James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

"You might try Miss Loman, sir," she said. It was that easy.

She lived in Greenwich Village, on the ground floor of a house in Grove Street, with a small brick yard where a maple tree somehow survived and even gave shade. When Craig called she had been sunbathing, and had to put on a robe to answer the bell's ring. When she saw who it was, she blushed again.

"I'm sorry," said Craig. "Did I disturb you?"

"No," she said. "I was in the yard. Do you want to come out?"

He followed her, thinking how young she was, how easy her movements, with the ease that comes from knowing, really knowing, that nothing can ever go wrong, nothing can really hurt all that much. There was a chair under the tree, and she waved him to it. She sat on a li-lo that lay in the full glare of the sun. She was still blushing.

Craig said, "What's wrong?"

"It's ridiculous," Miss Loman said. "Every time I see you I'm like this. Maybe you think I don't have any clothes ... I was sunbathing."

"Go ahead and sunbathe," said Craig. She hesitated. "Look, Miss Loman, I can't be a prowler. I'm British."

She giggled then, took off the robe, and lay down. She wore a tiny bikini and her body was sleek with suntan lotion. A small, luscious body that would one day be fat, but that day was yet to come. A woman's body, thought Craig, who had never subscribed to the theory that women were failed men and ought to look like it.

"I've come to ask about your uncle," he said.

Miss Loman pouted. "He's fine," she said. "But he's not my uncle."

"I'm sorry, I'd forgotten that," said Craig. "Just an old family friend, isn't he?"

"That's right."

"Is your father in the millinery business too?"

"My father's dead, Mr. Craig. So's my mother. Marcus brought me up. Supported me." She hesitated. "He's supporting me now. I got bored being a secretary."

"You know where he is?"

She swung round to look at him, her body's movements forgotten. She was wary of him now. "I can't tell you," she said.

"He's in danger," said Craig. "He could be hurt." She got up and backed away. Craig sat on, under the tree.

"Just who are you?" she said.

"You weren't surprised at what I said. You knew it already," said Craig.

"And how did you know I was here?" She hesitated, then—"Adams. You rang up Marcus's firm, didn't you? Called yourself Adams." She took a step backwards, then another. "I want you out of here."

Craig sat on, and she retreated further.

"Marcus knows where his brother is," Craig said. "Maybe you know it too."

The words stopped her.

"His brother's dead," she said. "He died in Volochanka prison."

"He's alive," said Craig. "He escaped from prison—God knows how. The story is he's in Turkey."

She began to move again, and Craig, still slouched in his chair, suddenly had a gun in his hand. It moved up slowly from her waist to a point between her eyes.

"Look at it, Miss Loman," said Craig.

"I'm looking," she said. "You'd never dare-"

"Miss Loman, you don't believe that," said Craig. "Come and sit down."

Slowly, her eyes fixed on the gun's black mouth, she obeyed. Craig still didn't move.

"There's a question you missed," he said. "You should have said, 'Who the hell are you, anyway?'"

"Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"British Intelligence. M-16. Department K," said Craig.

"You'll have to leave here sometime. Ill call the police-"

She stopped. Craig was shaking his head. "Why wouldn't I?"

"All sorts of reasons. If you did that—I'd kill your uncle. Or you. Or both." "But that's crazy."

"Miss Loman, you're up to your neck in a very crazy business. There's another reason. Your uncle wants to see his brother." Her eyes looked into his then, for the first time ignoring the gun. "You know that's true, Miss Loman." She nodded. "I'm the only one who can find him."

"You think you're so good?"

Craig said wearily, "I have to be. If I don't, I'm a dead man myself."

He stood up then, and the gun disappeared in a blur of speed. She looked up into flat gray eyes that told her nothing at all.

"Where's your uncle, Miss Loman?"

"Miami Beach," she said. "The Portland Arms."

"Any skeet shooting there?"

"Yes," she said. "But nobody goes there now."

"We will," said Craig.

He moved then, and took her arm. She could sense the power, carefully controlled, in his hard hands. There was something else too. He was trembling, but her body meant nothing to him. She was sure of it.

"I meant what I told you," he said. "If I don't get Kaplan, I'm dead. And if I die, Miss Loman, I'm going to have company." He paused. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I'll have to watch you dress."

To her amazement, she realized the apology was genuine.

CHAPTER 6

He wouldn't let her pack. She wore the new dress Marcus had bought for her birthday—a drip-dry thing in glittering yellow, and her handbag was big enough to contain a spare pair of stockings, bra, and pants. He let her take them, but that was all, then they walked together down the street, the pretty girl and the attentive beau who was taking her out to lunch.

"Nothing's more conspicuous than a suitcase," he said. "Even if your neighbors aren't nosy."

They took a cab to the air terminal and a bus to Kennedy. He paid for everything in cash, and seemed to have plenty. All the way he was polite and attentive, and she realized that in other circumstances this man would have been attractive to her, tremendously attractive, in spite of the threat of cruelty behind the politeness. Perhaps even because of it. But he was unaware of her as a woman, she knew, and the thought irked her, even then.

Only once did she almost panic and try to get away. They were in the departure lounge, waiting for their flight call, and a cop walked by, the kind of cop you needed in a situation like this. A big one, big and mean, not the kind who helps old ladies across streets. She stirred in her seat, ready to run, to scream maybe, but Craig was as fast and as sensitive as a cat. His left hand reached out and touched her arm, and pain scalded through her. He let it go, and she saw that his right hand was inside his coat.

"No," he said. "Not yet." She sat very still. "I had to do that to your uncle once," he said. "You're a hard family to convince."

Then the flight call came, and they went out to the 727 and he was polite and attentive all over again as he sat by her side. It should have felt like a nightmare, she thought, but it wasn't. She knew that everything he had told her was true, and she was very frightened. For the first time in her twenty-three years of life, death was real to her. She did exactly what he told her, and the smiling, polite man watched her as intently as ever. When they touched down at Miami he bought her a meal, then took her to the car-rental firm that tries harder, and watched as she hired a Chevrolet coupe with the money he had given her. She drove, and he made her pull up on the road into town, slipped something into her hand. "Here," he said. "Put it on."

It was a wedding ring. Slowly, hating him, she put it on her finger.

"Don't be sentimental," Craig said. "That's a luxury, believe me—and we can't afford luxuries. You're alive, Miss Loman. Be thankful."

She drove on, and he made her pull up at a supermarket. They went inside and he bought whisky, sandals, a shirt and jeans for her, and for himself, toothbrushes and a zippered traveling bag. They went to a motel then, and he booked them in for the night, saying little and sounding, when he did speak, like a New Yorker. The woman at reception hardly looked at him, at her not at all. The unending soap opera on the transistor radio had all her attention. Craig thanked her even so, and they drove past the dusty palms, the minute swimming pool to cabin seven. She switched on the air conditioning at once as Craig carried in the bag. The plastic-and-vinyl room was as glittering and unreal as a television ad, but the chairs were comfortable and the twin beds still had springs. Craig opened the bag, took out the whisky, and mixed two drinks, offered one to her. She shook her head.