The Money That Money Can't Buy

movement had pulled back her skirt over her knees. Allen went over to her, pulled it back further, to reveal the black line of her garter against the pale thigh, the neat V of her panties.

'She's all right,' he said. 'Bit skinny maybe.'

His hand moved again, then Craig grabbed his wrist, turned him round.

'I was only looking,' said Allen.

'Jesus you're nasty,' said Craig. 'Take the R/T set to the car. Then wait for me.'

'All right,' said Allen. 'What about the money?'

'I'll take that,' said Craig. 'And Calvet. Move.'

Allen moved, and Craig stuffed the money, the gun, and the steel box into a duffle bag, and slung it over one shoulder. He went to the girl then, untied one wrist, hesitated, then pulled her skirt down over her knees. Calvet next, still unconscious. He eased the limp body over his other shoulder, and started for the stairs. As he went, he noted with satisfaction that his hands were quite steady, he wasn't sweating, and his footsteps were still soundless.

He opened the house door one inch and listened. From down the street came the sound of voices. Allen was talking bad Spanish to a guardia civil. The guardia, talking much better Spanish, was advising Allen to go home. Allen promised to do so, as soon as he could get the car to start, and the guardia left him. Craig counted ten, then moved out into the street. Allen had cleared the back seat of the car and Calvet rested on it, at peace. He looked drunk. Craig covered him with Allen's coat, took Allen's bottle and poured brandy over his face and shirt. The car reeked. He walked over to the co- driver's seat then. The R/T set was on it.

Allen said: 'Don't worry. I told the guardia it was a new car radio I was fitting.'

'I hope he's as big a fool as you are,' said Craig. 'Move over.'

Reluctantly Allen obeyed, taking the R/T set on his lap, then Craig slung the duffle bag into the back beside Calvet.

'That the money?' Allen asked.

Craig switched the ignition on and drove toward the seashore. At the first corner, he flashed his headlights. A guardia civil stood in a doorway, watching the car. He didn't look stupid. Craig drove on sedately; he wanted no trouble.

They reached the sea road, and parked the car. Once again Allen picked up the R/T set, and this time he held Craig's case as well, and scrambled down toward the beach. Craig followed, the duffle bag over his shoulder, the still body of Calvet in his arms. The cliff was soft soil and they moved quietly, then suddenly Allen struck a patch of shale, and stumbled. Craig swore under his breath, but they reached sand at last, and Allen's boat, and loaded it up and launched it into the dark, whispering sea. Craig scrambled into the bows and took the oars; Allen in the stern held the tiller. The oars squeaked softly as the boat moved out into the Mediterranean, toward the dark mass of Allen's motor-boat, its riding lights clear and brilliant as jewels.

They reached it, tied up, and transferred Calvet, the money, and the R/T set, then Allen's hand moved to the starter switch.

'Wait,' said Craig. 'Switch off your riding lights.'

Allen obeyed, as Craig looked out toward the land, to the thin probe of two headlights, undipped, pushing in to where the Morris was parked. He heard the sound of car doors slammed, and men in uniform moved through the headlight beams, toward the little car. They had guns in their hands.

'We'd better get out of here,' said Allen. 'Not yet,' Craig whispered. 'They can't see us. We'll wait till they go.' 'But—'

'Keep your voice down,' whispered Craig again. 'Sound travels at sea.'

And at that moment Calvet returned to consciousness and yelled.

Calvet was a Ukrainian. He spoke Ukrainian, Russian, and French—all three as if they were his mother tongue—and his German, English, and Spanish were near perfect, but all he produced then as he struggled from the blackness of Craig's blow into the blackness of the boat's cockpit was a high-pitched yet very masculine scream: a scream compounded of fear and horror of terrible things that had happened to him, to Calvet, and which he could neither control, understand, nor, at that moment—and here was the real terror—even remember. So Calvet screamed, and the scream died almost at once, crushed out beneath Craig's fingers, but it warned the men on the cliff, and a spotlight on their car snapped on almost at once, its long accusing finger probing out to sea, searching for the sleek twin-screwed cruiser that lay too far out for the light to touch.

Again Allen wanted to go, and again Craig made him wait, until at last the car revved up and went, and then the cruiser's motors too could fire, the twin propellers chop the water into foam. Craig took the small, neat wheel in his hands and set course for Gibraltar. As he let in the throttle, he could feel the twin engine's thrust. Allen must have been sober when he bought this one, he thought. She's just about perfect. He let in more throttle and the speedometer moved to fifteen knots.

'Let's put on the searchlight—see where we're going,' Allen said.

'No,' said Craig.

'But she'll do five knots better than this if we see where we're going.' 'No,' said Craig.

The cruiser forged on, and the false dawn came, a pink smudge across the horizon, pink and yet cold. The cruiser moved on, and Craig strained his ears for the sound of other boats. There had to be other boats, and if the land police had done their job they would pick them up soon.

Twice he thought he heard them and throttled back the engine—his hands were still steady, but they were wet, now, and he was breathing more quickly than he had need—but when at last it came, he was in no doubt. It was a low-pitched, drumming note, deep and steady, and when he heard it he could look, and when he looked he could see the two sets of red and green riding lights, tiny and brilliant. Even as he saw them, the other boats' lights switched on, and began to pierce the darkness section by section, their beams crossing then engaging, like the swords of duelists. At once Craig gave his boat more throttle, and she screamed her eagerness to go. The speedometer needle moved, faster, faster, from fifteen to twenty to twenty-two. Slowly then it dragged on to twenty-five, but still Craig could sense behind him the drum note of bigger engines, the thrust of wider propellers. It was ridiculous, of course: no other noise could survive when Allen's cruiser hit full power, and yet Craig knew the pursuing ships were there, so that when their lights snapped on again and stroked the blackness of the sea to a cold, pure, silvery blue, Craig almost sighed his relief—until one searchlight flicked him, and he began to fling the cruiser all over the water to lose those sure, serene lights that probed the blackness of the sea.

And then one brushed the side of the cruiser from the right, lighting up Craig at the wheel, and Allen crouched beside him. Craig swerved again, but the boat on his left found him, hesitated, and then held until the one from the right could bore through the dark once more, and Craig struggled to find a course in the blinding, silver light. A voice over the loud hailer boomed out in Spanish, and Craig tried the throttle again. There were no more revs in the engines. The boats behind nosed up closer— Jesus, they must be big —and again the loud hailer voice boomed out, and Allen was gibbering with fear, and Craig too busy to understand a word. He tried to swerve again, and there was a crackle of gunfire, a stream of tracers drifting across the black sky to disappear at last into the black sea, twenty yards from the boat. Craig threw the port engine into neutral, then into reverse, and the cruiser's weight lunged viciously as she swerved to the right across the bows of the pursuer, then Craig swerved again and tried in vain to coax out more revs. The cruiser's speedometer read twenty-seven knots, and there it stuck. There just wasn't any more.

Craig risked another look behind at the searchlights criss-crossing the sea. The false dawn had faded. Daylight was only minutes away, and those minutes were vital.

'Do you carry a gun aboard?' he yelled.

''You bloody fool,' Allen screamed back, 'that's Spanish navy stuff chasing us.'

'Do you have a gun?'

'Just a rifle,' Allen said. 'A Lee-Enfield.'

'Get it,' said Craig. Allen made no move.

'Have you ever been in a Spanish prison?' asked Craig.

Allen sighed, and fetched the rifle, then Craig made him take the wheel. He lay down in the stern of the boat, checked the rifle, and waited. The Lee-Enfield was old—ten years at least—but it seemed in good nick, and Craig was used to it. The standard service weapon of the Second World War, it was the first of the long series of rifles,