The Double Image

  Craig rose, found his map of Greece and the Aegean, spread it out on the table. In spite of his determination to look at this assignment coldly, as a student of history-in-the-making, his mind was alert and excited, his blood pressure rising. By God, he thought, I could enjoy this line of work. Then he laughed at himself.

  * * *

  There was a gentle rap on his door. Craig glanced at his watch; it was almost midnight. “What is it?” he called, but there was no answer, just another gentle rap. So he pushed aside the table, crossed the room in five steps, wondering why the porter’s desk hadn’t telephoned the message instead of sending it upstairs at this hour. He had the tip ready in his hand as he opened the door. Maritta Maas smiled at him.

  “May I?” she asked, already inside the room, leaving a drift of perfume as she passed by. “Hotel corridors are so depressing. Don’t you agree?” She turned to look at him, her head tilted just a little, her green eyes dancing with amusement.

  He closed the door, smiling back. “I’m sure I’d agree with anything you said.”

  “That’s very gallant.”

  “I can do better when I’m less surprised.”

  “I love to give surprises.”

  “Just like Santa Claus,” he said, helping her off with her white silk coat. That was what she wanted, seemingly. The black dress was short, slender, sleeveless, low-necked.

  “Oh?” She was puzzled for an instant. Then she laughed. “I hope I’m prettier than he is.”

  “I think you have the edge.”

  Again she frowned. “You know, if you speak that way you will have to translate for me. Why don’t Americans speak English?”

  “Because they aren’t English, I suppose. But they usually speak American fairly well. Have this chair. It’s more comfortable than it looks. Cigarette?” He was recovering himself. “Or would you like to go down to the bar and have a drink there?”

  “It is much too crowded. I want to talk to you. Seriously.”

  “That’s going to be difficult.”

  She had looked around the room before she sat down, noticing the half-packed suitcase, the travel folders scattered over the bed, the guide-book to Greece and the map on the small table. Her glance swept back to him. “Why?”

  “Look at you,” he suggested. She might start by pulling the tight skirt down over her knees, unpointing her slender shoes, uncrossing the elegantly posed legs, if she wanted any serious talk.

  “Do you say such things to Ronnie, too?”

  “No,” he said frankly. And how cosy we are with Veronica’s name, so natural and easy and amiable! Just a sweet old dependable, that was friend Maritta.

  “Then am I being flattered or insulted?” She laughed to take any offence away from her words.

  Playful, he thought. That’s the word for Maritta. As playful as a green-eyed panther. He stared at her—the passing thought was so exactly right.

  “No, no, no,” she said, misreading the stare. “I am flattered. I cannot imagine you insulting anybody.”

  “Then let’s begin all over again.”

  “And we should introduce ourselves properly. Maritta Geneviève Maas.”

  “John Craig.”

  “That’s all?”

  “All.”

  “You disappeared so quickly today, without waiting for any introductions—” Her voice trailed away, her hands gestured in regret.

  “I only came to apologise for keeping Veronica late, and after that—well I didn’t want to intrude.”

  “You are so polite!”

  “Americans have occasional attacks of politeness,” he admitted, and had her laughing again. Did she really think that was funny, or was she trying some flattery, too?

  Suddenly she was serious. “I’m a little—troubled. What did you think of Ronnie, today?”

  “A charming girl.”

  “No, no—I mean, did you see much difference in her?”

  “Difference from what?”

  “From the time you used to know her. In America.”

  “I didn’t know her in America. I don’t really know her at all.”

  “But you asked her to dinner—like an old friend.”

  “On the contrary. I asked her to dinner to get to know her better.”

  Maritta was completely and delightfully embarrassed. “Oh, I am sorry! Ronnie spoke so much of you this evening that I thought you were old, old friends.”

  Somehow he was reminded of the question-and-answer game played by Jordan last Saturday. He might as well hurry the process along, give her all the information she was looking for. Veronica must have talked very little, if at all, about him; that was clear. “I wish we were. Actually, that’s been one of the disappointments in Paris—no friends of any description. Funny, isn’t it? I’m on the point of leaving, and so I meet someone I like. Two people, in fact: both girls, both pretty.” He looked at Maritta with frank admiration, and won what could have been a real smile. “That’s the way it goes, I suppose,” he added regretfully.

  “But how awful—to have walked around Paris all alone! No one to talk to... That couldn’t have been very enjoyable.”

  “No. But very educational. Oh, there was an old lady who was looking for the right Métro, and a student who wanted a scholarship, and an American who spoke to me at the bar downstairs, and Jules the bartender, and a man in a bookshop, and a—”

  “Next time you visit Paris, you must let us know when you are coming. Will you?”

  “Will I?” he asked, and laughed.

  She was very amused about something. “My uncle—I suppose Ronnie told you all about him?”

  “No. We had scarcely time to talk about families. She just mentioned that an uncle had lent you a house for the summer, and she was going to spend a few weeks with you. Nice deal, if you can get it.” Then he looked as if a new idea had just dawned. “Didn’t she like your uncle? Is that what’s bothering you about Veronica?”

  “No, no, no,” she said quickly, “I was only thinking that my uncle would be very shocked if he heard that Ronnie had—what do you say?—picked you up. It really is a joke, you know. She is supposed to chaperone me on Mykonos.”

  “I couldn’t imagine you needing that,” he said with a wide grin. “And anyway, it wasn’t so much a matter of anyone being picked up. It was a very wet night, about a week ago. I had a taxi, she hadn’t. It was a case either of giving her first rights on the cab, or of keeping my suit dry. I did both: I gave her a lift for the few blocks she had to go. Thank you and good night. That was all.”

  “And you didn’t ask her to dinner? What were you thinking of, John?” Her eyes were wide, teasing.

  “Yes,” he admitted, “I slipped up there. I might have found Paris less educational. Do you know how many museums you have? Forty-nine. And how many—”

  “Are you never serious?”

  “As rarely as possible. But I’ll make an effort. You were troubled, you said?”

  “I suppose you intend to see her again?” Maritta’s eyes flickered towards the map of the Aegean and then met his.

  “I hope I’ll see both of you. I have to visit Delos, so I’ll be dropping in at Mykonos some time or other.” He let her eyes hold his. And he could sense that it had been the right thing to say. Not just to speak casually of Mykonos but to include Maritta in his hopes. She liked to play, this girl, and she would never play second lead to any other girl. In some ways, she reminded him of a few he had known back in New York.

  “Then I should warn you. Be careful with Ronnie. I mean—she takes things so seriously, so intensely. She is just coming out of a very bad time as it is. I think she is still in love with him. An American. Did she tell you?”

  He shook his head.

  “He is one of those expatriate poets. They’ve been living together for almost a year. He exists on the small cheques he gets from home each month. He believes in his genius. Ronnie believes in him. But he left her—just like that! He walked out of their studio one day. She hasn’t
seen him since. That was two weeks ago. Ronnie took a room at the Beauharnais, gave up her studio, couldn’t bear it any longer. You see? Any other girl would have known this would happen. Any other girl would have left him months ago. But Ronnie—” She sighed. “I think she shouldn’t take life so seriously, not for a long, long time. Do you see?”

  He saw very clearly. Half-truth, half-fiction, beautifully blended. Veronica, if he came to Mykonos, was to be untouchable. Why? Making sure that she would be isolated from someone who might ask questions? Making sure that she could be properly controlled by Maritta—a very skilful, gentle surveillance? They were taking no chances with him, even if he seemed innocent enough. “Yes,” he said at last, “I see.”

  “And you agree?”

  He hadn’t much other choice. “You could be right.”

  “I am right!”

  “Just an Americanism,” he said with a smile.

  You’ve no idea how upset she has been.”

  “It was a nice idea to ask her to Mykonos. That should help to take her mind off Paris. But are you going to warn off all the men who look at Veronica? You’ll be kept busy.”

  “Of course not. I shan’t have to warn them, unless they are very attractive and unmarried—like you. There are not so many of them.” She was amused at the expression on his face. “I’ve embarrassed you?”

  “I’d imagine that there would be quite a crowd of—”

  “Oh yes, there will be men on Mykonos, but only the kind one takes lightly. They come, they go. Ships passing in the night. You are that, too, in a sense. Except Ronnie likes you. And she is so vulnerable at present. You know...”

  “I don’t.”

  “It is a matter of—rebound. Isn’t that what you call it?”

  “She isn’t in any danger of falling in love with me,” he said, his embarrassment growing. “She doesn’t know me, to begin with.”

  “Do you think that matters to a woman?” She watched him, half-smiling, her lips softening. “It wouldn’t matter to me.” There was a little silence. “Of course, if you were really serious about her, I shouldn’t worry.”

  “Didn’t I tell you I was serious as rarely as possible?” he asked jokingly. That passed her scrutiny. He could feel her relax. The softness in her lips spread to her eyes. “Do I see you at all on Mykonos?”

  That pleased her. She rose, laughing. “Why not? We can’t have you wandering around all alone again.”

  “Oh, I’ll have several friends there,” he said easily.

  “Really?”

  “Of course. It isn’t only painters and poets who visit Mykonos.”

  “Oh—historians?”

  She really had done her homework, he thought. “I’ll be spending most of my time on Delos, anyway.”

  “But there’s no village, no hotel, on Delos. Just a small tourist pavilion with a few beds for—well, emergencies. You’ll have to sleep on Mykonos.”

  He nodded, watching her. “That’s right. I’ll sleep on Mykonos,” he said softly. He had actually managed to embarrass her, but she enjoyed it too.

  She laughed again, turned away, walked slowly over to the dresser. She straightened his comb and brushes, fiddled with a pair of cuff links, picked up a small plastic jar of hair cream. “Men are so business-like,” she said. “So simple, the way they travel.” She opened the jar and pretended to smell the cream. “Nice and uncomplicated,” she told him. She replaced the jar neatly, examined a small leather box in which he kept studs and collar-stays. “This is from Florence, isn’t it?” she asked casually, opening it, too.

  “By way of Madison Avenue.” He came forward. What the devil was she doing, pretending to play like this with all these small possessions? Or was it the letter from Sue, lying openly beside his hairbrush, that interested her?

  She put down the leather box, seemed to notice the time on his small travelling clock. She turned to him, held out both her hands in farewell. “I must go. Yes, I must. I leave tomorrow. That’s why I came to see you now, even if it is late. What else could I do? The dinner party went on and on and on.”

  He kept hold of her hands. “How was it? Plenty of advice?”

  “A complete bore. My uncle had two of his friends from Mykonos to meet me—they have a house there, too. And they want to entertain Ronnie and me, introduce us around. You know...”

  “That might not be so bad.”

  “But they are so dull! I prefer to choose my own friends, don’t you?”

  “Much more satisfactory.”

  “Of course, an uncle who is one’s only remaining relative must worry, I suppose,” she said with a sigh.

  Craig said with a broad smile as he looked at the dock, “How could he ever worry about you, Maritta?”

  But irony was lost on her. Or she had finished with the topic of uncle. She said, “You are telephoning Ronnie tomorrow morning, aren’t you?”

  “I said I would.”

  “She won’t be able to lunch with you.” Maritta’s voice was low, hesitant, and just the right amount sad. “Blame me. I asked her to attend to some business I hadn’t time to finish.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s kinder to let her do the refusing.”

  “But she will be free for dinner,” Maritta said, watching him now with eyes wide and hesitant, as if she were letting him make the decision.

  He couldn’t feel one tremble in her cool hands, couldn’t see one flickering evasion in her pleading green eyes. He waited for a few seconds, just to keep her impatience simmering behind that beautifully controlled face. “You don’t want me to ask her to dinner?”

  Her hands had tightened, her eyes blinked. “I thought we agreed—”

  “I’ll probably be on my way to Greece by dinnertime,” he told her. He released her hands and turned to pick up her coat from the bed.

  “You are annoyed with me, and I didn’t want that. Please, John—I would never have asked you except that I didn’t want to see Ronnie have her hopes all built up again and then find them come crashing down; you know what I mean.”

  “I know.” And if he hadn’t known so much, he would have believed the soft, anxious, urgent voice, and that pathetic look of the good friend who was doing everything for the best.

  “I’ve embarrassed you again.”

  “Because I couldn’t care less.” Not about what you think or you want, my sweet-faced liar, he thought. Get her out of here, he told himself, or you might describe her in a five-letter word to her face. He held out her coat, and she slipped her soft white arms into the sleeves, turning her head to look up at him. “I’ll see you on Mykonos,” he said, “unless your uncle flays me alive for having you up in my room at one in the morning. How did you find me, anyway?”

  “Oh, Ronnie told us,” she said most innocently. “She even telephoned you just before dinner to see if you would join us. Didn’t you get the message?”

  “Someone called, I heard. No name left, though.”

  “How typical!” She shook her head. “But you know, it was Ronnie’s call that decided me she really was rushing much too quickly—Sorry. I promise never to mention the subject again.”

  He opened the door, glanced into the deserted corridor with only its lonely pairs of dusty shoes waiting patiently outside each bedroom.

  “Expecting anyone?” she asked.

  “Your uncle and his posse of vigilantes.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Then she shrugged her shoulders, looked amused. “Oh, really! You Americans!... And where are you going?”

  “To see you into the elevator.”

  This startled her into a laugh. Perhaps the well-dressed spy was not accustomed to being shown out at such an hour by her unsuspecting quarry. “But there is no need—” she began, and jumped as a sudden sleepy protest came from the room they were passing: “Knock it off! Go to bed!” A tired groan followed, then a resigned sigh.

  “Another American,” she said in a stage whisper, and clamped her hands to her lips to stifle an outburst of real laug
hter. For a moment, Craig had a glimpse of a different Maritta, someone she could have been if she hadn’t chosen another role for herself, someone young-hearted and merry, trying to smother a second attack of giggles as the signal for the elevator sounded with extra loudness through the silence of the hotel. Then, as the creaking cage began its slow and dignified ascent, she became the Maritta he knew. “Go back to your room. Please!” she whispered quickly, and gestured with her hand. He nodded understandingly, retreated obligingly. Who was he to compromise the good name of such a charming lady? He wondered whom she was supposed to be visiting. Someone who belonged to the elderly female shoes he had almost stepped upon?

  He was at his door, waving a good early morning to her, as the elevator reached his floor. She stepped inside quickly, not looking back, doing nothing to attract the attendant’s notice to Craig’s closing door. What, he thought, not even a blown kiss? I bet she would do that really elegantly.

  He closed the door, waited until the last whirr of the elevator had ground into silence, then opened his door one small crack. The voice that had advised them to knock it off and go to bed was Jim Partridge’s. Craig was sure of that. But Partridge’s door remained closed. All right, Craig thought, I can take a hint. He shut his door carefully, soundlessly, but left it unlocked. Why else would Partridge let him know he was on the same floor unless he planned to pay a visit?

  * * *

  By two o’clock, Craig decided that he had been too bright in his quick ideas. There was no sign of Partridge. So he went to bed. Not to sleep. This was not a night for the quiet, untroubled mind that would allow him to slip over the edge of consciousness and fall into soft oblivion. He lay staring at the darkened ceiling, the reading light at his bedside still turned on, the book in his hand dropped at his side. He was going over and over in his restless mind the myth that Maritta Maas had created. My God, he thought, if Jim Partridge hadn’t warned me about her, I might have believed—I would probably have believed her. Yes, I could have believed it. I would scarcely have noticed the lie that undermined everything she said: Veronica could not have telephoned me or mentioned my hotel to anyone, for she did not know my address. I would scarcely have noticed that unobtrusive lie, simply because I wasn’t being given much time for any real thought—just emotions. And I would have cut off the small warning signal at the back of my brain, the way we all do when we don’t expect, far less suspect. That’s how the confidence game was worked, was it? To the outside observer, removed and uncommitted, blessed with hindsight, he would have seemed more than I if he had believed Maritta’s story. But involved as he had been, with all the little hints and honest-eyed explanations and the seemingly logical sequiturs—oh no, that was another proposition. Without Partridge, he would have been properly taken. Let’s face it, men were flattered even if embarrassed by the idea that a girl like Veronica might be falling hard for them. Vanity, vanity, and all its flattery. Then he stopped thinking of himself, and began worrying about Veronica. He felt a surge of both pity and fear. Veronica was headed for tragedy. “I’ll be damned,” he said softly, “if I let that happen.”