That was unthinkable, but the thought of murder made Shapiro's nerves jangled. Crantor had assured him the set-up was foolproof, but Shapiro had a healthy respect for the police. He had a healthy respect too for his own neck. Murder had a nasty habit of backfiring on you, just when you thought you had got away with it.
Crantor had brushed aside Shapiro's doubts.
"Use your head," he had said. "You've never been through their hands. They haven't got your prints. You won't be seen if you handle it the way I've told you to handle it. You're not hooked up with this fellow in any way. So what have you got to worry about?"
But the more Shapiro had thought over the plan, the more doubtful he became. He might be seen leaving the house. The thought of being hunted for murder turned him cold. That was when he began to drink, but after a few double whiskies his nerve returned and he thought of the boat. He could drive down to Falmouth as soon as he had done the job, buy the boat and hop over to France.
By now, as he climbed the stairs, he was eager to get the job done, and he walked to room 26 with a swagger, pausing in the doorway to stare at Lorelli who had turned in her chair to look at him.
"Come in and shut the door!" Crantor barked.
Shapiro closed the door. He looked from Lorelli to Crantor and back to Crantor again. "What was this piece doing here?" he wondered. What smasher! He fingered his tie, took off his hat and gave Lorelli a leering grin.
Crantor got to his feet.
"Okay, Ed, cut that out ," he said, a rasp in his voice. "She's working with us."
Shapiro came over to the table. His grin widened.
"Well, well, that's nice. Hello, baby. I can see you and me are going to get along fine together."
Lorelli's cold green eyes looked him up and down.
"Speak to me when you're spoken to," she said curtly.
"Hey, don't give me that stuff," Shapiro said, grinning.
Crantor's open hand smacked him on the side of his face, sending him staggering.
Shapiro recovered his balance, and he stared blankly at Crantor, careful not to move.
"Sit down and shut up!" Crantor said in a soft hissing voice, his single eye like a red-hot ember.
Shapiro pulled up a chair and sat down. He touched his face.
"You'd better not do that again," he said unevenly.
"Shut up!" Crantor repeated.
"I don't think much of him," Lorelli said. She spoke as if Shapiro wasn't in the room. "He's drunk; his nerves are bad and he's got no discipline."
"He'll do the job," Crantor said. "If he bungles it, I'll kill him."
Shapiro suddenly felt sick. He knew Crantor didn't threaten.
"Now wait a minute..." he began, but the words trailed away as Crantor turned to stare at him.
"You heard what I said! Bungle this and I'll kill you."
"Who said I'd bungle it?" Shapiro said hoarsely.
"You'd better not," Crantor said. He picked up the broad-bladed knife and held it out to Shapiro, holding the blade in his hand and offering Shapiro the handle.
"This is what you'll use. Now show her what you can do with it."
Shapiro took the knife and balanced it in his hand. An odd change came over him as he touched the cutting edge of the knife with his thumb. The looseness went out of his face, his movements became decisive; his eyes came alive.
"What a beaut ," he muttered. "What a smasher."
He flicked the knife into the air, sending it spinning and caught it by its handle as it fell.
"Show her," Crantor repeated.
Shapiro looked around the room. Not seeing any target worthy of a throw he got up, took a deck of cards from his hip pocket, selected the ace of diamonds and crossing the room he fixed the card to the wall with a piece of gum he had been chewing, and which he had parked on the glass of his wrist watch.
He walked back until he was at the far end of the room. The card was in the shadow and Lorelli couldn't see it. She watched Shapiro, her elbows on the table, her face between her hands.
Shapiro balanced the knife on the flat of his hand, then with a quick throwing movement, he sent the knife towards the opposite wall with the speed and the force of a bullet.
Crantor turned up the reading lamp and sent its beam across the room.
The knife had cut through the centre of the diamond and was half buried in the plaster.
"You see," Crantor said. "He can do that twenty times out of twenty."
Loreili relaxed.
"Yes, that is good enough," she said.
Shapiro swaggered across the room, jerked out the knife and came back.
"There's no one else in the country who could do that," he said. "So you think I'll do?"
"You'll do," Loreili said without looking at him, "if you keep your nerve."
"Don't worry about that," Shapiro said. "My nerve's fine. But how about the money? I want some now."
She looked up at him.
"You will be paid when he is dead and not before," she said and stood up, "I will be at 25, Athens Street at half-past eleven tomorrow night. You will then give me a detailed report.
Shapiro started to say something, then stopped as Crantor made a threatening move forward.
"I have things to do now," Loreili went on. "I must go. I will see you tomorrow about midday. My mackintosh please."
Crantor went into the bathroom and brought out the mackintosh and hat. The two men stood silent as she put on the hat and arranged her hair before the mirror.
"There must be no mistake," she said as she slipped on her mackintosh.
"It will be all right," Crantor said. She picked up the hold-all and crossed to the door. "You are responsible," she said and went out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Chapter II
THE TORTOISE
As Harry Mason drove the black Bentley along rain-drenched Piccadilly, he thought gloomily that he would have to clean the car again, and that would be twice in a day. Once was all right; an accepted part of the day's work, but twice was laying it on a little too thick. Didn't it ever do anything else but rain in this perishing country?
Don Micklem, sitting at Harry's side, suddenly leaned forward.
"There's Mrs Ferenci," he said, breaking into Harry's thoughts. He lowered the window. "She may want a lift."
Harry swung the car to the kerb.
A girl in a black and white check mackintosh and a small black hat stood on the kerb looking vainly for a taxi. She was slight, fair with big violet eyes, and as Don waved to her, he wondered why she was looking so pale and worried.
"Julia!" he exclaimed, sliding out of the car into the rain. "I haven't seen you for weeks. Can I give you a lift anywhere?"
The girl's face lit up at the sight of him.
"Why, Don! I thought you were in Nice."
"Probably off in a couple of weeks. Hop in before you get wetter than you are." He opened the rear door and helped Julia into the back seat where he joined her. "What are you up to? Going anywhere in particular?"
"It's good to see you, Don," Julia said and her slim, gloved fingers touched his hand. "I thought you were away otherwise I would have called you. I want to talk to you. It's about Guido."
"Would you like to come back to my place?" Don asked, his steady grey eyes searching her face. "I'm free until one o'clock." He glanced at his strap watch. "It's only a quarter to twelve. Or shall we stop off at the Berkeley?"
"I'd rather go to your place," Julia said. "I mustn't be long. I'm lunching with Guido."
"Home, Harry," Don said, then as Harry whisked them towards the white-faced, olive-green shuttered house at the far end of Upper Brook Mews that had been Don's London home for the past six years, he went on, "Is Guido all right?"
Julia forced a smile.
"He's fine. He was only talking about you yesterday. You know about this company thing of his? He wants you on the board. But that doesn't matter right now. He'll talk to you about it. He has so many plans. He..." She broke off and looked out of the window, her hands turning into fists.