Then one day his luck was in. Craig took him out to dinner and proceeded to get quietly, unobtrusively drunk. It was hard for Branch to stay sober, but his terror of Loomis helped, and he managed at last to get Craig talking about Tangier in the old days. Craig talked at length.
"Used to be a smuggler," he said. "Used to do all kinds of jobs. Made a bit of money—went into shipping. Did I tell you I was in shipping?"
"Yes, sir," said Branch. "You did. But I never knew you were in Tangier."
"Ought to do a book about it," said Craig. "You could write it for me."
"I couldn't do it without the facts."
"Gotemallathome," said Craig. "Show you. Gemme taxi."
Branch got one, and Craig fell asleep in it. He woke him up and got him into the flat—he was hell to carry— and talked about Tangier and the book. Craig's hands flopped aimlessly towards his pockets. "Must find my keys," he said. "Drunk. Make me a cup of coffee, will you?"
Branch made it and came back carrying the cup, to find Craig on his feet, holding his keys.
"That's better," Craig said. "I must have had too much to drink. You shouldn't let me drink too much, David. It isn't good for me."
"I'm sorry, sir," said Branch. Craig lurched toward him, took the coffee and sipped, then scowled. "Lousy coffee," he said.
"I'm sorry, sir," Branch said again. "I made it just the way you like it."
"I don't like this," said Craig. "Here, you taste it." He held out the cup. "Go on."
He gestured again, and Branch took the cup and sipped warily. As he did so, Craig stumbled on the carpet and finished up behind him, then his right hand struck at the nerve in Branch's upper arm, paralyzing it, his left clamped on the cup, pushing the lip across Branch's mouth so that his head tilted back and he had to swallow. Had to. The pain was so much. And when the coffee was down it was too late to struggle, and anyway Craig held him in a hammer lock, and even breathing was agony.
"I'm sorry," said Craig. "You're just not up to it, son. Four times you left signs you searched the place. And the way you ask questions is far too clumsy. You were wrong about the coffee, too. You shouldn't have drugged me till you knew which key to use."
He could have said more, but Branch was asleep. Craig waited. Branch had a lot to tell him before he telephoned Loomis.
"I'm sorry to bother you like this," Joanna Benson said.
"That's perfectly all right," said Craig. He opened the door and stood aside. "Come in, won't you?"
Her entrance was pleasing. She wore a ranch mink and a Balmain dress, her diamonds were real, and she handled her height with confidence. Craig led her to the sitting room and she stood, uncertain. She looked beautiful in her uncertainty.
"Please sit down," he said.
"Oh no. I couldn't possibly. I mean it's very late, isn't it?"
"Nearly one o'clock," he said. She was doing much better than Branch.
"Oh dear," said Joanna.
"How can I help you, Miss-?"
"Benson. Joanna Benson. Oh gosh—you do know who I am, don't you?"
"You're my next-door neighbor but one."
"That's right. We've met in the lift, haven't we?"
"I'm flattered you should have remembered," said Craig.
"You're very nice," said Joanna. "The thing is I've lost my key. I'm locked out. And I wondered if you could help me?"
"Gladly," said Craig. "Are you sure you won't sit down?"
This time she did so, and loosened her coat, and her body was there, decked out and jeweled, the merest hint of a promise. Really, thought Craig, she's awfully good.
He went to the telephone.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Calling the hall porter. He has spare sets of keys." He put the phone down. "No. Wait a minute." He walked toward her, and her eyes were wary.
"Are you sure you didn't overlook it?"
"Certain," she said.
"It might be in your bag," he said. "Just as well to make sure."
She took the bag—it was a small thing of crocodile skin, with diamond clasps—and tipped it on to the table beside her. Lipstick, make-up, lighter, cigarettes, change purse, and wallet. No key. And no pockets in the mink. She was very thorough.
"I'll ring for the porter," he said, and did so.
"You've been awfully kind," said Joanna. "I'm sure I'm keeping you up. I did see your light on as I came in, and the people next door to me seem to be asleep."
Very nicely done. Very nice indeed.
"It's no trouble," he said.
"I don't want you to think I'm as stupid as this all the time," said Joanna. "But at least it means we've got to know each other."
"But we haven't. Not really. My name is-"
"John Craig," she said, and added hastily, "it's on your door."
Then the porter came up with the passkey, and she stood up to leave. She left the mink open and it swirled round her, making her very rich, very desirable. Craig walked with her to the door, shut it, came back, and poured himself a drink.
This one was ahead of Branch. Everything she'd done so far proved it. She'd handled the whole thing with just the right amount of reserve—and of promise. If he'd been a normal man he'd have lain awake all night working out ways of meeting Joanna Benson next day, but he wasn't normal. He'd never be normal again, after what they had done to him. Women were an irrelevance now, or worse. An inconvenience. He looked and acted so male, and they expected him to do something about it. Their instincts were stronger than the squat young man's. They knew he had no time for men. What they didn't understand was that he had no time for anybody, not any more. A woman had betrayed him, and a man had almost destroyed him in one of the most agonizing ways anyone had yet devised. After that, it was better to be on your own, except that on your own life was so lonely and so boring.
He made no attempt to find her, and she left him alone for two days, but on the third she came to call on him again. It was four o'clock in the afternoon and she was dressed in jodhpurs and hacking jacket, and she held her key in her hand. Not one woman in a thousand looks well in jodhpurs. Joanna Benson was the one. The gamine effect was there, as it should be, but she looked invincibly feminine. The best of both worlds.
"I'm not in trouble this time," she said. "I came to ask you to dinner. Tomorrow."
Damn Loomis, he thought, and his postgraduate exercises. And damn this girl who was so sure he would accept because her legs were long and her breasts were rounded. You were only safe on your own. Once you let them get near, hurt inevitably followed.
"I'm afraid I haven't been too well," said Craig, and hesitated. "But it's very sweet of you. I'd be delighted."
They dined with well-drilled friends: a rising young barrister and his wife, whom Joanna had been at school with. The wife, Rosemary, had obviously been carefully briefed by Joanna. They were there simply as window dressing, and behaved accordingly. Craig was the target, the victim. There could be no doubt that Rosemary approved. She did everything but wink at Joanna from the moment Craig entered the room. The husband, too, was impressed, and left it to Craig to pour the drinks, test the temperature of the wine. Joanne had no talent for cookery, and said so at once. The food had been ordered and was excellent. The wine she had attended to herself. It was superb, as was the brandy that followed. Joanna wore a short evening dress of black chiffon and looked very lovely, and, after the brandy, very slightly drunk. At midnight, the barrister remembered the baby sitter, and Craig, too, got up to leave. He felt no surprise when he did not succeed. This time Rosemary all but winked at him.
Joanna poured more brandy and Craig realized that she was nervous as well as drunk, but she moved well even so, the short skirt swirling round her long, beautiful legs . . . And how, Craig wondered, do we get back to my flat? Why don't we just stay here, or are we saving my place for next time? Joanna moved about, stacking dishes and glasses, and as she moved she talked, about how lovely London was at this time of year, and how Regent's Park was the loveliest thing in London.