After the first bitter months, he took a perverted pleasure in watching people look at him, shudder and look away, and he studied the girl facing him, watching for her reaction.
He was disappointed. She didn't shudder nor did she look away. She examined his face intently with neither pity nor disgust.
"Couldn't they do better than that for you?" she said. "Or hadn't you the patience?"
Crantor felt a spurt of vicious fury run through him. He had wanted to make her cringe. Now he wanted to take her by her white throat.
"What's it to do with you?" he said. "I'll look after my mug,' you look after yours."
"Don't talk to me like that!" the girl said sharply.
Crantor controlled his temper. What was he thinking of? He wanted to make a good impression on this girl, and snarling at her wasn't the way to do it. She was his first contact with Alsconi's organization. She had come all the way from Italy to discuss the arrangements he had made. If he gave satisfaction, there was a chance of promotion. He was ambitious.
He had worked for Alsconi now for two years and he had recently discovered the work he had been doing was of little importance to the organization: it was nothing more than a side-line. Now Alsconi had decided to begin real operations in London, and this was his chance.
"Sorry," he said and turned on the overhead light. "I'm still touchy about my face. Who wouldn't be? Here, sit down.
How about a drink?
"No, thank you."
She came over to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. She was wearing a smartly tailored black frock. Around her throat was a thin gold collar of bay leaves.
Crantor also sat down. He kept back in the shadows, and when he lit a cigarette, he turned away so she couldn't see his face lit by the flame of his lighter.
"Have you found anyone yet to do the job?" she asked.
"I've found him," Crantor said. "It's taken time, but he's dead right for it." He glanced at his wrist watch. "He'll be along in a few minutes. I thought you'd want to see him."
"There must be no mistakes," she said, her green eyes searching out his single, gleaming black one. "This will be the first, and the first must always be successful." She tapped ash off her cigarette, and went on, "Who is this man you have found?"
"His name is Ed Shapiro," Crantor said. "He has no police record. He started life in a circus. Later, he became a knife thrower. He's good: that's why I've picked him. He chucked circus life after the war. He's done some smuggling for me, and he's now anxious to start up on his own. He wants to buy a fast boat. He jumped at the chance to earn the money we're offering."
"He won't bungle it?"
"If anyone can do it, he can."
"What have you done so far?"
"The note for the money was sent on Tuesday. Tonight, Shapiro is going out to the house. He will put the tortoise in the breakfast-room with another note. At nine tomorrow night a messenger will call for the money..." He broke off and looked across the table at the girl.
"There is one point I am not clear about. Suppose he pays up?"
"You don't have to worry about that. He won't pay: that's why we have chosen him. He's not the type to be threatened."
"All right, if you are sure. It will come unstuck if he does pay."
"He won't."
"Then Shapiro will move in at nine-fifteen. You have brought the knife?"
She leaned sideways and pulled the hold-all that lay on the floor towards her.
He stared at the curve of her back as she bent to open the bag. He felt bitterness stir within him. A woman as beautiful as this one wasn't for him. He had to make do with the ugly ones.
She took from the hold-all a flat wooden box which she put on the table. She opened it and took from it a broad-bladed knife with a heavy, carved wood handle.
Crantor studied it.
"Isn't this dangerous?" he asked. "Won't the police be able to trace this?"
"It is one of a pattern we always use," the girl said. "It is specially made for us. There's no chance of it being traced."
"I suppose all this is necessary," Crantor said uneasily.
"All what?" the girl asked sharply.
"The tortoise, the knife and the warning notes."
"Of course. We want publicity. The tortoise will intrigue the press. This affair will be headline news, and that is essential. We have someone else lined up after Ferenci. When this other one gets our demand note he will know we mean business and he will pay up. The plan has worked successfully in France, Italy and America. It will work successfully here."
"And if it does come off, am I to handle the others?" Crantor asked.
"Of course."
"It will be successful. I promise you that." Crantor got to his feet, crossed the room and poured whisky into a glass.
"Sure you won't have a drink?" "No, thank you."
He stood in the shadows, looking across at her. "I don't even know your name," he said, "or shouldn't I ask?" "Call me Lorelli," the girl said.
"Lorelli..." Crantor nodded. 'It's a pretty name. Have you been with the organization long?"
"I have been instructed to pay Shapiro," the girl said, ignoring the question. "Where will I find him after he has done the job?" Crantor felt the blood rush up to his head. "You pay him? Why? I engaged him. Give me the money. I will pay him."
"Where will I find him?" the girl repeated, looking steadily at Crantor.
"But I don't understand," Crantor said, coming back to the table. "Don't they trust me?"
"Am I to report that you are not willing to obey instructions?" the girl asked, her voice flat and cold.
"Of course not," Crantor said hastily. "It just seemed to me..." "Where will I find him?" the girl asked. "25, Athens Street. It's in Soho," Crantor said, making a tremendous effort to conceal his anger.
The telephone bell tinkled and Crantor answered it. "There's a fellow down here asking for you," Dale said. "Shall I send him up?"
"Yes," Crantor said.
"By the way," Dale went on, "is that young lady wanting a room? I can fix her up next to you." Crantor looked across at Lorelli. "Do you want a room here?"
She shook her head. "She won't be staying," he told Dale. "That's your bad luck," Dale said and laughed. Crantor slammed down the receiver.
Ed Shapiro was tall and lean, with a hooked nose, swarthy complexion and small restless eyes. He wore a black suit with a broad white stripe, a black shirt and a white tie. Cocked over his right eye, he wore a black snap-brimmed hat.
He lolled against the reception desk, a cigarette hanging from his thin lips, and breathed whisky fumes into Dale's face.
"Go on up. Room 26," Dale said, drawing back and grimacing. "You're carrying a load, aren't you?"
Shapiro shot out a long arm and caught hold of Dale's shirt front, twisted it and gave Dale a hard shake, jerking his head back.
"Shut it, pally," he said. "Button it up unless you want to lose some of those dirty teeth of yours."
Dale stood very still, his face turning white. The vicious expression in Shapiro's eyes shocked him.
Shapiro released his grip, pushed his hat a little further over his eye and walked across the hall and mounted the stairs.
He had been drinking heavily most of the evening, bolstering up his shaky nerves. He had done most things, but up to now he had stopped short at murder. But he wanted the fast motor-boat with a want that had gnawed at him for the past two months. He knew it was a bargain. He knew he would never get one as good and as cheap again. Where else could he hope to raise the thousand pounds Crantor was offering him that would complete the purchase price? He had been told that there was another buyer in the market.
"I can't hold it for you any longer," the owner had told him. "I'd like to do you a favour, but this other bloke has the cash. If you can't come across by next Friday, I'll have to let him have it."