This is For Real by James Hadley Chase

working for the Americans. You undertake difficult work for very little money. It seems to me you are a very small man in a dangerous job. I believe you have certain talents and some courage which are being wasted. You have little to show for the years you have been working as an agent. I repeat, Mr. Girland, you seem to be a very small man in a dangerous job.”
    Girland grinned as he continued to rub his aching neck.
    “Big trees from little acorns grow,” he said. “I’m patient. Now, I’m beginning to become a big man.”
    Radnitz touched off the long ash from his cigar. He was indifferent that the ash fell on the filthy carpet, making a tiny grey puddle.
    “You could become a big man, Mr. Girland, but on the other hand, you could become a dead man.”
    Girland took out Borg’s pack of cigarettes and lit one.
    “Could we talk business?” he said, letting smoke drift down his nostrils. “If you killed me, where would it get you? I don’t bluff easily. You and I could make a deal.”
    “I hope we can, Mr. Girland,” Radnitz said. “We either make a deal or you don’t leave this room alive.”
    “So we make a deal,” Girland said.
    Radnitz shifted his bulk in the uncomfortable chair, then he asked abruptly, “You met Madame Foucher?”
    “I met her.”
    “I told my men you were not to meet her.”
    “I was there long before they sealed off the club,” Girland lied.
    Radnitz stared at him and Girland stared back at him. Radnitz shrugged.
    “She knows where Carey is?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did she tell you?”
    Girland shook his head and was immediately sorry. The stabbing pain that shot through him made sweat break out on his face.
    He rubbed his neck, scowling before saying, “She wants to be paid for the information. I have a date with her tomorrow night.”
    “How much?”
    Girland said without hesitation, “Fifteen thousand dollars in cash.”
    Radnitz studied him.
    “I see, Mr. Girland, you are beginning to grow.”
    “Well, I warned you, didn’t I?”
    “So for fifteen thousand dollars, this woman will tell you where Robert Henry Carey is to be found. Am I correct?”
    “That’s it,” Girland returned. “She is to call me at a certain telephone number tomorrow night. I have to convince her I have the money, then she’ll tell me where he is.”
    “From whom will you get fifteen thousand dollars?” Radnitz asked and again touched off the ash from his cigar.
    “From Dorey. I don’t have to tell you about him, do I?”
    “I know of Dorey.” Radnitz’s face was expressionless. “It seems to me, Mr. Girland, you are working for the wrong people. I want to find Carey. Fifteen thousand dollars, you said? What do you propose to make out of that?”
    “I’ll arrange something,” Girland said, thinking that five thousand dollars profit would repay him for a bruised neck.
    “It would be better, wouldn’t it, if you put fifty thousand dollars in your pocket?”
    Girland drew in a deep breath. This was the kind of money he had often dreamed about.
    “It would be a lot better,” he said cautiously.
    “I would pay you that.”
    “I’ll be talking to this woman tomorrow night. Give me fifteen thousand dollars and I’ll be able to tell you where he is,” Girland said. “I need the fifteen for her. We’ll talk about my end when I’ve seen her.”
    Radnitz drew on his cigar. The end glowed red like a warning signal.
    “If everything were as simple as that, Mr. Girland,” he said, letting smoke drift out of his mouth as he talked, “life would have very few complications. It is not enough to know where he is. I want to make sure he is wiped out. I will certainly let you have fifteen thousand dollars, but before you earn your end, you will have to convince me that you can find Carey, that you are prepared to kill him when you find him and that you will bring back with you all the papers he took from Russia.”
    Girland again rubbed the back of his neck.
    “Suppose I talk to this woman