“Right.”
“No more than ten minutes, sir.”
As Nolan put down the receiver he waved the gun at Spadone.
“OK. Get dressed.”
Nolan pressed down the silencer ratchet on the Walther and turned the cylinder so that it slid into his palm, and he pushed it into his jacket pocket. He knocked on the girl’s bedroom door.
“Jenny. You can come out.”
She was dressed in a vivid-green jersey suit, a string of knotted pearls around her neck and a mink coat slung over her arm.
“Why the coat, Jenny?”
“I heard you on the phone.”
“You’ll be safer with us for a day or so.”
He turned to look at Spadone who stood with his eyes closed in pain.
The door-bell rang, and Nolan walked over. The CIA driver and the two agents stood there, and he nodded to Spadone and the girl.
“Let’s go. Lock up properly, Jenny.”
She pressed the spring on the lock and pulled the door shut.
“I’ll take your keys.”
She hesitated for only a moment but that was enough, and he slid the keys into his pocket and nodded to the driver.
“Take them on. I’ll be along later.”
The girl looked back at him, the big eyes apprehensive and pleading. When the others were in the elevator he took out the keys, walked back and let himself into the flat. He took off his coat and threw it across a chair. There was just the living-room, a bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom. He walked across to the bedroom.
The dressing-table had a few bottles and packs. A bottle of “Je Reviens,” an antiperspirant aerosol, eau-de-Cologne, three used lipsticks and a beautiful, silver hand-mirror. There were a few jars of creams, a box of cotton wool, tissues and a manicure-set in a leather case.
He pulled out the two small drawers and then the two full length drawers. There was nothing but underwear, briefs, suspender belts, and a collection of scarves and linen handkerchiefs.
In the small right-hand drawer was a kaleidoscope of necklaces, brooches and ear-rings. All things bright and beautiful, but nothing particularly expensive. There were a dozen or so postcards from holiday places around the world with brief messages on the lines of “See you baby—Joe (Chatanooga)” and more pointed efforts like “Sit on it until I get back next Wednesday—Charlie M.”
In the left-hand drawer was a red leather notebook with dates and initials. He put it on the window-sill. There were receipts in a spring clip, mainly hairdressing, doctors, and food and drink payments. There was a large, brown envelope and he tipped out the photographs. They were all of Jenny. A few glamour portraits and the rest were figure shots, erotic but not pornographic. In all of them she was naked, and the lighting so arranged that it emphasized and high-lighted her breasts and her crotch. He turned over one print and there was a negative number and a telephone number. He noted them both. There was a letter from an address in Pasadena that was obviously from her mother, and another letter from a pilot on an aircraft-carrier, which described in vivid detail what he was going to do to her when he next got to New York.
He stood up, hands on hips and looked across the room. There was no expensive jewellery, no odd cash or valuables, yet there had been that scared look in her eyes when he took the keys.
In the wardrobe there were dozens of pairs of shoes, a squashed row of dresses and coats, and two flowered hats on a shelf. On the bedside table was a pink-shaded lamp, a small traveller’s alarm clock in a leather fold-case, a Mars bar and an empty ashtray. In the drawer there was a box of condoms, a Kleenex pack and a copy of the current Penthouse.
He pushed the bed to one side and pulled back the carpet but the boards were clean and untouched. He moved on to the kitchen. There was nothing of interest on the shelves or in the cabinets. There was a combined freezer-refrigerator, an upright Westinghouse. The refrigerator was packed full of food, and cans of coke and beer. The freezer held four drawers marked “Meat,” “Fruit,” “Packs,” and “Misc.” He was swinging the door to when he noticed that the pilot light was not working.
He pulled out the drawer marked “Misc.” There were bundles of ten-dollar notes, still banded from a bank. About twenty thousand dollars. There were thick, brown envelopes crammed with used notes of all denominations. There were four bank pass-books with credits that totalled nearly a quarter of a million dollars and a safety deposit key.
In the drawer marked “Meat” there were eight envelopes packed with photographs.
There were thirty or forty 10″ × 8″ prints in each envelope. They all showed the girl having sex with a man. The man in the third envelope was Powell. The photographs were explicit and comprehensive, with the action-stopping graininess of photo-journalism rather than the studio. The faces of the participants were clear and instantly identifiable, and in each envelope were a dozen strips of negatives in a transparent pack. He closed the freezer door, collected the envelopes and the black notebook, and left.
Nolan stood eating a chicken sandwich. The girl sat at the table, finishing her meal.
“I’ve fixed for you to go up to Albany. You’ll be safer up there.”
“Am I in custody?”
“No way, Jenny. You can walk out of here right now if you want. But you wouldn’t last a couple of hours.”
She put down her knife and fork and turned to look at him.
“You really think they would kill me?”
“I’m sure they would.”
“But why? I’m not part of anything.”
Nolan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I took the photographs, Jenny. And the little black book.”
“So what?”
“Those photographs link you with Powell. You are already linked with Dempsey. You and I know that you’re linked with Kleppe, even if only indirectly. You’re in the same position as Siwecki. He didn’t know much but he was a piece in the jigsaw. They
