The Innocent Bystanders c-4 Page 21
"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."
He left then, and Joanna snorted with laughter. This time Craig didn't join in.
"Darling," she said. "Wasn't he funny?" "Hilarious," said Craig. "But he had to break his heart to do it."
Next morning, Craig went through what he intended to be a ritual for the rest of his life. After bathing, shaving, and ordering breakfast, he looked first at his bank statement, then at the letter Loomis had signed. The bank statement was fine; the letter was a blank page. Craig held it to the light, ran a finger over its surface. It was a blank paper and nothing more. He went into the bedroom and woke Joanna, held the paper out in front of her.
"You knew, didn't you?" he asked.
She shrugged. There was no sense in denial.
"Yes, darling. That's why we made you wait a day. Loomis didn't need authority. He needed the ink. It had to be flown out from London."
"The bastard," said Craig. "The great, fat, cunning bastard."
"You've still got two hundred and thirty-nine thousand dollars," she said, then. "He gave me a message for you." "Well?"
"We can travel back together if we want to. Economy. If we go back first we pay the difference."
Craig took off his coat, began to loosen his tie.
"What on earth are you doing?" she asked.
"I've got two days of freedom," said Craig. "I'm going to enjoy them."
"But you said you'd show me New York."
"You can begin with this ceiling," said Craig.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Munro was born in 1926 in the north of England. Since his graduation from Oxford, he has worked in a shipyard, in the Civil Service, as a travel courier and as a teacher. He is the author of The Man Who Sold Death, Die Rich Die Happy, and The Money That Money Can't Buy, as well as other novels, short stories, and television plays. He has two children and lives with his wife in London.
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