Free This is For Real by James Hadley Chase

before you sealed it off,” he said. “It seemed to make him happy: should make you happy too.”
    Borg and Schwartz came into the room. Borg grinned at Girland.
    “You’re pretty smart,” he said. “I was getting ready to dig a hole for you.”
    “I’m smart all right.” Girland looked at Thomas. “It’s getting past my bedtime. I’ll have my gun.”
    Thomas hurriedly gave him the .45 which Girland pushed into his holster.
    “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Girland said and moved to the door. He paused and looked directly at Schwartz, “Business before pleasure, Stone-face. I’ll even the score when we have wrapped up this little job.”
    He went out of the room to the sound of Borg’s explosive laugh.
    The time now was a little after one o’clock, but Girland had something to do before he went to bed. With some difficulty he found a taxi and told the driver to take him to Le Figaro building on Champs Elysée.
    When the taxi pulled up before the arched entrance leading to the offices of the newspaper, Girland paid, got out and walked to the busy reception desk.
    “Mr. Verney in?” he asked the elderly woman who looked at him with tired eyes.
    “He’s in his office. Who shall I say?”
    Girland spelt out his name.
    The woman spoke on the telephone, then beckoned to a girl in a blue overall who came over. She told her to take Girland to Verney’s office. The girl had a nice figure, but it was a pity, Girland thought that her nose was too sharp and her mouth bad-tempered. He followed her into the small lift, reached the third floor, then followed her swaying hips down a long corridor to a tiny office where Jacques Verney was sitting behind a desk, talking on the telephone.
    Verney was a leg man for the paper’s gossip columnist. He was thin and dark with close cut hair, a chin beard and a taste for loud sports clothes that set Girland’s teeth on edge.
    He waved to a chair when he saw Girland, completed his conversation and then hung up.
    “Hello, Mark,” he said. “What’s it this time?”
    He and Girland had known each other for a long time. Verney had his suspicions that Girland was some kind of agent, but there had been a time, some three years ago when Girland had given him money to help him out of a very tight jam. Verney had known that Girland couldn’t afford to part with the money, but he had parted with it. This was something Verney hadn’t forgotten. He was happy to give Girland any information he could supply without asking questions.
    Girland sat down and offered Berg’s pack of cigarettes. When the two men were smoking, he said, “What do you know about Herman Radnitz, staying at the George V Hotel?”
    Verney squinted at Girland through the cigarette smoke.
    “Radnitz? Why, surely, everyone knows about him.”
    “I don’t,” Girland said, a slight edge to his voice. “I wouldn’t be here if I did.”
    “Sorry, Mark,” Verney said. “I just assumed everyone did know about him.”
    “Who is he and what is he?”
    “Well, suppose you want to build a dam in Hong Kong. Suppose you want to put up a power plant in Bombay. Suppose you want to launch a car ferry service between England and Denmark. Before you start even to think about it, you’d consult Radnitz who would fix the financial end. Radnitz handles anything big that costs big money.” Verney tapped ash off his cigarette. “He’s in practically everything: ships, oil, building construction, aircraft. You ask who he is. He’s Mr. Big Business.”
    Girland frowned. His neck was aching again.
    “Then why the hell haven’t I heard of him if he’s that big?”
    Verney smiled.
    “He hates publicity. He knows all the newspaper bosses. He helps them, so they lay off him. He’s the Rasputin of finance: probably the most powerful magnate in the world.”
    “Any idea what he’s worth?”
    “None at all. I’ll bet he could lay ten million pounds sterling on the table without disturbing his