Craig, and treated him exactly as she had treated Grierson.
She watched Craig slump at his desk and frown at the neatly stacked mound of files that waited for him. She watched the sure strength of his hands, the violence that lurked beneath the elegant suit. He's left Saville Row, she thought. That looks like Sloane Street. Well, well. Let's hope he's not going mod on us. She looked at the face then: a strong face, with a good nose, the mouth fuller than you would expect, and pale-gray eyes, eyes that told you nothing, eyes the color of cold seas. She could never love this man: he was too strong for her, but she could hate him, for Grierson's sake.
"Mr. Loomis asked me to tell you to stand by, sir," she said. "Would you like coffee?"
"No thank you," said Craig. There would be enough coffee when Loomis received him. He looked at the files. Today it was Morocco. Drugs, homosexuals, banks, smuggling, prostitution, bars. Something for everybody.
Loomis sent for him at ten thirty. He went into the great man's room with its superb stucco ceiling and sash windows, sat or became immersed in a huge overstuffed armchair covered in flowered chintz, and looked at the man who faced him across a Chippendale desk. Loomis was vast: a gross monster of a man with a face the color of an angry sunset, pale manic eyes, red hair dusted with white like snow on a wheat field, and an arrogant nose. In rage he was both spectacular and cunning. He reminded Craig of a charging rhinoceros with a high I.Q.
Loomis said: "Pour coffee," and Craig fought his way out of the chair to obey. The coffee was as hot, as dark, as bitter as Loomis himself. He put a cup down on Loomis's desk, then waited as the fat man, grunting with effort, produced a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket and gave one to Craig as if it were rubies.
"Got them from the minister," said Loomis, "duty-free."
"Thanks," said Craig. The cigarette was cracked in the middle.
"Smoke it then," Loomis said. "Ruin your wind. I don't care." Craig broke the cigarette in two, and lit the larger end.
"Damn silly thing's happened," said Loomis. "Up in the Lake District. Somebody's murdered a Chinaman." Craig choked on the cigarette.
"You don't by any chance think it's funny?" Loomis asked.
"No, no. A little unusual," said Craig.
"Very," said Loomis. "The only Chinaman for miles and somebody goes and murders him. Belts him over the head with an ice ax. One blow. It was still stuck in him when they found him."
"Any leads?" asked Craig.
"Oh yes. Three fellers drove up in one of those beetles—a Volkswagen. Two got out, went into the cafe where the Chinky worked, and spoke to him. The Chinky threw a trayful of food at them and jumped through the window. The third feller belted him with the ice ax. At least that's what the Cumberland police think. The witnesses aren't all that reliable."
"They go off in the Volkswagen?"
"No," said Loomis. "A Volkswagen van picked
them up. The police have it now—and the car." "Fingerprints?"
Loomis shook his head. "They were both absolutely clean," he said.
"One blow could be luck or it could be skill," said Craig. "No fingerprints at all—that means experts." He paused. "You did say an ice ax?"
Loomis grunted.
"Don't they use them for glaciers?" Craig asked. "They do."
"I used to live seventy miles from the Lakes," said Craig. "I didn't think they had glaciers."
"They don't," said Loomis. "But the three blokes were dressed as climbers. They had all sorts of kit. The ice ax was a mistake really. Except they kept it hidden in the car." He paused for a moment, and Craig saw that he was struggling for words. This surprised Craig. The fat man was usually much too fluent.
Loomis said at last: "If you laugh at what I'm going to say I'll—" He hesitated, then said: "No. It has to be said anyway. A Russian trawler put into Whitehaven the day of the kill. Minor engine trouble. They let a few men ashore. Whitehaven's twenty miles from Keswick. The trawler sailed seventy minutes after the murder."
"Russians?" said Craig, a question in his voice. "Murdering a Chinaman? In Keswick?"
"These men were pros," said Loomis. "Quick, neat job. One blow, no fingerprints, no murderers even. We can't touch them."
"But they were seen," said Craig. "They killed in front of witnesses. The Russian Executive ne v .r does that."
"Maybe they wanted us to know," said Loomis. "Did any of the witnesses suggest they were Russians?"
"Very British, they said they looked. But they would for a job like this." "And the Chinese?"
"His name's Soong, James Soong. Thirty. Hong Kong passport. I've got their police working on it."
"He came here straight from Hong Kong?"
"If the passport's telling the truth," said Loomis. "He'd worked in Keswick for six months. Big, tough lad, their police say. But kept himself to himself. No friends. No enemies either. Except a bloke with an ice ax."
"But if the Russians really did do this—"
"I know, cock. Right in our own back yard. I don't think I could stand it," said Loomis. His vast body heaved in uncertainty, and the chair beneath him groaned.
"I'm sending you up there," he said. "Take Linton—then it can all be police business if things get normal."
"Normal?"
"As in 'News of the World,' " said Loomis wearily. "Even Chinamen must do some things that make people want to kill them. Let's hope it's that."
"And if it isn't?"
"I'll have those bloody Russians—" Loomis said, and his voice was a battle cry. "I'll have them on toast for breakfast."
2
The Mark X took them North in a smooth surge of power, and Detective Chief Inspector Linton was content to listen as Craig talked and drove. It was nice doing a job with Craig, he thought. Always a good car, and food and drink in proportion. For the survivors.
. Craig said: "Loomis thinks there may be something in it."
"He's got no evidence," said Linton. "No real evidence."
"He's got a hunch," said Craig. "I think it's a good one. If we find he's right he'll hit the roof."
Linton sighed. "There's one thing," he said. "Soong's passport was forged. We had it checked at the forensic lab."
"Does Loomis know?"
"Yes," said Linton. "I telephoned him myself. He was delighted."
They drove on to Keswick, and stayed at the George, an old, staid, leathery, overstuffed hotel like a fat colonel, where the food was excellent and very English, and the central heating nonexistent. Linton approved of it, and Craig noted only that
from time to time he slept, or was fed. The job had begun to fascinate him.
Their suite had a small sitting room, and it was here that they talked to the walking party, seeing them one at a time, taking them patiently through the story, over and over again, stolidly enduring the timid complaints of the educated and respectable young when confronted by policemen investigating murder. They learned two things. The first came from Dr. Arthur Hornsey, aged twenty-seven, the elder statesman of the party, now engaged in research in the department of psychology at the University of Lancaster. Hornsey had observed the two men in the restaurant well. Craig showed him a series of photographs—a weird assortment of Russians and Russian-looking types, including dancers, strong men, Orthodox priests, and a genuine prince now working in advertising, and he identified the two men in the restaurant at once. Neither picture was good, and in neither case did the men wear climbing clothes, but Hornsey was sure although Linton pressed him hard.