Die Rich Die Happy

'Not that good,' said Philippa. 'He works with a man called Trottia in Venice.'

'Do you buy his stuff?'

'God no,' said Philippa, genuinely shocked. 'I always go to Paris. I love dressing up. Pia goes to him. He did that thing she's wearing. Honestly, it's not too bad, is it?'

'Very nice,' said Craig.

'I'm glad you think so,' said Philippa. 'I think Pia's taken rather a fancy to you. Would you mind awfully?'

'Not terribly. No,' said Craig.

'You shouldn't laugh at me,' said Phihppa.

'You shouldn't talk like that.'

'It's the only way I can talk—except like a Hollywood whore. That's what I used to be. When I married Harry I wanted to start again, right from the beginning. So he hired somebody to teach me to talk like this.'

'The Archbishop of Canterbury?'

'Well almost,' said Phihppa. 'A genuine British ladyship. She's the eighteenth countess or something, and she hasn't a bean.'

Another dancer lurched towards them, and Craig swung her round, lifting her casually from under his feet.

'You're very strong,' said Philippa.

'I used to work,' said Craig, and she giggled again. It was a very satisfying thing, triggering off that low, rich laughter, that still held a touch of vulgar zest in it, despite all the eighteenth countess had done.

When the dance ended, Philippa took Craig's hand and led him over to Pia.

'Now be nice to her,' she whispered. 'It's about time someone was.' Then 'Darling,' she said, 'you must dance with John. He's so good.'

'I'd love to,' said Pia, and when the band started again, came to him, lifting her arms gently, submissively, moving surely to his touch.

'Philippa's right,' said Pia. 'You are good. I'm looking forward to Venice.'

'It should be interesting,' said Craig.

The Italian laughed, a clear, ringing sound that contrasted with Philippa's soft giggle. In a corner opposite, Swyven and Tavel talked together. The Frenchman heard the laughter, and scowled.

'I can never understand the English,' she said. 'Come here. I want to show you something.'

She broke away, and walked towards the stem of the ship, down a companion ladder to what had once been the after gun turret.

The helicopter rested there.

'It's a helicopter,' said Craig.

'Yes, of course. But come here,' said Pia. She drew him into a pool of shadow behind it.

'Now nobody can see us,' she said. 'Shall we dance here instead?'

Her arms came round him again, and her mouth found his, and she kissed him with a demanding skill that brought his body to flame. Her hands loosed the button of his coat and slipped inside it, roamed delicately over his ribs, across his back. Craig wondered if he was being searched, in the most tactful way possible, to see if he carried a gun. At last he said: 'You dance pretty well yourself.'

'I'm very fond of dancing,' she said. 'See?'

Her arms reached up for him again, but he took hold of her wrists, holding her gently, but with a strength she couldn't resist.

'Not here,' he said.

'But I like it here.'

She tried to move her arms, and discovered that she could not.

'I've got to talk with Harry again,' Craig said. 'Business.'

'Darling, please stay,' she said. 'No,' said Craig.

'Ji you don't stay, 111 scream,' she said, and again struggled to free her hands.

'This lot are past getting their kicks out of screaming,' said Craig. She opened her mouth then, and he added: 'You scream, and I'll belt you.' Her mouth shut and he left her. As he went he heard a gasping sound, weeping or laughter? It was impossible to tell.

He raced for the companionway that led to his cabin.

The corridor was deserted. He stopped by his cabin door. The thread across the lock was gone. Craig flattened himself by the bulkhead near the door, and listened in concentration. There was a faint sound from inside the cabin. He waited, tense and ready, then heard the clatter of footsteps ascending the stairs from the afterdeck. Pia had got over her laughter, or her tears. For a moment he toyed with the idea of going in, facing the man inside, then he rejected it. His cover was good, the chances of anyone finding the gun in the suitcase unlikely. He sped down the corridor into the saloon. Phihppa was there alone, looking through a picture-frame window at the lights of the harbor. She spun round at once, and looked at Craig.

'Oh,' she said, 'it's you. I thought you were giving Pia dancing lessons.'

'It turned out she was teaching me,' said Craig. He listened, straining for a sound from outside. Philippa came up to him, her arm reached out and she shut the door.

T can't stand open doors,' she said. 'I have too many secrets.'

She turned then, looked hard at Craig. 'Pia couldn't teach you anything,' she said. 'Have a drink.'

'No thanks,' said Craig.

'Make me one then. Scotch. Lots of Scotch. Lots of ice.'

Craig made her drink, and she swallowed it almost fiercely, gagging it down as if that were the only way she could take it.

'I don't do that often,' she said.

T can see that,' said Craig.

'And Harry doesn't know.'

'But I doF'

'Why not?' she said. 'You're supposed to be looking after me, aren't you?'

'I poured your Scotch, didn't I?' said Craig. 'Why do you want to fight me, Mrs. Naxos?'

Her head jerked up then, and she gulped down the rest of the Scotch.

'Again,' she said.

Craig made her another one.

'What were you on?' he asked. 'Heroin?'

She slammed the glass down, Scotch slopping on to the table, and her blue eyes were dark with hate. Craig looked back at her, his gaze steady. She began to shake.

'I had to find out about you,' he said. 'I had to learn where you can be hurt.'

'And that's where,' Philippa said. 'I still miss it. Scotch isn't any good. I still miss it.'

'How long have you been off it?'

'A year,' she said. 'A lifetime. I could wish you didn't have to keep me alive, John.'

The door opened then, and Naxos came in. For once he looked old, tired.

He slumped heavily into a chair.

'Make me a drink, honey,' he said.

I'll get it,' said Craig.

'But Philippa had already opened a cupboard and was pouring raid.

'Make one for John, too,' said Naxos.

'I've got one,' said Craig, and picked up Philippa's glass. Naxos took the drink his wife gave him, swallowed once, then again, and held it out for more.

'I've told him we're going to Venice,' he said.

Philippa shrugged.

'I can't stop you,' Craig said. 'But I don't think you realize what these people are capable of.'