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toward the cabinet when another door opened and Herman Radnitz came in, closing the door behind him.
Craig looked at the squat, fat man, startled and surprised. He felt a tremor of uneasiness as Radnitz regarded him, the slate grey eyes under their hooded lids surveying him with a bleak, searching stare.
“You are Alan Craig?” Radnitz asked in his hard guttural voice.
“Yes.”
“You may want to look at these disgusting things,” Radnitz said and handed Craig a large envelope.
Craig took the envelope, but continued to stare at Radnitz.
“I don’t understand,” he said uneasily. “I was expecting Mr. Lindsey.”
“Look at them!” Radnitz snapped. “I have no time to waste!” He walked over to one of the occasional tables, selected a cigar, cut it carefully, then lit it. He walked over to the window and looked down at the passing traffic.
Craig looked at the envelope, lifted the flap and drew out six glossy photographic prints. One glance stopped his heartbeat for a split second, then his heart began to race and he felt icy sweat break out on his face. He shuffled through the prints, then returned them to the envelope and put the envelope down on one of the tables. His first thought was that his life had ended. He would leave the hotel, return to his apartment and kill himself. Just how he would do it, he had no idea, but he would do it.
Radnitz turned and regarded him.
“On the back of the envelope is a list of people who will be sent these photographs,” he said. “Read it.”
Craig remained motionless, not looking at Radnitz, his face ashen, sick to his soul.
“Read it!” Radnitz said again.
Slowly, Craig picked up the envelope. Neatly typed were the names of those people who loved and respected him. His mother . . . his sister . . . his grandmother . . . Harry Matthews who had partnered him in winning the Rackets Championship at Eton . . . Father Brian Selby who had given him his first Communion John Brassey, his Oxford coach who had predicted a brilliant career for him . . . and, of course, Mervin Warren.
“I want a photograph of Formula ZCX,” Radnitz said.
That should not be difficult. I have made your task fairly simple.” He crossed the room, opened a drawer and took from It a small camera in a soft leather zip case. “This camera is entirely automatic, Lay the formula on a flat surface, stand immediately above it and take ten photographs. You will bring the camera containing the film to the Hilton Hotel, Washington and give it to Mr. Lindsey. When he is satisfied the photographs are in order, he will give you the negatives of these disgusting things and all the copies. Is that understood? If you fail, copies of this filth will be mailed to the people listed on the envelope.”
“How―how did you get these―photos?” Craig asked in a husky whisper.
Radnitz shrugged.
“Your friend, Jerry Smith is one of the many creatures I have to employ. Take the camera and leave me.”
“The formula is useless,” Craig said desperately. “Everyone knows that. You are forcing me to . . .”
“You will be at the Hilton Hotel a week from today . . . the 26th,” Radnitz said. “If you don’t have the photographs of the formula . . .” He shrugged and left the room.
Craig stood still, clutching the camera. He remained like that until Ko-Yu came into the room with his coat. Then he picked up the envelope, snatched his coat from the Japanese servant and hurriedly left the hotel.
Jonathan Lindsey had been Radnitz’s Chief of Operations for the past ten years. He drew a salary of $ 100,000 a year, and earned every dollar of it. Although he was sixty years of age he kept himself in first class trim. He was tall and lean, a nondrinker and a non-smoker, and he had a nimble, shrewd brain and a soulless mind. Suave, smooth, with perfect manners, he frequented the Embassies of the world, and was on friendly and even familiar terms with several of the crowned heads of Europe. As a front
Craig looked at the squat, fat man, startled and surprised. He felt a tremor of uneasiness as Radnitz regarded him, the slate grey eyes under their hooded lids surveying him with a bleak, searching stare.
“You are Alan Craig?” Radnitz asked in his hard guttural voice.
“Yes.”
“You may want to look at these disgusting things,” Radnitz said and handed Craig a large envelope.
Craig took the envelope, but continued to stare at Radnitz.
“I don’t understand,” he said uneasily. “I was expecting Mr. Lindsey.”
“Look at them!” Radnitz snapped. “I have no time to waste!” He walked over to one of the occasional tables, selected a cigar, cut it carefully, then lit it. He walked over to the window and looked down at the passing traffic.
Craig looked at the envelope, lifted the flap and drew out six glossy photographic prints. One glance stopped his heartbeat for a split second, then his heart began to race and he felt icy sweat break out on his face. He shuffled through the prints, then returned them to the envelope and put the envelope down on one of the tables. His first thought was that his life had ended. He would leave the hotel, return to his apartment and kill himself. Just how he would do it, he had no idea, but he would do it.
Radnitz turned and regarded him.
“On the back of the envelope is a list of people who will be sent these photographs,” he said. “Read it.”
Craig remained motionless, not looking at Radnitz, his face ashen, sick to his soul.
“Read it!” Radnitz said again.
Slowly, Craig picked up the envelope. Neatly typed were the names of those people who loved and respected him. His mother . . . his sister . . . his grandmother . . . Harry Matthews who had partnered him in winning the Rackets Championship at Eton . . . Father Brian Selby who had given him his first Communion John Brassey, his Oxford coach who had predicted a brilliant career for him . . . and, of course, Mervin Warren.
“I want a photograph of Formula ZCX,” Radnitz said.
That should not be difficult. I have made your task fairly simple.” He crossed the room, opened a drawer and took from It a small camera in a soft leather zip case. “This camera is entirely automatic, Lay the formula on a flat surface, stand immediately above it and take ten photographs. You will bring the camera containing the film to the Hilton Hotel, Washington and give it to Mr. Lindsey. When he is satisfied the photographs are in order, he will give you the negatives of these disgusting things and all the copies. Is that understood? If you fail, copies of this filth will be mailed to the people listed on the envelope.”
“How―how did you get these―photos?” Craig asked in a husky whisper.
Radnitz shrugged.
“Your friend, Jerry Smith is one of the many creatures I have to employ. Take the camera and leave me.”
“The formula is useless,” Craig said desperately. “Everyone knows that. You are forcing me to . . .”
“You will be at the Hilton Hotel a week from today . . . the 26th,” Radnitz said. “If you don’t have the photographs of the formula . . .” He shrugged and left the room.
Craig stood still, clutching the camera. He remained like that until Ko-Yu came into the room with his coat. Then he picked up the envelope, snatched his coat from the Japanese servant and hurriedly left the hotel.
Jonathan Lindsey had been Radnitz’s Chief of Operations for the past ten years. He drew a salary of $ 100,000 a year, and earned every dollar of it. Although he was sixty years of age he kept himself in first class trim. He was tall and lean, a nondrinker and a non-smoker, and he had a nimble, shrewd brain and a soulless mind. Suave, smooth, with perfect manners, he frequented the Embassies of the world, and was on friendly and even familiar terms with several of the crowned heads of Europe. As a front
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