Die Rich Die Happy

that includes Hollywood.'

'I'm lazy, too,' said Craig. 'Make up your mind.'

She came up to him then, knelt beside him, took a cigarette from him, and lit it.

'All right,' she said. 'I'll tell you. But nobody else is to come up here.'

'Nobody else is that daft,' Craig said. 'Get on with it.'

'I used to go to Venice quite often with Harry,' Philippa said. 'He had a lot of business there. He had to leave me alone quite a bit. I was bored, I guess—and edgy, too. You get that way. You can't help it if you've been on heroin. Then I met Trottia—a real comic I thought. Very European, very civilized—straight out of Henry James—but a comic. He introduced me to his friend Swyven. Another comic. But they could be very attractive, you know. Even likable. No man knows what pleases a woman the way a fairy does.

'Then they introduced me to their friend Tavel. He was supposed to fall in love with me. I don't know. Maybe he did. Not that I fell for him or anything. I thought—you'll never believe how stupid I can be—I thought they were smugglers. They told me that that's what they were and I believed them. I could be that stupid. I could do even better than that. They told me you worked for Interpol. That you wanted to trap them—just because they smuggled a few cigarettes. Then Trottia had a good idea. He would set a spy on you. The spy was Schiebel and I asked Harry to give him a job on the boat. And when he came he said he would get me the stuff again. He said the steward, Nikki, would give it to me any time I wanted it. He told Swyven to warn Harry about you too. I suppose they planted stuff on you. Then Harry searched your room, found what was there. That was the night you beat up Tavel.'

'I know,' said Craig.

'But how could you?' the woman asked.

'He had a thread on his coat; it came off on his chair. Black thread I'd left over my door lock. You picked it up and threw it away. At one time I thought Tavel had dropped it. Then Harry made me fight Dyton-Blease and I knew it was Harry. And you were the obvious link between your husband and a dress designer.'

'It was all my fault, you see,' said Phihppa. 'I got you into it and I guess in a way I got Harry into it too. That bomb. That bloody bomb. Schiebel told me about that. And I would have been the one who did it. That's why I came up here. I had to think.'

She threw her cigarette away, and Craig shook out another. This time, when her fingers reached out for it, his free hand moved like a whiplash, caught her wrist, drew her irresistibly down to him.

'All right,' he said. 'You've told me, and I've listened. Now you listen. Swyven's dead, Schiebel's dead, and you're alive. Harry can vote the way he wants to—and the Haram's safe. Nobody got hurt who matters to you—or me'—except Grierson, he thought, and Serafin, and Lord and Lady Swyven. Once you started it was quite a list.

'You got hurt,' Fhp said. 'So did I.'

'We'll mend,' said Craig.

She looked down at the hand on her wrist. He hadn't hurt her and yet she was utterly helpless. Slowly, reluctantly, she grinned at him.

'My, but you're strong,' she said, and her free arm came round his neck. She kissed him lightly on the mouth.

'Now let's go down,' she said. 'You can interrogate me in your office, Herr Commandant. I promise I won't scream too loud.'

Craig struggled up and walked to the edge of the roof. The two waited, as the escape ladder probed upward toward them. The two of them stepped aboard, and the turntable lowered them down. Phihppa looked up at Craig.

'Cinderella shall go to the ball,' she said.

There was an ambulance waiting, and the two of them got in, the door slammed. Phihppa put her arms round Craig once more.

'See what I mean?' she said.

* Chapter 24 *

The Hastings transport droned wearily across desert, rose to the air from a range of foothills, climbed higher as the mountains appeared at last. On either side of it were other transports like fat, ungainly birds. The jumpmaster waved up the men, watched as the paratroops hooked on the ripcords, settled their kit. One after one the troops moved off in a stick. The rear man asked: 'What the hell is this place Haram, sarge?'

'If you don't go now,' said the jumpmaster, 'You'll miss it. Go on, son. Out.'

Loomis beamed across at Craig, dumped a bottle of brandy, a dozen Du Barry roses, and a pineapple on the table, and beamed again. Craig looked fine. Three days in a Sussex nursing home, and there was nothing to show he'd ever done anything more violent than cut himself shaving. Even the strip of sticking plaster, an obscene pink against the hard brown of his skin, might have been the result of a car accident, and the other fellow's fault at that. He looked at the immaculate pajamas, the silk dressing gown.

'What are you supposed to be now?' he asked. 'The lead in Private hives?'

Craig settled back smugly into his chair, adjusted the pillow at his back.

'Please,' he said. 'No excitement. The doctor says it isn't good for me.'

He reached out an arm, picked up two medicine glasses, and poured some of Loomis's brandy. The two men drank.

'Naxos signed,' said Loomis. 'Jolly glad to. We put a battalion of Jocks into Zaarb and two companies of paratroops into the Haram. Sort of military mission. Everything's nice and quiet.'

'What about AZ Enterprises?' asked Craig.

'We put the fire out,' said Loomis. 'The attempt to steal the payroll failed.'

Craig choked on his brandy.

'Is that the story?'

'A gang of men broke into AZ Enterprises. They killed a lot of people but they couldn't find any money. Under cover of the fire they escaped.'

'Do you honestly think the Zaarb lot will swallow that?'

'Swallow what?' asked Loomis. 'They got no witnesses. Your leather boys were out of the way hefore the fight started, we blocked off the whole street, and AZ isn't an embassy. They can't claim diplomatic immunity. They'll have to swallow it or admit they kidnapped Mrs. Naxos. You sent her back to her husband, I hear?'

Craig nodded.

'She tell you much?'

'Nothing relevant,' said Craig.

'And Schiebel's dead. We'll get some nice Chinese stuff from the Russians now.' Loomis reached out for the brandy bottle on the strength of it, and poured two more.

'Help yourself,' Craig said. 'How's Grierson?'

'Not good,' Loomis said. 'I've put him on indefinite leave. He's in a nursing home too, as a matter of fact. Not like this one.'

He looked out of the window at the close-shaven lawn, the expensive trees in whose branches the more melodious kind of bird was allowed, within reason, to sing. 'His place is top security, d'you see. He's unbalanced— and he knows a hell of a lot.'

'That bad?' Craig asked.

'I've got two psychiatrists on him. That Chinn feller's one. Working like a beaver. Doesn't think it'll do any good for a long, long time. Grierson did a lot of jobs you know. Some of them were messy. He got on with it. He's a professional, son. I suppose it had to catch up with him some time. And what he had to do in that house—it was just too much for him. And anyway, he was scared before he went in. That's why he chose the roof.'

'Would it do any good if I went to see him?' asked Craig.

'No good at all,' said Loomis. 'You gave him the riot gun.'

Craig sat silent. There was nothing left for him to say.

Loomis cleared his throat and heaved in his chair like a dolphin coming up to blow. Craig recognized the signs. Loomis was about to be tactful. 'I don't think you'd better see that Philippa Naxos person again,' he said. 'We can't afford to upset her husband.'