“Rough luck,” Cade said. “I can imagine how frustrated your dirty little rag must be, Braddock. Remind me to be sorry for you some time.”
“It so happens, Mr. Cade, that you are now working for my dirty little rag,” Braddock said, his skull-like face expressionless.
“So what?”
“In May, Strelik went to Switzerland. My agent there was alerted. He lost her in Lausanne. In September, Strelik again went to Switzerland. My agent who is no fool again lost her in Montreux. She seems to have been aware that she was being followed and she took elaborate precautions to shake off my men. Why? I think she has a lover who she meets somewhere in Switzerland. I want to know who he is. I want photographs of him and her together. This will be your job, Mr. Cade. Get me those photographs and I will pay you ten thousand dollars and you will have the syndicate rights. If you fail to get them, I will sue you. You might as well cut your throat if I do have to sue you for I will see that you are never in a position to earn a dollar without paying that dollar to me.”
Cade flicked his cigarette butt onto the close-cropped lawn. “Where is she now?”
“She is in Paris. Tomorrow morning, you will be in Paris. My agent will meet you in Orly. He will line everything up for you. Would you like another drink?”
Cade smiled.
“Why not? What was it you said: drink destroys principles? Yes, I’ll have another drink.”
Ben Sherman, Whisper’s Paris representative, was waiting outside the harrier of Orly airport’s reception centre. He was stocky, around thirty-two, dark with small ice-grey eyes. He had the bustling, efficient air of a second-rate salesman. Rain glistened in his close-cropped hair and darkened his raincoat around his shoulders. His shirt was grubby, his tie worn, his pointed shoes shabby.
After a casual handshake, he went with Cade to the Customs barrier and waited until Cade had collected his bag, then the two men walked in silence to where Sherman had parked his Simca.
As Sherman headed for Paris, along the broad highway that connected with the Autoroute du Sud, he said, “She’ll be off any time now. Goddamn this rain! This time, we haven’t made any mistakes. She always drives herself. I now have her garage attendant fixed. Her concierge is also on our pay roll. Her hairdresser — she is costing me two hundred francs a week, for God’s sake! — reported this morning that Anita is packing. We have now only to wait for the green light. As soon as we know she has left, you will fly to Geneva where Baumann will take care of you. He is a good guy. I will try to follow Anita by road. She drives an Aston Martin and I could lose her. She drives like a lunatic. Anyway, you and Baumann will be waiting for her at Vallorbe. She has to cross the frontier there. Twice we have lost her on the Lausanne-Montreux road. I have a couple of boys in fast cars waiting for her to show between Lausanne and Vevey. If I lose her this time, I’m cooked. S.B. pays well, but he doesn’t go along with failure.”
Cade didn’t say anything. He was thinking of a double whisky with ice. This assignment was utterly without interest to him. It was up to Sherman to line the job up for him. He was prepared to take pictures, but he wasn’t prepared to make any effort to get them.
Sherman glanced at him.
“Listen, pal, take that mask-like expression off your map. I know about you. You may be able to click a mean shutter, but right now, you and me have to work together. There is plenty for you to do, so don’t imagine you’re going to sit around like a goddamn prima donna waiting for her cue, because you aren’t.”
Cade glanced at him, then settled down comfortably in his seat.
“Get stuffed,” he said and closed his eyes.
Later, in silence, Sherman pulled up outside a shabby hotel on the Left Bank, off Rue de Vaugirard.
“Dump your bag and check in,” Sherman said. “I’ll wait here for you. I want to see Anita’s concierge. You can come along with me.”
Cade got out of the car and shouldered his bag.
“You talk to whoever you like,” he said. “I have other things to do,” and he walked into the hotel.
Sherman hesitated, then shrugged and starting his car, drove away.
Cade spent the evening lying on his bed, a bottle of Scotch at hand, the New York Herald Tribune to glance at. Around 21.00 hours, he went across the street to a bistro for a light supper, then he returned to his room. He had often been in Paris during his successful days. He liked the city, but in his present mood, he wanted nothing but solitude and alcohol.
A little after 23.15 hours, just when he was going to sleep, the bell of the telephone by his bed rang.
It was Sherman.
“She leaves tomorrow,” he said. “I have your ticket for Geneva. You’ll catch the 09.14 plane. I’ll pick you up at 08.00 hours. Baumann will meet you at the other end.”
Cade grunted and hung up. He lay there staring up at the ceiling for some moments, thinking, then lifting his shoulders in a resigned shrug, he turned off the light.
In the darkness, his brain fuddled by drink, he thought of Juana. The picture he had of her in his mind was sharp etched. He could see her clearly, lying on the bed in the bedroom of the house in Chapultepec Park, her black hair covering her nakedness, her eyes veiled with desire as she waited for him to come to her.
Every time he was alone and in darkness, he thought of her, and swearing under his breath, he put the light on again. It wasn’t until he had had three stiff drinks that he was stupefied enough to fall asleep.
The following morning, Sherman drove Cade to Orly Airport. Cade’s complete indifference infuriated Sherman.
“Can’t you snap out of this goddamn alcoholic haze?” he demanded as he drove in the heavy traffic, battling his way towards the Autoroute du Sud. “This is important to me. How the hell do you expect to get pictures if you’re always plastered?”
“Screw you,” Cade said, sinking lower in his seat. His head ached and his mouth felt as if it were lined with fur.
“S.B. must be crazy to employ a lush like you!” Sherman said savagely. “And I collect the blame if this turns sour!”
“Screw you again,” Cade said and closed his eyes.
At the airport, Sherman checked Cade’s bag, then gave him his ticket.
“You’re on your own now. Baumann will be at Geneva, and he’ll take it from there,” he said. “Watch Baumann. He is a little tough. He hasn’t my tolerance.”
Cade blew out his cheeks and squinted at Sherman.
“Don’t be so anxious, little man,” he said. “Who cares for Baumann except perhaps his mother? Who cares for Braddock come to that?”
He walked away with lurching steps towards the escalator that would take him to the departure centre.
By the time Cade reached Geneva airport, he was pretty drunk. He was the last passenger to leave the aircraft and the Swiss Customs officials were startled and officially stiff as they passed him through the barrier.
Horst Baumann was waiting beyond the barrier. He was a Zürich Swiss, short, compact and heavily built. His fattish face was sun-tanned, his eyes cold and shrewd, his mouth humourless and thin. He had been warned both by Braddock and by Sherman what to expect so it came as no surprise to find Cade drunk.
Baumann considered he was capable of handling any situation. He had been the Swiss representative of Whisper for five years. Switzerland offered tax-free sanctuary for many world-famous names and Whisper thrived on digging out the secrets of such people. Baumann had proved himself one of the most efficient muck-rakers of Whisper’s company of gutter-inspired, dedicated men.