by James Munro
"What did they use?" Marshall asked.
"Hard to say yet," Maynard said. "Gelignite maybe. If it was, they used a hell of a lot. In fact, I thought it was something a bit more lively at first. Plastic stuff maybe. The blast waves were all wrong for dynamite."
"It wasn't TNT?" Marshall asked.
Maynard said, "The detonation would be too difficult. You need something with a big impact for that, like a bomb or a shell."
He settled back with the contentment of a man who knows he's going to say something good, and his big, capable hands, deft for all their size, groped in an ancient Gladstone bag and emerged with the mangled remains of a heavy steel box and a flat cake of lead.
"The lid of the box is magnetized," he said. He nicked a paper clip at it and it snapped at once to its battered top. "Very highly magnetized. The explosive charge was inside, so that all the killer had to do was clamp it to the underside of the car beneath the driver's seat. Then a piece of cord was run from the box and this lead weight was attached to its other end. As you can see, it's very heavy." He tossed it up in the air. "The weight was balanced on the exhaust pipe of the car. When the-"
Thomas said, "But surely that's impossible? I mean, look at the shape of it."
Maynard chuckled. "It was the right shape when it started," he said. "We found it embedded in a brick." He beamed at them; talking about explosives always made him happy.
"When the car's engine was switched on," he continued, "the vibration shook the lead loose, and the resultant pull on the cord detonated the charge inside. The results of that you've seen for yourselves."
His voice was now a lecturer's, primly impersonal, and Marshall looked at him, astonished. He had been the first to see the body. In the past he'd seen men shot, burned, knifed, battered to death, but he had never in his life seen anything so appalling as the twisted remains of that body. Below the waist it had ceased to exist, and the head had been completely smashed by impact with the windshield of the car. After that there had been the fire… The man had died immediately, but the dismemberment of a human being was so cruel in itself that it had haunted his nightmares for the last two nights. He turned to Thomas.
"Anything you want to say, Doctor?" he asked.
Thomas waited for a count of three before answering, as he always did.
"There is very little I can tell," he said at last. "Obviously he was killed outright by any number of things, all of them lethal. I found a fractured skull, a broken neck, several arteries severed, at least a dozen bones broken, and a steering-wheel rib driven through his heart. No one ever died more quickly."
Thomas turned to Marshall. "How will you prove identification?" he asked.
"Clothes and shoes," Marshall said. "The bits we got were Craig's all right. Hand-made stuff. I've had them identified."
Thomas nodded.
"I see," he said. "Do you need me for anything else?" Marshall said no, and he left.
Maynard explained how the container had been made wider at the top than at the bottom, and the magnetized lid much thinner than the rest of it. In that way the main force of the explosion struck straight up at the driver.
"A little beauty," said Maynard, then added, "the bastard."
Hoskins looked up from his notebook in surprise. He had never before heard Maynard criticize an effective explosion.
"He didn't care who got it, did he?" Maynard asked. "Craig could have had half a dozen kids aboard. Anybody. For all this sod cared, they could all go, just so long as Craig went with them. I know it's stupid to hate in our business, but this time I can't help it."
"What do you make of it?" Marshall asked.
Maynard shrugged. "There you've got me, boy. That's your problem, thank heaven. I've given you the modus operandi, the rest is up to you. Fancy a beer?"
"Yes," said Marshall, "but the chief wants to see me."
"Ah," said Maynard. "I'll be over in the Grapes if you've got time."
Marshall followed him out, knocked on the oak door of the chief constable's room, and went in as soon as he heard the unintelhgible growl from inside.
"Sit down, Inspector," Chief Constable Seddons said, and Marshall sat, with that strange combination of strength and primness that never left him. He and the chief constable fitted perfectly into that bare, aseptic office, and Marshall began to relax without knowing why.
"This Craig business," the chief said. "How's it shaping up?"
Marshall told himl There was no point in evasions and both men knew it. Marshall talked clearly and economically, telling how he had found the body, the shambles of the garage, the continued unconsciousness of Mrs. Craig who, according to Dr. Brady, was abominable. He described the bomb, and how it worked, and his interview with Sir Geoffrey. Then he reported on his progress. Stolidly, in the same economical way, he told the chief that there was no progress to report. Craig had been a man with dozens of acquaintances and no friends, a man who lived for his work, a man whose only private possessions were a handful of snapshots and a judo belt. "You checked on that?"
Marshall nodded. "None of the local judo clubs owns him, sir. Hoskins is looking into it now. He says the black belt's the best there is. And he should know, sir. He's pretty good at it himself." He paused. "I've been flunking, sir. I'd like to get in touch with the Admiralty about his background."
The chief said, "I've already done that."
Marshall scowled then, unable to hide his anger.
"I know I shouldn't have," the chief said. "And I'm sorry I had to do it, Inspector, but I had no choice. You'll see why in a minute, but you'd better read this first."
He handed a typed foolscap sheet to Marshall.
It read: "To Chief Constable. From: Admiralty Record Office. Transcribed Telephone Report.
"John Craig joined the Royal Navy in 1941, as a volunteer, at the age of seventeen. Trained at Devonport. Showed outstanding ability in the handling of small boats. Outstanding also in the use of small arms and unarmed combat. After one voyage in a destroyer, went to the Special Boat Service in the Mediterranean, where he stayed for the remainder of war. Promoted Leading Seaman, Petty Officer, Sub-Lieutenant, Lieutenant. Promotion from petty officer to commissioned officer unusual, but justified (a) by a shortage of officers, (b) by Lieutenant Craig's remarkable abilities.
"Lieutenant Craig was twice decorated (D.S.O., D.S.C.) and three times mentioned in dispatches. He took part in seventeen major raids against the enemy in Greece, Italy, and North Africa, was twice captured and twice escaped. All the boats he commanded inflicted severe damage on the enemy. (Details withheld. Their information is still partially secret.)
"Lieutenant Craig is a man of outstanding courage and very high intelligence. (By the end of the war he was fluent in French, Italian, and Greek, proficient in Arabic and German.) All the officers and men with whom he served were impressed by his qualities as a man of action."
Marshall put the paper back on the chief's desk and waited.
"Is there anything you want to ask me?" Seddons asked.
Marshall hesitated. The memo had given him enough to gamble on, no more. At last he said, "The bomb, sir. Inspector Maynard gave me a list of things it might have been."
Seddons said, "Well?"
Marshall said, "I think it was plastic, sir." This time the chief didn't smile; he grinned. "Why?" he asked.
"Craig ran a shipping line," said Marshall. "His ships were tramps. They sailed up the Baltic, picked up cargo all over the place, then moved down through the North Sea, into the Atlantic-France, Spain-then on into the Mediterranean. Here's a typical run, sir." He took a notebook from his pocket. "This is the Rose of Tralee last year. Danzig, Hamburg, Antwerp, Rabat. Rabat is in Morocco, sir. In Danzig the Rose of Tralee loaded agricultural machinery and shoes from Czechoslovakia. In Hamburg they took on cars, sewing machines, and sports equipment. The shoes were unloaded at Antwerp. The machinery and sports equipment went on to Rabat." Marshall paused and took a deep breath. What he was going to say no
w, what he had to say, would earn him savage mockery if he was wrong. At last he said, "I don't think his manifests told the truth. I think the agricultural machinery and the sports equipment were arms for the Algerian insurgents." Seddons said nothing, and he went on: "I don't think Sir Geoffrey Gunter knows. Craig probably gave him the flat rate for the job and kept the gun-running perks himself.
"There's another thing. Craig speaks German, French, and Arabic. And every year he went abroad for six weeks to look for customers. I think that could have been a good cover for his gun-running contacts."
"Go on," said Seddons.
"Craig was a planner. He worked things out and he had a cold nerve. Men followed his leadership too. There would have to be a man on his ships he could trust, and the man he would want would be the master. But whoever it was would trust Craig's judgment"-he tapped the memo-"if this means anything at all." "Why plastic?" Seddons asked.
"The French settlers don't like people helping the Arabs," Marshall said. "They've got their own organizations-the A.F.L. and so on. And they've also got their own terrorist groups. And they're dirty fighters. Fanatics. They've used a lot of explosives too. Mostly it's been plastic. That's why I thought-" His voice trailed off. "I'm very sorry, sir. I know this must all seem ridiculous. But it's the only thing that fits the facts."
Seddons said, "I had a man in to see me this morning. He was from the Special Branch, seconded to some cloak-and-dagger outfit I'd never heard of." He smiled with a realist's amused tolerance, and this time Marshall smiled too.
"He was looking for a man," Seddons said. "It might or might not have been Craig. He didn't know. He wasn't prepared to tell me how he was going to find out. But the man he was looking for was wanted urgently-very urgently. When I told him that Craig had been murdered he asked if he'd been plastique. You know what that means? It's French for blown up-with a plastic bomb. Pity he couldn't have got here a bit sooner." He gave Marshall a third smile.
"You've done very well," he said. "Anything else?"
"Yes, sir," said Marshall. "One more thing. I'd like to trace Mrs. Craig's brother, Charlie Green. He's the only one who visited Craig regularly, and that was to borrow money."
"You think he's mixed up in this?" Seddons asked.
"He might be," said Marshall. "Anyway, he's the only lead we've got. The Craigs' charwoman gave me a description, and he bought a motor bike a while ago. We might trace him through that. He's the sort of bloke that changes his lodgings pretty regularly. I think he might have a bit of a record, sir."
"All right, you carry on. It's your case," Seddons said. Marshall rose, then hesitated.
"There's just one more thing, sir. The Rose of
Tralee is due in Genoa tomorrow. I think someone should let her skipper know what's happened. He could be next on the list."
"Good idea," said Seddons, and Marshall went out at peace with the world. Seddons hadn't the heart to tell him that the man from Intelligence had suggested the same thing.
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.
