A Sale Of Chrome

"Pim” Short Story:

By Robert Slade

Based on the actual experience of a Gentleman of Noumea, who visited Paris in 1929, as related to the Author.

HALSTEAD settled himself in the cafe, ordered a bock, and gazed about him with frank interest. There were perhaps one hundred people in the cafe. A dozen unattached women, of divers shapes and colours, tried to hold his eye. Which was the Russian spy?

He knew the custom of the place.

When he had rested, and looked about him, he should arch an eyebrow, or crook a finger, or otherwise indicate a consid ered preference. Whereupon he would be joined by a vivacious and thirsty Parisienne.

Halstead ignored the inquisitorial eye of the head-waiter, and the businesslike glances of the ladies, and lit a cigarette, and waited.

He hoped that something at least amusing would come out of this experi ment, to relieve the tedium of his stay in Paris. Life had been dull, for too long.

For two years, in New Caledonia, while managing a chrome mine and driving teams of Tonkinese and Javanese labour ers, he had been virtually cut off from the world. An occasional visit to sun drenched Noumea meant nothing—exist ence there was just one siesta after another. With eagerness he had obeyed orders from his head office, to proceed to France, to complete certain contracts for the sale of their chrome.

The buyer to whom he was directed, in Paris, was a representative of the Soviet Government. He was a cultured, hos pitable person, and he tried to provide entertainment, while Moscow was deliber ating over the metal contracts, and Hal stead was loitering about the boulevards, and hungering for London.

As they lunched together, one day, Halstead described a thing he had seem m n^ anc -k ur * a ’ Two Russians had quar relled with another Russian, had forced

him to fight, and had deliberately killed him. The murdered man was a White Russian; the others were not, and were suspected of being Soviet emissaries.

“Probably it was so,” said Halstead's host, calmly. “The single life is nothing.

We strike for the freedom of one hun dred million people. We seek out those who plot against us, and the progress of our Communist State, and we destroy them.”

Halstead grinned. “Nasty people!” he said. “I think* I’ll keep away from Rus sia when I’m feeling extra reactionary,”

“The arm of the Soviet reaches far beyond our borders,” said the Soviet agent, sententiously.

“They say you even have beautiful women acting as spies for you,” remarked Halstead, idly. “I wish I could meet some. I am very bored—l should like to study your system.”

“Why not?” said the Soviet agent, un expectedly. “If it will interest you, it can be arranged.”

And it was arranged. Halstead merely had to promise that he would give no indication that he suspected he was under espionage, and he was to be in a certain Montmartre cafe at 5 o’clock.

“But how shall I know the lady? How will she find me?” asked Halstead.

The Soviet agent smiled bleakly. “You can leave all that to us,” he said.

SO Halstead, alert to every movement around him, smoked quietly.

The approach, when it came, was simple. A strikingly good-looking young woman, of Jewish type, came into the cafe, carrying a couple of small pack ages. One of them slipped quietly to the floor near Halstead’s table.

“Permit me, mademoiselle,” he said, and retrieved the package.

“Oh, t’ank you,” she said, and her smile was a happy mixture of simplicity and coquetry. “Monsieur is English, yes?”

“Monsieur is,” said Halstead. “But how clever of you to notice it!”

“Yes. I am veree clevair,” retorted the

girl. “I make my package to fall so that Mpnsieur will look at me,” she added, brightly.

Halstead laughed. The rest was easy.

The lady sat at his table, and consumed a variety of liquors, with expertness, and undeniable grace. She chattered merrily and intelligently, in French and English!

Halstead, keenly interested in this attractive picture of a spy at work, had to admit that her technique was perfect He saw that, little by little, leading their conversation with apparent inconsequence, she had learned his name, nationality, place of residence, marital condition, and business. He found that he had told her even his age, and the means he took in the tropics to ensure the efficient func tioning of his organs.

But, of course, he knew she was a spy; and so he had told her with apparent casualness, all the things that he thought a spy should know. And, anyway, he told himself, she was a delightful companion; and there was no reason why he should run away from her charms. Evidently, when the gentleman was presentable, she found pleasure in her profession.

From the cafe meeting, their friend ship ripened rapidly. In Paris, under a mellow October moon, one may conduct one’s affairs in a manner not thought possible elsewhere . . .

When she left him, a couple of days later, to visit someone in a distant sub urb she seemed as eager as he to keep a rendezvous, at the cafe where they first met, that evening.

BUT she never came. And as Halstead, with increasing impatience, looked at his watch, he realised that, after all, she was a spy, and her job was fin ished and, presumably, she had other work to do. He let his imagination run, and he did not like what he saw. She had been very charming. But the ten derness he had imagined was for him alone, he thought savagely, was all part of the lady’s technique. Well, he had asked for it!

As he lifted a frowning face, he caught the eye of a young woman, two tables away, who also had been scowling at her wrist-watch. She had been there for some time. Bitten lip and tapping toe clearly indicated a broken appointment.

They were both in the same predica ment. Involuntarily, he smiled. She stared coldly at him for a moment, and then turned away, and a slight move ment of her shoulder indicated distaste— but perhaps other things. Halstead’s impressionable heart missed a beat. She was a remarkably pretty blonde, ex quisitely but modestly dressed.

Ten minutes passed. The Russian spy did not come. The girl at the nearby table glanced at Halstead, looked again at her watch, and petulantly gathered up bag and gloves.

Halstead rose impulsively and stepped across. “Will you forgive me for speak ing to you, mademoiselle?” he said. “We appear both to be deserted. May I join you?”

The girl hesitated, and looked him over deliberately. Halstead clearly was no boulevardier. He was a handsome, strongly-built man of forty, with that indefineable something that suggests the world-wanderer.

“Ze English—l speak of him very little,” she said. “Of you—how shall I say— inconnu —it is not proper if we talk.” ♦ Halstead spoke in French. “I know that Mademoiselle has much to forgive.

My approach is improper. I am lonely— and perhaps you, too, would be glad to talk.”

“A lonely man in Paris can find much

solace,” she replied, indicating the other tables, and laughed. mHAT was the beginning of a delightful X companionship. The young woman came from a rather strict home; her father, it appeared, was a prosperous pro fessional man—and he did not approve of casual men acquaintances. It seemed that, if she and Halstead were to see each other again, their meetings must be clandestine. To persuade her to meet him again, Halstead was forced to employ all his considerable arts and experience.

They spent much time together, in the next four or five days. He found Mademoiselle —witty, amusing, ingenu ous, yet eager to enter the world of more sophisticated folk—the kind of companion for whom he long had sought. The Rus sian spy was completely forgotten.

Halstead, examining himself closely, decided that this was It. He could not lose Mademoiselle. That evening, he told her that his regard for her went deeper than was justified by a mere casual friendship: he wished to meet her father. Would she permit him to upon her in her home?

Mademoiselle seemed strangely dis turbed. She stared at him, her eyes big and her face white. It would seem that she went in terror of her father. But finally she agreed that he should call the following afternoon. She gave him the address.

NEXT morning, Halstead received a message from the Soviet agent.

The contracts had arrived from Moscow—would he call around and pick them up, at once? His business in Paris was finished.

In the Russian’s office. Halstead received the contracts, and completed all necessary

formalities. The Soviet man gave him a cordial farewell.

“Oh by the way,” he said. “How did you like the Soviet spy system?”

Halstead laughed. ‘ r Charming, charm ing! ’he said. “I was delightfully enter tained for two or three days. And she certainly knew how to extract information from the stranger within your gates. And then, presto! she disappeared.’’ ‘‘ oh ’ yes, Nada knows her job,” said the Russian. “But how did you like Number Two?”

“Number Two?” repeated Halstead, stupidly.

“Yes, yes—the blonde. Clever, eh? We always work the counter-spy method—a second woman to check up on the reports of the first.”

Halstead gazed at him in horror. He felt slightly sick. But he pulled himself together—he could not make a fool of himself before this cynical gentleman from Moscow. “Yes,” he said, feebly “She was wonderful—l shall never forget her,” and he got away from there as soon as he could.

Halstead left for London that evening.

In the afternoon, he went to the address that Mademoiselle had given him It was a large patisserie, and the tradesman and his family evidently occupied the upper floors. Halstead did not stop.

Mr. E. R. P. (Roy) Diederich was killed in action in Italy on April 14. He was formerly a legal draftsman in the ser vice of the Fiji Government, which he joined in 1938. He was stationed in Suva, but for varying periods acted as Magistrate at Suva and in other districts About 18 months ago he enlisted in the NZEF. He was a very fine Rugby player and was very popular among a wide circle of friends in Suva.