Greek Fire

  It was out now. If she had not taken the point before, it was here plainly stated. Manos’s take-over bid did not stop at political parties.

  She sipped her wine and looked at him over the top of her glass.

  “Don’t you think, Jon, that it would be better to leave talking of that until a little time has gone by?”

  “Naturally you’re upset. Naturally you want time to adjust yourself. We all do. But I didn’t wish you to be in any doubt as to the way I feel. My holding back has been entirely out of loyalty for George.…”

  “Has anything been seen of the man who—did this thing?”

  “Vanbrugh? He hasn’t been caught yet, if that’s what you mean. But he will be.”

  “It’s twenty-four hours.”

  Manos’s eyes had become smaller and colder. “ You knew him well, didn’t you?”

  Anya shrugged. “ I knew him. Because George asked me to, I made a friend of him.”

  “He regretted that later, didn’t he?”

  “Who, George? I don’t think so.”

  Manos finished his drink and poured himself another. “ I happened to be at Heracles House when he came back from visiting you the day before yesterday. He was very angry. He said little to me, but I gathered that he had quarrelled with you.”

  Anya leaned her elbow on the mantelshelf. “Dear Jon, between a man and a woman things like that can always happen. It’s quite true he thought I’d gone too far in encouraging Gene Vanbrugh. So he was jealous. That did no harm. I should only have had more flowers, more presents when he came to his senses. But alas, that did not happen, cannot now ever happen.”

  Manos said: “ I’m glad to know there was no foundation in it. Glad for myself, of course. And glad for you. I did not see how you could possibly betray all the things we have been working for these last ten years.”

  Anya said: “What exactly have we all been working for these last ten years?”

  They stared at each other, and ultimately it was Manos who made the little disclaiming gesture. “Need you ask? For the good of Greece. But this man Vanbrugh will be caught—I’ve no doubt at all.”

  “Why?”

  He walked across the room, his shoes toeing in. “ In politics, money and diplomacy will not always do everything. Political life is rough sometimes. I used to argue with George. He always preferred to exercise his power through money if he could. Sometimes he could not—and then he would leave it to me.”

  “And you?”

  “In my legal career I have made contacts where contacts sometimes are invaluable. Little jobs can be done at a price—and no questions asked.”

  “You mean the Spaniard?”

  “So George told you that. It seems——”

  “Why did you take me to the Little Jockey the night before it happened?”

  “How can one explain these impulses? Curiosity, bravado, a wish to see these people for myself.…” Manos made another of his gestures, dismissing it with his plump hands like a legal technicality. “What is important is that I have not left it entirely to the police to trace this Vanbrugh.”

  When he talked he moved like a dancer, a slow step here, a quick step there; it was a trait that had always amused her. Now it no longer amused her.

  “And when did you—decide not to leave it entirely to the police?”

  “Monday evening.”

  “Did George tell you to?”

  “No. Sometimes he would hesitate too long. In this case I hesitated too long also.”

  “Is it without any doubt that this man killed him?”

  “He was clever enough to remove his finger prints, but Michael’s evidence alone will convict him.”

  “Michael saw the blow struck?”

  “No, but everything else. Have no doubt, my dear. Vanbrugh will be found, alive or dead.”

  She came back to the supper table, picked up a plate and put it over another, slid her used knife and fork on to them. “Forgive me, Jon, I think I am going to bed soon. All this has greatly upset me.…”

  “Of course.” Smiling with his teeth and talking all the time, he allowed her to see him to the door. He took two little side steps and bent to kiss her hand. “Don’t forget what I said, Anya.”

  “About what?”

  “About ourselves.”

  “No.… No, I’ll not forget.”

  His smile encompassed her breasts, her shoulders, her neck and face and eyes, and then slipped politely past her to take in again the handsome room he was leaving. “I suppose you haven’t heard—you will not have heard yet how any of the money has been left?”

  “To his children, I expect,” she said. “ In trust for his children.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “I don’t know. I hope none of it has been left to me.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  “You heard?”

  “A good deal of it.” Gene moved away from the blind. “The man outside hasn’t spoken to him. They’re obviously not sure themselves.”

  “It was Jon Manos who did this—not George.”

  In silence they cleared away the things. Then she washed up and he wiped.

  He said: “Do you care anything for Manos?”

  “How could I? A man like that!”

  “He has George’s bad qualities without his good.”

  “He could never lead Greece. He can only buy the gangster and the bully.”

  “Which he appears to have done pretty efficiently of late. I don’t think we should under-rate him.”

  “I don’t under-rate him but he has no hopes of ever taking George’s place!”

  After a minute he said: “Was it true, what you told Manos, that you allowed me to make the running on instructions from George?”

  “Not instructions. But he thought it a good thing.”

  “I see.”

  She said: “And did you first ‘make the running with me,’ as you call it, to find out more about him?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully.

  He put down a plate. “ I think we’ve come rather a long way in a week.”

  “All your invitations to me were—part of this policy?”

  “Of course. As all your acceptances were?”

  “I didn’t come to Delphi because of what George had told me to do! You heard. We quarrelled because of it.”

  He took up another plate. “I didn’t ask you to Delphi to find out about George. By that time I was in love with you.”

  “But you—went on helping this Spanish girl?”

  “It was something I’d promised her—and myself—before I even met you.”

  She stopped. “ I asked that out of jealousy. It’s a feeling I have never had before.”

  He put his hand on her arm and turned her gently round. Her eyes were warm.

  She said against his mouth: “So I think I love you too.”

  When they separated it was as if they had run up five flights. His fingers were trembling. She leaned against the chromium sink.

  She said: “And yet—can you understand it?—in spite of this and in spite of what we have said, I don’t want—anything here tonight.”

  “You mean, this flat?”

  “His flat. He is—to me he is still here. You said this morning that he had come between us. He cannot help but be between us here. Everything reminds me. I am still part of his belonging. Are you superstitious?”

  “No.”

  “Neither am I. But there are some things that one …”

  She stopped and looked at him.

  He said: “What’s between us is too important to begin wrong. I’ve confidence enough in my chances of getting clear to let this opportunity by if you think it right we should, for the right reasons. But I make one condition.”

  “What?”

  “That we stop talking as if this was something temporary. Whatever else, it isn’t temporary. It’s the big thing for me—like no other ever. I don’t have to say it again, do I?”


  She answered: “I think it is the first time you have ever said it.”

  The plumber had finished his evening meal, and although his children were still up and making a noise, his wife was out, so he enjoyed his daily paper in more detail than usual. It was the warmest evening of the year, and he was regretting he had not gone out for a glass of mastica with his friends, when something he read took his attention, not solely because it was in blacker type. (Telmi was a great paper for bigger and blacker type.)

  “The murderer was last seen at a ceremony held to commemorate the 50th Anniversary of the founding of the newspaper Aegis, from whose offices he made his escape on being recognised. In the interests of fair play we forbear to comment on a situation in which a man such as this, a notorious criminal long wanted by the police, finds himself in the company of high-placed Government supporters, entertained by them, on the best of terms with them, while the blood is still wet on his hands from the commission of his latest and vilest crime.”

  The paragraph puzzled the plumber. He took out the penknife he had found and stared at it and then re-read the paragraph twice more. The man with the beard stopping him on the street corner—did that mean anything? And—in spite of his denial—the voice he had heard in the flat?

  “It’s no good,” said the constable, next morning. “ The sergeant’s busy. Tell me what you have to say and I will tell him.”

  “He is my cousin,” said the plumber sadly. “ It is a family affair.”

  “Family affairs can wait until the sergeant is off duty. That he will be at six o’clock. You can see him then.”

  “Certain family matters,” said the plumber, “demand immediate discussion.”

  Flies hummed in the lazy sunbeams that fell through the shutters of the dusty police station. Nothing else stirred.

  The plumber added: “I have come here specially to your station, neglecting my work, in the heat of the day. D’you suppose I would go to that trouble without cause?”

  The policeman scratched his shirt sleeve. “ What is it all about? Your wife? Your daughter? His? Tell me, then I will judge.”

  “I’m sorry, it is a private matter. But I will tell you it may be to do with the police also.”

  The plumber had been skilful in the way he had worded his argument. Affinity and consanguinity meant much.

  “At four,” the policeman said, but speculatively.

  “Now,” said the plumber.

  The flies buzzed drearily and the policeman irritably flicked one away.

  “Someone is dead,” said the plumber, playing his last card. “ It is a matter I must discuss with the sergeant as man to man. Then it may be for someone higher up still.”

  “Well, well,” said the policeman. “ Wait here. I will see.”

  Major Kolono was just beginning his lunch when the call came through.

  “What? What? Who is it? Speak up! What information? Who gave it you? Yes, of course, if it is of value. But is it of value? Very well, I’m listening!”

  He listened. He said: “Where was it found? Number what? Flat 4. This plumber found it? What was he doing there? … I see. Wait a minute, the address is familiar. I will just make sure about that. Hold the line.”

  He walked into his office and took up another phone. “Find out who lives at Flat 4, number 11, Baronou Street.” He waited until the information came through, then stumped back to the other telephone.

  “You fool!” he said with considerable pleasure into the receiver. “Don’t you know who lives at that address? It is Mlle Stonaris, M. Lascou’s mistress. She was at this Anniversary Reception on Tuesday night at the Aegis offices and would naturally receive any gift which was being presented on such an occasion. What does it matter where the plumber found it? In any case her flat has already been searched. What? I say it has already been searched! Send your plumbers about his business and attend to your own!”

  He slammed the receiver down and poured himself another half glass of wine, to which he added iced water. Then he sat down to his interrupted pepóni. But towards the end of the meal certain thoughts began to stir in his mind, like frogs in a pool after the ripples of the stone have settled.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was by far the hottest day of the year so far in Athens. For the first time the sun was a presence to be reckoned with, an injection into the blood-stream of the city. Pulses beat faster, blood flowed hotter and thinner, shadows developed substantial architectures to be sought before they shrank at noon. So now it would go on each day, iron hot in the morning, punitive almost until dark, changeless through the summer until the parched city was swept with the storms of autumn.

  But in Anya’s flat, with the windows open and the jalousies down, it was only pleasantly warm. She went out early. He did not like her calling on Mme Lindos again, but there was no escape for it. To pass the time while she was gone he read the morning paper through to see if there was anything fresh relating to Lascou’s death or to himself. There was nothing new, but on the back paper his eyes suddenly came on a paragraph headed ‘Spaniard’s Death.’ ‘Philip Tolosa, 39 year old Spanish dancer and harpist, was found gravely injured in the street outside his hotel window from which he had apparently jumped or fallen. He died on the way to hospital. Tolosa is the second of a troupe of Spanish dancers and entertainers to meet his death in an accident since the troupe arrived in Greece three weeks ago. His brother was knocked down and killed by a car, which failed to stop, in Galatea Street on the 12th. Mme Nicolou, proprietress of the boarding house, said that Tolosa had brooded a great deal over his brother’s death and seemed to be unable to get it off his mind. An inquiry will be held tomorrow.”

  Gene folded the paper. A contrived accident? It seemed unlikely. No one now had anything to gain by his death. For ten days Philip Tolosa had been working himself into a frame of mind from which there was no return.

  And Maria? Safe by now. She was the only one of the three that mattered.

  It was noon when Anya returned, bringing his new passport. It was not a bad copy. He did not think it would satisfy the Deuxième Bureau, but it would pass the casual examination of a frontier officer. The photograph was no worse than the original.

  “And Sophia?”

  “She has had word from Nafplion that it is all right as far as there.”

  “So tomorrow morning I leave.”

  “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

  “I wish you could come with me.”

  She said: “ When you are free let me know where you are, that you’re alive and well. That is the first, all-important thing. When that is so, then—maybe— we can begin to plan.”

  They had their mid-day meal near one of the shuttered windows. They ate and talked in a filtered, aquarium light, but more yellow, thicker, as if it was a world of sunfish. They ate a cold chicken which she had bought, and zucchinis and a mixed salad, and drank a white Tour la Reine.

  They didn’t talk much. There was still eighteen hours for planning. Just now it was a warm and friendly companionship that didn’t need words. It was an astonishing advance in their relationship—of far greater import than the mere physical act of love would have been.

  By the time they finshed, traffic in the street outside was drying up like a trickle of water in sand, pedestrians almost disappeared, more blinds came down, dogs and workmen curled up in the shade and slept.

  They sat there exchanging a word or two, in their own quiet country, isolated now. They were protected not so much by indifferent walls and slanting jalousies and locked doors as by the sleeping town. For two hours nothing would stir. He came to sit beside her but made no move to touch her.

  She said: “Do you want—now—to make love to me?”

  “Only on your terms.”

  She said: “I know it is strange for me, a woman like me, still to have qualms.… It is pretentious perhaps a little.” She smiled at him, considering her words. “ It is very difficult. I am not just an animal desiring to be desired by you, but
neither am I just a detached brain existing in a—a vacuum. My reason says to me: the fact that this has come in George’s flat at a time when George has hardly gone from you, where everything, everything is reminiscent—and I grieve—you may not believe it but I grieve—for a friend.… All that is ill-tasting only because of a coincidence of time and place. My reason says, how can that really affect what is so separate from it in thought and feeling that it might be happening to someone else? If you refuse this now it will prove nothing except that you are turning away from what is good, what is true, because you cannot rid your memory of what it tries to forget.”

  “Your reason has a lot of reason on its side.”

  “But there is another thing. We are in the very centre of danger. What we feel for each other should not be flawed by fear, by the heart jumping for the wrong causes, by a chance telephone call, by the ring at the door, by the siren down the street. It should not be flawed by being snatched at in haste and in dread.”

  He was a little while replying. In the centre of his mind was a truth that he now fully recognised but was afraid to grasp at and discipline too soon. It might even escape him in speech, in the effort to be completely honest both with her and with himself.

  “Anya, I don’t know what is true or not true about tomorrow. I can only be sure of today.”

  “And today?”

  “Today I have absolute certainty. I don’t need to say it or to think it any more.”

  “And you would begin this—now?”

  “… You must decide.”

  “Lift off the telephone,” she said. “That way we can be sure it will not ring.”

  Chapter Thirty One

  Major Kolono woke about ten past four. Sometimes baby octopus gave him acute indigestion and he was nervous about his stomach. He knew he should see a doctor but he was terrified of being told that there was something gravely wrong.

  He got off his couch and went into the next room for the bismuth tablets, and while he was doing so that other discomfort, of the mind, returned. Memories of Saturday came to trouble him—he had seen the wanted man talking to Anya Stonaris—and why had her flat been searched? There’d been some report, that.… He swallowed the tablets and blew out his chest to let them go down; he persuaded himself he felt better. Then he sat in his chair and pressed the bell, and when it was not immediately answered he kept his finger on it until it was.