Grierson cursed.
"It's on my hand," he said.
Craig shrugged.
"It's only suntan oil."
He looked at the unconscious steward.
"Let's have his jacket and pants," he said. "They may come in useful."
'Tie him up?"
Craig looked at the steward; tall, soft-muscled, running to fat.
"No," he said. "He's harmless."
Behind the mask, Grierson winced. Craig always reduced things to fundamentals. It was how he had survived. But it left no room for dignity in anybody else.
"Besides," Craig added, "Once he sees he isn't marked he won't want to run away—not without his pants."
At midnight, Craig and Grierson watched Naxos arrive. From somewhere or other Trottia had found him a carnival barge, six oars a side, two cox'ns with crossed boathooks in the prow, the flag of Greece and Venice's lion fluttering at the stern, and beneath a silken canopy supported on four brass rods, Aristides I, the pasha of petroleum, his wife beside him, indolent, beautiful, while launches, gondolas, san-dolos swarmed around them, darting like gnats, the gondolas beaked prows cruel in the lamplight.
"He's mad," said Grierson.
"No," Craig said. "Just big. Bloody big. That means big risks too. And big enemies." "Nikki's friends?"
Craig nodded. "I don't think hell be along himself— he's too conspicuous. But he'll send some pals. Look out for anybody Swyven talks to. Or Trottia. And if you have to handle anybody—keep it quiet." He chuckled. "If you can," he added. 'This place'll be a nine-ring circus."
He looked again at the flotilla. The barge's crew were dressed as eighteenth-century sailors. Andrews, at the helm, wore the tricorn hat, blue coat, bullion epaulettes of a naval lieutenant of the time of George III.
"H you need help, ask Andrews if I'm not there."
"Will do," said Grierson. There was silence as he lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. The flotilla moved up to the steps of the palace, the coxns sprang ashore, hooked on, held the barge steady as the crowd cheered.
"It's extremely vulgar," Grierson said. "But very beautiful." They went back into the ballroom. Both champagne fountains were playing now. Stewards and barmen were poised like greyhounds.
'There's someone else we'll have to watch for,"
Grierson said. The band blared Mozart's Turkish March, and Grierson winced as Naxos came in, Flip holding his hand.
"Her," said Grierson. "Divine Zenocrate over there. She doesn't seem to like you, Craig."
Craig thought of the acid.
I'll watch her," he said. "You watch him.'*
He nodded to where Lord Byron-Swyven limped over in character and bowed to his host and hostess.
"You have all the fun," said Grierson.
Craig went over, talked to Naxos and Flip, and asked about Pia.
"Oh, she'll be along," said Flip. "You know shell be dressed as my twin sister—The poor darling! When she saw me she wanted to wear something else—but I said no. Houris never come in ones, do they, darling?"
"Anything you say, honey," said Naxos. "Some party, eh, John?"
"Fantastic," said Craig. 'Tou forgot to give me a program for the fun and games upstairs."
'The happenings," Fhp said. "We must go up there.
Now."
"No," said Craig. "You go up with me—both together."
"We can't go yet anyway," Naxos said. "We've got to get this lot under way." He nodded at an advancing crowd of guests. "We'll do as you say, John. Meet us here—two o'clock."
Craig nodded and went up the stairs to the balcony. There were fifty people in the room already, and the soft sheen of Flip's half-naked body was vulnerable to them aU. Among them he could see a courtier in crimson velvet, talking to a heutenant in the Navy of His Britannic Majesty, George III. He walked through the rooms filled with actors and dancers, half-heartedly flirting, dancing gavottes, exchanging snuff, tapping each other with their fans while Trottia twittered and fluttered in the midst. The two swordsmen were arranging their fight like a ballet, and talking about football. Only the harpsichord player seemed to be absorbed. He was playing a Bach fugue. "No, no," Trottia screamed. "It should be Scarlatti." The harpsichord player ignored him, and the great structure of sound flowed from his fingers.
Craig went back to the balcony, and evaded a columbine, two gypsies, and three Desdemonas, one of them in
her nightgown. Now there were two hundred people at least, but he spotted Naxos easily enough. This time he had two houris with him, identical in dress. Pia had arrived then. He looked down at the bar and froze. Dominating it was an enormous headsman covered in black. Black shirt, black tights, black boots, black gloves. A black skullcap on his head, and his face was covered from hair to throat in a black mask, but nothing could hide his size. With him were three bravos, chic-looking hoodlums in purple and black, with rapiers and daggers by their sides. The three were drinking champagne, but the black headsman's hands were empty and still. He was watching Naxos. Grierson climbed the stairs, paused by Craig, and lit a cigarette.
"I see we've got company," he said.
Craig nodded, and stood up.
"Go and watch Trottia," he said. "This one's mine."
* Chapter 12 *
Grierson left, and another crowd of dancers swarmed in, masking Naxos and his girls. When the crowd cleared, one houri stood alone, the other was dancing with Naxos. Craig went down the stairs and through the crowd like an arrow. The woman stood motionless, and the dancers stayed carefully back from her as if Naxos had built an invisible wall around her. Her whole body was posed, carefully, to bring out the smooth curving flow of breast and belly and thigh. From the sleek blackness of her hair to her scarlet-painted toes, she was the great Hollywood sex dream incarnate; Ah Baba's girl friend with the magic carpet all revved up and waiting. And yet, Craig thought, the whole act was quite unconscious. She stood like that because she'd been taught to stand like that. If sue sat down she'd cross her legs exactly to their best advantage, breathe in to lift her breasts from their golden cups, because that was what you did; that was what the people paid to see.
"Come and dance, Flip," said Craig. "Okay."
She came into his arms, sensed the hard power in his hands as he touched her, dry and cool on her naked golden back.
"I'm not very good company tonight," said Flip. "Just take it as it comes," said Craig. "You'll be all
right."
"No," she shook her head. "I feel terrible." They danced in silence, and her body relaxed, very slightly, against his.
"How did you know it was me, anyway?" she asked. She paused, then added, "I might have been Pia." "I just knew," said Craig.
"Oh great. If you work at it hard enough you might pay me a compliment."
Her body eased to his, supple, yielding. 'Thanks for trying anyway."
They danced past the bar, where the big headsman stood. Craig felt her shiver. He said nothing.
"I like having you look after me," said Flip. "It makes a girl feel so secure." Her fingers dug into his back. "My God, you're tough."
"I do a lot of dancing," said Craig.
"Go on. Make jokes. You don't know what it's like to need the stuff the way I do," said Flip. "You know what I want to do right now? Scream and scream until even these jerks know there's something the matter. But you're so strong —you wouldn't care about that would you?" He said nothing. "You know something? I think I was wrong about you. I think maybe you're a jerk, too. A good-looking jerk, but still a jerk."
"Put your accent back on," said Craig. "Harry had you disguised as a lady."
She tried to draw free then, to strike at him, but he held her easily, forced her body to dance. At last she said: "Darling I am sorry. I can't think what came over me," and Craig let her go.