'Yes,' said Craig. 'Just to make sure this money's okay. Wait for me, will you?'
'I'm glad you said that, John.' She began to loosen her coat. 'It sounded as if you really wanted me to.'
As he went down in the elevator, Craig thought It might be the last time he'd ever see her.
He came back two hours later with the beginning of a black eye and two inches of skin missing from his left elbow.
'Darling, what on earth did you do at the bank? Rob it?' she asked.
'The bank? No. The money's fine. I just beat hell out a man called Thaddeus Cooke,' said Craig.
She was still shaking with laughter as they began to make love. Later they rose, dressed, drank in the murky twilight of the cocktail bar, ate at the Four Seasons. They were asleep when the knocking began, but she, like Craig, was awake at once. Quickly they put on dressing gowns, and Craig slipped the .38 into the pocket of his as she reached for her handbag.
'What is it?' asked Craig.
'Telegram for Mr. Craig.'
Craig moved into the lounge, unlatched the door.
'Bring it in,' he said. 'The door's not locked.'
He moved into the space behind the door. Suddenly it flew open, and Marcus Kaplan came into the room. In his hands was a skeet gun. He seemed almost crazy with rage, but the hands on the gun were steady. If I give him half a chance he'll blast me, Craig thought. The only sane thing to do is put a bullet in him now. But he couldn't. It was impossible. The realization flicked through his. mind as Marcus started to turn. Craig tossed his life up in the air like a coin, and took a long stride toward him, put the muzzle of the gun on Kaplan's neck. 'Just drop it,' he said.
Kaplan tensed, willing himself to turn and blast, and Craig found he couldn't even hit him.
Joanna's voice spoke from the bedroom door. 'I shouldn't, Mr. Kaplan,' she said. 'You kill him and I'll kill you. You won't die quickly.'
Kaplan's hands opened; the skeet gun thudded on the carpet. Craig grabbed it up and pushed on the safety catch, then went to the door. The corridor was empty, except for a long, soft leather bag. He brought it inside, and steered the other man to a chair. Marcus was crying. Craig opened the drinks cupboard and poured whisky.
'I'll have one too,' said Joanna.
Craig offered one to Marcus, who pushed it away. He waited till the man's sobs died, and offered it again.
'Murder doesn't come all that easy to you,' Craig said. 'Take a drink, you need it.'
Reluctantly, Marcus Kaplan accepted it, and choked it down. Craig poured him another.
'D'you want to tell me why, Marcus?' he asked.
'I've just finished talking to Miriam,' Marcus said. 'She told me—she told me-'
'She'd been to bed with me?'
'I hate you, Craig. I want you dead.'
Craig waited once more, and Joanna came to the room and poured herself a drink.
Suddenly Marcus sprang from the chair and hurled himself at Craig, a pathetically unskillful attack; the onslaught of a civilized man who doesn't know how to hurt. Gently, Craig took hold of the clumsy hands and forced him back into the chair.
'Don't try it,' said Craig. 'You don't know how to.'
He increased his pressure a little, and Marcus was still.
'Did she tell you how we became lovers?' Craig asked, and Marcus nodded. 'And you can't forgive her for it?'
'Her? Of course I can,' Marcus said. 'I could have understood you, too. But you kicked her out, didn't you? For this—this-' He turned on Joanna.
'I did right,' said Craig. 'You know I did.'
'You left her when she was helpless.'
'It won't be for long,' said Joanna. 'And Craig has no future in the millinery business.'
The words hit Kaplan like blows.
'Joanna, for God's sake,' said Craig.
'But he's jealous, darling. Surely you can see that.'
'I've never touched her,' said Kaplan.
'But you'd like to, wouldn't you, Marcus?'
'Lay off,' said Craig, and turned to Marcus once more. 'It happened. There's nothing anyone can do. Accept that.'
'No,' Kaplan said. 'One of these days I'll catch up with you. I swear it.'
'Marcus, you're no good at this. That telegram gag's archaic,' Craig said. 'You don't even know how to hate. Believe me. I've seen experts. Forget about me. She's the one you should be looking after-'
'It's easy for you,' said Kaplan. 'You do this to her and just walk away-'
'I did rather more than that,' said Craig. 'I got her father back.'
Joanna swirled round. The whisky slopped in her glass.
'She's your niece, isn't she?' Craig said. 'Aaron's daughter. You brought her out of Germany in 1946. You should have told her, Marcus.'
'I couldn't,' Kaplan said. 'By that time Russia was the enemy. I didn't want her to think her father was—one of them.'
'Before we set out to get him,' said Craig. 'She had a right to know then.'
'By that time she was virtually my daughter,' Kaplan said.
'What about your wife?' asked Joanna.
'Ida never knew,' said Kaplan. 'Aaron wrote to me just after the war—but it was to the office. He asked me to look out for a girl he'd met. He'd been ordered back to Russia, and the girl had moved out into the Western zone. I—I didn't like to tell Ida. I faked a business trip to Europe and went to see her. Brigitte, her name was. Brigitte Hahn. She was dying then—tuberculosis. Aaron hadn't even known she was pregnant. I adopted the baby—it was easy then. She didn't look like Aaron at all.'
'What did Ida say?' Joanna asked.
'I told her I'd found her in a Jewish orphanage. That I couldn't resist her. Ida loved her as soon as she saw her,' Kaplan said.
'Why Loman?' asked Craig.
'It was the name on her papers,' said Kaplan. 'Forged papers. They cost me seven hundred dollars. It was like investing in Paradise.' He sipped at his drink. 'How did you know, Craig?'
'I guessed it,' said Craig. 'It fitted so well it had to be true. Except—you still haven't told me why you kept quiet before we went to Turkey.'
'I wanted to find out if she loved him,' Kaplan said.
'And now you know. She hates him. What are you going to do, Marcus?'
'What can I do?'
'Keep quiet.'
'But she's his daughter.'
'He doesn't deserve a daughter like that—but you do,' said Craig.
'But I came here to kill you,' said Marcus.
'That's part of it. Go home, Marcus. Put your skeet gun in its nice leather bag and go home.'
He watched, empty-handed, as Marcus Kaplan picked up the gun and packed it into its container.
'You take some terrible chances, John,' Joanna said,
Marcus looked up, genuinely puzzled.
'Oh,' he said. 'The gun. Believe me, Miss Benson, I wouldn't—I mean, I'm very sorry, I-'
'Forget it,' Craig said. 'Just tell me how you knew I was here.'
'This was the thirty-fifth hotel I phoned,' said Kaplan. He picked up the bag. 'Well-' he said.
'Forgive me,' said Joanna, 'but didn't anybody ask you what was in your bag?'
'Why should they?' asked Kaplan. 'Some very important people shoot skeet.'
