"Now nobody can see us," she said. "Shall we dance here instead?"
Her arms came round him again, and her mouth found his, and she kissed him with a demanding skill that brought his body to flame. Her hands loosed the button of his coat and slipped inside it, roamed delicately over his ribs, across his back. Craig wondered if he was being searched, in the most tactful way possible, to see if he carried a gun. At last he said: "You dance pretty well yourself."
"I'm very fond of dancing," she said. "See?"
Her arms reached up for him again, but he took hold of her wrists, holding her gently, but with a strength she couldn't resist.
"Not here," he said.
"But I like it here."
She tried to move her arms, and discovered that she could not.
"I've got to talk with Harry again," Craig said. "Business."
"Darling, please stay," she said. "No," said Craig.
"Ji you don't stay, 111 scream," she said, and again struggled to free her hands.
"This lot are past getting their kicks out of screaming," said Craig. She opened her mouth then, and he added: "You scream, and I'll belt you." Her mouth shut and he left her. As he went he heard a gasping sound, weeping or laughter? It was impossible to tell.
He raced for the companionway that led to his cabin.
The corridor was deserted. He stopped by his cabin door. The thread across the lock was gone. Craig flattened himself by the bulkhead near the door, and listened in concentration. There was a faint sound from inside the cabin. He waited, tense and ready, then heard the clatter of footsteps ascending the stairs from the afterdeck. Pia had got over her laughter, or her tears. For a moment he toyed with the idea of going in, facing the man inside, then he rejected it. His cover was good, the chances of anyone finding the gun in the suitcase unlikely. He sped down the corridor into the saloon. Phihppa was there alone, looking through a picture-frame window at the lights of the harbor. She spun round at once, and looked at Craig.
"Oh," she said, "it's you. I thought you were giving Pia dancing lessons."
"It turned out she was teaching me," said Craig. He listened, straining for a sound from outside. Philippa came up to him, her arm reached out and she shut the door.
T can't stand open doors," she said. "I have too many secrets."
She turned then, looked hard at Craig. "Pia couldn't teach you anything," she said. "Have a drink."
"No thanks," said Craig.
"Make me one then. Scotch. Lots of Scotch. Lots of ice."
Craig made her drink, and she swallowed it almost fiercely, gagging it down as if that were the only way she could take it.
"I don't do that often," she said.
T can see that," said Craig.
"And Harry doesn't know."
"But I doF'
"Why not?" she said. "You're supposed to be looking after me, aren't you?"
"I poured your Scotch, didn't I?" said Craig. "Why do you want to fight me, Mrs. Naxos?"
Her head jerked up then, and she gulped down the rest of the Scotch.
"Again," she said.
Craig made her another one.
"What were you on?" he asked. "Heroin?"
She slammed the glass down, Scotch slopping on to the table, and her blue eyes were dark with hate. Craig looked back at her, his gaze steady. She began to shake.
"I had to find out about you," he said. "I had to learn where you can be hurt."
"And that's where," Philippa said. "I still miss it. Scotch isn't any good. I still miss it."
"How long have you been off it?"
"A year," she said. "A lifetime. I could wish you didn't have to keep me alive, John."
The door opened then, and Naxos came in. For once he looked old, tired.
He slumped heavily into a chair.
"Make me a drink, honey," he said.
I'll get it," said Craig.
"But Philippa had already opened a cupboard and was pouring raid.
"Make one for John, too," said Naxos.
"I've got one," said Craig, and picked up Philippa's glass. Naxos took the drink his wife gave him, swallowed once, then again, and held it out for more.
"I've told him we're going to Venice," he said.
Philippa shrugged.
"I can't stop you," Craig said. "But I don't think you realize what these people are capable of."
As he spoke the door opened again, and Pia came in, with the count, who seemed drunk, and Swyven, who seemed anxious.
"They've been in business for a long time," Craig continued. They usually manage to get the things they want—and at their own price."
They won't this time," said Naxos.
The count slumped into the chair Naxos had used. Craig was conscious of a feeling of outrage, as if a scullion had dared to occupy a throne.
"I should like a drink, if it is permitted," said the
count.
"Help yourself," said Naxos. "We're through talking business."
Swyven began to mix three drinks, and his hands shook so that the decanter clattered on the glasses.
"Business," said the count. "That is all the English are interested in—eh, Pia?"
"Oh, be quiet," said Pia. "Why can't you mind your own affairs?"
"They look like men, they even try to act like men, but there is no manhood in a cash register," said the count.
"Tavel, for heaven's sake," said Swyven.
"My dear Mark, I do not include you," said the count. "You are a gentleman."
Craig sipped again at his Scotch, then turned to put down the glass, and in doing so faced both Swyven and the count.
"Craig is not a gentleman," said Tavel.
"That's right," said Craig. "I'm a businessman. You said so yourself."
"You tried to seduce Pia—" said the count.
"For God's sake," said Pia.
"—then in the middle of it you got bored and you went off to talk business."
"Did she tell you this?" Naxos asked.
"I was watching. I saw it all," said the count.
Philippa tried to speak then, but Naxos shook his head, the suspicion of a grin on his face.
"You saw it?" Craig asked.
"I did," said the Count de Tavel.
T wonder what that makes you?" said Craig. "Don't the French have a word for it?"
Tavel leaped from his chair, his whole body aimed at Craig's throat, his hands squeezing hard. Craig grabbed his wrists, pulled up, then hard down, and the hands came away. Tavel continued the movement and his hands were free. He brought his knee up, missed the blow at the crotch, and hit Craig's stomach. Craig gasped, sagged back, and Tavel came in with his fists. Craig took one blow on the shoulder, another on the cheekbone, and staggered back to the bulkhead. Tavel leaped in to finish the fight, slamming a hard right for Craig's jaw but Craig was already sagging at the knees, his head rolling on his chest. Tavel's fist brushed his hair and slammed into the bulkhead. The count screamed, and then the scream was chopped off short as Craig's fist came down like a mallet on the side of his neck. He fell hard, twitched once, and was still.
"What the hell is going on?" said Craig.
"Really it's too bad of him," said Swyven, and his hand groped out for a drink.
"You'd better wait till you stop shaking," Craig said. "And anyway it's my drink."
"I'm most awfully sorry," said Swyven.
"That's all right,' said Craig. He turned to Naxos, who was wheezing horribly, then the wheezing turned to a roaring laughter that sounded like a mob yelling for blood.
"What the hell—" Craig said again.
"You hit hard," said Swyven.
"Bloody hard," said Pia. "Bim, Bam. Ker-pow."
"He hit me," said Craig.
"He often does. Hit people I mean," said Swyven. "He was in the French army—Algeria, Vietnam, and all that. Nowadays he picks fights with people and hits them. It's a sort of emotional release."