by James Munro
"I'm here," the Negro said. He sounded angry about something.
"That Larry," Turner said. "Best third baseman you ever saw, and he wants to be a poet. He's from Tennessee."
Craig sipped his brandy. The Indochinese girl tugged delicately at his ear.
"She getting heavy for you?" Turner asked. She was very heavy, but Craig shook his head. Turner looked pleased. "Tennessee," he said. "That's where Larry's from. Makes him bitter. He wants to be friends with me, but he can't lick me. If he could, we'd be real buddy-buddy-him being black and all. But he can't. And I'm not doing him any favors. He doesn't want favors."
"Naturally not," said Craig, and Turner roared.
"I tell that story in Alabama and everybody turns green," he said. "It doesn't seem to me you come from Alabama. Put her down some place. You can't drink with a busted finger." Craig let the Indochinese girl slip through his fingers and she landed, smooth as a cat, on a divan, curling up with a feline self-sufficiency, her glass of brandy unspilled.
"I like you," said Turner again. "What do you do?"
"Machine tools, die-stamp machines, nuts and bolts."
"Great," said Turner. "I was in trucking. Now I fool around here. Better'n Florida," said Turner. "The people you meet."
He shook his head in simple wonderment, and looked around at the people he'd brought back with him: a couple of starlets, a pop singer, another millionaire, some count or other, and their attendant lords and ladies, bird-bright, gaudy as butterflies.
"Nobody cares who you are or what you do," he said. "All you need is enough dough and a place to drink and they come running. Come here."
He led Craig out into the garden, and Sophie and Maria went with them. It was cool now, and the scent of the night air was thin and sweet. They walked up a path of marble chips to a fountain of astonishing ugliness. Its bowl looked like a tin bath covered in stone, and above it a mermaid perched on a dolphin that looked like no sea mammal that ever was, a hammer-headed monster with a three-point tail. The mermaid, despite her tail, despite even her nakedness, looked like Mildred the Madcap of the Remove. Behind her was a great screen of stone, carved in the shape of an enormous oyster shell, its edges pocked and scarred.
"Target practice," said Turner. "I've been trying to hit that goddam mermaid for the last three weeks. Or that goddam dolphin even."
His hand groped in an enormous pocket and came up with a revolver. Behind him gravel crunched, and a squat, anxious Filipino appeared.
"Hey, Luis," said Turner. "Where you been hiding yourself?"
"I knew you'd be out here sooner or later," said Luis.
"This is Luis," Turner said. "He thinks he can cook."
"I know I can cook. I also know you shouldn't cut loose with that thing."
"That thing?" Turner yelled. "This is a.38. Damn good gun."
"Not the way you use it," Luis said. "Oh no?"
Turner aimed and fired at the mermaid. A chip of stone flew off the edge of the stone shell.
"There ain't enough light," said Luis. "Nobody shoots good by moonlight. Come back to the party. I'll make some chili con carne."
"No," said Turner, and fired again. A bullet slammed into a pine tree, six feet off target.
"Chicken a la king?"
"No." The.38 roared, and the pine took more punishment.
"How about a steak? Medium rare. French fried onions. Beans. Salad on the side. Apple pie. I got some beer on ice."
"Well-"
Turner lurched round and the.38's barrel made a black and shining arc in the moonlight. Craig took it from Turner, who said sternly, "Don't fool with that thing. It's loaded," then began a long wrangle with Luis on the depth of the apple pie. Craig lifted the gun and fired three times, and the smile was wiped forever from the mermaid's face. More important, the gun was empty.
"Hey," said Turner. "You're pretty good with that thing. Lemme reload it for you."
He took it from Craig, fumbled in his pocket, and produced a loose handful of.38 cartridges, punching them home one by one, then handed it back to Craig.
Craig said, "I could do with a steak myself."
"Great idea. We'll shoot later," Turner said. When he turned his back, Craig hid the gun under the rim of the fountain. There'd been enough shooting already.
They went back to the house, where Ashford sat, dead asleep even in that uproar of party screams and records at full blast. Turner said they would go into the kitchen and Craig hesitated, but left Ashford where he was. He needed a rest.
There was, it appeared, a hierarchy in Dan Turner's parties. Only those of the first rank were permitted to enter the kitchen, to watch Luis in priestly white, ministering at the electric altars as the aromatic incense rose. Craig, hungry again, went with Sophie and Maria, the Count, an Italian, spare and very tired, and Dan himself. They sat at a long curved bar and ate their steaks as Luis cooked them, and drank Provencal wine, while Turner drank beer. It was all very chic, the sort of thing that might have earned a double-page spread in a snob magazine, yet Craig doubted if anyone there except himself and the two girls had been sober for the last week. He ate the steak which Sophie cut up for him, and listened to Turner on road haulage, or the Count, whose name was Nono, on the expense of maintaining a villa in Tuscany. Once there was uproar from the lesser mortals, and Turner went out to investigate. Then cars screeched off as they left for another party, but after that it was all just very good food, until Luis made coffee, black and strong, and Turner poured brandy into it, and the Count turned pale.
The door behind them opened, and Luis looked shocked. Lesser people never invaded the kitchen at Dan Turner's. Larry walked in, and behind him was La Valere in uniform.
Larry said, "I'm sorry, Dan. This guy claims it's urgent." La Valere ignored Turner, and walked straight to Craig. He was pale and sweating.
"You are a cowardly pig," La Valere said. Craig grinned. "You are a bastard. You have no honor."
"Get the hell out of here," Turner bawled.
Very deliberately, La Valere struck Craig on the cheek. Craig winced, but the grin stayed where it was, and he motioned to Turner to be still.
"No," said La Valere. "I'll do it again. Swine." Again he struck, and Craig, one-handed, caught his wrist and pulled. La Valere began to sweat more than ever.
"Just tell me what you're after," Craig said.
"A duel," said La Valere. "I challenge you to a duel."
"The guy's nuts," said Turner. "Get him out of here."
La Valere tried to pull free, and Craig increased his pressure. La Valere stood still.
"It is ridiculous," Nono said. "The young man"-he gestured at La Valere-"is in no position to demand satisfaction. He has not been insulted."
"But you have," La Valere hissed at Craig. "I have insulted you publicly. It is up to you to challenge me."
"That is better," Nono said. "The gentleman holding your wrist in that painful manner must now demand satisfaction. If he does so, we can proceed to the choice of weapons-provided of course that you are both gentlemen."
"I am an officer in the French Army," La Valere said.
"Indeed?" said Nono. "I suppose that is adequate. And you, sir?"
"I'm a businessman," said Craig.
"You once held a commission in the British Navy," said La Valere.
Nono reflected. "I think that you might, with propriety, engage in a duel," he said at last. "Indeed, I think that you will have to, Reynolds. This Frenchman seems quite set on it."
Craig released La Valere's wrist.
"I'm not," he said.
"I've brought my seconds," La Valere said. "Duclos and Pucelli."
"What about weapons?" asked Nono. "He can hardly attempt to fight with a sword-even supposing one were available." He gestured at Craig's hand.
"Pistols," said La Valere, "will do admirably."
Turner put down his fork.
"You're crazy," he said. "I don't want any crazies here. Drunks yes-nuts no. You get out of here."
La V
alere said, "I'm perfectly willing to leave, but I want a word with him first."
Craig shrugged, and walked to the door with La Valere. "This is your only chance," the Frenchman whispered. "If you do not agree, Pucelli will kill you." "Maybe," said Craig.
"He will also kill your girls," said La Valere, "and anyone else who gets in his way." Craig shrugged.
"It's an awful lot of people to kill," he said.
"Not really," said La Valere. "All the other guests have gone. We saw them. There is another party in Cannes. There is only a Negro here who was reciting Rimbaud, and a Tonkinese who is asleep. This is a very peculiar household," he added, severely.
Craig said, "You think you'll kill me?"
"I know I will," said La Valere. "At St-Cyr I was the best shot of my year. But if I should fall, Pucelli will kill you. I am offering you the chance to die like a gentleman."
"Why?"
"Because I wish to kill you myself. And also because I betrayed the greatest man I have ever known. I deserve to suffer for this. Facing you will be my suffering. You killed the only man who could save France. You have to die."
Craig saw that he was perfecdy serious.
"And Ashford? Is he to fight you too?"
"No," La Valere said, "his punishment is different from yours. He is going to watch." He looked toward Sophie. "Are you going to make another woman suffer?" he asked. "Make up your mind, pig. Pucelli is outside. He isn't a patient man."
Craig looked around at the people eating at the kitchen bar; cheerful, selfish, pleasure-loving people whom once again he'd had no business to involve.
"If I fight," he asked, "they don't get hurt?"
"Just you and Ashford. I give you my word," said La Valere.
Craig sighed and looked at Sophie. "All right," he said, and walked back to the kitchen bar.
"He really seems set on it," Craig said. "I think we'd better humor him."
"The hell we should," said Turner.
"He's a nut, all right, but he's got a gun. He's also got two friends, and they've got guns too. If we don't go through with it, they'll use them anyway."
"No," Sophie said. "No."
Craig put his hand gently on her mouth.
"Just why is he so mad at you, son?" asked Turner.
"I can't tell you," Craig said. "But he's got a right to be. And he means to use that right. Here and now."
"But he's a nut," said Turner. "I wouldn't fight any nuts."
"I'm afraid I shall have to. Just stay where you are, Mr. Turner, and whatever happens, don't interfere." "Why not?"
"You're much too bad a shot."
Craig grinned at him and went to La Valere.
"I'm ready," he said.
La Valere shouted, and Ashford, Pucelli, the Indochi-nese girl, and Duclos came in. Pucelli and Duclos both carried pistols, and pushed the girl toward the others at the kitchen bar. She looked sick, her pale-gold skin had turned olive, and her hand was at her mouth.
"Why's Ashford here?" Craig asked.
"He is your second," said La Valere, and Duclos laughed aloud.
"You share everything with this man, don't you, Ricky darling? The good times and the bad."
Ashford said nothing. He was weeping.
Sophie whimpered softly and Turner said, "What the hell goes on?"
La Valere said, "I am sorry to break up your party." Once again, his voice was completely serious. "But this must be done. You will all stay quite still until I return, please. This man"-he nodded at Duclos-"will be with you. If you try to overpower him, he has orders to shoot one of the women. You." He pointed at Sophie. "Come here." Slowly, reluctantly, she obeyed. Then she shivered as the muzzle of Duclos's revolver touched her neck. Pucelli opened Craig's coat, took the Woodsman from him, and put it on the table.
"This gun will not do," said La Valere. "You will be provided with a weapon when we get outside. It will be exacdy the same as mine. We will see that you are given every chance. Do you wish to say anything?" Craig shook his head.
"As you please," La Valere said. "We will go outside."
They went out into the moonlight, taking Ashford with them. Now was Craig's time to die. He had lived too long on other men's sufferings: even St. Briac, whose death he had caused, had suffered because of him. It was right that St. Briac should die, but it was right that Craig should die, too. Tessa and his wife were both provided for, and once he and Ashford had been killed, Sophie and the others would be safe. Ashford alone stayed on his mind. Ashford loved this Gothic madman.
La Valere stopped by the path of drippings.
"This should do admirably," he said.
Pucelli said, "Shall I give him the gun?"
"Of course," said La Valere. Pucelli laid a pistol in front of Craig, then stepped back, covering Ashford with a big Mauser automatic.
"Let me do it. We are wasting time," Pucelli said.
"No. This is my business. Do as I tell you."
Pucelli shrugged, but his gun stayed unwaveringly on Ashford.
It made no difference, Craig thought. He would- what was the word?-delope into the air.
"Pick up the pistol." Craig obeyed.
"Back to back," said La Valere, and again Craig obeyed. "Ten paces, then we turn and fire. We walk when I say go. I shall count the steps. Ready? Go. One- two-three-"
Craig heard the crunch of footsteps up the gravel path. Ashford would die next. Now it was his turn. Grierson would not come looking for vengeance; Grierson was a professional. Less good with a gun, but infinitely more amenable to orders. Four-five-six-Tessa would weep for him; his wife might soon die. If she lived, she would have more than enough. And Tessa-he had left her everything the gun-running had brought. Money by the sackful; and sorrow. Too much sorrow to waste on Craig.
Seven-eight-he was by the fountain, where Turner had shot so badly. A nice man. Bored. Drank too much. But happy with a Negro chauffeur and a Filipino cook and the most expensive hangers-on in the Cote d'Azur. Nine-ten-There was something missing, Craig thought. He could hear no footsteps other than his own. A man's voice, Ashford's, screamed out in an agony of shame and love: "Bobby. No. You mustn't."
Craig swirled in a descending spiral, and a bullet whipped through the air, where a moment before his back had been. La Valere was already facing him, walking toward him, sighting for a second shot, as he rolled toward the cover of the fountain. From the corner of his eye, Craig could see Ashford watching them in horror. He reached the fountain's shadow, remembering the promise he had given that La Valere would not be hurt. He hadn't realized then what La Valere would do. Carefully, precisely, his finger squeezed the trigger of the gun La Valere had given him. It clicked emptily, and Ashford screamed out again, "No, Bobby! No!" and ran toward them. La Valere yelled to him to go back, but Ashford kept on running toward the only creature in the world he loved, the only one whose shame, whose betrayal of trust he could not bear.
Ashford's rush carried him between Craig and La Valere, and Craig rolled beneath the fountain's shell, gasping as his injured finger smashed into its base. Pucelli yelled a warning as Craig's hand clawed up, seeking, finding the gun he had hidden. His fingers curled to it as La Valere fired, and Ashford screamed for the last time, then fell like a tree at La Valere's feet. Craig watched him fall, but his mind refused to accept it. He could think of nothing except that La Valere had cheated him, given him an empty pistol. He reminded himself that madmen improvised their own rules as they went along. Then La Valere fired again, and a bullet spanged off the fountain's disastrous bowl, inches from his head. To his right, Pucelli was maneuvering for position, waiting to finish things off, and Pucelli had a Mauser automatic that could fire off a whole magazine of bullets like a miniature machine gun. Slowly, with extreme care, Craig aimed at La Valere and shot him through the heart. When he died, his face expressed intense astonishment.
Pucelli began firing as soon as La Valere dropped. Heavy-caliber bullets raked the fountain, and Craig crouched by the pedestal and heard
them go by. He lay very still, and a minute passed so quietly that he could hear his watch tick. Pucelli shot once more, and again the bullet was close and Craig did not move. At last Pucelli stood up and came out from cover, moving warily, his hands on the twin butts of the Mauser. Craig fired as Pucelli reached the path. It was the best shot of his life. The bullet slammed into Pucelli's arm, and the big Mauser dropped to the ground. Craig got to his feet. Pucelli stood swaying in front of him and when Craig stooped and picked up the gun, he just continued to sway. Craig could feel the great waves of weakness flowing over him as he willed himself to go on.
"You're a fool," he croaked. "An idiot. If you'd played fair, I was going to die. You stupid bastards. Why did you have to cheat me?"
Pucelli held his hand to his arm.
"I didn't want this," he said. "I was going to kill you myself. The duel was La Valere's idea. He was a gentleman." He spat the word.
Craig said, "We'll go to the house and you'll talk to Duclos. Don't argue about it. Just do it."
Pucelli looked into Craig's eyes, and obeyed. The alternative was death.
Duclos felt wonderful. Pretty girls, important men, were at her mercy. A black man and a brown man were humble and obedient, as was right and proper. His gun was his symbol of power, his sceptor, and so long as he held it everyone obeyed him. That was good; wonderful. And he held it pointed at a girl. That was even more wonderful. When the shots came and everyone looked up, all Duclos had to do was lift the gun a couple of centimeters, and they were still, obedient once more. The gun was a wonderful thing. And La Valere's idea of a duel, maybe that wasn't so stupid after all. The gun had been used with dignity, with an awareness of form and ritual. Surely a ritual was needed when a man as wicked as Craig came to die. Duclos's hand moved, and the gun muzzle touched Sophie's throat, ran along her shoulder, traced the round, right outline of her breast. Life could be very kind to him sometimes.
Behind him, Pucelli's voice said, "All right, Duclos. You can come out now. The captain wants you."
Duclos sighed, and backed away from the girl very carefully. The good times never lasted very long. Suddenly the girl's face changed: there was amazement in it, and a rising happiness. Far too late, Duclos began to turn. Something hard exploded on the back of his neck and he fell, twitched once, and was still.
