This is For Real by James Hadley Chase Page B

the Central Intelligence Agency. He had become engrossed in this particular work, and for some years he had run the division successfully. But now, at the back of his mind, was the constant and dreaded thought that he would be retired in another three years’ time. It had come as a considerable shock when Washington had sent Thorton Warley to Paris to take over the division two months ago. They had said that Dorey was to carry on with his own agents and with his own contacts, but that Warley was to supervise and reorganise the division.
    Although Dorey would admit it to no one but himself, he was convinced that Washington had become dissatisfied with his work and had put Warley over him to find some excuse to get rid of him before his three years were up. Dorey had told himself often enough that it would be through no fault of his own if Warley succeeded.
    It was true what Rossland had said. Anything that looked promising that arrived through the mail or over the telephone, Dorey kept to himself. He was now living in hopes that he would pull off something so big that Washington would relent and not only remove Warley but extend his three years to even five.
    Thinking about Warley, Dorey drove across Pont de la Concorde, edged his way into the rush of traffic that roared along the Quai d’Orsay and finally reached Avenue Bosquet. In one of the small side streets off the avenue, he had his apartment. He spent five or six minutes of irritating frustration, trying to find parking space for his car. Finally, he had to leave the car at the far end of the road and then walk back. Although this happened every night, it never failed to anger him.
    As he entered the lobby of the building, the concierge who he tipped regularly and well, nodded and smiled at him through her window. He nodded back and got in the lift that took him to the fourth floor.
    He entered his apartment and closed the door. Taking off his light overcoat, he hung it in the hall closet, then walked into his large, well-furnished living-room, clicking on the lights as he did so.
    He crossed to the desk and sat down, took keys from his pocket and unlocked a drawer. Just as he was about to take from the drawer a thick file of papers, the telephone bell rang.
    He frowned, hesitated, then lifted the receiver.
    “John?” A woman’s voice.
    “Yes.”
    “Janine. I wanted to be sure you were back. I am coming over in half an hour.”
    “Certainly,” Dorey said and hung up.
    He sat for some minutes staring down at the snowy white blotter on his desk, then he closed and locked the desk drawer. He got up and walked over to one of the big easy chairs. His thin bird-like face was thoughtful. His eyes, behind the glittering lenses of his spectacles were a little uneasy. He picked up a copy of the New Yorker that was lying on an occasional table and began to flick through it. He was flicking through it for the fourth time without having registered any of its contents when the front doorbell rang.
    He looked carefully through the spy-hole before opening the door.
    Janine Daulnay moved quickly past him into the hall. Dorey closed the door as she turned, pulling off her gloves, to give him a faint impersonal smile. She was a woman between thirty and thirty-five years of age: trim, medium height, dark and wearing an expensive mink coat. She had big, dark eyes: their mocking expression gave her a sophistication that most men found irresistible, but not Dorey. Long ago, he had decided that women were not only dangerous, but a nuisance. He disliked dealing with them, although he accepted the fact they were necessary.
    “Come in and sit down,” he said, leading the way into the living-room. “I have still a lot of work to do. I’m afraid you can’t stay long. What is it?”
    She took off her coat, dropped it on a chair, then followed him into the living-room. As she sat down, she gave the hem of her Dior dress a little tug to hide her beautiful knees.
    “Have you given Harry