The Money That Money Can't Buy

'Something like that,' said Linton, and Hornsey left. It was only when he got outside that he realized that he knew Linton's rank, and had observed his questioning techniques. (Linton was well above average, he thought. At least beta plus.) He also realized that all he knew about Craig was his name and beyond that only a sensation, nothing more, of brooding, terrible power. Hornsey had a good mind, and it had been trained well. It would be best, he thought, to keep out of Craig's way.

The second piece of information came from a girl. Her name was Jane Simmons, aged twenty, Linton noted, educated at Priory Close School for Girls and L'Ecole des Jeunes Filles, Lausanne, Switzerland, a capital investment of at least five thousand pounds. At present she wore a shaggy sweater that surrounded her like a parcel, heavy wool trousers, socks, and nailed boots. No employment. She had tried to paint, but now Daddy gave her an allowance. Daddy was in newspapers and television. Linton trod with infinite caution.

She failed with the photographs— perhaps as well, thought Linton, that she has given up painting —and her only clear visual memory was of the shape the glass made when the Chinese had jumped through it. Linton prepared to let her go.

Craig asked: 'Did either of the two men speak to the waiter?'

She looked at him. Currently she was in love with Frank Sinatra, a golden retriever called Jackson, and Rudolf Nureyev. She added Craig to the list. The little finger of his left hand was stiff, she noticed, as if it had been broken, then set badly. But both his hands were beautiful.

'You'll think this is awfully sill—' she said.

'Try me,' said Craig, and her heart turned over. If only she'd thought to have her hair done. But who would have thought that necessary, just to meet two policemen?

'I thought one of them did speak to the waiter,' she said at last. 'Only it wasn't really speaking. More singing, really. I mean, I didn't hear much, and we were all making such a row—I mean we were absolutely starving. We'd walked miles—but I do remember thinking how silly it was. The singing, I mean. When we were all so hungry. And then —then he died.'

Linton thought it was silly too, and wanted to leave it at that, but Craig kept on about it, oblivious to the girl's mistrust of herself, and to her father, who was in newspapers and television, and hence to be doubly avoided by chief inspectors of the Special Branch. Craig sang to her. He sang pop tunes and Rodgers and Hart, gems from Verdi and Russian folk songs, Beethoven and Bach and Bacharach, and to all of them, Jane Simmons said no, and Linton worried. At last he let her go, and Linton asked if he was crazy, but. already Craig had the telephone and talked to a fascinated Loomis, who found him an old man in retirement at Grasmere, and they drove there in a powder of snow, and the old man sang into a tape recorder and told them it was nonsense, but nevertheless gave them some astonishing cherry brandy.

That evening Craig sent for Miss Simmons again. This time she had had time to prepare, and wore a neat little number in silk jersey that still looked good even after four days in a rucksack, the pearls Daddy had given her for Christmas—Daddy was old-fashioned; he thought pearls were safe, whereas if one were dark and suntanned, they were in fact very sexy, in a Tahitian sort of way—and a dollop of Je Reviens. Jane knew she looked good, but the pale eyes told her nothing, and she was so disappointed that she even forgot to scowl when she found that Linton was joining them.

Craig bought her one martini at the bar, then they took her in to a dinner of game soup, salmon, roast duckling, and strawberries. With the dinner he allowed her one glass of hock and one of claret. No liqueur, though she absolutely adored Grand Marnier. He might have been her father, Jane thought, then realized that it could in fact be possible. She knew no way of finding out his age. But his sexiness—the passion of his mouth, the cold brutality of his eyes—of that there could be no doubt. She breathed in, and the silk jersey clung becomingly to her, and Craig continued to talk of islands in Greece, and the high cost of villas there, now that everyone knew about them. By the end of the meal she was a little angry, but clear-headed and very much alert, which was exactly what Craig had intended.

After dinner they went back to the private sitting room, and Craig made more coffee, which was heaps better than the stuff they'd had in the dining room. Then he produced the tape recorder and Jane wondered what on earth had got into him. How could he possibly start playing that sort of music with all the lights still on and that grisly Linton sitting there like a duenna or something? Craig ran the tape back to the beginning and switched it on to playback. An old man's voice came through, high and clear. It wasn't singing exactly, but it wasn't talking either; just the same phrase repeated over and over, as if the old man were a priest chanting in some service or something.

After she'd heard the old man's voice twice, Jane said: 'I think so,' then, after the tenth time, she said: 'Yes, that's it all right.'

Craig switched off the tape.

'But what does he mean?' said Jane. 'What's he chanting about?'

'I'm afraid I can't tell you just yet,' said Craig.

'I suppose it's sub judice, or whatever you call it.'

'Something like that,' said Craig.

Not even the daughter of a man in newspapers and television could be told what the tape had said. The voice was that of a retired inspector in the Hong Kong police. The message was neither singing nor chanting, but spoken Cantonese. And what the inspector had repeated, over and over, was: 'Comrade Soong, we have come here to kill you.'

'I hope I've been able to help you,' said Jane.

'Oh yes,' said Craig. 'Enormously.'

Three Russians, he was thinking. Sent here to kill an agent. The Chinese must be an agent. Loomis will run amok.

'I don't know what we'd have done without you,' said Craig. 'Have some more coffee.'

'Actually I think I'd better get back to the youth hostel,' said Jane. And she added carefully: 'Is it still snowing?'

'I'll give you a lift,' said Craig.

In the Mark X she gave him every opportunity she knew, but he just wouldn't see her. Later, at home in Surrey, she examined herself in the mirror one day: thick darkness of hair, eyes, wide and trusting and brown as a sweet sherry (far too spanielly of course, but at least you could see the love in them), and her body firmed by youth, and with the first hint of ripeness. And all of it offered on a plate. As if she'd been a roast beef sandwich or something. Only he wasn't hungry. All she got was 'Thank you very much, Miss Simmons,' and when she asked if he'd need to see her again, 'Oh yes. It's very possible.'

And then the tail lights of the Jag, glowing in the dark. It really wasn't enough.

Loomis was delighted. His delight lasted for at least ten minutes, and then he gave way to an ecstasy of rage. The Russians on his patch, knocking off a Chinky without even saying 'God bless you,' and a Chinky, moreover, about whom he, Loomis, knew nothing. A Chinky who could have served baked beans and chips forever, for all Loomis knew or cared. Except that now he cared passionately. And they had nothing to go on. Nothing at all. Everything James Soong possessed had been searched, dismembered, searched again, analyzed, fingerprinted, spectrographed. And it told them nothing. James Soong had lived only in the present. His past, like his future, did not exist.

'You can't stop the Russians from trying to kill people,' said Loomis. 'I know. I've been through it all before. But this is the first time they've done it and I haven't known why. We've got nothing on this Soong character at all. Neither have any of the other departments. I had to go and ask.' He shuddered at the memory. 'It won't do.' He hesitated. 'I wonder if he ever went to Morocco?'

Craig remembered the files on his desk the day Soong was reported killed. They had all been about Morocco.

'Anyway, I got somebody working on that,'

said Loomis. 'I got another idea as well. I think it's

about time we started chucking our weight about.

And I know just where we can chuck it. How

would you like to kidnap a Russki for me, son? Be

a bit of an interest for you. You knock off a