The Money That Money Can't Buy c-3 Page 6

  "The show's over," said Harry. "If you want to stay on it'll cost you another twenty-five bob."

  "When's the next show?" Craig asked.

  "Half an hour," said Harry, and added, "sir."

  "I was wondering if those three young ladies would take a drink with me," Craig said.

  "They'd take a barrel with you," said Harry, "so long as you're paying."

  "Go and ask them," said Craig. Harry went to the bar, and walked toward the stage. "And Harry—" the barman turned around. "Do it nicely," said Craig.

  Harry must have done it nicely, because the three girls came back in no time at all. All three had changed into loose-fitting dressing gownsthat from time to time slid disconcertingly over the nude flesh beneath, and all three had mink coats slung over their shoulders as casually as fighting troops wearing field equipment. They came up, smiled at Craig, and sat beside him, white legs flashing as they moved. Tempest had belted her gown tightly beneath her bosom: the twin points of her breasts pointed at him like guns. Craig ordered champagne.

  "A bottle?" asked Harry.

  "For four? Make it a magnum," said Craig.

  Maxine said: "I think he's sweet. Don't you?"

  "He's lovely," said Karen, and wriggled into her chair. The movement was a comprehensive one that kept her in motion from shoulders to rump. Craig began to sweat.

  Tempest said: "I bet he's ever so strong." Her hand ran up his arm to his biceps, squeezed the hard muscle. "O-o-o he is," she said.

  "What's your name, honey?" asked Maxine.

  "John Reynolds," said Craig.

  "And what do you do?" asked Tempest.

  "Oh—business," said Craig, and the girls left it at that. And anyway the champagne came, and there wasn't much time, so they drank it in half-pint mugs. Craig stuck to Scotch, and then they had to go.

  "Last show's at twelve," said Tempest. "I'm free after that." "Me, too," said Maxine. "And me," said Karen.

  They stood up then, and rearranged their minks. It was a better show than the one Craig had paid for. He sat back and enjoyed their exit, the slow tick-tock of their buttocks as their long legs moved, then called for his bill as new customers drifted in. Harry brought it at once, and Craig added it carefully. Harry had got it right.

  Craig reached for his wallet, pulled out a five-pound note and put it back again, then took out a twenty-dollar bill.

  "Change that for me," he said.

  Harry looked at it with the horror he normally reserved for spiders, draught beer, and the amorous advances of women.

  "It's a twenty-dollar bill," said Craig. "Don't tell me you don't take American money. That's not what I heard."

  "What did you hear, sir?" asked Harry.

  "You'll take anything," said Craig. "Including rubles."

  "Just a moment, sir," said Harry.

  He left the bar, taking the note with him, and was back almost at once.

  "Mr. Brodski would like a word with you," he said. "His office is just next to the auditorium."

  "Who's Brodski?" asked Craig. "The feller who makes your whisky?"

  Harry looked shocked.

  "He's the proprietor, sir," he said.

  "I don't want to see him," said Craig. "Give me my bill back. I'll pay in pounds."

  "Mr. Brodski's got it," said Harry.

  Craig leaned over the bar, and the new customers listened avidly. Craig looked a little drunk, but he also looked very dangerous.

  "I'm going off you, Harry," he said. "You shouldn't give my money away. Now I'm going to see Brodski—and if he isn't nice to me I'm going to come back here and thread you through your earring."

  He walked out of the bar and into the auditorium. He knew that every man in the place was watching him, and that was what he wanted: the threat of a scene, a violent scene, in a place where even the tiniest tantrum was bad for business. He reached the door, and hesitated for a moment. Something was wrong. There was somebody in the audience he had seen before. But there was no time to look back now. He walked on into the corridor. Mr. Brodski was waiting for him, his office door open. And Mr. Brodski also looked as if the last thing he wanted was a scene.

  "Please come in, Mr.—"

  "Reynolds," said Craig. "John Reynolds."

  "How do you do? It's nice of you to spare me some of your time."

  Brodski's voice was soft, low-pitched, with very little accent. He held the door open invitingly, and stood to one side. Craig went up to him, and his arm came round the Pole's shoulders.

  "That's all right, old friend," he said. "I feel like a chat anyway."

  His arm pushed suddenly, and Brodski lurched forward. They went into the room together.

  Inside the room the fat woman stood. What Craig had thought to be a black dress turned out to be a smock. Beneath it she wore the most enormous pair of trousers Craig had ever seen. She was standing feet apart, her hands by her sides.

  "I see you've called in your financial adviser," said Craig. It was quite incredible and all that, but the woman was standing like a fighter. He released Brodski, and stood just out of range of her short, thick arms. At once Brodski walked over behind his desk and picked up the twenty-dollar bill.

  "I can't accept this," he said.

  "Why not? It's a good one," said Craig.

  "Is it?" Brodski asked. "I am not a naive person, Mr. Reynolds. Look here, for instance, and here."

  It was very nicely done. Brodski held up the bill, and pointed to it, then held it out to Craig. If he had reached for it, the woman would have got him. Instead, he merely looked, and for a split second only. In that split second she aimed a blow at his face, an old-fashioned roundhouse swing that was meant for his chin. He ducked, and a fist like a ball of rock cracked into his shoulder where Calvet had hit him. Craig gasped, then flung himself sideways to avoid a kick from a steel-tipped shoe. She moved into him then, and he backed off. He was giving away weight and she had bigger shoulders, but she was a woman.

  "Now look, lady," he began. He had never felt more foolish.

  She aimed another blow, and he warded it off with the edge of his hand on her forearm. At once she grabbed his wrist and threw him—a perfect hip throw that was supposed to send him crashing into the wall. But Craig had learned how to fall from Hakagawa, a black-belt seventh dan. He floated to the ground like a leaf, and waited for the kick to the groin that was bound to follow. When it came, he pushed up on his forearms, hooked her foot between his and threw his weight to one side. She went down like the Titanic. Craig got up, brushed dust from his coat, and waited. The woman came up slowly, gasping, then shuffled forward once more.

  "Please, love," said Craig, trying to keep the hysteria out of his voice. "Please, love, don't make me do it."

  She feinted with a left, then her right moved across his ribs in a blur of pain. Craig gasped, and ·;ae drew back her left again. As she did so, he aimed for her solar plexus in a three-finger strike.

  The blow sank into her vast stomach, and her eyes went glassy. Her squat, massive weight was still evenly planted on her steel-shod feet, but there wasn't any more fight in her. Craig pushed her into a chair and she sat there unblinking. When he turned around, Brodski had produced a revolver from the drawer in his desk. It was a Webley 455, the type used by army officers in World War II. It was wildly inaccurate but it could blow holes in brick walls. Brodski handled it with a confidence that made Craig more wary than ever. He straightened up behind the chair.

  "Oh no," he said. "Not the gun bit."

  "I know how to use it," said Brodski.

  "I can see that," said Craig. "On the other hand, are you prepared to?"

  "Yes," said Brodski.

  "For a twenty-dollar bill?"

  The woman in the chair moaned.

  "You hurt her," Brodski said.

  "She didn't leave me much choice," said Craig. "And you shouldn't employ a lady bouncer."

  "Jennifer's very good," said Brodski.

  "Who?"

  "You find the
name incongruous? I did also, at one time. I thought Butch perhaps, or Spike, or even Rocky. But she insists on Jennifer. Men go out more easily when it is a woman who throws them. Particularly this woman." He nodded at Jennifer, now blowing like a beached porpoise.

  "Put the gun down. We can talk," said Craig.

  "Can we? I'm not nearly as strong as Jennifer. And look what you did to her—with three fingers."

  "She shouldn't eat so much starch," said Craig.

  "Give me my money back."

  "No," said Brodski. "When Jennifer has recovered you must learn a lesson, Reynolds. People don't come into my place and pass forged money."

  Jennifer groaned again, and began to rub her stomach; her hard, stubby fingers for once solicitous and tender.

  "She will hold you," said Brodski, "and I will beat you. With this." He waved the Webley, very slightly.

  "That bill isn't snide," said Craig.

  "You are the second one. Did Driver send you?" Brodski asked.

  "I don't know any Driver. That's good money," said Craig.

  Brodski stood up.

  "Ready, Jennifer?" he asked.

  Craig said quickly: "You better be, love. Because I'm not taking a gun-whipping. Not even to oblige a lady." Jennifer groaned for the third time and sat where she was. "Maybe you'd better shoot me," said Craig.

  Brodski said something emphatic in what Craig took to be Polish, and sat looking puzzled. He didn't seem the sort of man who looked puzzled often. He resented it. At last he put the revolver back into the drawer.

  "I run a quiet place," he said. "None of the girls on the batter, no hustling drinks, no reefers, no brasses, nothing." In his soft, slightly accented voice the vocabulary of Soho was as strange as Jennifer. "Just women with no clothes on."

  "The show's lousy," said Craig.

  "Oh, I agree," said Brodski. "But you are the one customer in ten thousand who notices this. And I take 62 £ lOs.od. five times a day, six days a week. The amount of profit I show is almost embarrassing. What do I need with crime? The keynote of my place is discretion, Mr. Reynolds. A discreet promise of bliss, without the tiresome athletics of fulfillment. And then Driver came in. He ordered champagne for Karen, Tempest, and Max-ine. He himself drank whisky. He paid his bill with a forged American note. A week later you come in. You order champagne for Karen, Tempest, and Maxine. You drink whisky. You pay with a forged American note."

  "Have it tested," said Craig, "or give it back."

  Brodski ignored him.

  "I would have taken the loss," he said. "But a policeman was here when it happened. You would be surprised, Mr. Reynolds, how often policemen find it necessary to check up on the morality of my little entertainments."

  "What you want to avoid is theater critics," said Craig.

  "I had to go to New Scotland Yard," said Brodski. "I had to fail to identify Driver. And now you come along and start it all again."

  "Who is this Driver?" Craig asked.

  Brodski sighed. "A man not unlike yourself who plays cards at Luigi's."

  "You mean he can lick Jennifer?"

  "I mean he dresses well, as you do, but without the distinction you do. And I suspect his honesty, as I do yours."

  "Will he be at Luigi's now?"

  "Why?" Brodski asked.

  "I'd like to meet him," said Craig. "I mean it's an enormous coincidence—"

  "He will be at Luigi's," Brodski said. "Please go away now, Mr. Reynolds."

  "All right," said Craig. "I enjoyed the chat. Mind if I give you some advice?"

  "Even with a Webley in my hand, I doubt, if I could stop you," said Brodski.

  "You ought to put your heavy on a diet."

  Jennifer burst into tears.

  Craig left then, and walked down the corridor and past the barker.

  "Enjoy the show, sir?" he asked.

  "I've never seen anything like it in my life," said Craig, and meant every word.

  He walked down toward Greek Street and a burly young man who was waiting at the corner.

  "Hallo, Mr. Craig," said Arthur Hornsey. "I was hoping I'd run into you again. Lucky I spotted you at the show."

  Craig said: "Nein, danke," and kept on walking. He had no time to waste on enthusiastic young men who enjoyed walking trips. It was time to call on another Arthur: Fat Arthur.

  6

  He went into the cafe and down the stairs. The downstairs tables were all unoccupied, the one aged waitress behind the counter knitted a sock with concentrated venom, as if it were a victim. Craig thought of Madame Defarge and opened the door to the private room. The old crone made no attempt to stop him. The room was empty. In the middle of it was a table, scarred with cigarette burns, stained with a chain mail of overfilled glasses; above it a trio of 150-watt lamps threw light on to it. It was hot in the room, and it smelled of whisky and cigarettes and excited men. But now it was empty. There were cards on the table; two poker hands—a royal flush and a full house, aces and eights. Beside them were fifty pounds in notes and silver.

  The room was windowless, and very still. The blaring Soho noise—wide boys in search of money, mugs too late aware of its loss—had faded to a hungry whimper. Craig moved to a cupboard in front of him. It was shut with a swivel bolt from outside, but he moved warily, his fingers feather-soft as he turned the swivel, then dived to one side

  as the door swung open. Inside the cupboard, hanging neatly by his collar from a coat hook, was Driver. He had the dazed, innocent look of an insurance clerk playing Find the Lady. Even without the switchblade protruding from his heart it was apparent that he was dead. Craig reached inside his pocket, and Driver swung dully from the coat hook, his heels rapped softly on the back of the cupboard as Craig removed his wallet. There were ten ten-pound notes in it, but no twenty-dollar bills. Craig reached forward to return the wallet, and the heels drummed again as a voice behind him spoke.

  "That Driver," said the voice. "He never could stand losing money. I suppose that's why you killed him. Or did he find out you were cheating?"

  Craig turned, very slowly, his hands by his sides. In the doorway were Fat Arthur and, behind him, for the doorway was narrow, two other poker players. In his right hand Arthur carried a piece of lead pipe bound with insulating tape. Craig couldn't see the hands of the others.

  "It's up to us to make a citizens' arrest," Arthur said. "What you've done is a felony. We're bound by law to take you in." He smiled, and the smile was a blend of joy and wonder, as if he'd backed three long-shot winners, then found a gold watch. "You only get one chance like that," said Fat Arthur, and slapped his palm with the lead pipe.

  "I didn't kill him," said Craig.

  "After we get through with you you won't care what you did," Fat Arthur said. "We ain't women and there's three of us—and we're going to hurt you, boy. Hurt you bad."

  As he spoke, he sidled into the room. All his experience told him that Craig should cower now, but Craig stood his ground. Fat Arthur tapped his palm again with the pipe, and it made a noise like bone breaking, then he stepped forward again as his two followers filled the doorway. And it was at that moment that Craig jumped him, erupting into him with a kick that swung all the way from his thigh so that the edge of his shoe sank into the fat man's belly, slamming him back into the two men in the doorway, and still Craig came in at him, to grab one meaty forearm and swing him round. The whole weight of Craig's body went into it, but even so it was like throwing a horse as Arthur spun round the pivot of Craig's body, then screamed as Craig threw his weight the other way, and the fat man's arm broke, the lead pipe fell, and Craig let him drop. He moved toward the other two, and one lashed at Craig with a razor that split his vicuna coat from shoulder to forearm, then spun into the other man as Craig's elbow smashed into his throat. And the other man, off-balance, looked at the murder in Craig's eyes, and dropped the cosh he was carrying. There was a sound from the stairs, and Craig spun the cosh man round, holding him before him as a shield as Hornsey stepped carefully down th
e stairs. He looked at the razor man writhing on the floor, both hands clasped to his throat, and at Fat Arthur flat on his back in the doorway, looking like a mountain range.

  "Is everything all right?" asked Hornsey, and behind him appeared the official feet and the elderly raincoat of Detective Sergeant Millington.

  "Everything," said Craig, "is fine."

  "We heard a noise," reported Hornsey. "This chap and I were upstairs; then there was a sound rather like a building collapsing—"

  "That would be Fat Arthur," said Craig.

  "Then everybody left, except this chap and myself. You're all right?"

  He and Millington walked toward Craig, and the man Craig held accepted Millington's handcuffs with relief.

  "They were trying to frame me," Craig said. "There's a dead man in there."

  Millington looked, and went at once to the telephone.

  "They've cut your coat," said Hornsey. "What a terrible thing."

  Craig looked down at the long, straight cut, then at the razor man, now kneeling on the floor. He pulled the razor man to his feet; the man yelled at what the agony of movement did to his throat, but no sound came.

  "Get your voice back," said Craig. "I want you to tell me things." He turned to the man who had held the cosh. "I want you all to tell me things," he said, then added to Hornsey: "I liked this coat."

  "It's awfully you," Hornsey said.

  Millington put down the phone. "Murder squad's on its way." he said. "I'm sorry. I had to."

  Craig nodded. "Our chaps will want a look, too," he said.

  "That's fixed," said Millington.

  "I'll be off then," said Craig. He looked at his split sleeve. "I'd better buy a raincoat I suppose."

  He left then, and a face appeared above the counter. It was an old and evil face, with hair like moldy straw topped with a waitress's lacy cap. "I haven't seen one like him since they topped Big Harry Preston back in 1927," the waitress said. "I never thought I would. Gorgeous, isn't he, Mr. Millington?"

  "You're a witness," Millington said.

  "Of course I am. I want to be," said the waitress,