"Oh I say," he said. "Look here."
The young man took two cautious steps backwards, beyond the reach of Craig's hands.
"This young woman's ill," said Craig. "For God's sake, come and help me man. You don't need that thing."
"Put her on the floor," said Calvet.
"On the floor?"
The automatic tilted, aimed at a point between Craig's eyes. Slowly, carefully, Craig put the girl down on the floor, bending his head as he did so. She was a slight girl, too thin for his taste but easy enough to carry. Her hair was fine and golden, and her eyes would be blue, or gray, he thought, and waited for Calvet's move.
The young man was fast. He covered the distance to Craig in two silent strides, and the gun-barrel swung. Craig rolled to one side, the gun's sight clipped the skin of his forehead and Craig, balanced on one arm, reached out the other to grab Calvet's wrist, using the force of the descending blow to pull him further downward, twisting the fingers of the wrist open as he pulled until the automatic spilled from them. Calvet countered with a blow at his neck, a chop that would have killed him, but he lay back as it came, and took it, gasping, on the close-packed muscles of his shoulder, the lancing pain loosening his wrist hold. Calvet wriggled free, and aimed a kick at Craig's head, but Craig was already spinning away toward the automatic and the kick went wide. Immediately Calvet hurled himself at Craig, the one chance he had to stop him reaching the gun, and Craig moved with the kind of reflex action that comes only from day after day at the dojo mat, days that grow into months and years. The toe of his shoe landed in the young man's belly as his hands grasped the sailcloth on his shoulders. His leg straightened, his hands heaved, and Calvet hit the wall, smashed from it and was still straightening, looking for his enemy, when the edge of Craig's hand struck at a point just below his nose. He fell then, a slack heap of flesh in paint-stained clothes. Craig got up, winced when he put weight on the shoulder Calvet had hit, and walked over to him, felt his wrist. It was steady enough. He hadn't hit too hard. He tried the girl's wrist then; it was fast and fluttering. Espionage was hardest on innocent bystanders.
He listened for Allen then; but there was no sound. Craig swore, softly but adequately, took some wire from his pocket, and tied up Calvet. His movements were neat and precise, the knots as sure as only a fisherman's knots can be. He looked at the girl again, then picked her up and tied her to the railings of the bed. She'd wanted to be there anyway. Then he began to search Calvet's house. Time was vital, and his movements were swift enough, but he was thorough. Room by room, drawer by drawer, case by case, he searched Calvet's belongings.
First he found money—a drawerful of neat piles of twenty-dollar bills. He put them aside and went on searching: under floorboards, behind cupboards, behind walls that sounded hollow but were only plaster. The radio transmitter he discovered inside the record player. It was a little beauty, neat, light, and portable. He disconnected it and took it back toward the bedroom, then froze. There were footsteps on the stairs. Craig faced the necessity of having to hurt a third human being that evening. The idea neither attracted nor repelled. It was simply a necessity. If he had to do it, he would do it well. The footsteps moved to the bedroom. Craig followed, soundless. Allen stood in the doorway, his eyes moving from the pile of money on the table to the girl on the bed.
"So many good things," said Craig. "You don't know where to start, do you?"
Allen whirled. His movements were clumsy, fuzzy with alcohol. He stared into the flat gray of Craig's eyes that looked at him without pity, hate, or even dislike.
"Where were you?" asked Craig.
"I was scared," said Allen. "I'm all right now."
His gaze went back to the money.
"You've found a fortune," he said.
"Yes," said Craig.
"I mean—we could live the rest of our lives on that," said Allen.
"Yes," said Craig, "we could. There's an R/T set next door. Take it down to the car. Then wait for me."
Allen didn't move. He was looking at the girl now. She was still unconscious, but she'd moved a little, and the movement had pulled back her skirt over her knees. Allen went over to her, pulled it back further, to reveal the black line of her garter against the pale thigh, the neat V of her panties.
"She's all right," he said. "Bit skinny maybe."
His hand moved again, then Craig grabbed his wrist, turned him round.
"I was only looking," said Allen.
"Jesus you're nasty," said Craig. "Take the R/T set to the car. Then wait for me."
"All right," said Allen. "What about the money?"
"I'll take that," said Craig. "And Calvet. Move."
Allen moved, and Craig stuffed the money, the gun, and the steel box into a duffle bag, and slung it over one shoulder. He went to the girl then, untied one wrist, hesitated, then pulled her skirt down over her knees. Calvet next, still unconscious. He eased the limp body over his other shoulder, and started for the stairs. As he went, he noted with satisfaction that his hands were quite steady, he wasn't sweating, and his footsteps were still soundless.
He opened the house door one inch and listened. From down the street came the sound of voices. Allen was talking bad Spanish to a guardia civil. The guardia, talking much better Spanish, was advising Allen to go home. Allen promised to do so, as soon as he could get the car to start, and the guardia left him. Craig counted ten, then moved out into the street. Allen had cleared the back seat of the car and Calvet rested on it, at peace. He looked drunk. Craig covered him with Allen's coat, took Allen's bottle and poured brandy over his face and shirt. The car reeked. He walked over to the co-driver's seat then. The R/T set was on it.
Allen said: "Don't worry. I told the guardia it was a new car radio I was fitting."
"I hope he's as big a fool as you are," said Craig. "Move over."
Reluctantly Allen obeyed, taking the R/T set on his lap, then Craig slung the duffle bag into the back beside Calvet.
"That the money?" Allen asked.
Craig switched the ignition on and drove toward the seashore. At the first corner, he flashed his headlights. A guardia civil stood in a doorway, watching the car. He didn't look stupid. Craig drove on sedately; he wanted no trouble.
They reached the sea road, and parked the car. Once again Allen picked up the R/T set, and this time he held Craig's case as well, and scrambled down toward the beach. Craig followed, the duffle bag over his shoulder, the still body of Calvet in his arms. The cliff was soft soil and they moved quietly, then suddenly Allen struck a patch of shale, and stumbled. Craig swore under his breath, but they reached sand at last, and Allen's boat, and loaded it up and launched it into the dark, whispering sea. Craig scrambled into the bows and took the oars; Allen in the stern held the tiller. The oars squeaked softly as the boat moved out into the Mediterranean, toward the dark mass of Allen's motor-boat, its riding lights clear and brilliant as jewels.
They reached it, tied up, and transferred Calvet, the money, and the R/T set, then Allen's hand moved to the starter switch.
"Wait," said Craig. "Switch off your riding lights."
Allen obeyed, as Craig looked out toward the land, to the thin probe of two headlights, undipped, pushing in to where the Morris was parked. He heard the sound of car doors slammed, and men in uniform moved through the headlight beams, toward the little car. They had guns in their hands.