The man who sold death

CHAPTER 3

Craig had spent a night at a cheap hotel in St. Pancras, then he moved to another, more expensive one in Bays-water. This he selected with great care. There had to be nothing furtive about it, nothing seedy. It had to be the sort of place that the police would treat with respect. He chose the Rowena, which was small, and full of junior executives, and was invariably packed whenever there was an exhibition at Earl's Court. He signed the register as John Reynolds, and gave a Manchester address. Reynolds had been his commanding officer in a raid on Crete. He had died in Craig's arms, his body torn by a burst from a Schmeisser machine gun.

He had a drink in the bar and told the barmaid he was an incorporated accountant. She accepted the information without noticeable enthusiasm, but even so Craig talked, on and on, about anything at all that he thought would bore her, until the poor girl gritted her teeth to hide her yawns. That was good. If he bored her enough she would warn off the others, the good chaps up for a few days who might be looking for an extra bloke to take to a strip-club. John Reynolds mustn't be the bloke they would invite; his clothes were right-he'd bought them that morning at Simpson's-but his personality was all wrong. He was a bore, and he talked. Moreover, he hadn't bought the barmaid a drink. They would ignore him, and he had to be ignored. If he weren't, he might die.

He went to a public phone booth then, and made a call. A girl's voice, bright and alert, said "Baumer's Exports. Good morning." "Mr. Baumer, please."

What he got was Baumer's secretary, and a confused, apologetic story of urgent business for Mr. Baumer, who would be away for some time. Craig hung up. Mr. Baumer would be away forever. In the phone booth somebody had left an Evening Standard. His story was there, on the front page, but they hadn't managed to get a picture of him. He'd been careful about pictures. Those snapshots from the Navy would be with the police now, but they wouldn't be much help. They were twenty years old. He was surprised to find what an effort of will he needed to read about himself. He had avoided newspapers and radio ever since that shattering, obscene noise. He wanted no details of what had happened to Charlie, and he was finished with Alice now. For her sake he had to be. Even Alice couldn't disapprove of desertion if it was to keep her alive. He forced himself to read on. Alice was still unconscious, and the man they had thought was Craig had been blown to bits. Poor Charlie had been in his shoes once too often. He put down the paper and rang another number. A small, infinitely polite voice said, "Mr. Hakagawa speaking."

"This is Craig."

Breath hissed, quickly, at the other end of Jhe line.

"I wasn't killed," Craig said. "They got somebody else by mistake. I've got to see you, Hak. It's urgent."

"Yes," said Hakagawa. "Come now, please."

The Japanese hung up, and Craig went to look for a taxi. On the way to Kensington he thought about Baumer, and wondered where he'd gone. The states maybe, or Brazil. Baumer had always wanted to five in Rio, and he had enough money, after the last trip. But they'd be looking for Baumer, as they'd looked for him, and hating Baumer even more, for the men who hunted were anti-Semites, an idea they'd borrowed from the Nazis, as they'd borrowed militarism and the Fuhrerprinzip and their one overwhelmingly important creed, the everlasting superiority of the white man. Craig shivered. He knew they would find Baumer. If they killed him quickly he would be lucky.

Hakagawa lived in the ground floor and basement of a house off Church Street, one of a series of Edwardian monsters of salmon-pink brick relieved with white stone that glittered like icing. He rang the bell and SanuM Hakagawa let him in, a neat, ageless Japanese in a sweater and jeans.

"Shenju is giving a lesson," she said. "He won't be long."

They drank coffee together, and discussed the weather, and Kensington's appalling prices. If Mrs. Hakagawa knew that Craig was supposed to be dead, she gave no sign of it. At last a bell rang, and Craig jumped up. Sanuki rose too, and Craig forced himself to be polite, to walk composedly out of the room and down the stairs to Hakagawa's dojo, the gymnasium which was his classroom.

Hak was by the mat, a squat, bullet-headed Japanese with an astonishingly beautiful face. He wore judo costume, and was drying his sweating arms and neck on a towel. He was in his middle forties, but he moved with the easy speed of a man twenty years younger, as he crossed to Craig and took his hand, controlling his grip with scrupulous care.

"John," he said. "It's good to see you. When I read the paper I-"

Craig smiled.

"It was my brother-in-law they killed," he said. "He was wearing an old suit of mine." "And your wife?"

"According to the papers, she's still unconscious. If they'd killed her it wouldn't have worried them." "They?"

"I shan't tell you," said Craig. "You're better off not knowing, Hak, believe me." The Japanese looked hurt. "They're very thorough," Craig continued. "If they get the idea I'm not dead, they'll make the rounds of all my friends they can find. I'm telling you this now because I want to ask a favor."

"If I can do it I will. You know that," Hakagawa said.

"Think about what I've told you first. And there's another thing-the police may come here."

"The police have come here," Hakagawa said. "They wanted to know about a Mr. Craig who holds a black belt."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth," said Hakagawa. "I had given you lessons and I liked you. You were a very promising judoka. What you did in business and why you were killed I don't know. But I was very distressed. Now what is this favor?"

"Karate," said Craig. "All you can teach me."

"You are a dead man. You have nothing to fear," Hakagawa said.

Craig said, "I can't be sure. If these people ever find out I'm still alive they'll hunt me down again. If they find me they'll probably kill me, but I want to make a fight of it. With everything I've got."

"They are very wicked, these people?" the Japanese asked.

"The worst I've ever met," Craig said.

"And if I taught you you would swear to use your knowledge only against them?"

"Yes," said Craig. "I give you my word."

"Very well," said Hakagawa. "But remember your hands are terrible weapons if you know how to use them. In Japan a karate man who fights, really fights, is charged with assault with a deadly weapon. This." He held up his clenched fist. "And this." The fist opened and Hakagawa turned over his hand to show the hard edge of bone and muscle that ran from his wrist to the tip of his finger.

"I'll show you," Hakagawa said.

He put a deal board in a pair of clamps, holding it vertically. The board was of soft wood, but an inch thick at least. For a moment he stood absolutely still, breathing slowly and evenly. Then he hit it with his clenched fist, three times. At the third blow the board broke jag-gedly apart. Then he set up another board horizontally, and hit it with the edge of his hand. It broke at the first blow.

"It is a very amusing trick," Hakagawa said. "That is why I keep the boards here-to impress my pupils. But a good judoka, one who is ready, he needn't be afraid of a blow, even that blow. He will meet it and use it to throw the man who strikes. Be careful who you use it on."

An hour later, streaming with sweat, Craig had begun to add to his knowledge of killing. Hakagawa had prepared for him two thin canvas bags, filled with sand. On these Craig would punch every day, using his fists and the edge of his hands, until they were hard and deadly enough for his skill in using them, until they became lethal weapons.

Hakagawa said, "You are good. Very good. One day you will beat me."

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

"Oh yes," said Hakagawa. "A year, two years, and you will beat me. You are a very unusual man, you see. Even today, after men have only just failed to kill you, all your body and mind are concerned with is defeating me. You are very dangerous, John."

"I used to be," said Craig.

"You are now. You can never be anything else."

"Alice-my wife-doesn't think so. She thinks I'm a-" He hesitated. "A machine for making money and hoisting her up in the world. That isn't very gallant, is it? But I'm trying to tell the truth."

Hakagawa knelt on the mat, and motioned to Craig to face him. Now was the time for Craig to talk, to ease the terrible pressure on his mind. Craig knelt too.

"She was pregnant when I married her. That's why I did marry her. And I was lonely. She was nice in those days, too. And she knew how to behave, how to talk to people-all that. I didn't. Not even when they made me an officer. And in those days I wanted to know how to behave like a gentleman. She was the one who taught me. God knows where she learned it. Her background wasn't all that much better than mine." He grinned. "I was an orphan, Hak. A nothing. Joining the Navy was like going home. All I'd ever had before that was house mothers. Poor, stupid old bitches. The war was good to me. I got on. When it was over, I went to Tangier for a bit. And after that, Gunter's old manager was looking for help. The help he wanted was a pirate with a taste for bookkeeping, and I was the nearest he could find. So I got on again. I made money. A lot of money. I could have gone on my own, but Alice didn't want to risk that. She wanted me to be Sir Geoffrey's right-hand man." Again he grinned. "My right hand was stiff with holding him up. Ah well. I made more money anyway, but I didn't bore her with the details. She'd have been scared the Conservative Ladies' Tea Club would hear of it."

"It was illegal?" Hakagawa.asked.

"Yes," said Craig. "But I don't think it was dishonest."

"What happened to the child?"

"It died," Craig said. "Meningitis. She didn't want another. Neither did I, really. The way we got on-it wouldn't have been good for a child. Then I got mixed up in this business-I hope she doesn't die, Hak. I had no right to do that to her."

Hakagawa said, "I hope neither of you die."

"I suppose we've both got a chance," said Craig.