James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

"Suit yourself," he said, and took off his coat and sprawled on the bed. She saw for the first time the supple leather harness of his shoulder holster, the gun butt that looked like an obscene extension of his body. Her eyes misted with tears.

"Not yet," said Craig. "You can cry later. Drink your drink."

"I hate you," she said.

"I know. Drink your drink."

The whisky was strong, and she choked on it, but the tears left her.

"Get your uncle on the phone," he said, "and tell him exactly what I say. Tell him you're with me—and he's not to worry about you if he does as he's told. Then tell him to meet us at the skeet-shooting place—does he know where it is?"

She nodded. "He was at the championship here five years ago," she said.

"Tell him to be there in an hour."

She looked up the Portland Arms in the phone book, and did just as he said. Aunt Ida was at the beauty shop, and that made it easier. Her uncle took a lot of convincing.

"Craig?" he said. "That tough Englishman?" "You're to meet him at the skeet-shoot—in an hour," she said.

"Honey—you know I can't do that."

She said quickly, "Marcus, you've got to. If you don't— I'm all right now. But if you don't—maybe I won't be. I'm not fooling, Marcus."

"He's with you?"

"Yes," she said. "He's with me. Marcus—please do as I say."

Craig took the phone from her.

"That's good advice, Mr. Kaplan," he said.

"If you harm that girl-"

"It'll be because you didn't turn up," said Craig. "Drive carefully."

He hung up. She was looking at him in loathing. "I don't believe it," she said. "The first time I met you— I liked you."

"It doesn't matter," he said. "Get changed." "Here?"

"In the bathroom, if you're shy," he said. "Just do it. And hurry."

When she came back she wore the shirt and jeans. The gun lay on the bed, near her hand, and her eyes went to it at once.

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"Go on," said Craig. "Pick it up. Shoot me." She didn't move. "Go on. Get the gun."

She leaped for it then, and the speed of his reaction was terrifying. He came at her like a diver, and a hard shoulder slammed her into the bed as one hand pinioned her gun hand, the other splayed beneath her chin, thumb and forefinger pressing. She forgot the pain that made her drop the gun, forgot the pain in her breast where his shoulder had caught her, and thought only of the agony the thumb and finger made, crushing nerves, choking out breath.

"Please," she gasped. "Oh, please."

He let her go, and the intake of air was an unavoidable agony to her. He picked up the gun and dropped it near her hand.

"Want to try again?" he said. She shook her head. "Poor Miss Loman," said Craig. "But I had to do it, you know." "Why?" she said. "Why?"

"To show you you can't win. Look at my hands, Miss Loman."

He held them up in front of her, and she saw the hard ridges of skin from fingertip to wrist, and across the knuckles.

"I can break wooden boards with these. With my feet, too. It's called karate. I'm a Seventh Dan black belt. There are only five men outside Japan who can beat me—and they're not in Miami. Miss Loman, we're not taking the gun." He moved his hands closer to her. "Just these."

"You're hell on women," she said.

"And middle-aged furriers. I want you to remember that."

She drove him to the skeet-shoot club, through downtown Miami, past the resort hotels and the restaurants and the pastel-blue Atlantic. Traffic was light, the tourist season was over, and they made good time. Craig sat back easy and relaxed, drinking in the wealth of the place. There was so much of it, and it went on for so long. They left it at last, and got into country-club land, golf-club land, where shaven grass was as obvious a sign of wealth as a Cadillac or a chinchilla coat, and stopped at last before a building of glittering white stone, of the kind

that she had called Hispaniola Baroque that time she had kidded Marcus about it, when he'd shot there five years ago—a glittering white building with pillars and pilasters and mullioned windows, and miniature cannon on its embrasured roof. All it needed, she'd said, was Long John Silver limping down the stairs, a parrot on his shoulder. Marcus had laughed then. He wasn't laughing now.

They left the car to a Negro attendant in white, a scarlet cummerbund round his waist, and walked up the steps toward him, Craig on her right. When they reached him Craig's left arm went round her waist, his right hand held out to Marcus, who hesitated.

"Take it," said Craig, "or I'll hurt her."

His fingers moved, and the girl gasped. At once Marcus's hand came out to him.

"Great to see you again," Marcus said. "How are you?"

"Fine," said Craig, "Everything's fine. So far. Let's get on with the match, shall we?"

They went inside the building then, through a low, cool bar to the gun room, where Kaplan signed for two guns and ammunition, then picked up one gun as Craig took up the other. With the gun in his hands, Kaplan changed at once. The gun was something he knew; it gave him confidence, even courage.

Craig said, "You walk ahead, Miriam. Lead the way while Marcus and I talk."

She did as he bade her at once, without question, and Craig followed, the shotgun under his arm, English style, the muzzle aimed at a point behind her feet, but Marcus knew, capable of tilting to her back in less than a second. He had been warned about shotgun wounds, knew what they could do to her at such close range. His courage receded.

"Guns are useless things," Craig said, "unless we're prepared to shoot. Don't you agree, Mr. Kaplan?" "What do you want me to do, Craig?" "Tell me where your brother is." "I don't know."

They reached the shooting range then, and Miriam waited till they came up, ready to work the treadle that would fire the skeet.

"That's a pity," said Craig. "For you it certainly is."

"For all of us. You see I know you're lying, Mr. Kaplan. And if you go on lying, I'm going to kill Miriam here." "You're crazy," Kaplan said.

Craig said, "I'm desperate, certainly. And I mean it." His hand moved onto the safety catch of the shotgun, the barrel came up. "I'll kill you" said Marcus.

"Maybe," said Craig. "You've never done it before .. . And even if you did, she'd still be dead." Kaplan didn't move.

Craig said, "Mr. Kaplan—if I don't find your brother, I'm dead anyway." His finger moved to the trigger.

"Marcus," said the girl, "he means it. For God's sake tell him."

"Outside Kutsk," Kaplan said. "In Turkey. He sent me a postcard from there eight months ago. That's the first time I heard from Aaron in twenty-five years. I told you that."

The gun barrel dropped.

"You told Miss Benson and Mr. Royce too?"

"Yes," said Kaplan. "A man from the CIA asked me to."

"What else did you tell them?"

"Things," said Kaplan. "Family things. You know. About my father, my uncle—all that. The way things were in Russia. So Aaron would know they came from me."

"Does Miss Loman know these family things?" Kaplan nodded. "Then I won't bother you about them," Craig said.

Kaplan looked up. "You mean you're not going to let her go?"

"How could I?" said Craig. "You'd tell the CIA." He raised the gun again. "Just be quiet and everything will be fine."

Kaplan stood immobile, his hands clenched round the shotgun. The CIA had warned him so carefully: no one but Royce and Miss Benson must be told the things he knew about his brother. To tell anyone else would be to betray his country, and Kaplan loved his country, not because of what it was, but for what it would become. His was a questioning, suspicious, and demanding love, but it was real; real enough for him to die for it. He had seen this, in his daydreams: Major Kaplan, USAAF, in a dogfight with Messerschmitts; Commander Kaplan, USN, steering his tincan to intercept a Jap cruiser. In the reality of his warehouse he had acknowledged the silliness of his daydreams, but not his right to the dreams themselves. Only he had never daydreamed Miriam's death. His hands loosed their grip.