Die Rich Die Happy

'With a .32?'

'Mr. Dyton-Blease has a lot of enemies.' 'Me for one,' said Craig. 'What is it he does?' 'He does nothing,' said Spiro. 'He's just a very rich man.'

Craig moved in, and his fist unclenched, he tapped Spiro's nose with one finger. It was a very red, puffy nose.

'Tell me about the girl,' he said.

Spiro had strong views on women. He expressed them then. She had obsessed Dyton-Blease; he spent all day and every day with her, teaching her how to walk, how to sit, how to eat: the little savage wasn't happy unless she could eat with her hands, and Dyton-Blease had been so patient, so gentle. He'd even made Spiro try to teach her how to arrange flowers—as if an animal like that could do anything artistic, God knows he'd done his best—

'Why?' Craig asked.

'She has to be a lady,' Spiro said.

'Why?' Craig asked again.

'Because Mr. Dyton-Blease said so.'

Always Spiro used the English 'mister,' not the Greek.

'Do you want me to break your nose?' Craig asked.

'I swear to God, that's all I know,' Spiro said. 'Ji he knew I'd told you that much, he'd kill me.'

'He almost killed my father,' said Craig. 'He turned him into an idiot.'

Spiro stayed very still.

'You think a lot of Mr. Dyton-Blease?'

'He pays well,' Spiro said. 'I'm afraid of him too.'

'Why?'

'I told you. He'll Mil me.' 'You could run away.'

'Not from him. Nobody can. You should remember that. He'll kill you too, when he finds out—'

'If he does,' said Craig, and again Spiro was still.

Craig began more questioning, and at last Spiro opened up the floodgates, the words spilling out as if they would never stop; a pentup release of what had been held back too long. Craig discovered that Dyton-Blease had lived there for three months, and that Spiro and his partner had been sent to him from Los Angeles, on loan from their Greek-American boss, a narcotics peddler who was as afraid of Dyton-Blease as Spiro himself. He learned that in three months with the big man the two Greeks had done nothing

except guard the castle, terrorize the island population—who were already in mortal terror—and beat up Craig. For this they were paid $500 a week. They hated it.

They hated the tiny island, the islanders, and the castle; they lived in an agony of homesickness for Los Angeles, and they hadn't the nerve to ask for their release. When Dyton-Blease was there, they walked in terror, and they didn't know why. They had dealt before with big men, tough men; they were used to waiting in ignorance of what was to happen. The setup they were in was familiar—and yet there was always this fear. Even before Craig's father. As soon as he spoke of it, Spiro stopped, the stream dammed, one fear blocking another.

'Tell me,' said Craig. 'You didn't do it.'

'It was done in the dungeons,' Spiro said. 'Your old man was tough all right. He stuck it out until Mr. Dyton- Blease lost his temper. And then it was too late.'

'How long did it take?' Craig asked.

'About five seconds,' Spiro said. 'Then he was cool again, like ice. Five seconds—·

'Let's see the dungeons,' said Craig.

'There's nothing there.'

'I want to see them.' He took out Bauer's knife. 'All right,' said Spiro. 'I'll put some clothes on.' 'No,' said Craig. A naked man is cautious and ashamed. Spiro hesitated, then looked into Craig's eyes. 'All right,' he said.

They went down stairs cut into the rock, opened a great door of olive wood studded with wrought-iron nails, and entered what had once been storerooms as well as dungeons. The whole place was lit with stark, unshielded bulbs. A great, vaulted room carved out of the rock, and on one side of it, hutchlike caves shut in with iron bars. It was like a museum, except that it was still in use. No guides, no pamphlets, no souvenirs. The robber baron who lived here was still in business. Craig pushed Spiro before him, and looked around. Empty packing cases, one with the name of a Paris couturier. Selina's gowns? Empty wine barrels, empty oil jars, and every cell empty. There had to be something.

'I told you,' said Spiro.

Craig shoved him away, and looked around once more.

The rock walls were smooth and gray, but in one corner a square patch gleamed, smoother, paler than the rest. It was the door of a safe. Craig pushed Spiro over to it, and examined it carefully. No combination lock, just a key.

'Open it,' said Craig.

'It isn't locked,' Spiro said. 'Ill show you.'

He hauled at the door, exerting all his strength, and it swung open slowly. Then suddenly, his body flowing like quicksilver, Spiro reached into the safe. Inside it was a knife. He grabbed it, and leaped at Craig. Craig swerved so that the upper knife arm brushed his shoulder, then struck out, slamming Spiro's naked body into the rock wall. Spiro whimpered, and hesitated, then Craig met the rush as Stavros had taught him, swerving to narrow the target he presented, swaying to make him miss, his left hand striking at Spiro's wrist. Spiro screamed and his knife clattered on the stone floor. Then, still screaming, he swung round to Craig and the knife Craig held, point up, as he crouched, waiting. Craig's arm shook at the impact of Spiro's body, the fist clenched round the knife hilt that now touched the Greek's chest. He let the hilt go, and Spiro fell, his eyes already glazing.

'He'll kill you too,' said Spiro, and died.

Craig pulled the knife free, wiped it on some rubbish, put it away, then went to look at the safe. Its steel door had an additional covering of lead; the rock cavity behind was lead-lined. Craig realized why Spiro had pulled so hard. There was nothing else inside but an old-fashioned metal hatbox. Craig reached out a hand for it, and found it wouldn't move. He braced himself, and lowered it two-handed to the floor. It, too, was lead-lined. Inside was nothing but a tiny fragment of pottery, old stuff, with what looked like geometric decoration. Craig put the lid back on and humped the hatbox out of the dungeon. Getting it down the cliff was a wearisome, nerve-racking business, even with the aid of a rope. When he reached the beach he looked at his watch. Only half an hour before he rejoined Elias. He still had a lot to do.

Forty minutes later he was back on board the caique, its diesel popping madly as it scuttled for safety. Craig and Elias watched in the darkness, waiting. Suddenly, there

was a great throb of red in the blackness, followed by the woomph of exploding petrol and a rattling noise like firecrackers.

'Ammunition,' said Craig, and waited. Another great red exclamation mark stained the blackness.

'Both boats?' Elias asked. Craig nodded. 'It's beautiful,' remarked Elias.

'The way revenge should be.'

'What revenge?' asked Craig. 'I was too late. Dyton-Blease had gone, and Spiro killed himself. I mean that. He tried to kill me, and when he failed, he was too scared to live. He threw himself on my knife.'

'So you got nothing,' said Elias. 'Except a lead

box.'

'That's all,' said Craig.

Elias asked no more; Craig was very British about secrets. Ten miles farther on, they began to fish.

When they came in next morning, Stavros was waiting by the harbor. Another Andraki boat had seen the explosion, and Stavros wanted an answer. 'How should I know?' Craig asked. 'Probably somebody got drunk because Dyton-Blease was away. They might have gone aboard one of the power-boats and started smoking too near the fuel tank.'

'And died?' asked Stavros.