'Everything,' said Craig, 'is fine.'
'We heard a noise,' reported Hornsey. 'This chap and I were upstairs; then there was a sound rather like a building collapsing—'
'That would be Fat Arthur,' said Craig.
'Then everybody left, except this chap and myself. You're all right?'
He and Millington walked toward Craig, and the man Craig held accepted Millington's handcuffs with relief.
'They were trying to frame me,' Craig said. 'There's a dead man in there.'
Millington looked, and went at once to the telephone.
'They've cut your coat,' said Hornsey. 'What a terrible thing.'
Craig looked down at the long, straight cut, then at the razor man, now kneeling on the floor. He pulled the razor man to his feet; the man yelled at what the agony of movement did to his throat, but no sound came.
'Get your voice back,' said Craig. 'I want you to tell me things.' He turned to the man who had held the cosh. 'I want you all to tell me things,' he said, then added to Hornsey: 'I liked this coat.'
'It's awfully you,' Hornsey said.
Millington put down the phone. 'Murder squad's on its way.' he said. 'I'm sorry. I had to.'
Craig nodded. 'Our chaps will want a look, too,' he said.
'That's fixed,' said Millington.
'I'll be off then,' said Craig. He looked at his split sleeve. 'I'd better buy a raincoat I suppose.'
He left then, and a face appeared above the counter. It was an old and evil face, with hair like moldy straw topped with a waitress's lacy cap. 'I haven't seen one like him since they topped Big Harry Preston back in 1927,' the waitress said. 'I never thought I would. Gorgeous, isn't he, Mr. Millington?'
'You're a witness,' Millington said.
'Of course I am. I want to be,' said the waitress,
and she rose from behind the counter looking very
happy indeed. 'You know what, Mr. Millington?'
she said, and the happiness became tinged with
awe. 'That feller made Fat Arthur scream.' * * *
'We're going to Paris,' said Loomis, and shot straight over a red light. A taxi driver yelled, and Loomis accelerated so as to be in time for the next one.
'Why?' asked Craig, and wished for the thousandth time that Loomis would let him drive. Loomis's car was the most beaten-up Rolls Royce that Craig had ever seen, and no one else was ever allowed to drive it.
'The Russians want Calvet back,' said Loomis. 'They've invited us to Paris to talk it over.'
He went round the Hammersmith roundabout in top gear, his brakes screaming like four Fat Arthurs.
'Are they going to get him?' asked Craig.
'Depends,' said Loomis, and settled the Rolls in the outside lane of the highway, where it whispered along at an unvaried 69.5 mph. Behind it the Astin Martins, Mercedeses, Ferraris, and Jaguars lined up in frantic procession. Loomis ignored them all.
'You cut up a bit rough this afternoon,' he said. 'Belting a woman.'
'You wouldn't have lasted three rounds with her,' said Craig.
'Wouldn't want to,' replied Loomis. 'Then you had to go and start a massacre in a cafe.'
'I was supposed to be massacred,' Craig said. 'They had coshes and razors and lumps of lead pipe.'
'You broke Fat Arthur's arm. How big was he?'
'About your size,' said Craig.
Loomis looked at him, carefully and long, and the Rolls went on all by itself.
'You're getting cheeky,' he said. 'Don't get cheeky.'
'I like to know what's going on,' said Craig.
But Loomis knew that Craig functioned best on an unrelieved diet of frustration.
'Tell me what you found out,' Loomis said.
They had, of course, no knowledge of anything when Craig first questioned them in the interrogation room at Bow Street. The game had broken up at five that morning, Driver had been a big winner, and they'd all gone home. None of them had seen Driver again. Then somebody had tipped Fat Arthur off that Craig had murdered Driver and was with the body. The call, Arthur insisted, had been anonymous. He had collected the other two and he, the most improbable Sir Galahad of all, charged to the rescue. Or at any rate tried. Craig had then beaten him unconscious, and that had been all. His alibi—a small, loud, drunken shrew who had despised him enough to marry him—was unshakable. So were those of his allies. The crone who had gone downstairs minutes before Craig knew nothing except that there was one man left unhung.
Craig had persisted, and had learned many things. Brodski owned most of the cafe, and Arthur was afraid of him; Brodski had disliked Driver intensely but had not banned him from the game; there was no address at which Brodski could be reached when his club shut down. Craig had also been intrigued by the fact that Fat Arthur knew he had fought a woman and had attacked him before he had seen Driver's body. The urge to avenge a friend must have been overwhelming. Fat Arthur and his friends denied, over and over, that Brodski had made the phone call. Craig knew they lied. He left them while Millington was intoning the litany of assault with a deadly weapon, and went back to the strip club.
Brodski had gone, and nobody, least of all Jennifer, knew where to reach him. The telephone number he had left was that of an answering service, and the answering service regretted that they could never, never divulge that kind of thing on the phone. Craig telephoned Millington and told him to check on that angle, then bought more champagne for Karen, Tempest, and Maxine. When Harry served them his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't get the cork out of the bottle. Craig did it for him.
'O-o-o you are nervous tonight, sweetie,' said Tempest.
'You've heard, haven't you, luscious?' said Maxine, and Harry bolted back to the bar.
'Heard what?' asked Craig.
'The way you beat up Fat Arthur,' said Max-ine. 'It's all over the parish.'
'What d'you do it for?' Tempest asked.
'He puts saccharin in his coffee,' said Craig.
'They say you killed Tony Driver, too,' said Karen. She didn't seem worried by this, merely interested.
'I found him dead,' said Craig. 'I was looking for a poker game.'
Karen put an arm round his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. Her fingers massaged the back of Craig's neck, and her eyes were large and limpid. She had drunk a lot of champagne.
'You're not a copper, darling, are you?' she asked. 'I couldn't bear it if you were a copper.'
Craig said: 'I'm a collector.'
'What do you collect?' Tempest asked.
'Money,' said Craig.
'Oh how super,' said Maxine.
He had told them then that he had come to collect some from Brodski, and they loved him more than ever, because they were wary of Brodski, who, they were sure, was as normal as a man could be, and yet never, never failed to show them, with extreme courtesy, how little he needed them. Unfortunately, they knew nothing more about him except that he paid them well and made no demands. Driver had at least made an effort. He'd invited them to a party at his flat. But he'd been broke, so they hadn't gone. But Karen had written his address down somewhere—on her bra, she thought. She looked, and Harry yawned, and Craig sweated, and there it was. He'd had a hard time getting away.
All Driver had carried, apart from his wallet, was a key, and Craig took that to a little street in Belgravia. The key opened the door, and Craig went inside at once, cat-footed warily, but all the small, neat rooms held was emptiness and silence. The house was small and unobtrusive, built in single tiers like a layer cake, bedroom on dining room on kitchen, bath and loo on living room. And all anonymous and noncommittal, rented by the month from a retired major in the Blues, according to the rent book. The house showed little evidence of Driver's ever having been there, apart from his clothes. The clothes interested Craig: they were all bought at Simpson's in Piccadilly, and none of them looked old; in fact, they looked as if they had all been bought at the same time. Craig searched on. Two empty suitcases, an empty grip, an empty Pan Am flightbag. He looked beneath the bed, in the
