The Innocent Bystanders c-4 Read online

  The run-in was slow and easy, the way Craig liked it, the wheels settled gingerly on the tarmac like a fat man in a hot bath. Craig remained seated and refrained from smoking as the signs and hostess told him to do, then queued, briefcase in hand, to be smiled at, wished a pleasant stay, and walk into the humid, infrequent sunshine of Kennedy Airport, the quick-fire politeness of immigration and the ultimate, grudging acceptance of the world's worst customs officers that he was not carrying heroin, marijuana, or fresh fruit. He joined another queue then, for the helicopter, and the lazy, clattering journey through the concrete canyons of Manhattan, to look down at the cars like beetles, the human beings like ants, except that these ants, these beetles, scurried only in the predestined straight lines that the avenues and streets laid down for them. The helicopter waltzed slowly down the sky and Craig marveled at the great ranks of skyscrapers, tall, thin giants that were sometimes elegant, sometimes ugly, sometimes—so quickly you grow blase in New York—just dull. Then the clattering died and he was on the roof of the Pan Am Building, and down or up New York was all around him as far as the Hudson River, and only the sky was closed to the scurrying ants below.

  He took a cab to his hotel, an ant himself now, alive and scurrying inside a beetle. The taxi driver talked about the humidity, only fifty but still climbing, and what the figure would have to be before the race riots started. Seventy? Seventy-five? Eighty? Meterology and social science welded together to form an irrefragable law.

  "What this city needs," said the taxi driver, "is one hundred percent air conditioning. Just one big unit all the way to Queens. Then we might have some peace in the summer."

  Craig, sweating in the back seat, agreed with him. They had found him a hotel in the East Forties, and it was the kind he liked; old, with a lot of leather, and pictures on the walls that related to people who had actually lived, actually achieved something in the hotel. There was a man waiting for him too, a single-unit committee of welcome, A. J. Scott-Saunders of the British Embassy. A. J. Scott-Saunders was lean and exquisite, his tie was Old Harrovian and his manner distant, which impressed the desk clerk and overawed the bellboy who took Craig's bags to the elevator, opened the door of his suite, and demonstrated lights, taps, and air conditioning like a saint performing all his miracles at once. Craig handed over money, and A. J. Scott-Saunders sighed.

  "I'd like some ice," said Craig, "soda water, and ginger ale." The bellboy went, and until he returned Craig kept up an uninterrupted flow of conversation about his trip, the food, the movie, and as he talked searched the suite for the kind of bugs unobtrusive enough to be smuggled into an exclusive hotel in the East Forties. There weren't any. When the bellboy returned he handed over more money and poured drinks from his duty-free bottle.

  "You do yourself well," said Scott-Saunders.

  "When you're in the advertising game you have to," said Craig.

  Scott-Saunders looked disgusted and opened his briefcase.

  "I have here fifty thousand dollars emergency money," he said. "The money is to be used at your discretion." The thought obviously caused him pain, and the pain intensified as Craig counted it.

  "All there," said Craig, and waited. Scott-Saunders sipped Scotch and water.

  "Have you got anything else for me?"

  "Isn't that enough?"

  "I didn't mean money," said Craig.

  Scott-Saunders looked surprised, his best yet.

  "What else could I bring you?" he asked.

  "Equipment," said Craig. "You know. Machinery."

  "I'm very much afraid I don't know," Scott-Saunders said. "Money was all I was told to bring. Money—and two requests: one, spend no more of those dollars than you have to; two, keep away from the British Embassy. I trust I make myself clear?"

  "Transparent," said Craig, and Scott-Saunders flushed, finished his drink, and made for the door. Somehow Craig was in his way, which was strange. Scott-Saunders could swear that he had scarcely moved.

  "I've done this sort of thing before," Craig said. "Have you?"

  "Never," Scott-Saunders said.

  "You have a regular man for this job?"

  "We do," Scott-Saunders said. "He was busy today."

  Craig let him go. The regular man was busy, so they'd sent him an idiot with the right accent who knew nothing about equipment or machinery. That meant no gun. Loomis had always been very anti-guns in the presence of allies, but this was carrying a prejudice too far. Admittedly a gun was no good unless you were prepared to use it, but then he, Craig, was prepared, and Loomis knew it. It would seem, Craig thought, that the fat man doesn't trust me any more.

  He called Laurie S. Fisher and got no answer, then tried Victor Kaplan. A voice like that of a method actor playing Bertie Wooster told him that Mr. Kaplan never returned to his apartment before seven. Craig showered and changed, and there were still three hours to kill before Kaplan got home. He sealed the fifty thousand dollars in its manilla envelope, took it down to the desk, deposited it, asked how to get to Brooklyn, and discovered for himself the blood-and-iron realities of New York's subway system. Even the damp heat of Brooklyn was preferable to it, but nevertheless he walked slowly, cautious not to sweat too much, to the old brownstone house with the wide stoop, and grudged the effort needed to try to push his way past the throng of men sheltering on it.

  They were all large men, large enough to make Craig's six feet and hundred and ninety pounds look skimpy. It took Craig some time to realize that, like him, they were waiting to get in. In England they would have formed a queue. At last one of them, who wore a single gold loop earring and hair dyed pink, put a hand on his chest.

  "They're not hiring light heavies today," he said.

  Craig looked around him. On all sides, giants towered. It was like being lost in a primeval forest.

  "I came to see Thaddeus Cooke," he said. "I think he's expecting me."

  At once the giants opened up and let him through, then resumed their restless milling. Craig wandered down a corridor lined with open doors. In each room that he passed, giants were wrestling—in pairs, in tag teams, in groups—and with each set of wrestlers was a smaller man screaming directions: part referee, part choreographer. Craig walked on till he came to a door on which the name "Thaddeus Cooke" was painted, and below, in the same neat lettering: "Keep Out. This Means You." He went inside.

  The man behind the desk was sleeping peacefully, feet up, thumbs hooked into his belt. He was tall, slender, and apparently ageless: his hair, close-cropped and bristling, could have been pale gold, could have been white, the lines on his dark skin the result of weather or of age. He slept soundlessly, but woke almost at once as Craig walked into the room. Very blue eyes looked into Craig's, but the man didn't move; only there was a wariness, even in his relaxation, that told Craig at once: This one is good.

  "Got a good business," the man said suddenly. "Wrestlers. I train 'em. Book 'em. Promote 'em. Branch out on the coast. Same deal. Only there we do stuntmen and fight arrangements too. Doin' well. TV helped. You know what I grossed last year?"

  "No," said Craig.

  "Hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It's not Standard Oil—but it's enough. For me anyway. I've got a hobby— now I can afford it. Know what it is?"

  "No," said Craig.

  "Sleepin'. That's why I put that notice on the door. Maybe you can't read?" Craig said, "I can read."

  The man sighed and put his feet down, stood up. He wore a rumpled silk-tussore suit from Saks that must have cost three hundred dollars; his dirty unpolished shoes were hand sewn, English imported. The tie twisted almost to one ear was one Craig recognized as that restricted to former pupils of Eton College.

  "I better throw you out," he said. "It'll hurt you, son, but we all have to learn sometime."

  He moved forward slowly, easily, and for a moment Craig decided to let him do it—or try to. It would be the best practice he could buy. But it would also be noisy, and very noticeable. He backed off.

  "Shinju Haka
gawa sent me, Mr. Cooke," he said.

  The easy movement stopped, and Cooke became once more a tired and happy tycoon.

  "You're Craig?" he said. Craig nodded. Cooke's eyes moved over him warily. "John Craig. He says you're maybe going to beat him one of these days . .. You know, I always thought I was the one who'd do that. Come into the gym."

  Craig moved back to the door, but the other man shook his head.

  "No," said Cooke. "Not in public, son. One of us is going to find this embarrassing."

  Cooke's gym was a small, square room, its one article of furniture a dojo mat. Craig and Cooke changed and faced each other across it, bowing in the ritual way as Craig noticed the strength in the other's slimness. He was pared down to undiluted power, and with it, a dancer's speed and precision. Craig moved warily forward, and as he did so, Cooke leaped at once into the air, aiming a snap kick that would have ended the fight then and there if it had landed. But Craig dived beneath it and whirled round, ready, as Cooke landed and aimed a fist strike at his belly. Craig grabbed his wrist and threw him, and Cooke landed in a perfect break-fall, rolling over to avoid the kick of Craig's followup, his grab for Craig's foot just missing as Craig pirouetted away. Time and again they attacked each other and ran into a countermove that just, and only just, prevented success. They fought, each of them, in silence and speed, and with all their skill, and they fought a draw. After twenty minutes Cooke signaled a halt.

  "You're not ready for Shinju—not yet," he said. "But one day you're going to be—if you go on improving."

  Craig said nothing; his exhaustion was total.

  "Bet I know what you're thinking," said Cooke. Craig looked up. "If I'd gone on for another two minutes I'd have licked you. That what you were thinking?"

  "Yes," said Craig, "I was."

  "Know why I didn't? ... Because I couldn't, son. You're the best I ever saw. What kind of business you in?" "Advertising," said Craig.

  Cooke stared at him. "Figured you were," he said. "Did you?" said Craig.

  "Sure. You talk so damn much—what other business could you be in? Tell you something else." Craig waited. "If you ever decided you didn't like me—you'd kill me. D'you hate much?"

  "Not often," said Craig.

  "Come in when you like, son. Any time. I ain't saying I'll teach you much, but I ain't too proud to learn."

  He walked with Craig back through the gym and paused near a mountainous Negro who appeared to be disemboweling a fat Greek with his bare hands. The Greek's yells were piteous to hear. Suddenly the Greek brought up his knee, and the Negro hit the canvas like a house collapsing.

  "Constantine," said Cooke severely, "that wasn't nice. You want me to take Blossom's place?"

  The Greek broke at once into a babble of broken English, all of it apologetic.

  "You just watch it, that's all," said Cooke. "You too, Blossom."

  The Negro twitched in response, and Cooke walked on. "Sometimes they mean it," said Cooke. "I can't let 'em fight if they mean it." "Why not?" asked Craig.

  "Why," Cooke said. "They're valuable, son. Can't let 'em go damaging each other. They cost too much money."

  At five thirty Craig reached the Graydon Arms. It was an apartment building, neat, unobtrusive, and wealthy, its air conditioning Arctic, or at least Siberian, Craig thought, at the sweat congealed on his body. Kaplan's Siberia had not been so elegant: maplewood desk with ivory telephones, a desk clerk out of a Frank Capra movie, dark-blue carpet, pale-blue walls. In front of Craig three matrons and what appeared to be two lifeguards with clothes on—so bronzed they were, so golden their glinting hair—talked of vodka martinis as they walked to the lift. Craig told himself he was disguised as a lifeguard, and followed, and the desk clerk looked on and sighed, but made no move to stop him. Perhaps, thought Craig, he wants a vodka martini too—or a matron.

  The lift whispered its way to the ninth floor, and by the time they arrived Craig found that vodka martinis and matrons alike were at his disposal, but he stayed on, and went up to the penthouse, and Laurie S. Fisher.

  The door to the penthouse was of mahogany and polished till it glowed. A splendid door, a door belonging to a Georgian house; craftsmanship and artistry nicely blended. It made Craig feel good, even patriotic—just to look at it. Except that it was very slightly ajar. Laurie S. Fisher of the Graydon Arms was a wealthy man. He had to be, if he owned the penthouse—and wealthy men in New York don't leave their doors ajar, not even slightly ajar. Craig examined the door and the gap between slowly, with extreme care. No wires, no bugs. Just a door that should not have been open. He pushed it gently, using his knuckles, and it swung wide. Craig took a deep breath and jumped inside, swinging in the air as he moved, hands clawing for whoever hid behind it. There was no one. He pushed the door shut and looked around the apartment. An empty hall, an empty drawing room, an empty dining room, all furnished with a deliberate, conscious good taste, a neat blend of modern and Georgian pieces that had cost Laurie S. Fisher a great deal of money. Craig moved on to an empty bedroom. Its occupant was a devotee of science fiction, stock-car racing, and bull fighting. About seventeen, Craig thought, with a preference for English clothes 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.