by James Munro
and she rose from behind the counter looking very
happy indeed. "You know what, Mr. Millington?"
she said, and the happiness became tinged with
awe. "That feller made Fat Arthur scream." * * *
"We're going to Paris," said Loomis, and shot straight over a red light. A taxi driver yelled, and Loomis accelerated so as to be in time for the next one.
"Why?" asked Craig, and wished for the thousandth time that Loomis would let him drive. Loomis's car was the most beaten-up Rolls Royce that Craig had ever seen, and no one else was ever allowed to drive it.
"The Russians want Calvet back," said Loomis. "They've invited us to Paris to talk it over."
He went round the Hammersmith roundabout in top gear, his brakes screaming like four Fat Arthurs.
"Are they going to get him?" asked Craig.
"Depends," said Loomis, and settled the Rolls in the outside lane of the highway, where it whispered along at an unvaried 69.5 mph. Behind it the Astin Martins, Mercedeses, Ferraris, and Jaguars lined up in frantic procession. Loomis ignored them all.
"You cut up a bit rough this afternoon," he said. "Belting a woman."
"You wouldn't have lasted three rounds with her," said Craig.
"Wouldn't want to," replied Loomis. "Then you had to go and start a massacre in a cafe."
"I was supposed to be massacred," Craig said. "They had coshes and razors and lumps of lead pipe."
"You broke Fat Arthur's arm. How big was he?"
"About your size," said Craig.
Loomis looked at him, carefully and long, and the Rolls went on all by itself.
"You're getting cheeky," he said. "Don't get cheeky."
"I like to know what's going on," said Craig.
But Loomis knew that Craig functioned best on an unrelieved diet of frustration.
"Tell me what you found out," Loomis said.
They had, of course, no knowledge of anything when Craig first questioned them in the interrogation room at Bow Street. The game had broken up at five that morning, Driver had been a big winner, and they'd all gone home. None of them had seen Driver again. Then somebody had tipped Fat Arthur off that Craig had murdered Driver and was with the body. The call, Arthur insisted, had been anonymous. He had collected the other two and he, the most improbable Sir Galahad of all, charged to the rescue. Or at any rate tried. Craig had then beaten him unconscious, and that had been all. His alibi—a small, loud, drunken shrew who had despised him enough to marry him—was unshakable. So were those of his allies. The crone who had gone downstairs minutes before Craig knew nothing except that there was one man left unhung.
Craig had persisted, and had learned many things. Brodski owned most of the cafe, and Arthur was afraid of him; Brodski had disliked Driver intensely but had not banned him from the game; there was no address at which Brodski could be reached when his club shut down. Craig had also been intrigued by the fact that Fat Arthur knew he had fought a woman and had attacked him before he had seen Driver's body. The urge to avenge a friend must have been overwhelming. Fat Arthur and his friends denied, over and over, that Brodski had made the phone call. Craig knew they lied. He left them while Millington was intoning the litany of assault with a deadly weapon, and went back to the strip club.
Brodski had gone, and nobody, least of all Jennifer, knew where to reach him. The telephone number he had left was that of an answering service, and the answering service regretted that they could never, never divulge that kind of thing on the phone. Craig telephoned Millington and told him to check on that angle, then bought more champagne for Karen, Tempest, and Maxine. When Harry served them his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't get the cork out of the bottle. Craig did it for him.
"O-o-o you are nervous tonight, sweetie," said Tempest.
"You've heard, haven't you, luscious?" said Maxine, and Harry bolted back to the bar.
"Heard what?" asked Craig.
"The way you beat up Fat Arthur," said Max-ine. "It's all over the parish."
"What d'you do it for?" Tempest asked.
"He puts saccharin in his coffee," said Craig.
"They say you killed Tony Driver, too," said Karen. She didn't seem worried by this, merely interested.
"I found him dead," said Craig. "I was looking for a poker game."
Karen put an arm round his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. Her fingers massaged the back of Craig's neck, and her eyes were large and limpid. She had drunk a lot of champagne.
"You're not a copper, darling, are you?" she asked. "I couldn't bear it if you were a copper."
Craig said: "I'm a collector."
"What do you collect?" Tempest asked.
"Money," said Craig.
"Oh how super," said Maxine.
He had told them then that he had come to collect some from Brodski, and they loved him more than ever, because they were wary of Brodski, who, they were sure, was as normal as a man could be, and yet never, never failed to show them, with extreme courtesy, how little he needed them. Unfortunately, they knew nothing more about him except that he paid them well and made no demands. Driver had at least made an effort. He'd invited them to a party at his flat. But he'd been broke, so they hadn't gone. But Karen had written his address down somewhere—on her bra, she thought. She looked, and Harry yawned, and Craig sweated, and there it was. He'd had a hard time getting away.
All Driver had carried, apart from his wallet, was a key, and Craig took that to a little street in Belgravia. The key opened the door, and Craig went inside at once, cat-footed warily, but all the small, neat rooms held was emptiness and silence. The house was small and unobtrusive, built in single tiers like a layer cake, bedroom on dining room on kitchen, bath and loo on living room. And all anonymous and noncommittal, rented by the month from a retired major in the Blues, according to the rent book. The house showed little evidence of Driver's ever having been there, apart from his clothes. The clothes interested Craig: they were all bought at Simpson's in Piccadilly, and none of them looked old; in fact, they looked as if they had all been bought at the same time. Craig searched on. Two empty suitcases, an empty grip, an empty Pan Am flightbag. He looked beneath the bed, in the trap beneath the washbasin, the toilet tank, the bath tank. Nothing. Driver was no more than seven suits, five pairs of slacks, six pairs of shoes, and some expensive cashmere. And then he found it, beneath the bottom shelf of the wardrobe—a fiberglass briefcase with the most effective locks Craig had ever seen. He smashed them open at last with a wrought-iron lampstand. Inside the case were a Walther P38 with a three-inch barrel, a thousand pounds in one-pound notes, four twenty-dollar bills that matched the one Loomis had given him, and five decks of playing cards with the seals unbroken. Craig broke them. Every pack of cards was marked.
He emptied the briefcase, then attacked it again with the lampstand, bringing it down with all his strength on the case's lid and container. They cracked eventually, and Craig probed into the cracks with a carving knife, his hands careful and precise. The container yielded nothing except four clips of bullets for the Walther. Craig pocketed them, and the weapon: a Walther was always a reliable gun. The lid held an I.O.U. from Fat Arthur to Driver for one thousand pounds, a Swiss passport in the name of Dumont, and a German passport made out to Donner. Both the passport photographs were of Driver. Craig thought he
must like the letter D.
* * *
"Driver's suitcase was made in Germany," said Loomis, and for some reason he slowed down to run parallel with a hearse that was moving at twenty miles an hour. Anguished squeals of brakes behind him proclaimed that other drivers too were showing their last respects.
"So were his handkerchiefs," said Loomis, and removed his hat, a battered unconquerable bowler. "Know what?" He looked at Craig, and accelerated craftily. The Rolls reached a speed of 69.5 mph again, and the Ferrari behind almost stalled.
"The playing cards were made in Germany, too," Loomis said. "You could win at anyth
ing with those cards. Naughty." He drove on, then added: "We never found Brodski. He's done a bunk." More driving, while he scowled at the Ferrari, now visible again in his rear-view mirror.
"Think he killed Driver?" Loomis asked.
"Brodski? For a dud twenty-dollar bill?"
"It could be just for that," said Loomis.
"Brodski chased Driver for one bad debt— chased him and killed him?"
"Not quite," Loomis said. "The way I see it, Driver was chasing Brodski—only he got too close."
"You think Driver had something on Brodski? And the twenty-dollar bill was a way of letting him know?"
"Didn't you say he'd lost money just before he went to Brodski's club, and two days later he paid up?"
"That's right," said Craig. "So Driver double-crossed his bosses."
"Ah," said Loomis. "I wonder if his bosses were Krauts?"
"It's possible," said Craig.
"It is indeed," said Loomis dreamily. "It's even possible he belongs to the West German Defense of Constitution."
"Driver was an agent?"
"Not a very good one," said Loomis. "He died."
Craig had met operators from the Defense of Constitution before. They did counterintelligence work, and did it well. Hard, arrogant, efficient as Deutschmarks, all four hundred of them. Mostly they stayed in West Germany and hunted foreign spies, particularly Russians. Sometimes they went further afield. Driver had gone too far.
"Where do they come in?" asked Craig. "Those Defense of Constitution boys don't like to get too far from home. They play too rough."
"They got one sacred symbol, you see," Loomis said. "Like a cow to a Brahmin, like Mecca to an Arab, that's the Deutschmark to a West German."
"Money," said Craig. "This case is all money. Dollars and Deutschmarks."
"At least they've chosen the good stuff," said Loomis.
They parked in the VIP car area, and boarded their Comet with minutes to spare. Loomis had insisted on traveling first class, and finished the champagne lunch to the last crumb and the last drop. His passport declared him to be a business executive. He talked all the way of golf, electrical appliances, and the total absence of good tea in Paris. Craig, also a business executive, confined himself to agreement. He knew that he was junior to Loomis. They landed at Orly Airport to find a warm spring day and a pale-blue Citroen. The English driver came over to them, shook hands with them, and took them at once to the car. Inside it, on the back seat, were two parcels: one squat, square and heavy, the other flexible and shapeless. The driver immediately pulled away and got onto the highway to Paris, and Loomis fretted about how the rest of the world drives on the wrong side of the road. Craig put the two parcels into his raincoat pockets; soon they stopped at a cafe. Craig went at once to the toilet, locked the door of his stall, and removed his raincoat and jacket, then quickly untied his parcels. The flexible one was a holster of black leather, the hard one a Smith and Wesson Chiefs Special with a two-inch barrel—the right gun for the job, not all that accurate over too great a distance but a stopper. If you got hit with that you didn't get up. Craig put his jacket and coat back on, stuck the wrapping paper in the gun's box and then the box in his pocket, flushed the toilet, and went out, cutting short the clamors of the woman at the door with a half-franc borrowed from the driver. He drank the coffee Loomis ordered for him, and they drove on into springtime Paris, with the chestnut trees and the Eiffel Tower, and the Arc de Triomphe, the Invalides, and the biggest traffic jams in Europe. But at last they reached the Madeleine, walked around the corner to the Thomas Cook offices, and bought two tickets to Versailles.
They went there in a bus, a big Facel Vega with a sunshine roof and its full complement of tourists. Loomis chose a seat in the middle and put Craig next to the window, then peered past him dutifully as the guide called out the place names all had paid so much to see. At last, when even the television center had been passed and there was nothing more to look at, Loomis spoke softly to Craig.
"He asked for Versailles," Loomis said. "Bloody culture snob. Could have had a nice bit of lunch at the Tour d'Argent. God knows he can afford it."
"Who?" asked Craig.
"Chelichev," said Loomis.
Chelichev was head of the Executive Division of the KGB—the Committee for State Security. Before Beria's death he had headed the GRU, which is Army Intelligence, but after that colossal shakeup he had been transferred, and now he was the only military man in a nonmilitary organization. He held the rank of lieutenant-general. "He rarely leaves Russia." Craig said so.
"He goes when he has to," said Loomis. "Like me. We got something he wants, so he comes to France."
"Not England?"
"He doesn't want it that bad," said Loomis.
"Anyway, he's probably got a deal on with the Frenchies as well."
"What about?" Craig asked.
"Morocco," said Loomis. He would say no more.
They drove on to Versailles, and listened while the guide reeled off facts and figures, lagging behind as the group trudged through stateroom after stateroom; they wondered what it must have been like before the mob smashed its way in and took the gold away. By the time they reached the Hall of Mirrors, they were alone, and Chelichev was waiting for them.
He was a tall man with silvery hair and blue eyes, dressed in light, elegant tweeds like a Frenchman's idea of an officer in the guards. The briefcase he carried was like the extension of his hand. His face was leathery, handsome, and very masculine. To the inexpert, he might have been a male model who specialized in whisky ads; to Craig, he was an expert who specialized in death. With him he had one man, tall, thick-muscled, with cautious eyes and hands conspicuously displayed in front of him, as Craig's were. Craig knew all about that man as soon as he saw him. He was looking at himself.
The moves that followed were as formal as a ballet. The two pairs of men advanced from opposite ends of the great room, and after ten paces Craig and the thick-muscled man turned and walked to the windows in the embrasures that overlooked the canal, turned again and, each unseen by the other, watched their principals meet, fall in side by side and patrol the room, Loomis with his tall, square bowler rammed down hard on his head, Chelichev swinging his briefcase. Chelichev seemed to do most of the talking. From time to time Loomis spoke. Usually it was a monosyllable, and he seemed to be enjoying it. The Russian's face was impassive, but his arguments never stopped. At last Loomis seemed to agree, and Chelichev's arguments ceased. The two men walked back to the center of the room, then each crossed to the embrasure where his man was waiting. Loomis's face glistened with sweat, but he kept his hat on.
Their tour group came back, and they went out again, back to Paris, invulnerably embedded in humanity. The Citroen waited for them in the Place de la Madeleine, and drove them back to Orly Airport. At the last moment, Craig took out the Smith and Wesson, unstrapped the holster, and left them both in the box and wrapping they came in.
"Tidy," said Loomis.
Craig had no idea who bodyguarded them at the airport or on the plane. They were the best Loomis had and hence invisible. Once more they talked of golf, electrical appliances, and the total absence of good coffee in London, until they were through Customs, out of the Europa building, and inside Loomis's car.
Craig said: "That briefcase Chelichev carried. He's got you on tape."
"Ah," said Loomis, and carefully removed his hat, wiped his sweating forehead. Inside the hat's high dome was a tape recorder.
"Made it myself," said Loomis. "Bit of.a hobby."
One enormous finger stabbed into the hat with a forceful accuracy that was entirely Loomis, and Craig tried not to think of Freud, as a tiny motor whirred, and first Chelichev's voice spoke; then Loomis'. Both men talked in German.
"His idea," Loomis said. "Seemed to think it was funny. Matter of fact it was."
His driving on the way back to Queen Anne's Gate was atrocious.
* * *
The two men studied transcripts o
f the taped conversation, and the text of Chelichev's speech was at first a raging anger. The typewritten words burned on the page. And yet, Craig remembered, Chelichev himself had given no sign of anger; had never looked other than reasonably, gently persuasive while he blasted Loomis with one threat after another, demanding Calvet back, and Loomis, equally gentle, had said no. Chelichev had shifted then, as their images had blurred from one mirror to another, Craig remembered. If they couldn't have Calvet back, they wanted him dead, and again Loomis said no. Loomis was being impossibly difficult, Chelichev had said, but never mind. He'd go further. Department K didn't have to do it. All Loomis need do was set Calvet up and Chelichev would arrange the death himself, and Loomis had asked why.
Chelichev had sworn then for thirty seconds, and in a foreign language, and Loomis had interrupted him. First he explained the old English custom of tit for tat—of Jean-Luc Calvet for James Soong. No one was allowed to come into his parish and knock people off. Not even a man he respected as much as General Chelichev. And to Craig's amazement the Russian had apologized. Chelichev said he realized how unprofessional it was, but he had no choice. And besides, even if Loomis didn't realize it, he, Chelichev, had been doing Loomis a favor.
"He enjoyed that bit," said Loomis. "That's all he bloody did enjoy."
Craig read on. Loomis now knew why Soong had been murdered, though the reasons for this had been omitted from Craig's transcript. The reasons had come from Calvet, that much was clear, and even clearer was Chelichev's unsatisfied desire to know what had made Calvet talk. There followed a lengthy interval of bargaining over an unspecified job Chelichev wanted done, and what Loomis was to get in return; then both men assured each other that nothing must be done to alarm the Germans or the French, and there Craig's transcript ended.
"You're being cryptic again," said Craig.
"Can't help it," said Loomis. "I've got orders, too."
"Do they allow you to tell me what all this bargaining's about?"
"The Chinese are building rockets," said Loomis. "The Russkies know where they're going to be sited. If we do them this little favor they'll tell us. Useful that."
