The man who sold death

CHAPTER 6

Craig found it hard to fill in his days. In his role of incorporated accountant on a business trip, it was necessary to stay out of the Rowena a great deal, and necessary also to avoid conspicuousness, the attention of policemen, the curiosity of reporters. For the most part he bought clothes, visited picture galleries, and worried about the ten thousand pounds locked in the suitcase in his hotel bedroom. His plans for his future safety had been made years before, but it was necessary to wait before he moved, until even his enemies were satisfied that he was dead, and he could start to live again. In the meantime he looked at pictures. All he had to do was stare, and let his mind drift. It was in the National Gallery that he first thought of finding and killing the man who had planned the planting of the bomb.

For six years he had been planning, negotiating, arranging; worrying about contracts and ports of delivery, forcing himself to look for trade between North Africa and France so that the men who hunted him now might not suspect, parading Sir Geoffrey in public on every possible occasion to show how unspottedly pure the Rose Line was. Six years had been enough. He'd all the money he needed. He could go anywhere, be anybody, so long as they thought that he was dead. And until the inquest had been held they wouldn't be absolutely sure: and so he drifted, tightening his mind and body to action only when he went for his lessons with Hakagawa.

Then, in the Gallery, he saw the landscape, Rubens's "Chateau de Steen." In the foreground is a hunter with a long-barreled gun. Craig saw at once how right that hunter was; it was obvious in the way he moved, the way he handled the gun and used his cover. As he looked at the tiny figure, the whole picture made sense. A man who was hunting-he made sense too. Kilhng for food, or because somebody was trying to kill him. Either way he had no choice, and to Craig there was a passion in such killing that nothing else had ever supplied. It would be difficult to find out for certain who had planted the bomb, but it might not be impossible-and he knew very well who had ordered its use. He let his mind drift again, back to memories of the St. Pauli district in Hamburg, and his meetings with the man who had first got him into gun-ranning, a man called Lange.

Lange had fought in Greece too, on the other side. He had known all about Craig since 1943, and for a brief while they worked together in Tangier, when Craig had turned to smuggling. Cigarettes. Nylons. Batteries. Tires. Almost everything was in short supply then; almost everything paid. Craig remembered a Greek millionaire who insisted on a weekly delivery of smuggled cigars, a Cata-lonian electrical dealer who had ordered a quarter of a mile of copper wire. They'd delivered both, and been paid top rates, though the Spanish police nearly sank their boat. An old German Raumboot they'd been using then, salvaged unofficially by some of Lange's friends. No overhead, no insurance, and enormous profits.

In Tangier they had dressed quietly, discreedy, talking and acting like businessmen, which was what they believed themselves to be. Craig had wanted to be a businessman ever since the war, and he was happy. He was getting on. They didn't handle arms in those days. They didn't need to. The ordinary materials of commerce were so profitably scarce. When they did at last split up, they had gone on being businessmen, and for a while Craig really believed that he had made it, that his life was complete. The Rose Line needed him far more than he needed it, and yet he was grateful to it for providing him with the kind of work he loved: the traveling, the contacts, the bookkeeping, the frantic scramble for cargoes, and for ships. And then, when the Rose Line was ticking away as smooth and untroubled as a Swiss watch, and his marriage had moved by easy stages from passion to tolerance to contempt, Lange had sought him out again. He had been patient and thorough and very German, waiting until Craig was so bored, so mutinous against his life, and his marriage, that when he made his offer Craig accept at once. Lange was clever, and he knew Craig well. T proposition he made was dangerous, heroic, and abc all romantic. They would supply arms to gallant freedo: fighters (the Algerian Arabs) and so help them in th struggle against brutal and tyrannous oppressors (t French). Because of the risks they ran, the gallant, fr‹ dom-loving Arabs would be happy to pay them a gn deal of money, but the money was a secondary thii Far more important was the need for action.

Lange had been clever all right. He needed Crai contacts in the shipping world, he needed his ships, a above all he needed Craig's energy and drive, and he j them all. Once Craig was in charge, Lange reverted to natural role of adjutant, and took care of every det: meticulously. Once Craig was in charge, it was too f to discover that not every freedom-fighter was a patri or every Frenchman a swine. He was hooked, and knew it, and at first he didn't care. When he did at 1 decide to get out, the hunters were already on to him, a he had to stay in the organization to protect the othe That had been a disastrous mistake. They were all marl for death: Rutter, Lange, Baumer.

Lange had always insisted that they meet in broth; strip-shows, night clubs whose only entertainment M obscenity. He had known that his time might be she and he'd made the most of it. Craig had warned him be more careful, but he'd died. According to the inqu there had been a car accident. There had been a with him, and she had died too, a casualty in a ba fought a thousand miles away. Craig knew that he too 1 had a share in her death. He shuddered, and began think about a man called McLaren.

He'd first met McLaren in a rest camp in Sicily in 19 The man was a Commando sergeant, long and lean as brown as an Arab, with the soft Highland voice I gave no hint of the speaker's strength and endurai McLaren had found a bottle of whisky. Found was word the army always used for things like whisky, and was willing to share it. Craig, who was then ninett did not dispute his choice of word. They put it dc drink for drink, and Leading Seaman Craig had the sense to see that Sergeant McLaren would disapprove of the usual violence or lust. Sergeant McLaren was a philosopher, whose release was in conversation. At twenty-five he was immeasurably older than Craig, and terribly aware of death. He had killed too many times to doubt that soon it would be his turn to die, and so he talked as they drank his whisky together. In the whole camp he had found Craig alone to be fit to share his bottle, and Craig was flattered. It never occurred to him that his ruthless efficiency at his craft was superior to the sergeant's own, which was why McLaren had chosen his company. Sadly, regretfully, as the Johnnie Walker disappeared, Sergeant McLaren had bidden farewell to civilization. The war, he was convinced, was the end of all that. No one would ever again feel the need to struggle for anything but his own survival, or, in exceptional cases, comfort. But these would be the rare and gifted ones; for the commonalty it would be enough simply to go on living. He tilted the bottle, and passed it over.

When peace came, the men who would do best would be those who had deliberately allowed their personalities to be molded by war: the men who had learned to act, decisively and at once; the men who had learned, whatever happened, to survive; and the men who had learned to be gentlemen. "That's always what the English look for," he said. "Gentlemen. You must be a gentleman too."

Craig considered his background; slum house, orphanage, and Devonport barracks. He found it inadequate.

"I don't see how I can," he said.

"Get a commission," said McLaren. "Royal Navy. Special Boat Service. You'll look well with a commission. Then get rid of your accent."

"You didn't."

"I'm not going to be a gentleman. I'm going to be a schoolmaster," McLaren said. "That's why I'm going back to Glasgow University-if I live that long. And anyway my' accent is socially acceptable. Yours isn't."

"Why should I be a gentleman?" Craig asked with alcoholic earnestness, and McLaren beamed at him.

"I like you," he said. "Always asking the right questions.

Good for my Socratic method. Every philosopher should be issued with a leading seaman full of whisky. Basic equipment… You should be a gentleman because you're not fit to be anything else. It's either that or piracy. That's all you know. You get yourself a commission. It's safer."

He took another pull at the bottle and gave Craig what was left, letting him finish it in silence.

It was early May, and the almond blossom smelled sweet, the cicadas softly chirred. Like a backcloth, the ruins of a Greek temple groped for the moon that silvered and softened the brutal Sicilian landscape to a comic-opera prettiness. Craig finished the whisky.

"Bastards," he said. "Bastard orphanage. Bastard pigs.* But wait till this lot's over. I'll show them."

McLaren looked at him. Even half-drunk he was as alert as a hunting leopard, the ruthlessness burned into him, never to come out.

"Aye," said McLaren. "You'll show 'em right enough."

From the temple there came the sound of pipes, and McLaren scrambled to his feet.

"That'll be the Jocks," he said.

Craig hesitated. In the village there was a widow who slept with him, giving him pleasure, wine, and Italian lessons all for a few cigarettes. On the other hand, McLaren had given him ideas, and an aim in life, and he was grateful. It wouldn't hurt to look at a few Jocks. They walked through the camp to a flat patch of earth already baked hard by the sun. A crowd of Scottish soldiers sat around watching, drinking Sicilian wine, and in the middle a kilted piper played, and six kilted men gravely danced.

The crowd didn't applaud; their emotional involvement was too deep. They simply sat and absorbed it all; the shrill sadness of the pipes, and the men dancing with a proud, masculine beauty. Someone produced two swords, and a boy of Craig's age did a sword dance on his own, a dance of such grace and power that McLaren sighed aloud.

"All this'll go too," he said. "The fag end of a culture.

* Lower deck slang for Naval Officer.

This is maybe the last time you'll have the chance to see fighting men dance."

"What for?" Craig asked. "What do they want to dance for?"

"Because it's art," said McLaren. "Ach, they mightn't like the word, but that's what it is. Art. A part of their lives. Every man there is dancing."

He looked at the lone, dancing man.

"They've been fighting at Catania," he said. "They won, but they took a hiding doing it. This makes them feel better."

The piper stopped, and the dancer picked up the swords.

This time the watching men roared out their applause. Another dancer appeared, but the piper shook his head, his hand already clutched around a bottle of wine. McLaren stood up, and dragged Craig after him.

"Come with me," he said. "I'll show you some more dying culture."

He pushed his way through the lounging men, and spoke in Gaelic to the new dancer. The boy grinned, and nodded, and McLaren began to sing. It was a high-pitched, intricate song, the rhythm strongly stressed, and McLaren sang it without appearing to draw breath; the caelidh mouth music that can take the place of fiddler or piper as long as the singer has strength. Gravely the boy danced, and the crowd of men was silenced once more. This time Craig didn't have to ask why. When he was older, and more sophisticated in his approach to experience, he would realize how hackneyed the situation was; kilted Highlanders dancing, in the middle of a war, among the ruins of an ancient civilization. But it was also beautiful, with a beauty that made the heart ache to see it. When McLaren had finished, he was weeping.

"Whisky and nostalgia," he said. "Nothing like it for a good cry."

Craig nodded. He could share McLaren's enthusiasm, and his melancholy, though he didn't know what nostalgia meant.

"Like before I went to the orphanage," he said at last. "Me da used to take me fishing sometimes. Seine-netter.

The crew was all in it together. You know. They had an old feller there used to sing. Old songs. They made you feel good."

McLaren said, "You ought to practice that story. It's the sort of thing gentlemen appreciate. They like to feel sentimental about the deserving poor."

Craig wasn't listening.

"When I was eleven, me mam ran off with a sailor. A steward on the King Line. The old man jumped off the pier, and I ended up in what they called a home. They didn't go fishing there. Mind you," he added, determined to be fair, "they taught you how to fight."

He had left McLaren then, and gone to find his widow.

He left the Gallery, and bought a paper. On the back page was a filler describing the death of a man called Altern in Geneva. Craig knew who Altern was. Rutter had been at that rest camp too. He had hoped with all his heart that they would not find out about Rutter. For a long time he stood by the Gallery steps, remembering Rutter as he had been in Greece, young and full of life, and dangerous with the need to prove how well a small man could do in a big man's world. He remembered a blazing E-boat and a nightmare chase in an olive grove. He remembered Rutter locked in combat with a blond, enormous, Panzer grenadier. Always Rutter had gone for the big ones, to show they weren't too big for him… He'd given up a P. amp; O. job to work for the Rose Line. Craig felt the salty sting of tears in his eyes, and shook his head angrily. Rutter had known what he was getting into. He'd known very well he might die. It would be nice to see McLaren again, Craig thought, and ask him if he'd done the right things with his life since the end of the war. Behind him the news vendor was speaking to him, asking him if he felt all right. Craig shook his head again and moved away, pushing into the crowd in Trafalgar Square, folding his paper neatly, holding it under his arm. Soon he was inconspicuous again.

He went back to his hotel, changed, and went out again. In his mood he knew that it was dangerous, that he should have stayed indoors, but his anger and grief were too strong for him. He had to go out. He drifted toward Soho, drinking steadily, until he reached an Italian restaurant in Greek Street. There he ate pasta as he and Rutter had enjoyed it, and drank a bottle of Orvieto. Then he wandered again, past the come-on girls in the clip joints, the barbecue grills and hamburger heavens, content to be forced along by the crowd, swerving from time to time into a pub.

He'd reached one in the Tottenham Court Road when he met the Irishman, Diamond, who splashed him with stout, then hung on to him for the rest of the evening, relishing his taciturnity with a talker's avid greed. When the pubs shut, they went to a club Diamond belonged to, the Lucky Seven, because it wasn't far away and Diamond knew a girl who went there sometimes. Diamond was a bookie's clerk with a taste for the theater, and he settled down to spend the rest of the night telling Craig the plot of every play he had ever seen. Craig didn't mind. From time to time they bought each other whisky, and he could think about Rutter behind the smoke screen of Diamond's unending chatter. Then the girl appeared, Diamond fussed busily, finding her a chair, buying her a drink, introducing her to Craig, then taking up his monologue in mid-sentence.

Her name was Tessa Harling, and Craig tried to remember what Diamond had told him about her. She'd started off as an actress and failed. Then she had married, and her husband had turned out to be a prime bastard, and the marriage had failed too. Now she lived on her alimony, and drifted around clubs like the Lucky Seven and drank Diamond's gin because he was gentle and undemanding. She spent her days alone, getting up late, Craig thought, coffee and aspirins for breakfast, and too many cigarettes, and sometimes perhaps a man she didn't want and found hard to get rid of because she was lonely. A born victim, like the girl in Lange's car.

And like Lange's girl she was pretty. Twenty-eight or thereabouts, tall, full-bodied, her hair cut short and dyed so black that it looked blue in the lamplight, and grave brown eyes that had seen very little to laugh at for a long, long time; yet her mouth was wide and apt for laughter, twitching up at the corners at Diamond's heavy-handed jokes. She wore a red dress with no back to it, and neat, expensive, patent-leather shoes. No wedding ring. Face, figure, and clothes combined to make her by far the best-looking girl in the club, but she didn't let it bother her. She had come there to drink, and laugh with Michael Diamond. Craig liked her for that, and tore himself away from his memories for a brief while, and tried to be pleasant. She seemed to expect him to dance with her, and from time to time he did so. When they danced, Diamond talked to the waitress.

There were three men at the next table. Two of them were young and big, and dressed to kill in dark Italian suits and Chelsea boots. The third was nearing thirty, with the build and aggression of a successful middleweight. He wanted to dance with Tessa. This seemed reasonable enough to Craig, since Tessa was attractive sexually and danced very well. But the middleweight had a mean mouth, and Diamond was a friend of hers and this man who called himself John Reynolds was attractive in a new and puzzling way she didn't understand. She preferred to stay where she was, soothed by Diamond's inexhaustible chatter and trying to prod his friend into an awareness of herself.

Craig scarcely heard either of them. He had drunk a lot of wine and then, even by club standards, a lot of whisky. He was dimly aware that a pretty girl in a red dress with no back to it liked to dance with him and that a tireless Irishman kept yammering on about two old tramps who lived in garbage cans. The club itself was no more than a brightly lit bar, a jukebox, and slot machines, and for Craig they existed not at all. In his mind he was in Tangier, drinking Pernod with Rutter. It was 1955, and they were fighting their war all over again. They had met on vacation, and they were going to dine with two Spanish girls, and while they waited they talked, nostalgic for the triumphs they had known, and the risks without which triumph was impossible. Cautiously, Craig had worked the talk around to gun-running, and Rutter had almost wept, so grateful was he for the chance to be a hero again. He never knew that Craig had hunted him out, as he had himself been hunted, followed him to Tangier, then bumped into him in a hotel bar by a remarkable accident. But it didn't really matter. How could it? Rutter had known all the risks and clamored for his share, and more than his share. For Rutter life had been a task so irksome that he preferred to get it over with, to attack it all the time. It had been good in that bar, cool and dim, with Arab music playing very softly on tape.

Tessa was saying, "Are you really an accountant?" "Yes," said Craig. "What do you do then?" "Account," he said.

Rutter. Baumer. Charlie Green. And perhaps Alice too. One way and another, he had quite a bit of accounting to do.

"Your life must be very dull sometimes," Tessa said. Craig smiled then.

"No," he said. "Not dull. Busy."

"Did you ever see the one about the two loonies?" asked Diamond.

"No," said Tessa. Then to Craig, "Come and dance again."

The middleweight came over and once more asked her to dance. She shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm with these two gentlemen."

"Leave them," the middleweight said.

"One of them's had electric-shock treatment," Diamond said. "He gets pally with a tramp." He looked at the middleweight. "Tessa's with us," he said. "She doesn't want to dance with you. She wants to dance with John." He turned away again. "These days there's a hell of a lot of tramps about in the theater. Not that I'm objecting, mind you. I don't say I could understand it, but it was all very dramatic."

"My name's Eddy Lishman," said the middleweight.

Craig looked at him in disgust. While he stood there arguing, he couldn't think about Rutter.

Diamond said, "I don't care who you are. She doesn't want to dance."

But his hand was shaking as he picked up his glass. "No. It's all right," said Tessa.

She smiled at Craig and went to Lishman's arms. He danced with a cruel, aggressive skill, as if dancing were a prelude to rape.

Craig watched him glumly. Lishman would make Diamond fight for his girl, and Diamond would lose. It was too bad. He liked Diamond.

"Used to be a fighter," Diamond was saying. "Now he's in business. Betting shops mostly. Keeps a few girls too. Or so they say. He's a bad one, right enough. You'd better get off out of it, John."

"Me?" said Craig. "It's got nothing to do with me. What about your girl? You should get her out of here."

"She isn't my girl," said Diamond. "I wish she was- but I wouldn't dare take her away. Lishman knows where to find me."

"We'd better have another drink," Craig said.

He bought two more, and Lishman brought Tessa back to their table, and sat down with them. The two young men came over too, and Lishman bought everybody another drink. The talk turned at once to betting, and Craig audibly groaned. Lishman banged down his glass.

"I've bought you a drink, haven't I?" he asked.

"Yes," said Craig.

"And I haven't bothered you, have I?"

"No," said Craig.

"What's the matter then?"

"Gambling bores me," Craig said.

The girl Tessa put her hand on his sleeve in warning.

"Do you mean I'm boring you?" asked Lishman softly.

"Yes," said Craig.

The two young men looked at once to Lishman, and when he laughed they laughed too. Craig's madness was privileged; he was court jester.

Carefully Craig got to his feet and went to the washroom. He spent a long time running cold water over his face, and cursing his foolishness. If Lishman hadn't laughed, he'd have had to fight him. It would have been very gratifying to fight with Lishman. It would also have been stupid. After a while he went back into the club, drank a cup of black coffee at the bar, and took another back to the table.

"What's up with you now?" Lishman asked.

"I think I've had too much to drink," Craig said, and the middleweight roared his delight.

Craig said to Tessa, "I'd like to dance."

She hesitated, but Lishman graciously waved his assent.

Craig took her in his arms and she said at once, "You'd better go home. Now. Take Michael with you." "What about you?" Craig asked. "I'll go when I'm ready," she said. "Do you think he'll let you?"

She shrugged. "Michael doesn't know this-but he's bothered me before."

The hand that held his began to shake. "It doesn't do to turn him down too often. He's dangerous."

"He looks as if he thinks he is," Craig said.

"I mean it," said Tessa. "He's got a terrible temper. He nearly kills people if they cross him."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yes, it is," she said, and shook him with protective impatience. "He had a fight with a man called Harry Corner-anybody here will tell you. He put Harry in the hospital. And Harry's tough, believe me."

"How disgusting," said Craig.

"Oh my God, can't you sober up?'" she whispered. "He thinks you're funny now, but if you made him angry- you think it's just like the telly, I suppose? Something you sit down and watch then switch off when you've had enough? Well you can't, believe me you can't. Michael should never have brought you here. You'd better go- and take him with you. I'll try to keep him here till you've gone. If one of his boys follows you, you yell, darling. And keep on yelling. You might find a brave policeman."

"All right," Craig said. "I'll go. But Diamond will have to make his own arrangements."

The girl flinched from him then, but Craig shrugged off her disgust, scarcely aware that it existed. Two weak people were at the mercy of a strong one; it wasn't his

business. That was to survive, and to achieve that end he did not dare get involved.

The dance ended, and she led Craig back to the table.

"Now do as I tell you," she whispered. "Finish your drink and go home."

He sat down and sipped at another cup of scalding coffee. Lishman said, "Say something else. Make me laugh."

"I've had a really enjoyable evening, but I think I ought to be getting along," said Craig.

"Quite," said Lishman. "Oh, abso-bally-lutely."

He roared with laughter, and looked at Tessa. Very unwillingly, she smiled.

Diamond was in agony. Craig got to his feet.

"Well," he said, "it's been nice meeting you."

Lishman laughed again, and slapped Tessa on the thigh, then deliberately squeezed it through the thin cloth until the girl gasped.

"I don't want you to leave us yet, Mr. Reynolds," he said. "We're having too much fun. I tell you what. Let's go to my place. I'll phone a few girls and we'll have a real party. What do you say, darling?"

"Oh yes," Tessa said brightly. "I'd like that very much."

Diamond said, "I don't think I'll be able to come."

"That's all right," Lishman said. "I'm not asking you. You can shove."

"I haven't finished my drink," said Diamond.

"Oh yes you have," Lishman said, and threw it in his face.

Craig reminded himself, even more firmly, that this wasn't his problem. It was no business of his if Diamond was thrown out, the girl he liked taken away. There were plenty of girls, and humiliation was even more plentiful, but it never killed anybody. He watched Diamond go, watched Tessa sent to fetch her coat, and finished his coffee.

"I really think I'd better go too," he said. "I don't feel like a party tonight."

"Now that's enough of that," Lishman said. "I'm having a party and you're coming, so wrap up."

His voice was still genial, but there was a warning in it now, a raw edge of violence he found it unnecessary to hide. Craig stayed still. It would be a very bad idea to go to Lishmans party, but he didn't want a scene in public. When Tessa came back, he got to his feet. The two young men in Italian suits correctiy interpreted a glance from Lishman, and stood one on each side of Craig. With his guard of honor he walked across the club floor, up the basement steps, and into the empty street. Lishman's Jaguar was parked twenty feet away. Craig turned, and the two young men moved in closer.

"I have to go now," Craig said.

The two young men took him by the arms.

"Mr. Reynolds," said Lishman, "you're coming to my party. Believe me."

Then Lishman did something stupid. He struck Craig in the face, once, then again; hard, open-handed blows.

Immediately, as if it were a reflex, Craig kicked him in the crotch, kicked with the appalling strength and accuracy that Hakagawa had taught him so patiendy. Lishman screamed and doubled up, and as he did so, Craig moved, swinging the young men around, freeing one arm, tripping the man who held the other. The first man struck at him as he turned, catching him on the shoulder. Craig staggered and clipped him on the throat with the edge of his hand, but the blow was mistimed and the young man swayed, but stayed on his feet. The second young man leaped in with a blackjack, and Craig swerved from the blow, locked his arm, and threw him on top of Lishman. The first young man produced tough young manhood's cliche of terror, a switch knife, and came in again. For a few seconds he and Craig danced beneath the street lights, then the young man leaped, and Craig's hand, accurate as a cobra, seized the knife wrist, levered, and pulled. This time he held on to the wrist as he threw, and the young man screamed as his wrist broke, then lay still. The first one, who had banged his head on the curb, lay draped over Lishman. There were no interruptions from the club, no spectators on the stairs. Craig straightened his clothes, picked up his bowler hat, and looked at Tessa, who had stayed immobile since the fight began.

"You," he said. "What am I going to do about you?"

He took her arm, and walked her past Lishman, who was still groaning. The girl hesitated.

"Shouldn't you do something about him?" she asked.

Craig's still drunken mind sought for an explanation. At last he said, "There's nothing to do. He lost."

She could feel his hand tight on her arm as he walked her back to Tottenham Court Road, and a taxi. When one came, he still held on to her until she got in, then quickly sat beside her.

"I shan't run away," Tessa said, and kissed him.

Craig returned the kiss with automatic passion, but as he did so, he thought of the girl only as a means of escape. Where could he go now, except to where she lived? She had seen him too closely to be left alone, and the name Reynolds was known now; he could be traced. That she wanted him was, for the moment, useful, but her enthusiasm was unlikely to last for long.

She lived in a flat in Holland Park, but they went first to the Rowena. When he went inside, he took her purse with him. He told the night porter of a sudden death in the Midlands, and his urgent need to be gone. While his bill was made out, he packed, and when he had paid, got back in the cab where Tessa waited, and gave her back her purse.

"You needn't have done that," she said.

"I don't want to humiliate you," said Craig. "I just can't afford to let you run away."

"I don't want to run away," she said. "After all you've done for me-"

"I did nothing for you," said Craig. "You'd better realize that. What I did, I did for myself. You just happened to be there."

Tessa smiled in the darkness of the cab. Already she had decided that he was too modest, and hated praise. That was something she'd have to attend to. A man like this one didn't need to be modest.

In her flat she left him to make the coffee he asked for, and Craig allowed himself one more cautious drink. The whisky burned, but gently. His head stayed clear as he looked at her living room. A Canaletto print, not quite straight, above the fireplace, a big wooden settee, covered in striped silk and scratched down one leg, a Spode vase crammed full of daffodils. Pretty room, pretty girl, but without purpose, both of them. Drifting along because drifting was easier than putting things right. There was no sound from the kitchen, and Craig put down his glass and went to the door. From the room opposite there came a soft click, then the whispered chatter of a telephone dial spinning. Craig crossed to the room and went in.

It was her bedroom. Tessa was standing by the phone at her bedside. She wore a nightgown of white nylon, sheer, thin stuff that made the rich cream of her skin dark and glowing. As she turned to face him, the light from the bed shone full on her, and he could see the firm maturity of her body, already tense and eager for him. He moved quickly to her, and his left hand came down on the receiver rest, his right took the receiver from her and replaced it.

"No," said Craig.

"I was just ringing Michael Diamond," she said. "To make sure he's all right."

"He will be. He got out in time," Craig said.

He was standing very close to her, and she moved into the hard barrier of his arms, her hands came up and embraced his neck. Her kiss was an act of pure submission, but when she had done, he continued to hold her, not moving, not touching.

"Darling," said Tessa. "What's wrong? What have I done?"

"You said something about coffee," said Craig. "I'd like some coffee."

She took his hand and pressed it to one firm breast. Its point was as hard as a ruby.

"Would you?" she said. "Would you really?"

"Yes," said Craig. "I would."

She pushed past him, dragged on a dressing gown, and slammed into the kitchen. Craig took off his coat and lay on the wide, soft bed, listening to the crash of crockery viciously handled. She came back at last with a tray and banged it down on the bedside table, then hauled off his shoes.

"It's my bed," she said. "I don't want it dirty." She poured coffee for him, lit a cigarette, and put it in his mouth.

"There," she said. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Stop waiting on me," said Craig. "I don't own you."

He sat up on the bed and sipped the coffee. It was good coffee. Tessa flushed, and her hp trembled for a moment, but she felt again the sudden, overwhelming need for this man, sensing the strength in him that would go through and beyond passion to the firm security of love.

"That crack about my bed," she said. "I didn't mean you would make it dirty." Craig said nothing. "Michael told you about me, I suppose? The way I drift around, and sometimes I drink too much and get lonely and some man picks me up? It doesn't happen very often, honesty, and it doesn't mean anything when it does." Still he said nothing. "Please," said Tessa. "Please. Won't you help me at all?"

"I am helping you," said Craig. "I don't want you to get hurt. And that's what's going to happen if you go on like this."

"Surely that's up to me?" said Tessa.

"I believe what you told me," he said at last. "Diamond said you're a wonderful woman but you've had too much bad luck. I believe that too."

"Well then," she said, and her hands went to the belt of her dressing gown, her shoulders shrugged, and it fell to the floor. Her arm reached out for the light switch, and in the darkness he heard the harsh rustle of nylon, and then she was beside him, her body firm against his, her fingers nimble with his tie, the buttons of his shirt and pants.

The soft movement of her hands on his body roused him to an urgent need, and his fingers closed strongly on her thigh, the soft curve of her belly as she stripped him. Now he could forget his loneliness and fear in the eager, skillful love she offered him. But even then he realized the danger he brought her, might perhaps have drawn back, if her mouth had not found his, her hps and tongue