The man who sold death

CHAPTER 16

Grierson was taken to an outhouse built of stone, with barred windows. Ashford was there too, crouched in a corner. The man with the carbine was covering him once more, and again he was searched, this time by the jailer; a thorough, humiliating process. At last the man with the carbine left and the jailer produced a revolver, looked at its barrel, then struck at Grierson's neck. A great shock of pain ran through him.

"Discipline," said the jailer. "We must have discipline. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Grierson.

Again the barrel struck; again the sick wave of pain. "Yes, sir," said the jailer. "Yes* sir," said Grierson.

"Good," said the jailer. "You will now attend to this degenerate in the corner. There is water in that bucket, and a towel. Clean him up."

Grierson walked over to the bucket and picked it up. It was half full of water, and he winced as its weight tugged at the spot where the jailer had struck.

The jailer went out and the door slammed behind him. Grierson began to clean Ashford's face, until the cold water acted and he could sit up and look about him.

"It didn't work," he said bitterly. "After all they've done to me, it didn't work."

"There's still a chance," said Grierson.

"They'll kill us," Ashford said. "You know that, don't you? They'll kill us all. Why couldn't you just have shot him and gone away?"

"We could never have got near enough," said Grierson.

"You're near enough now."

"Craig is. The colonel's interrogating him."

"Oh my God." Ashford hid his face in his hands. "I didn't tell them you'd come to kill him. Not even when

Bobby-when he hurt me. That was dreadful, but I didn't tell them. I said…"

"I know," said Grierson. "La Valere told us himself. You did very well. Don't worry. We'll get out. How badly are you hurt? Can you walk?"

Ashford took his hands from his face. After Grierson had wiped away the blood and tears, he could see how bruised it was, how far from its former prettiness.

"This is what Bobby did to me," said Ashford. "I hate you."

"Can you walk?" Grierson asked again.

"Yes," said Ashford, "but I won't have the chance to." Grierson looked at his watch. They had had Craig for half an hour already. He yelled for the guard.

"What are you doing?" Ashford said. "We'll be beaten for that. Anyway he won't hear you. He'll have gone sneaking off for a drink."

"How long?" Grierson asked.

"Sometimes ten minutes, sometimes half an hour." "Oh my God," Grierson said, and yelled again.

Duclos searched Craig again, and this time he found the cyanide pill Loomis had given him. It had been sewn into the lapel of his coat, and it told them a great deal. This might not be a private affair after all. Craig could have been sent for a purpose, and given the means of suicide instead of capture. St. Briac had never doubted that Craig had come to France to kill him, but now he wanted to know if someone else was behind it, and who that someone was. Before the pain started, he talked to Craig of those to whom he had sold death, and how right it was, how just, that Craig's turn to suffer had come at last. Perhaps they were right, Craig thought, but when the pain began it ceased to matter. Nothing in the world mattered but the pain…

When the jailer returned, Grierson was still yelling. He went in and looked at Ashford, crouched once more in the corner, then at Grierson, who was staring in horror at the bucket.

"What's going on?" he yelled.

"The water, sir. Just look at it," said Grierson.

He held out the bucket and the jailer peered into it. As he did so, Grierson rammed it into his face, the narrow rim bit into his throat. He dropped it and struck twice, as Craig had taught him to do. The guard fell and didn't move, and Ashford stirred in his corner, looking at him in horror.

"You idiot," he said. "Now it'll be worse than ever." Grierson took the guard's gun and dragged him over to Ashford, stripped off his shirt, pulled it on top of his own.

"I'm going out," he said. "I'm going to try for the generator. Now listen to what I'm saying. I haven't time to tell you twice. If I can do it, the lights will go off- all the power will go. You'll know it's going to happen because the lights outside will nicker first. When they do, you get yourself ready. When they go off, get over the wall as quick as you can-into the villa next door. There's a window open on the ground floor. Wait there for me."

"You'll be killed," said Ashford.

"I won't be tortured," said Grierson, and left.

Craig was tortured, systematically, and by experts. His body was kicked, burned, twisted, and in the end, almost drowned. They held his head down in a basinful of water until it was impossible for him to hold his breath any longer, then, when he was about to open his mouth, let the water into his lungs, they wrenched his head up, let him breathe again for a few aching minutes, then plunged him down again into agony. He had tried to buy them off with the names of Algerian Arabs, but they wanted the man who had sent him. At last they let him rest for a while, until he could regain enough strength to suffer again. St. Briac put the Woodsman's barrel under his chin, tilted back his head

"La Valere is a fool," he said. "Very brave, very patriotic, very loyal-but very foolish. You wouldn't risk your neck by coming here just to expose me, would you, Craig?"

The gun barrel tapped him lightly on the cheek. "No," Craig croaked.

"You came here to kill me, didn't you?"

The gun barrel tapped again, over and over, always on the same spot, until each successive tap felt like a hammer blow.

"Yes," Craig whispered.

"Who sent you?"

Tap-tap-tap-tap went the gun barrel, on and on until Craig could take no more. His head sagged forward, and St. Briac let the gun rest by his side.

"It won't be long," he said, and Duclos laughed.

St. Briac snapped at once, "If you find this amusing in the least, you had better leave now. You have no business here."

His voice seemed to come from very far away, but even then Craig knew that he was serious. A gun-whipping wasn't an indulgence in sadism, it was a political necessity. The lights in the room flickered once, then continued to burn steadily. Craig sagged forward, and summoned the last dregs of his strength, willing himself to be ready to move. For a moment his tormentors hesitated -they were as wary as rats-but when the lights went on burning they relaxed.

"You can put him back in the water," St. Briac said.

As he spoke, all the lights went out, and somehow Craig's mind dictated to his body what it must do. He twisted from his chair in an agony of bruises, and his good hand found St. Briac's wrist, levered, and pulled, until he held the Woodsman in the hand they had stamped on, and that hand moved across St. Briac's neck to his shoulder, and his forearm pressed into St. Briac's throat. The other men in the room heard the colonel groan, and they stood very still. Pucelli had already struck a match and as it flared they could see exactly what was happening.

"It's your move," said Craig, and hauled on St. Briac's wrist until he groaned again. There was no fight in him at all; the pressure on his throat was too intense.

"Duclos," Craig said, "do as I say and he might live. Is there a flashlight in here?" Duclos nodded. "Get it."

St. Briac shouted "No," but Craig increased the pressure and Duclos obeyed, fumbling his way to a desk, producing a light at last.

"Switch it on the others," said Craig, and again Duclos obeyed. "Now throw your guns on the floor." One by one the guns thudded down, and Craig struggled to resist the great waves of weakness that threatened to engulf him. Somewhere in the grounds was a man with a carbine and three killer dogs. That was up to Grierson. If he knew his stuff, they could still do the job they had come for. Meanwhile his business was to hold on to St. Briac.

The guard moved toward the villa, feeling his way through the unaccustomed blackness, his dogs ranging ahead of him. There was little chance that the generator had failed by accident. It was most probably the prelude to an attack. He had to go to the colonel for instructions. The dogs moved around the bole of a plane tree, a beautiful, flowing movement, and the guard swore at them, telling them to move on. Above him a branch rustled, a gun was stuck in his neck.

"They know their business," Grierson said. "No. Don't turn around. Stay still or I'll kill you."

The guard froze, and Grierson went on. "You can't reach me, so don't try it. Put down that carbine. I'll count three, and that's all. One-two-" The guard let it fall. "Tell the dogs to come closer." Again he was obeyed. The branch rustled once more, and Grierson was on the ground beside him.

"Now," he said, "we'll walk to the kennels."

The gun barrel pushed inexorably, and the guard walked, telling himself that he would turn and fight after five meters-ten-twenty. But he was too frightened to turn; his imagination snowed him too vividly how the heavy bullet would slam into him, smashing his spine before the noise of its firing could reach him. He walked to the kennels and told the dogs to go inside the wired enclosure, then the gun barrel left his neck, descending on his head as he tried at last to turn, and Grierson pushed him inside, sprawling among the bowls of dog food. Grierson locked the kennel, raced back to the plane tree, picked up the carbine, and moved toward the villa.

Craig still clung to St. Briac, while the other four men watched, waiting for him to fall.

Grierson called out softly, "This is Grierson, John."

"About time," said Craig. "Get rid of this lot, will you?"

Grierson gestured with the carbine, and they walked upstairs in front of him.

At the top of the stairs La Valere stopped, and the others stopped too.

"Ah right, La Valere," Grierson said, "If you want to be a hero, you can turn around. Just you." The others were still, and La Valere very slowly turned.

"Look at me," said Grierson. "If you try anything, anything at all, I'll kill the lot of you. With this thing," he hefted the carbine, "you couldn't even reach me. And I don't care whether you hve or die. Do you believe me?"

La Valere looked down into the black muzzle of the gun, knowing, hating the knowledge, that Grierson was beyond his reach. He was brave and he was stupid, but he did not want to die.

"Yes," he said, and the little procession moved on.

Grierson found a bathroom with one small, high window, locked them in, then wedged a chair under the door handle. When he went downstairs again, Craig still held St. Briac, in exactly the same position.

"All right," said Grierson. "I'll take him now."

"No," Craig whispered. "Just take the gun from my hand. He's mine."

They went out into the darkness of the gardens, up to the wall that separated the two villas. Grierson went first, and held the carbine on St. Briac until he climbed up too, then Grierson jumped down. It was Craig's turn. Slowly, nursing his damaged hand, he scrambled up the wall, when suddenly the lights came on again, a shattering gleam that made him sway as he knelt there. St. Briac kicked out at him, and even then Craig acted on reflex, grabbing the shoe, twisting, feeling the polished leather slide through his hand. St. Briac spun in the air and came down hard, his chest and arms slamming into the wire. His body arched and shook as the charge went through him, and Craig still knelt, swaying. Grierson yelled at him to come down, then clambered back onto the wall, lifted

Craig over the wire, and helped him down to safety. From the house a gun cracked, and a bullet spanged on the wall as Grierson jumped, hauled Craig to his feet, and pushed him toward the deserted villa. Somehow Craig worked up a shambling run until he reached the door of the villa and sprawled out, shivering. The door was locked.

Grierson yelled, "Ashford, are you there?"

Two men appeared on the wall, and he fired a burst from the carbine. They pitched back, not jumping; falling like men who have been badly hurt.

"Ashford," Grierson yelled.

The villa's door opened, and Ashford came out.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I had to be sure."

"All right," said Grierson. "Take this." He gave him the Woodsman. "Help Craig out of here."

Ashford grabbed the heavier man, and staggered off toward the far wall of the villa. Grierson followed, watching the rear. The lights in the villa went off again, and he heard the barking of dogs set free. The bathroom had not been strong enough to hold his captives; without tools, he had had time to do no more than switch off the generator. Somehow they got Craig to the box hedge, and Ashford followed. The first dog was almost on them, and again Grierson loosed off the carbine, and saw the dog fall. Then he reached the hedge and fumbled with the Alfa's door. Ashford heaved Craig into the back seat as the second dog leaped at Grierson. Ashford yelled and Grierson spun around, clubbing the dog with the gun butt. It snarled, and came at him again, and Grierson held the gun barrel in front of him. When the dog pawed at the barrel to bring it down, he kicked the animal under the jaw. Ashford wound down the window and fired as Duclos came running. Grierson jumped into the car and it started at once in a sweet surge of power, toward the Corniche road and Cap Ferrat.

"How is he?" Grierson asked.

"He's fainted," Ashford said. "It looks as if they've tortured him pretty badly."

"There's some brandy on the back window ledge," said Grierson. "Try him with that."

Craig coughed some down, and came back into consciousness, his whole body aware of pain as a spider's web of movement.

"We got away," said Craig. "Thanks."

"Thank yourself," said Grierson. "You grabbed St. Briac."

"That's right," said Craig. "I killed him, didn't I?" "He fell on the wire." "Where are we going now?"

"Cap Ferrat," answered Grierson. "We can't stay here any more."

"What about St. Briac? Weren't we supposed to find out what he was doing next?"

"I think we've done enough," said Grierson.

"He was going to Aden next week," Ashford said. "Bobby told me."

Grierson braked down sharply for a turn.

"That'll have to do," he said.

He slowed down through Villefranche, and became aware then of the black Citroen following them, which hung on as they turned on to the cape, past the superb white villas and the sheer cliffs with the sea boiling below. Grierson switched off his lights after they had passed through St. Jean, and pulled over beside a villa's gateway, a masterpiece of wrought iron, painted black and gold. They abandoned the car, and Grierson led the way to a tiny headland, then left them to make his way down the cliff and signal to a yacht in the bay.

Craig and Ashford lay face down in the dry, coarse grass by the roadside, and watched as the Citroen went past them. Ashford was shaking uncontrollably. The moon came out in a clear, cloudless sky, and Craig watched him shiver. He was unable to help in any way at all. Grierson came back to them, moving warily still.

"They've seen me," he said. "We'd better get down there quick. They're sending a boat."

"I can't," said Ashford. "I can't."

From farther down the road, the wheels of a car scraped as it turned.

"Come on," said Grierson.

Ashford said, "I can't. I get vertigo."

"We can't wait for you," said Grierson.

"You go then," said Ashford. "Just leave me the gun."

"No," said Craig. "We owe you a bit more than that."

Grierson ran down the cliff again to meet the boat that would come in from the yacht, making as much noise as he could, while Craig and Ashford raced to the car, scrambled on to its roof, and broke into their third villa of the night. This one was as trimmed and tidied as if it had just been delivered, cellophane-wrapped, the lawns shaved to a perfect symmetry, the roses scented by Chanel. In the shadow of a cypress tree, Craig examined the house. It seemed to be deserted. Together, he and Ashford worked their way toward it, seeking an open window. They found one at last and went into the lounge, stole a bottle of brandy and went upstairs, looking for a bathroom. From the yacht in the bay, an outboard motor spluttered, caught, then died.

They found a bathroom, and Ashford groaned aloud when he saw his face. Then it was Craig's turn to feel the gentle sting of soap, and Ashford's fingers peeling Band-Aid on to the open cuts on his cheek and back. He looked at his finger. That would have to be seen to soon, but Ashford was shaking too much to try it. Suddenly the bathroom door handle turned. Craig ran the tap harder, and listened for the soft sound of footsteps on the carpet, then slipped out of the bathroom. The corridor was lit now, and he turned off the switch. Light streamed from beneath a bedroom door. Craig took out the Woodsman and made no more noise than a shadow as he reached the door and turned the handle. It swung open without a sound. A girl was lying on the bed reading. She looked up to see him in the doorway, and was very still.

"Quiet now," said Craig. "Just stay quiet and you won't get hurt."

"Hey," said Maria. "You've got a gun."

"Hey," said Craig. "That's right, I have."

He lowered his arm and she ran toward him, looking up at his face.

"Jesus," she said. "You've taken a beating."

Craig nodded. "Where's Sophie?" he asked.

"In the bath. She practically lives there."

"That was me," said Craig.

"She's next door then. Shall I call her?". Craig nodded again. His head seemed piled with lead weights. He went to the door and waved Ashford in before Sophie came back with Maria. Sophie wore a baby-doll nightdress and a great deal of perfume, and she embraced Craig with enthusiasm, then leaned back to look at his face.

"My poor John," she said. "You should have stayed with us."

Craig put his arm around her; she felt strong, clean, and very feminine.

"This is a colleague of mine-Richard Ashford," he said. Sophie looked at him, said "My God" twice, ran back to her bedroom, and came back wearing a dressing gown.

"A colleague?" she said.

Craig said wearily, "We've been doing business together."

"Where's sexy Grierson?" asked Maria. "Taking a sea trip," said Craig. "He'll be back." From very far off, there came the sound of a shot, then another.

"Backfire?" Maria asked.

Craig ran to the veranda. The boat with the outboard now roaring again was zigzagging toward the yacht, and on the headland three men were firing into it. He went back to the bedroom.

"Trouble," he said. "Who owns this place?"

"Dan Turner," Sophie answered. "You remember. You met him in St. Trop."

"Where is he now?"

"He's gone to a poker game in Beaulieu. He's bringing a party back later. Darling, what's wrong? What is happening?"

"Just give me a minute," Craig said. "Where are all the servants? A place this size should be swarming with them."

"Jerks," said Maria. "They quit." "Maria, that's not fair," said Sophie. "Dan is a very amusing person, but he does get a littie drunk sometimes.

And he likes to fire his revolver. Even then I don't think they would have minded, but he's such a bad shot. So they left. All he's got now is a cook and a chauffeur." "Where are they?"

"With him," said Maria. "They play poker too. Better than he does."

"I'd like to stay here for a bit-" said Craig.

"Sure," Maria said. "There's scads of room, and Dan would love it. I mean it."

"Only it might not be too safe for you. The men I had a fight with are still following me. They may come here. If they do, they'll want to kill me. Just because you're here won't make any difference."

"That wasn't a backfire, was it?" asked Maria.

Ashford said, "We'd really better go."

"Ricky," Craig said, "you're marvelous, do you know that? And I'm very grateful to you. Let's go."

"No," said Sophie. "Wait!" She came to stand very close to Craig. "Have you held up a bank?"

"No," answered Craig. "Nothing like that. I'm sorry, but I can't tell you anything about it."

Ashford said, "He did something that had to be done. Something very brave."

Sophie touched Craig's upper arm, feeling the hard muscle in her own strong hand.

"Brave," she said. "Of course, brave. That is what he is made for-all muscles and guns and a good brain he doesn't use. My poor bloody fool. You can't go away yet. You can hardly walk. Let me have a look at your hand."

Carefully she set and bandaged the broken finger, and Craig's other hand squeezed on the arm of his chair as he willed himself not to cry out. When it was done, Sophie kissed him.

"You should have yelled," she said. "You should have called me a clumsy bitch."

A doorbell chimed the opening bars of "Sur le pont a" Avignon."

"That Turner," Maria said. "He's a nut."

"It'll be the people I told you about," Craig said.

Maria opened a drawer by tine bedside and took out a pistol, a police Positive.

"Guns all over the house," she said. "It's crazy."

Before Craig could say anything, she went downstairs, and he followed her. Ashford was right. They should have gone. He had no business to let a woman hide him, and yet he was doing it, for the second time in a few weeks.

"Who is it?" Maria yelled.

"Police," somebody yelled back. "Open the door." "If you're police, you'd better prove it," Maria said. "I'm not letting you in unless you are."

"There are criminals loose. Their car is at your gate." "They're not here," said Maria. "They're murderers."

Maria hesitated then, and it was Sophie who yelled, "They're still not here."

Maria said, "Shove your badge through the mail slot or I'll shoot. Police, huh? You think I'm crazy?"

Heavy shoulders pounded at the door. Then Maria lifted the gun in both hands and fired high up into the woodwork. The pounding ceased.

"Next time I'll aim lower," Maria said.

There was silence, then a leather wallet came through the mail slot.

"That is my warrant, mademoiselle," someone shouted.

"Jesus," said Maria. "They really are police."

Sophie raced upstairs with Craig and Ashford, and led them on to a loggia with a great trellis of vines. Craig and Ashford crouched down behind it as Sophie sped out again to help Maria open the doors. Maria stood at last in front of two policemen. She still held the police Positive.

"I'm terribly sorry," she said. "Honestly, I'd no idea. I mean, Sophie and I were all alone here and when you came pounding on the door like that, well-I mean, if I'd known-"

"Yes, of course," said the older policeman. "Now if you would just give me the gun-"

"Well, sure," said Maria. "I mean, I'm not very fond of them really."

"Who is?" said the policeman, and held out his hand. Reluctantiy Maria put the gun into it.

"Mr. Turner," she said, "he owns this place, and he just loves guns."

"Yes," said the inspector. "I've heard he does. We would like to look around the house, mademoiselle."

"But there's nobody here but us. Honestly," said Maria.

"It is a very big house," said the policeman. "There may be men here you know nothing about."

"My God, we could use them," said Maria, and looked at Sophie.

"Perhaps you'd better look around then," Sophie said.

"I think so. I am Inspector Segur. This is Sergeant Martini. We are worried about you two ladies. I told you the truth, you know. The men we seek-their car is at your gate."

"Mr. Turner's gate," said Maria.

"All three of these men-they are said to be very dangerous. They are also armed."

"Three?" asked Sophie.

"Does that surprise you?"

"No," Sophie said. "Except-what chance would we poor girls have against three armed men? I'm glad you came, Inspector."

"I also," said Segur, and bowed, then talked to Sophie in rapid Provencal French as they moved from room to room. When they had covered the whole house, Segur sent Martini downstairs with Maria and went back to the loggia, taking Sophie with him. They stood by its stone balcony and looked out to sea.

"That is a good vine," he said. "A remarkable plant to find two floors up."

"You can see St. Hospice from here," said Sophie. "Come and look."

"I am a Nicois," said Segur. "I have seen St. Hospice at least once a year for the last fifty-three years. But this is the first time I have seen a vine two floors up." He spoke in English. "A man could hide behind that vine. If he had a gun, he could kill me."

"If he were that sort of man," Sophie said.

"The man I am thinking of has already killed tonight. He has killed an ex-colonel in the French Army. A man called St. Briac. I am told that it was murder. I believe that it may have been self-defense. I was sent here to arrest this man and his friends, and yet I am forbidden to visit the scene of the crime. That is not the way a policeman should work. Did you know St. Briac?" "No," said Sophie.

"He supported the-what is the word-the extremists in Algeria. Do you do that?"

"No," said Sophie. "There aren't many of my generation who do. We're sick of Algeria. You should know that."

"I do know it," Segur said. "I am sick of it too. That is why I am glad this man is not here. You saw me look everywhere, didn't you?"

"Of course," said Sophie. "You were extremely thorough."

Segur said, "I'll tell you something about St. Briac. He was a murdering swine. Of course, you have only my word for it-"

"That is enough," said Sophie. "Obviously you are a man of honor."

"His followers are also murdering swine," said Segur. "And I'm sick of them. They are looking for the three men I spoke of, the three men who aren't here. I am very much afraid they want to kill them. I hope they won't succeed, but I can't stop them. I won't be allowed to stop them. I was once before in this very same situation. It was during the war. Only that time the killers were Germans, and the ones they hunted were Frenchmen." He shrugged. "I've done all I can. I wish it could be more-I remember I said that too, the last time." Suddenly the suave manner cracked, and he was a very angry man. "It ought to be more," he shouted.

"No," Sophie said. "You have been very kind to us. We are grateful."

Segur said, "I've been as kind as I dared. I don't think I deserve your gratitude, but I should like a drink, please."

"The brandy is downstairs," said Sophie.

The suavity came back; a hard protective shell against the orders he hated.

"Let us join it. I have a very singular habit, Miss Gourdun. When I drive away from a house, I always give two long blasts on the horn. I cannot think why."

He left, and a few minutes later Craig and Ashford heard the two long blasts and went downstairs, and followed Sophie into the kitchen, where she made them an omelet and a salad, and took cold chicken from the refrigerator. Craig ate enormously, and drank the rosi d'Anjou that Maria poured. Sophie looked at him adoringly.

"Isn't he gorgeous?" she asked. "Just look at him eat." "He's the cutest thing," said Maria. "But how about when he's eaten?"

"We'll go," Craig said.

"Darling, you can't," said Sophie. "Those men are still around here looking for you, the inspector says, and they've seen the car. They must know you're in here, and Segur says he's had orders to let them wait outside. I think you had better stay here with us."

She made coffee, and he drank it with brandy. Then she took him back to her bedroom and made him he down on the bed, took off her dressing gown, and got in beside him. Her arms came around him, strong and comforting, and she drew his head to her breast. He could feel her heartbeat, calm, untroubled, steady. Then she looked down at his face and laughed, and there was mockery in her laughter, and tenderness, and behind them both, despair.

"Don't worry," she said. "I can see how tired you are. I will try to control my terrible passion. But you are so delicious, you see. I want to bite you. All the time."

"Too lean," said Craig. "Old. Tough. Stringy."

"Not here," said Sophie. "Or here. Or here." She touched his neck, his ear, and, very gently, the strip of tape on his cheek. "Is it true what Segur said?"

Craig nodded. It was hard to stay awake.

"And he was a swine? Is that true too?"

"We all were," said Craig wearily. "I know that now." He fell asleep.