The man who sold death

CHAPTER 18

The villa was quiet, still, deserted, and in the dead hour before dawn there was no sound but the soft wash of the sea. Craig sat in the car and looked at the high wall, the electrified wire. There was no sound of dogs, no fight in the garden.

"Do you want me to come with you?" asked Larry.

Craig said, "I don't want you to do anything except help me over that wall-then disappear."

Larry shrugged. "You're the boss," he said.

Craig said, "Don't be like that. It has to be done this way. There may be police in there-and I've brought you people enough trouble as it is."

"You've been beaten up," Larry said. "You've been nearly murdered, chased, threatened, tortured. You must have a damn good reason for going back in there."

"I have," Craig said. "The same reason that says I can't take you."

The wire was dead, so it was easy for Larry to heave him over the wall, and this time he landed well, his finger unhurt. He stood there swaying in the garden, dizzy with fatigue and overstrain, then slowly felt his way toward the house, telling himself as he willed his body forward that it is always possible to take just one more step, do just one more job. A guard with a carbine lay dead on the path. Nearby, in the kennels, an Alsatian howled once and he stiffened, then moved on again to the house. Suddenly a policeman came out of the shelter of the house, and Craig froze. Carefully he worked around to the back of the house. Pucelli had said there would only be one, and he hadn't bed. St. Briac's death was too important for men like Segur. Big men, sympathetic men had been sent for from Paris, and until they arrived, nothing was to be touched. La Valere and the rest were to have guarded the villa, until the big men, the sympathetic men arrived.

No lights showed anywhere in the empty house. Craig took out Pucelli's key ring. The third key fitted, and he went in, back to the office where St. Briac had questioned him so carefully. The wall cabinets were locked, but Pucelli's keys worked them too. There were new francs inside,?. 10,000 worth, and a briefcase full of documents. Craig put them both to one side and examined the other drawers and desks. Lists of names, fists of places, of funds, of soldiers, of enemies, all visible in the moonlight. He sorted out what he thought was needed, and left the rest-all except one. That was a list with his name on it, and Baumer's, and Rutter's, and Lange's, each one carefully ticked off. He burned that one; there were other names on it too.

In one of the bedrooms he found a suitcase and stuffed it full of the paper and documents he had found, then went out into the hall, carrying the suitcase. A dog howled again, and Craig moved into the shadow of the staircase, put down the bag and took out the Woodsman, as the dog barked once more.

There were a series of clicks at the door, and at last it opened. The gun in Craig's hand was rock-steady as he waited in the shadowed darkness, watching the newcomer outlined in the moonlight. Suddenly a dog yelped and a second man dashed forward, cannoned into the first, and brought him down. The first man squirmed like a cat and the two men rolled over and over, and suddenly Craig laughed aloud, laughed till he wept, till his stomach ached, till he was so weak he could do nothing but sit on the stairs and groan his laughter, and the two fighting men stopped in bewilderment and came to stand before him, hurt and indignant that Craig should laugh when he might have helped.

"Oh, Grierson," Craig moaned, "why didn't you stay in Bordighera. And you, Larry. Why didn't you go home?"

Larry said, "I was covering for you. I saw this guy break in. I thought maybe he was after you. You mean he's a friend of yours?"

Craig stopped laughing.

"We're on the same side," he said, and turned to Grierson. "Where do you want to go now?"

"Baie des Anges," Grierson said. "The boat's waiting there."

"Am I supposed to be coming too?" Grierson nodded.

"Maybe Larry would take us," Craig said. "Sure," said Larry. "I'm sorry I went for you. I thought you were after Mr. Reynolds." "That's all right," Grierson said.

"I mean, Mr. Reynolds is a friend of mine. I wouldn't want him to get hurt."

"So I noticed," Grierson said. "You're pretty good."

"Reflexes," said Larry. "I think that's the most important thing. If you're born with good ones, you can't miss." Then aggrieved: "This whole business is driving me nuts. If I knew who was on whose side, maybe I could help somebody-"

"You can," said Craig. "Take us to the Baie des Anges." "Ashford-" Grierson began. "Ashford's dead," said Craig.

"O.K.," said Larry. "O.K. As long as somebody knows what they're doing-And what about the gendarme?"

"Yes," said Craig. "What about him?"

"I'm awfully sorry, I'm afraid I clobbered him," said Grierson.

They went out, taking the suitcase with them, and Craig and Grierson waited while Larry walked back down the road and returned with the Cadillac. The great car moved off, swift and sweet. Craig said nothing, and Grierson, beside him, was stiff and awkward in silence. Larry began to talk about the works of Carl Sandburg; there were enough to take them past the airport to the little bay where the white yacht waited close inshore. Run up on the shingle beach was a dinghy, its outboard motor already stepped and ready. They pushed it into the sea and Grierson pulled the cord and the engine fired at once. Larry shook hands with Craig and watched him climb aboard, then handed the suitcase to Grierson. He didn't speak to Grierson. The dinghy chugged out to the yacht, which was already weighing anchor, its diesels throbbing more loudly as they came alongside and scrambled aboard. From its deck, Craig watched the tailhghts of the Cadillac as it moved back toward Nice, toward Cap Ferrat. Larry would have a lot of explaining to do after he had put the car away.

The yacht set out to sea at once, the skipper and crew moving about their work, ignoring the two men who stood on deck and stared with such intensity at the receding French coastline, until dawn came up a bright and glowing red. Grierson said, "We'd better go below. You aren't exactly invisible."

Craig went down to a bath, and breakfast in a cool saloon where a deft-handed steward served eggs and bacon and coffee, and Craig at last could think about sleep when he moved into a deep armchair and the sound of twin diesels was a monotonous lullaby. He wanted to think about Sophie-and St. Briac, Ashford, La Valere, and Grierson too. Where did he stand with Grierson now, and that fat, sloppy, brilliant bastard Loomis? It was important to think about these things. Important for him, but Grierson kept out of bis way, and he was tired. Craig slept.

It was four o'clock when Grierson woke him, and he showered, put on a change of clothes, and sat down to another meal. There was wine this time, and brandy afterwards. Craig considered getting drunk, and rejected the idea. It wasn't time; not yet. Grierson sat and watched him eat. Neither of them spoke until Craig had finished and moved once more to the easy chair, yawned, and stretched. It would be so easy, so delightful, to sleep again.

Grierson said, "Are you sending me to Coventry?"

"No," said Craig. "I'm waiting for you to tell me what I have to do."

"All right," Grierson sighed. "Make your report."

Craig told him; about S6gur, about Ashford, La Valere and the duel, and Turner phoning the police. It was hard to put into words how the duel had affected him; for a while he'd been so weary, so ready to die, but instead he'd killed again, in a farce that had turned into melodrama, and Sophie and Maria might have died in his place. He let it all drift by.

"When it was time to get out," he said, "I started to think about the job and what Loomis had told us to do. You were out, and Ashford was dead. That left me. I knew there was a chance I could get into St. Briac's villa and look through his papers. So I did. Then you turned up."

"If I hadn't" Grierson asked, "what would you have done?"

Craig said, "I'd have got out. I had friends and money and a gun. I'd have got out. When I die, it'll be for myself-or the things I believe in. It won't be for Loomis."

Grierson said, "When you work with this organization, you agree to carry out orders. Any orders-no matter who's involved. That's the way it has to be. I knew Loomis was wrong about you; I knew he underestimated you-but he wouldn't listen. He told me what I had to do, and I did it."

"Why did you come back?"

"I had to try for St. Briac's papers," Grierson said. "You left it a bit late, didn't you?" Grierson sighed. "I had orders to take Ashford off too -if I could. But I couldn't get near. And anyway-" "He was dead," said Craig. "You're sure?"

"I saw him," Craig said. "Believe me, he was dead." "You didn't have a chance to help him then?" "Not even as much as you had to help me," said Craig, and Grierson winced. "What do you want anyway? The skin off my back? St. Briac's had some. I'm the one who got done over, and I'm the one who killed St. Briac. And La Valere. And I'm the one who's getting out with you. I mean that, sport. You try leaving me behind again and I'll kill you."

"You're coming out," Grierson said. "I've had orders."

"You have. From me," said Craig, and again Grierson winced, and sat in silence as the yacht moved smoothly on, and anchored at last off Diano Marina. They went ashore to a little cove above the town. There was a Fiat waiting for them, an Italian hired car. Grierson had the ignition key. The back of the car was strewn with luggage and cameras, bottles of Chianti and Italian knitwear; the booty of the returning tourist. Grierson pressed the starter and they moved off on the fast road to Savona, then the autostrada that took them to Genoa. For an hour, neither man spoke. At last Grierson said, "Oh, for God's sake. I like you. It was a pleasure working with you. Do you think I wanted to leave you behind?"

"No," said Craig, "I don't suppose you did. But I had my problems too. That fellow Turner. He was a good friend. And Sophie and Maria-they were locked up with a gun-happy sadist, to make sure I behaved. They've got two dead men to explain-and those two men had friends. Important friends. All that trouble because of me. And I was there because of you-and you left me there because of Loomis. And I suppose he only did it because he thought it was necessary. All right. It's the system. But don't expect me to feel happy about it." He sank lower in his seat. "I liked you too," he said. "That's why I trusted you. I haven't trusted anybody in years. Ah well. It all goes to show."

"Hell," said Grierson. "Bloody hell."

Craig didn't answer. A few miles farther on, Grierson said, "There's something else you ought to know."

But Craig didn't answer. He was asleep.

Grierson drove to the airport at Genoa. Craig had slept soundly all the way, but as soon as the city noises reached them he awoke completely and at once, and listened in silence as Grierson told him what they had to do.

It was night, the half-completed airport was almost empty, and Grierson handed over the passports and they followed the courier to face the customs and emigration people, who nodded sleepily and stamped whatever was necessary. Craig tried to look miserable because his holiday was over, and keep his broken finger out of sight.

The phone call came and they walked out to the Britannia and the brightly welcoming smile of a hostess in a bottle-green uniform. "Grierson and Lovegrove," said Grierson, and the hostess smiled, took their boarding cards, and made small, neat ticks against two names.

"Lovegrove," said Craig. "Why didn't you make it Win-terbottom?"

"It was the best one I could get in the time," said Grierson. "Anyway, what could be more respectable?" "What do I do?"

"You're a chartered surveyor," said Grierson. "Doing very nicely. In a few years' time they'll make you a partner."

The plane took off, climbing into the gleaming Mediterranean night, and below, the lights of each separate village on the coast glowed and dwindled into a great chain looped about Genoa before they mounted the clouds and Grierson took out cigarettes and ordered gin. They talked and dozed and read the magazines Grierson had bought, while the Britannia moved on inexorably, over the Alps, across France and the Channel to England, and at last to Manchester. No joy at the customs this time, no yawning acceptance of the fact that it was late and everybody was tired. Austere in their uniforms, white shirts and collars gleaming, the officers chanted like priests whose business it is to recite a liturgy, and patiendy listened to the halting, mumbled responses of laymen.

It was a very senior customs officer who examined Craig's and Grierson's luggage, and the suitcase with the papers in it sailed through untouched, but he charged them four pounds on brandy and sweaters, and they knew they were back in England. They drank tea and were driven out to a waiting Rapide, to be husded back to Gatwick airport in a busy roar of sound as the cabin monoplane scurried through mist and rain to the tenderness of another sunrise, and they knew once more they were in England, so delicate was its coloring.