He went down to the foyer and spoke to the desk clerk.
"Could you ring Miss Benson and Mr. Royce?" he said. "They're up in the roof garden. Tell them that Mr. Loomis wants to see them in the restaurant."
The clerk lifted a phone, spoke briefly, first in Greek, then in English, and turned to Craig.
"They're on their way, sir," he said.
"Thanks," said Craig.
At least now they wouldn't try to stop him reaching his car—and Loomis would have lots to say to them.
CHAPTER 12
He drove back to the mountains fast, alert for foEowing cars. There were none. When he turned off on to the track to Angelos's house, he was quite alone. Up to Loomis now, he thought, unless the Yanks come up with a better offer. He sounded his horn as he drew to a halt, then deliberately stood in the glare of the headlights, making himself visible before he switched them off and walked up the path. The door opened as he approached it, and Angelos stood in the light, the Webley massive in his fist.
"You forget things, too," said Craig. "Don't you know better than to make yourself a target?"
They moved toward the living room. From the kitchen there came a tinkle of glass, as Craig opened the living-room door. In the living room Miriam, Omar, and Kaplan sat waiting. Craig raced into the room, tipped up the heavy chair Kaplan sat in, pushed him behind it.
"Angelos," he yelled. "The lights. Get the fights."
Angelos reached for the switch and a shot boomed out behind him. His body jerked to its impact, and he reeled into the room, took two stiff-legged strides and crashed down on to the floor. Craig fired into the hallway, and risked a look into the room. Omar had disappeared behind an upturned sofa, Miriam beside him. From the darkness behind the living room, a voice spoke.
"Mr. Craig," it said, "all we want is Kaplan."
Beside him a rifle went off, an appalling explosion of noise in the confined space of the room, then Omar said softly, "If I have to kill people—that's extra, effendi."
The voice spoke again.
"It's no use, Mr. Craig. We've got all the advantages. Just send Kaplan out. That's all we want."
Craig looked at Kaplan, who was whimpering with terror, then crouched lower behind the chair. The Russian was right. He had no chance at all, pinned down in the light. The chair and sofa they crouched behind were solid enough, but not solid enough to stop a heavy-caliber bullet. There was no chance of shooting out the lights, either: there were lamps all over the room, and he had no extra ammo . . . Something stirred by the door, and he looked at Angelos. The fat man, unseen in the angle of the door, had stirred. Blood soaked from a hole in his side on to the floor, but he was still alive.
Craig said softly in Greek, "Angelos, turn the lights off."
The fat man stirred again, and moaned.
Craig spoke more urgently. "Angelos, you can hear me. Turn the lights off."
The voice outside spoke again. "I shall count to ten. After that, we'll start firing into you. It will be your own fault, Craig. We only want Kaplan." There was a silence, then—"One—Two—Three-"
Craig said, "Turn the lights off, Angelos—and then we'll be even. You won't owe me a damn thing."
The voice had reached eight when Angelos rose with the shambling uncertainty of a drunk, lurched to the wall, and staggered into the doorway, his hand on the light switch. A second shot smashed into him, and it was the weight of his body falling that plunged the room into darkness.
Craig yelled to Omar not to fire, and swerved over the chair, wriggled on his belly to the door angle, waiting for a gun flash. When it came, he snapped off an answering shot and rolled behind the door. Another gun banged, and Craig noted its direction. In the darkness of the corridor a man was cursing—perhaps he'd hurt one of them, and he waited, tense, his hand stretched out in front of him, till he felt the softness of Angelos's body. He followed the outline of shoulder and arm, till at last he found the massive shape of the Webley, hefted it in his hands.
"All right, Omar," he whispered. "Give him three rounds, then cease fire."
"Three rounds," said Omar. "A hundred dollars a round."
The sound of the rifle was like blows from a giant hammer smashing the room, and after the third Craig leaped crouching into the doorway, sensed movement to his right and dropped flat. A gun banged, a shot cut the air where he'd been, and behind him, he could hear Miriam screaming. He fired the Webley, and the kick from it brought up the barrel until it pointed at the ceiling. The noise it made was scarcely less than the rifle's. He fired again, rolled to a new position. There was a sound of scuffling feet, the heavy thud of a falling body, then silence. Craig lay still in the darkness. One man was certainly out of it, and his guess was that there had only been two, and that the second one was hurt. But even so, there was no point in taking chances: if he miscalculated now they would all be dead. He waited a minute, two minutes. In the living room behind him he could hear Omar fidgeting restlessly with the rifle. At last, the voice spoke again. It sounded weak.
"There were only two of us, Mr. Craig," it said, "and you have killed my partner and wounded me. I should like to surrender." Craig willed himself to stay silent. "I'm going to put my gun down," the voice said. There was a scraping sound and a heavy object scraped along the corridor. Noiselessly, an inch at a time, he stretched out his left hand until he touched it: a gun all right, an automatic; 9-millimeter by the feel of it. Three-gun Craig.
"I'm now going to stand up," said the voice, and Craig became aware of a dark shape in the darkness before him. In the living room Omar's rifle clicked.
"Don't shoot yet, Omar," Craig shouted.
"Thank you, Mr. Craig," said the voice.
Craig rose to a crouch and moved to the light switch in the hall, pushed it up with the barrel of the automatic while the Webley covered the corridor. A tall, heavy-shouldered man stood swaying in front of him. Further back, in the kitchen doorway, an older man, squat, barrelchested, built like a bear, lay flat on his back. He was dead.
"Come forward slowly," said Craig. "Let's have a look at you, Mr. Lindemann."
The young man's eyes flickered up at him as he lurched into the living room, one hand pressed to his shoulder. In front of him Miriam, Kaplan, and Omar faced him. Miriam had both hands pressed to her face, stifling the screams that had muted now to sobs, Omar's hands were clawlike on the rifle, his face alight with excitement. Kaplan looked once at Lindemann, then away, his face ageing even more as Craig watched. Lindemann spoke in Russian.
"All that can wait," said Craig, and led Lindemann to a chair, opened his coat, and looked at the wound.
"Get me some hot water," he said. Omar moved, still holding the rifle. "Not you," said Craig. "You stay here. Miriam."
The girl's hands fell from her face and she moved slowly to the door. Angelos's body was in the way. "Move him, Omar," said Craig.
The old man slung the rifle over his shoulder and dragged Angelos out. Craig looked at the wound, a clean puncture through the right shoulder, a neat, purple-ringed hole back and front.
"You were lucky," he said.
"In a sense," said Lindemann.
Miriam brought hot water, and linen cloth torn into strips, then watched as Craig bandaged the wounded man, his hands deft and sure. Once he hurt Lindemann, making him cry out, but Craig went on as if nothing had happened, as if there were no blood on the carpet, no reek of cordite in the room, no ache in the ears from the crash of the rifle; as if Lindemann were a perfectly ordinary young man who'd had minor injuries in a car crash. When he'd finished he gave him a cigarette and a drink.
"So all you wanted was Kaplan," Craig said. Lindemann was silent. "Only you didn't get him," said Craig. "You got a mate of mine instead." Again silence. "Nice chap. Quiet. Ran a nice little business. You and your friend used to go there, didn't you? Chat up the girls. Is that why you killed him? So he couldn't identify you?"