Craig touched the gauze on his face. He said: "He gave me this. He was very good. But he wanted to hurt too much. It made him a bit careless. And I knew one trick he didn't."
"You're sure he's dead?" Phihppa asked.
"I'm sure," said Craig. "I watched him die. That's the other reason I was sent here."
He sprawled back farther, his right hand searched for cigarettes, found a packet, offered it to the girl. She shook her head. Craig took one, then fumbled for matches. His hand shook, and they spilled on to the leads.
"You'll have to help me," he said. "Please, Fhp." He looked from her to his shaking hand. "You'll have to help me."
Her feet moved slowly, unwillingly toward him, then at last she crouched, picked up a match, struck it, and held it out to him. He drew in the smoke, and she backed slowly away. Craig reached out his hand, and deftly, neatiy, stowed matches into the box. Every movement was sure, steady, confident.
"I could have grabbed you then if I'd wanted to," he said.
"Why didn't you?"
"There are other roofs," Craig said, "and other ways. If you want to die, you'll die. I can't stop you. Nobody can."
Philippa said: "He hurt me, Craig. Christ, he hurt me. Only he was careful. He didn't want me looking too bad in case Harry came to see me. He said he'd put me back on heroin. He meant it, Craig."
Craig said: "He always meant what he said."
"He tried to make me write a letter to Harry. Beg him to do what Schiebel wanted. I almost did write it. I couldn't go back to heroin. I couldn't."
Craig said: "You don't have to."
She looked at him warily, but he made no attempt to move.
"Schiebel's dead. I told you that," Craig said. "We can go down any time. Harry will sign with us, Loomis will get a K.B.E., and 111 get some sleep." He lounged back, unutterably weary.
"There's something else, isn't there?" he said. "You'd better tell me what it is or jump. It's the only choice you've got."
"You'd let me do it?" Fhp asked.
"I couldn't stop you," Craig said. I'm too tired."
Philippa said, "You are without doubt the most arrogant, self-satisfied bastard I've ever met in my life—and that includes Hollywood."
"I'm lazy, too," said Craig. "Make up your mind."
She came up to him then, knelt beside him, took a cigarette from him, and lit it.
"All right," she said. "I'll tell you. But nobody else is to come up here."
"Nobody else is that daft," Craig said. "Get on with it."
"I used to go to Venice quite often with Harry," Philippa said. "He had a lot of business there. He had to leave me alone quite a bit. I was bored, I guess—and edgy, too. You get that way. You can't help it if you've been on heroin. Then I met Trottia—a real comic I thought. Very European, very civilized—straight out of Henry James—but a comic. He introduced me to his friend Swyven. Another comic. But they could be very attractive, you know. Even likable. No man knows what pleases a woman the way a fairy does.
"Then they introduced me to their friend Tavel. He was supposed to fall in love with me. I don't know. Maybe he did. Not that I fell for him or anything. I thought—you'll never believe how stupid I can be—I thought they were smugglers. They told me that that's what they were and I believed them. I could be that stupid. I could do even better than that. They told me you worked for Interpol. That you wanted to trap them—just because they smuggled a few cigarettes. Then Trottia had a good idea. He would set a spy on you. The spy was Schiebel and I asked Harry to give him a job on the boat. And when he came he said he would get me the stuff again. He said the steward, Nikki, would give it to me any time I wanted it. He told Swyven to warn Harry about you too. I suppose they planted stuff on you. Then Harry searched your room, found what was there. That was the night you beat up Tavel."
"I know," said Craig.
"But how could you?" the woman asked.
"He had a thread on his coat; it came off on his chair. Black thread I'd left over my door lock. You picked it up and threw it away. At one time I thought Tavel had dropped it. Then Harry made me fight Dyton-Blease and I knew it was Harry. And you were the obvious link between your husband and a dress designer."
"It was all my fault, you see," said Phihppa. "I got you into it and I guess in a way I got Harry into it too. That bomb. That bloody bomb. Schiebel told me about that. And I would have been the one who did it. That's why I came up here. I had to think."
She threw her cigarette away, and Craig shook out another. This time, when her fingers reached out for it, his free hand moved like a whiplash, caught her wrist, drew her irresistibly down to him.
"All right," he said. "You've told me, and I've listened. Now you listen. Swyven's dead, Schiebel's dead, and you're alive. Harry can vote the way he wants to—and the Haram's safe. Nobody got hurt who matters to you—or me"—except Grierson, he thought, and Serafin, and Lord and Lady Swyven. Once you started it was quite a list.
"You got hurt," Fhp said. "So did I."
"We'll mend," said Craig.
She looked down at the hand on her wrist. He hadn't hurt her and yet she was utterly helpless. Slowly, reluctantly, she grinned at him.
"My, but you're strong," she said, and her free arm came round his neck. She kissed him lightly on the mouth.
"Now let's go down," she said. "You can interrogate me in your office, Herr Commandant. I promise I won't scream too loud."
Craig struggled up and walked to the edge of the roof. The two waited, as the escape ladder probed upward toward them. The two of them stepped aboard, and the turntable lowered them down. Phihppa looked up at Craig.
"Cinderella shall go to the ball," she said.
There was an ambulance waiting, and the two of them got in, the door slammed. Phihppa put her arms round Craig once more.
"See what I mean?" she said.
* Chapter 24 *
The Hastings transport droned wearily across desert, rose to the air from a range of foothills, climbed higher as the mountains appeared at last. On either side of it were other transports like fat, ungainly birds. The jumpmaster waved up the men, watched as the paratroops hooked on the ripcords, settled their kit. One after one the troops moved off in a stick. The rear man asked: "What the hell is this place Haram, sarge?"
"If you don't go now," said the jumpmaster, "You'll miss it. Go on, son. Out."
Loomis beamed across at Craig, dumped a bottle of brandy, a dozen Du Barry roses, and a pineapple on the table, and beamed again. Craig looked fine. Three days in a Sussex nursing home, and there was nothing to show he'd ever done anything more violent than cut himself shaving. Even the strip of sticking plaster, an obscene pink against the hard brown of his skin, might have been the result of a car accident, and the other fellow's fault at that. He looked at the immaculate pajamas, the silk dressing gown.
"What are you supposed to be now?" he asked. "The lead in Private hives?"
Craig settled back smugly into his chair, adjusted the pillow at his back.
"Please," he said. "No excitement. The doctor says it isn't good for me."
He reached out an arm, picked up two medicine glasses, and poured some of Loomis's brandy. The two men drank.
"Naxos signed," said Loomis. "Jolly glad to. We put a battalion of Jocks into Zaarb and two companies of paratroops into the Haram. Sort of military mission. Everything's nice and quiet."
"What about AZ Enterprises?" asked Craig.
"We put the fire out," said Loomis. "The attempt to steal the payroll failed."
Craig choked on his brandy.
"Is that the story?"
"A gang of men broke into AZ Enterprises. They killed a lot of people but they couldn't find any money. Under cover of the fire they escaped."