The man who sold death

CHAPTER 14

Ashford came in next day from Nice. He was tall, dark, elegant, and on edge. These two men, he knew, were very special, very tough. They looked it. The dark one, the one he'd met before, wasn't too bad, might even turn out to be sympathique in other circumstances, but the other one, the one with the beard, the one who was forcing him to do this terrible thing-an absolute iron man, brutal and determined. He would be glad to get away and leave things to these stormtroopers. His voice, as he talked to them, was bitter.

Grierson said, "Take it easy. You're supposed to be on our side. That's why John's paying you."

"I'm sorry," said Ashford. "The whole thing's been a terrible strain for me. They've nearly been on to me twice. I've been on this job for weeks."

"You'll be off it as soon as our mutual friend gets back," said Grierson.

"He's due back at his office tomorrow," Ashford said. "It's in the rue Desmoulins, that's off the Place Mas-sena. He'll go there first, then to the villa. That's almost in Villefranche. I'll know more or less what his movements will be by this evening. If you like, I'll stay on here till you've done-it."

"There's no need," said Craig.

"You may need me," said Ashford. "He's a very wicked man. If he weren't, I wouldn't be helping you. But he is. Absolutely evil. He destroys people. He's destroying my friend. I won't let him do that." He paused, then went on: "You promised me that Captain La Valere won't be hurt."

"He won't be," Craig said.

"He isn't wicked, not like the other one. But the things he has to do-they're destroying him. Turning him into a beast. It's awful to sit there and watch someone you love being degraded like that. Worked on-like so much clay. I won't let him do it." He shuddered. "I think you'd better drive into Nice today. I've booked you in at the Rialto. That's on the Promenade des Anglais. Drop around for drinks at the new Casino at nine o'clock. I'll try to have some news for you."

"We'll be there," Craig said.

"Good." Ashford stood up to go. "I really must get back. I've simply loads to do."

When he left, Craig asked, "What does he do?"

"He designs beach clothes," Grierson said, "for the fuller figure."

"That's a funny way to learn to be brave." Craig said.

Grierson wanted to leave but Craig wouldn't hurry. They had all day to go to Nice, he said. St. Briac's people didn't know they were there, and they had a lot of time to kill before they were due to see Ashford. They were safer in St. Tropez.

"You want to see that French girl again," Grierson said.

"I like her," Craig said. "Why shouldn't I be with someone I like for a little while?"

In his mind were the memories of his last meeting with McLaren, and, by contrast, the sense of responsibility he felt for Tessa, and now this new delight in Sophie's company. They didn't make it any easier for him to kill St. Briac. At one time they would have made no difference at all, but now the difference was there, and he could feel it. Now it was life he cared about, not death. Death was all he knew, his driving-force, his livelihood, his passion. He had killed quickly, neatly, as an animal kills; without remorse. That he would do so again he did not doubt, for St. Briac had to die; but this time would be the last. McLaren had been right about him that night in Sicily, but that was because McLaren had imagined him as a man alone, always alone.

He hadn't considered the possibility of women like Tessa and Sophie, enriching his life, yet endangering it too.

"It's not your business to like people," Grierson said.

"Look," said Craig, "when the job starts, I'll do what I have to do. Till then I'll make my own amusements. I'll even like a girl if I want to." He yawned and stretched in the sun-warmed room.

"They said they'd be at the Plage de Tahiti," he said to Grierson. "I'm going there too."

Grierson grumbled, but went with him.

On the beach the bodies of both men were rich and golden, among the golden riches of the sand. Row upon row the other bodies lay, like sardines waiting to be canned: fat, ungainly bodies; thin, unpadded bodies; and, infrequently, bodies elegant, proportioned, splendid. Craig saw a golden head moving parallel with the shore, and ran to the sea, waded, leaped in a flat, smacking dive, swam toward her in a fast crawl. Grierson watched him, and shook his head in angry admiration. Surely there must be something he couldn't do well.

Craig swam out to Sophie, dived beneath her, reappearing at her other side. The girl continued to swim with an unhurried elegance of movement.

"Have you changed your mind?" she asked.

"I can't," Craig said. "I'm sorry, Sophie."

"I'm sorry too," Sophie said, then turned to him, was in his arms, and the two, clinging together, sank beneath the surface of the sea, kissing, kissing, her nearly naked body pressed firmly to his. When they came up, she broke free, and swam toward the shore. He followed her slowly, lazily, and they waded in together.

"I don't think you'll forget me," she said.

He looked at her. She wore a blue and white bikini of a cloth that looked like gingham, and her skin glowed dark gold against the white gold of her hair. Her body was full to plumpness, rounded, feminine, the richness of her breasts disciplined by their perfect shape. She could not fail to satisfy, and even as she did so, create a new desire. Her body, like her mind, mirrored her utter content in being a woman. She took his hand and pressed it to her naked hip.

"No. You won't forget me," she said.

"I wouldn't want to," said Craig.

She came closer to him, looking into his eyes, and he looked back at her, telling her nothing, the eyes just eyes, no warmth in them at all.

"You've only just met me," he said. "I gave you a lift and we were together for one day. That's all. If things had been different-"

"But they're not," she said. "This other woman is too important."

Craig said nothing.

"If she ever leaves you, I want you to come and tell me, John. Will you promise that?" "I promise," Craig said.

Sophie said bitterly, "She won't leave you. Not unless she's a fool-and you wouldn't choose a fool."

She turned and took his arm, and led him up the beach.

"One thing is different this morning," she said. "We have a millionaire. An American millionaire. Come and see."

She took him to a stretch of beach that was almost empty when every other place was packed.

"He rented it all," said Sophie. "He doesn't like crowds. And yet he wants us to sleep with him, John. Isn't that strange?"

"Both of you?"

"I think so," said Sophie. "He's a very nice man. You'll like him."

This seemed to Craig to be improbable, but Sophie was right. Dan Turner was a very likable man.

He lay sprawled like a pasha, while Maria leaned over, teasing him, and he basked, porpoise-sleek, in the warmth of the sunshine and the girl's dark, shining-rounded body. Beside them Grierson stood, noble and aloof, and very English.

Sophie said, "Dan, I want you to meet John."

"Hi," said Turner, then sat up suddenly to look at Craig, his body tall, yet compact with muscle. Craig glanced down at him; a gross mountain of a man with a beet-red face and a superb beak of a Roman nose that had been broken and reset very badly.

"Sit down," Turner said. "Have a beer."

"There isn't any," said Maria.

"Sure there is. Hey, Larry. Larry," Turner bawled, in a voice that could crack concrete.

A very black Negro, built like a light-heavyweight, staggered up and plonked down a vast silver bucket on the sand. From inside it came the chilly tinkle of ice. Turner groped in it with a hand like a crab, extracted a bottle and threw it to Craig, who caught it neatly, then another for Sophie. Faster and faster Turner's hands flew, and dark bottles gleamed in the clear blue air and smacked into Grierson's hands, then Larry's; this last an impossible catch, high to his left. Yet the Negro picked it out of the air one-handed, as if it had been passed to him on a conveyor belt.

"Larry used to play baseball. Best third baseman in the business. Now he's my chauffeur." Turner drank beer from the bottle. "Believe me, that boy can drive. And I should know. I was in trucking. Big hauls. Anything- anywhere-any time. I made eighteen million bucks."

"Why?" asked Maria.

"So I could sit on the beach and drink beer," he said. "And proposition you two."

"Dan, we told you," said Sophie.

"Sure, baby. Sure," Turner said. "But I like asking. You get so steamed up about it." He turned to Craig. "You staying long?"

"No," Craig said. "I've got to get on to Cannes."

"Too bad." Turner said, then looked at Sophie and chuckled. "I mean it, kid. What the hell, there's plenty of girls. I just want to see you have a good time." He winked at Craig. "And you're her idea of a good time. Have another beer."

Again the great hand moved, and the air was full of flying bottles.

"I've got a villa in Cap Ferrat," said Turner. "Come and see me there if you've got time." "Thanks. I'd like to," Craig said.

"I want these two to come with me," Turner said. "A place as big as that needs a few women to fill it up." Sophie yawned, stretched, and lay down on a beach towel. Turner's red face turned redder than ever.

"I guess that's what we all need," he said, and waddled, massive and bear-like, to the sea. He could swim like a porpoise. Craig stretched out beside Sophie, the sun's heat as enervating as a tranquilizer, and watched him swim.

"He really does want us to go with him," said Sophie. "Why don't you come too?" "I wish I could," said Craig.

They left soon afterwards, and drove along the coast road to Nice. The air had an Alpine clarity, the vineyards and flowers, palms and pines, the villas and rocks, the purity of white stone and blue sea, were exactly what the travel agents say. They always will be. But for Craig and Grierson all this beauty was without relevance, without meaning. Their business was with death, and its setting was of no importance.

The Rialto is a luxury hotel that is very slowly going to seed, and is already a little frayed, a littie anxious about its future. It is a decaying Edwardian wedding cake stuffed with the memories of past splendors: the archdukes and millionaires and courtesans of la belle epoque, regretting that any motorcar, even an Alfa Romeo, should have supplanted the two-horse brougham.

Pages and doormen in gleaming gray swarmed around them, a vision in gold braid like a Bolivian admiral spoke words of command, and they were borne on a wave of opulence to a reception desk of mahogany and marble, an elevator of mahogany and red plush. On the second floor, two pages ran taps, raised blinds and palmed tips with a conjuror's deftness, and disappeared.

Craig examined his room, then sprawled on the hard-sprung bed, looking at the ceiling that was painted cool, pale blue. The walls had an embossed, creamy wallpaper, the bed linen was pink. The general effect was of a dispirited patriotism he did not share.

Grierson knocked and came in, carrying a bottle of whisky.

"Compliments of Mr. Ashford," he said, and poured two drinks.

"Hurray for Mr. Ashford."

"He's worried. I'm worried. How about you?"

Craig said, "I wish I was back in St. Tropez. I'm too old for it, but I liked it." He sipped his drink and looked at Grierson. "When we've done, how do we get out of here?"

"We go to the airport if we can," said Grierson. "If not, we go to Cap Ferrat."

"That's where Turner's villa is."

"I know. We've got a boat standing by there. It'll take us to Italy."

"Nice trip," said Craig. "Do you think we'll ever take it?"

"You worry too much," said Grierson.

"Too much before lunch," said Craig. "I think I'd better get some sleep."

And, incredibly, he did sleep, while Grierson prowled the hotel, lunched in a little restaurant by the gardens, took the lift to the castle ruins and looked out, from the shelter of the pines, toward Cap Ferrat and the swarm of glittering white boats. So many; surely one more would not be noticed?

Craig woke at six, bathed, showered, changed, and joined Grierson in the hotel bar. He looked calm by then, completely relaxed. The two men ate in the hotel, then walked to the Albert I gardens, the palm trees glowing blue, purple, red, under the festoons of colored lights. In the open-air theater an orchestra was playing Strauss. There should have been a grand duke or two, thought Grierson, with a girl from Maxim's on each arm. On the Quai des fitats Unis, near the opera house, is the new Casino, another ghttering wedding cake in a garden of palm trees, carnations, and roses. The great bar near the gaming rooms was already filling up, and Craig stared in frank delight at its marble floor, its tiny fountain and great curving bar covered with slabs of teak. Ashford was already there, drinking a champagne cocktail. He wore a white dinner jacket and maroon cummerbund; his heavy silk shirt was pleated. Craig and Grierson were wearing dark suits of lightweight silk and Dacron; beside Ashford, they looked like crows.

"He's due back tonight," he said at once. "So far as I can find out, it won't be till very late. Probably the early morning. He'll be at the Association's offices all day tomorrow. There's a conference on. The place will be packed. I should think you'd do better at the villa."

Craig said, "How accurate is this information?"

"It's accurate."

"You're sure? Who did you get it from?"

Ashford looked mulish, and Craig said brutally, "Look, gorgeous, it's our necks. We can't afford any mistakes. Who told you?"

Slowly, reluctantly, Ashford said, "It was Bobby-Captain La Valere. Honestly, I feel an absolute bitch. I'll never be able to face him after this."

"You'd better," said Grierson. "If you want to see anybody."

"Oh God," said Ashford. "What a dirty business this is." He finished his drink, and got up from the bar stool.

"I'm going now," he said. "Bobby's expecting me. I hope I don't have to see either of you again."

He shook hands with Grierson and left. "He likes you?" said Craig.

Grierson shook his head. In his hand was a tiny slip of paper.

On it he read. "Pucelli disappeared. Fear returned Nice." Craig said, "We'd better get a move on."