the chair and looked stonily at Shalik who felt the unease that all guilty people feel when under police scrutiny, although his face remained expressionless.
'I believe Miss Natalie Norman works for you?'
Surprised, Shalik nodded.
'That is right. She hasn't come in this morning. Has something happened to her?'
'She died Saturday night,' Goodyard told him in his flat, cop voice. 'Suicide.'
Shalik flinched. He had a horror of death. For some moments he remained motionless, then his quick, callous mind became alive. Who was he going to find to replace her? Who was now going to look after him? The fact that she was dead meant nothing to him. The fact that he had relied on her for the past three years to arrange his social and business life meant a lot.
'I'm sorry to hear that.' He reached for a cigar and paused to clip the end. Was there any reason?'
What a bastard! Goodyard thought, but his cop face revealed none of his disgust.
'That is why I am here, sir. I hoped you could tell me.'
Shalik lit the cigar and let the rich smelling smoke roll out of his
mouth. He shook his head.
'I'm sorry, but I know nothing about Miss Norman . . . nothing at all. I have always found her an efficient worker. She has been with me for three years.' He leaned back in his executive chair and looked directly at Goodyard. 'I am a busy man, Sergeant. It is impossible for me to take much — if any — interest in the people who work for me.'
