He found Sammy's Bar on Rue Berry off Avenue des Champs Elysees: a typical, dimly lit bar like so many bars that grow like mushrooms around any tourist haunt. He pushed open the door and walked into a long narrow room, the bar to the left with the standard stools, to the right were banquettes and tables. At this hour the place was empty except for the barman who was browsing over a racing sheet, Biro in hand, a look of concentration on bis handsome face.
As soon as Girland saw him, he guessed he must be Jack Dodge. This man with his sandy-coloured hair, his sun lamp complexion, his bulky shoulders and the shadow of dissipation under his close-set eyes looked the part of a stallion: a sensual lump of muscle and flesh: whose brain and mind were as small as his sexuality was enormous.
The barman glanced up, then pushed the racing sheet away. He gave Girland a smirking grin and placed big hands on the bar counter.
'Yes, sir?' he said. 'What is your pleasure?'
Girland hoisted himself on a stool.
'Rye whisky and ginger ale.'
'Yes, sir... a nice reviving drink.'
'That's what I need. Have one with me.'
I won't say no.' The barman made two drinks with a lot of unnecessary flourishes. 'First one today.'
He placed one of the glasses before Girland and lifted the other.
'Sante.'
They drank, then Girland asked casually, 'Are you Jack Dodge?'
The barman lifted a sandy eyebrow.
'That's me. Can't say I've seen you before. I have a good memory for faces.'
'That's good news. I want you to remember a girl'
I get a lot of girls in here. I won't swear I can remember them all. It's the men I concentrate on.' He grinned slyly. 'They pick up the tab.'
I understand. Well, never mind about the girl for the moment. Are you still happy working for Pierre Rosnold?' Girland asked, his dark eyes on Dodge's face.
If he had leaned across the bar and punched Dodge in the eye, he wouldn't have got a bigger reaction.
Dodge reared back. His close-set eyes went blank with shock. The blood moved out of his face leaving his skin blotchy under the sun lamp complexion, but he recovered quickly. For a brief moment, when Girland could almost hear his brain creaking, he stood motionless, then pulling himself together, he eyed Girland with sudden suspicion.
I don't know him,' he said. 'Excuse me. I've things to do.'
'Don't be so obvious,' Girland said. 'You have nothing to do except talk to me. I know what your side-line is, but that doesn't mean I'll make trouble for you. How would you like to pick up an easy hundred bucks?'
'I told you, sir, I have things to do.' Dodge began to move away down the bar.
'If you don't want my money, I can always call Inspector Dupuis of the vice squad and turn you in. Please yourself.'
Dodge hesitated, then glared at Girland. 'Just who the hell are you?'
'Look on me as your pal,' Girland said and smiled. He took ten ten-dollar bills from his wallet. These he had got by cashing some of his traveller's cheques at the American Express on his way to the bar. 'All yours, buddy, for a little information which won't go further. Don't look so anxious. I'm not after you. I want to find a girl who went through a performance with you before Rosnold's camera.'
Dodge eyed the money, licked his full lips, took a drink, then looked at the money again.
'You mean that's for me?'
'That's right. No strings to it... just information.' Dodge hesitated, but the power of money was too much for him. He finished his drink, then made another while his brain creaked.
'What do you want to know?' he asked finally. T came across an 8 mm movie,' Girland said. 'It is labelled 'A Souvenir from Paris'. It shows you, wearing a hood, performing with a dark-haired girl. Three other films were shot, probably at the same time. Mean anything to you?'
Dodge again looked at the money. 'You really mean that's for me?' Girland pushed five ten dollar bills across the counter. 'You get the rest when you talk,' he said. Dodge snapped up the bills and stowed them away in bis hip pocket.
'This is strictly confidential.'
'You are right out of it,' Girland promised. 'What do you know about this movie?'
'Well, Rosnold called me. This was to be a special job. Okay, I make these movies. It's business and pleasure. I do a job for Rosnold two or three times a week. Last month, he called me. I went to the studio and there was this girl. I've never seen her before... a new one.' He thought for a moment. The memory seemed to please him because his face broke into a sensual leer. 'Very good... an amateur, you understand, but good.'
' Did you get her name?'
Dodge shook his head.
'No. Rosnold called her Cherie, but I did get she and he were buddy-buddies. We made four films. Rosnold paid me $50 a film.' Again the leer. 'It was a pleasure.'
'Let's do better than that,' Girland said. 'What makes you think Rosnold and the girl were buddies?'
'The way they behaved ... the way they talked. I could tell. I guess Rosnold digs for her.'
'Yet Rosnold took the shots while you were working on her?'
'That's nothing... that's business. I've worked with wives while their husbands took the shots. When you make a stag, it's strictly business. Besides, I got the idea the girl was stoned.'
'What makes you say that?'
'Well, you know... L.S.D. She was higher than a kite and as hot as a stove.'
'You think she had taken L.S.D.?'
'I'm damn sure she had.'
Girland grimaced.
'What did they talk about... did you hear anything?'
'Well... I had to rest between the shootings.' The leer irritated Girland. 'While I was building myself up, they got in a huddle. They were planning to go to Garmisch together as soon as the shooting was processed.'
'What do you know about Rosnold?'
Dodge shrugged.
'He's one of the bright boys. When he isn't making movies or photographing the snobs, he organises a group of nuts who call themselves Ban War. He tried to get me to join the organisation but it didn't interest me. How the hell can you ban war anyway? It's like bashing your nut against a wall. Anyway, he makes a good thing out of it. Every sucker who joins pays ten francs and the money goes into Rosnold's pocket.'
The door swung open and four American tourists, each with a camera slung around his neck, came into the bar, shattering the quiet atmosphere as they climbed thirstily onto stools away from Girland.
I see you're getting busy,' Girland said. He slid the other dollar bills over to Dodge. 'Forget you've seen me,' and he walked out onto the street.
It now looked as if his next stop would be Garmisch, but first he wanted more information. He headed back to the American Embassy.
Four
His hands clammy, his heart thumping, Henry Sherman handed his false passport to the blue-uniformed official at Orly airport. The man glanced at the photograph, glanced at Sherman, nodded, stamped the passport and returned it with a brief 'Merci, monsieur.'
Sherman walked through the barrier, consulted the index board and found his flight left from Gate 10. He glanced at his watch. He had twenty-five minutes before take-off. Nice, easy time, he thought as he walked down
