by James Munro
Craig said, "He won't."
"Funny bloke," said Loomis. "Ruthless, treacherous, nasty with it. Yet he thinks of himself as a gentleman. His personal honor's important to him. You should bear that in mind. It might help you to reach him." He peered at Craig, assessing his strength, his skill, the speed of his reflexes, his ability to kill. At last he sat back. He was content. "That's about it then," he said. "Unless there's anything you want?"
"I want to work with Grierson for a bit. There are one or two things I can teach him."
"Use the gym in the cellars. Anything else?"
"Pucelli. When we go, I want him arrested. Not deported. Arrested. Keep him here till we get back."
"Will do," said Loomis, and grinned. "I wish I'd met you earlier, son. I really do."
Baumer had gone to Sao Paulo, not Rio de Janeiro. Rio could wait until things cooled off. He'd read about Rutter, and being a sentimental man he'd wept for him, but otherwise he had been happy in Sao Paulo. It was gay, noisy, brash, and the sun shone all day. In time
Baumer thought he might do business there. For the present he was enjoying a holiday: going to concerts, looking at pictures, loafing in the sun. It was very pleasant to be able to do that, after a childhood in Germany, a headlong flight to North Africa, and statelessness, then more Germans, more hiding, and for a while, prison in Spanish Morocco, before he managed to reach England, start a business, meet Lange, meet Craig.
He was not surprised to read that Craig had been killed. Craig was the strongest of them all, but he was also the most vulnerable. That was why he'd made the most money, and failed to five to enjoy it. Craig had had no talent for enjoyment. Baumer was sorry about that. He'd have liked Craig to five long enough to discover the value of pleasure, as he himself was doing. But Craig all his life had been at war. For him there was neither a public nor a private peace. For him Mozart and Velasquez were no more than names, a sunset the prelude to a night raid, a woman a few minutes of vulnerable relief. Baumer, for three weeks, enjoyed them all.
After that, Cavalho found him. A girl he knew had danced with Baumer in a Sao Paulo club and had remembered him because he was generous. In the end, Baumer had to tell Cavalho and his assistant where his money was, and they killed him. After that they got drunk, and smashed his records, ripped and tore his books. The girl Baumer had danced with was given a present. She chose a golden St. Christopher.
Loomis had final instructions for them. He came in and talked to them as they lay under a sunlamp, soaking up a tan that wouldn't disgrace them on beaches where to be pale was to be conspicuous, and hence to be discussed. Their contact, Ashford, would meet them in St. Tropez and tell them exactly when St. Briac would return to Nice. After that, he would keep out of their way.
"He's bitter, you see," Loomis said. "Bit of a fairy. That's how we got on to him. He's a friend of St. Briac's 2-I-C-that Valere feller I told you about. Chaps in our line shouldn't have friends, Craig."
"I'm not in your line," Craig said, "and I'm not sorry."
"It isn't all that fragrant, is it?" Loomis said. "But I had to think of the alternative, and I told you what that was. Certainly mass murder and very possibly war. So I put the squeeze on him, just like I did with you. I didn't have much choice, son."
"You've met him then?"
Loomis shook his head.
"Grierson arranged the details-and Grierson's going to tell Ashford he's working for you. This is an amateur's job. Grierson's just a gentleman crook you met in the old days in Tangier."
"You were very sure I'd help you," Craig said.
"It made very little difference," said Loomis. "We'd have done it in your name, whatever happened. Now I've promised Ashford that La Valere won't be touched, or rather you've promised him-unless it's absolutely unavoidable. La Valere's nothing without St. Briac, anyway. Just another barmy para officer. As I told you, he knows how to kill but he hasn't got much brains. And anyway he's in love. We needn't bother about him.
"Duclos now, he's another matter. Ex-Algerian police. Bit of a sadist, from all accounts, and a very single-minded lad. So long as someone's there to give him orders, Duclos's dangerous. So are the bodyguards. You'll have to get past them somehow, and it won't be by bribery.
"There are two places where you might get him. One's his villa in Villefranche, the other's the Association's offices in Nice itself. Ashford's briefed you on those." He looked at Grierson, who nodded. "If you can get any more about the organization, I'll be grateful, but the important thing is that St. Briac should die. Now what sort of stuff do you want?"
"It ought to be a bomb," Craig said, "but I'm not risking that. They kill too many people. Rifle?"
"We've had a good look at him," Grierson said. "A rifle might be possible, but he's on the lookout all the time-always has people around him. The only way we can be sure of him is to get in close, and if we do that we can't carry rifles."
"Target pistol then," Craig said. "Something like a Colt Woodsman. Can you get me one?" Loomis nodded.
"Grierson has the escape route," he said. "He'll brief you on that himself. There's just one more thing. If they get hold of you, you know what will happen, don't you?" Craig nodded. "We'll give you a pill for that. If you can't use it, they'll learn all about me." He shrugged. "It'll be a nuisance, but not the end of the world. According to Her Majesty's government, Loomis doesn't exist." Still seated, he bowed, very formally, to Craig.
"Good luck, son," he said. "All the good luck in the world."
CHAPTER 13
Craig flew to Paris in an Air France Caravelle. He looked and acted like a very wealthy tourist. For one night he stayed in a hotel near the Rue de Rivoli, drank in bars in the Champs-Elysees, visited the Louvre and the Musee Rodin, the Deux-Magots, the Casino, and the Crazy Horse Saloon. He attracted girls, bought them drinks, danced with them, ditched them. When he was sure that no one followed him, he went to join Grierson and made him practice, over and over, the skills he had learned from Hakagawa. Then Grierson disappeared for a while, and came back with a case of worn black leather. Inside it were two Colt.38's, Craig's Luger, and the Colt Woodsman that Craig had asked for. The Woodsman is a long-barreled weapon, a target pistol of tremendous accuracy. It has to be. Its.22 bullets have very little stopping power unless they hit a vital spot. Craig had practiced with it continually before he had left London. He was beginning to know it well. He lifted it out of its case and weighed it in his hand. "Now we can go," he said.
"We have to get you a car first," Grierson said. "I've ordered an Alfa Romeo." "Aren't we using yours?"
"No. The Lagonda stays in London. It's too conspicuous for this kind of work. I've got myself a Mercedes. Fast, not too conspicuous, left-hand drive."
"Like the Alfa?"
Grierson nodded.
"He's planned this well," said Craig. "I like that."
The Alfa was black, and waxed till it glowed. It had been hired to Craig by an Englishman who lived in Paris, and the receipt was there too. So was the Englishman, who watched Craig handle his heart's joy in the Paris traffic, then sighed softly and asked to be let out, stroked the gleaming paintwork and disappeared. Craig went to the Port de Picpus, and left Paris by the N5 and drove to Sens, seventy miles in an hour and a quarter, and the car had scarcely drawn breath. Grierson, following him, cursed as he pressed his foot down. He lunched in Sens, and took the N6 through Auxerre and Macon to Lyons, another two hundred and fifty miles. Grierson had to work hard to keep him in view. In Lyons he stayed the night. By now he knew the car; he had taken it beyond the hundred, experimented with its handling on winding side roads, proved the assurance of its brakes. The car, like his guns, was the best Loomis could get.
He dined at a restaurant near the Fourviere Basilica, a hushed and dedicated place where serious men ate seriously-gras-double a la Lyonnaise, cervelas en brioche, poulet en chemise-and drank, with a decent respect, Beaujolais, Macon, Cotes du Rhone. Grierson, two tables away, marveled at his digestion. Next morning, aft
er coffee and brioches, they left Lyons on the N7, the fast Riviera road, and kept on going. The sun was shining now, hard enough for them to wear sunglasses, and the air was warm.
After a while Grierson pulled out and passed him in a glorious thunder of power. Craig accelerated and held him. Grierson couldn't let the Mercedes go too fast-the road was busy and at anything below ninety the Alfa could pace him easily. Outside Valence, a couple of girl hitchhikers were thumbing a lift. Grierson kept on going, but Craig pulled over and eased to a stop. He could do with someone to talk to, and besides, the dark one seemed to be limping. The two girls came running toward him, and he saw that the dark one, who carried a guitar, was limping no longer. He grinned to himself. There was a technique for getting lifts, like everything else. Firmly he reminded himself that he was English; that the Wogs begin at Calais. It was no longer disgraceful to speak French, but one must still not speak it very well.
Both girls wore tartan shirts, blue jeans and espadrilles, and both were pretty. There the resemblance ended, for one was blond, plump, relaxed, and French, the other dark, intense, manic, and American. They were going to St. Tropez, the French girl said, but it had to be by way of Avignon, the American girl insisted. They had to see the Palace of the Popes.
"Just as you like," said Craig. "We might as well lunch in Avignon as anywhere else."
He squeezed the accelerator gently, and the Alfa moved forward in a joyous surge of power.
"Hey," said the American girl, "what kind of car is this?"
"Alfa Romeo," Craig said.
"It moves," said the American girl. "Man, does it move."
"It's supposed to," said Craig.
"I can see that. But it doesn't look much, does it?" "Doesn't look-" Craig choked. "I mean it's so small." "Big heart," said Craig.
The American girl offered around cigarettes, lit one for Craig, and put it in his mouth.
"You on vacation?" she asked. Craig nodded. "So are we-in a way, that is. My name's Sikorski-Maria Sikorski. This is Sophie Gourdun."
Craig said, "I'm John Reynolds."
"Hi," said Maria.
"Hi," said Sophie.
After that, all he had to do was listen and drive. The girls were singers, and hoped to work the Riviera through the season. Their entire assets were three hundred new francs, the contents of their rucksacks, and a work permit for Maria, and they hadn't a care in the world. They were twenty-one years old.
"I sing Western songs," Maria said. "I come from Detroit, but I worked in Las Vegas and I learned a few songs from the cowboys there. You ever been to Vegas?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Maddest place you ever saw. Ten thousand miles of nothing and a city full of slot machines in the middle. You know what Las Vegas means? It means the Open Country. Those Spaniards never saw anything more open than Vegas. You look around, you can still find a few cowboys. They've got good songs too. Sophie's nuts about cowboys."
"Do you sing Western songs too?" Craig asked.
"No," Sophie said. "I sing corny songs. Ballads. You know-late-at-night, sad songs."
"Hey, she's good too," said Maria. "She makes me cry every time. You know what? She used to be a dancer. Worked in striptease even." She looked at Sophie with pride, and Sophie tried but failed to look modest. Craig was intrigued.
"Did you like it?" he asked.
"Good money," said Sophie, "but very tiring work. Stupid too. On, off, on, off. Either one goes to bed or one does not."
"Have you been a stripper too?" Craig asked Maria.
"No," Maria said. "I haven't got the temperament for it. The lazy ones do best. They look more sexy or something. I couldn't make myself be lazy in a million years."
She talked all the way to Avignon, and Craig believed her.
Avignon enchanted her. She checked on the existence of the bridge in the song, and the fact that it was in ruins did not bother her at all. It had stood, once, and a song had been made, and that was enough. The cathedral and the view from the Promenade du Rocher were all that she had expected, and the sohd gray mass of the palace, austere and yet magnificent, the scented beauty of the hanging gardens, moved her for a brief while to silence.
"You see how lucky you are, giving us a lift," she said at last. "If you hadn't, you'd have missed all this."
"I'm very much in your debt," Craig said. "Perhaps you'll permit me to buy you lunch."
"Heavens, I should think so," said Maria severely. "I only hope it's good, that's all."
They went to a Provencal restaurant, and ate long and well, and when they had finished, Maria said, "I forgot to ask you. How near are you going to St. Trop?"
"I'm staying the night there," Craig said.
"Hey, that's great," said Maria.
"Tomorrow I'm going on to Cannes," Craig lied.
"You're going a very long way round," said Sophie.
"I may be meeting a friend in St. Tropez," Craig said, "and anyway I've never been there. I really think I ought to before I die."
Sophie said seriously, "You're not that old, surely?" and Craig laughed aloud. It seemed to him a long time since he had done that.
They drove on through Aix-en-Provence and Brig-noles to Cannet-des-Maures, leaving the N8 then, turning south to Grimaud, and so at last to St. Tropez. The girls left him at the port, and he promised to meet them for dinner. He drove up to the little hotel near the English church where he was to rendezvous with Grierson and wait with him for their next instructions. Already, at the end of May, the little town was crowded: twenty thousand people crammed in where in winter five thousand lived in no great luxury, but a room had been booked for Grierson and Craig, a cool, airy, spacious room, with french windows opening on to a garden, and a private shower. Madame la Proprietaire had been warned that the two Englishmen were wealthy, generous, and fussy about privacy. Moreover, she had been paid in advance. She was content.
Grierson was angry.
"You shouldn't have done it," he said. "We aren't here on holiday."
"We're supposed to be," said Craig, "and a couple of girls are the best cover there is. Anyway, they're healthy -and human. I needed to talk to people like that. They reminded me of Tessa. In any case, we'll be leaving tomorrow. I told them we were going to Cannes."
"You shouldn't have done it," said Grierson. "What's more, you know you shouldn't."
"I like them. You don't think I would let them get hurt, do you? After tomorrow, they'll never see us again."
Grierson sighed. "All right," he said. "I'll come and have a look at them. But Loomis won't like it."
"Loomis isn't invited," said Craig.
The two men showered and changed, and drank cold, white Burgundy while Grierson read aloud a letter from Ashford which was waiting for them. "Our friend is away still and won't be back for two days," it said. "I enclose a clipping which I've been asked to pass on to John. He may find it amusing-or so I'm told."
The clipping was from a New York newspaper, and the article marked said stern things about the Longshoremen's Union. Below it was a tiny squib that told of the torturing and murder of an unidentified man in Sao Paulo, Brazil. Grierson waited until Craig had read it, then burned the letter and the clipping.
"And then there was me," said Craig.
"Baumer?" Grierson asked.
"Yes. I don't find it amusing."
"Ashford's got to be careful," Grierson said.
Craig drank more wine. It would be Loomis who had sent the words that Ashford had used, knowing that they would make Craig angry. Loomis wanted St. Briac dead, and for that purpose no detail was too trivial, not even the use of the word "amusing."
They met Maria and Sophie in a bar by the port. Like every other male there, Craig and Grierson wore beach shirts and slacks, while the girls wore toreador pants and Provecnal blouses. So did every other girl. It reminded Grierson of his days in the marines. Craig wanted to drink more wine, and found that he had to have whisky: there wasn't any question of choice. Whisky was what he had to drink because whisky wa
s what was drunk. In the face of such logic, he abandoned argument. Later he found that he had to eat grilled sardines in one of the only three possible restaurants, and later still that he had to dance by candlelight in a cellar strewn with nets. He also had to help carry Maria's guitar, and, at four in the morning, listen to her sing cowboy songs. She did this by the pier, sitting on an upturned boat, and in no time at all she had an audience. Her voice was hard and driving, her guitar-playing skillful, searching; sometimes with Negro overtones, sometimes with a hint of Mexico. Craig almost expected to be told to pass the hat around, but Sophie attended to that, wheedling, coaxing, demanding coins until it was her turn to sing, her voice a strong despair, while Maria played. They stopped when they'd made thirty new francs, enough to live on for tomorrow.
The crowd broke up, and Craig looked across the mole to the soft, moon-stroked sea, where the fishing boats bobbed like swans. Sophie leaned against him, and he put his arms around her shoulders.
"You sing well," he said.
"Well enough," said Sophie. "Listen. You and your friend-are you rich?"
"Nobody ever says yes to that," Craig said. "But we're not poor."
"That's what I thought," said Sophie. "Suppose Maria and I lived with you for a while?" Craig stared. "Well, why not? We like you."
"You're very kind," said Craig.
"I can be," Sophie said.
"No, but-" he hesitated. She was staring this time. "We're too old for you. I'm thirty-six."
"I like old men," Sophie said. "I think you are very clever, very serious, and when you make jokes, you are witty also. I feel very relaxed with you. I like to be relaxed." She touched his arm, feeling the hard muscles. "You are very strong, John. In your world it is important to be strong."
