conceived in Carnaby Street. Away—to judge by the books lying about—at one of those schools Americans call private, and the English, with a subtler, sharper irony, public. He passed on to the master bedroom. Fitted cupboards, pictures of horses, wall-to-wall carpet, a TV set high in one wall so that a man could lie down, relax, and look at his leisure. Or a woman.
A young woman, about twenty-eight, well-nourished, a mole on her right hip, once operated on for appendicitis. Not visibly pregnant. Blonde. Blue eyes. Probably of Scandinavian origin. And beautiful. Very beautiful. And dead.
Craig looked at the naked body without ruttishness or embarrassment. There was a faint stirring of pity, no more. In a sense she had been lucky. One shattering blow to the nape of the neck and—nothing. Oblivion. Everything finished. No more worries about beauty parlors, Italian shoes, Lord & Taylor dresses. He touched one slender foot—it was still warm—then turned to the small heap of clothes on the bed. Her purse was there, and it was empty. He left her and went into the bathroom.
Laurie S. Fisher hadn't died nearly so quickly. He had been tortured by experts, and they'd been in a hurry, but even so it must have taken an hour, maybe more. Craig marveled that a man could hold out for an hour, even a man as strong as Fisher had undoubtedly been. And handsome too. They hadn't touched his face. He'd been gagged with a hand towel while they—while they—Craig turned away to the toilet basin and was violently sick, his body shuddering, then methodically cleaned and flushed the basin, ran the tap till the water was cold, washed his face, and drank from his cupped hands. In the end, Fisher had talked, then they'd killed him as they'd killed his girl. One sudden, longed-for blow. The boy in the private school would be a man very soon, he thought, and turned his mind to the problem of leaving. But no one stopped him, no one came back to make sure that Fisher and his woman were dead. Why should they? They were experts, technicians. The man who had killed knew that Fisher and the woman were dead the moment he unleashed his hand.
Craig stood in the hall, recalled each movement he had made. The door pushed with his knuckles, the toilet flushed, the tap turned with his handkerchief. Nothing else. He used the handkerchief on the door again, and left it as he had found it, very slightly ajar, then ran down three flights of stairs and took the elevator to the mezzanine floor, where there was a cocktail lounge and Scotch whisky.
He drank two, taking his time, making himself look relaxed, even bored, and grateful that the lounge was busy. Grateful also that it had a separate door to the street . . . He should have left after one, but his whole body screamed for the stuff. Things had been done to Fisher that had once been done to him, and Craig needed to drink for a long, long time if he were to forget what he had seen. But he couldn't forget.
After the second drink it was six thirty, and at seven Marcus Kaplan might be home, so the method actor had said. And at his home there might be experts, technicians, waiting to do to Kaplan what they had already done to Fisher and the girl.
Craig walked out, not hurrying, toward Fifth Avenue. It was hotter than ever, and there were no empty cabs. (That's a thing to remember about New York, Loomis had said. They don't have empty cabs. Only full ones.) But he needed to walk anyway. And there was time.
Kaplan's apartment house too was smart and well kept, but then Kaplan was in millinery, and men who do well in millinery tend to do very well indeed. Craig reached the building at five to seven. Nobody seemed interested in it except its Negro doorman. There were no waiting cars, no loiterers; but the windows across the street could conceal a sniper, if they wanted Kaplan dead, if Fisher had told them all they needed to know. The roofs too. There was good cover, and too much of it. Suddenly Craig shivered, in spite of the damp, unrelenting heat. His face was known. He also had been in a Most Urgent file. Maybe they'd made it active again. He looked in a shop-window next to the apartment house. It held a display of hunting clothes, with pump-action shotguns and rifles brutally arranged to underline the masculinity of those who bought such very expensive clothes. The rifles were the best of their kind: telescopic sights, light action, a trigger you squeezed so that it didn't jar your arm. Craig felt as if he had a target painted on his back. From across the street you couldn't miss—but at least he could use the window as a mirror and watch what was happening.
At seven five a Lincoln Continental drew up and the doorkeeper sprang into action. Craig turned and moved slowly forward. The car contained a Puerto Rican chauffeur and a fat passenger, already dismounting. The fat passenger was exactly like his brother, plus fifty pounds weight. Craig moved faster. As Kaplan left the Lincoln, he was completely masked from across the street, Craig on one side of him, the doorman on the other. 'Mr. Kaplan?' Craig said.
'That's right,' said Kaplan, and looked up at Craig. His eyes were bright, alert, and, Craig thought, wary.
'I've got a message for you,' Craig said. 'From Aaron.'
The wariness in the eyes intensified.
'You better come in,' he said without enthusiasm.
Another crowded elevator, fast, air-conditioned, careful not to let the stomach lag. Kaplan got out at the nineteenth floor. (No New Yorker lives lower than the seventeenth floor, Loomis had said. They only have sex when there's a power cut.) Kaplan stood by the elevator and looked down the carpeted corridor. There was no one else there.
'What's Aaron's full name?' he asked.
'Aaron Israel Kaplan. Last heard of in Volochanka.'
'Okay,' Kaplan said, less enthusiastically than ever. 'We'll go to my apartment.'
He led, Craig a half step behind him, and almost too late Craig remembered his trade.
'Mr. Kaplan,' he said, 'are any of these apartments to let?'
'No,' Kaplan said at once. 'There's a waiting list. Very desirable apartments.' He frowned. 'Maybe you're thinking of the Boldinis.'
'Am I?' said Craig.
'Number 37,' Kaplan said. 'But they're in Maine. They go there every summer. Lucky-'
By this time they had reached Number 33, and Kaplan thought that Craig had gone mad, for the deferential but very strong Britisher promptly knocked him down, a deft, efficient trip, and leaped over his body, hit the door of Number 37 just as it had begun to open. There was a sound like that of a large, wet sack hit with a paddle, and Craig was through the door. Kaplan, bewildered but courageous, groaned himself upright and followed. Inside the Boldinis' apartment Craig was grappling with a man who held a gun. As Kaplan entered the gun went off, and Kaplan observed a vase he had detested for years shatter to fragments inches from his hand, but instead of the dull boom of the explosion there was a small, soft plop. Craig struck at the gunman and he groaned. Kaplan moved into the room, noting that Craig was gathering his strength to finish the fight. It was suddenly important that he observe just how this was done. He moved clumsily, and Craig saw him, his concentration weakened. The gunman wriggled from Craig's arms and through a window, then leaped crazily down the stairs of the fire escape. Kaplan still watched attentively as Craig scooped up the gun and ran to the window. From below came the fading sounds of shoe leather on metal.
'I'm sorry,' Kaplan said.
Craig leaned in from the window and turned.
'It's all right,' he said.
'I didn't think I would put you off—'
'You wouldn't have,' said Craig, 'except that there's another one behind you—and it's you they came for, after all.'
Kaplan spun round. There was a man lying on the floor, and he had a gun in his hand. Right there in the Boldinis' apartment, a gunman lay flat on his back, automatic in hand, and he, Kaplan, stood amid the ruins of that damn ugly vase. That was as fantastic as the gunman. The Boldinis had worshipped that vase. Paid over a hundred dollars to have it shipped from Hong Kong, and now here was this Englishman crunching over it, bending down to look at this—gangster I guess you'd call him. Craig's face told him nothing at all—but when he turned the gunman over, suddenly Kaplan knew he was dead, even before he looked up and saw the set of teak shelves near the door, with their hard, sharp edges, one of them just the height of a standing man, and that one covered in what looked like jam. Kaplan turned away.
'Well, well,' said Craig. 'How very careless of him.'
He went quickly through the man's pockets. Money, a packet of Marlboros, book matches, a dirty and much- used handkerchief. And on the floor a Browning Hi-
Power automatic with a silencer. Thirteen shot. His unlucky day.
