“What?”
“Oh! We’ll have to hurry.” Her eyes were laughing, her cheeks flushed. “It’s closing time, don’t you see?”
“But how could you know? Your usual time signal isn’t here today.”
She frowned for a brief moment. “Oh, you mean the girl in the Dior dress? She left. This afternoon. Just about the time you were having a drink with George. They all left—the girl and the old woman and the chauffeur and five suitcases.”
“Did they, indeed?” Then the yacht that he had seen sailing away from Messina could very well have been the Medea. “What is the chauffeur like, by the way? A small round type with well-oiled black hair? Sort of patters as he walks, dances around when he is excited?”
“Nothing like that. Dark hair, yes; but he is almost as tall as you are. Not fat, either. An athletic-looking bloke, as George said when he first saw him.”
“In the garden, having his sun bath.”
She concentrated on the last steep steps, leading them round the ruined stage.
“I know. They are quite the opposite of the ancient Greeks in that kind of thing. And yet—George thought he could be Greek.”
“How on earth could he tell?”
“The man reminded him, I think, of someone he once knew.”
“Pretty good eyes, your husband has.” Pretty good field glasses, too, perhaps.
“Yes,” she said slowly, looking straight ahead. “He has seen me.” They were now on the sloping path that led down to the entrance gate. George Ottway had stopped there, by the ticket booth, and was studying the post cards for sale.
“You would have told him everything,” Strang reminded her. “This will save you finding that minimum explanation. By the way, does your husband know the Greeks have left?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “Didn’t you just say I told him everything?”
Ottway looked up to face them, at the exactly right moment. “Hallo, there I” he said cheerfully. “Had a pleasant climb?”
7
Strang went back to his hotel in a thoughtful mood. Ottway had even asked him to join his wife and himself for a drink, but he had begged off. He gave an excuse which, to his amusement, Ottway had accepted with a long look: he had some work to finish before dinner. “Perhaps we’ll see you later,” Caroline had said, glancing at her husband. “We are going dancing at the San Domenico tonight.” So, thought Strang, the Greeks have left and Ottway can step out again like a free man; no more subterfuges such as dark glasses, or standing with his back carefully turned to the Greek’s house, as he did when we met yesterday. “That would be pleasant,” Strang had said, “but I may have to keep pretty close to my room tonight. Steve will be turning up any time now.”
And when he met Steve, Strang was thinking as he reached the hotel, there was going to be quite a lot of talk. Steve was going to have to listen to some frank advice. Because, Strang decided, I’m on the side of Lee Preston, this time certainly; alarms and excursions are no way to run a business, and we have a serious job to do. It is all very well to be erratic, offbeat, independent, but this job is a good job, worth doing, and let’s keep our minds on that, shall we, pal?
At the porter’s lodge, there was still no message from Steve.
After an early and lonely dinner, Strang settled in his room to wait. And, of course, just as he had arranged the desk and the light and spread out his sketches and picked up a pencil, there was a knock on the door. It was the sad-eyed maid, returning his laundry. That was a little surprising; it had been promised for the next day. More surprising was her low voice saying, “Your friend is on the terrace.” Then, in her normal tones, she added, “I hope the gentleman is pleased with the shirts?”
“Yes, thank you. Just lay them on the bed. Good night.”
She hesitated at the door, glancing into the corridor. “Is the gentleman leaving tomorrow? I wish him a good journey and a quick return.”
It was a tactful hint. “Is it your day off, tomorrow?” he asked, and rose and found his wallet. “I probably won’t leave until early Monday, but in case I don’t see you again—thank you for your most efficient services.”
To an Italian, the phrase of thanks spoken earnestly was almost as important as the tip. Her tired face came to life for a delighted moment. She wished him a good journey, for the second time. As Strang closed the door on her thanks, he heard the facchino outside say, with a laugh, “You made sure of that one, eh?”
“Why not?” the maid asked sharply. Their voices blurred in half-joking argument and faded into silence.
For a moment, as he pulled on his jacket and tightened the knot of his tie, Strang felt ridiculous. Play acting was something to be kept strictly for a stage. Yet human beings were odd: he had picked up his cue so easily from the maid, had backed her excuse for her visit to his room at this hour, as if he actually accepted this play acting as something quite natural. His feeling of foolishness passed into one of worry. If Steve had to send messages like this—or was it Steve?
He left his desk with his work spread out over it. He opened the shutters wide to let in the air, switched off all lights to keep the night moths out. In the corridor, the half-joking argument was still in progress. It was silenced abruptly as he appeared, and then, as he left the corridor, he could hear it begin again. He found himself a little envious. For at this moment, somehow, travelling was a lonely business.
He halted at the top of the steps leading down to the terrace, and lit a cigarette. There were bright lights spaced overhead, but there were enough patches of deep shadow among trees and flower beds to please the romantics. The terrace appeared empty; people were still at dinner in the restaurant on the other side of the hotel. More mysteries, he thought with rising annoyance, and he walked slowly down to the front balustrade. Then to his right, almost at the side of the terrace that looked toward Etna, he saw a man. The man had seen him, too. He was standing still, waiting, not under full lamplight, yet not in deep shadow. But he wasn’t Steve. He was thinner, much thinner. For a moment, Strang hesitated. All right, he thought, all right. He threw away his cigarette and began walking slowly toward the stranger. It was Alexander Christophorou.
Strang halted. Christophorou stepped back into the shadow of some trees, and Strang followed him. In the darkness, they gripped hands. “I would have known you,” Christophorou was saying delightedly. “Even if I had not been expecting you, I would have known you.” The warmth in his voice, speaking English fluently, was unmistakable.
Strang relaxed. With undisguised relief, he said, “It’s good to see you again. It has been a long time.”
“Over here,” Christophorou directed, still keeping his voice low, as he led the way between flower beds and fruit trees, “we shall find a pleasant place to sit and talk.” They passed under a light, and each glanced at the other automatically. Christophorou smiled and said, “Yes, let’s have a close look.” Then they entered another patch of deep shadow. “Careful! There are little chairs here. And a table.”
“Last time we met, you were saying, ‘Careful! There is a deep hole here, a rock there.’ And we kept to the shadows then, too.” But why here? Strang wondered.
“Here, we can sit,” Christophorou said. “And this time, too, we still have something beautiful to watch while we talk.” He gestured to the dark outline of Etna against the ink-blue sky. “Your face has changed a little, Kenneth. Have you? I hope not.”
“Fifteen years older,” Strang reminded him.
“And I am fifty years older. But you noticed that.”
Strang thought of the face he had seen under the lamplight for a brief moment. Alexander Christophorou was still a handsome man, but he had aged rapidly. His dark hair was now receding, his face had become thinner, so that the aquiline nose and high forehead were more accentuated. His deep-set brown eyes were still remarkable under the thin black eyebrows, but they had sunk further into their large sockets, just as his cheeks were now gaunt. The lips, once full and sensuous, were n
ow almost severe. His smile was quick, fleeting. Fifteen years ago, he had probably been no older than twenty-seven or eight. Now, he looked like a man in his late fifties. What, Strang wondered, has he been through?
“I’m sorry we must sit in this darkness,” Christophorou said.
Strang recovered from his shock at Christophorou’s appearance. “Is it really necessary?” he asked lightly.
Christophorou laughed softly. (And that, Strang was glad to note, had not changed) “I am afraid so. Some people have become very interested in my visit to Sicily. I should like to keep them puzzled as much as possible. In fact—I am sorry, but I think it would be safer if we did not have dinner together tomorrow night. We shall postpone that until Athens.”
“I’m glad to hear that Athens is safer.” Strang’s disappointment added a slight edge to his voice.
Christophorou said quickly, “For you, certainly. Because in Athens, I meet so many people. But here, I have met no one except on—certain business.”
The implication was clear enough. “Your business has to do with Steve Kladas?”
“Yes. I would rather you were not connected with it, in any way. And so, let us postpone our little dinner.”
“It seems to me I’m pretty well connected with Steve already.”
“But only in your own work. Let us keep it that way, Kenneth.”
Strang said nothing. Was a postponed dinner the only reason for this meeting? Perhaps Christophorou had thought that the voice explained more kindly than a brief note.
“No other questions?” Christophorou asked.
“Plenty,” Strang said. “But they would put me at a disadvantage.”
“I know. Questions make a man sound inquisitive or naive. You were never either of these things.”
“They can also embarrass one’s friends,” Strang reminded him, letting the compliment fall to the ground. Whether it was truth or flattery no longer interested him: he had become older, too, evidently. “Frankly, what questions may I ask you?”
“Have I become so much a mystery?”
“You always were, you know,” Strang said with a laugh.
“I was?” Christophorou was serious, a little hurt. He hadn’t taken the remark as a small joke. “How?”
“Just the way we met, remember?”
“In the Grande Bretagne bar. But what was mysterious about that? It was crowded with soldiers, a general headquarters for the government forces—”
“But you were the only man there who didn’t laugh when I said over a drink that before I left Athens all I wanted to see was the Parthenon. I remember you standing quite quietly at one side of the bar. You looked over at me and said, ‘Why not?’ And you did get me close up to the Acropolis, street-fighting or no street-fighting.”
“A mad impulse,” Christophorou remarked, “but hardly mysterious.”
“I used the wrong word, “I guess. I ought to have said ‘romantic’ or something like that.” Strang was embarrassed a little. “And how is Athens?”
“Quiet.”
“Are you still teaching law at the University?”
“No. But I haven’t given up the practice of law, entirely.” Christophorou was speaking carefully. Strang had the feeling that he was choosing his words. “Shall we say that I have moved into a field where my training can be very useful?”
Intelligence work, obviously, thought Strang: something confidential at least.
“I’m a journalist.”
Strang wondered if he had guessed wrong. He said, “I thought that perhaps you were here on some kind of police business, or intelligence work, or something like that.”
“Not police business,” Christophorou said definitely. “I am here as a journalist interested in a story.”
“I’m sure you are a very good journalist and the story is a very good story, too.” If Christophorou had become an intelligence agent, he could scarcely admit it, but the inflexion in his voice and his new passion for secrecy might be a calculated warning to a friend: I am here on official business, he seemed to be saying, but I can’t tell you that in actual words.
“The story belongs to Stefanos Kladas,” Christophorou said. “My job is to ask him to tell it. I think it will be a very important story.”
“For Kladas, or for you?” Strang asked bluntly.
“For many, many people,” the quiet voice said. Then Christophorou laughed that small touch of grimness away. He reached out and grasped Strang’s shoulder for a moment. “Don’t worry, Kenneth. You will not have to divide your loyalties between Stefanos Kladas and me.”
I hope to God I won’t, Strang thought. Steve’s story, he was beginning to feel, was much more than the family matter Steve had talked about. “What do you intend to do with this story when you get it?”
“That will be decided on the highest level. This is a very grave security matter. I can’t explain more.”
Strang thought of Steve’s small case lying so peacefully in his room. He moved restlessly. “Well,” he said, “when you get to Athens, call me at the Grande Bretagne and we can arrange—”
Christophorou stopped him as he rose. “There are some things I can explain, though. It is absolutely imperative that we find Stefanos Kladas.”
“Why?”
“Because he has certain knowledge, certain information about certain people, which is vital to us. His story, as I call it, could be disastrous if it were to get into the wrong hands. I must see Stefanos Kladas. You understand?”
Strang nodded politely. The matter was urgent; that he did understand. He said, “So my letter to you turned out to be very useful.”
“Incidentally, yes. When your letter reached me in Athens, we already had a man in Taormina waiting to interview Stefanos Kladas when he arrived from Naples.”
So that explained Steve’s hurry to get to Taormina. “Didn’t he see your man?”
“Yes. But the meeting was not altogether satisfactory. Stefanos Kladas wanted to deal with his story in his own way, on his own terms. Perhaps he wanted time to think about our proposals. He arranged for another meeting here in Taormina, this week. And that is where your letter was not only a pleasant surprise, but something useful. For I decided to come and interview him myself. If he still had doubts about us, then I thought you could at least vouch for me. Or was I wrong?”
“Steve makes up his own mind.”
“But aren’t you close friends?”
“Yes, but still I don’t know any of his secrets. That’s the way he is.” Strang tried to see Christophorou’s expression, but the shadows defeated him. Would Christophorou have ever bothered to meet me at all, he wondered wryly, if I couldn’t have introduced him to Steve? “I thought you said you wanted me kept out of all this business.”
“I do, since coming to Taormina. Back in Athens, the interview seemed a much simpler matter. But here, in Sicily, our competitors have learned that Stefanos Kladas is around.”
Strang half smiled. “Are they working for a rival newspaper?”
“You could express it that way.” Christophorou’s voice was grim.
“And you are both after the same information?”
“Yes. But their methods—” Christophorou’s shrug could be felt through the darkness.
“How will they try to get it?”
“By threats, or bribery, or even blackmail.”
“Steve isn’t the kind to be easily threatened.” Or bribed, or blackmailed.
“Perhaps not. But—in any case—our problem has widened. It is not only a matter of persuading Stefanos Kladas to give us that information. It is a matter of protecting him.”
“He won’t like that.”
“He won’t know.”
“He will. Any intelligent man would know at once if he were being followed around.”
There was a slight pause. “Did you know that you have been followed for almost two days?”
“What?” There was a longer pause. “Why?”
“You might have been i
nteresting.”
“And was I?”
“Until last night.”
“And what did I do last night to make them lose interest?” Strang’s sense of the ludicrous became swamped in anger. “And who the hell are—”
Christophorou’s hand was on his arm. “Quietly,” he advised. “Last night, you searched this town. Obviously, you were looking for Stefanos Kladas. Obviously, you did not even know his hotel.”
“And obviously, if he didn’t trust me with his address, he never trusted me very much about anything.” Strang was still angry.
“Or did he?”
Strang hesitated for a moment. “He told me about his sister. She’s alone now, in some small village in Sparta. There was some problem about a dowry. But that isn’t the story you want from Steve, is it? I don’t know any other.”
Christophorou was silent for a few moments. “You haven’t seen him since you came here?”
“No.”
“No letter? No message?”
“There was. a telephone call, last night.”
“You spoke with him?”
Strang, sensing the change in Christophorou’s face, cursed the deep shadows once more. It was only when you talked in the dark that you realised how much you listened, not only with your ears, but with your eyes.
“No. The message came just ten minutes before I got back to the hotel. He was delayed in Syracuse.” Strang shook his head and added, “But after what you’ve told me, I wouldn’t be surprised if Steve didn’t send that message. Perhaps the men who followed me around last night thought they’d send me a note and get me to stop searching.”
“Stefanos Kladas did not send that message.”
Strang, who hadn’t really believed his own suggestion, looked startled.
Christophorou rose to his feet. “I went to Syracuse. I found where Stefanos Kladas had been staying. But he had already left Syracuse, yesterday morning.”
“Then where is he?” Strang was on his feet, too. If Steve had left Syracuse yesterday morning, he could have reached Taormina by noon. Unless, of course, he had stopped off to photograph Etna, or Catania.
“Don’t start worrying! Stefanos Kladas is bound to return to Taormina. He left some of his luggage at his hotel. Two cameras and a suitcase.”