Die Rich Die Happy

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?'