The man who sold death

CHAPTER 8

Brady went to the hospital in the splendor of full evening dress. He wore medal ribbons too, the M.C., the North Africa Star, the Italian and Normandy Campaigns. Pinned beside them was a huge badge he'd bought on a visit to the docks. "Look out, girls," it warned, in lustful purple letters, "I've been six months at sea." Brady was going to the hospital ball, yielding to the threats and pleadings of the latest of his wives, but already he was making his protest. He called at the hospital on the way to the ballroom, to make sure that his patients wouldn't spoil his evening. He had a few things he wanted to tell the mayor… His chances were good; even Mrs. Craig was still unconscious.

"Eleven days, and she hasn't said a word," he said to the night nurse. "Two weeks ago you could have got a hundred to one against that. Never emptied another bedpan as long as you lived."

The night nurse sniffed, and Brady, determined to be pleasant, whatever the cost, patted her rump.

At the dance he met Thomas, the police surgeon, for whom he bought whiskey, and remarked to him how unfair life was that Mrs. Craig should only be quiet when her husband was far too dead to enjoy it. Thomas, a bachelor, and one unused to whisky, said that Craig could enjoy the silences of his wife whenever he chose, but that he was far too callous and unfeeling to bother to inquire, even if his wife was dying.

When Brady learned that Craig was still alive, he ordered more whisky, and by midnight the press knew it too. The press was a chubby, anxious young man sent by the local paper to get the names right, timid enough to refuse free beer, yet with the occupational courage to approach Brady to ask him what his badge was, and to refrain from asking, instead eavesdropping shamelessly, when Craig's name was mentioned. Next day the chubby, anxious young man found that he was the northeastern correspondent of a national daily, and his story was on its front page. It was the beginning of a great career. Somewhere the chubby anxious man had heard that Craig had been in Tangier, and he made the most of it. From a maze of hints, a story of genteel and romantic crime emerged, with Craig perhaps yet again avoiding death, and somewhere or other turning at bay to face who knew what ruthless enemies? Once more, reporters set off north. L'Osservatore Romano sent a man over, and Der Spiegel sent another, and a cameraman. Two Frenchmen also turned up. They said they were free-lances.

Marshall had to face his chief once again. He had been to see Dr. Thomas, an interview of agonizing embarrassment. The Special Branch people had been so anxious that there should be no leak, and the chief had given them his word. He knocked at the chief's door, and went in to the chief's rumbling invitation.

There was another man with the chief, a vast man with red hair sprinkled with white, his enormous buttocks sagging over the seat of a hard, wooden chair. The fat man looked with evident distaste at Marshall, then scowled at tin(c) cliicf

"This the fellow?" he asked.

"This is Detective Inspector Marshall, yes," said the chief.

"Bright sort of a fellow! The sort that gets ideas. Good ideas," said the fat man, more unhappily than ever.

"You've done very well, son, but you'll have to come off the case."

The chief said, "This gentleman is from Counter-intelligence. I'm afraid you'll have to do as he says."

"But I know I'm right. I can prove it. I've got Dr. Thomas's report."

"Well of course you're right," the fat man said. "The trouble is, it's a bit too well known now, do you see."

"But it was bound to come out at the inquest," said Marshall.

"That's a moot point," said the fat man. "Very moot. I'd have asked you to box clever at the inquest, believe me I would. As it is, I'm going to ask you to get it adjourned. I'm also going to ask you to deny that Craig is still alive."

"But why on earth should I?" Marshall asked.

"Because if you don't, he won't be," said the fat man, "and I've got a little job for Craig. A very nasty, very important littie job. And he can't do it if he's dead, now can he?"

"But what about Craig's brother-in-law?" "He is dead, son. He's past caring." "What about Mrs. Craig? Suppose she recovers?" Marshall asked.

"She won't be making any public statements till Craig's done his stuff."

"And I'm going off the case?" Marshall asked.

"I think you'll have to, unless you're good at telling lies. You're bright, I admit that, a credit to your force and all that, and things would have been a bit tricky for me if you hadn't got on to the idea that Craig was still alive. But now that's public knowledge, unless you deny it. And if you deny it you've got to make it convincing. Officially you may look like a fool, but unofficially you'll have done yourself a bit of good. There's more to it than that. Your chief tells me you figured out what Craig's been up to. Now it just so happens that a situation's arisen where Craig could be very useful to this country. He's got specialized knowledge, you see. It's your can, son. I'm afraid you'll have to take it back." "What about Dr. Thomas?"

"I'll speak to him too," the fat man said. "But you're the one the press will be after."

"All right," Marshall said. 'Til deny it."

"That's a very sensible decision, son," said the fat man.

He was genial now and relaxed, as only a fat man can be, but he had the coldest, most ruthless eyes Marshall had ever seen.

Marshall and Dr. Thomas spent the next two days either avoiding or misleading reporters who theorized where there were no facts, and made much of Mrs. Craig's coma and a photograph of Charlie Green. No amount of bribery or threat could procure one of Craig. The two French reporters visited the office of the Rose Line, and asked a lot of questions that reduced Miss Cross to tears and Sir Geoffrey to impotent fuming. When he threatened to call the police, they left. Because he was at peace again, and Miss Cross still wept, Sir Geoffrey didn't call the police after all. It was as well. The two Frenchmen were convinced of his innocence, and could see no reason why he should die.

They flew back to Paris, and from there took the next plane to Nice. A black Citroen waited for them at the airport, and they drove off at once to an office building near the Place Massena. The two relaxed in the sunlight; the northeast of England had been cold, and these were men who clung to a Mediterranean warmth… When they went inside, they had to identify themselves three times before they were admitted into the presence of the man they had come to see, the man in olive-green shirt and slacks worn like a uniform, who carried the insignia of a colonel in the French Army; and even then his bodyguard sat facing them, a Sten gun in his hands, and at his feet an Alsatian dog that panted softly in the warmth of the room and looked at them as his master did, cautiously, unwaveringly, ready to kill as soon as the word was given. St. Briac sat very still, with a terrible calm of will that struggled with the flickering madness of his pale eyes. He was very thin and yet looked strong, with the more than physical strength of the fanatic. His face looked bland because he chose to make it so: it was a mask that served his purpose. Yet even the serenity was achieved solely because he was incapable of compassion. For him the extremes of physical pain, even death itself, were a means of achieving an end, no more.

One of the reporters said, "We think Craig's still alive."

The colonel said, "What makes you think so?"

His voice was as bland as his face, yet if Craig lived, his most important mission had failed.

"The English reporters think that their police are lying when they say he is dead, and yet they don't know why."

"Do you think their police are hiding him?" the colonel asked.

"Not yet. They are still looking for him. The Special Branch from Scotland Yard are helping. They are the people who deal with espionage."

"I didn't know that," said the colonel, and the reporter flushed and hurried on. "One of their men, Detective Inspector Linton, has been to Craig's house. He has also visited the local police."

The colonel nodded and sat back, and the bodyguard spoke softly to the dog. Only then did the two reporters dare to get up to leave. When they had gone, the colonel pressed a button on his desk. Almost at once, the door opened and the guard dog stood up, the hair on the back of its neck rising, then sat down again as it saw another man in olive-green, a captain with a golden tan and yellow hair, a handsome young man with beautiful, stupid blue eyes.

"Robert," said the colonel, "Craig's still alive."

The captain began to protest, but the colonel spoke again, and he was silent.

"He is alive," said the colonel. "Whoever the bomb killed, it wasn't Craig. Now he's disappeared-and the English police are looking for him. The Special Branch. They are very good at finding people. I think we should let them do it, and when they are successful and find him, Craig dies. And this time we shall be quite certain that he is dead."

"Who shall I send?" the captain asked.

"Cadella can try again," the colonel said. "It is his chance to redeem himself. And this time Pucelli can go with him. Craig knows about us now. He is too good for any one of us. Even you, Robert."

The captain frowned.

"I'll go myself," he said.

"No," said the colonel. "I need you here."

He nodded at the door, and the guard went out. "We need more funds, Robert. And you raise funds so prettily. You are so big and blond and boyish-what old lady could resist you? We need money, Robert. The Middle East is too quiet. Muscat, Oman, Aden-calm everywhere. The British should be struggling as we are struggling in Algeria. It's time to work on the old ladies."

The captain stiffened to attention, his face so miserable that the colonel laughed.

"Being nice to old ladies is important too," he said. "Without money we can do nothing. Even to execute Craig costs money. Get me the money, Robert, and I'll find you other work. There's plenty of it. Almost too much. But not quite. We shall keep Algeria. It is part of France. If it goes, we have only one excuse. What is it, Robert?"

"We shall all be dead," said the captain. He said it without melodrama; a simple statement of fact.

"That won't happen," said the colonel. "I promise you it won't. Not if you get me the money I need. And there is always your pretty Englishman when your work is finished." Again the captain tried to protest, and again was quiet at once when the colonel spoke.

"The fact that you are a homosexual is unimportant to me," he said. "But be careful, Robert. It must not become public, you understand?"

"Yes, sir," said the captain.

"Then you may go," said the colonel.

When Robert left, the colonel unlocked a drawer and took out a list. Craig's name was on it, neatly ruled out in red ink. So were Lange's, and Rutter's. Neatly, precisely, the colonel wrote it in again.

Captain Robert La Valere removed his rank badges, then walked out to the Place Massena. A thin young man in a shirt of yellow silk, wine-red, tapered slacks, and yellow sandals sat outside a cafe, scowling in the sunlight at the office building, his drink untasted beside him. In his mind he was saying, over and over, the words on its door plaque. Society for the Solution of the Algerian Problem. President: Colonel de St. Briac, and adding each time obscenities that did not match a yellow silk shirt and wine-red, tapered slacks. Then he saw Robert, and the scowl vanished. For Robert there was always a smile. Perhaps one day he would have to betray Robert, but it would be for his own good. Always for his own good. He adored Robert. The captain held out his hand, and he held it in both of his. Held it and held it.

In Tessa's flat, Craig settled easily into a routine, working at the exercises that Hakagawa had set him; loving Tessa, talking to her, listening to her. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, he allowed himself to become involved with another person, to regulate his life in terms of another's. It altered his appearance far more than the beard he was growing.

When she came home with the newspaper, he didn't try to argue. It was better that she should know who he was. The knowledge gave her ultimate power over him, but if she chose to use it, it was better that he should die. She had wanted him so much; surely she would never try to destroy him. If he were going to be involved with other people, then they and he would have to take tremendous risks, and if he were not, then he must condemn himself to another time of loneliness and fear, before he tried, like Baumer, like Rutter, to create a new character whom they could not know.

All Tessa said was, "I gather you're married." He nodded. "You didn't like her much, did you?"

"No," he said. "Not for a long time. I should have tried harder. She didn't help me much, but I should have tried. Does it bother you, my being married?"

"I haven't dreamed about orange blossoms for an awfully long time," Tessa said. "I hope she'll be all right."

"So do I," said Craig. "It's my fault that she was hurt. It's my fault that she was left alone after it happened. I had my chance to help her, and all I did was run. If anything happened to you, that would be my fault too."

The phone rang then, and she looked to Craig for permission before she picked it up.

"Have you heard from your Sir Galahad yet?" Grierson asked.

"Who?"

"The bloke who laid out Lishman. Hasn't he been to see you yet?"

"You mean Reynolds? I'd have to look in my diary," Tessa said.

Grierson sighed.

"Tell him to ring me," he said, and hung up.

Tessa tried to speak before she had put the receiver down, but Craig put his finger to his hps, and replaced it for her.

"They may be tapping the wire," he said. "I don't think so, but they might. What did Grierson mean about my calling him?" She looked away. "You'd better tell me," he said.

Tessa looked at him stubbornly, preparing to resist. He might hurt her, but for his own sake he mustn't know.

"Tessa," he said. "Don't make up my mind for me. I can reach Grierson myself if I want to. All I have to do is tell a policeman who I am. Just let me know what he's after first. I'm the expert in this game, love, not you. Keeping quiet might be the biggest risk of the lot."

It was the only way to learn what he wanted to know, and she told him at once.

"Grierson said, 'We know about Rutter-and we can help you.'" She gave him the phone number. "Did he say who 'we' were?" Craig asked. She shook her head. "More police, I suppose." "Maybe, but I don't think Grierson's a copper." "What then?"

Craig shrugged. "Cloak and dagger boy," he said. "Airy smile and a gay flick of the wrist. The one who beds the contessa while somebody else breaks open the safe and steals the plans. He'd better watch it this time. I can flick my wrist too."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"You," said Craig. "For not telling me before."

Later she asked him again, and he said, "I'l think about it. I'll think about it a lot. And when I've got the answer, HI tell you."