Read An Ace Up My Sleeve for Free Online Page B

part of the script before," Helga said impatiently and she rang the bell.
    There was a delay while they stood in the steadily falling snow, then the door opened. A small, shadowy man stood in the doorway. There was a dim yellow light at the end of the passage that made more shadows.
    "What is it? Who is it?" The voice was a little shrill and very querulous.
    A pansy! Helga thought. She loathed the breed, and she moved forward, pressing the man back, determined to get out of the falling snow. "Mr. Friedlander?"
    "Yes ... yes. What is it? You're making a mess on my floor!"
    "Larry ... talk to him," Helga said, an edge to her voice.
    Larry moved past her, snow dropping from his shoulders. His big body blocked the little man from her sight. She heard him say softly, "Ron Smith told me to come."
    "Well, shut the door for pity's sake! Look at the mess you're making!"
    Helga closed the door, then because she already hated this little man, she shook the snow off her coat and taking off her hat, shook that too making a snow puddle on the floor.
    Larry had moved forward. Now a door opened and a brighter light came out into the narrow, dimly lit passage.
    Welcome heat came from the room and she moved in. The room was shabbily furnished with heavy antique, knocked about furniture. On the table stood a silver pheasant. Looking around, Helga decided this was the only good piece in the room and she would have liked to have owned it. She could now see this man more clearly as he stood under the light coming from an ornate chandelier: only three of its many electric lights functioning.
    He was around sixty years of age. His pinched, sallow–complexioned face wore the marks of suffering. His black eyes had the cunning of a cornered fox. His lank grey hair sprouted from under a black beret. Wearing a soiled polo– necked green sweater and a shapeless pair of green corduroy trousers, he looked dirty and she saw his fingernails were long and black.
    "Ronnie told you to come? How do I know?" he said, looking at Larry.
    "Ron said Gilly thinks of you ... he said you would know what that means."
    Friedlander squirmed with pleasure and giggled. Watching him, Helga hated him.
    "Yes, I know ... how is Ronnie?"
    "Right now he is in jail."
    Friedlander nodded.
    "I saw it in the papers, Ronnie's smart. Did they hurt him?" "No."
    "That's good." A long pause while the three looked at each other, then Friedlander said, "What can I do for you, dear? Any friend of Ronnie's my friend."
    "I want a passport," Larry said. "One of your specials."
    Friedlander's foxy eyes shifted to Helga.
    "Who is your friend, dear?"
    "I'm the one who is paying for it," Helga said. "That's all you need know."
    Friedlander's eyes took in her mink coat and her hat. Then his eyes shifted to her lizard skin bag and he smiled.
    "You got photographs, dear?"
    Larry groped in his hip pocket and brought out a soiled envelope. "All the dope's here."
    "It will be four thousand five hundred francs," Friedlander said as he took the envelope. "Cash down and a beautiful job ... it's cheap at the price." The old come–on, Helga thought and looked at Larry who was staring at Friedlander. I'll give him a chance, but if he can't handle it, then I will. "Ron said it would be three." She was pleased to hear Larry's voice sounded firm.
    Friedlander lifted his dirty hands with a shrug of regret.
    "Dear Ron ... he isn't keeping pace with the rising cost of living. It's now four thousand five, and it'll be a beautiful job."
    "Ron said I shouldn't pay more than three," Larry said.
    "So sorry ... Ron isn't with it any more." The smile, foxy and shifty moved from Larry to Helga.
    "That's too bad," Larry said. "We don't pay more than three."
    "Goodbye," Friedlander said, waving to the door. "When you see Ronnie again, tell him my price has gone up."
    "I don't have too," Larry said. "Ronnie told me something. He said you were a great artist." He leaned forward to peer at Friedlander. "What would it cost you