The man who sold death c-1

by James Munro

  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, t
hey 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 Loomi
s 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.