I realized now that it was his boat which lay anchored off the point. They were away too early in the morning for me to watch their departure, but I used to spot them returning in the late afternoon; his square, hunched form was easily recognizable, and the occasional hoarse shout to the man in charge of the boat as they came to the landing stage. Theirs, too, was the isolated chalet on the point, and I wondered if he had picked it purposely in order to soak himself into oblivion out of sight and earshot of his nearest neighbors. Well, good luck to him, as long as he did not obtrude his offensive presence upon me.
Feeling the need of gentle exercise, I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon taking a stroll to the eastern side of the hotel grounds. Once again I congratulated myself on having escaped the cluster of chalets in this populated quarter. Mini-golf and tennis were in full swing, and the little beach was crowded with sprawling bodies on every available patch of sand. But soon the murmur of the world was behind me, and screened and safe behind the flowering shrubs I found myself on the point near to the landing stage. The boat was not yet at its mooring, nor even in sight out in the gulf.
A sudden temptation to peep at the unpleasant Mr. Stoll's chalet swept upon me. I crept up the little path, feeling as furtive as a burglar on the prowl, and stared up at the shuttered windows. It was no different from its fellows, or mine for that matter, except for a telltale heap of bottles lying in a corner of the balcony. Brute... Then something else caught my eye. A pair of frog feet, and a snorkel. Surely, with all that liquor inside him, he did not venture his carcass underwater? Perhaps he sent the local Greek whom he employed as crew to seek for crabs. I remembered the snorkel on my first evening, close to the rocks, and the riding light in the boat.
I moved away, for I thought I could hear someone coming down the path and did not want to be caught prying, but before doing so I glanced up at the number of the chalet. It was 38. The figure had no particular significance for me then, but later on, changing for dinner, I picked up the tiepin I had placed on my bedside table, and on sudden impulse opened the drawer beneath the telephone to look at my predecessor's card again. Yes, I thought so. The scrawled figure was 38. Pure coincidence, of course, and yet... "Not after midnight." The words suddenly had meaning. Stoll had warned me about swimming late on my first evening. Had he warned Gordon too? And Gordon had jotted down the warning on his card with Stoll's chalet number underneath? It made sense, but obviously poor Gordon had disregarded the advice. And so, apparently, did one of the occupants of Chalet 38.
I finished changing, and instead of replacing the card in the telephone drawer put it in my wallet. I had an uneasy feeling that it was my duty to hand it in to the reception desk in case it threw any light on my unfortunate predecessor's demise. I toyed with the thought through dinner, but came to no decision. The point was, I might become involved, questioned by the police. And as far as I knew the case was closed. There was little point in my suddenly coming forward with a calling card lying forgotten in a drawer that probably had no significance at all.
It so happened that the people seated to the right of me in the dining room appeared to have gone, and the Stolls' table in the corner now came into view without my being obliged to turn my head. I could watch them without making it too obvious, and I was struck by the fact that he never once addressed a word to her. They made an odd contrast. She stiff as a ramrod, prim-looking, austere, forking her food to her mouth like a Sunday school teacher on an outing, and he, more scarlet than ever, like a great swollen sausage, pushing aside most of what the waiter placed before him after the first mouthful, and reaching out a pudgy, hairy hand to an ever-emptying glass.
I finished my dinner and went through to the bar to drink my coffee. I was early, and had the place to myself. The bartender and I exchanged the usual pleasantries and then, after an allusion to the weather, I jerked my head in the direction of the dining room.
"I noticed our friend Mr. Stoll and his lady spent the whole day at sea as usual," I said.
The bartender shrugged. "Day after day, it never varies," he replied, "and mostly in the same direction, westward out of the bay into the gulf. It can be squally, too, at times, but they don't seem to care."
"I don't know how she puts up with him," I said. "I watched them at dinner--he didn't speak to her at all. I wonder what the other guests make of him."
"They keep well clear, sir. You saw how it was for yourself. If he ever does open his mouth it's only to be rude. And the same goes for the staff. The girls dare not go in to clean the chalet until he's out of the way. And the smell!" He grimaced, and leaned forward confidentially. "The girls say he brews his own beer. He lights the fire in the chimney, and has a pot standing, filled with rotting grain, like some sort of pig swill! Oh, yes, he drinks it right enough. Imagine the state of his liver, after what he consumes at dinner and afterwards here in the bar!"
"I suppose," I said, "that's why he keeps his balcony light on so late at night. Drinking pig swill until the small hours. Tell me, which of the hotel visitors is it who goes underwater swimming?"
The bartender looked surprised. "No one, to my knowledge. Not since the accident, anyway. Poor Mr. Gordon liked a night swim, at least so we supposed. He was one of the few visitors who ever talked to Mr. Stoll, now I think of it. They had quite a conversation here one evening in the bar."
"Indeed?"
"Not about swimming, though, or fishing either. They were discussing antiquities. There's a fine little museum here in the village, you know, but it's closed at present for repairs. Mr. Gordon had some connection with the British Museum in London."
"I wouldn't have thought," I said, "that would interest friend Stoll."
"Ah," said the bartender, "you'd be surprised. Mr. Stoll is no fool. Last year he and Mrs. Stoll used to take the car and visit all the famous sites, Knossos, Mallia, and other places not so well known. This year it's quite different. It's the boat and fishing every day."
"And Mr. Gordon," I pursued, "did he ever go fishing with them?"
"No, sir. Not to my knowledge. He hired a car, like you, and explored the district. He was writing a book, he told me, on archaeological finds in eastern Crete, and their connection with Greek mythology."
"Mythology?"
"Yes, I understood him to tell Mr. Stoll it was mythology, but it was all above my head, you can imagine, nor did I hear much of the conversation--we were busy that evening in the bar. Mr. Gordon was a quiet sort of gentleman, rather after your own style, if you'll excuse me, sir, seeming very interested in what they were discussing, all to do with the old gods. They were at it for over an hour."
H'm... I thought of the card in my wallet. Should I, or should I not, hand it over to the reception clerk at the desk? I said goodnight to the bartender and went back through the dining room to the hall. The Stolls had just left their table and were walking ahead of me. I hung back until the way was clear, surprised that they had turned their backs upon the bar and were making for the hall. I stood by the rack of postcards, to give myself an excuse for loitering, but out of their range of vision, and watched Mrs. Stoll take her coat from a hook in the lobby near the entrance, while her unpleasant husband visited the cloakroom, and then the pair of them walked out of the front door which led direct to the car park. They must be going for a drive. With Stoll at the wheel in his condition?
I hesitated. The reception clerk was on the telephone. It wasn't the moment to hand over the card. Some impulse, like that of a small boy playing detective, made me walk to my own car, and when Stoll's taillight was out of sight--he was driving a Mercedes--I followed in his wake. There was only the one road, and he was heading east towards the village and the harbor lights. I lost him, inevitably, on reaching the little port, for, instinctively making for the quayside opposite what appeared to be a main cafe, I thought he must have done the same. I parked the Volkswagen, and looked around me. No sign of the Mercedes. Just a sprinkling of other tourists like myself, and local inhabitants, strolling
, or drinking in front of the cafe.
Oh well, forget it, I'd sit and enjoy the scene, have a lemonade. I must have sat there for over half an hour, savoring what is known as "local color," amused by the passing crowd, Greek families taking the air, pretty, self-conscious girls eyeing the youths, who appeared to stick together, practicing a form of segregation, a bearded Orthodox priest who smoked incessantly at the table next to me, playing some game of dice with a couple of very old men, and of course the familiar bunch of hippies from my own country, considerably longer haired than anybody else, dirtier, and making far more noise. When they switched on a transistor and squatted on the cobbled stones behind me, I felt it was time to move.
I paid for my lemonade, and strolled to the end of the quay and back--the line upon line of fishing boats would be colorful by day, and possibly the scene worth painting--and then I crossed the street, my eye caught by a glint of water inland, where a side road appeared to end in a cul-de-sac. This must be the feature mentioned in the guidebook as the Bottomless Pool, much frequented and photographed by tourists in the high season. It was larger than I had expected, quite a sizeable lake, the water full of scum and floating debris, and I did not envy those who had the temerity to use the diving board at the further end of it by day.
Then I saw the Mercedes. It was drawn up opposite a dimly lit cafe, and there was no mistaking the hunched figure at the table, beer bottles before him, the upright lady at his side, but to my surprise, and I may add disgust, he was not imbibing alone but appeared to be sharing his after-dinner carousal with a crowd of raucous fishermen at the adjoining table.
Clamor and laughter filled the air. They were evidently mocking him, Greek courtesy forgotten in their cups, while strains of song burst forth from some younger member of the clan, and suddenly he put out his hand and swept the empty bottles from his table onto the pavement, with the inevitable crash of broken glass and the accompanying cheers of his companions. I expected the local police to appear at any moment and break up the party, but there was no sign of authority. I did not care what happened to Stoll--a night in jail might sober him up--but it was a wretched business for his wife. However, it wasn't my affair, and I was turning to go back to the quay when he staggered to his feet, applauded by the fishermen, and, lifting the remaining bottle from his table, swung it over his head. Then, with amazing dexterity for one in his condition, he pitched it like a discus thrower into the lake. It must have missed me by a couple of feet, and he saw me duck. This was too much. I advanced towards him, livid with rage.
"What the hell are you playing at?" I shouted.
He stood before me, swaying on his feet. The laughter from the cafe ceased as his cronies watched with interest. I expected a flood of abuse, but Stoll's swollen face creased into a grin, and he lurched forward and patted me on the arm.
"Know something?" he said. "If you hadn't been in the way I could have lobbed it into the center of the goddamn pool. Which is more than any of those fellows could. Not a pure-blooded Cretan among them. They're all of them goddamn Turks."
I tried to shake him off, but he clung on to me with the effusive affection of the habitual drunkard who has suddenly found, or imagines he has found, a lifelong friend.
"You're from the hotel, aren't you?" he hiccoughed. "Don't deny it, buddy boy, I've got a good eye for faces. You're the fellow who paints all day on his goddamn porch. Well, I admire you for it. Know a bit about art myself. I might even buy your picture."
His bonhomie was offensive, his attempt at patronage intolerable.
"I'm sorry," I said stiffly, "the picture is not for sale."
"Oh, come off it," he retorted. "You artists are all the same. Play hard to get until someone offers 'em a darn good price. Take Charlie Gordon now..." He broke off, peering slyly into my face. "Hang on, you didn't meet Charlie Gordon, did you?"
"No," I said shortly, "he was before my time."
"That's right, that's right," he agreed, "poor fellow's dead. Drowned in the bay there, right under your rocks. At least, that's where they found him."
His slit eyes were practically closed in his swollen face, but I knew he was watching for my reaction.
"Yes," I said, "so I understand. He wasn't an artist."
"An artist?" Stoll repeated the word after me, then burst into a guffaw of laughter. "No, he was a connoisseur, and I guess that means the same goddamn thing to a chap like me. Charlie Gordon, connoisseur. Well, it didn't do him much good in the end, did it?"
"No," I said, "obviously not."
He was making an effort to pull himself together, and still rocking on his feet he fumbled for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one for himself, then offered me the packet. I shook my head, telling him I did not smoke. Then, greatly daring, I observed, "I don't drink either."
"Good for you," he answered astonishingly, "neither do I. The beer they sell you here is all piss anyway, and the wine is poison." He looked over his shoulder to the group at the cafe and with a conspiratorial wink dragged me to the wall beside the pool.
"I told you all those bastards are Turks, and so they are," he said, "wine-drinking, coffee-drinking Turks. They haven't brewed the right stuff here for over five thousand years. They knew how to do it then."
I remembered what the bartender had told me about the pig swill in his chalet. "Is that so?" I enquired.
He winked again, and then his slit eyes widened, and I noticed that they were naturally bulbous and protuberant, a discolored muddy brown with the whites red-flecked. "Know something?" he whispered hoarsely. "The scholars have got it all wrong. It was beer the Cretans drank here in the mountains, brewed from spruce and ivy, long before wine. Wine was discovered centuries later by the goddamn Greeks."
He steadied himself, one hand on the wall, the other on my arm. Then he leaned forward and was sick into the pool. I was very nearly sick myself.
"That's better," he said, "gets rid of the poison. Doesn't do to have poison in the system. Tell you what, we'll go back to the hotel and you shall come along and have a nightcap at our chalet. I've taken a fancy to you, Mr. What's-your-Name. You've got the right ideas. Don't drink, don't smoke, and you paint pictures. What's your job?"
It was impossible to shake myself clear, and I was forced to let him tow me across the road. Luckily the group at the cafe had now dispersed, disappointed, no doubt, because we had not come to blows, and Mrs. Stoll had climbed into the Mercedes and was sitting in the passenger seat in front.
"Don't take any notice of her," he said. "She's stone deaf unless you bawl at her. Plenty of room at the back."
"Thank you," I said, "I've got my own car on the quay."
"Suit yourself," he answered. "Well, come on, tell me, Mr. Artist, what's your job? An academician?"
I could have left it at that, but some pompous strain in me made me tell the truth, in the foolish hope that he would then consider me too dull to cultivate.
"I'm a teacher," I said, "in a boys' preparatory school."
He stopped in his tracks, his wet mouth open wide in a delighted grin. "Oh my God," he shouted, "that's rich, that's really rich. A goddamn tutor, a nurse to babes and sucklings. You're one of us, my buddy, you're one of us. And you've the nerve to tell me you've never brewed spruce and ivy!"
He was raving mad, of course, but at least this sudden burst of hilarity had made him free my arm, and he went on ahead of me to his car, shaking his head from side to side, his legs bearing his cumbersome body in a curious jog-trot, one-two... one-two... like a clumsy horse.
I watched him climb into the car beside his wife, and then I moved swiftly away to make for the safety of the quayside, but he had turned his car with surprising agility, and had caught up with me before I reached the corner of the street. He thrust his head out of the window, smiling still.
"Come and call on us, Mr. Tutor, any time you like. You'll always find a welcome. Tell him so, Maud. Can't you see the fellow's shy?"
His bawling word of command echoed thro
ugh the street. Strolling passers-by looked in our direction. The stiff, impassive face of Mrs. Stoll peered over her husband's shoulder. She seemed quite unperturbed, as if nothing was wrong, as if driving in a foreign village beside a drunken husband was the most usual pastime in the world.
"Good evening," she said in a voice without any expression. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tutor. Do call on us. Not after midnight. Chalet 38..."
Stoll waved his hand, and the car went roaring up the street to cover the few kilometers to the hotel, while I followed behind, telling myself that this was one invitation I should never accept if my life depended on it.
It would not be true to say the encounter cast a blight on my holiday and put me off the place. A half truth, perhaps. I was angry and disgusted, but only with the Stolls. I awoke refreshed after a good night's sleep to another brilliant day, and nothing seems so bad in the morning. I had only the one problem, which was to avoid Stoll and his equally half-witted wife. They were out in their boat all day, so this was easy. By dining early I could escape them in the dining room. They never walked about the grounds, and meeting them face-to-face in the garden was not likely. If I happened to be on my balcony when they returned in the evening from fishing, and he turned his field glasses in my direction, I would promptly disappear inside my chalet. In any event, with luck, he might have forgotten my existence, or, if that was too much to hope for, the memory of our evening's conversation might have passed from his mind. The episode had been unpleasant, even, in a curious sense, alarming, but I was not going to let it spoil the days that remained to me.
The boat had left its landing stage by the time I came onto my balcony to have breakfast, and I intended to carry out my plan of exploring the coast with my painting gear, and, once absorbed in my hobby, could forget all about them. And I would not pass on to the management poor Gordon's scribbled card. I guessed now what had happened. The poor devil, without realizing where his conversation in the bar would lead him, had been intrigued by Stoll's smattering of mythology and nonsense about ancient Crete, and, as an archaeologist, had thought further conversation might prove fruitful. He had accepted an invitation to visit Chalet 38--the uncanny similarity of the words on the card and those spoken by Mrs. Stoll still haunted me--though why he had chosen to swim across the bay instead of walking the slightly longer way by the rock path was a mystery. A touch of bravado, perhaps? Who knows? Once in Stoll's chalet he had been induced, poor victim, to drink some of the hell-brew offered by his host, which must have knocked all sense and judgment out of him, and when he took to the water once again, the carousal over, what followed was bound to happen. I only hoped he had been too far gone to panic, and sank instantly. Stoll had never come forward to give the facts, and that was that. Indeed, my theory of what had happened was based on intuition alone, coincidental scraps that appeared to fit, and prejudice. It was time to dismiss the whole thing from my mind and concentrate on the day ahead.