Decision at Delphi

  He could sense her disbelief. Or perhaps, more kindly, her unwillingness to accept any such philosophy as nihilism.

  “Look,” he said, “if I could have told your father in 1932 that within ten years Hitler was going to get men not only to build gas chambers but to run them, destroy other human beings by the million, what would your father have said?”

  “I see now,” she said slowly, “I see what you mean.” And then, angrily, “They are mad, all of them! Crazy mad.”

  “Ask Katherini,” he said quietly, “if her aunt and her friends are mad. Crazy mad.”

  “You mean, she’d think I was crazy for suggesting it?” There was more than a hint of a sharp edge to her voice.

  He didn’t give an inch. “Yes,” he said. “She’d think just that. They are a collection of ruthless power-politicians who are making sure they are going to win, this time.”

  “But if they believe in complete destruction, then they’ll be destroyed, too.”

  “They’ll take that chance. After all, who is more likely to survive—a pack of wolves or a flock of sheep?”

  “But—” she began, and stopped. Together, they looked along the street as they heard the heavy sound of an engine pulling up a hill.

  It was a light truck, they could see now, as it turned sharply around the corner and came toward them. It slowed down a little; not much, though. Strang stepped out to the edge of the sidewalk, so that he could be more clearly recognised. Cecilia followed him, and stood beside him. Surely Petros will notice us, she thought. If it was Petros. Alarm and dismay swept over her, for the truck was not stopping. It slowed down only enough to let a small, thin figure jump out, her head wrapped in a black scarf, her loose coat flapping. Katherini almost fell, recovered herself, and then ran with amazing speed toward their outstretched hands. She grasped them and pulled toward the shadows. “Hide!” she said. “Hide!” She covered her mouth, and knelt down. Strang crouched and pulled Cecilia with him. They heard the sound of another engine coming up the hill. Strang looked at Katherini. She nodded. So they had been followed.

  The waiting only lasted a minute, but to the three still figures, motionless behind the barricade of lime heaps and wooden props, each second stretched out interminably. Strang listened tensely. The truck had travelled some distance before the car—its tyres hissing as the corner was taken too sharply— turned into this street and gathered speed on the level stretch of roadway. It was passing them, a sleek, tail-finned body of green and white and chromium. It was gone.

  Strang kept them all within the shadows until he saw that the slant-eyed tail-lights had disappeared. “Now!” he said, taking each girl by an arm and hurrying them along the sidewalk and across the street.

  “Where?” asked Cecilia.

  “Tommy’s,” he said, and increased their pace. The streets were empty at this moment; he might as well make the most of that.

  “You know him well enough to trust him?”

  “Fifteen years ago, he was being hunted and hidden.” I’ll trust that memory, he thought, any day.

  They had turned the corner and started down Dimocritos Street. “It’s on the other side,” he said, his eyes on the numbers at the doorways. “Cecilia, you cross over, walk down to this address”—he gave her Tommy’s card—“and keep inside the doorway. We’ll walk down this side of the street. See you there!”

  She nodded and left them, walking lightly, her coat collar turned up and held at her throat against the sharp night air. Their hiding place had been dank and cold. Another five minutes and she would have been chilled to the bone. She was too alert—all right, let’s name it truthfully, she told herself— too afraid, to feel tired or sleepy. Strange what effect one car chasing a light truck had had on her. No more arguments. No more doubts that Kenneth Strang might be taking excessive precautions. In fact, as scared as she was at this moment, eyeing every doorway, every shadow, she wondered if Ken were taking enough precautions. But, like the green-and-white monster chasing Petros, you cut corners for the sake of speed. She ascended two steps into Tommy’s doorway. I’m here, she thought, now where are they? And where is Petros? She shivered, and drew her collar more tightly around her neck.

  “What happened?” Strang asked Katherini as Cecilia left them. He slackened his pace.

  “Petros led me out through the back, and then into a lane. The truck was there, all loaded and ready for tomorrow morning—Petros had deliveries to make in Corinth and—”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “What happened?”

  “We started very quietly, very slowly. And at the end of the lane, just as it curved round to join a street—we saw Nikos Kladas. He was walking toward us, with a man called Andreas. They had left their car down on the street. They must have been searching the lane.”

  Petros had been a little too optimistic, Strang thought, when he insisted that no one would calculate where the back entrance of the taverna could lead. Or Nikos Kladas had a good detailed map and a cold analytical eye. “And then?”

  “Petros put on full speed. He ran them down. They had to jump. Nikos was struck. A little. He fell, at least.” She sounded pleased. Perhaps in all the years she had known Nikos Kladas, she had never seen him being forced to jump. “Then we were driving down the street, and twisting and turning, on to a big road, and then up a long hill and around. I saw the Acropolis. We drove halfway to the Piraeus, and turned back on a side road, and up and around, and twisted and turned.”

  “And they followed?”

  “I looked back at their car as we left the street where it was standing. I saw Andreas helping Nikos into it. I think his leg was hurt. They started after us as quickly as they could.”

  Petros could drive, Strang admitted to himself: that was one thing he had not overestimated. “Petros—”

  “Oh, he will be all right!” The new confidence in Katherini’s voice was startling. “He would have shaken off that car completely if he hadn’t had to come to this district. He will take them down into the market. He has friends there, he said. He would leave the truck with them, well hidden. They’ll take it back to the lane tomorrow, and explain to his partner—”

  “Where is Petros going after that?”

  “To the Peloponnese.”

  “Alone?”

  “He has friends there, and all along the way. He drives a bus in summer to Sparta.”

  “I told him to wait until tomorrow, when I could go with him,” Strang said angrily. So Petros had won their last-minute argument, after all, in his own fashion.

  “Stefanos needs help now,” she reminded him softly.

  “I know, I know.” He was angered by his own helplessness. He looked across the street. A couple of minutes had elapsed since Cecilia had vanished into that doorway, over there. Time enough to let any inquisitive observer think she had little connection with Katherini and him. “Come,” he said, and they crossed quickly.

  “Petros says,” Katherini was explaining patiently, as if Strang were a five-year-old and not too bright for his years, “that what we need is one scout, not a pack of soldiers and policemen. So that is what he is going to be—a scout. To find out what he can. Alone. And then when he sees what has to be done, he will get his friends to help him. They are much more clever than soldiers or policemen. You see?”

  “Sh!” he warned her, as they entered the small, stone-floored hall where Cecilia waited, close to the door.

  Katherini’s face softened as she pulled back the headscarf from her hair. “My father’s cousin at Erinna Street gave me this,” she whispered to Cecilia, smoothing its folds with her thin hands. “And I know what you’ll say,” she jibed at Strang. “It cost her more than it cost my aunt for six fur coats. I know that!”

  “Sh!” he warned again, and pointed to the small self-service elevator. Cecilia nodded, took Katherini’s arm, and drew her toward it. Strang studied the small notice board, its roster of names displayed by visiting cards inserted into narrow brass frames. There were four tenants in thi
s house: J. J. Thomson; Louizis Michalopoulos; Demetrius Drakon; A. Christophorou. His hand, reaching for the receiver on the house telephone beside the board, paused. A. Christophorou? The girls had already reached the elevator. In sudden alarm, he started after them, worried, trying to think, instinctively wanting to get them out of this building. And then, in the street outside, a car drew up abruptly, footsteps hurried across the sidewalk.

  He didn’t wait for the front door to open. He was already inside the elevator, closing its solid door, his finger on the top-floor button, pressing hard. For a moment, nothing moved. Through the small square of glass inserted in the door’s upper panel, he could, by bending his head, see the newcomer. It was a woman. Flat heels—they had deceived him into thinking it was a man’s step—tweed coat thrown over her shoulders, reddish hair severely upswept, a sculptured face, now too haggard for beauty, but with definite remnants of what once must have made an astonishing picture. The elevator groaned, roused itself from sleep, and started up with surprising swiftness. His last glimpse was of the red-gold head turning quickly away. There’s someone who doesn’t want to be recognised, either, he thought, with a touch of amusement.

  He shook his head warningly, put a finger to his lips. There was little need for his caution. Katherini’s weight sagged against his arm, her eyes still looking in horror at the small square of glass. Cecilia was holding her, startled, frightened. He slipped his arm around Katherini’s waist, and held her, too. Over her head, his eyes met the deep blue of Cecilia’s in an interchange of silent questions. Neither had any answers. Except that, for a few moments, lost in that deep deep blue, he could almost forget everything else.

  The fourth floor was reached; they stood in a small hallway listening to the elevator start its descent. In front of them was a dark-brown door, a well-polished brass bell. Strang, holding Katherini, again gestured for silence. If he rang the doorbell now, would the woman in the hall hear Tommy’s surprised voice? He glanced at Katherini, wondering a great deal. All her newfound confidence had left her. She was in a state of collapse, her body trembling inside the curve of his arm. He remembered a spaniel he had picked up once after it had been lolloping around a field near his father’s house outside Princeton and had flushed a ground hog instead of the usual rabbit from a tangle of bushes. He was now feeling against his side the same pathetic, spasmodic shudders of fear. The sooner we clear out of here, the better, he thought as he listened to the elevator. The woman had entered it. He could hear it droning its way up again.

  Katherini said, “She is coming here!”

  “Who?”

  “My aunt. She’s coming...” The whisper died away, hopeless, and left Strang and Cecilia staring at each other.

  “No. Not here,” he said, as he heard the elevator stop. It had not travelled far, only to the second floor. Demetrius Drakon, he remembered, and took a deep breath of relief as the elevator was sent down once more. I’ll call it back up here, he thought, as soon as it reaches the hall. We’ll get the hell out. He looked at Thomson’s solid door; he liked old Tommy, but he didn’t care much for the house he lived in.

  But, at that moment, the door opened. Tommy stood there, wrapped in a heavy dressing-gown, his white hair ruffled into a startled fuzz around his head, his red face frowning, his light-blue eyes wary, his hand gripped round a heavy walking-stick.

  “Wondered who was whispering on my door mat,” he began, relaxing.

  Strang made an instinctive gesture for silence and, although the surprised Tommy could hardly be expected to understand, pointed downward to the second floor. But Tommy at least understood the urgency of the pointed hand.

  He looked at Strang, then he looked at Cecilia, then at the white face of the girl. He stepped back, opening his door wide. “Come in, come in,” he said irritably. “Can’t have her fainting out there!”

  15

  Tommy hadn’t been asleep. He hadn’t even been in bed. His comfortably dented arm-chair, with a footstool in front, a reading-lamp at its side, and a table at elbow level on which a pot of tea, a large cup, an opened book face down, reading-glasses, pipe, and massive ash tray were lying, showed he was a long-established bachelor with his own agreeable answer for insomnia. Everything in the room was dark and crowded, worn and comfortable: a woman’s nightmare, and a man’s delight.

  It was a solid little place, secure, permanent, with its walls covered with memories of old friends in framed photos and bookcases. Nothing changed much here, unless another book was jammed into a packed shelf, another magazine added to the piles that covered solid, dark tables, another enlarged snapshot inserted among the mosaic of frames on the wall. Arm-chairs and sofa looked as if they had been enjoyed for years, their plush covering worn threadbare. The blue velvet curtaining the windows had faded into streaks of slate grey, and one of its long panels was pulled back, with more practicality than grace, to jam a glass door half open, so that a cool wedge of night air could swirl the pipe smoke out of the room. Hence the heavy dressing-gown, Cecilia thought, and decided to keep her coat on. For a moment, she let her eye follow Kenneth Strang as he went forward to the opened door among the windows. Then she heard Katherini’s sharp choke on the smidgen of brandy that Tommy was letting trickle between the girl’s lips, and she turned back to the sofa with her questions still unasked.

  Strang glanced outside and saw a narrow terrace, a balustrade, and then the yawn of street. He stepped quietly through the opened door and looked cautiously down into the street. The car had gone. It looked as if Madame Etienne Duval planned to stay some time.

  Opposite him, the houses were dark and asleep. Their owners hadn’t Tommy’s reading habits. Strang stepped back into the room, closing the door enough to let the curtain fall over it more adequately. Katherini was now sitting up on the sofa, Cecilia beside her, Tommy standing over them with an empty glass in his hand and a look of complete astonishment, which he was trying very hard, and most politely, to control. Cecilia was saying, “She’s in danger. She’s a—a refugee.”

  “Oh?” Tommy waited.

  “We’ve been trying to help her. And we came here because you—well, we don’t know many people, and you’re the only one we felt we could trust.”

  “Indeed,” said Tommy, but he softened a little.

  I’ll keep out of this, Strang decided, and glanced into the little hall where they had entered the apartment. I’ll leave it all to those beautiful eyes; they have a truth in them that words can’t compete with.

  “Because,” Cecilia was saying, “Ken said you know what it is to be hunted. And Katherini is being hunted. Could we hide her here, just for half an hour? It’s a dreadful imposition, I know. But please... We’re so sorry. We had to find shelter...”

  “Hm!” Tommy said, and then whirled around on Strang as he re-entered the room. “Have you quite finished your tour of inspection?”

  “I’m sorry,” Strang said. He decided to be completely frank. “I was just making sure that we couldn’t be overlooked or overheard.” This apartment was certainly compact. Out, in the hall, he had found a small bathroom next to a minuscule kitchen, and a door which he had guessed would lead to the bedroom. “There’s a high window in the kitchen. Is that for ventilation or a view?”

  “Ventilation.”

  “And the door in the kitchen—that’s the service entrance?”

  “Naturally,” Tommy said a little acidly.

  “Is there a back staircase, or is it a service elevator?”

  Tommy’s most perceptive eyes were studying Strang’s face. He answered, at last, “A staircase. Which leads down to the caretaker’s flat in the basement of the house, a very respectable woman with two children, all fast asleep, I am sure. You needn’t worry so much. The front door is locked, the back door is bolted and barred, as you no doubt saw. And the high window in the kitchen is closed. You are perfectly safe here.”

  “Thank you.” It looked as if Tommy wouldn’t turn them away. But there was still one small worry. “Could
anyone getting out of the elevator at the second floor have heard you speak to us?” He waited anxiously.

  Tommy’s eyes and voice softened. “Dear me, you are in trouble, aren’t you? No. The lift doesn’t conduct any noises. It makes quite enough by itself when it’s in action.” He pointed to one end wall of the sitting-room. “It’s just through there, blast it. But it does warn me to expect visitors. Except, of course, they usually telephone from the hall downstairs first.” He looked a little severely at Strang for a moment.

  “We hadn’t time. A car arrived just as I was about to call you. There was a woman—”

  Katherini’s hands went to her lips. She turned her head away, for a moment. Tommy’s eyes flickered back again to Strang.

  Strang said, “We heard her take the elevator to the second floor. By that time, we were huddled outside your door, afraid even to ring the bell in case she heard it.”

  “The second floor?” Tommy was surprised. “To Michalopoulos? But how extraordinary—I mean, at this hour!” He glanced, in sudden confusion, at the two girls.

  “Michalopoulos is on the second floor?” Strang asked.

  “Of course. And a more respectable, retired wool merchant would be hard to find.” Tommy grinned over his own thoughts. Strang wasn’t sharing them. He was watching Katherini now. The name of Michalopoulos had had no effect on her.

  He said to her, “You never heard of anyone called Michalopoulos?”

  She shook her head.

  Tommy said, “I know what you need—a nice cup of tea.”

  Cecilia said, “Or soup? If you have any, that is. I don’t think Katherini has had much to eat today.”

  “Soup!” Tommy looked doubtful and a little upset. “I’m rather afraid—or would Bovril do? And lots of bread and butter? I do have that.”

  “Wonderful!” Cecilia rose. “I’ll put water on to boil,” she said, and went into the hall toward the kitchen. Katherini struggled to her feet to follow.