protest. He called at the hospital on the way to the ballroom, to make sure that his patients wouldn't spoil his evening. He had a few things he wanted to tell the mayor… His chances were good; even Mrs. Craig was still unconscious.
'Eleven days, and she hasn't said a word,' he said to the night nurse. 'Two weeks ago you could have got a hundred to one against that. Never emptied another bedpan as long as you lived.'
The night nurse sniffed, and Brady, determined to be pleasant, whatever the cost, patted her rump.
At the dance he met Thomas, the police surgeon, for whom he bought whiskey, and remarked to him how unfair life was that Mrs. Craig should only be quiet when her husband was far too dead to enjoy it. Thomas, a bachelor, and one unused to whisky, said that Craig could enjoy the silences of his wife whenever he chose, but that he was far too callous and unfeeling to bother to inquire, even if his wife was dying.
When Brady learned that Craig was still alive, he ordered more whisky, and by midnight the press knew it too. The press was a chubby, anxious young man sent by the local paper to get the names right, timid enough to refuse free beer, yet with the occupational courage to approach Brady to ask him what his badge was, and to refrain from asking, instead eavesdropping shamelessly, when Craig's name was mentioned. Next day the chubby, anxious young man found that he was the northeastern correspondent of a national daily, and his story was on its front page. It was the beginning of a great career. Somewhere the chubby anxious man had heard that Craig had been in Tangier, and he made the most of it. From a maze of hints, a story of genteel and romantic crime emerged, with Craig perhaps yet again avoiding death, and somewhere or other turning at bay to face who knew what ruthless enemies? Once more, reporters set off north. L'Osservatore Romano sent a man over, and Der Spiegel sent another, and a cameraman. Two Frenchmen also turned up. They said they were free-lances.
Marshall had to face his chief once again. He had been to see Dr. Thomas, an interview of agonizing embarrassment. The Special Branch people had been so anxious that there should be no leak, and the chief had given them his word. He knocked at the chief's door, and went in to the chief's rumbling invitation.
There was another man with the chief, a vast man with red hair sprinkled with white, his enormous buttocks sagging over the seat of a hard, wooden chair. The fat man looked with evident distaste at Marshall, then scowled at tin(c) cliicf
'This the fellow?' he asked.
'This is Detective Inspector Marshall, yes,' said the chief.
'Bright sort of a fellow! The sort that gets ideas. Good ideas,' said the fat man, more unhappily than ever.
'You've done very well, son, but you'll have to come off the case.'
The chief said, 'This gentleman is from Counter-intelligence. I'm afraid you'll have to do as he says.'
'But I know I'm right. I can prove it. I've got Dr. Thomas's report.'
'Well of course you're right,' the fat man said. 'The trouble is, it's a bit too well known now, do you see.'
'But it was bound to come out at the inquest,' said Marshall.
'That's a moot point,' said the fat man. 'Very moot. I'd have asked you to box clever at the inquest, believe me I would. As it is, I'm going to ask you to get it adjourned. I'm also going to ask you to deny that Craig is still alive.'
'But why on earth should I?' Marshall asked.
'Because if you don't, he won't be,' said the fat man, 'and I've got a little job for Craig. A very nasty, very important littie job. And he can't do it if he's dead, now can he?'
'But what about Craig's brother-in-law?' 'He is dead, son. He's past caring.' 'What about Mrs. Craig? Suppose she recovers?' Marshall asked.
'She won't be making any public statements till Craig's done his stuff.'
'And I'm going off the case?' Marshall asked.
'I think you'll have to, unless you're good at telling lies. You're bright, I admit that, a credit to your force and all that, and things would have been a bit tricky for me if you hadn't got on to the idea that Craig was still alive. But now that's public knowledge, unless you deny it. And if you deny it you've got to make it convincing. Officially you may look like a fool, but unofficially you'll have done yourself a bit of good. There's more to it than that. Your chief tells me you figured out what Craig's been up to. Now it just so happens that a situation's arisen where Craig could be very useful to this country. He's got specialized knowledge, you see. It's your can, son. I'm afraid you'll have to take it back.' 'What about Dr. Thomas?'
'I'll speak to him too,' the fat man said. 'But you're the one the press will be after.'
'All right,' Marshall said. 'Til deny it.'
'That's a very sensible decision, son,' said the fat man.
He was genial now and relaxed, as only a fat man can be, but he had the coldest, most ruthless eyes Marshall had ever seen.
Marshall and Dr. Thomas spent the next two days either avoiding or misleading reporters who theorized where there were no facts, and made much of Mrs. Craig's coma and a photograph of Charlie Green. No amount of bribery or threat could procure one of Craig. The two French reporters visited the office of the Rose Line, and asked a lot of questions that reduced Miss Cross to tears and Sir Geoffrey to impotent fuming. When he threatened to call the police, they left. Because he was at peace again, and Miss Cross still wept, Sir Geoffrey didn't call the police after all. It was as well. The two Frenchmen were convinced of his innocence, and could see no reason why he should die.
They flew back to Paris, and from there took the next plane to Nice. A black Citroen waited for them at the airport, and they drove off at once to an office building near the Place Massena. The two relaxed in the sunlight; the northeast of England had been cold, and these were men who clung to a Mediterranean warmth… When they went inside, they had to identify themselves three times before they were admitted into the presence of the man they had come to see, the man in olive-green shirt and slacks worn like a uniform, who carried the insignia of a colonel in the French Army; and even then his bodyguard sat facing them, a Sten gun in his hands, and at his feet an Alsatian dog that panted softly in the warmth of the room and looked at them as his master did, cautiously, unwaveringly, ready to kill as soon as the word was given. St. Briac sat very still, with a terrible calm of will that struggled with the flickering madness of his pale eyes. He was very thin and yet looked strong, with the more than physical strength of the fanatic. His face looked bland because he chose to make it so: it was a mask that served his purpose. Yet even the serenity was achieved solely because he was incapable of compassion. For him the extremes of physical pain, even death itself, were a means of achieving an end, no more.
One of the reporters said, 'We think Craig's still alive.'
The colonel said, 'What makes you think so?'
His voice was as bland as his face, yet if Craig lived, his most important mission had failed.
'The English reporters think that their police are lying when they say he is dead, and yet they don't know why.'
'Do you think their police are hiding him?' the colonel asked.
'Not yet. They are still looking for him. The Special Branch from Scotland Yard are helping. They are the people who deal with espionage.'
'I didn't know that,' said the colonel, and the reporter flushed and hurried on. 'One of their men, Detective Inspector Linton, has been to Craig's house. He has also visited the local police.'
The colonel nodded and sat back, and the bodyguard spoke softly to the dog. Only then did the two reporters dare to get up to leave. When they had gone, the colonel pressed a button on his desk. Almost at once, the door opened and the guard dog stood up, the hair on the back of its neck rising, then sat down again as it saw another man in olive-green, a captain with a golden tan and yellow hair, a handsome young man with beautiful, stupid blue eyes.
'Robert,' said the colonel, 'Craig's still alive.'
The captain began to protest, but the colonel spoke again, and he was silent.
'He is alive,' said the colonel. 'Whoever the bomb killed, it wasn't Craig. Now he's disappeared-and the English police are looking for him. The Special Branch. They are very good at finding people. I think we should let them do it, and when they are successful and find him, Craig dies. And this time we shall be quite certain that he is dead.'
'Who shall I send?' the captain asked.
'Cadella can try again,' the colonel said. 'It is his chance to redeem himself. And this time Pucelli can go with
