“I’ll get out,” said Clothilde, and she did, “and I’ll put one foot on the pavement and another in the car and that should establish our claim to this patch of pavement for at least two minutes.” She was also pleased, thought Craig, smiling, to show her early-tanned legs and her black patent sandals. She noticed his glance, for she laughed and told him, “All dressed up to wave goodbye. Hurree, hurree...”
He turned and headed down the street for the luggage. Duclos was getting into a cab now, suitcases and all. Duclos? Very close, but not Duclos, Craig decided. And what do I do? Just travel with my amiable maniacs down to the Piraeus and get on to the boat there as if nothing had happened? He felt the same frustrated anger that had attacked him in Paris, on the evening he had seen Heinrich Berg for the second time without being able to do anything about it. Unless, of course, he thought hopefully as he tipped everyone in sight (it always felt like that, anyway), there was someone around keeping an eye on thee and me, someone who really knew Duclos and could spot the difference. One of the bellhops was now hurrying up to the car with his two bags. Craig, still stumbling over his problem, followed more slowly. He found it was hard to smile and make the necessary jokes as he climbed in beside Clothilde and Bannerman.
Clothilde said, “Don’t look so worried, John, you really were very quick. Besides, Paul enjoys holding a car on a hill—it reminds him of San Francisco.”
“And that reminds me of something else again,” Paul said, now quite serious. “Did you hear that Sussman was dead?”
“Yes. The Paris papers said suicide.” There had been no public mention, as far as Craig had seen, of the arrest for murder.
“That’s too bad. They tried to entice him to Stanford, but Berkeley got him first. Wonder who’ll succeed him there?” Paul talked on for a bit about university gossip, about visiting archaeologists, about the new discoveries in Crete.
“Oh, Paul,” said his wife, flinching nervously as they skimmed past lumbering cement trucks on the Piraeus highway, “please don’t talk while you drive—it always makes you forget to look at the speedometer.”
Mortimer laughed and slackened speed slightly. The old car handled well, could pass anything on the road, and that was all he cared about.
“Put him in Crete,” Pam went on, her tone kept light to show she intended no public snub, “and he’s the most cautious archaeologist, everything dug up with a teaspoon. Put him behind a wheel, and he’s a fiend.”
“Have I ever had one accident?” Paul asked.
“Let’s not break that record on the day you’re shipping John out to Mykonos.” The car slowed still more, and everyone stopped sitting so tensely. Wives, thought Craig, were really useful at times.
Clothilde said, “We’re all going to come and visit you for a week-end, John. At least, I’m trying to round up a group of us. We’ll hire a caïque and come sailing in like a bird on the wing.” There was still much of the wandering minstrel in Clothilde, even if she had been spending the last five years of her life putting fragments of ancient vases together. She was the kind of woman, Craig thought, who’d always be split right down the middle between her intellect and her emotions. A pretty girl with brains had a hard life, almost as hard as a historian being caught up in power politics. But a girl could always solve that split by getting married and forgetting that her brains and training were the equal of any man’s. Of course, only a man would think of that. It was his world, all right, and it was a neat solution for him, too, to see the pretty invader repulsed from serious competition and invited to join his bed and board instead. Yes, thought Craig, men had it every which way. He smiled and shook his head.
Clothilde said quickly, “You don’t like a caïque, John? But it’s wonderful, so—so—”
“Watch out, Craig,” said Bannerman, speaking at last, “or she’ll have you bobbing around the Mediterranean in one of those walnut shells following the course of Odysseus or some damn Homeric hero.”
“Now you enjoyed it,” Clothilde told Bannerman, “you know you did. Look at the photographs you took, and the article you wrote for Horizon—”
“Which got turned down. I guess it made them as seasick as I was.”
“Then you can use it for a chapter in your new book.” And thinking of books in progress, she looked at Craig, was about to say something and then didn’t. Everyone who was writing a book had his hours of gloom, she thought.
“Yes?” he asked her.
“Don’t fret,” she said understandingly. “On Mykonos, you’ll have the most wonderful sense of peace. You’ll be able to write there—I couldn’t imagine anything more soothing.” Craig gave her soft brown eyes a special smile of thanks, patted her knee, and then looked quickly at Bannerman in case he had overstepped. It was possibly Clothilde who kept Tim Bannerman hovering around Athens. He was one of those humorous types, dark-haired, dark-eyed, fairly tall, with good shoulders and a well-disciplined waist, that seemed to get along with women and men for very different reasons. He fitted into a variety of circles, too, American and Greek, everything from scholars and journalists to poets and peasants. Bannerman didn’t lift an eyebrow, one of his favourite comments; he was looking at Craig blankly, as if his mind were very far away from the back seat of this car. “As long as the sea stays nice and flat, I won’t worry about anything,” Craig told Clothilde. “Hey, Pam, what do you think the prospects are today?”
That set the women talking, with interjections from Paul to keep them right: anyone who lived in Greece always seemed to become a specialist on winds and weather. So in a general sweep of conversation, with Craig’s relapse into silence nicely covered, they arrived in the busy streets of Piraeus. Paul threaded his way through them skilfully to reach the broad confusion of the waterfront. Everyone was now giving directions, except Craig. The inter-island boats were that way, not over here, this was where the liners docked and there the freighters; aim left now, go beyond the wharves, those ones—see?
“I know the way,” said Paul and made a wrong turning. “I swear they keep moving these crazy wharves around,” he said, as he got back on to the right route.
It would have been easier on the nerves, Craig thought as they avoided loaded carts rushing in all directions, to have taken a taxi, but not so good for the liver. They bumped their way over the rough pavement, skidded on some inset rail lines, swerved around a pyramid of baskets almost twenty feet high, and saw three small ships in various stages of loading at a long quay. “I knew they were around here somewhere,” Paul said, chose the ship where the most frenetic efforts were being made, and eased the car as near as possible to the mixture of objects and people spread around the dock in utmost confusion. There were wardrobes and bedsteads, sacks of sugar, crates of oranges, goats and chickens, ancient trunks roped round, battered cases and brown-paper packages, women in shapeless cotton dresses and draggled cardigans, women in smart suits with high heels and swollen hair styles, men in rough caps and wide-lapelled jackets that never matched the trousers, pale students with bulging rucksacks and thin beards, red-faced young soldiers on leave, men in snap-brims and natty double-breasters, children bundled tightly in heavy clothing for the big ocean journey.
“Oh dear,” Pam said as she stepped out and looked at the smallest of the ships, “I hope you have an outside cabin, John. Here, better take these Dramamine. I brought them just in case.” And wouldn’t you know it, she thought, the new boat for the Mykonos-Rhodes run had to be laid off today. Poor John...
Craig burst out laughing in spite of his worry.
Bannerman grinned. “I’d take them if I were you.” He added quietly, “And that’s the first laugh you’ve given today. Feeling okay?”
“Sure. Just wondering how we’re all going to get packed in. We’re sailing in ten minutes.”
“The farther east from Gibraltar, the longer the minute,” Paul said, and become very business-like. “First thing is to find a steward and get him to take your cases down to your cabin. That makes sure of your spa
ce, too. Then you can wander around and join the fun. Like some help with the language?”
“You take charge,” Craig said with relief. The only English being spoken around him was by two middle-aged American women with sensible shoes and guide-books. Everything else was in a torrent of Greek, except for a trickle here and there of French. Even the laughter, harsh and strong, sounded foreign.
“You couldn’t have pleased Paul more,” Pam said, watching her husband walking over to the gangway. “He adores being demotic in Greek. Come on, let’s investigate the baskets. Whoever piled them so high and so neatly?” Clothilde was already half-way to the pyramid. That kind of mystery delighted her. It was obviously done by a nimble-handed gnome in a state of weightlessness, she called back over her shoulder.
“I’ll see about the luggage, first,” said Craig, and began hauling his bags out of the trunk. Bannerman helped, politely, not too energetically. He was looking at Craig with some deepening speculation all his own. Just then, a taxi drew up and the imitation Duclos stepped out. Craig saw him, froze for a moment, reached back into the car for his raincoat.
“That’s everything, I think.” His words felt as tight as his face. He avoided glancing in the man’s direction.
Bannerman said, “Hey, you dropped something!” He bent quickly and picked it up, pressed it securely into Craig’s hand. “I’ve been wondering how to get it there for the last five minutes,” he admitted with a short laugh. Craig glanced at the coin in his palm: it was a nickel, all right. Bannerman was saying quietly, “I know, I know. Contact only in an emergency. My feeling is you’ve got one on your hands. What’s been troubling you?”
“Duclos.” The Frenchman was now carrying his suitcases on board. His head was bent, eyes on the steep gangway. He looked to neither right nor left. He was a man who didn’t want to be noticed.
“Didn’t he make contact with you at the Grande Bretagne?”
Craig shook his head. “Do you know him?”
“By description and photograph. He is just getting on board, now.”
“Not Duclos. That’s someone else.”
Bannerman actually stared. “Are you sure?”
“Almost sure. Enough to worry about it.”
“Look—why don’t you join Paul? Stick close to him. I have a couple of Greek friends I’d better talk with. Yes, they’re going to Mykonos, too. Perhaps—” he paused again, and smiled—“yes, we’ll let the Greeks handle this little business. They’re very resourceful.” He stepped away, seemingly to avoid a cart being pushed along, piled high with mattresses.
Craig lit a cigarette, threw his coat over his shoulder, picked up his two bags, and set out for Paul and the steward he had collected. “Now,” said Paul, once the formalities of documents and tip were over, “we can stroll around and watch what’s going on. Wouldn’t miss this for anything. It’s a slice of real life.”
“How long do we have?” Craig’s eyes were looking around the dock. Bannerman had disappeared. Or was hidden by the crowd. There was no sign of the man who was pretending to be Duclos—he must have settled in his cabin. He certainly wasn’t among those who hung over the ship’s rail and yelled last messages down to the people on the dock. No transatlantic sailing had more enthusiasm.
“Oh, about fifteen minutes—yes, when they are really good and ready to sail, they’ll whisk all this stuff off the dock. You’ll be amazed how quickly they’ll do it. Now, where are Pam and Clothilde? And where’s Bannerman?”
* * *
Fifteen minutes turned to twenty. “Where’s Bannerman?” Paul was still asking.
“He met that architect friend of his—” Pam said. “What’s his name? Elias something or other. Look, there they are!” Bannerman was coming forward with a small dark-haired man, dressed neatly in grey, who carried a suitcase. They were talking casually, cheerfully, in English. “Elias is also going to Mykonos,” Bannerman announced as he completed the introductions. “He’s studying the ground for a new hotel.”
Craig shook hands and felt he was being quietly studied, too. But pleasantly. Elias had an easy smile, brightly intelligent brown eyes, a thin dark moustache stretched over sensuous red lips, and gleaming white teeth. Shirt, suit and tie were restrained and elegant. A successful young man, you’d say, and a happy one. No worries, no strain on that thin, handsome face. “I think we go on the boat,” Elias said. “It is time.”
“Wish I were coming with you,” Bannerman said, enthusiasm for travel apparently breaking loose. “What do you say, Clothilde, shall we go?”
Clothilde looked willing. She always was. But Pam said quickly, “Timmy, don’t be silly. She hasn’t even a coat to keep her warm.”
“Well, don’t be surprised if you see me tomorrow or the next day,” Bannerman told Elias and Craig, still keeping a joke in his voice. “Better get on board, now.”
“Can’t imagine why they are so late,” said Paul. The cargo, both things and people, was mostly loaded. He looked up at the crowded railings of the ship and saw a redhead. “Now isn’t that something? Was that what caught your eye, Bannerman?”
Craig looked up, too, and recognised the girl. He was sure of her: she had sat at the same table in the Saint-Honoré bar with Partridge and Duclos. She wasn’t laughing today. She was grave-faced as her eyes searched the dock. Pam was saying, “French. You always can tell.” And Clothilde, studying the simple grey wool dress and the high-brushed hair, said nothing at all.
“On board!” Bannerman said briskly, ending Craig’s goodbyes and thanks, pushing him firmly towards the gangway. Elias was already stepping on to the deck. What’s the big hurry? Craig wondered, but he smiled all around and waved as he followed the Greek. And just as he reached the deck and was searching for a free space at the rails, he began to understand. Two olive-green cars, neat and business-like, were drawing up quietly on the dock. Three men, neat and business-like, too, moved with precision and speed towards the ship. They boarded her easily, with no questions. The purser was there to welcome them, as serious and silent as they were. They disappeared down the narrow staircase into the section where the first-class cabins lay. Few people noticed; most were concentrating on calling last-minute messages to their friends on the pier. The crew were standing by the lines, ready to cast off. The narrow planks aft were already being removed. Only the first-class gangway still waited.
Four minutes passed by Craig’s count. It was now twelve-fifteen. On shore, Bannerman was pointing out something interesting at the ship’s stern to Clothilde and Pam Mortimer while Paul stayed by his car, looking at his watch, no doubt wondering about that one o’clock lunch party he was scheduled to give for two visiting scholars. Beside Craig, two men who had been talking quietly together in an incomprehensible language—they were northerners, definitely, judging from their heavy blunt features, white faces, fairish hair: Balts or Poles, perhaps Czechs?—fell totally silent. The bogus Duclos and the three imperturbable Greeks were leaving the ship in close formation, complete with his luggage.
Before their tight group had even reached the dock, one of the men near Craig went into action. He headed for the gangway, got one foot on it, began explaining in a mixture of inadequate Greek and useless French that he had left a suitcase behind—he must get it—it was impossible to sail without it. He ended the argument abruptly by pulling free from a restraining hand, made a dangerous dash down the half-free gangway, jumped on to firm ground. He stood there only for a few seconds as he recovered breath and dignity, then stalked off in high dudgeon. To the nearest telephone? His report would be a shocker. Craig thought, watching the dwindling figure of the hurrying man, watching the two official cars speed away with their prisoner. Now there’s a slice of real life for Paul to observe... But Paul had barely noticed, if at all. And the others? They were gathered around Paul, laughing at one of Bannerman’s quips as he pointed to the ship, arms circling high, Clothilde’s long green scarf fluttering.
That reminded Craig to start waving, too. Paul, still gla
ncing at his watch, was ready to drive off. Bannerman gave one last salute as he stepped into the car. Craig returned it, with a broad grin. Bannerman certainly had the most resourceful of Greek friends.
As they sailed out of the enormous port, siren-blasting their way between fishing boats, freighters flying every imaginable flag, two destroyers making for the naval dockyards on the opposite shore, an Italian liner, a Greek cruise ship, launches, more fishing boats, Elias halted nonchalantly beside Craig. “It’s going to be quite a pleasant trip,” he said, smiling brightly.
“Slow in starting. What was all that commotion on the dock?”
“The purser tells me there was a smuggler on board. Narcotics.”
“Really?”
“Yes. A Frenchman named Duclos, the purser said. One of the detectives told him the man had been chased all across Europe.” Elias shook his head over such an extraordinary world. “I think I will take a constitutional before lunch. Would you care to join me?”
“I had better get below and check on my suitcases. See you later.”
They went their separate ways. At the railing, the light-haired man gripped the rails and stared straight ahead. Strange, thought Craig in amusement, to show so little concern for the travelling companion who was left behind, to stand so tensely when Duclos was named as a wanted man. His amusement ended when he thought of Duclos—surely that was really taking a lot of liberty with a name, to tie it up with narcotics, even in rumour. Why? And where was the real Duclos, anyway?
He went down the narrow companionway to the next deck. Here were about twenty cabins along a narrow passage. The first one was empty, its door swinging to the rhythm of the boat. They were coming into more open sea, now. The next one had its door open, too. There was a woman inside—the French girl with the superlative figure in the simple dress. She was standing, holding on to the narrow bunk, her head bent. She raised her face as she heard his footsteps halt. She had been crying.
“Can I help?” he asked awkwardly.