Die Rich Die Happy c-2

by James Munro

  Naxos said, "You were always a hard man to buy cigars from."

  He went to a desk table, unlocked a drawer.

  "Buy Magna Electrics," he said. "All you can get. And Railton Plastics. Try a flyer in Marine Foods, too. It'll do you good to use your own money."

  "Greedy," said Craig. "Let me talk to your wireless operator."

  "Why on earth—"

  'To instruct my broker. We want it known we're in business, don't we?"

  Naxos pressed a button and murmured into an intercom. "He'll be along in a minute," he said. "I'll just introduce you and leave you to it. I have to get back to Flip."

  Craig said; "I wish you would reconsider about Venice."

  Naxos said: "You think I want to go? Look, you know my wife was on drugs?" Craig nodded. "Well, I got her off them. It nearly killed us both. But she still wants them, Craig, and anything that takes her mind off them she can have. Including Venice."

  "Suppose she was kidnapped?"

  "That's up to you," said Naxos. "I know what's going to happen if we don't go. I've seen it before—and it's worse than dying."

  Craig was about to speak when there was a discreet tap at the door, and the wireless operator came in, browned and handsome in whites.

  "Andrews," said Naxos, "this is Mr. Craig. He has some stuff he wants you to send." He turned to Craig. "You'll do your best with that other business?"

  "Of course," said Craig. "But don't ask for guarantees."

  "I don't need to, do I?" said Naxos, and left.

  Andrews said: "What can I do for you, sir?"

  Craig looked at the photograph that Loomis had given him, compared it with Andrews's face. This looked like the man. He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to him.

  "No, thank you, sir. Not at the moment," said Andrews.

  "Don't you like this brand?" asked Craig. "Occasionally," Andrews said. "But not often." Craig took out his lighter, set fire to the photograph, used it to light a cigarette. This was the man.

  Craig tore a leaf from a scratch pad, rested it on the hard top of the desk, where pencil marks wouldn't show, and scribbled "Is this room bugged?" and then handed it to Andrews.

  "I'll get on to it right away," said Andrews.

  Methodically the two men went through the cabin. Andrews worked on the intercom and radiotelephone as the most obvious places, and Craig concentrated on the furniture. He found it at last behind Philippa's portrait, the tiny microphone let into the molding of the frame, a flat, gilded disk that exactly matched the rest of the frame, but projected a little too far. Behind the portrait was a tiny transister recorder, with wires instead of tape, working from flat batteries linked in a series and stuck to the back of the frame.

  Craig snapped his fingers, and Andrews came over, turned it off and ran the wire back on to its spool, that was scarcely an inch in diameter. "Neat," he said. "Looks Japanese —except I hear the Chinese are doing a copy now. Did you see how slowly it turned? You could get a hell of a lot from one spool."

  "A bit hit or miss though, surely?" said Craig.

  "No," said Andrews. "The trigger mechanism's so delicate it switches on and off when somebody speaks."

  "That's fantastic," said Craig.

  "It's true," said Andrews. "Come along to my cabin and 111 play it back for you."

  "Later," said Craig. "You know he's going to Venice?" Andrews nodded. "He says it's vital—for his wife's health. Has he contacted her doctor?"

  "He's got one aboard," said Andrews. "He's also tried to get hold of a specialist in London. Sir Matthew Chinn. The rest's all been business. Stuff to his New York office, all routine, same kind of stuff to Zaarb, an order to Paris—diamonds for the madam—and one to Venice to a chap called Trottia, a dress designer."

  "Got the address?"

  "In my cabin," said Andrews. "But he's clean. It's all about evening dresses and twin sets and playsuits."

  "Mrs. Naxos buys clothes in Paris," said Craig. "Tweeds in London. Odds and ends in Rome. Venice is for peasants."

  "Okay," said Andrews. "Whatever you say."

  "I've been introduced to the Count de Tavel, the

  Honorable Mark Swyven, and Pia Busoni," said Craig. "She's the one Naxos doesn't fancy. I don't like the two men. What do you think?"

  "I sent the guest list to London. They said they were all clean," Andrews said.

  "Ask them to check those three again."

  "Will do."

  "Let's go to your cabin and listen," said Craig. "This place gives me delusions of grandeur."

  Andrews's quarters were about cabin class on a Cunarder, and Craig wondered why on earth Andrews should bother risking his neck when he could live in such luxury and be a coward. He wondered why he should risk his own neck, and refused to face the answer. Danger was a craving he hadn't learned to stifle since he was seventeen years old. He waited, immobile, as Andrews took a transistor recorder from beneath the bottom of his battered suitcase, and delicately, painstakingly, connected up the tiny spool.

  "We're not bugging him then?" asked Craig.

  "I was told it was too risky. We can get most of what we need from the wireless room anyway," said Andrews.

  Craig nodded, and waited, immobile, patient. Cautiously Andrews threaded the end of the wire into an empty spool and wound on.

  "It's ready," he said, and switched on.

  Craig listened to Naxos imperious, Naxos mercantile, Naxos amorous—this last when Philippa came into the room. He heard him speak to his wife, his steward, his three secretaries, his bosun, his captain, and his valet. He heard radiotelephone conversations with shipping offices in New York and a new oil-rig in Zaarb. He heard him speak in English, Arabic, and Greek. When he talked to Trottia he spoke in Italian, and it was all about dresses and twin sets. When Trottia said "Good-bye," he said "Addio," but Naxos said: "You should say 'Dosvidanye' until you learn Chinese, my friend," and roared with laughter.

  "Stop," said Craig, and Andrews switched off.

  "Get rid of Dosvidanye, and what follows," said Craig. "Just wipe it off."

  Andrews nodded.

  "It'll take time," he said. 'You want to hear the rest

  of it?"

  "Yes," said Craig, and Andrews switched on again. The rest of it was Craig and Naxos. The sound of drinks poured, and Naxos saying: "It really is nice to see you again. Philippa likes you too. You look in good shape." Every sentence hard on top of the one before, the first syllable blurred as the sound of the voice switched on the mechanism. Craig heard it through.

  "Keep the first bit—up to Tfou look in good shape'— then muck it up for a bit. Leave the stock-market tips in, that is, 'Buy Magna Electrics'—up to 'Railton Plastics. Blur the bit about 'Marine Foods.' Clean off the rest. Can you do that?"

  "Cleaning ofFs easy. But blurring—I'd have to put something in the mechanism, a bit of paper or something, to explain why it happened. Otherwise whoever set this thing up would just be more suspicious."

  "Not paper," said Craig. He watched a big, clumsy moth bump its way round Andrews's table lamp. Suddenly his hand was a blur of movement, the remains of the moth a powdery stain on his palm.

  "How about that?" he said. "Insects get in everywhere."

  "That'll do fine," said Andrews. Carefully Craig scraped it off onto a sheet of paper.

  "Can you put it back?" asked Craig.

  "I think so," Andrews said. "I made myself a key."

  "I like that," Craig said. "I like it very much. You and I will get along fine."

  This one's good, he thought. For a new boy he's bloody marvelous. He left Andrews then, and went to his cabin. The thread he had left over the lock was intact, his room untouched. Craig took a bottle of brandy from his drinks tray, poured out a large tot, and flushed it down the toilet. He ground out the stub of the cigarette he had lit in Andrews's room into the ashtray, and scribbled figures in a note pad, then wrote the words "Magna Electrics" and underlined them. From the bottom of his wardrobe he took out a
suitcase, an elegant piece of pigskin that had been made by the same expert who had created Andrews's battered wreck. He removed the false bottom, and looked at the snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 airweight with the two-inch barrel, snug in its molded hollow, the spare rounds of ammunition and the soft leather holster. Carefully, soundlessly, he checked and cleaned the gun, then put it back. Bauer's knife was there too, in a leather sheath Loomis had had made in three hours. He left it where it was, for the time, and searched his own room for a microphone. He found none, poured a small brandy as the reward or vigilance, and went back to the party.

  * Chapter 8 *

  They were still on deck, drinking, dancing, and Naxos came over at once to Craig, dragging Philippa with him.

  "You took a long time to send a wire," he said.

  "I had to work out how much to risk," said Craig. "I don't like taking chances, Harry."

  "You don't deserve to have money," Naxos bawled. "Go and dance with Philippa. You don't deserve that either."

  He pushed them together once more, then stuck out an empty hand. A steward sprang out of the thin air and stuck a glass of raki into it.

  She was firm and supple in his arms, touching him just enough, her hand pressing into the hard-packed muscle of his shoulder, her head uptilted, the wide blue eyes searching his face with an intensity that didn't match at all with the commonplaces she spoke.

  "I hope you're being well looked after, John," she

  said.

  "Oh yes," said Craig. "It's fine."

  "Anything you want—just ask. Harry wants you to have a good time."

  "There's nothing, believe me," said Craig.

  They passed Swyven, who was dancing with Pia, and telling her about the ruins of Mytilene.

  "It's all too scrumptious," Craig said.

  Philippa giggled softly.

  "He is awful, isn't he?" she said.

  "Terrible. What on earth does he do besides telling me all about Carpaccio?"

  "He's a dress designer. Quite a good one really." "Paris?"

  "Not that good," said Philippa. "He works with a man called Trottia in Venice."

  "Do you buy his stuff?"

  "God no," said Philippa, genuinely shocked. "I always go to Paris. I love dressing up. Pia goes to him. He did that thing she's wearing. Honestly, it's not too bad, is it?"

  "Very nice," said Craig.

  "I'm glad you think so," said Philippa. "I think Pia's taken rather a fancy to you. Would you mind awfully?"

  "Not terribly. No," said Craig.

  "You shouldn't laugh at me," said Phihppa.

  "You shouldn't talk like that."

  "It's the only way I can talk—except like a Hollywood whore. That's what I used to be. When I married Harry I wanted to start again, right from the beginning. So he hired somebody to teach me to talk like this."

  "The Archbishop of Canterbury?"

  "Well almost," said Phihppa. "A genuine British ladyship. She's the eighteenth countess or something, and she hasn't a bean."

  Another dancer lurched towards them, and Craig swung her round, lifting her casually from under his feet.

  "You're very strong," said Philippa.

  "I used to work," said Craig, and she giggled again. It was a very satisfying thing, triggering off that low, rich laughter, that still held a touch of vulgar zest in it, despite all the eighteenth countess had done.

  When the dance ended, Philippa took Craig's hand and led him over to Pia.

  "Now be nice to her," she whispered. "It's about time someone was." Then "Darling," she said, "you must dance with John. He's so good."

  "I'd love to," said Pia, and when the band started again, came to him, lifting her arms gently, submissively, moving surely to his touch.

  "Philippa's right," said Pia. "You are good. I'm looking forward to Venice."

  "It should be interesting," said Craig.

  The Italian laughed, a clear, ringing sound that contrasted with Philippa's soft giggle. In a corner opposite, Swyven and Tavel talked together. The Frenchman heard the laughter, and scowled.

  "I can never understand the English," she said. "Come here. I want to show you something."

  She broke away, and walked towards the stem of the ship, down a companion ladder to what had once been the after gun turret.

  The helicopter rested there.

  "It's a helicopter," said Craig.

  "Yes, of course. But come here," said Pia. She drew him into a pool of shadow behind it.

  "Now nobody can see us," she said. "Shall we dance here instead?"

  Her arms came round him again, and her mouth found his, and she kissed him with a demanding skill that brought his body to flame. Her hands loosed the button of his coat and slipped inside it, roamed delicately over his ribs, across his back. Craig wondered if he was being searched, in the most tactful way possible, to see if he carried a gun. At last he said: "You dance pretty well yourself."

  "I'm very fond of dancing," she said. "See?"

  Her arms reached up for him again, but he took hold of her wrists, holding her gently, but with a strength she couldn't resist.

  "Not here," he said.

  "But I like it here."

  She tried to move her arms, and discovered that she could not.

  "I've got to talk with Harry again," Craig said. "Business."

  "Darling, please stay," she said. "No," said Craig.

  "Ji you don't stay, 111 scream," she said, and again struggled to free her hands.

  "This lot are past getting their kicks out of screaming," said Craig. She opened her mouth then, and he added: "You scream, and I'll belt you." Her mouth shut and he left her. As he went he heard a gasping sound, weeping or laughter? It was impossible to tell.

  He raced for the companionway that led to his cabin.

  The corridor was deserted. He stopped by his cabin door. The thread across the lock was gone. Craig flattened himself by the bulkhead near the door, and listened in concentration. There was a faint sound from inside the cabin. He waited, tense and ready, then heard the clatter of footsteps ascending the stairs from the afterdeck. Pia had got over her laughter, or her tears. For a moment he toyed with the idea of going in, facing the man inside, then he rejected it. His cover was good, the chances of anyone finding the gun in the suitcase unlikely. He sped down the corridor into the saloon. Phihppa was there alone, looking through a picture-frame window at the lights of the harbor. She spun round at once, and looked at Craig.

  "Oh," she said, "it's you. I thought you were giving Pia dancing lessons."

  "It turned out she was teaching me," said Craig. He listened, straining for a sound from outside. Philippa came up to him, her arm reached out and she shut the door.

  T can't stand open doors," she said. "I have too many secrets."

  She turned then, looked hard at Craig. "Pia couldn't teach you anything," she said. "Have a drink."

  "No thanks," said Craig.

  "Make me one then. Scotch. Lots of Scotch. Lots of ice."

  Craig made her drink, and she swallowed it almost fiercely, gagging it down as if that were the only way she could take it.

  "I don't do that often," she said.

  T can see that," said Craig.

  "And Harry doesn't know."

  "But I doF'

  "Why not?" she said. "You're supposed to be looking after me, aren't you?"

  "I poured your Scotch, didn't I?" said Craig. "Why do you want to fight me, Mrs. Naxos?"

  Her head jerked up then, and she gulped down the rest of the Scotch.

  "Again," she said.

  Craig made her another one.

  "What were you on?" he asked. "Heroin?"

  She slammed the glass down, Scotch slopping on to the table, and her blue eyes were dark with hate. Craig looked back at her, his gaze steady. She began to shake.

  "I had to find out about you," he said. "I had to learn where you can be hurt."

  "And that's where," Philippa said. "I still miss it. Scotch isn't
any good. I still miss it."

  "How long have you been off it?"

  "A year," she said. "A lifetime. I could wish you didn't have to keep me alive, John."

  The door opened then, and Naxos came in. For once he looked old, tired.

  He slumped heavily into a chair.

  "Make me a drink, honey," he said.

  I'll get it," said Craig.

  "But Philippa had already opened a cupboard and was pouring raid.

  "Make one for John, too," said Naxos.

  "I've got one," said Craig, and picked up Philippa's glass. Naxos took the drink his wife gave him, swallowed once, then again, and held it out for more.

  "I've told him we're going to Venice," he said.

  Philippa shrugged.

  "I can't stop you," Craig said. "But I don't think you realize what these people are capable of."

  As he spoke the door opened again, and Pia came in, with the count, who seemed drunk, and Swyven, who seemed anxious.

  "They've been in business for a long time," Craig continued. They usually manage to get the things they want—and at their own price."

  They won't this time," said Naxos.

  The count slumped into the chair Naxos had used. Craig was conscious of a feeling of outrage, as if a scullion had dared to occupy a throne.

  "I should like a drink, if it is permitted," said the

  count.

  "Help yourself," said Naxos. "We're through talking business."

  Swyven began to mix three drinks, and his hands shook so that the decanter clattered on the glasses.

  "Business," said the count. "That is all the English are interested in—eh, Pia?"

  "Oh, be quiet," said Pia. "Why can't you mind your own affairs?"

  "They look like men, they even try to act like men, but there is no manhood in a cash register," said the count.

  "Tavel, for heaven's sake," said Swyven.

  "My dear Mark, I do not include you," said the count. "You are a gentleman."

  Craig sipped again at his Scotch, then turned to put down the glass, and in doing so faced both Swyven and the count.

  "Craig is not a gentleman," said Tavel.

  "That's right," said Craig. "I'm a businessman. You said so yourself."

  "You tried to seduce Pia—" said the count.

  "For God's sake," said Pia.