Die Rich Die Happy c-2

by James Munro

  "It might have been me," said Flip. Craig nodded. "I wish it had been."

  "Your old man's playing king tonight," Craig said. 'That makes you a queen. Queens can't die just to please themselves."

  She pressed the Band-Aid down.

  "It was an accident, wasn't it?" she asked.

  "Don't you know?" Craig asked. "You were there."

  She began to shake.

  "Craig, look at me, please," she said. "1 need a fix. I've , got to have one," and she held out a fine-boned, shapely hand, and as he watched it trembled to an ugly desperate claw.

  "The steward—Nikki—where is he?" Craig shook his

  head.

  "Craig, please. Oh darling, please."

  She was in his arms all ice and fire, her tongue a darting torment to his mouth, her body restless and yielding at once, her hands an eager stimulus until he pushed her away, held her by the elbows, and shook her till her head flopped.

  "Are you crazy?" he said at last, and let her go. She fell on to a long, black sofa, a shoulder strap slipping to reveal a round and tender breast, and she was the most beautiful, most desirable woman in the world.

  "Cover yourself up," he said harshly. "Suppose the monkey came in?" Her hand went mechanically to the golden strap, and her breast was gold again.

  "Crazy?" said Fhp. "Did you say crazy? Of course I'm crazy. No heroin and no strong man to cling to."

  "Naxos," said Craig. "Isn't he strong enough?"

  She looked at him, tried to speak, and could not. She began to shake again. "Get out," she said at last. "Just get out."

  He went at once. Naxos sat where he had left him, looking down the gallery, seeing nothing. Above him was a great golden dome, but a section of it was now dark, night dark, and studded with stars. Craig cursed, and ran for the stairs that led to the roof.

  The roof garden was dark and empty. Bar, tables, dance floor, aU deserted, and that segment of dome gleamed white from the lamps beneath. Craig moved warily toward it, stooped to feel the runners on which it had been pulled back, then froze, sensing movement to his right. He looked round, and the other houri stood facing him, cloudy as a dream in the darkness.

  "Pia," said Craig. "What the hell—?"

  Then the houri's eyes narrowed, her mouth opened to yell, and Craig turned, far too late, as the night sky fell on him and he dived deep into its blackness where there were no stars.

  * Chapter 13 «

  Grierson was worried about Craig. He'd been away too long, and so had Andrews, whom he'd sent to follow the giant headsman. He thought perhaps he'd better go upstairs, but on the way the three bravos jostled him, blocking his path, and two pretty girls grabbed his hands, whirling him into a long dancing chain of maskers as balloons drifted from the c«iling like the atoms of a rainbow and people grabbed and pushed to burst their prettiness. Grierson couldn't get to the stairs and found himself by the room Craig said they could use. He thought he'd better check on Nikki.

  He went in, and it was very quiet, and Nikki would never again know anything but quiet. He lay on his back, in cheap and grubby underwear, an elaborate dagger, the kind called a poniard, deep in his chest. The dagger looked familiar. Its shaft was of silver, inlaid with red Venetian glass. The poniard belonged on his right thigh, in a soft leather sheath, but the sheath was empty. Grierson moved closer to Nikki, and the door opened behind him, the two pretty girls looked at the body and began to scream.

  He should have moved then, but there was no point. The only way out led to the ballroom, and that was already blocked by people pushing in to enjoy the screaming. Grierson simply stood there, and said: "No comprende," and was cursed, bullied, sometimes struck, by a succession of waiters, sailors, guests, and policemen. At last Naxos came down, identified Nikki, and looked inquiringly at Grierson.

  "Who is this man?" he asked.

  "My name's Grierson," Grierson said. "Craig must have told you I was coming here." "Craig?"

  "Yes, Craig. The man who was looking after your security."

  Naxos turned to the policemen.

  "He's lying," Naxos said. "I don't know anyone called Craig. My bos'n looks after my guests."

  "But listen"—Grierson looked round desperately. "I didn't do this. I came here to look after people. You can ask—"

  "Yes?" said Naxos.

  But Grierson couldn't name Andrews. Craig might need him.

  "Nobody," Grierson said. "But I didn't kill him."

  "No?" said a policeman. "Then why is he wearing your dagger?"

  He turned to Naxos. "I'm sorry, sir, I shall want a list of your other guests. No one had better leave."

  "They can't," said Naxos. "No gondolas until four. What about him?" He nodded at Grierson.

  "We'll take him to the station," said the policeman, and produced handcuffs, snapped one band round Grierson's wrist, the other round his own. They had all the room they needed as they walked across the ballroom, Grierson and the senior policeman in the lead, Naxos a half dozen steps behind, the other pohceman promising action immediately and with the minimum of fuss.

  As they passed through the door, Grierson saw a powerboat ready to go, and a young man dressed as Meph-istopheles waiting with massive patience as two sailors scurried to cast off. Grierson hesitated, but there was no choice at all. He had handled that dagger; his prints would be all over it, and the bravos wore gloves. This time all he had left was violence, crude, vulgar, and one hoped, efficient. He stumbled dehberately on the steps, pulling the pohceman off balance, then cooked him off with a judo chop just as Mephistopheles, bless him, revved up his engines and blotted out the yells from behind him. He let his handcuffed wrist go slack, and slammed the steel against the pillar as he had been taught. When his manacles snapped open he leaped down the steps in three frantic bounds, gathering momentum as he went, and the fourth bound sent him soaring over the canal, to land with a crash on the bottom boards of the boat. He felt a blow like a fist low on his chest, and only then remembered that he carried a gun. The police had been too overawed to search him properly and he'd been unaware that he had anything to hide. The powerboat rocked, and its owner looked down on him.

  "I agree," he said. "A truly awful party."

  He accelerated, and his wash set a row of gondolas bobbing like frantic swans. He was monumentally drunk. "Awful on an epic scale," he continued. "A significant achievement in awfulness: a Ninth Symphony say, or a War and Peace. Big, painstaking, costly—and awful. I only went because everybody else did. I'm always doing that and regretting it. Where can I drop you?'

  "Anywhere at all," said Grierson. "I just felt like some

  air."

  "Good," said the devil, and hiccoughed. The powerboat slithered past San Marco, and Grierson crawled wearily to his feet and took the wheel.

  'Thanks," said the devil. "I really am rather drunk."

  "Yes," said Grierson.

  "You are British, I take it? It's funny, isn't it, I assumed at once that you were. I'm Italian, you know. My name's di Traverse—Count Mario di Traverse as a matter of fact. I'm usually called Nono."

  "I'm Philip Grierson," Grierson said.

  Nono bowed, uncomprehending.

  "I speak English like this because I went to one of your schools," Nono said.

  "As a matter of fact so did I," said Grierson.

  "My dear chap, I realize that," said Nono. "One can tell by the noises you make. Exactly the same as mine. A sort of clipped quacking." He tilted back his head. "Quack, quack," he bawled, in a very gentlemanly voice. "Quack, quack." He slumped back into his seat. "I don't make noises like that in Italian," he said.

  Grierson took the boat into the darkness of the lagoon, and risked a quick glance over his shoulder. A police launch, lights blazing, sirens screaming, bulldozed its way through the boats around it. Grierson stepped up the revs.

  "Where are we going?" he asked.

  "I've got an island near Murano, about a mile east of it as a matter of fact," Nono said. Grierson altered cou
rse.

  "I've got a girl there. That was one habit I didn't acquire at school. Not being fond of girls I mean. As a matter of fact that's how I came to be sacked. My mother was awfully upset. I had to change schools. That's why I left this party so early."

  "I don't think I follow," said Grierson. He looked back again. The police boat was well behind.

  "Seeing old Swyven," said Nono. "I hated old Swyven. He was my house tutor you know. At my new school. Fearfully down on women.'

  "What was he fond of?"

  "Boys," said Nono.

  "Nothing else?"

  "No," said Nono. "He was the sort of chap who was always against things."

  "What, for example?"

  "Oh, capitalism, the British Empire, women, the H-bomb, me. He was rather a menace actually."

  "Really? I should have thought you could handle him."

  "Oh yes. I could handle him. It was his cousin." Nono yawned softly.

  "A chap called Dyton-Blease. He was enormous." He chuckled reminiscently.

  "He didn't like girls either. Or boys. Just his muscles. Bit of a narci—narcissi—fond of himself, you know. And the Middle East. Funny that." He chuckled. "Claimed Europe grows decadent every few hundred years or so, and it needs a cleansing desert wind to make it pure. Last thing he ever said to me was that he was going to Arabia and fetch back the wind from the desert. Told me I wouldn't last five minutes, as a matter of fact. Suppose he was joking."

  "No," said Grierson. "He means it."

  Nono's head lolled on his chest; he snored. Quack, quack. Grierson circled Murano and looked out for Nono's island. There was a tiny one near by, a sliver of beach, a house, another powerboat, and a tangle of garden, nothing more. Grierson edged the boat up to a half-rotted jetty, stopped the engine, and hauled Nono upright. He was still out cold.

  The house door was open, and he walked straight in. It should be easy—hand Nono over to the girl, borrow some clothes, borrow the boat. If she were all that fond of Nono, and she must be, to come out here, she'd be too busy pouring coffee down him to argue. There were lights just off the hall, and he pushed open another door. Two women were waiting for Nono, two tall, cool blondes in slacks and blouses of heavy silk. They sat facing each other in icy silence,

  Mice a sister act after a quarrel, and whatever they had expected to see come through the door, it had not been a masked gentleman in crimson with a rapier over his hip, carrying the devil. They rocketed out of their seats like cool, blond pheasants, and Grierson laid Nono tenderly on a divan and turned to the two women, who had begun to scream. Grierson took a very deep breath.

  "Shut up," he roared, and the noise of it blotted out the screams for a moment, but the screams went on. Grierson took another breath, and the screaming stopped. The women watched him, wary as cats at a dog show, but terrified that he might roar again.

  "Look," Grierson said. "Nono wasn't feeling well—"

  "Drunk," said one blonde.

  "Again," said the other.

  "He asked me to drive him home. Under the circumstances I thought I'd better."

  "Who are you?" the blondes said together.

  "My name's Philip Grierson," he said. "Nono and I were at school together. Who are you?"

  "I'm Angelina Visconti," said one blonde.

  "And I," said the other, "am the Countess di Traverse. Now that we're introduced, don't you think you should take off your mask?"

  "Yes, of course," said Grierson, and did so.

  "And your sword," said Angelina. He obeyed once

  more.

  "It was a costume ball, you see," said Grierson. "I know," said Angelina. "He promised to take me." "And me," said the countess.

  "I think he went alone," said Grierson, and hoped, for Nono's sake, that this was so.

  "Would you mind taking him into the bedroom?" Angelina said. "I don't terribly want to look at him."

  "We have to talk," said the countess.

  "Nono won't be able to talk for days," Angelina said. "You shouldn't let him drink."

  "I shouldn't—"

  "After all you are his wife." She turned to glance at Grierson, who felt suddenly chilly. "Well!" she said.

  I'll put him to bed with pleasure," Grierson said, and the countess giggled, then scowled. This was serious business, after all.

  "Then do so," said the countess.

  "The only thing is—how do I get back to the mainland?"

  "In the boat of course," the countess said. "Nono stole it. It's mine."

  "It goes very nicely," Grierson said.

  "Who bought it for you, darling?" asked Angelina.

  Grierson picked up Nono again, and hauled him into the bedroom.

  Nono lay where Grierson dropped him, but incredibly his eyes opened.

  "Old chap," he whispered. Grierson bent over him. "Was my wife there too?" Grierson nodded. "Oh dear God," said Nono.

  "I said you'd passed out," Grierson whispered. "You'd better do that until I take your wife away."

  "That's awfully decent of you," said Nono. "Anything I can do—"

  T would rather like a change of clothes," said Grierson.

  "Help yourself," said Nono, and gestured to a wardrobe.

  The clothes in it fitted Grierson admirably and the coat he chose was just loose enough to hide the bulge of his Smith and Wesson. There were cigarettes too, in the bedroom, and Scotch. Grierson helped himself and went back to Nono. He looked down at the death-pale face, cunning with pretended sleep.

  "What you told me about Swyven and Dyton-Blease, is it true?" he asked.

  "Gospel old chap, every word," said Nono. "For God's sake keep your voice down."

  "But they kept it all secret, didn't they?" Grierson whispered.

  Nono, very weakly, nodded. "Then why did they tell

  you?"

  'They wanted me to join them. I was supposed to be going into the Diplomatic Service, but all I was any good at was women. I can't drink."

  "Just as a matter of interest, whom did you go to the ball with?"

  "A Swede, old chap. Name of Helga. Trouble was her husband turned up." Nono's hand reached for Grierson's glass, sipped at his Scotch. "She's nearly as tall as I am. So fair her hair looks white."

  "You seem to like tall blondes," said Grierson.

  Nono drained the glass. "Who doesn't?" he said loudly, and passed out cold. Grierson poured himself another drink and went back to the blondes.

  "I heard Nono speak," said Angelina.

  "He came to just for a moment. Said I might borrow these clothes," said Grierson.

  "No doubt," Angelina said. "They are my husband's." She hesitated. "I suppose you really did me a favor—bringing Nono back to me. You keep them."

  "Thanks," said Grierson.

  "He brought Nono back to us," said the countess.

  "Poor Nono," said Angelina. "I'll bring him over to visit you when he is stronger, darling."

  "Oh, very well," said the countess. "I suppose we have to be seen together sometimes." She rose. "We really must go now, Philip dear."

  Grierson, who had risen too, moved to the door, watched the two women kiss, and went outside, then pulled the plug from Nono's powerboat. It was a crime, he thought, a lovely job like that, but he couldn't afford to be followed, and maybe Nono had it insured. He got into the other one, revved it up, and waited until the countess came.

  "I'm awfully sorry," he said. "Yours is out of petrol."

  The countess grinned. "Never mind," she said. 'This one is much better. Can you get to Lido di Jesolo?"

  "I think so," said Grierson, and helped her aboard, then let in the power. The thrust of the engines was tremendous.

  The countess fussed with charts, and Grierson looked at the stars, found northeast and kept going.

  "Angelina's husband bought this boat," said the countess. "He bought mine too." The powerboat swerved, and went back on course. "I like you, Grierson," the countess said. "I find you simpatico." She switched to Italian then, and Grie
rson told her how beautiful she was, because what else can you say in Italian?

  Then the countess went below, and Grierson still steered by the stars. Half an hour later, her head appeared and she said: "You'd better come down. There's an anchor thing around somewhere." Grierson hove to, and went below.

  Next morning, looking at once sick, seedy, and Italian, Grierson anchored in Lido di Jesolo and left the countess asleep. He put a call through to Rome from a cafe on the waterfront, and the man who answered it was not happy at all. Even so, he said he'd try. Seven hours later, Grierson was in London.

  * Chapter 14

  When Craig came round, his neck and right shoulder were a mass of pain, intense, throbbing, apparently unending. He was aware of it as completely as if it were the act of love; so long as it existed there was room in his mind for nothing else. He lay face downward, and perhaps a minute passed before he heard the groans, and another minute at least before he realized that they were his own. When he knew that, he began to fight, first to stop the noises he was making, and then, at the cost of appalling effort, to find out where he was, what was happening.

  He began with his fingers. He lay face down, and his eyes refused to focus. Best to find out what his fingers could tell him. They touched something soft and smooth and yielding. When he pressed down, what his fingers touched gave way. He pressed harder, and groaned again as his shoulder muscles worked. Deliberately he shut oS the noise, went on pressing until he could sit up. He was lying on a bed. It was familiar to him. Wearily his brain told him it was the bed in his cabin on Naxos's yacht. He looked round, slowly, carefully, wary of the great ache in his neck that throbbed and shuddered like a gong. Pia Busoni sat in the chair by the dressing table. She still wore the costume of the night before, and fear crawled slyly, obscenely across her face.

  Craig said; "I'd better have a drink. Is there a drink?" She made no move. "Scotch," Craig said. "You'll have to fetch it. I can't . . ." His hands slipped, and he almost fell, then pushed himself up again. The girl moved cautiously across the room, poured him a drink, put it in his hand. Craig sipped once, then again. The whiskey burned into his consciousness.

  "Naxos's party," he said. "I was on the roof. And you were going to scream."