James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

"He's paid for some of them," said Craig. "He'll go on paying. Even more than he owes."

"How?"

"The United States wants his knowledge—to help underdeveloped countries. They'll protect him, give him asylum, and in return he'll work on desert-reclamation problems."

"What's wrong with that?"

"The first place they'll send him to is Israel."

"Israel?"

"Can you imagine the propaganda the Russians will make out of that? The things they'll say about him? What he did to the friends who trusted him?"

"Israel won't accept him," Miriam said.

"Israel must," said Craig. "They need the water. But he'll never be one of them, love. He's alone now till he dies. You should pity him."

"He deserves it," the girl said. "He deserves much more. Even a Jew couldn't pity him, after what he'd done."

Craig leaned back in his seat. Maybe the best thing was silence, after all.

He'd hoped for a glimpse of Marcus Kaplan when they reached Kennedy, but instead they were whisked into a VIP lounge and a smart matronly person like a successful beautician took Miriam away as soon as they'd said goodbye. Three men waited for Kaplan. Two of them were Lederer and the lock expert, the third a scientist whom Kaplan recognized at once. The scientist began asking questions, and Kaplan's replies at first were hesitant, dredged up deep from the well of memory.

"It's been so long," he said.

"Wait till we get to Utah," the scientist said. "We have everything set up there under test conditions. You'll soon catch up."

He went on talking, and as they watched, Kaplan came to life.

"How's Harry?" Joanna asked.

"Mending," said Lederer. "But you've really shaken his faith in Western woman. If he doesn't watch it, he'll wind up a fag."

A chauffeur and two more men appeared, and Lederer tapped Kaplan on the shoulder. He started, and for a moment the fear returned, then he relaxed. He was important now, with a bodyguard of his own. Gravely he waited as the big men surrounded him, walked him to the door. Craig wondered if he'd lied to Miriam after all: if the Kaplans of the world ever paid back a cent.

He and Joanna were alone now, except for a short, stumpy figure who had waited for them patiently. Now he came forward: a chubby, benign man wearing hexagonal rimless glasses.

"Hi there," he said.

"Hi," said Craig. "How's the pentathol business?"

"That's what I came to see you about," said the benign man. "Oh, say. My name's Mankowitz. Excuse me, sugar." He walked Craig away from Joanna. "I came to ask if we could run some more tests on you."

"Who's we?"

"Force Three. You know that," Mankowitz said. "Mind you, last time you thought I was KGB. That helped. They really scare you, don't they? Come and see me. If you pass, there's a chance we could use you."

"Mr. Mankowitz, do you know how old I am?" asked Craig.

"Know everything about you. We really could use you, feller. If the tests work out. Tell you the truth, I could stand to know what happened to you during the last ten days. Last time I saw you, you were finished."

"I still am," said Craig. "Sorry."

"Suit yourself," Mankowitz said. "You ever change your mind, I'm in the book. First name Joel. Psychologist, 419 East 59th Street. That's in Manhattan."

"Isn't everything?"

"Cynicism suits your age group," Mankowitz said. "Work at it. And don't forget my address." He clapped Craig on the shoulder and was gone.

Because he was rich Craig took a taxi to the hotel in the West Forties. He and Joanna had suites booked already, and letters awaited them both. Craig's was a statement from the First National Bank that two hundred and thirty-nine thousand dollars were at his disposal and they awaited his instructions. His very truly. Joanna's was a brisk but cordial request from Loomis to get back assoon as she could. She handed it to Craig.

"How long have I got?" she asked.

"He'll usually hang on for two days. After that, he gets mad."

"That isn't what I meant," she said.

"I know it wasn't. Look, I've got to go out for awhile."

"Must you?"

"Yes," said Craig. "Just to make sure this money's okay. Wait for me, will you?"

"I'm glad you said that, John." She began to loosen her coat. "It sounded as if you really wanted me to."

As he went down in the elevator, Craig thought It might be the last time he'd ever see her.

He came back two hours later with the beginning of ablack eye and two inches of skin missing from his left elbow.

"Darling, what on earth did you do at the bank? Rob it?" she asked.

"The bank? No. The money's fine. I just beat hell out aman called Thaddeus Cooke," said Craig.

She was still shaking with laughter as they began to make love. Later they rose, dressed, drank in the murky twilight of the cocktail bar, ate at the Four Seasons. They were asleep when the knocking began, but she, like Craig, was awake at once. Quickly they put on dressing gowns, and Craig slipped the .38 into the pocket of his as she reached for her handbag.

"What is it?" asked Craig.

"Telegram for Mr. Craig."

Craig moved into the lounge, unlatched the door.

"Bring it in," he said. "The door's not locked."

He moved into the space behind the door. Suddenly it flew open, and Marcus Kaplan came into the room. In his hands was a skeet gun. He seemed almost crazy with rage, but the hands on the gun were steady. If I give him half achance he'll blast me, Craig thought. The only sane thing to do is put a bullet in him now. But he couldn't. It was impossible. The realization flicked through his. mind as Marcus started to turn. Craig tossed his life up in the air like a coin, and took a long stride toward him, put the muzzle of the gun on Kaplan's neck. "Just drop it," he said.

Kaplan tensed, willing himself to turn and blast, and Craig found he couldn't even hit him.

Joanna's voice spoke from the bedroom door. "I shouldn't, Mr. Kaplan," she said. "You kill him and I'll kill you. You won't die quickly."

Kaplan's hands opened; the skeet gun thudded on the carpet. Craig grabbed it up and pushed on the safety catch, then went to the door. The corridor was empty, except for a long, soft leather bag. He brought it inside, and steered the other man to a chair. Marcus was crying. Craig opened the drinks cupboard and poured whisky.

"I'll have one too," said Joanna.

Craig offered one to Marcus, who pushed it away. He waited till the man's sobs died, and offered it again.

"Murder doesn't come all that easy to you," Craig said. "Take a drink, you need it."

Reluctantly, Marcus Kaplan accepted it, and choked it down. Craig poured him another.

"D'you want to tell me why, Marcus?" he asked.

"I've just finished talking to Miriam," Marcus said. "She told me—she told me-"

"She'd been to bed with me?"

"I hate you, Craig. I want you dead."

Craig waited once more, and Joanna came to the room and poured herself a drink.

Suddenly Marcus sprang from the chair and hurled himself at Craig, a pathetically unskillful attack; the onslaught of a civilized man who doesn't know how to hurt. Gently, Craig took hold of the clumsy hands and forced him back into the chair.

"Don't try it," said Craig. "You don't know how to."

He increased his pressure a little, and Marcus was still.

"Did she tell you how we became lovers?" Craig asked, and Marcus nodded. "And you can't forgive her for it?"

"Her? Of course I can," Marcus said. "I could have understood you, too. But you kicked her out, didn't you? For this—this-" He turned on Joanna.

"I did right," said Craig. "You know I did."

"You left her when she was helpless."

"It won't be for long," said Joanna. "And Craig has no future in the millinery business."