The Innocent Bystanders

'An expendable decoy?'

'We're all expendable in this business,' Loomis said, surprised. 'Surely you know that by now.'

This time the American was sure Loomis was not joking. He got up, took a framed photograph from the wall, and passed it to the American. It was of an enormous and very handsome horse.

'That's Jumbo,' he said.

'Don't you have one with you up?' the American asked.

Loomis grinned, a vast and evil grin. 'Certainly not,' he said. 'Security burned 'em all. Want to stay for tea?'

'I'm sorry, I can't,' the American said. 'I have to be in Paris this evening.'

'Paris,' said Loomis. 'I pop over there myself now and again. Nice place. But you can't trust the grub.'

He saw the American out, went back to the main library, spread the Financial Times over his face, and sprawled out motionless. Around him the sleepers whinnied and snorted. They reminded him of Jumbo . . . The Americans would pay if they had to, but only if. The information he had asked in payment was too high a price to be paid willingly. That meant two sets of risks—the operation itself and the chance of the Americans snatching the prize at the last minute. The men who brought this off would have to be good. So would the decoy . . . And the decoy was expendable . . . Pity, that . . . Loomis slept, and his snore was thunder.

David Branch had not expected to like his first assignment. He had imagined himself being too much aware of the danger, too much afraid, if one were honest, to be able to enjoy applying the skills he had learned with so much labor; but it wasn't like that at all. He'd met Loomis and the task had been explained to him, and of course he'd chosen to be taken on as Craig's secretary. That was also pretty good. A nice room in an enormous flat, delicious meals, excellent wine, and not too much to do. Craig had made a disreputable fortune, and he got his money's worth in the way of comfort. He also had a secret. Something to do with Morocco, and some shady French maneuvers of ten years ago, when the sultan abdicated. Loomis wanted that secret: Branch had to get it.

At first, the job looked easy. Craig had nothing in safe deposits, nothing—except money—at his bank, and no safe in the flat. Moreover, Craig was a man who was easily bored, and hence always involved in small, trivial expeditions: to art galleries, to the movies, the theater, new bars, new restaurants. Branch should have had all the time he needed, but he never did. Too often Craig forgot things and telephoned him to fetch them, or asked his cook to come in early and prepare a special dish, or simply got bored with what he was doing and left the movies halfway through the film. He moved very quietly too, and he was big. The hell of a size. Branch found consolation in the thoroughness of his training, but as the days slipped by and the deadline drew near the feeling of enjoyment left him. He began to worry if he would ever find that damn piece of paper.

Then one day his luck was in. Craig took him out to dinner and proceeded to get quietly, unobtrusively drunk. It was hard for Branch to stay sober, but his terror of Loomis helped, and he managed at last to get Craig talking about Tangier in the old days. Craig talked at length.

'Used to be a smuggler,' he said. 'Used to do all kinds of jobs. Made a bit of money—went into shipping. Did I tell you I was in shipping?'

'Yes, sir,' said Branch. 'You did. But I never knew you were in Tangier.'

'Ought to do a book about it,' said Craig. 'You could write it for me.'

'I couldn't do it without the facts.'

'Gotemallathome,' said Craig. 'Show you. Gemme taxi.'

Branch got one, and Craig fell asleep in it. He woke him up and got him into the flat—he was hell to carry— and talked about Tangier and the book. Craig's hands flopped aimlessly towards his pockets. 'Must find my keys,' he said. 'Drunk. Make me a cup of coffee, will you?'

Branch made it and came back carrying the cup, to find Craig on his feet, holding his keys.

'That's better,' Craig said. 'I must have had too much to drink. You shouldn't let me drink too much, David. It isn't good for me.'

'I'm sorry, sir,' said Branch. Craig lurched toward him, took the coffee and sipped, then scowled. 'Lousy coffee,' he said.

'I'm sorry, sir,' Branch said again. 'I made it just the way you like it.'

'I don't like this,' said Craig. 'Here, you taste it.' He held out the cup. 'Go on.'

He gestured again, and Branch took the cup and sipped warily. As he did so, Craig stumbled on the carpet and finished up behind him, then his right hand struck at the nerve in Branch's upper arm, paralyzing it, his left clamped on the cup, pushing the lip across Branch's mouth so that his head tilted back and he had to swallow. Had to. The pain was so much. And when the coffee was down it was too late to struggle, and anyway Craig held him in a hammer lock, and even breathing was agony.

'I'm sorry,' said Craig. 'You're just not up to it, son. Four times you left signs you searched the place. And the way you ask questions is far too clumsy. You were wrong about the coffee, too. You shouldn't have drugged me till you knew which key to use.'

He could have said more, but Branch was asleep. Craig waited. Branch had a lot to tell him before he telephoned Loomis.

'I'm sorry to bother you like this,' Joanna Benson said.

'That's perfectly all right,' said Craig. He opened the door and stood aside. 'Come in, won't you?'

Her entrance was pleasing. She wore a ranch mink and a Balmain dress, her diamonds were real, and she handled her height with confidence. Craig led her to the sitting room and she stood, uncertain. She looked beautiful in her uncertainty.

'Please sit down,' he said.

'Oh no. I couldn't possibly. I mean it's very late, isn't it?'

'Nearly one o'clock,' he said. She was doing much better than Branch.

'Oh dear,' said Joanna.

'How can I help you, Miss-?'

'Benson. Joanna Benson. Oh gosh—you do know who I am, don't you?'

'You're my next-door neighbor but one.'

'That's right. We've met in the lift, haven't we?'

'I'm flattered you should have remembered,' said Craig.

'You're very nice,' said Joanna. 'The thing is I've lost my key. I'm locked out. And I wondered if you could help me?'

'Gladly,' said Craig. 'Are you sure you won't sit down?'

This time she did so, and loosened her coat, and her body was there, decked out and jeweled, the merest hint of a promise. Really, thought Craig, she's awfully good.

He went to the telephone.

'What are you doing?' she asked.

'Calling the hall porter. He has spare sets of keys.' He put the phone down. 'No. Wait a minute.' He walked toward her, and her eyes were wary.

'Are you sure you didn't overlook it?'

'Certain,' she said.

'It might be in your bag,' he said. 'Just as well to make sure.'

She took the bag—it was a small thing of crocodile skin, with diamond clasps—and tipped it on to the table beside her. Lipstick, make-up, lighter, cigarettes, change purse, and wallet. No key. And no pockets in the mink. She was very thorough.

'I'll ring for the porter,' he said, and did so.

'You've been awfully kind,' said Joanna. 'I'm sure I'm keeping you up. I did see your light on as I came in, and the people next door to me seem to be asleep.'

Very nicely done. Very nice indeed.

'It's no trouble,' he said.

'I don't want you to think I'm as stupid as this all the time,' said Joanna. 'But at least it means we've got to know each other.'

'But we haven't. Not really. My name is-'