'What's cooking?'
He told her about the advertisement in the Daily Telegraph, that he had answered it, and now he had a reply. He gave her the letter.
'The Royal Towers! The newest and the best! What a lovely name! Armo Shalik! I smell bags and bags of gold and diamonds.' She tossed the letter into the air and threw her arms around Garry's neck.
Around 11.00 hours. Garry detached himself from Toni's clutch, took a shower and then dressed in a blue blazer and dark-blue Daks. He surveyed himself in the mirror.
'A little dark under the eyes,' he said, straightening his tie. But that is to be expected. Still, I think I look healthy, handsome andhandmade . . . what do you think, you beautiful doll?
Completely naked, Toni was sitting in the armchair, sipping coffee. She regarded him affectionately.
'You look absolutely gorgeous.'
Garry picked her out of the armchair and fondled her. Having kissed her, he dumped her back in the chair and left the apartment.
At exactly 11.30 hrs. he approached the hall porter of the Ro
The hall porter surveyed him with that blank expression all hall porters wear when they neither approve nor disapprove. He called a number, spoke quietly, then replaced the receiver.
'Tenth floor, sir. Suite 27.'
Garry was whisked up by the express lift to the tenth floor. He was conducted by the lift-man to the door of Suite 27. He was obviously too important and too fragile to knock on the door. The lift-man did this service, bowed and retired.
The smell of money, as far as Garry was concerned, was now over-powering.
He entered a small distinguished room where a girl sat behind a desk on which stood three telephones, an I.B.M. golf ball typewriter, an intercom and a tape-recorder.
The girl puzzled Garry because although she had a nice figure, was dressed in a stylish black frock, was beautifully groomed, her hair immaculate, she was nothing to him but a sexless photograph of a woman long since dead. Her blank face, her immaculately plucked eyebrows, her pale lipstick merely emphasized her lack of charm: a robot that made him feel slightly uncomfortable.
'Mr. Edwards?
Even her voice was metallic: a tape-recording badly reproduced.
'That's me,' Garry said, and because he never liked to be
defeated by any woman, he gave her his charming smile.
It had no effect. The girl touched a button, paused, then said, 'Mr. Edwards is here, sir.'
A green light flashed up on the intercom. Obviously, Mr. Shalik didn't care to waste his breath. He preferred to press buttons than to talk.
The girl got up, walked gracefully to a far door, opened it and stood aside.
Impressed by all this, Garry again tried his smile which again bounced off her the way a golf ball bounces off a brick wall.
He moved past her into a large sunny room, luxuriously furnished with period pieces and impressive looking paintings that could have been by the great masters but probably weren't.
At a vast desk sat a small, fat man, smoking a cigar, his chubby hands resting on the desk blotter. Garry judged him to be around forty-six years of age. He was dark-complexioned with close cut black hair, beady black eyes and a mouth that he used for food but not for smiles. Garry decided he was either an Armenian or an Egyptian. He had the stillness and the probing stare of power. As Garry walked slowly to the desk, the beady black eyes examined him. They were X-ray eyes, and by the time Garry had reached the desk, he had an uncomfortable feeling this fat little man knew him rather better than he knew himself.
'Sit down, Mr. Edwards.' The accent was a little thick. A chubby hand waved to a chair.
Garry sat down. He now regretted laying Toni an hour ago. He felt a little depleted and he had an idea that this fat little man wouldn't have much time for depleted applicants for the job he was offering. Garry sat upright and tried to look intelligent.
Shalik sucked in rich smelling smoke and allowed it to drift from his mouth like the smoke from a small, but active volcano. He picked up a sheet of paper which Garry recognized as his letter of application and he studied it for several moments, then he tore it upand dropped it into a hidden wastepaper basket.
'You are a helicopter pilot, Mr. Edwards?' he asked, resting his hands on the blotter and regarding the ash of his cigar with more interest than he regarded Garry.
'That's correct. I saw your ad and I thought . . .'
