Craig went. Not home, not immediately. There was plenty of time for the plane. But he had to see the Kaplans again. There was a good man looking after them, and there'd be others backing up and all that, but the Kaplans didn't know. It was true that Marcus Kaplan had seen a man killed in the Boldinis' apartment, but they didn't, either of them, know Fisher was dead, or what had been done to him before he died. It was up to Craig to tell them that these things happened; that people got hurt, or were even destroyed, and yet were allowed to go on living.
The doorman was off duty when Craig arrived, but the apartment building seemed quiet enough, not at all the kind of place where a man had been killed. No cops, no spectators, no crowds of sightseers. Perhaps that was just the heat. (If Lady Godiva rode down Fifth Avenue in July nobody would watch, said Loomis. The sight of that poor horse sweating would kill them.) He went up to the Kaplans' floor. The Boldinis' door was unguarded, but Craig moved on more quickly and rang the Kaplans' bell. Nothing happened, so he kept on ringing, over and over. Hetherton wasn't going to keep him out.
But it wasn't Hetherton who stood there. It was a girl. A small girl, long-legged, brown-eyed, swathed in the most enormous sable coat Craig had ever seen. Just to look at her made Craig melt in sweat, but she looked happy enough about it and hugged the coat to her body with her arms. What she was not happy about was Craig, whom she apparently cast as an intruder, maybe even a prowler.
"I called to see Mr. Kaplan," said Craig. "My name's Craig."
"I'm sorry," the girl said, "he's not at home right now."
She made to close the door, and Craig did not try to stop her, but said quickly: "When will he be back?" The girl hesitated.
"Three weeks—maybe a month," she said. "He and Aunt Ida are on a vacation trip." So that was all right. The CIA could move when they had to. They'd taken the Kaplans away.
"Thanks," said Craig, and turned to leave. He'd taken three steps down the corridor when the girl called out: "Just a minute." He went back to her.
"You've hurt yourself," the girl said. "Behind your ear."
"Miss-?"
"Loman," said the girl.
"Miss Loman—I know it."
"Sort of a crazy place to hurt yourself."
"It happens," said Craig. "I stumbled and banged my head on a shelf."
The brown eyes looked puzzled and faintly amused, nothing more.
"You'd better come in for a minute," she said. "You look awful."
She led the way to the Kaplans' living room and sat, still wearing the coat. The air conditioning wasn't on; Craig looked at her again, and began sweating seriously.
"You know why I asked you in?" she asked. "I figured you couldn't be a prowler. You have a British accent. So it's okay. Can I get you something?"
"No thanks," said Craig. "But I'd like to ask a question. Two questions."
"Go ahead," the girl said.
"Is Mrs. Kaplan your aunt?"
"No," said the girl. "Just an old friend of the family— so I call her Aunt Ida. What's the other one?"
"Why are you wearing a fur coat?"
Miss Loman blushed a fierce, unpleasing pink. As Craig watched, she got up, looked in the mirror and brushed at her face with one hand, still clutching her coat with the other.
"Oh, shoot," she said. "I hate doing that. You see, Mr. Craig—the Kaplans went away just this morning, and they asked me to close the apartment up for them. And Aunt Ida has the most fantastic furs, so when I found a new one-"
"You just had to try it on," said Craig. "But aren't you hot?"
"I'm dying," Miss Loman said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll hang it up."
She rose, still clutching the coat, tripped over a footstool, and flung up her hands to steady herself, and the coat swung open. Beneath it she was quite naked, and very pretty. She whirled round from Craig, and he remembered another girl in swirling fur, a very bright girl, and pretty too. As pretty as this one. When Miss Loman had finished swirling she held the coat in place, one-handed. The other one held the telephone. Craig hadn't moved from his chair.
"You're absolutely right," he said. "Much too hot to try on fur coats. How fortunate I'm not a prowler."
Miss Loman laughed and put the telephone back on its cradle.
"You British," she said. "How do you get to be so diplomatic?"
"Practice, I suppose," said Craig, and got to his feet unhurriedly. "When you write to the Kaplans, tell them I said they should take care of themselves."
"I will," she said, and followed him to the door. When he reached it, she called out:
"What's your first name?"
"John," he said.
"Mine's Miriam. Tell me, John—did you think I was pretty?"
"Delightful," said Craig. "Absolutely delightful."
When he left she was blushing again.
He went back to London on an Air India Boeing 707. Curry, and hostesses in saris, and breakfast served an hour before landing, and when the plane touched down it was lunchtime. He hadn't slept at aU and felt bone-weary. Passport control and customs were separate purgatories. His world was finished, and waiting for him now was Loomis, with a thousand questions, and after them one fact: Loomis could hardly just let him go. It was conceivable that Loomis would have him killed. But even so, he had to call him. Loomis would know he was back anyway. He took a taxi from the airport to a pub he knew. It was not a very nice pub, but it had one valuable asset: from it you could see Queen Anne's Gate. He bought a drink, and went to a phone booth. First he got Loomis's secretary, then the fat man came on.
"That was quick. Get what you wanted?"
"Most of it," said Craig. It was true enough.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Loomis said.
"I saw the Kaplans. And a young friend of theirs. A girl called Miriam Loman. Not Fisher. He was dead when I reached him."
"Ah," said Loomis. "You better come and see me. Tomorrow morning." "Can't it be today?"
"No. I got a lot on today. Tomorrow morning. Ten sharp."
Loomis hung up. At six o'clock Joanna Benson left Department K. Ten minutes later, Royce left too.
He went back to his flat, taking his time, but nobody was watching it. Craig, it seemed, was past all that. You just pointed him in whatever direction was necessary, wound him up, and off he went. When the job was over he just sat around waiting till the next time—or until he was thrown away. Craig discovered that he was very angry, and the anger surprised him. There was no fear in it; only rage. If Benson and Royce were so bloody marvelous, let them get on with it. He wasn't going to sit around while Loomis made up his mind whether he should live or not. And yet what else could he do? If he bolted, Loomis would be after him in earnest. For Loomis there was no such thing as an ex-agent, only a defector waiting for a new master. The new master might be offering money, or merely a cessation of pain, but sooner or later he would appear, Craig knew, if Loomis didn't act first. But Loomis always had acted first, in the five times it had happened, and Craig knew it well. He had executed one of them himself. The anger yielded to despair.
The only logical way out was suicide, A lot of whisky and a massive dose of chloral hydrate, painfully hoarded over weeks of sleeplessness. That would be easy, painless, almost desirable. His life was finished anyway: his ability as an agent gone, his zest in women gone, the booze he despised his only pleasure. It was right that it should help to kill him. Even if Loomis let him live it would kill him anyway. He looked at the whisky decanter, then went into the kitchen and found a fresh bottle. The chloral hydrate tablets were in the bathroom. They could wait. . .