to teach Archie to twist and his kilt turned skittish and the credits rolled.
'I think we've got a winner in Archie,' said Slatter. 'He's done well in the shows for the region of course, but on his own I think he's fabulous, don't you? He'll be networked next month. It's that little touch of philosophy that gets them. He's genuine, you see. Just one of the people, but educated too. And the audience knows it. You can't fool an audience.' And there Slatter's face was religious in expression, for though he believed nothing else, he believed utterly that what he had just said was true.
'We'll just go and have a drink and give Archie time to change,' he continued, 'then we'll pop down and say hello and be off to the party. You are coming, aren't you?' Craig nodded. 'Oh good. I'd like you to tell your people that we don't just give you a good show, we give you a good time too.'
Then more Moselle, and a VIP trip to the star dressing room where Archie received them as an equal-for were they not important too?-and opened champagne for them, and the four youths in semi-dishabille, for now they had shed their guitars though their teeth still glowed, allowed themselves to be introduced. And everyone had been splendid, and in the relaxation of tension after sustained effort Craig, for the first time since he came into the studio, recognized an emotion he could share.
'Now don't forget the party,' said Slatter. 'Chelsea. Sure you can find your way?'
'We'll give you a lift,' said Craig. 'You can show us where it is.'
The executive hesitated, then surrendered. The company which had sent Grierson had such satisfactory accounts. Such big ones. The Lagonda impressed him too, as it was meant to do.
Craig asked if he might drive, and Grierson reluctantly agreed. Slatter droned on about Tarn ratings and costs per minute, then settled down to find out what Grierson's interests were, and Grierson lied quite happily, for Craig's driving was worthy of the car, and the Lagonda roared in pleasure as it skimmed the empty moonlit roads. Only once was there any risk, when Craig squeezed between two vans, but he slowed down so gently, changed gear so rightly before he swooped away, that Grierson smiled his content as he wondered why Slatter had turned quiet. The executive said no more until they reached Cheyne Walk, and then was first out of the car.
McLaren's flat was on the ground floor, as big and beautifully furnished as a stage set. All light and airy and open; all Swedish, Danish, Finnish, except for the maid, who was a Spaniard. Slatter came back to life, sliced turkey and ham for them, mixed the dressing for the salad and poured them more champagne, until car by car the other guests arrived and he could introduce these influential madmen to two pretty girls, and tell Archie that he had been splendid and go home to his wife, who nagged him, and cocoa, and the works of Anthony Trol-lope.
Craig enjoyed the party. He had been drinking all day, and the drink had eased the tensions that the day had brought; the sight of Pucelli, Cadella's death, the tests Loomis had flung at him like bombs. Now he was John Reynolds again, this time with interests in machine tools, die-stamp machines, and nuts and bolts, dancing with pretty girls, now and then kissing one in the conservatory that seemed built for the purpose, playing Mutt to Grierson's Jeff, and waiting till the crowd thinned and he could get McLaren on his own and ask him what the hell he was playing at.
At the beginning of the party McLaren had been aloof, restrained, yet affable, a Lord Chesterfield among poets, but as time went on he had changed, first into a roaring boy, then to a surly Harry Lauder, loudly estimating the cost of turkey, ham, whisky, wine, and meaning every word. Most of his guests seemed as familiar with this act as with the current Top Ten, and talked on, over and around it until he retired to a sofa and lay with his head in a dancer's lap while she fed him whisky from a six-ounce glass.
Craig kissed one more girl, fed Grierson one more gag line, and walked over to the sofa.
'A very nice party, Mr. McLaren,' he said.
'Ceid mil a jaildhe,' said McLaren, 'and call me Archie. I dropped the McLaren ten years ago.'
'We met before that,' said Craig. 'Sicily, May 1943.'
'My God, were you there too?' said McLaren and turned to the chorus girl. 'You see how old I am? Where were you in May 1943? Did you exist?'
The girl poured more whisky into his mouth.
'You and I were in a rest camp,' Craig said. 'You had a botde of whisky and we shared it. It was very good whisky.'
'Lord yes,' said McLaren. 'I remember. The night the soldiers danced.'
'That's right,' said Craig. 'They were sad. A lot of their friends had been killed.'
'So they had,' said McLaren, 'but the survivors danced very nicely.'
'They were beautiful,' said Craig.
'Of course. Under the circumstances they had to be. You weren't a soldier, were you?'
'Special Boat Service,' said Craig. 'My name's Reynolds.'
'A Scot?'
'A Geordie,' Craig said.
'That's right. I remember the accent. What happened to the accent?'
'You told me to lose it and turn myself into a gentleman.'
'And you did? I'm very glad.' 'Are you?'
'Indeed I am. It's no crime to be poor, but it might as well be. I think I stole that line from somewhere. You aren't poor?'
'No,' said Craig.
'Then I gave you good advice.'
'I'm rich, really,' said Craig. 'Of course I ran a lot of risks-'
'You like risks,' McLaren said. 'I remember you telling me, in that funny accent of yours. You really enjoyed danger. That's why I told you to make danger work for you. You're lucky. There aren't many who can do that.'
'Can you?'
'I fought to survive,' said McLaren, 'and I did survive. Then I went back to university philosophy because it amused me. I practiced the folk culture of my country because that amused me too. Then I worked-teacher, journalist, travel courier, salesman, and that didn't amuse me at all. So I prostituted my country's genius and made money. And that amused me more than anything else. Does that shock you?'
'No,' Craig said.
'Those young men smelling of death, dancing in the ruins of a Greek temple-that's nineteenth-century romanticism, and German romanticism at that. It won't work any more. It's finished-er-'
'Reynolds.'
'Excuse me. Reynolds. Everything's finished, including you and me.'
'I don't think so,' Craig said. 'Nothing's finished as long as you can fight for what you want.' McLaren shook his head.
'That's romanticism too,' he said. 'You're too late. We've reached the last full stop, son.'
He said that rather smugly, and settled back on the dancer's long-muscled thighs, stroked her hip with the tips of his fingers.
'I beg your pardon,' he said to Craig. Then, with fine old Highland courtesy: 'Would you like one of these?'
'No, thanks,' said Craig. 'I roll my own.'
McLaren laughed, shrilly, wheezingly, and the surviving guests looked on amazed.
'You have come on,' he said. 'If ever I want any sick stuff, I'll come to you.'
Craig nodded, and went back to Grierson, who was memorizing telephone numbers. They found their coats, and went back to McLaren, who was asleep. The dancer hadn't moved.
'It's time we left,' Craig said. 'Tell him we had a nice time.'
The girl nodded, then, as he turned away, called out to them. 'Was he really in the war?' Craig nodded. 'And he saw those men who were killed?'
'Yes,' Craig said.
'Was he-in danger too?'
'Oh yes. He was a Commando.'
'Archie?' She sounded incredulous. 'He told me he was a clerk in the Pay Corps.'
'No,' said Craig. 'He was a Commando sergeant.'
'You mean he killed people?' She looked down at McLaren in awe. 'He's wonderful, isn't he?'
'I should think he is,' said Craig. 'Good night.'
