The Money That Money Can't Buy c-3

by James Munro

  He finished his coffee, walked out of the village to a headland, sat down and waited. His patience was absolute. He could wait for days, and be as swift and deadly at the end as if he had just arrived at the fight. At last, very faintly, he heard the throb of engines, and saw the riding lights of Allen's cruiser. The engines stopped, and there was the squeak of wood on metal as Allen moved his dinghy to the shore, beached it and scrambled up. His breath reeked of cognac.

  "All set," said Allen. "Ready when you are, squire." He lurched into Craig as he moved, and Craig reacted at once to the dense weight of metal on his body. His hand moved, quickly and precisely, and came out with the gun that Allen carried. A Beretta. An Italian automatic, eight-shot, with a light and nervous trigger. The safety catch was off. Craig took the magazine from the butt, put it in his pocket, and gave the gun back to Allen.

  "If I want a gun I'll bring a gun," he said.

  "Just making sure," Allen said. "He could be tough."

  "He is," said Craig. "But we don't want him dead."

  He led Allen back to the car, and they drove out of town, then waited in the dark till four, while Allen fidgeted and whined for cognac, and Craig just sat, not smoking, not speaking, waiting until it was time to move. They went back into Estepona and parked near Calvet's house just after four. By twenty past, seven people had left, by half past the record player had ceased.

  Craig drove up to the house, got out, and looked at the windows. They were small and steel-framed.

  The door was three heavy slabs of olive wood, with a hand-forged lock that he could open with a hairpin, but he had heard the thick slam of metal bolts as the last guests left. He pounded on the door with his fist. The noise boomed and echoed in the empty street. At last he heard footsteps, and his muscles tensed for action.

  A girl's voice asked: "Who is there?" and Craig continued to pound on the door. "What is it?" the girl asked again, and Craig shouted in half-incoherent Spanish about guests at the party, an accident on the Marbella road, and a man dying, perhaps dead, and my God why did they have to drive when they had drunk so much?

  There was a gasp, the bolts shot back, and Craig lunged at the door as it opened. The girl's weight gave under his, he reached out and his hands were merciful and swift. She collapsed with little more than a sigh. He picked her up and climbed the stairs, up to where one light glistened softly, and, to the left of it, an opened door. His footsteps were firm and loud as he moved, and at the third stair from the top he called out: "I say, is anyone there?" There was no answer, he reached the top, and turned. The room at the top of the stairs was a bedroom. In it was a young man in denim pants, a faded blue work shirt and combat boots. The young man was lean and rangy, clean-shaven, his hands and clothes grimy with paint. In one of them was a Star Model A automatic that pointed where Craig's shirt should have been visible, had he not been carrying the girl. The fact of the girl disconcerted the young man. He had been about to make love to her. Craig walked into the room.

  "Oh I say," he said. "Look here."

  The young man took two cautious steps backwards, beyond the reach of Craig's hands.

  "This young woman's ill," said Craig. "For God's sake, come and help me man. You don't need that thing."

  "Put her on the floor," said Calvet.

  "On the floor?"

  The automatic tilted, aimed at a point between Craig's eyes. Slowly, carefully, Craig put the girl down on the floor, bending his head as he did so. She was a slight girl, too thin for his taste but easy enough to carry. Her hair was fine and golden, and her eyes would be blue, or gray, he thought, and waited for Calvet's move.

  The young man was fast. He covered the distance to Craig in two silent strides, and the gun-barrel swung. Craig rolled to one side, the gun's sight clipped the skin of his forehead and Craig, balanced on one arm, reached out the other to grab Calvet's wrist, using the force of the descending blow to pull him further downward, twisting the fingers of the wrist open as he pulled until the automatic spilled from them. Calvet countered with a blow at his neck, a chop that would have killed him, but he lay back as it came, and took it, gasping, on the close-packed muscles of his shoulder, the lancing pain loosening his wrist hold. Calvet wriggled free, and aimed a kick at Craig's head, but Craig was already spinning away toward the automatic and the kick went wide. Immediately Calvet hurled himself at Craig, the one chance he had to stop him reaching the gun, and Craig moved with the kind of reflex action that comes only from day after day at the dojo mat, days that grow into months and years. The toe of his shoe landed in the young man's belly as his hands grasped the sailcloth on his shoulders. His leg straightened, his hands heaved, and Calvet hit the wall, smashed from it and was still straightening, looking for his enemy, when the edge of Craig's hand struck at a point just below his nose. He fell then, a slack heap of flesh in paint-stained clothes. Craig got up, winced when he put weight on the shoulder Calvet had hit, and walked over to him, felt his wrist. It was steady enough. He hadn't hit too hard. He tried the girl's wrist then; it was fast and fluttering. Espionage was hardest on innocent bystanders.

  He listened for Allen then; but there was no sound. Craig swore, softly but adequately, took some wire from his pocket, and tied up Calvet. His movements were neat and precise, the knots as sure as only a fisherman's knots can be. He looked at the girl again, then picked her up and tied her to the railings of the bed. She'd wanted to be there anyway. Then he began to search Calvet's house. Time was vital, and his movements were swift enough, but he was thorough. Room by room, drawer by drawer, case by case, he searched Calvet's belongings.

  First he found money—a drawerful of neat piles of twenty-dollar bills. He put them aside and went on searching: under floorboards, behind cupboards, behind walls that sounded hollow but were only plaster. The radio transmitter he discovered inside the record player. It was a little beauty, neat, light, and portable. He disconnected it and took it back toward the bedroom, then froze. There were footsteps on the stairs. Craig faced the necessity of having to hurt a third human being that evening. The idea neither attracted nor repelled. It was simply a necessity. If he had to do it, he would do it well. The footsteps moved to the bedroom. Craig followed, soundless. Allen stood in the doorway, his eyes moving from the pile of money on the table to the girl on the bed.

  "So many good things," said Craig. "You don't know where to start, do you?"

  Allen whirled. His movements were clumsy, fuzzy with alcohol. He stared into the flat gray of Craig's eyes that looked at him without pity, hate, or even dislike.

  "Where were you?" asked Craig.

  "I was scared," said Allen. "I'm all right now."

  His gaze went back to the money.

  "You've found a fortune," he said.

  "Yes," said Craig.

  "I mean—we could live the rest of our lives on that," said Allen.

  "Yes," said Craig, "we could. There's an R/T set next door. Take it down to the car. Then wait for me."

  Allen didn't move. He was looking at the girl now. She was still unconscious, but she'd moved a little, and the movement had pulled back her skirt over her knees. Allen went over to her, pulled it back further, to reveal the black line of her garter against the pale thigh, the neat V of her panties.

  "She's all right," he said. "Bit skinny maybe."

  His hand moved again, then Craig grabbed his wrist, turned him round.

  "I was only looking," said Allen.

  "Jesus you're nasty," said Craig. "Take the R/T set to the car. Then wait for me."

  "All right," said Allen. "What about the money?"

  "I'll take that," said Craig. "And Calvet. Move."

  Allen moved, and Craig stuffed the money, the gun, and the steel box into a duffle bag, and slung it over one shoulder. He went to the girl then, untied one wrist, hesitated, then pulled her skirt down over her knees. Calvet next, still unconscious. He eased the limp body over his other shoulder, and started for the stairs. As he went, he noted with satisfaction
that his hands were quite steady, he wasn't sweating, and his footsteps were still soundless.

  He opened the house door one inch and listened. From down the street came the sound of voices. Allen was talking bad Spanish to a guardia civil. The guardia, talking much better Spanish, was advising Allen to go home. Allen promised to do so, as soon as he could get the car to start, and the guardia left him. Craig counted ten, then moved out into the street. Allen had cleared the back seat of the car and Calvet rested on it, at peace. He looked drunk. Craig covered him with Allen's coat, took Allen's bottle and poured brandy over his face and shirt. The car reeked. He walked over to the co-driver's seat then. The R/T set was on it.

  Allen said: "Don't worry. I told the guardia it was a new car radio I was fitting."

  "I hope he's as big a fool as you are," said Craig. "Move over."

  Reluctantly Allen obeyed, taking the R/T set on his lap, then Craig slung the duffle bag into the back beside Calvet.

  "That the money?" Allen asked.

  Craig switched the ignition on and drove toward the seashore. At the first corner, he flashed his headlights. A guardia civil stood in a doorway, watching the car. He didn't look stupid. Craig drove on sedately; he wanted no trouble.

  They reached the sea road, and parked the car. Once again Allen picked up the R/T set, and this time he held Craig's case as well, and scrambled down toward the beach. Craig followed, the duffle bag over his shoulder, the still body of Calvet in his arms. The cliff was soft soil and they moved quietly, then suddenly Allen struck a patch of shale, and stumbled. Craig swore under his breath, but they reached sand at last, and Allen's boat, and loaded it up and launched it into the dark, whispering sea. Craig scrambled into the bows and took the oars; Allen in the stern held the tiller. The oars squeaked softly as the boat moved out into the Mediterranean, toward the dark mass of Allen's motor-boat, its riding lights clear and brilliant as jewels.

  They reached it, tied up, and transferred Calvet, the money, and the R/T set, then Allen's hand moved to the starter switch.

  "Wait," said Craig. "Switch off your riding lights."

  Allen obeyed, as Craig looked out toward the land, to the thin probe of two headlights, undipped, pushing in to where the Morris was parked. He heard the sound of car doors slammed, and men in uniform moved through the headlight beams, toward the little car. They had guns in their hands.

  "We'd better get out of here," said Allen. "Not yet," Craig whispered. "They can't see us. We'll wait till they go." "But—"

  "Keep your voice down," whispered Craig again. "Sound travels at sea."

  And at that moment Calvet returned to consciousness and yelled.

  Calvet was a Ukrainian. He spoke Ukrainian, Russian, and French—all three as if they were his mother tongue—and his German, English, and Spanish were near perfect, but all he produced then as he struggled from the blackness of Craig's blow into the blackness of the boat's cockpit was a high-pitched yet very masculine scream: a scream compounded of fear and horror of terrible things that had happened to him, to Calvet, and which he could neither control, understand, nor, at that moment—and here was the real terror—even remember. So Calvet screamed, and the scream died almost at once, crushed out beneath Craig's fingers, but it warned the men on the cliff, and a spotlight on their car snapped on almost at once, its long accusing finger probing out to sea, searching for the sleek twin-screwed cruiser that lay too far out for the light to touch.

  Again Allen wanted to go, and again Craig made him wait, until at last the car revved up and went, and then the cruiser's motors too could fire, the twin propellers chop the water into foam. Craig took the small, neat wheel in his hands and set course for Gibraltar. As he let in the throttle, he could feel the twin engine's thrust. Allen must have been sober when he bought this one, he thought. She's just about perfect. He let in more throttle and the speedometer moved to fifteen knots.

  "Let's put on the searchlight—see where we're going," Allen said.

  "No," said Craig.

  "But she'll do five knots better than this if we see where we're going." "No," said Craig.

  The cruiser forged on, and the false dawn came, a pink smudge across the horizon, pink and yet cold. The cruiser moved on, and Craig strained his ears for the sound of other boats. There had to be other boats, and if the land police had done their job they would pick them up soon.

  Twice he thought he heard them and throttled back the engine—his hands were still steady, but they were wet, now, and he was breathing more quickly than he had need—but when at last it came, he was in no doubt. It was a low-pitched, drumming note, deep and steady, and when he heard it he could look, and when he looked he could see the two sets of red and green riding lights, tiny and brilliant. Even as he saw them, the other boats' lights switched on, and began to pierce the darkness section by section, their beams crossing then engaging, like the swords of duelists. At once Craig gave his boat more throttle, and she screamed her eagerness to go. The speedometer needle moved, faster, faster, from fifteen to twenty to twenty-two. Slowly then it dragged on to twenty-five, but still Craig could sense behind him the drum note of bigger engines, the thrust of wider propellers. It was ridiculous, of course: no other noise could survive when Allen's cruiser hit full power, and yet Craig knew the pursuing ships were there, so that when their lights snapped on again and stroked the blackness of the sea to a cold, pure, silvery blue, Craig almost sighed his relief—until one searchlight flicked him, and he began to fling the cruiser all over the water to lose those sure, serene lights that probed the blackness of the sea.

  And then one brushed the side of the cruiser from the right, lighting up Craig at the wheel, and Allen crouched beside him. Craig swerved again, but the boat on his left found him, hesitated, and then held until the one from the right could bore through the dark once more, and Craig struggled to find a course in the blinding, silver light. A voice over the loud hailer boomed out in Spanish, and Craig tried the throttle again. There were no more revs in the engines. The boats behind nosed up closer— Jesus, they must be big —and again the loud hailer voice boomed out, and Allen was gibbering with fear, and Craig too busy to understand a word. He tried to swerve again, and there was a crackle of gunfire, a stream of tracers drifting across the black sky to disappear at last into the black sea, twenty yards from the boat. Craig threw the port engine into neutral, then into reverse, and the cruiser's weight lunged viciously as she swerved to the right across the bows of the pursuer, then Craig swerved again and tried in vain to coax out more revs. The cruiser's speedometer read twenty-seven knots, and there it stuck. There just wasn't any more.

  Craig risked another look behind at the searchlights criss-crossing the sea. The false dawn had faded. Daylight was only minutes away, and those minutes were vital.

  "Do you carry a gun aboard?" he yelled.

  ''You bloody fool," Allen screamed back, "that's Spanish navy stuff chasing us."

  "Do you have a gun?"

  "Just a rifle," Allen said. "A Lee-Enfield."

  "Get it," said Craig. Allen made no move.

  "Have you ever been in a Spanish prison?" asked Craig.

  Allen sighed, and fetched the rifle, then Craig made him take the wheel. He lay down in the stern of the boat, checked the rifle, and waited. The Lee-Enfield was old—ten years at least—but it seemed in good nick, and Craig was used to it. The standard service weapon of the Second World War, it was the first of the long series of rifles, carbines, pistols, revolvers, and automatic weapons that had passed through his hands. He had learned its care and maintenance when he was seventeen years old, and he had not forgotten. Magazine, bolt, safety catch were all working well. The barrel, all the rifle parts were clean, bright, and slightly oiled, the way the manual said they should be. It seemed that Allen loved a weapon as much as he loved his cruiser.

  Craig waited, knowing that this time it wouldn't be for long, while the Spanish navy flogged the sea with their searchlights, then came at them again. Crai
g snuggled down, the rifle steady against his shoulder. The leading pursuer came up from behind, and its searchlights pointed an accusing finger of light. He fired down its beam, and the light went out. Allen swung the cruiser as he had seen

  Craig do, across the bows of the other boat. They made it with yards only to spare, but the other searchlight found them, two machine guns chattered, arid Allen watched in horror as lumps of varnished decking flew past his head. Craig fired again, but the cruiser veered too much and the light clung on to him, pitiless. He had to hit it with his next shot: his eyes would be blinded soon.

  "Hold her steady," he yelled to Allen, and worked the bolt of the Lee-Enfield. The cruiser settled down on the easy sea, and Craig fired again. Again the light went out; again there were no screams—and, he hoped to God, no casualties. An act of war wouldn't exactly fill Loomis with joy: a wounded Spaniard would drive him demented. Craig looked at Allen by the wheel, then took off the Lee-Enfield magazine. The smell of cordite increased, whipped past him by the cruiser's slipstream, as his fingers fumbled the bullets free and dropped them into his pocket. He took the wheel from Allen again, and held course for Gibraltar.

  Allen said, "They got bloody close."

  "Good radar," said Craig.

  "Think they'll find us again?"

  Craig said nothing. There was no way of knowing. When he did know he would act. Until then, his whole being was concentrated on coaxing one extra knot—half a knot—out of the cruiser. As dawn came up they were doing twenty-eight and a half knots, and Allen was ashen. The sun grew brighter, kinder, and two miles away they could see their pursuers, hull down. Ahead of them lay Gibraltar. Craig reckoned that they could just about do it.

  "Congratulations," he said to Allen. "We just defeated the armada again."

  Allen was looking at what two Vickers machine guns had done to his deck.