The man who sold death

CHAPTER 10

Next day he told Tessa that he was going out. It took a long, patient time to persuade her that he would be safe, and in the end she agreed because she believed that it was best for him, might even save his life. From the curtained window, he sought the man who was watching the flat, a middle-aged, serious sort of man. Bowler hat. Pipe. Financial Times. Standing by a bus stop, looking at his watch. Craig dressed in slacks, a woolen shirt, suede jacket. They went well with the beard. Then he told Tessa what she must do. He would see Grierson alone.

The man at the bus stop saw her running out of the block of flats, clutching a suitcase, her clothes disheveled, and race for a taxi. Craig, from the darkness of the hallway, watched as he hesitated, then ran for the next cab. As the two cabs turned a corner, Craig prepared to leave, but froze where he was. A Fiat followed the second cab, and there were two men inside. One of them, he was certain, had been pointed out to him in Marseilles, and afterwards he had been given photographs of him to study until he could never forget him. Pucelli. French citizen, Corsican extraction, living in North Africa. An executioner.

Craig breathed slowly and deeply until his fear subsided, then went out into the street and bought a paper, on his way to a pub which Tessa said had a telephone. He ordered a bitter, then rang the number Grierson had left.

"Grierson here." "This is Craig."

"Ah, good," said Grierson. "When can we meet?"

"Lunch," said Craig. "The Brewers' Arms. It's off Kensington High Street. One o'clock."

He hung up, and Grierson grimaced as the receiver clicked. Then he went into the kitchen, where a girl wearing his pajama top was drying eggs.

"I'm awfully sorry, darling," he said. "Something's come up."

Craig called Hakagawa next, who agreed at once to what he asked. Then he settled down with his bitter and the paper. When Tessa came in, he went out, leaving the paper behind him. The instructions he had written on it were perfecdy clear. The man with the bowler hat and the pipe was still paying off his taxi, but the Fiat wasn't there. Craig walked back to the block of flats. The Fiat was on the corner, and there was one man inside. Pucelli. Craig went in by the service entrance, took the elevator to the floor above Tessa's, and walked down with infinite care. The door was locked, and he opened it with Tessa's key, slowly, slowly, the fluttering of his heart perceptible as he did so. He drew the Luger and the chill of steel calmed him as he moved into the hall.

The man in the bedroom was taller than Pucelli, heavier, but quiet in his movements, deft and sure as he opened Craig's suitcase. Craig spoke softly in French.

"Stay still," he said, "or I'll kill you."

The man obeyed for a moment. Then, as Craig moved a step nearer, he swirled around like a great fish and charged at him, his hand clawing for the gun. Craig struck down with the gun barrel, but the man's grasping hand deflected his aim and he struck him on the shoulder. He gasped with pain but came in again, with knees and fists and feet; then his arms came around Craig, trying to pinion him. Craig's gun arm was pinned to his side, but his left hand was free, and he struck with its edge at the big man's neck. This time the man groaned aloud, and the pressure of his arms slackened; Craig struck again, slipped free, and hit the big man under the heart, then once again on the neck with a tremendous judo chop. He fell over the bed, and Craig went through his pockets, then put the money back in the suitcase, stuffed some clothes of Tessa's and his own into another case. The big man was breathing in great snoring gasps, but Craig ignored him. As he left, he put the safety lock on the door.

Once again he went down to the service entrance, and waited there till Pucelli left the Fiat and walked over to the building. Craig took a taxi to Hakagawa's house then. When Tessa came, he told her nothing, except that she must stay indoors until he returned, and that she would be perfectly safe with Hak. From there, he went to the British Museum and looked up the Glasgow University Directory. There were plenty of McLarens, and seven Ian McLarens, but only one was a thirty-nine-year-old philosophy graduate. Craig wrote down the Chelsea address and took the tube to Kensington High Street.

In the Brewers' Arms he drank bitter and ate cold roast beef and salad. Grierson was late, but as soon as he came in, a barmaid fluttered up to him like a homing pigeon.

"You're late," said Craig.

"Business, I assure you," answered Grierson, and Craig went on eating.

"Look," said Grierson. "As long as we're together, would you mind cutting out this silent man of action stuff? Not that I can stop you being rude, but it makes me angry, and that's bad for both of us."

Craig looked at him; a big man, lean, sure in his movements; hard, bloody hard under that easy manner.

"Would you like to see my teeth too?" asked Grierson.

"Is that why you've been looking for me?"

"All right. You're tough. I admit it. Now can we please get down to business?"

"Maybe. There's something I've got to know first. Are you going to take me in?"

"My dear chap, whatever gave you that idea?"

"Don't."

"Oh shut up and listen."

But the barmaid came back then, and asked which of them was Mr. Grierson, and ushered him to a phone booth.

Craig went on eating for a while, then looked around. He and Grierson were sitting at the counter, the only customers there. Most of the tables behind them were empty, and in any case there was a mirror behind the bar. Looking into it, Craig could see exactly what was happening. Tessa had told him about that too. That was why he had chosen the pub; the food was terrible. Craig ordered another bitter, and the barmaid looked at Grier-son's half-finished lunch.

"He's been gone a long time, hasn't he?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Smashin' lookin' feller, isn't he?" "On the films," said Craig. "He has to look like that. Can't help it. It's his job."

"Go on," said the barmaid. "What's his name?"

"Stark Wilde."

The barmaid looked sad.

"Never heard of him," she said.

"You will, love. Real star quality that boy's got."

"Fancy. Are you in pictures too?"

"Casting."

"I thought you might be one of them villains," said the barmaid. Craig grinned in the rich brown of his beard, and the barmaid suffered a delicious terror.

"I might be, love, if you don't leave us alone. It's

Stark's big chance if I think he's right for the part."

Grierson came back, looking worried, and the barmaid brought him more beer.

"You listen to what the gentleman tells you," she said.

Grierson nodded and smiled, unheeding, and she went to the other end of the bar, ready to snap at anyone who might interrupt the progress of the British screen.

"I've got bad news," said Grierson.

"No novelty," Craig said.

"For God's sake, stop it. That girl friend of yours-.her flat-"

"What about it?"

"There was a bomb inside. It went off." Craig drank bitter. "They've found a body." Craig wiped his hps. "Well?"

"Well what?" Craig asked.

"Your girl-"

"She's out," said Craig. "Away. Staying with friends. The body's name's Cadella. Jean-Marie Cadella. Six feet two, I should think, and fourteen stone. Scar on right temple. He was with a man called Carlo Pucelli. Pucelli must have got away. Pity."

"You're sure?" asked Grierson.

"I found Cadella in the flat," said Craig. "Pucelli waited outside in the car. I'd seen him before. It wouldn't do me any good if I forgot what he looked like."

"Did you know he'd planted a bomb?"

Craig shrugged.

"I knew it was possible. I didn't wait to find out." He drank more bitter. "What do we do now?"

"I want you to come and meet somebody," said Grierson.

"Your boss?" Grierson nodded. "Is he the one who's going to help me?" "Yes," said Grierson.

"All right," Craig said. "But he'll have to do better than he's done so far."

In Queen Anne's Gate, Loomis waited, sipping more of his terrifying coffee, while Grierson introduced Craig. Then Loomis did an unprecedented thing. He stood up, shook hands with Craig, and offered him a cigar, and scowled only slightly when Craig took it. Grierson thought Loomis must want Craig very badly. Craig thought so too, as he looked around the first-floor room with its superb stucco ceiling, sash windows, Chippendale desk, and overstuffed armchairs covered in flowered chintz. Grierson brought him coffee and he sank back at his ease. Whatever was going on, he'd been brought to the top man. Somewhere in all this there might be a deal for Tessa. He enjoyed his cigar as Grierson told Loomis about the body in Tessa's flat.

"You can prove this?" Loomis asked.

Craig handed over the wallet, gun, and traveler's checks he'd taken from Cadella, and Loomis pawed them happily.

"I've had a man looking at the ruins," he said. "They got a bit too fancy this time. The bomb was under the bed. It had some sort of time detonator on it. Set to go off at three this morning. They thought you might as well die happy. Trouble was, they didn't set it right."

"They shouldn't have set it at all." said Craig. "Your boy scouts need a bit more woodcraft."

Loomis quelled Grierson's objections with an imperious flipper. "You're not being altogether fair," he said. "That clown disguised as Third Secretary to the Ministry of Dither and Footle wasn't one of ours. We had him on loan from-er-elsewhere."

Even now, Loomis thought, Linton would be wreaking terrible vengeance, and there'd be more when he heard about the Corsicans.

"We're very short-handed, do you see," he said.

"You must be," said Craig.

Loomis flushed a savage and unpleasing mauve, and struggled for twenty seconds before he regained his temper. Grierson thought it might turn out to be a pretty decent afternoon.

"You think our friends got at you through whoever was watching the house?" he gasped at last. Craig nodded. "But how could they?"

"They'd go to my house," said Craig. "They'd see a lot of policemen and reporters there, so they'd say they were reporters too. Then they'd find out Security was on to it.

They'd find out about Tessa. Then all they had to do was watch the blokes who were watching me."

"You gave yourself away at the Lucky Seven," Loomis said.

"Just as well for you I did," said Craig. "You'd never have got on to me otherwise. Now what's the proposition?"

"You do a job for us and we'll help you get away. There'll be money in it as well."

"Never mind the money. I've got enough. What about Tessa?"

"We'll get her out too."

"What's the job?"

"Cadella and Pucelli worked for a man called St. Briac," said Loomis.

"Colonel Pierre-Auguste Lucien de St. Briac," said Craig.

"You've met him?"

Craig shook his head. "If I had one of us would be dead."

Loomis said, "He's a dangerous man. Very dangerous. The whole bloody lot in Algeria are madmen, but St. Briac's raving. He's trying to drag us into his war. He thinks it's about time we had a go at the Arabs too. Did you know that?"

"No," said Craig.

"Well, he does," said Loomis. "He's stirring up trouble for us in the Middle East wherever he can. Jordan, Oman, Aden, Iraq, anywhere where there's British interests. And God knows, where there's oil there's trouble. He's had politicians beaten up so that they nearly died, and used that to start riots-three this year already. The last one cost eleven dead. Three of them were women. Two were kids. And he's going to go on doing it until we're in an Arab war as deep as the French are."

"But why on earth-" Craig began.

"The way he sees it, the Arabs will unite-and I dare say he's right-so he thinks we should unite too. The French can't lick the Algerians on their own. They need help. He thinks we're the ones who should help them."

"We'll never do it," said Craig.

"Of course not, but we'll have a hell of a time keeping out after what he's done," said Loomis. "He's made sure we've taken the blame for everything he's done."

"Why not just deny it? Say it was him?"

"The Arabs would never believe us. Why should they? They've got the evidence he left. Payoffs in five-pound notes, British arms and ammunition, letters and pamphlets from British fascist organizations. It's not easy to deny that sort of thing and be convincing when you're doing it. Especially when the people you're trying to convince want to believe it's all your fault anyway."

"Complain to the French," said Craig.

"We have," said Loomis. "Oh, brother, we have. But St. Briac's nobody. Nobody official, that is. They chucked him out of the Army for brutality. Officially, French Intelligence has never heard of him-and unofficially half of them give him all the help he needs. They've even had the blasted nerve to tell us they can't trace him, and all the time he's got an H.Q. in Nice. The Society for the Solution of the Algerian Problem, it's called. And it's got two aims, two ideas. One is dragging this country into their war and the other is what they call the exclusion of undesirable influences. By undesirable influences he means you and blokes like you, and by exclusion he means murder, and he's bloody good at it. You're the first one he's missed twice. He got Rutter first time off."

"You want me to kill him," Craig said.

"Yes," said Loomis, "I do. I've tried everything else and it hasn't worked. The Middle East's a powder magazine and he's sitting in the middle of it, giggling away and tossing matches. My orders are to stop him. How I do it is up to me. But you need him dead, son."

"Why can't he do it?" Craig asked, nodding at Grierson.

"Ah," said Loomis, "I thought you'd ask that. St. Briac's a bit tricky to get at. Bodyguards and all that. I mean, you can't just ring up and make an appointment and shoot him in the tripes. You've got to reach him. Now that should be a piece of cake for you. He's been trying to reach you for weeks. All you've got to do is tell him you want to make a deal and you're home and dried. Then there's another thing. You want to kill him."

"You've already said that," said Craig.

"It'll stand a repeat," said Loomis. "He killed Lange. He killed Rutter. Sooner or later he'll kill Baumer too. He's nearly killed your wife and had two goes at you and one at your girl friend. Killing him's the only way you'll get any peace."

"I could run," said Craig.

"Not any more." Loomis coughed, delicately for him, an eruptive gurgle into a square foot of white lawn. "You see what I mean, don't you, son? We've got to get St. Briac. And if we can't have you for executioner, we'll have you for bait."

Craig said nothing.

"There's another thing too," said Loomis. "You're a natural for the job. You've killed before. You're neat and quick and quiet, so the Navy says, and you get on with it. You've worked at it too. Worked bloody hard. Black belt. Karate. And you can use a pistol too." Craig nodded. "Oh you'll do a grand job. You know, son, when you cut out all the balls about duty and survival, I think you enjoy it."

Craig took it without a word.

"So there you are," said Loomis. "What do you say?"

"There's another thing too," Craig said. "If I get killed myself trying to do it, nobody can say I'm one of your lot, can they? It'll all be blamed on the gun-running."

"Exactly," said Loomis, and beamed at Grierson. "Shrewd as well," he added. "He's so good it's creepy." He turned back to Craig. "We've got you now, son. We aren't going to let you go."

"I want to think," Craig said.

"How long?"

"Tomorrow. It'll keep till tomorrow."

"Just as you like," Loomis said. "We'll lunch at my club. You can tell me all about it then." He levered himself up from his chair. "There's just one thing. We'd like to give you a checkup. Do you mind coming downstairs?"

"No, I don't mind," said Craig. "But there's something I'd like to know first."

"I'll do my best," Loomis said.

"Just who the hell will I be working for if I do it?" "This is Department K of M.I.6," said Loomis. "We're a sort of sump really. Whatever comes in is filtered through the pipeline, and we collect the dregs; the stuff that's too dirty for anybody else to handle. All very unofficial, naturally. Nobody knows about us and nobody wants to know. Our sort of job is usually pretty nasty, you see. This one's nasty. But I have to do something about it. It's important, son."

They went down to the cellars in an old and cautious elevator, and on the way out Loomis motioned to Craig to go first. The floor and walls were of hard, dark stone, and the fluorescent light flickered unevenly. Craig walked along the passage in the half-dark, and Loomis and Grierson lagged farther behind. He turned a corner, and a pistol crashed like thunder in the stone-enclosed space, a bullet wheeped savagely past him, then spanged in whining ricochet from the wall. Craig dived to the floor, then rolled over and over to the darkest corner. Already he had seen the bulk of the man who had fired. His own gun roared once, and again, then suddenly more lights came on and he saw what he had aimed at was a dummy.

Loomis and Grierson came around the corner, and Loomis chuckled, a smug, fat sound.

"You're quick, son," he said. "Let's see if you're accurate."

Grierson walked to the dummy, a cheap, tailor's window creation, with the shoulders of a heavyweight and the face of Bardot.

"Gorgeous, isn't it?" Loomis asked.

He looked at it more closely. There were two small holes, four inches apart, near where the heart should have been.

"You're good, son," he said. "You must be. One might have been a fluke, but two-I should have met you years ago. You really do enjoy it, don't you? You come into the cellar and some bloke pops off at you, and what do you do? Yell for the finest police in the world? Ask me what the hell I'm playing at? Write to your M.P.? Not you. You fire back. And I bet you squeezed that trigger before you even knew what you were doing."

He patted Craig's shoulder with unashamed pride of possession, as a man might pat a Sheraton sideboard he'd found in a junk shop.

"Fast as a computer, son, and all done by reflexes."

"You're right," Craig said. "I didn't stop to think. If I had I might have been killed. How did I know you were what you said you were?" He glanced down at Loomis's massive hand, which was still on his shoulder, a hand the size and color of a ham.

"You bastard," he said.

Loomis said, "I knew you'd get to like me. Everybody does. Through here."

They went then into a gym, the floor covered by a padded judo mat, where two men in track suits, two squat and muscular men, stood waiting. They had the unmistakable stamp of unarmed combat instructors, the aggressive muscularity of men who feared nothing because they'd studied the book until they knew it backwards, and the book provided for every possibility.

"I'd like you to show us what you did to that feller-" Loomis snapped his fingers.

"Lishman, sir," said Grierson.

"And his friends. These two splendid fellows can be his friends. As they're a lot better than the originals, I think you might start with your arms free. Grierson can be Lishman." He leered at Grierson. "If you don't mind, we'll assume that you've already kicked him. Otherwise he might fret. Down, Grierson."

Grierson lay down.

Craig said, "I don't think I can do it."

"Why not?" asked Loomis.

"I'd have to hurt them," Craig said.

"They're paid to take risks," said Loomis. "We all are. Start whenever you like."

Grierson, flat on the floor, marveled at Craig's swift, easy grace. The whole thing went like a ballet. The P.T.I.'s moved in, he grabbed one, threw him, and in the same movement attacked the other, knocking him out. The one he had thrown bounced in again, and again Craig threw him, this time holding on the lock he had used. The P.T.I, groaned, and lay still. Craig let him go, turning to

Loomis, and Grierson remembered his instructions and prepared to spring.

"Any more?" Craig asked, and Grierson leaped for him, grabbing his arm in a hammerlock. Craig somersaulted forward, and Grierson went with him, still clutching Craig's fist. He landed underneath, and Craig swayed aside and struck with the edge of his hand at Grierson's arm. Pain scalded across his biceps and he loosed his grip. Craig wriggled free and his arm came across Grierson's throat, pressed deeper and deeper into the windpipe. Grierson struggled for air; his eyes seemed to be ballooning in their sockets, his legs thrashed.

"Who do I have to do next?" Craig snarled at Loomis. "You?"

"No, no, I'm convinced. But we had to see for ourselves. You must see that. You might let poor Grierson breathe a little."

Craig got up then, and hauled Grierson to his feet. For a while he had to told him up, but at last Grierson could breathe without feeling that every breath was being forced through a throat choked with steel wool.

Loomis said, "You're slipping, Grierson." Then to the P.T.I.'s, "You're all slipping."

One of them was silent; he was still unconscious. The other, murder in his eyes, said, "Yes, sir."

Loomis slapped Craig on the back.

"Come on," he said. "I think you're entitled to a drink."

Farther into the cellars was a small, luxurious bar. Loomis went behind it and mixed pints of black velvet, the Guinness drawn from the wood, the champagne uncorked with the minimum of fuss.

Craig looked at his tankard suspiciously.

"What's in this lot?" he asked. "Spanish fly?"

"Please," said Loomis. "I'm completely satisfied, and I'm sure Grierson is too. Aren't you, Grierson?"

Grierson croaked "Yes" and let the soothing chill of his drink caress his throat.

"I worry, you see," said Loomis. "I have to worry. That's why I try things out first. I never tried out one like you before. I never thought I'd get the chance."

"I don't think there are any more like me," Craig said.

"If there are, I'm sorry for them. Look. I made a hell of a lot of money out of arms. A hundred thousand quid." Loomis whistled. "But you don't make that sort of money and then just live happily ever after. At least I didn't." Craig drank more black velvet, hesitated, then continued: "I knew I was on their list two years ago. I knew I was due to die. That's why I kept on with judo. You've no idea how difficult that was. I had to drive twenty miles to practice-I didn't even dare to let it be talked about where I lived. It was too big a lead. Then there was the pistol. The only way you're good with a gun is practice, again, and that wasn't easy either." He sighed. "I made money all right, and I enjoyed making it. I didn't worry too much about where it came from. No. That's not true. I didn't worry at all. But it didn't bring me any happiness. I didn't worry about that, either. Not till now. I'd made my choice, and my money, and I didn't kick about it. I just got ready for trouble. I didn't think it would be Alice and that poor bloody brother of hers who'd get it." He looked at his drink. "I didn't think champagne could make me so miserable," he said.

"That's the stout," said Loomis. "What are you going to do now?"

"See my girl," said Craig. "If you don't mind."

"Why on earth should I?" asked Loomis. "We're all heteros here. Anything else?"

"I want to see a man called McLaren." When Loomis asked why, he tried to explain. "I met him in Sicily," he said, and told them what had happened.

"All right, it's a good story, but what do you want to see him for?" Loomis asked.

"You hear a lot about things that change people's lives-Reader's Digest stuff-and I'm not blaming McLaren for what happened to mine, but he was the only one who ever saw what I was and what I could make of myself. I want to see if he's done it too."

"Done what?" asked Grierson.

Craig struggled with unfamiliar ideas, ideas that had nothing to do with bills of lading, or manifests, or the maintenance of small arms.

"He told me what the world was going to be like, and he was right. About the world anyway. I did what he said I ought to do. I don't mean that it was his fault. I just did it. I'd like to know if he went in for teaching. Somehow I can't help feeling that he wanted to go the same way as me."

"Suppose he hasn't?" Loomis asked.

Craig shrugged.

"It won't make any difference; it's too late for that. I just want to know." Again he struggled for words. "Look. I'd done a lot of things before I met him. I've done a hell of a lot more since. And I never dream about them. Never. But I do dream about that bloody rest camp, and his singing, and me watching those poor bastard soldiers dancing under the moon. I want to know what he's like now."

"Does he know your name?" Loomis asked. Craig shook his head.

"He just knew me as John. I only found out his name because he introduced himself to the Jocks."

Loomis grunted, and meditated. After a while he said, "That seems to be all right. But I'd like you to tell somebody else about it before I make any decisions."

"Who?"

Loomis peered at him shyly. "A psychiatrist," he said.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" Craig asked. "I don't want to kill him. I just want to talk to him."

"I don't care if you're crazy or not," said Loomis. "I want you the way you are. If you think you're a teapot, you're going to go on thinking you're a teapot till the job's finished. And talking to McLaren may make a difference. I couldn't risk that." He turned to Grierson. "Go and get Wetherly," he said.

Wetherly joined them in the bar. He was small, rosy, and bland, a pared-down Pickwick, and he drank a pint of black velvet and heard about McLaren, while Loomis stayed in the background and read a much-used paperback called Death in Purple Garters. After a while the psychiatrist left Craig, and dragged Loomis away from his book.

"It's always the same," he complained. "You want the answer in minutes when it takes me days to find out what the question is."

Loomis peered vaguely at the book's front cover. The purple garters were there, all right. There superbly, in fact.

"All right," Wetherly snapped. "He's sane enough, but he's under a great emotional strain, most probably fear. The man McLaren is important to him in a way I find it hard to explain. You might say that he represents for him a sort of super-Craig-a realization of all Craig's aspirations and needs."

"Never mind the codology," said Loomis. "This is urgent."

Wetherly sighed.

"Now he's not so sure. He's beginning to suspect that McLaren wanted to take his own advice." "So?"

"Craig's ashamed of himself. He's failed all along the line."

"He's made a fortune. Mind like a razor, and he could crush you with one hand. How on earth can he have failed?"

Wetherly sighed.

"You use the same words as I do, but they all have a different meaning," he said. "He's failed with his wife, failed with his friends, he thinks he may fail with his girl. He's a very violent man. People who come close to him get hurt."

"So long as I can pick the people," said Loomis. "What's this got to do with McLaren?"

"If he's a sort of super-Craig, and he's failed too, Craig won't feel so bad. If he's succeeded-"

"How do you mean-succeeded?"

"Craig thinks he may be a schoolteacher. In Craig's estimation, that would argue a high degree of success. I shouldn't advise a meeting if he is. On the other hand, if he's what Craig would consider a failure-a meeting may be useful for your purposes."

"I'll find out what he's doing," said Loomis, still looking at the cover of the book.

"He gave me McLaren's address."

Loomis held out his hand, not looking.

"It won't make any difference," said Wetherly, "but I can assure you that that young woman's development is anatomically impossible."

Loomis looked hurt.

"We all have our dreams," he said. "We have to. Otherwise you'd be out of a job."