The man who sold death c-1

by James Munro

  "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

  CHAPTER 7

  In a room in Queen Anne's Gate, three men sat drinking coffee. One of them, Linton, was the inspector of the Special Branch who had visited Marshall's chief constable. Next to him was Grierson, an operator in a special department of Intelligence. Facing them across a desk was Loomis, a gross, sloppily dressed man, the head of Grier-son's section. It was known as Department K, a small, highly selective unit, and it was very secret indeed. Department K handled the jobs that were too dangerous to be handled by anyone else. The men who worked for it were skilled men, technicians; and utterly ruthless. They had to be, if they were to survive.

  "We should have found Craig sooner," Loomis said angrily. "He could have been a big help to us. I could have used him. Of course the French would have been annoyed."

  "Those madmen from Algeria fixed that," said Grierson.

  Loomis said, "Craig, Baumer, and Rutter were the only ones in this country who went in for this kind of nonsense. Now Craig's dead, and they got Rutter in Geneva. Baumer's disappeared. He won't try it again even if he survives, so that's all right. This isn't a good time to have a row with the French. All the same, you should have found him before you did, Linton. I wanted to see him. You should have allowed for that."

  Linton coughed warily. Loomis's nature was anything but forgiving. "It could be he isn't dead, sir," he said.

  Loomis swiveled around in his chair to face him. An enormous man, hair splashed with white, like snow on a wheatfield, and light, manic eyes. "There's no need to be

  willed him to take her. Their love was fierce yet tender, demanding yet compassionate, exhausting his body and mind of everything but his need for her. Even so, his sleep was wary.

  frightened," he said. "I've just about decided to forgive you."

  Linton said, "I'm serious, sir. I went up north again yesterday. Had a chat with Detective Inspector Marshall. His chief constable kept him on the case, sir, even after I'd told him you were against it."

  Loomis stirred vastly, and Linton hurried on. "Marshall's a pretty bright chap, I think. He's had his medical experts working on what's left of the body. It was the wrong shape for Craig, sir. Too heavy. Then there's the brother-in-law's motor scooter. It's been found, sir. Or what's left of it. It was destroyed just outside York."

  "Destroyed?"

  "Petrol tank blown up, sir. He was lucky to get the chassis number." Loomis grunted.

  "Marshall thinks the brother-in-law was killed in the car. Craig sometimes gave him his old clothes, which could account for the identification. He thinks Craig drove the scooter to York and took a train from there."

  "Where to?" Loomis asked.

  "Could be London, sir."

  "Could be Timbuktu," said Loomis. "Why London?"

  "Last night a man called Lishman was beaten up near Tottenham Court Road," Linton said. "He's in the Queen Alexandra Hospital-he'll be there for quite a while. He'll be lucky if he's ever a father again."

  "Gangster obscenities," said Loomis. "Sunday-newspaper stuff."

  "Lishman's tough," said Linton. "He had two other men to help him. They left with a fourth man and a girl from the club. The fourth man beat them stupid. It took him about five blows and thirty seconds. Then he left with the girl."

  "Sensible feller," said Loomis.

  "The general description we got could be Craig," said Linton.

  Loomis said, "Why? Because he beat up three men? You could do that. Even Grierson could. And as far as general description goes, you both look like Craig. It'll probably turn out to be Grierson having a randy night out and too shy to tell us about it."

  "Sir," said Linton. "I couldn't beat up those three. Not on my own. They were professionals. Good ones. Maybe Grierson could do it-"

  "Very decent of you," said Grierson.

  "But they'd have made a mess of him first. This lad doesn't seem to have been marked. And they're scared of him. Lishman doesn't scare easily."

  "How did he do it?" Grierson asked.

  "Judo mostly," said Linton.

  "And Craig's a black belt," Grierson said.

  "All right," said Loomis. "See if you can find the girl and have a word with her. And if it should be Craig, for God's sake go easy. I don't want him upset."

  "Don't you want us to bring him in, sir?" Linton asked.

  "I want you to ask him to come in," said Loomis. "I want you to ask him nicely. Just as well for you, really. It would look bad if he started knocking you about. People like to believe we're supermen." He looked at them with withering scorn. "All right. Get on with it."

  Philip Grierson was thirty-seven years old, with black hair, blue eyes, and a laziness of disposition that could awake sometimes into eruptive violence, all of which made him remarkably attractive to women. He was an ex-Marine Commando captain, an excellent pistol shot, and a man of quick and resourceful wit. He had also a deep and passionate belief in the importance and necessity of his job, which he did well enough to persuade Loomis to treat him with a grudging respect. Moreover, he had always, so far, delivered the goods, and had killed three men in doing so. Loomis, to his horror, found that he was beginning to rely on him.

  Linton knew very lhtle about Grierson, least of all that he had killed. It was Loomis's business to see that such things weren't known, and he conducted his business admirably, which was why he had ruled that very special department for nine years without so much as a question being asked in the House of Commons. Linton, like everyone else in the Special Branch, knew that the word

  "Special" covered a wide area of extraordinary activity. Somewhere in a bookcase in his house in Pimlico, between Stone's Justices' Manual and Moriarty's Police Law, Linton had a dictionary that defined "special" as, among other things: particular, peculiar, chief in excellence; person or thing specially appointed. Linton understood very well that Grierson was all those things but he knew also that he was easy to work with, and unlikely to fuss.

  They went to the club Craig had visited, the Lucky Seven, in Grierson's car, an elderly Lagonda whose gasoline consumption caused unending arguments with Grierson's accounts department, and occasional salutes from the more conservative type of policeman. The battlefield was calm and devoid of sightseers and the club had opened for its afternoon session when they arrived. Linton showed his warrant to a bored barmaid whose boredom vanished immediately with the realization that she had found another audience for her saga.

  Linton and Grierson listened with the stolid good manners of professionals, and heard how the man called Reynolds had looked and dressed, and had drunk a lot of whisky, then had tried to sober up on coffee. When they asked her to prov
ide a description, the barmaid said he was a smashing-looking feller, and when asked to be more specific, said he looked a bit like Grierson, only not so dark. Grierson was pleased, as always, by a tribute to his good looks; Linton assumed that the man had been menacing all along, but had masked it well, as Grierson did.

  After Linton had threatened and Grierson had sympathized, the barmaid, very reluctantly, told them where Tessa lived. Then the manager appeared, took them to his office, poured out whisky, and talked at length of the pacific and law-abiding nature of bis members, pointing out that it was a guest, an unknown, who had run amok to such effect. The window from which he had watched the conflict was to the right of his desk; the telephone which he had not used to call the police, immediately before him. Linton remarked on this, and the manager insisted that he was as pacific as his members, and so upset by the sight of the conflict as to lose all ability to communicate, had had a blackout, in fact. The manager had two parallel razor slashes on his right cheek. Grierson and Linton drank more of his whisky, then went to call on Tessa Harling.

  She, well groomed and pretty in a nylon dressing gown, sat in her kitchen watching Craig eat grilled bacon and scrambled eggs, which she had herself superbly prepared.

  Tessa was thinking, to her immense astonishment, that she loved this man. Last night she had watched him fight with one of Nature's prime bastards, and hurt him where he, of all people, deserved to be hurt. Tessa knew he had done it for himself, not knowing or caring that she was there, but even so she loved him. He was dangerous and self-sufficient and almost certainly a criminal. None of it mattered. Soon, perhaps very soon, he would leave her because she was not clever enough or beautiful enough to hold him, and because he lived so secretly, as hunted men must. That mattered terribly, but it couldn't stop her from loving him. Nothing could do that. She had seen him fight, watched the terrible energy he had released, a cunning craft of destruction. Wherever he went, Craig carried danger with him like a bomb, but as long as he would let her, she would go too.

  Craig finished his breakfast, and offered her a cigarette. "That was fine, Tessa," he said. "The best meal I've had in weeks."