The man who sold death

CHAPTER 11

That evening Grierson drove Craig out to the studios of the Express Television Company in his Lagonda. His arm had only just stopped aching and his temper was vile. He loathed Craig, and the easy contempt with which he'd thrown him and hurt him, and it was now a matter of urgency that Craig should be impressed, if not terrified.

The big, soft-purring car was impressive by any standards, and so was his driving skill as he threaded it north to Hampstead and through increasing London traffic; then over the Heath and north on to the Al, letting in the supercharger, watching the rev counter and speedometer climb, up and over, until they reached a hundred and kept on going, the car handling beautifully, beautifully handled. There, you bastard, Grierson shouted in his mind at Craig. There. And he four-wheel-drifted a curve, feathered out so that his revs hardly fluttered, and pressed his foot down again. Craig, who hadn't spoken in minutes, sat up then and listened to the car's eager roar, then turned to Grierson.

"Your plugs need cleaning," he said.

For a moment Grierson was so angry that he almost crashed the car, then he eased back on his right foot and risked a glance to his left. Craig was laughing at him.

Grierson put his foot down again and the car leaped forward, then once more he eased off and he too began to laugh.

"All right," he said. "I give in. I suppose you drive at Le Mans too."

"No," said Craig. "I wish I could. I used to drive an E-type Jag, but I swapped it for a Bristol. My wife-" he hesitated, "she liked a roof. You were really going a bit there."

"A hundred and ten's her top," said Grierson. "At her age, it isn't kind to ask for more." He eased back further. "Now remember. I'm a bloke sent down by the advertising people because they want to keep in good with me and I said I wanted to watch a recording. You're an old pal of mine who's come because I invited him. That means I'll be the one that people will watch."

"Suits me," said Craig. "Imagine. Old McLaren. On the old telly." His voice was mocking, and Grierson looked at him again. Craig didn't look angry; just mildly amused, mildly pitying.

"What's your name?" asked Grierson.

"John Reynolds."

"Profession?"

"Company director," Craig said. "Big bass fiddle." "What's the name of the advertising company?" "Jansen, Caldecott and True."

"Roger," said Grierson. "There's a party on at McLaren's when it's all over. I've fixed it for us to go if you want to."

"I'll see."

"Let me know," said Grierson. "Now tell me all about your companies, you greedy bastard."

Express Television was a great, glass-fronted building, set among lawns and fountains and flowers. Enough Hertfordshire woodland had been spared to give it a frame that softened its angular opulence, and in the spring night its glass glowed with the warmth of many lights. There was a doorman with a uniform that compromised between that of an officer of the Blues and an R.A.C. patrolman, doors which were great, unblemished slabs of glass and opened of their own accord, elevators that smelled of carnations, and a studio executive so devoted, so absorbed, so happy just to serve the cathode ray tube that the two men felt ashamed to admit they knew nothing of TV.

The executive, Slatter, was there to enlighten them. He whipped them over the course in fifteen minutes, took them to his office for large pink gins, and from there to the studio, through the maze of cables and sound booms and cameras to the outcasts' corner from which, in reverent, utter silence, they might watch the creation of viewing time. Craig looked at the procession of performers: dancers dressed like birds of paradise; two comedians in football jerseys; four youths who were all teeth and electric guitars, and a Scotsman called Archie McPhee, who told Scots stories in a soft, Highland voice, and philosophized gently about the rush of urban life and how badly it compared with the ripple of a trout stream and the cry of whaups among the heather. The philosopher's real name was McLaren.

When the rehearsal ended, Slatter took them to his office for chicken sandwiches and Moselle, then back to the viewing room to watch in its entirety "Scotland the Brave," written by and starring Archie McPhee. Grierson had wanted to sit with the studio audience, but Craig, not yet ready for the substance, concentrated instead on the nickering shadow. First the company sign, a screaming diesel belting over a bridge, and then the pipers like guardsmen, the rattling side-drums, the roar of studio applause as Archie McPhee came on and told stories about the gnomic wisdom of the Hieland man, and rhapsodized about gray hills and purple heather. The dancers next, for hard-edged modernistic dancing, and then the comedians in football jerseys. Commercial break. More Archie. A Scots tenor, thinly disguised as Bonnie Prince Charlie. More comedians. Birds of Paradise chorus. Commercial break. The dentate youths with guitars. More Archie, singing, this time, the thin wailing mouth music for a team of dancers, the men all disguised as Bonnie Prince Charlie, the women as Flora Macdonald, but dancing this time the real stuff, the genuine hundred-proof that McLaren had called the fag-end of a culture that would die with the war. Then the orchestra took up the tune and turned it into a twist, and the chorus (Flora

Macdonalds all, halfway through a strip) were twisting too in the background, the stars came on and waved, and the music softened as Archie stepped forward, remembered again the cry of the curlew, the plash of water where the brown trout rose. And then it was over, and the audience yelped with laughter as two chorus girls tried to teach Archie to twist and his kilt turned skittish and the credits rolled.

"I think we've got a winner in Archie," said Slatter. "He's done well in the shows for the region of course, but on his own I think he's fabulous, don't you? He'll be networked next month. It's that little touch of philosophy that gets them. He's genuine, you see. Just one of the people, but educated too. And the audience knows it. You can't fool an audience." And there Slatter's face was religious in expression, for though he believed nothing else, he believed utterly that what he had just said was true.

"We'll just go and have a drink and give Archie time to change," he continued, "then we'll pop down and say hello and be off to the party. You are coming, aren't you?" Craig nodded. "Oh good. I'd like you to tell your people that we don't just give you a good show, we give you a good time too."

Then more Moselle, and a VIP trip to the star dressing room where Archie received them as an equal-for were they not important too?-and opened champagne for them, and the four youths in semi-dishabille, for now they had shed their guitars though their teeth still glowed, allowed themselves to be introduced. And everyone had been splendid, and in the relaxation of tension after sustained effort Craig, for the first time since he came into the studio, recognized an emotion he could share.

"Now don't forget the party," said Slatter. "Chelsea. Sure you can find your way?"

"We'll give you a lift," said Craig. "You can show us where it is."

The executive hesitated, then surrendered. The company which had sent Grierson had such satisfactory accounts. Such big ones. The Lagonda impressed him too, as it was meant to do.

Craig asked if he might drive, and Grierson reluctantly agreed. Slatter droned on about Tarn ratings and costs per minute, then settled down to find out what Grierson's interests were, and Grierson lied quite happily, for Craig's driving was worthy of the car, and the Lagonda roared in pleasure as it skimmed the empty moonlit roads. Only once was there any risk, when Craig squeezed between two vans, but he slowed down so gently, changed gear so rightly before he swooped away, that Grierson smiled his content as he wondered why Slatter had turned quiet. The executive said no more until they reached Cheyne Walk, and then was first out of the car.

McLaren's flat was on the ground floor, as big and beautifully furnished as a stage set. All light and airy and open; all Swedish, Danish, Finnish, except for the maid, who was a Spaniard. Slatter came back to life, sliced turkey and ham for them, mixed the dressing for the salad and poured them more champagne, until car by car the other guests arrived and he could introduce these influential madmen to two pretty girls, and tell Archie that he had been splendid and go home to his wife, who nagged him, and cocoa, and the works of Anthony Trol-lope.

Craig enjoyed the party. He had been drinking all day, and the drink had eased the tensions that the day had brought; the sight of Pucelli, Cadella's death, the tests Loomis had flung at him like bombs. Now he was John Reynolds again, this time with interests in machine tools, die-stamp machines, and nuts and bolts, dancing with pretty girls, now and then kissing one in the conservatory that seemed built for the purpose, playing Mutt to Grierson's Jeff, and waiting till the crowd thinned and he could get McLaren on his own and ask him what the hell he was playing at.

At the beginning of the party McLaren had been aloof, restrained, yet affable, a Lord Chesterfield among poets, but as time went on he had changed, first into a roaring boy, then to a surly Harry Lauder, loudly estimating the cost of turkey, ham, whisky, wine, and meaning every word. Most of his guests seemed as familiar with this act as with the current Top Ten, and talked on, over and around it until he retired to a sofa and lay with his head in a dancer's lap while she fed him whisky from a six-ounce glass.

Craig kissed one more girl, fed Grierson one more gag line, and walked over to the sofa.

"A very nice party, Mr. McLaren," he said.

"Ceid mil a jaildhe," said McLaren, "and call me Archie. I dropped the McLaren ten years ago."

"We met before that," said Craig. "Sicily, May 1943."

"My God, were you there too?" said McLaren and turned to the chorus girl. "You see how old I am? Where were you in May 1943? Did you exist?"

The girl poured more whisky into his mouth.

"You and I were in a rest camp," Craig said. "You had a botde of whisky and we shared it. It was very good whisky."

"Lord yes," said McLaren. "I remember. The night the soldiers danced."

"That's right," said Craig. "They were sad. A lot of their friends had been killed."

"So they had," said McLaren, "but the survivors danced very nicely."

"They were beautiful," said Craig.

"Of course. Under the circumstances they had to be. You weren't a soldier, were you?"

"Special Boat Service," said Craig. "My name's Reynolds."

"A Scot?"

"A Geordie," Craig said.

"That's right. I remember the accent. What happened to the accent?"

"You told me to lose it and turn myself into a gentleman."

"And you did? I'm very glad." "Are you?"

"Indeed I am. It's no crime to be poor, but it might as well be. I think I stole that line from somewhere. You aren't poor?"

"No," said Craig.

"Then I gave you good advice."

"I'm rich, really," said Craig. "Of course I ran a lot of risks-"

"You like risks," McLaren said. "I remember you telling me, in that funny accent of yours. You really enjoyed danger. That's why I told you to make danger work for you. You're lucky. There aren't many who can do that."

"Can you?"

"I fought to survive," said McLaren, "and I did survive. Then I went back to university philosophy because it amused me. I practiced the folk culture of my country because that amused me too. Then I worked-teacher, journalist, travel courier, salesman, and that didn't amuse me at all. So I prostituted my country's genius and made money. And that amused me more than anything else. Does that shock you?"

"No," Craig said.

"Those young men smelling of death, dancing in the ruins of a Greek temple-that's nineteenth-century romanticism, and German romanticism at that. It won't work any more. It's finished-er-"

"Reynolds."

"Excuse me. Reynolds. Everything's finished, including you and me."

"I don't think so," Craig said. "Nothing's finished as long as you can fight for what you want." McLaren shook his head.

"That's romanticism too," he said. "You're too late. We've reached the last full stop, son."

He said that rather smugly, and settled back on the dancer's long-muscled thighs, stroked her hip with the tips of his fingers.

"I beg your pardon," he said to Craig. Then, with fine old Highland courtesy: "Would you like one of these?"

"No, thanks," said Craig. "I roll my own."

McLaren laughed, shrilly, wheezingly, and the surviving guests looked on amazed.

"You have come on," he said. "If ever I want any sick stuff, I'll come to you."

Craig nodded, and went back to Grierson, who was memorizing telephone numbers. They found their coats, and went back to McLaren, who was asleep. The dancer hadn't moved.

"It's time we left," Craig said. "Tell him we had a nice time."

The girl nodded, then, as he turned away, called out to them. "Was he really in the war?" Craig nodded. "And he saw those men who were killed?"

"Yes," Craig said.

"Was he-in danger too?"

"Oh yes. He was a Commando."

"Archie?" She sounded incredulous. "He told me he was a clerk in the Pay Corps."

"No," said Craig. "He was a Commando sergeant."

"You mean he killed people?" She looked down at McLaren in awe. "He's wonderful, isn't he?"

"I should think he is," said Craig. "Good night."

In the Lagonda Grierson asked, "Did you want her?"

"No," Craig said. "I could have had one just like her. Archie's compliments. They come in packets of twenty. I'll stick to Tessa."

He leaned back, half asleep, till Grierson drove him to Hakagawa's house, then turned to face him.

"I'm sorry I had to hit you," he said.

"So am I," said Grierson.

"No. Listen. You do that again and I'll hit you again. I can't help it. What I mean is, I'm sorry Loomis made you do it."

"Loomis is a bastard," said Grierson, "but he knows what he's doing." "He'd better." "You're corning in then?" "Yes."

Be a gentleman, McLaren had told him, and he'd done his best, and he'd failed. Clothes right, table manners right, accent and idiom at least passable-but that was all. It would take him a million years to learn to behave like Sir Geoffrey, and even then he'd always fight back, and fight to win, with fists and feet, with anything that was handy. As a gentleman he wouldn't do at all. He'd failed. And he wouldn't do as a lone wolf either. His wife, his dead child, Tessa, even Sir Geoffrey, they were all responsibilities. His responsibilities. Sometimes he'd recognized them, and sometimes he'd tried to ignore them, but always they had been there, waiting for him to do something about them. They were his people, and when they needed protection, it was his business to provide it, as his father had protected him in the fishing boat, years ago. To protect them, he had to kill St. Briac.

"I'll kill him," Craig said. "I haven't any choice."

Tessa was awake, waiting for him in the guest room. As he undressed, she told him how kind the Hakagawas were, how beautiful their manners, for never once had they passed judgment on her, never once been surprised by what had happened.

Craig said, "You'll be safe here, Tessa."

"I will?"

"I may have to go away for a bit. There's something I've got to see to."

"Will it take long?"

"Not long. Maybe a week."

"Is it because of that Grierson man?"

"No," Craig said. "Because of you. If I don't attend to this, we'll never have any peace. If I do-we'll have nothing to worry about."

Carefully, pushing the words out of her mouth, Tessa said, "You are coming back to me then?"

"Of course," said Craig. "You do ask stupid questions."

And after that, even though Tessa was embarrassed because the Hakagawas were next door, she simply had to love him.

Next morning she woke early, and ate and gossiped with Sanuki while Craig slept. The two women were moving quickly toward friendship as they worked together in the kitchen. Shenju came in, and breakfasted on fruit and milk while Tessa grilled bacon and fried eggs.

"The wrong diet for me," Shenju said, "but perfect for John. He burns up energy so quickly." He peeled an apple, the peel a fine spiral, tissue-paper thin. "He is the best judoka I ever taught, and that makes him a very dangerous man."

"I don't think so," said Tessa.

"Oh yes. He is a man to trust, but he is also dangerous.

More dangerous than ever since I taught him to-since I taught him. He was very unhappy for a long time. I do not think he is unhappy now." He bowed to Tessa. Tessa said, "He's going away."

Shenju glanced at her sharply, though the hand that held the knife was rock-steady. "For long?" he asked. "He said about a week." He nodded. "Did he say why?"

"Some business he had to finish. Then he says we'll have some peace."

"You deserve it, both of you," Shenju said. "You mustn't worry, Tessa. He is a very good man. He will be quite safe."

She took Craig's breakfast into him then, and sipped coffee as he sat up in bed and ate.

"Is it ail right?" she asked.

"Marvelous," he said. "You know it is."

He pushed his tray away at last, and fit a cigarette, drew her down beside him.

"I wish you wouldn't," he said.

"What?"

"Wait on me like that. I can get up and eat."

"You were tired-and anyway I like doing it. I won't be able to, while you're away." She turned to him then, and he could see the fear in her face. "Shenju says I mustn't worry. You'll be safe."

"Of course I will."

"But he didn't mean it. You're going into danger, aren't you?"

"No," said Craig. "He's just kidding you-" "You're lying," she said. "Do you think I don't know when you're lying?" Craig shrugged.

"It's no good, love," he said. "I have to go." "Where?" He shook his head. "What are you going to do?"

"I've told you," he said. "Get us both some peace."

"Or get killed? Is that it?"

"I haven't any choice. Believe me-"

"Oh yes you have," said Tessa. "We could run away. Now. Today."

"Yesterday," he said. "But not now. We can't run any more."

"It's Grierson, isn't it?" she asked. "It's you and me. I told you last night." "Darling," she said. "Please. Tell me what you're going to do."

He shook his head. "I can't," he said.

She drew away from him then, and sat in silence as he bathed and dressed, took out the Luger, checked it, strapped its holster over his shoulder, and put the gun in it. He emptied his wallet, pouring the money into her lap.

"I have to go," he said. "This should keep you till I get back."

She was still silent.

"It may be dangerous," he said. "I hope not-but it may be. Don't worry, love. You'll be all right."

"Will I?" she asked. "Will I really?"

"Sure." He nodded, very serious. "If I get knocked off, you'll be a rich woman. I've made a new will. My wife keeps all the Rose Line money. You get the rest."

She gasped, as if he'd hit her.

"But I mean to come back-for you. Do you believe that?"

Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded. "You'll be here?" "Yes," she whispered. "What's wrong then?"

"I'll wait for you because I have to," she said. "Because I haven't any choice. The way I feel-But I don't like it. It makes me frightened."

"I'm sorry," said Craig. "I told you what it would be like."

"Couldn't we just go away?" she asked. "Couldn't we?"

"I'll see you in a week," he said, and bent to kiss her, but she turned her head away.

Craig shrugged, and put on his coat. No sense in arguing that one again. And anyway, it was time to go.