by James Munro
Swyven spoke no more for seven miles.
Craig stopped at an ancient garage for petrol, and spoke to the man in charge, who promptly put up a "Closed" sign and disappeared. Craig waited a moment then motioned Swyven out, took him into the decrepit living quarters and found a bathroom. In it were a shirt, a suit, socks, tie, and shoes, all belonging to Swyven.
"Go ahead and change," said Craig. "AH the stuff should be here. You've got five minutes."
He settled down with a back number of Autocar. It
had been a very good year for Lagondas, he learned. He must buy some.
Swyven came out in four minutes, reeking of nail-polish remover and aftershave. Craig got up at once, and looked in the bathroom. The woman's clothes were all over the place; the blouse viciously torn. Swyven, it seemed, was not happy. He sulked all the way to Kensington, said nothing at all while Craig parked, got out and locked the car. It was only when Craig walked along beside him to his mother's house that he spoke.
"You're coming in with me?" he asked. Craig nodded.
"But you can't—you mustn't," said Swyven.
"I have no choice," said Craig. "Neither have you. Come on."
Swyven looked at him, despairingly, then rang the
bell.
Amparo, the Spanish housekeeper, opened it at once, and they went through the hall and into the little drawing room that his mother made so gay and attractive, and Amparo said nothing at all. No doubt because the other beast was there. She usually found enough to nag him about. And then he realized. Of course, they would be expecting him. That awful fat man would have rung up and said things. Then they were at the drawing-room door, and Amparo knocked, then stood aside as they went in, and the first thing he saw was his father, and my God his father looked old, so old, and then there was his mother, coming to him, her arms out, saying: "Mark, darling," and Swyven was happy in her embrace.
Craig said to the old man, letting him see his mouth as Loomis had told him: "I think we'd better talk in private, sir," and Swyven said: "Yes, of course," and led the way into a study crammed with the treasured junk of a lifetime. Charts and sextants, commemorative silver ashtrays, samurai swords, Chinese idols, Indian brasswork, photographs of Fiji, Sydney Harbor, Capetown, New York, Bombay, and of the Aegean. Temples, churches, bays, and M.T.B.'s and caiques at anchor, and a convoy under attack, and suddenly Craig remembered Lord Swyven, and wished that of all the rotten jobs he'd been handed, he might have been spared this one.
"Hope you'll excuse the clutter," Swyven said. "I used to be in the Navy. Started bringing things back for
Jane—my wife, you know. It all seemed to end up in here." He floundered in an agony of embarrassment. "Like a drink?"
"Yes, sir," said Craig and hoped the old man would have one too, and relax just a little. Swyven poured two whiskeys and pushed over the soda siphon. The two men nodded at each other and drank. Swyven made an enormous effort at self-control and said at last: "Now then, what's my son been up to this time?"
Craig said: "It's bad."
"I didn't think you'd make my wife a thief just to arrest my son for a misdemeanor."
'The charges have been withdrawn, sir."
"So I should bloody well hope. But my wife hasn't. She still has to go out and let people see her."
"We had to have him, sir. There wasn't any other
way."
"What has he done?"
"He's working for Zaarb," said Craig, "and Zaarb's working for Red China. He's going to send cobalt to Peking."
"You're sure?"
"Quite sure, sir. We found some of the stuff on a Greek island—Dyton-Blease's place." The old man nodded. "It's like no other cobalt in the world, sir. Tremendously— rich, the physicists call it. That means high-yield explosions in very small warheads. And you won't need a very sophisticated atomic pile to get it. In fact the Chinese have already exploded one."
"But why on earth—?"
"He hopes we may be involved in Zaarb in a couple of years. And if we are, the Chinese might lend the Zaarbists the odd bomb. If we did have to go in, it would be a naval strike action. Like Suez. One bomb could finish a whole fleet. He doesn't like us, sir, and he hates the Navy. He thinks one bomb like that is the lesson the imperialists need."
"He's right, of course. It would drive the American Fifth Fleet straight out of the Med." He paused. "You really think they'd use it?"
They'd have to, sir—if Zaarb gets Chinese backing, and if we're forced into attacking first."
"Have you—stopped him, then?"
"We think so, sir."
"Will he stand trial?"
"No," said Craig. "He's done nothing that we can prove—in law."
"What about his cousin? Dyton-Blease?"
Craig said carefully: "He met with an accident. I understand he's a very sick man."
"An accident," said Swyven. "Of course. It would be." He drank.
"So," he said, "your troubles are over." Craig shrugged. "What happens to my son?"
"He can go back to Venice," said Craig, "li he does anything stupid, we know how to reach him."
"Yes," said the old man. "You're in a very dirty business." Craig drank his whiskey. "You trump up charges that wreck an old woman's life so that you can blackmail her stupid, clever, homosexual son into coming into your clutches. The one thing with guts in it poor Mark ever did. And for what?"
"To prevent a massacre," said Craig.
Swyven sighed. "Never argue with Intelligence. They always have the last word," he said. "Look ah—er—No good asking your name, I suppose?"
"I'd only he to you."
"Yes. Well. Can he have a few days with us—with his mother?"
"Yes," said Craig. "He can do that. He mustn't leave the house."
"I'll guarantee that," said Swyven.
"Yes, sir," Craig said. "He'll be watched anyway. There's nothing I can do about that."
"I beheve you," Swyven said. "You want a word with his mother?"
Craig said at once, "No, sir. Just pass the message
on."
"I will," Swyven said, then, with an old man's delight in his memory outweighing everything else: "I remember you."
"I don't think so," said Craig.
"You went on a raid to Andraki. Had to shoot the schoolmaster—he was a Resistance leader until the Gestapo got him. You killed a lot of Germans that night. I doubt if you were nineteen years old."
"I think you're mistaken, sir," said Craig. The old man hesitated.
"Of course I'm mistaken," he said. "Nothing's what it seems to be anymore. I'll show you out."
He took Craig past the drawing room and Craig had a sudden glimpse of a man kneeling by a chair, weeping, while an old woman stroked his hair. He kept on going. Outside there were a couple of Special Branch men, Detective Chief Inspector Linton's squad. He got into the Jaguar and drove off to Regent's Park.
· · *
When he got there, Pia was giving a party. The room swarmed with actors and agents of the kind to be found in the Pickwick, or Gerry's, or the Buckstone, sleek people, successful people, witty people, the people who had made it, or who were on the way there, or who were simply seen around, and in the middle of them Pia in gold lame pants just that essential bit too tight and a frilled and frothy blouse in explosive red, looking as Italian as minestrone soup.
"John," she screamed. "Angel," and dashed across to him, embraced him, dragged liim into his own flat as if he were an unwilling guest. "John," she said, "this is Howard and Margot and Eddy and Alan and Rachel and—oh, you'll soon know everyone. Somebody give John a drink please.
"Here," said Eddy, a plump, durable producer. 'Try some of this."
Craig looked at the glass of champagne.
"Nasty spumante," said Eddy.
"We must be celebrating," said Craig.
"Indeed we are. Pia's just signed with us for a thirteen-part TV series. The Woman in the Case. She's going to be great."
"I'll say she is,"
said Rachel, "and believe me I should know. I'm her agent. Who are you with, darling?" "I don't act," said Craig.
"Don't you, darling? I thought you might be a stunt-man. You look like a stuntman." I'm in nuts and bolts."
"What hell for you, darling. So uncomfortable."
Craig drank his Italian champagne, and went to look for more. There was plenty of it, and no shortage of clever, witty people who knew all sorts of clever, witty things to
IDS HAPPY B
169
about nuts and bolts, and Craig was glad when the first b kle toward dinner began, round about eight o'clock. About nine, Rachel took him by the arm, and led him into a corner, lx>ked at him with the shrewd, appraising eye that agents and producers share with butchers and judges of catde shows.
T want a word with you," said Rachel. "About Pia." A lady television director made her famous, swooping exit, cannoned into Rachel and sent her sprawling into Craig's arms. He righted her neatly, easily, like a deft postman handling a messy parcel.
"Christ, you're a hard bastard," Rachel said.
"Are you working round to thumping me?" Craig
asked.
"In a way, sweety. In a way. I want you to give Pia up." Craig made a silence. "You're not helping her, you know. She wants to run after you the whole time. That won't help her career."
Craig said: "Are you telling me she's got a career?"
"Believe me, darling," said Rachel, "our Pia can act. I saw her tests, and she's good. That's why I'm her ■gent. I only take the good ones. She's going to go a mile high."
"She was never any good before," Craig said.
"And now she's bloody marvelous. Something must have happened to her. Have you any idea what it is?"
Craig thought of the two of them cooped up in the cell like battery hens, of the frantic terrible fights with D-ton-Blease, the agony of loving in his cabin in Naxos's yacht.
"Not the slightest," he said.
"That girl is going to go so high," said Rachel, "unless you're going to be nasty. You know, I think you ought to leave her alone for a bit. Let her work. I don't want to threaten you, darling, but—"
"No, don't do that," Craig said. T might burst into
tears."
"Well then," said Rachel.
"Quite so," said Craig, and Rachel frowned.
"Don't laugh at me, darling," she said. "I'm serious."
"If only," said Craig, "you had a whip."
At 9:30 only Eddy and Rachel were left, and Eddy cleared his throat and turned to Craig. Rachel said: "I've had a word with him," and Eddy looked happy and took Rachel out to dinner.
"What scrumptious friends you have," Craig said.
"You're not angry with me, darling?" said Pia.
"Should I be?"
"Of course," she said. "Look at the mess I made in your flat."
"You let me stay for the party. What's for supper?"
"I found an Italian restaurant three doors away; they make the most marvelous spaghetti Bolognese. I'll get some."
She ordered, and the food sent up was splendid. Craig began to relax.
"You've had more work," said Pia. "Does it show?"
"Not to others. I know you very well. Something has happened?"
"The past caught up with me," said Craig. "Italy?"
"Greece," he said. "I was eighteen and a half years old. You would have been four I suppose—making big eyes at G.I.'s for chocolate."
She climbed into his lap.
"Tell me," she said.
"No," said Craig. "It's over. Finished. Let's talk about you. I hear you quit the espionage business."
She stiffened then, tried to get up, but Craig's arm came round her so tightly that she gasped, forcing her back to him.
"Don't be silly," he said. "Loomis hired you to keep an eye on me, didn't he? He was worried because I was a lush. Isn't that right?"
Her face burrowed into his coat. "That morning you had the orange juice and champagne already mixed—you remember—wasn't that a test for poor old Craig? And you tried to stop Tavel beating me up. Right?"
"I didn't know you then," she whispered, "but how did you find out?"
"You did a job with Grierson," Craig said. "It made me think about all sorts of things."
"I thought there was nothing else for me," Pia said. "I really thought I had no talent for acting. And if that was true, I had nothing. Then Grierson came to Rome and talked to me. What's wrong?"
Craig laughed aloud.
"Nothing," he said. "I always forget how professional Grierson is. No wonder he was embarrassed that day on Naxos's yacht." His hands grew tender. "You saved me from that suntan oil. Ill never forget that."
"And now I can act, after all that happened," Pia said. Her voice was tentative.
"Loomis won't stop you—if we get Schiebel. You'll be cleared straight through."
"What about you?" said Pia.
"Honey, all I did was hand you the key to the madhouse," said Craig.
"You're safe and sound outside now."
Her hps closed on his then. Her eyes were shut, and the tears flowed warm down her cheeks and on to his. Craig knew it was good-bye. Soon he would have to look for Selina.
* Chapter 21 *
Extract from an autobiographical fragment written by Edward Billings, known as "O Level Edward." It was composed as therapy initiated by the psychiatrist of the Borstal Institution where Billings was then confined (larceny of motor vehicle, actual bodily harm, obstruction of a police officer in the performance of his duty). The psychiatrist concluded from the fragment's contents that Billings was "utterly and uncurably mendacious," but nevertheless resorted to Freudian analysis. Inevitably he failed. Billings had written the truth.
o o o
Harry is talking to this Arab geezer in a coffee bar, and this doesn't surprise us. Harry doesn't worry about all that color-bar crap; spades or wogs or the Forty Thieves—it's all the same to Harry. And after a bit he starts getting like angry, and leaves the Arab, and Jigger says: "Looks like trouble," but Lonesome—we call him Lonesome on account of his B.O.—he says: "Nah! Harry's putting it on," and he's right, because one thing about Lonesome, he's got all his marbles even if he is a stinker.
So Harry comes over and he says: "That geezer wants us to find a bird for him."
"Let him find his own birds," I say.
"No," says Harry. "This is a wog bird. He claims he's lost her. This bird."
And he shows us a picture of this bird, and I go off Claudia Cardinale for ever, because this is a real crazy bird, believe me.
"Nobody ever lost that," I say. "Nobody's that careless."
"Where d'you get it?" asks Lonesome.
"Mr. Candlish. He says to look out for her too," Harry says. 'That's why I tell the wog I don't know. All he offers is money." What Mr. Candlish offers is anything from a fortune to a belting, depending on success or failure, and we know this. We always act respectful with Mr. Candlish.
"I seen her," says Lonesome. "I seen her yesterday when I was on the bike."
Lonesome has a 1,000-cc. Norton about the size of a cart horse, and he covers quite a lot of country in our corner of Prolyville.
"You're sure?" asks Harry.
"Look at the picture," says Lonesome. "There's only one bird round here looks like that. I see her. With a tall wog."
The Arab gives us a dirty look and we survive it and he leaves.
'There's a tall wog dead in the papers," says Jigger, and pulls out an Evening News, and we read how evil has been done in our fair city and the tall wog has been belted by another of the same, and is fatally dead.
"I'm sorry I miss that," says Harry, and then he looks at Lonesome, and Lonesome's eyes are sticking out like chapel hat pegs, so then we look where he is looking, and we see the bird. And I know that I am right about Claudia Cardinale.
She sits at a table near us and orders meat pie and
egg and chips and when it comes she attacks it like it is her first for
many weeks, and I am displeased at this behavior because she is beautiful, and one thing I am not adjusted to is birds with big appetites. She sees us staring, and she looks back at us, and when I see her eyes I know something else; this bird is not only beautiful, she's dangerous. Because we have the gear on, and it is black leather, the best; and Lonesome with the gear on would frighten a Martian—but the bird just looks at him as if she could cool him off without trying. She knows this without having to worry; it's just a fact. Then she goes back to her meat pie.
Then Harry remembers he's the leader and promotes some action. He gets up and we follow, and old Charlie behind the counter says: "Now, boys. Don't let's have trouble," and is silent. Harry gets between the bird and the door, so no one can see her. This is good thinking, and we do likewise.
"Evening," says Harry.
"Good evening," says the bird, and goes on eating chips like there's a famine starts in ten minutes.
"There's a feller wants to see you," Harry says, and she stops eating.
"Name of Candlish." She starts on the egg.
"You're mistaken," she says. "I don't know anybody of that name."
And when I hear the voice I know there is trouble, because I know this kind of voice. Last year there is this other bird comes among us from up West, and she claims she is a reporter from the Whores' Gazette, but what she really is is a seeker after kicks of a carnal nature, and this bird commits unpleasantness with Harry and Jigger and even Lonesome, but not with me because I never joined the three musketeers, and the bird resents this, and she is the one who begins to call me "O Level Edward," on account of my education, and I am unhappy till Harry kicks her out on account of she is ancient. Twenty-six if she's a day. But what she had, besides old age, is the voice: B.B.C. voice, Declare This Bazaar Open voice, I Name This Ship voice, and I am nervous all over again. This bird is debsville. What's she want with the peasants? And I see that Lonesome is thinking the same thing, because like I say, Lonesome is no dummy, only lacking in fragrance.
"He wants to see you," says Harry. "No," says the bird.
"You better," says Harry, "or 111 bust you one."
What bird could resist such winsome charm? This one puts down her knife and fork, and her hands go into her pockets. I think she is looking for a fag—that's how dim I am.