The Money That Money Can't Buy

Jennifer groaned again, and began to rub her stomach; her hard, stubby fingers for once solicitous and tender.

'She will hold you,' said Brodski, 'and I will beat you. With this.' He waved the Webley, very slightly.

'That bill isn't snide,' said Craig.

'You are the second one. Did Driver send you?' Brodski asked.

'I don't know any Driver. That's good money,' said Craig.

Brodski stood up.

'Ready, Jennifer?' he asked.

Craig said quickly: 'You better be, love. Because I'm not taking a gun-whipping. Not even to oblige a lady.' Jennifer groaned for the third time and sat where she was. 'Maybe you'd better shoot me,' said Craig.

Brodski said something emphatic in what Craig took to be Polish, and sat looking puzzled. He didn't seem the sort of man who looked puzzled often. He resented it. At last he put the revolver back into the drawer.

'I run a quiet place,' he said. 'None of the girls on the batter, no hustling drinks, no reefers, no brasses, nothing.' In his soft, slightly accented voice the vocabulary of Soho was as strange as Jennifer. 'Just women with no clothes on.'

'The show's lousy,' said Craig.

'Oh, I agree,' said Brodski. 'But you are the one customer in ten thousand who notices this. And I take 62 ? lOs.od. five times a day, six days a week. The amount of profit I show is almost embarrassing. What do I need with crime? The keynote of my place is discretion, Mr. Reynolds. A discreet promise of bliss, without the tiresome athletics of fulfillment. And then Driver came in. He ordered champagne for Karen, Tempest, and Max-ine. He himself drank whisky. He paid his bill with a forged American note. A week later you come in. You order champagne for Karen, Tempest, and Maxine. You drink whisky. You pay with a forged American note.'

'Have it tested,' said Craig, 'or give it back.'

Brodski ignored him.

'I would have taken the loss,' he said. 'But a policeman was here when it happened. You would be surprised, Mr. Reynolds, how often policemen find it necessary to check up on the morality of my little entertainments.'

'What you want to avoid is theater critics,' said Craig.

'I had to go to New Scotland Yard,' said Brodski. 'I had to fail to identify Driver. And now you come along and start it all again.'

'Who is this Driver?' Craig asked.

Brodski sighed. 'A man not unlike yourself who plays cards at Luigi's.'

'You mean he can lick Jennifer?'

'I mean he dresses well, as you do, but without the distinction you do. And I suspect his honesty, as I do yours.'

'Will he be at Luigi's now?'

'Why?' Brodski asked.

'I'd like to meet him,' said Craig. 'I mean it's an enormous coincidence—'

'He will be at Luigi's,' Brodski said. 'Please go away now, Mr. Reynolds.'

'All right,' said Craig. 'I enjoyed the chat. Mind if I give you some advice?'

'Even with a Webley in my hand, I doubt, if I could stop you,' said Brodski.

'You ought to put your heavy on a diet.'

Jennifer burst into tears.

Craig left then, and walked down the corridor and past the barker.

'Enjoy the show, sir?' he asked.

'I've never seen anything like it in my life,' said Craig, and meant every word.

He walked down toward Greek Street and a burly young man who was waiting at the corner.

'Hallo, Mr. Craig,' said Arthur Hornsey. 'I was hoping I'd run into you again. Lucky I spotted you at the show.'

Craig said: 'Nein, danke,' and kept on walking. He had no time to waste on enthusiastic young men who enjoyed walking trips. It was time to call on another Arthur: Fat Arthur.

6

He went into the cafe and down the stairs. The downstairs tables were all unoccupied, the one aged waitress behind the counter knitted a sock with concentrated venom, as if it were a victim. Craig thought of Madame Defarge and opened the door to the private room. The old crone made no attempt to stop him. The room was empty. In the middle of it was a table, scarred with cigarette burns, stained with a chain mail of overfilled glasses; above it a trio of 150-watt lamps threw light on to it. It was hot in the room, and it smelled of whisky and cigarettes and excited men. But now it was empty. There were cards on the table; two poker hands—a royal flush and a full house, aces and eights. Beside them were fifty pounds in notes and silver.

The room was windowless, and very still. The blaring Soho noise—wide boys in search of money, mugs too late aware of its loss—had faded to a hungry whimper. Craig moved to a cupboard in front of him. It was shut with a swivel bolt from outside, but he moved warily, his fingers feather-soft as he turned the swivel, then dived to one side

as the door swung open. Inside the cupboard, hanging neatly by his collar from a coat hook, was Driver. He had the dazed, innocent look of an insurance clerk playing Find the Lady. Even without the switchblade protruding from his heart it was apparent that he was dead. Craig reached inside his pocket, and Driver swung dully from the coat hook, his heels rapped softly on the back of the cupboard as Craig removed his wallet. There were ten ten- pound notes in it, but no twenty-dollar bills. Craig reached forward to return the wallet, and the heels drummed again as a voice behind him spoke.

'That Driver,' said the voice. 'He never could stand losing money. I suppose that's why you killed him. Or did he find out you were cheating?'

Craig turned, very slowly, his hands by his sides. In the doorway were Fat Arthur and, behind him, for the doorway was narrow, two other poker players. In his right hand Arthur carried a piece of lead pipe bound with insulating tape. Craig couldn't see the hands of the others.

'It's up to us to make a citizens' arrest,' Arthur said. 'What you've done is a felony. We're bound by law to take you in.' He smiled, and the smile was a blend of joy and wonder, as if he'd backed three long-shot winners, then found a gold watch. 'You only get one chance like that,' said Fat Arthur, and slapped his palm with the lead pipe.

'I didn't kill him,' said Craig.

'After we get through with you you won't care what you did,' Fat Arthur said. 'We ain't women and there's three of us—and we're going to hurt you, boy. Hurt you bad.'

As he spoke, he sidled into the room. All his experience told him that Craig should cower now, but Craig stood his ground. Fat Arthur tapped his palm again with the pipe, and it made a noise like bone breaking, then he stepped forward again as his two followers filled the doorway. And it was at that moment that Craig jumped him, erupting into him with a kick that swung all the way from his thigh so that the edge of his shoe sank into the fat man's belly, slamming him back into the two men in the doorway, and still Craig came in at him, to grab one meaty forearm and swing him round. The whole weight of Craig's body went into it, but even so it was like throwing a horse as Arthur spun round the pivot of Craig's body, then screamed as Craig threw his weight the other way, and the fat man's arm broke, the lead pipe fell, and Craig let him drop. He moved toward the other two, and one lashed at Craig with a razor that split his vicuna coat from shoulder to forearm, then spun into the other man as Craig's elbow smashed into his throat. And the other man, off-balance, looked at the murder in Craig's eyes, and dropped the cosh he was carrying. There was a sound from the stairs, and Craig spun the cosh man round, holding him before him as a shield as Hornsey stepped carefully down the stairs. He looked at the razor man writhing on the floor, both hands clasped to his throat, and at Fat Arthur flat on his back in the doorway, looking like a mountain range.

'Is everything all right?' asked Hornsey, and behind him appeared the official feet and the elderly raincoat of Detective Sergeant Millington.