James Munro: The Money That Money Can't Buy

from time to time he slept, or was fed. The job had begun to fascinate him.

Their suite had a small sitting room, and it was here that they talked to the walking party, seeing them one at a time, taking them patiently through the story, over and over again, stolidly enduring the timid complaints of the educated and respectable young when confronted by policemen investigating murder. They learned two things. The first came from Dr. Arthur Hornsey, aged twenty-seven, the elder statesman of the party, now engaged in research in the department of psychology at the University of Lancaster. Hornsey had observed the two men in the restaurant well. Craig showed him a series of photographs—a weird assortment of Russians and Russian-looking types, including dancers, strong men, Orthodox priests, and a genuine prince now working in advertising, and he identified the two men in the restaurant at once. Neither picture was good, and in neither case did the men wear climbing clothes, but Hornsey was sure although Linton pressed him hard.

"I'm absolutely positive," he said. "I've always had a fantastic memory for faces."

"Are they foreign?" Hornsey asked.

"No," said Craig.

Hornsey looked at him. The word was a flat, almost brutal denial of further discussion. To Hornsey, who had been trained for research, such a denial was unacceptable.

"I mean they do look foreign," he said.

Craig said nothing, and Hornsey felt himself blushing. He was a big, muscular young man who had gone out of a restaurant to face a mad Chinese who jumped through windows. His strength and courage were things he had always taken for granted. Yet he blushed at Craig's silence, and the force of will behind it.

"We may need you later as a witness, sir," Linton said.

"Oh yes. Identification Parade. That sort of thing, eh?" Hornsey asked.

"Something like that," said Linton, and Hornsey left. It was only when he got outside that he realized that he knew Linton's rank, and had observed his questioning techniques. (Linton was well above average, he thought. At least beta plus.) He also realized that all he knew about Craig was his name and beyond that only a sensation, nothing more, of brooding, terrible power. Hornsey had a good mind, and it had been trained well. It would be best, he thought, to keep out of Craig's way.

The second piece of information came from a girl. Her name was Jane Simmons, aged twenty, Linton noted, educated at Priory Close School for Girls and L'Ecole des Jeunes Filles, Lausanne, Switzerland, a capital investment of at least five thousand pounds. At present she wore a shaggy sweater that surrounded her like a parcel, heavy wool trousers, socks, and nailed boots. No employment. She had tried to paint, but now Daddy gave her an allowance. Daddy was in newspapers and television. Linton trod with infinite caution.

She failed with the photographs— perhaps as well, thought Linton, that she has given up painting —and her only clear visual memory was of the shape the glass made when the Chinese had jumped through it. Linton prepared to let her go.

Craig asked: "Did either of the two men speak to the waiter?"

She looked at him. Currently she was in love with Frank Sinatra, a golden retriever called Jackson, and Rudolf Nureyev. She added Craig to the list. The little finger of his left hand was stiff, she noticed, as if it had been broken, then set badly. But both his hands were beautiful.

"You'll think this is awfully sill—" she said.

"Try me," said Craig, and her heart turned over. If only she'd thought to have her hair done. But who would have thought that necessary, just to meet two policemen?

"I thought one of them did speak to the waiter," she said at last. "Only it wasn't really speaking. More singing, really. I mean, I didn't hear much, and we were all making such a row—I mean we were absolutely starving. We'd walked miles—but I do remember thinking how silly it was. The singing, I mean. When we were all so hungry. And then —then he died."

Linton thought it was silly too, and wanted to leave it at that, but Craig kept on about it, oblivious to the girl's mistrust of herself, and to her father, who was in newspapers and television, and hence to be doubly avoided by chief inspectors of the Special Branch. Craig sang to her. He sang pop tunes and Rodgers and Hart, gems from Verdi and Russian folk songs, Beethoven and Bach and Bacharach, and to all of them, Jane Simmons said no, and Linton worried. At last he let her go, and Linton asked if he was crazy, but. already Craig had the telephone and talked to a fascinated Loomis, who found him an old man in retirement at Grasmere, and they drove there in a powder of snow, and the old man sang into a tape recorder and told them it was nonsense, but nevertheless gave them some astonishing cherry brandy.

That evening Craig sent for Miss Simmons again. This time she had had time to prepare, and wore a neat little number in silk jersey that still looked good even after four days in a rucksack, the pearls Daddy had given her for Christmas—Daddy was old-fashioned; he thought pearls were safe, whereas if one were dark and suntanned, they were in fact very sexy, in a Tahitian sort of way—and a dollop of Je Reviens. Jane knew she looked good, but the pale eyes told her nothing, and she was so disappointed that she even forgot to scowl when she found that Linton was joining them.

Craig bought her one martini at the bar, then they took her in to a dinner of game soup, salmon, roast duckling, and strawberries. With the dinner he allowed her one glass of hock and one of claret. No liqueur, though she absolutely adored Grand Marnier. He might have been her father, Jane thought, then realized that it could in fact be possible. She knew no way of finding out his age. But his sexiness—the passion of his mouth, the cold brutality of his eyes—of that there could be no doubt. She breathed in, and the silk jersey clung becomingly to her, and Craig continued to talk of islands in Greece, and the high cost of villas there, now that everyone knew about them. By the end of the meal she was a little angry, but clear-headed and very much alert, which was exactly what Craig had intended.

After dinner they went back to the private sitting room, and Craig made more coffee, which was heaps better than the stuff they'd had in the dining room. Then he produced the tape recorder and Jane wondered what on earth had got into him. How could he possibly start playing that sort of music with all the lights still on and that grisly Linton sitting there like a duenna or something? Craig ran the tape back to the beginning and switched it on to playback. An old man's voice came through, high and clear. It wasn't singing exactly, but it wasn't talking either; just the same phrase repeated over and over, as if the old man were a priest chanting in some service or something.

After she'd heard the old man's voice twice, Jane said: "I think so," then, after the tenth time, she said: "Yes, that's it all right."

Craig switched off the tape.

"But what does he mean?" said Jane. "What's he chanting about?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you just yet," said Craig.

"I suppose it's sub judice, or whatever you call it."

"Something like that," said Craig.

Not even the daughter of a man in newspapers and television could be told what the tape had said. The voice was that of a retired inspector in the Hong Kong police. The message was neither singing nor chanting, but spoken Cantonese. And what the inspector had repeated, over and over, was: "Comrade Soong, we have come here to kill you."

"I hope I've been able to help you," said Jane.

"Oh yes," said Craig. "Enormously."

Three Russians, he was thinking. Sent here to kill an agent. The Chinese must be an agent. Loomis will run amok.