The Double Image

  “Don’t get me out of sight of the yacht, that’s all. Take it easy, easy. Not too fast. That’s fine. You look a real Mykoniot.”

  I wish I felt like one, the other thought, as the strain on his thighs and shoulders increased. This wasn’t as easy as it looked. Next time, he told himself, I’ll let someone else do the rowing. I can’t even look around and see what’s happening. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  That was always the way...nothing, and waiting, and nothing, watching and waiting, nothing.

  “Two men leaving the yacht, taking the path to the road.”

  “Then what?”

  “They’ve turned right. They’re walking briskly. Very clever. It’s dusk, but the street lights aren’t yet switched on. They could reach town before that happens.” There was a long pause. “Yes, they are coming around the bay. Get to the shore.”

  They were pulling their boat up over the narrow stretch of beach when the two yachtsmen came walking past, only separated from the fishermen by the low stone wall that edged the deserted road. In the fading light, the two strangers looked very similar, both in clothes and in height. They walked straight on, in silence, barely glancing at one fisherman now unloading his catch while the other balanced the oars over his shoulders, and didn’t slacken pace until they reached the part of the road where it turned away from the shore as it reached the outskirts of the town, to swing around some buildings at the water’s edge. And there an odd thing happened. A third man had been waiting for them near the buildings, a small, fat man in shorts with a bulky sweater pulled over a flowered shirt. He shook hands solemnly with one of the men and fell into step beside him, while the other simply turned on his heel and retraced his steps at the same brisk pace. He passed the two fishermen on their way into town and gave them a sharp glance. But they were too busy discussing the possible price they could ask for their catch at the Triton to pay him any attention.

  They had other reasons, too: the man hurrying back to the yacht anchorage was obviously of less importance; he had only been escorting his companion safely to the meeting place. “Protection?” murmured one of the fishermen. “Or is it to confuse anyone who might be watching the Stefanie? And who is the fat friend who is now doing convoy duty?”

  The other fisherman shook his head. “We’re in trouble,” he said worriedly, looking for a place to ditch the oars and the fish. For the two men ahead of them had disappeared down the narrow lane, just beyond the group of buildings, which would lead them into the big main square which lay at this end of the town. “They’re not going to parade along the front street, you may be sure of that. They’ll use the square to branch off on a road right around the back of the town.”

  He increased his pace as he spoke, but even so, when they reached the wide, deserted square, all they saw of the stranger from the yacht and his solid guide was their backs as they vanished up one of the small streets on its other side. “You follow, if you can. Don’t let them get suspicious, though. A safe distance, these were the instructions.” He took the fish from his companion’s hand and watched him hurry across the square. Here’s a town, he thought angrily as he looked down the full stretch of the front street with its café lights welcoming the procession of travellers from the Athens boat, here’s a town where you can walk its length or breadth in five minutes, and where you lose a man in three seconds flat. The dusk was deepening, more lights were coming on, here by the waterfront. He watched a red-haired beauty, following her porter and luggage, strolling towards him; French, he guessed by her clothes, and probably going to the Leto—she was entering the dark lane now to reach the shore road around the bay. That’s right, he told himself bitterly, you know everything except where that man from the yacht was going.

  There were several small pieces of comfort, though. The man had been seen. The man had been followed into town, and not to one of the houses scattered on the hills around the town. The man would never have put a foot off his yacht, never even have anchored, if he had had any suspicion at all. The man’s friend could be identified with a little work and care; he was either a tourist or a foreign resident—certainly not a self-respecting Mykoniot in that ridiculous clothing. So these were the crumbs of comfort. Now we shall wait on that road around the bay, and wait, and wait, until the man returns to the Stefanie. A clever man, certainly. Who is he?

  The lights went on in the little streets and lanes. Perhaps in time to let us catch up with him after all? Always keeping, of course, at a safe distance; these were the American instructions. The fisherman laughed silently. Whoever gave these directions had never seen Mykonos.

  14

  Dinner at nine meant nine-thirty. It ended almost at eleven. This was due partly to the amount of food divided into many courses, and partly to the valiant attempts of the young smiling fisher-girls, decked up in spotless aprons, to serve from the left and pour from the right and remember all the funny ways of foreigners. It was a generous and comic meal, actually the best of combinations. Nor did Craig have to do much talking. The other guests were either French or English, and both groups showed something of the new nationalism in Europe by disliking to speak in anything but their own language.

  When he stood once more in his small, low-ceilinged room that overlooked the little square, his plans for the rest of the evening—to wander around the town for an hour, find his bearings—were now quite discouraged. Everyone here was already in bed, it seemed; Mykonos had closed down for the night. There wasn’t a movement or sound from the lanes around the church square; windows were shuttered, lights were out. This was a place of sea air and heavy slumber, and probably of early rising. He might as well call it a day, catch up on his own sleep (twenty-four hours short after his week of tavernas in Athens) and face Mykonos tomorrow. There were also two immediate problems: how to be able to avoid Veronica Clark nonchalantly; how to avoid Heinrich Berg completely. He could solve them for tonight, at least, by going to bed.

  He had been right about sea air and heavy sleep, but he didn’t get down to breakfast until almost ten. The rest of the guests in this rambling hotel (three houses joined together by Madame’s willpower and run on her indomitable energy, with scurrying maids dropping spoons or unrestrained giggles as light relief to complete obedience) had already left for bathing beaches or high-minded excursions to Delos. He had the small enclosed garden all to himself. It was really only an alcove formed by the jut of the hotel’s second house into the church square, shut off from the two sides of public view by a thick high wall, whitewashed like the flagstones and every other stretch of stone in sight. It contained three tables, seven pots of flowers (the softer side of Madame the Terrible), vines growing around the second-floor windows overhead (they might even bloom as hibiscus once summer was here), and three oleander bushes to break the hard line of the eight-foot wall. Everything, except the rampant vines, was miniature in scale. It was therefore also excessively private. It was a corner of complete peace—the good-natured shrieks from the kitchen were a long way off—and, what seemed even more important, of reasonable security. No one from the outside, not even the houses around the square, could look into this patch of garden. Comrade Berg, if he were studying his neighbours this fine blue-skied morning, would need something stronger than binoculars to pierce the Triton’s high, thick wall.

  Madame came to supervise for a few minutes. He admired everything, he assured her. Yes, he was most comfortable, the coffee was excellent. He would sit a little longer, look at some guide books, study some maps, and might he have another cup of coffee?

  And after that? he wondered. Out. Out to meet Veronica with Maritta smiling in the background? As for Berg—well, it was more than possible that he would not do much walking through Mykonos by this excessively clear and bright daylight. Yes, morning, and breakfast, changed one’s perspective on problems, thought Craig.

  “May I have some coffee, too, Madame Iphigenia?” an American voice asked from the dining-room’s doorway, and Jim Part
ridge stepped out on to the terrace. He was tanned and smiling, a little leaner, a little more gaunt under the cheekbones. He was dressed, like Craig, in a dark cotton shirt and grey slacks. He was adding a few phrases in atrocious Greek to please Madame and send her beaming towards the kitchen; perhaps to help Craig, too. For there had been a moment of blank astonishment, and then—as Madame’s attention was diverted—time for recovery. “Do you mind if I join you?” Partridge asked in a normal tone of voice. He glanced around the enclosed terrace. “It would be difficult to sit in lonely state in a place this size.”

  “There are some guests at this hotel who could manage it very well,” Craig said with a grin, remembering last night’s deep freeze. “Delighted. Sit down. My name’s Craig.”

  “I’m Partridge.”

  They shook hands solemnly and sat down, and looked at each other. “Thank God, you’re here,” Craig said in a low voice. He glanced briefly at the hotel’s two second-floor windows that overlooked the terrace.

  “Anyone up there?”

  “Just a couple of maids. And a silent young man.”

  “Then we’ll talk about the weather and skin-diving until coffee arrives.” Partridge tilted his chair comfortably, lit a cigarette, stretched his shoulders. “That was quite a storm last night. I was on one of those cruise ships—five glorious days on five famous islands; you know the routine—and bucked a north wind all the way from Crete to here. So when I stepped on land this morning, I decided I’d stay awhile and let the cruise do without me.”

  Now, come on, thought Craig as he listened with a broadening smile. Partridge on a cruise—that would be the day! Still, it all sounded authentic, and just the usual routine of new arrivals: my storm was bigger than yours. He will end by persuading me he has done nothing but pleasure-hop all around these islands since I last saw him in Paris.

  The coffee arrived with one of Madame’s laughing handmaidens, and they could drop the light chitchat. Upstairs, the beds had been made, the rooms tidied, and there was no more rustling at the windows, no more whispered comments on the two men sitting so lazily in the garden. The silent young man had left for some errands in town; Madame’s instructions to him floated out in all their detail, and would keep him busy for a full hour. “A grand old girl,” Partridge said softly.

  “Carved in granite. The Mount Rushmore type.”

  “And a heart of—well, let’s say solid silver. You can trust her.”

  “She knows what?”

  “Nothing at all. But Elias—you came over on the boat with him yesterday, didn’t you?—well, he’s the nephew of her sister’s husband. That makes him family.”

  “Very special?”

  “Special enough on these islands. His friends are her friends. He brought me here, this morning.”

  “Didn’t she expect him to stay, too?”

  “And occupy a room that earns five dollars a day? Elias has tact. That is why she thinks so highly of him.”

  “Well, that’s nice to know. What about the silent young man? Last night he stared too much, for my comfort.”

  “Probably he was just admiring the cut of your jacket. I bet he intends to have his next suit built exactly like that.” As Craig relaxed and laughed, Partridge added, “Tourists are just like lions in cages—a kind of zoo for the local inhabitants. Don’t let a few stares worry you. If a Greek looks at you at all he is paying you a compliment. How about the windows upstairs? Are we still being complimented?”

  “They’re empty.”

  “All right, then. Let’s talk. But keep your voice down as low as possible. Tell me all about the Duclos incident. Where did you first spot him?”

  Craig gave the brief account as crisply as he could. “Have they found the real Duclos?” he asked. Partridge shook his head. “What happened to him?”

  “He arrived at the Athens airport last Sunday. That, we do know. Later, a stolen car was found abandoned a few miles away, along with a stolen uniform.” He paused. Then he added grimly, “The man who impersonated Duclos may have been one of the kidnappers. The Greek police will get more out of him yet. They know how to handle that type, but it takes time. So far, he is saying nothing at all, not even with Duclos’ ring and passport confronting him. Once a man starts inventing a story, it’s easy enough to let his own quick wits trap him. It’s a kind of mental jujitsu. You lead him on, let him think he is superior mentally to you. And then he outwits himself.” Partridge had lost his taste for coffee; he pushed his cup away, stubbed out his cigarette. “So if ever you find yourself questioned, throw away your pride and play stupid. Name, rank and serial number—the last two being as misleading as possible. That’s the safe way, perhaps not for you, but certainly for your friends.”

  “Did Duclos play it safe, like that?” Not for himself, but for Mimi and Partridge and all the rest. For me, too, Craig suddenly realised.

  “If he had a chance to give a false rank and serial number, he’d keep them simple. And stay with them.”

  If he had a chance... “I suppose everyone breaks under torture.”

  Partridge nodded. “Either that,” he said at last, “or he killed himself to prevent it. He would size up his captors, know how far they’d go. He was a very level-headed man, and a brave one.”

  “You think he is dead?”

  “I think so.” There was emphasis on the pronoun.

  “The others don’t?”

  “Division of opinion. The usual flap. Suggestions that we even get the Greek police to move in on Maritta Maas right now, while the French pick up Uncle Peter back in Paris. Better those two than nothing at all, that’s the feeling. And that’s why I’m here, actually. I wanted to see for myself if there were any storm signals around you. If there are, then I’m wrong about Duclos and he did talk. In which case, I’d better get you out of here as quickly as possible.”

  “I think you are right about Duclos,” Craig said very quietly. “For two reasons. The first one is the minor one—me. Remember what I told you about the man with the high cheekbones and blunt nose who left the boat hurriedly at the Piraeus dock? Well, he had a friend with him on board. At first I thought the two of them might have been tailing me. But the one who sailed didn’t come to Mykonos. He got off at Syros. Now, if Duclos had given my name to his—his examiners, would that man have got off at Syros? Paid no attention to me? He didn’t even know who I was. He was on that boat, I now think, simply to keep an eye on the fake Duclos. They knew it was a tricky business, that impersonation, and if anything went wrong they wanted to learn who had recognised the fake. That could be the reason why they were sailing with him.” He paused. Partridge was looking at him with an odd expression in his light grey eyes. “Could be?” Craig asked, wondering if he had been too blatantly stupid.

  “Could very well be,” Partridge murmured. “And if that’s your minor reason, I’d like to hear what you think is more important.”

  “Heinrich Berg is here.”

  Partridge was really startled, and didn’t even hide it. “Here—on Mykonos?”

  “I saw him last night,” Craig began, and gave a quick account of the whole incident, from his view of the square to Herr Ludwig’s taste for wine. “Do you think Berg would have appeared on Mykonos if Duclos had told him we were all gathering here?” he ended. “So that’s the second reason why I think you’re right. Duclos didn’t talk.”

  Partridge sat very still. “Then,” he said, “we now have three people who can actually identify Insar—can identify Berg, right on this very island. You, and two of Elias’ agents who were pretending to be fishermen yesterday when a yacht came into the harbour. They saw one of its passengers being met by a small stout man in shorts, a flowered shirt, and a large sweater.” Wouldn’t you know it, he thought, two rather minor agents and a complete amateur? “Three who can identify,” he repeated, a smile beginning to break. “We’re really getting ahead in this game, aren’t we?” His smile faded and he was back to some anxious thinking again.

  “I c
an manage to dodge Berg,” Craig said, misreading the frown on Partridge’s face. “He won’t risk walking about in daylight; you notice he came into town in the dusk, when the streets were mostly empty. So if I avoid the small square, show no interest in the Ludwig house, arouse no suspicion that I know he is here, I can wander around the rest of Mykonos quite normally. Of course, there is just one thing. He may not be in Ludwig’s house. He may be right back on the yacht. In that case, I’ll keep away from that side of the bay. Okay?”

  “The yacht sailed at six this morning. But he wasn’t on board.”

  “And that worries you?” Craig asked, watching Partridge’s tense eyes.

  “Now that I know that it’s Berg himself who is in Mykonos—yes.” Partridge hesitated, then added, “I’ll have to leave, right away. As soon as I can get transportation out.”

  And here I’m stuck again, just guessing, just wondering what the whole thing is the hell about. Craig said, “I wish I didn’t feel I were punching my way into a sack of cotton wool.” He tried his coffee, but it was cold. Madame would be shocked at such waste, such casual treatment of her time and coffee beans. He picked up both their cups, rose, and emptied them into a pot of flowers.

  Partridge had been studying him as if he were deciding something. Suddenly, he made up his mind. “What worries me is simply this. Everything is moving far too quickly. I’ve miscalculated. I thought from the information we had that there was a week ahead of us, at least a few more days, to get everything set up here, and wait. But if Insarov has already arrived—yes, Insarov is the name that Berg has used for nineteen years—then he must expect the information from our base near Smyrna to be delivered very, very soon.”

  Craig stared at him. “So that’s your real problem,” he said slowly. Heinrich Berg and Sussman’s murder had led all the way to Smyrna... “How soon?” he asked bluntly.

  “Perhaps even now—by radio transmission?”