"To see it by moonlight," Joanna said. "It really excites me.
"There's a moon tonight," said Craig.
"But we can't see the park from here."
"We can from my flat," said Craig.
"So we can," said Joanna. "Darling, would you mind?"
Craig didn't mind, and Joanna loaded glasses and cups on a tray, Craig carried the coffeepot and brandy bottle, and they moved with exaggerated stealth to his door, went quickly inside. The "darling" was a fact now, the business of carrying the coffee and brandy a small intimacy, a game for lovers. Craig switched off the lights and pulled the curtains wide. Below them the park was a vast silver-point, elegant yet shadowed. Joanna sighed.
"I know it's trite," she said, "but it makes me think of Hermia and Helena and that ridiculous mixup in the wood. Don't you think so, darling?"
"I think it's beautiful," said Craig. And dangerous. Those pools of shadow are always dangerous.
The girl made a slight, inevitable movement, and she was in his arms. Her lips on his, the touch of her lightly clad body, were meaningless to him, but he returned her kiss with a simulated passion that the strength of his arms underlined. She gasped as he held her.
"You're very strong," she said. Her body wriggled as she spoke. He sensed her fingers unhook, ungrip, and the black chiffon drifted downwards like a black cloud. She wore fashionably little beneath it. Mechanically his hands stroked the cool softness of her back, but his mouth could kiss no more.
"Don't you like me?" asked the girl.
Craig said, "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't feel very-"
He allowed himself to sway on his feet. She grabbed him. It took all her strength to get him to a chair, but at last she did so, and he collapsed into it, and she looked down at him. In the moonlight, it was hard to read her face.
"Pills," Craig whispered. "In my pocket."
He fell back, and at once she took his wrist, felt for his pulse, but the benzedrine he had taken took care of that. It was racing. For a long moment she looked at him, then drew the curtains together and switched on the lights; Craig made no move. She put on her dress and began systematically to search the flat.
Craig let her look for three minutes. She was quick, methodical, and sure, and wary always of him lying in the chair. She held her handbag with her, too, wherever she went ... In time, this one would be deadly. At last she found it necessary to get his keys. They were in his right-hand trouser pocket, and she had to move him. She came up to him, wary as a cat, but he lay quite motionless. Reluctantly she put down her handbag, grasped his shoulders, and heaved. He was too heavy for her. She swore, and heaved again, and this time he came up in a quick surge of power, and one splayed hand pushed under her chin, one held her right arm away from her bag. Joanna found that movement, any movement, brought instant agony. She stayed still.
"You did very well," said Craig. "Very well indeed. But you should have checked to see where my pills were first ... I haven't got any." The hand under her throat moved, brought her to her knees. He let her numbed arm go, reached for her bag, took out the little Biretta automatic. "And you should have kept hold of this," he said. "All the time. It was the only chance you had."
Andrew Royce made no attempt to reach him at all. No dinner invitations, no call to read the gas meter or chat in a bar. Instead, Royce studied the outside of Craig's flat, then worked in the gym every day, and with one of the experts who had visited the school. The expert's field was burglary, and he was a master. Loomis observed his plans and said nothing to Craig. Royce's choice of methods was his own.
He chose a night when Craig went to bed early. Patiently he waited for the lights in the flat to die, then climbed, steady, not hurrying, his body protected by shadow from the dying moon. He found the window of the spare bedroom and felt for burglar alarms. There were none. No wires, no photoelectric cells. The tools the expert had taught him to use worked admirably, and the window catch yielded to him in minutes. Cautiously then, he greased the side of the window, let it slide open, and was inside. Once in, he pulled a mask over his face and moved silently to the door of Craig's bedroom. Royce had considered the problem of the sleeper from the beginning. Loomis had impressed on him how important the document was. Inevitably, it would be hidden. That meant either a long search or forcing Craig into telling him where it was. In either case Craig would have to be put out of action first. Royce looked at the cold chisel he'd used on the window, then dropped it into his pocket. The chisel was dangerous: he might hit too hard. For a job like this it was better to use the hands.
An accident saved Craig. As Royce opened the bedroom door and eased, slowly, noiselessly round it, the phone rang. Craig woke up at once and Royce saw him stir. He leaped for Craig, and his hand, held like an ax blade, struck down with controlled force. (On no account must the man be killed, Loomis had said.) But Craig had flung the covers aside already and the blow was smothered in bedclothes. Royce followed it up with his fist, and the punch caught Craig on the side of the neck, the impact an immediate eruption of pain. Craig groaned, fell back, and Royce leaped for him, but Craig's fall became a spin that took him out of the bed and on to the floor. He scrambled to his feet and the pain stabbed at him, slowing him so that Royce too had time to roll free.
Royce was younger and faster than Craig, and he had not been hit. He was wide awake, and Craig had been asleep. He leaped in again, anxious to get it over, but Craig swayed away from the three-finger strike he aimed at him, and countered with a chop that smashed just below his ribs. Royce groaned and lashed out with a karate kick aimed at the groin. Again Craig swayed, and the shoe scored along the edge of his thigh, but his hand smacked under the heel even so. He levered and pulled, and Royce spun like a top in the air, then his arms smashed down, absorbing the impact of his fall, but Craig still held on to his foot, and any attempt at movement was agony. Craig looked at the masked face on the floor. This was Andrew, he had no doubt, and Andrew was fast and young and tricky—and mad because he'd been beaten. If he let him go, Andrew would immediately start again, and Craig had taken two blows already. Still holding the foot, he limped forward, then his own bare foot flicked, the hard edge seeking the nerve at the base of the neck, and Royce's body stiffened, then relaxed. The phone rang again. Craig picked it up.
"Is that the Mercury Mini Cab Service?" said a voice that would stand no nonsense. "I rang you a minute ago and nobody answered."
"You see it's a bit difficult," said Craig. "We're not on the phone." He hung up. He hadn't finished yet.
Craig rang the bell at the Queen Anne's Gate and the porter answered.
"You're expected," he said, then watched Craig climb the stairs. It was some satisfaction to know that he was limping. Loomis made no mention of it, but for once Craig was glad to sink into an overstuffed armchair and watched the red, eagle-beaked face glower down at him.
"Branch won't do?" he asked.
"Not at maximum risk," said Craig. "He gets excited. It makes him obvious."
"And the girl? This Benson person?"
"Good," said Craig. "Subtle. And she doesn't overdo it. She'd have made it with another man."
Loomis nodded. "And Royce?" he said.
"Excellent," said Craig. "Strong and fast. Tough-minded. A good brain too. He worked it all out."
"Worked what all out?"
"The exercise," said Craig. "He knew there was a good chance this was a test, so he came in from outside—when I was asleep ... I like that. And he knew he'd have to clobber me. Hurt me maybe. That didn't bother him. Even if I turned out to be on his side. He'll do well."