by James Munro
Pucelli and Duclos took her to the westbound platform and stood at its farthest end, waiting. Slowly Craig followed, his hands open, by his sides.
Pucelli said, "You can go now."
Behind her, Tessa could hear the distant rumble of a train, the train that would take him away from her to torment and death. They had told her in detail what was going to happen to Craig. Duclos had enjoyed that, very much. The rumble of the train grew to a muted roar.
"Go," said Pucelli.
She still didn't move, and Craig stopped, waiting, wary. Behind him, Linton and the sergeant waited also.
Pucelli said again, "Go!" and pushed her from him. Tessa grabbed his arm and swung him with all her strength into Duclos. For a moment the two men had Craig unmarked. Tessa screamed "John! Run!" and hung on to Pucelli. He struck at her, and still she hung on. She could see Craig coming toward her and her heart leaped with love for him even as she screamed for him to go. Duclos hit her and she screamed for the last time as she fell into the path of the oncoming train and there was nothing in the world but its roar and the jarring squeal of its brakes.
Duclos ran, clutching the case, and Pucelli hesitated, torn by the need to get away and the need to kill Craig. The gun was half out of his pocket when Craig hit him the terrible once-only blow that Shenju had made him swear never to use unless the enemy were so evil and so strong that nothing else would do. There was a thin crack as Pucelh's spine snapped. Then his body slammed against the train and Craig was running after Duclos, the
Woodsman in bis hand. Linton swore aloud and ran after him as Duclos dodged through the maze of archways and leaped the barrier to the escalator, racing up its empty steps. Craig seemed to shrug off the porter who tried to hold him. Then he too was at the bottom of the steps. Duclos turned and fired at him, and the bullet slammed into the barrier. Craig didn't move. He stood, feet apart, weight evenly balanced, arm extended, the way he had been taught at pistol practice. Up, up went Duclos, racing to where the escalator's climb crested into a straight step to freedom. He had almost reached it when Craig shot him. His body arched and twisted under the impact of the bullet, and he seemed to fling the case into the air. It burst open and banknotes fluttered down like leaves as Duclos slid face downwards-until the momentum of the escalator caught and held him, bore him back up toward the top, and the silent, terrified people who watched as his toes bump-bumped into the metal slots, and his body recoiled each time and each time was borne in again as the escalator rolled.
"What I'd like to know," Loomis snarled, "is what the hell you were playing at-and you-and you."
He swiveled around in his chair and glared separately at Sanderson, at Linton, at Grierson, then pushed the chair back so that he could glare at them collectively.
"Don't tell me," he said. "I've heard all about it. Well, at least you can find the Japanese fellow's wife."
"We've done that, sir," Linton said.
"So I should bloody well think," said Loomis. "Was she hurt?"
"No, sir."
Loomis grunted. "No thanks to you," he said. "Well, what are we going to do now? You stand by like stone images and watch a girl shoved under a train and Craig fighting a private war. What are you going to do?"
"I take it they're both dead, sir?" Linton asked.
"What do you think?" Loomis snarled. "They killed his girl. Bloody fools. Just like that duel business. If they'd let well enough alone, he was going to give himself up. Did you know that? He must have been very fond of her."
"Yes, sir," said Grierson, and rubbed bis neck.
"That's why he clobbered you," Loomis said, "and I don't blame him. He did better on his own. Trouble is, he killed a couple of blokes. One might be self-defense. The other was murder."
"No, sir," said Linton. "Duclos was shooting at him."
"Ah," said Loomis. "Was he now? A bloke running amok, shoving girls under trains, charging at the great British public with a loaded pistol, and along comes a hero and knocks him off. Very public-spirited."
"It was his girl who was killed," said Linton.
"Whosegirl?",….
Sanderson said, "Craig's, of course." She sounded bewildered.;
"Craig's'dead," said Loomis. "I keep telling you. I've seen the death certificate. This bloke's name is Jameson. He's in nuts and bolts. Doesn't go in for girls. His hobby's pistol-shooting. He's got a gun licence too. I saw it made out myself."
"You're going to let him go then?"
"He's gone," said Loomis. "Visiting a pal in Corfu. Another businessman. An American. Name of Turner. He met fiim on the Riviera. Got a couple of girls with him. Singers or something. Very interested in culture is Jameson." He glared for the last time at Linton and Sanderson.
"You can shove now," he said.
They shoved.
"We've had word from France. Officially, they take a dim view. Unofficially, they're grateful-and so they should be. St. Briac and his pals were raving loonies, and they knew it. Well, it's nice to know they owe us a favor."
He settled back in his chair and leered at Grierson.
"I sent Craig to Corfu myself," he said. "I thought he was entided to a bit of a holiday. I don't want him to overdo it."
"You mean he's coming back to us?" Grierson asked. "Well of course he's coming back to us," said Loomis. "He's got nowhere else to go."
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