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pal,” he said in broad American. “Let’s be buddies. I had a goddamn fall.” He swayed on his feet, then thrust the folded note into the doorman’s hand. “I’ll get cleaned up and then we can all have a wonderful time.”
    The doorman looked at the note, then he grinned. He took Girland by his arm and led him into a brightly lit lounge and then into the Men’s room.
    “If there’s anything you want, monsieur, you ask.”
    It took Girland some ten minutes to get rid of most of the soot and dirt he had collected during his climb, then he left the Men’s room and paused at the entrance to the cellar club.
    The noise, blaring at him from the dimly lit, smoke ladened room, set his teeth on edge. Saxophones wailed, drums hammered, people screamed at each other.
    A small man, wearing a green smoking jacket with frogs, appeared before Girland.
    “You have a reservation, monsieur?” he asked. “Without a reservation … I’m afraid …”
    “Madame Foucher is expecting me,” Girland said.
    The fat man’s face became alert. He studied Girland, then nodded.
    “Come this way.”
    He led Girland around the side of the big room. On the stage a stripper was slowly taking off her clothes to the violent noise of the band. She was pretty and her movements were professionally tantalising. As Girland reached a door at the far end of the room, she slowly removed black lace panties. He paused to watch. When any woman took off her panties, Girland always watched. The girl turned her back to the disinterested audience and then went through the dull routine of ‘bumps and grinds.’ She had a large strip of adhesive plaster across her left buttock, concealing a painful boil.
    Girland grimaced. Women were meant to be glamorous, he thought, but they were only so long as they didn’t get boils, spots and the many other things they seemed cursed with.
    The man in the green smoking jacket stood waiting, holding open the door. Girland followed him. The door swung shut and the strident noise from the club room faded to a murmur.
    They were now in a narrow corridor. Either side were doors.
    The man pointed to the far end of the corridor.
    “Madame Foucher is in room six, monsieur,” he said, then moving around Girland, he opened the door, letting in the violent sound of people clapping and the final roll from the drums. He shut the door behind him and the welcome hush made Girland sigh with relief.
    He walked down the corridor to room number six. He eased the .45 automatic from its holster and tapped on the door.
    No one told him to come in.
    He tapped again. Still hearing nothing, he opened the door and looked into a square-shaped room. Facing him was a wide, ceiling high mirror. In the middle of the room stood a double divan bed. The room was well carpeted and comfortable, it was also empty.
    Satisfied he was alone, he returned the gun to its holster.
    A woman’s voice said, “Sit down, please, on the bed and face the mirror.” Her voice, with an accent that puzzled Girland, was slightly distorted. He quickly realised that she was talking through a microphone.
    Then he got it and grinned. Madame Foucher had chosen their meeting place to her advantage. He was in one of those rooms where girls took drunken suckers to go through with them sexual manoeuvres while paying customers watched through this big trick mirror. The side Madame Foucher was on was like a window. The side he was on was a mirror.
    He sat on the bed facing the mirror, thinking he wasn’t as young looking as he imagined himself to be.
    “Who are you?” the woman’s voice asked and Girland had the feeling, although he couldn’t see her, she was examining him with disturbing intensity.
    “Do you have to be so mysterious?” he asked.
    “Who are you?” she repeated.
    Girland shrugged. This situation began to bore him.
    “My name’s Mark Girland. You called Dorey who called Rossland who I work for. Rossland has dropped this in my lap. I’m a sucker who does