"Have it tested," said Craig, "or give it back."
Brodski ignored him.
"I would have taken the loss," he said. "But a policeman was here when it happened. You would be surprised, Mr. Reynolds, how often policemen find it necessary to check up on the morality of my little entertainments."
"What you want to avoid is theater critics," said Craig.
"I had to go to New Scotland Yard," said Brodski. "I had to fail to identify Driver. And now you come along and start it all again."
"Who is this Driver?" Craig asked.
Brodski sighed. "A man not unlike yourself who plays cards at Luigi's."
"You mean he can lick Jennifer?"
"I mean he dresses well, as you do, but without the distinction you do. And I suspect his honesty, as I do yours."
"Will he be at Luigi's now?"
"Why?" Brodski asked.
"I'd like to meet him," said Craig. "I mean it's an enormous coincidence—"
"He will be at Luigi's," Brodski said. "Please go away now, Mr. Reynolds."
"All right," said Craig. "I enjoyed the chat. Mind if I give you some advice?"
"Even with a Webley in my hand, I doubt, if I could stop you," said Brodski.
"You ought to put your heavy on a diet."
Jennifer burst into tears.
Craig left then, and walked down the corridor and past the barker.
"Enjoy the show, sir?" he asked.
"I've never seen anything like it in my life," said Craig, and meant every word.
He walked down toward Greek Street and a burly young man who was waiting at the corner.
"Hallo, Mr. Craig," said Arthur Hornsey. "I was hoping I'd run into you again. Lucky I spotted you at the show."
Craig said: "Nein, danke," and kept on walking. He had no time to waste on enthusiastic young men who enjoyed walking trips. It was time to call on another Arthur: Fat Arthur.
6
He went into the cafe and down the stairs. The downstairs tables were all unoccupied, the one aged waitress behind the counter knitted a sock with concentrated venom, as if it were a victim. Craig thought of Madame Defarge and opened the door to the private room. The old crone made no attempt to stop him. The room was empty. In the middle of it was a table, scarred with cigarette burns, stained with a chain mail of overfilled glasses; above it a trio of 150-watt lamps threw light on to it. It was hot in the room, and it smelled of whisky and cigarettes and excited men. But now it was empty. There were cards on the table; two poker hands—a royal flush and a full house, aces and eights. Beside them were fifty pounds in notes and silver.
The room was windowless, and very still. The blaring Soho noise—wide boys in search of money, mugs too late aware of its loss—had faded to a hungry whimper. Craig moved to a cupboard in front of him. It was shut with a swivel bolt from outside, but he moved warily, his fingers feather-soft as he turned the swivel, then dived to one side
as the door swung open. Inside the cupboard, hanging neatly by his collar from a coat hook, was Driver. He had the dazed, innocent look of an insurance clerk playing Find the Lady. Even without the switchblade protruding from his heart it was apparent that he was dead. Craig reached inside his pocket, and Driver swung dully from the coat hook, his heels rapped softly on the back of the cupboard as Craig removed his wallet. There were ten ten-pound notes in it, but no twenty-dollar bills. Craig reached forward to return the wallet, and the heels drummed again as a voice behind him spoke.
"That Driver," said the voice. "He never could stand losing money. I suppose that's why you killed him. Or did he find out you were cheating?"
Craig turned, very slowly, his hands by his sides. In the doorway were Fat Arthur and, behind him, for the doorway was narrow, two other poker players. In his right hand Arthur carried a piece of lead pipe bound with insulating tape. Craig couldn't see the hands of the others.
"It's up to us to make a citizens' arrest," Arthur said. "What you've done is a felony. We're bound by law to take you in." He smiled, and the smile was a blend of joy and wonder, as if he'd backed three long-shot winners, then found a gold watch. "You only get one chance like that," said Fat Arthur, and slapped his palm with the lead pipe.
"I didn't kill him," said Craig.
"After we get through with you you won't care what you did," Fat Arthur said. "We ain't women and there's three of us—and we're going to hurt you, boy. Hurt you bad."
As he spoke, he sidled into the room. All his experience told him that Craig should cower now, but Craig stood his ground. Fat Arthur tapped his palm again with the pipe, and it made a noise like bone breaking, then he stepped forward again as his two followers filled the doorway. And it was at that moment that Craig jumped him, erupting into him with a kick that swung all the way from his thigh so that the edge of his shoe sank into the fat man's belly, slamming him back into the two men in the doorway, and still Craig came in at him, to grab one meaty forearm and swing him round. The whole weight of Craig's body went into it, but even so it was like throwing a horse as Arthur spun round the pivot of Craig's body, then screamed as Craig threw his weight the other way, and the fat man's arm broke, the lead pipe fell, and Craig let him drop. He moved toward the other two, and one lashed at Craig with a razor that split his vicuna coat from shoulder to forearm, then spun into the other man as Craig's elbow smashed into his throat. And the other man, off-balance, looked at the murder in Craig's eyes, and dropped the cosh he was carrying. There was a sound from the stairs, and Craig spun the cosh man round, holding him before him as a shield as Hornsey stepped carefully down the stairs. He looked at the razor man writhing on the floor, both hands clasped to his throat, and at Fat Arthur flat on his back in the doorway, looking like a mountain range.
"Is everything all right?" asked Hornsey, and behind him appeared the official feet and the elderly raincoat of Detective Sergeant Millington.
"Everything," said Craig, "is fine."
"We heard a noise," reported Hornsey. "This chap and I were upstairs; then there was a sound rather like a building collapsing—"
"That would be Fat Arthur," said Craig.
"Then everybody left, except this chap and myself. You're all right?"
He and Millington walked toward Craig, and the man Craig held accepted Millington's handcuffs with relief.
"They were trying to frame me," Craig said. "There's a dead man in there."
Millington looked, and went at once to the telephone.
"They've cut your coat," said Hornsey. "What a terrible thing."
Craig looked down at the long, straight cut, then at the razor man, now kneeling on the floor. He pulled the razor man to his feet; the man yelled at what the agony of movement did to his throat, but no sound came.
"Get your voice back," said Craig. "I want you to tell me things." He turned to the man who had held the cosh. "I want you all to tell me things," he said, then added to Hornsey: "I liked this coat."
"It's awfully you," Hornsey said.
Millington put down the phone. "Murder squad's on its way." he said. "I'm sorry. I had to."
Craig nodded. "Our chaps will want a look, too," he said.
"That's fixed," said Millington.
"I'll be off then," said Craig. He looked at his split sleeve. "I'd better buy a raincoat I suppose."
He left then, and a face appeared above the counter. It was an old and evil face, with hair like moldy straw topped with a waitress's lacy cap. "I haven't seen one like him since they topped Big Harry Preston back in 1927," the waitress said. "I never thought I would. Gorgeous, isn't he, Mr. Millington?"
"You're a witness," Millington said.