She left him in a flurry of anger, her mini-skirt riding over impeccable thighs, and Craig went to say good-bye to his host.
Thomson was hurt. He said so noisily, and at great length. The whole idea of the party, he explained, was for Craig and a few kindred spirits to get together. Have fun, enjoy themselves, talk to a few girls.
"I've done all that," said Craig. "It's time I was off."
Thomson wouldn't hear of it. There was a second, and very exciting reason why a favored few had been asked along. He'd hoped to explain it later over a few sandwiches and a mouthful of champagne. As a matter of fact that girl he'd been talking to would be staying. Wouldn't Craig like that?
"Very much," said Craig. "But I really have to go. You know. Business."
The word was one which Thomson had never taken lightly, and he responded to it at once.
"Just give me five minutes, old man. That isn't too much to ask, is it?" And Craig agreed that it was not.
He found himself hustled into a room called a study, which was mostly Morocco leather, on books, on the writing desk and chair, even on the wastepaper basket. Thomson shut the door on him, disappeared, then reentered almost at once with a short, squat young man and a trayful of Scotch. The squat young man it seemed had written a play, and Thomson needed a backer . . . Craig discovered it was even later than he had thought. He said so, and turned to the door.
The squat young man said, "I'm an artist. I create things. Surely I have a right to a hearing?"
His voice was unbelievably harsh. Nothing it could say, not even "I love you," would sound like anything but a threat.
"Some other time," said Craig. "I have enjoyed meeting you."
The squat young man put a hand on his arm.
"Look," he said. "I used to be a wrestler. I've done time for assault. You're going to hear me now."
Craig looked at Thomson, who had the baffled look of a conjuror suddenly realizing that his best trick is about to misfire.
"Is he sober?" he asked.
"He's had a few," said Thomson.
Craig looked at the hand on his arm.
"A year or two ago if you'd done that I'd have broken your arm," he said.
The hand slid up the muscle of Craig's arm, and fell at once to his side.
"Some other time, when I'm not so busy," Craig said, and left.
Thomson downed a drink quickly, looked in scorn at the wrestler turned playwright.
"And you thought he was a fairy," he said.
Craig dined on salad, sole veronique, and a half-bottle of Chablis, and as he dined he thought of the squat young man. The violence of his own reaction surprised him.
Their tactics, after all, had been perfectly reasonable in terms of the world they lived in. He'd made no passes at girls, therefore he was queer, and because he was queer the squat young man had put his hand on him. There were better ways to handle that situation than to talk of breaking arms. And yet it had happened at once: the flat threat thrusting at them both, escaping his conscious control. He could have done it too, even now. Without disarranging his tie he could have broken both their arms; or their necks. Craig shivered. He didn't want that feeling, not any more. Nor did he want to see Loomis, but he went. The fat man was power: irresistible power to those who had worked for him, and Craig had served him for five violent years.
Queen Anne's Gate looked well by night. The street lights softened the clean lines of the buildings to a pretty romanticism that made the street remember its elegant past with nostalgia, but Craig's thoughts were with the present. He ignored the row of brass plates: Dr. H. B. Cunnington-Low, Lady Brett, Major Fuller, the Right Reverend Hugh Bean. They were precisely the sort of names that belonged in Queen Anne's Gate—but they didn't exist. Craig pressed the bell marked "Caretaker" and waited till the door was opened by a muscular man in overalls. Somewhere about him, Craig knew, he carried a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver and a commando knife. The caretaker held his job because he could use them.
"You're expected, Mr. Craig," he said. "You're to go straight up."
Craig climbed the stairs to the flat marked "Lady Brett" and went inside. The caretaker watched him go in. Lady Brett's flat was Craig's office, and Craig had no business there when Loomis had summoned him at once, but the caretaker made no move to interfere. Craig might be slowing up and drinking a bit too much, but he had a judo black belt and an expert's knowledge of karate, and the caretaker had to practice unarmed combat with him once a month. He never antagonized Mr. Craig if he could help it.
The office was neat and tidy, the way his secretary Mrs. McNab always left it. And, anyway, there wasn't much work sent to him now. The place wasn't all that hard to keep in order. He looked through his "In" tray, but nothing had been added since he left: there was no helpful memo from Mrs. McNab. Whatever Loomis had in store for him would come as a surprise. The fat man liked surprises, when he delivered them. Craig went along the corridor and tapped on the door that was of paneled mahogany, polished silken smooth. There was an indeterminate growl from behind it, and Craig went inside, into a perfect establishment setpiece with a superb stucco ceiling, sash windows, and overstuffed furniture covered in flowered chintz. Behind a Chippendale desk Loomis sat in a buttoned leather armchair that was the biggest piece of furniture Craig had ever seen, and yet it fitted the big man so exactly that a Savile Row tailor might have measured him for it. Loomis was vast, a figure of enormous power that had slopped over into fat, with pale, manic eyes, an arrogant nose, and white hair clipped close to his skull. When Craig first met Loomis the white hair had been dusted with red, but now the red had gone.
"Pour coffee," said Loomis, "and sit down." For Loomis the invitation was cordial.
Craig poured coffee from a vacuum flask—it was black, bitter, scalding hot—then sat on the arm of one of the chairs. It was bad enough facing Loomis, even if he were in a good mood, without being three feet below him.
"I've been thinking about you," said Loomis. "Thinking a lot. I'm beginning to wonder if you still fit in here, son." Craig waited; there was a lot more to come.
"You've done some nice jobs for us," Loomis said, "and I don't deny it. You kill people nice and tidy, and you got a few brains as well. But the last job spoiled you—or at least I think so. Do you still dream about it?"
"No," said Craig, and it was true. The best and most expensive psychiatrist in the country had labored for weeks to stop those dreams.
"Think about it?"
"No," Craig said again, and this time it was a lie. When you have been tortured by having electric shocks run through your penis there are times when you think about it, no matter how hard you try not to.
"I don't believe you," said Loomis, "but it doesn't matter. You finished that job and I'm grateful to you, but I don't think you're ready for another one."
"Nor do I," said Craig. He put his cup down quickly before his hand began to shake.
"You do nice paperwork, but I got too many fellers for that already." He paused. "Experts," he said, making the word an insult. "I'm beginning to wonder if I can use you at all."
"You can hardly just let me go," said Craig. "No," Loomis agreed. "I can hardly do that. Nobody ever leaves my department—once they sign on." Craig waited again.
"I been thinking of sending you to the school," Loomis said. "Training the young hopefuls. You're the kind of feller they'll be up against, once they get into the field—or you were. But I dunno. You're not exactly cut out to be a schoolmaster, are you? On the other hand, I got nothing else to offer. We better make it the school. I tell you what," he said. "I'll make you a sort of graduation exercise. Go down there tomorrow, have a look around, but don't let the students see you. Pascoe will pick out the ones who are ready, and you can set up test situations for them. See if they're any good. See if you're any good come to that. Like the idea?"