The man who sold death

CHAPTER 19

Someone had brought Grierson's Lagonda to the airport, and in the stillness of dawn they raced toward London, past the works buses and heavy trucks, the streets of yawning men hunched against the chill of waking, into the quiet of the West End, first to a doctor, who treated Craig's injuries and said nothing at all, then to Queen Anne's Gate, where a blackbird shattered the silence with unending song.

"We're supposed to have breakfast with him," Grierson said. "I hope you're hungry. He always is. We'd better wash and shave first."

They went to a bathroom, and used an electric razor, then into a dining room with an oval table, where a butler like a failed middleweight was arranging chafing dishes on the sideboard. Tea and coffee stood ready, but Grierson was too well drilled to start before Loomis appeared. Craig lit a cigarette, and the butler's eyebrows twitched. When Craig poured himself a cup of tea as well, the butler looked ready to swoon.

"You're supposed to wait for Loomis," Grierson said.

"How was I supposed to know?" asked Craig. "I'm only a lousy amateur. And anyway I'm thirsty."

Grierson had known all along that this wouldn't be an easy meeting. If Craig was prepared for war, that was his privilege after all that had happened. All the same, he knew who would be in the middle.

Loomis bustled in for breakfast, brisk and breezy, in squirearchical tweeds, a Brigade of Guards tie, and very grubby shirt. He looked like a con man overacting. The great ridges of his eyebrows shot up as he saw Craig already smoking, but he mastered his anger and helped himself liberally to kedgeree, and began to eat. Grierson groaned inside, and took kedgeree too, and eggs and bacon, and deviled kidneys. It would be nice just this once to have Loomis in a good mood. Craig had another cup of tea and a thin slice of toast, and watched Loomis eat. The man was gross, greedy, and overwhelniingly, incredibly rude, but he had a tremendous, crude force and a gusto in success that had driven him to the top like a rocket. No doubt the government and civil service department chiefs deplored him; and no doubt too they needed him and put up with him because nobody else could do his job: gangster, judge, detective; and all in one fat, messy parcel.

Breakfast was finished at last, and the three men moved in procession to the great study where they first sat down together. Loomis hummed gently to himself, sinking into the vast chair with a contented sigh that the chair echoed as it accepted his weight.

"Tell me," said Loomis, "everything."

Grierson spoke first, calmly, dispassionately, leaving out no detail that had validity. Craig listened and admired a man's mind functioning with such clinical, detached logic, about Sophie and Maria, about Ashford, about himself. The horror in St. Briac's villa, the mnning chase in the garden, the duel, the escape, they were all reduced to the calmness and deliberation of chess moves, as if the body had not sweated in struggle or cringed in pain: as if death were no more than a piece taken from a board. Yet he was honest about it too. Craig had killed St. Briac, Craig had broken into the villa. The praise flowed as easily as the blame, and as coolly, so detached that there could be no embarrassment. When Grierson had finished, Loomis nodded happily a couple of times and turned to Craig.

"Good. Now you tell it. I want two versions. I want to find out if they tally. Tell me yours, son. And take your time. We've got all day."

Craig sat still for a moment, reviewing all that had happened. At last he said, "You great, fat, greedy bastard, what else can I do for you? I killed the men you wanted killed, I stole the papers you wanted stolen. I tried to rescue Ashford for you, I taught Grierson how to fight. About the only thing I didn't do was give myself up, and you didn't expect that anyway. You thought I was dim enough to get myself caught. And you were wrong. You told Grierson to ditch me-and he did-and when we met again I told him I'd kill him if he tried it again. Maybe I would have-I don't know. But you-you bastard, I'd have killed you all right."

He stopped and waited for the explosion, but Loomis was perfectly calm and relaxed. "If you'd got out alive," he said.

"I'd have got out," Craig said. "And I'd have come here for you. And while we're telling vulgar truths, let me ask you something. What happened to Pucelli? I thought you were going to keep him here."

"Now there I owe you an apology," said Loomis. "I really do. I admit it. The trouble with Pucelli is he's such a hard man to watch. Our chaps lost him." For a moment the good humor vanished, and he snarled, "I've had a word with them about that." Then he reverted to urbanity. "But it didn't make all that much difference, did it? I understand that you coped with Pucelli without much trouble?"

"Oh yes," said Craig bitterly. "I coped with him. I put a thirty-eight bullet in his arm."

"There you are then," Loomis said.

"The hell I am," said Craig. "He and his sadist friend might have killed innocent people."

"Innocent," Loomis said dreamily. "What a nice word that is. So quaint. So old-fashioned. A bit stupid, though -in your mouth. They were all your contacts, weren't they? You picked up the two girls; you broke into their house; you were the one who made friends with Turner -firing off guns to let La Valere know where you were."

"Lucky for me I did," said Craig. "They got me out."

"You picked 'em, all right," Loomis said. "I'll admit that. A couple of sexy birds and a brandy-happy millionaire. Between them they had everything you wanted -except discretion."

"They got me out," Craig said again.

"And you got them in," said Loomis. "If they were in danger, it was your fault. Grierson knew better. He wanted to go on alone. He wanted to leave them."

"They were good cover," said Craig. "And anyway Grierson was going to ditch me."

"One fight at a time," Loomis said cheerfully. "Let's stick to your friends for now. Would you have picked them if they'd been fatter-or skinnier? Would you have stayed at Turner's villa if they hadn't been so sympathetic? You didn't have to stay, you know. Grierson didn't. And as you never tire of telling me, you're such a bloody marvel you could have got out all by yourself- broken finger and all. Which brings you to Grierson's desertion. All right, he did leave you-because I ordered him to-and now I'm going to tell you why. I think you would have got out on your own-and I wanted you to -and what's more I wanted you to make a hell of a noise doing it-because this had to look like an amateur's job. And you were the best amateur we could find. You had the, means, and the motive, and we gave you the opportunity. When it was all over and you got out-"

"If I did," said Craig.

"You would have," Loomis said. "We weren't going to leave you for them to play with indefinitely-when you got out, you were going to disappear. The French would ask for Reynolds and we'd have said he didn't exist. And all the time you'd be living happily ever after in the Bahamas or somewhere."

"Suppose they'd asked for me as Craig?"

Loomis leered at him. "How could they? Just imagine them asking for Craig. I ask them why they want him and they say for killing St. Briac and I say we've got proof St. Briac killed Craig weeks ago and ask them if they believe in ghosts. They'd feel foolish. The French hate feeling foolish."

"So everything's all right?" Craig said.

"Is it? I can explain Grierson. He's just another gunman you hired for the job-but what about Ashford? When I planned the thing, Ashford was just La Valere's little friend. I got Ashford into this the same way I got you. He wasn't a professional-he just happened to be fond of La Valere-and La Valere adored him. I made him work for us. I blackmailed him. And now he's dead -because you let La Valere find him-and that association is known. We'll deny it of course, and they won't be able to prove anything-but it's known all right. There's a man in Paris this minute who realizes I set up a murder. Maybe by now he understands why, too-and it's a damn good reason. It has to be. You don't think I do it every week, do you? When I kill, it's because there's no other way-and St. Briac was one I had to kill. If I hadn't he'd have killed a hell of a lot of people and maybe started a war as well. So I picked you. You were tailor-made. And anyway I know how to pick 'em. I'm never wrong."

"There has to be a first time, I suppose," Craig said. "I'm sorry it had to be me."

"When I say never, I mean never. Not once. Not even with you. I just don't make mistakes. You do, and I've explained them to you. They're things you should know about, and I'll tell you why you make them if you like. But I don't. I daren't. Your mistakes were all provided for. Look. The fact that you picked girls up shows you weren't my agents. Then there's the money you took from the safe. That shows you were both crooks."

"And Ashford?"

"Ashford was just a man who stumbled on something too big for him. He loved somebody who was trying to do his country in. He found out-and it was too much for him. It killed him. When we get down to arguing the toss, our people will admit he had tried to contact British Intelligence, and we'll say he had every right to. We won't admit we contacted him. The other side'll know it, but they won't be able to prove it.

"Anyway, they're most of them decent men. Algeria's a madhouse for them with the door wide open. And they're trying to shut it. The trouble is, some of the madmen are pretty well placed-well enough to protect St. Briac and his kind; if it hadn't been for that, we'd have asked for his removal long ago. But the madmen wouldn't hear of it; and they're strong enough to bring down the government. Now he's dead and they can't do a thing about it-except ask for you. And if you're Craig you're dead, and if you're Reynolds you don't exist. We can prove it."

"What about Inspector Marshall's bright idea?"

"It's been dropped," said Loomis. "We're ignoring it."

"And Duclos and Pucelli?"

"They ought to be in prison by now," Loomis said, "if that chum of yours-Turner-is as rich as he says he is. Anything else?"

"You said you know why I make mistakes."

Loomis said, "It's easy. You've been alone too long. All these years you've lived sealed off from everyone- trusting nobody but yourself. And now you're trying to get back, to rely on other people; have them rely on you. That makes you vulnerable, Craig. It also makes you human."

Craig nodded. "I'm not grambling," he said. "It's better the way it is. How's my wife?"

"No change," said Loomis. "But she's hardly likely to recover-not now."

"We used each other all the time," said Craig. "And it was my fault, most of it. I could have changed her if I'd tried. I didn't want to try." He stood up. "I'd like to see Tessa," he said.

"Of course," said Loomis. "We've had her moved. She's in a flat in Regent's Park. You get on up there. We'll call you when we need you. Here's your address." He handed Craig a piece of paper. "You had it rough, son," he added. "I realize that. People like St. Briac know how to hurt. And I'm certain you didn't tell them anything either. If you had, you wouldn't have come back here. I'm grateful to you for that."

Craig nodded and went out.

"He's a good man," Loomis said.

"The best," Grierson agreed.

"Liked him, did you? I'm not surprised. He does a good job. It's too bad we didn't meet him years ago. It's too late now. He doesn't want to be alone any more, and that's the way he has to be if he's going to be any use to us."

The flat in Regent's Park was big, airy, and furnished with an expert's calm good taste: the right rugs on the hardwood floor, the right blend of furniture, traditional and modern; the television set discreetly shuttered away; copies of three prescribed paintings-Van Gogh, Claude, and Canaletto-hung to the best advantage. When Craig got there, it was empty. He looked in cupboards and closets and saw how neatly his clothes had been stored, he admired the tranquil view of the park, the stern efficiency of the kitchen, poured himself a drink, and settled down to wait. It didn't take long.

There was the sound of a key in the lock, and Craig sat where he was, sipping his drink, smug and content. High heels tapped into the kitchen, the door of the refrigerator slammed, there was the sound of tap water running into a kettle. When Tessa came in at last, she looked tall and elegant in a dark blue suit, a shopping bag of white straw over her arm, and when she saw him the bag fell softly to the floor, her elegance vanished.

"My God," she said. "Oh my God."

She ran to him as he rose to greet her, and he crushed her to him, bent to kiss her, but her face was burrowing into his shoulder, and she would not look up at him until he cupped his hand under her chin and tilted back her head.

"Tessa," he said, "what's wrong?"

"I thought you were never coming back," she said breathlessly. "I thought it was all over. And you've hurt your finger. What happened? Have you been in an accident? Darling, you should look after yourself better. And please forgive me. We had a fight-don't you remember? I know it's stupid but I feel so embarrassed and I can't help it."

He had forgotten everything, except that he needed her, and she must live. When he kissed her, her lips were hard and thin and unyielding, but they softened at last, and her tongue fluttered between his teeth. When he let her go, she leaned back in the circle of his arms.

"I'm sorry," Tessa said. "I know I was being stupid, but oh darling I'm so happy, and what on earth have you got under your coat?"

She loosed its buttons and the coat feff open. He was still wearing the Woodsman. "Oh," she said.

Craig removed his coat, loosed the straps of the soft leather holster and took it off, then opened the gun and looked down the barrel. It needed cleaning. Then he searched her face, and saw the agony of fear and love im her eyes.

"All right," he said. "I used it. That's what I went away for. You know that." "Did you-kill somebody?"

He nodded. "Somebody was trying to kill me. He very nearly did." He put the gun down on the table. "You knew all that. I warned you myself. This was the only chance I had, Tessa. For both of us. It was either that or wait for him to find me." Still she was silent. "Look," he shouted. "There were four of us involved in a deal- selling guns to Arabs. The other three are dead. Bang. Bang. Bang. Because of him. My wife's dying, my brother-in-law's dead. Because of him. He caught me for a while. You'd better know that, too. I was nearly drowned, over and over again, I was beaten, and burned, and my finger was broken. Because of him. Everything because of him."

With his good hand he ripped open his shirt, showed her the crisscross of bandage on his chest and back. "He did all this to me-and then he tried to kill me-but he slipped up-just once-but once is enough. And now he's dead. Do you think I care? He very nearly killed you, too. He put the bomb in your flat-remember? Or he told somebody to do it. What's the difference? He's dead now. They'll leave us alone-both of us."

She came to him, her hands gcntie on his torn body, and was all sweet willingness and care. And Craig loved her completely, with a tenderness he had never known for any other woman, so that when they had done she wept, and there were tears in his eyes too, for wonder that two people should so possess each other, so intertwine their hearts' and bodies' needs. He kissed her very gently, wondering that he should ever have thought that he had pitied her. Where there was such a need as his, there was no room for pity.

For Tessa, the next twenty-four hours were by far the best in her life. She knew, knew beyond doubt, the depth of his love for her, knew too that the risks and agonies he had taken had been, in part at least, for her. And now he showed his love for her in every possible way. He took her to a restaurant, a jeweler's, a furrier's, buying for her any and everything that came into his mind, as if each new thing should be another symbol, not of purchase, but of trust. In the evening he took her to the theater, then a restaurant, and a club. He even asked her if she'd hke to go back to the Lucky Seven, the most foolish and therefore the most wonderful offer that he could have made, and when she said no, he took her instead to the most expensive places, one after the other, and when they were home, made love to her all over again, and it was more wonderful even than before, and afterward they lay in the dark and whispered softly about where they would go, and he told her about the Greek island that he knew, and how happy they would be there, and fell asleep in the telling, his head on her naked breast, and Tessa lay very still, and stroked his harsh brown hair, and wondered if twenty-four hours could cancel out, just like that, ten years of drifting misery.