Decision at Delphi

  “No, no,” Strang said gently. “You rest here. This is Mr. Thomson. He is English, but he has lived here most of his life. He is a very good friend of Greece.” The girl looked at them both. Then she sat down obediently, her head drooping. She began to cry, silently.

  Strang looked at her, aghast. “I’d better get Cecilia—”

  “Leave her,” Tommy said quickly, drawing Strang toward his arm-chair. “She’d much rather we didn’t even notice,” he whispered. “Pull in that chair, won’t you? Now, tell me—what’s all this commotion?” He settled himself in his chair, picked up his pipe to prod its ashes with his fingers, while he watched Strang carefully.

  Strang looked at the telephone, hesitated, and decided to talk to Tommy first. This invasion deserved a little explanation. He said quickly, “The girl is running away from her aunt. The aunt is involved in a political intrigue, a very nasty mess, and the girl wants no more of it.” There, he thought with relief, is the truth and no secrets divulged, either.

  “That doesn’t sound too desperate,” Tommy said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe and then relighting the remaining wad of tobacco. “Politics usually end in a mess of some kind, I find.”

  “These particular politics start off where most other political troubles end.”

  “Indeed? What are they?” Tommy’s interest had sharpened. “Fascist or Communist?”

  “As far as I can make out, her aunt belongs to a group that is a terrorist faction of Communists. That is, they are definitely leftist, not rightist. But they are so far to the left that they’ve written off Tito as a bourgeois reactionary and they think Khrushchev— except for his action in Hungary—may be going the same way. When they talk of revolution, they mean revolution.”

  “Ah—one of those extremist groups,” Tommy said, with the equanimity of someone who had spent too many years in the Balkans to be astounded by political intensity. “They always are so set on remaking the world in their own unpleasant image. I can’t think why.” His pipe was drawing, nicely, at last. He glanced over thoughtfully at the girl. She was crouching forward on the edge of the sofa, her elbows on her knees, her hands covering her face. “And just what kind of political intrigue were we talking about?”

  Strang looked embarrassed. He tried to search for a few careful phrases.

  “All right, all right,” Tommy said testily, letting him off that hook. He drew at his pipe, frowning, his curiosity increased. But he would ask no more questions.

  Strang glanced at his watch. “May I use your phone? I’ve been trying to get in touch with one of the attachés at our embassy here. Last time I telephoned, he had several people at his apartment. I’ve been waiting until they have all left. I don’t want to take Katherini to his place until I’m sure of that.” He crossed quickly over to the telephone, aware that Katherini was watching him. Then he put down the receiver, cursing silently as the only answer to his call was a busy-signal.

  Tommy’s shrewd eyes were studying his face again. “You seem to be taking this very seriously.”

  “It is serious. In the last few days, one man has been murdered, another has been kidnapped and—unless he has escaped—will be murdered, too. This girl was hunted all over Athens tonight. If she is caught—she will be silenced. Yes, I think we can take this all quite seriously.”

  Tommy’s equanimity was gone. “Good heavens!” he said. He added, angrily, “And what on earth are you doing dragging Miss Hillard into all this?”

  Strang said sharply, “Don’t start thinking that Cecilia isn’t one of my chief worries.” He picked up the receiver again. And, again, there was that damned go-away, drop-dead signal. He said angrily to Tommy, “Sure I’m to blame, but all this is none of my choosing. Everything is breaking so fast...” He calmed down, added wearily, “I think we’ve struck the climax of a conspiracy. It has been organising itself for months, if not years—careful recruiting, planning, preparation, complete secrecy. And in a few days, I walked bang slap right into the middle of it.”

  He took a deep breath, searched for his cigarettes, found one left in a crumpled pack, straightened it, and lit it. “Tonight, believe it or not, Miss Hillard and I just went out to dinner. That’s all. To dinner. Afterwards, we went to a little place where we could hear some Greek music. Instead—” he halted, as he looked over at Katherini Roilos. She was watching them, listening. “Well, that’s the way the tide runs,” he said to Tommy.

  Tommy rose. “You look like a man who needs something stronger than Bovril.” He went over to a cupboard in a bookcase, and took out his one bottle of Scotch. “And I think I’ll join you. This is, after all, a rather unusual night.” He looked around vaguely. “Glasses...water...just one moment.” He left for the kitchen.

  Katherini said, her large eyes two dark hollows in her white face, “I am trouble. Trouble for everyone.”

  “Nonsense,” he said awkwardly.

  “Why do you help me?”

  He stared at her in surprise. “You didn’t expect us to leave you wandering around Athens by yourself, did you?”

  “Because you need me? Is what I know so valuable that you put yourself and your girl and the old Englishman in danger?”

  “Look—” he began patiently, and glanced over his shoulder for help. What had kept Cecilia so long? From the kitchen came the cheerful rumble of Tommy’s voice and Cecilia’s laugh.

  “But you aren’t Greek. Why do you help me?”

  “You’re someone very much in need of help. That’s enough. Isn’t it?”

  She stared at him. “So is Maria in need of help,” she said.

  “Maria?”

  “You don’t even remember who she is!” she said angrily.

  He remembered now. “Of course I do. Your maid. But look, Katherini, one person at a time! First you, then Maria. And there’s Steve, too. Remember him? There is a lot of help needed tonight.”

  She said slowly, “Is Maria still alive? She may still be in that house.” The worry in her voice was mounting. “She may be hurt. Alone.”

  “Now, Katherini,” he said, “you calm down, and let me put this call through. That’s the quickest way to get help for both you and Maria.” He had his hand on the telephone. “Where is that house?”

  “You will tell your friends where to go and find her?”

  “That’s why I’m asking for the address,” he said, concentrating on patience.

  “It’s in the Plaka.”

  That was the last place he had expected to hear. He said, unable to conceal his surprise, “Your aunt has a house down in the Plaka?”

  “It isn’t her house. That’s what she always does. In New York, in Mexico City.”

  “Always does what?”

  “She gets a friend to lease a house. Then she borrows it. This one, in Athens, is in Kriton Street. It is all—all made like new. I don’t know the number. But it is big, and it is painted in the colour of rich cream. And the shutters are of chocolate brown. There is a garden at the side, and a high white wall.”

  “And a door with steps in front and carved decorations overhead?” he asked quickly.

  “You know it?” Her eyes widened. “Then you can find Maria and—”

  “Who was the man who left there, tonight, around eight o’clock?” His excitement had died away, leaving only the chill of unpleasant realisation.

  She wouldn’t admit she didn’t know. “Boris?” she asked.

  “No. It wasn’t the little Bulgarian. It wasn’t Nikos, either. And it wasn’t the man who drove with Nikos in the green car— what’s his name?”

  “Andreas. It wasn’t Andreas?”

  “‘No. Who?” He waited for her to say the name and wished he were five thousand miles away, back in New York.

  “Then it was Metsos. He is dark, thin, quite tall. Very serious. Very important.”

  And so were a thousand men. “Have you ever heard the name of Christophorou?”

  “And who is he?” she asked. “If it were not Nikos, not Boris, no
t Andreas, then it was Metsos—Metsos Drakon. He used to visit my aunt in Syria. Long long ago, during the war, she knew him well. Then, his code name was Odysseus, my aunt was Elektra, and Nikos was Sideros. They use these names still, among themselves.”

  “Then they are all old friends?”

  “They have always worked together. My aunt was a courier in the war—she carried messages from Athens into the mountains. That was before she was married.” Katherini paused. Then she said proudly, “Do you know how dangerous it was to be a courier? My aunt was a very great heroine, a patriot, during the war against the Nazis.”

  Strang looked at the girl. “I’m sure she was,” he said slowly. But had she fought so well before June, 1941, and the invasion of Russia? That was the date no one should forget when they talked of heroes and heroines and staunch allies. Before June, 1941, it had been an imperialist war. After that, a holy crusade. So how did one measure such a patriot? The kind of patriot who needed clearance orders from a foreign power before he decided he could fight for his country?

  “I do not like the way you said that,” she said angrily. “Women can be as brave as men. Braver. The world would have died long ago if men had to produce the children.”

  “No doubt about it,” he told her with a grin. “Now let’s get back to Kriton Street. In whose name was the house rented for your aunt?”

  Cecilia and Tommy were coming back into the room with a loaded tray.

  “Evgenia Vasilika.” Katherini’s indignation had subsided. She added, almost listlessly, “She came to Nauplion to meet my aunt.”

  “That woman!” Tommy burst out. He put the heavy tray down, to let him concentrate on Evgenia Vasilika. “That woman is a friend of your aunt’s?” A raw nerve end had been touched: now, he was quite prepared to believe the worst about such an aunt. He looked at Katherini with evident sympathy.

  Strang said to Cecilia, “Would you get Katherini to calm down and eat something? She won’t listen to me.” He walked back to the telephone.

  Katherini was watching him. “You tell them about Maria?” she asked sharply.

  Strang looked at her. “Yes,” he said, and picked up the receiver.

  “I see what you mean,” Cecilia murmured, and lifted two cups of steaming brown liquid. At that moment, the sound of a car came gently humming into the room from the quiet street. The engine was easing to a careful halt. Too careful. Strang moved swiftly. He jammed the receiver back on the telephone, switched off the light, pulled aside the heavy folds of velvet, stepped on to the terrace.

  “Oh!” Cecilia said softly, left standing in the dark in a strange room with two scalding cups in her hands. “Ken does choose his moments, doesn’t he?”

  “Keep very still,” Tommy’s anxious voice warned her unnecessarily. “And what’s all this hullabaloo over a car stopping below my window?”

  No one answered him. He fell silent, too, staying close to the lamp, his hand ready to switch on the light as soon as the mad American stopped playing little games. But, “Sh!” he found himself saying as the first drag of the elevator’s cables sounded through the end wall of the room. Can I really be taking this seriously? Tommy wondered. Certainly he found he was listening carefully. “Someone for Drakon, this time,” he announced cheerfully, and then stared at the sofa in sudden amazement as he heard a terrifying, small, half-strangled cry of fear.

  16

  “Now what did I do?” Tommy was demanding, switching on the light quickly as Strang stepped back into the room, closed the door, and pulled the curtains together. “I only said that was someone for Drakon, this time.” He looked in amazement at the frightened Katherini. “At least, I’m pretty sure the lift travelled no farther than the first floor. Really, Strang, you are making me behave as oddly as you. Counting lift stops!” He humphed with pretended indignation and handed a glass of Scotch and water to Strang. “Have your drink and calm down, my dear fellow. Let us all calm down.” He looked at Katherini and nodded approvingly as Cecilia took charge of that situation.

  Katherini said accusingly to Strang, “Drakon lives here? And you didn’t tell me!”

  “Let’s eat and drink first,” Cecilia coaxed her.

  “That’s best,” Strang said. “Eat first, and then we’ll talk.” He took a large gulp of Scotch. He needed it. He said to Tommy in a low voice. “Tell me—isn’t the name Meteos an abbreviation for Demetrius?”

  Tommy nodded. “Why do you ask?”

  “I was just making quite sure.” He looked over at Katherini, who, at last, had begun to eat and drink. She would need every ounce of that encouragement. He looked at the telephone, decided to postpone his call to Pringle until he had broken the latest piece of news to Katherini, or otherwise there would be incoherent interruptions to his talk with Pringle. And when he did make a call, interruptions were the last thing he would need. He would have to be quick, calm, concise, and very sure of the facts. They were building up unpleasantly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to Tommy. “I thought that all I had to do was to put in a telephone call, prepare Pringle to receive boarders, and then leave you with many many thanks. But the fact is, we’re sort of beleaguered here. And I don’t know quite how to handle it.” He finished his drink, and frowned down at a large stain on the rug. Someone had spilled a bottle of ink there, one time. He pulled his thoughts back into disciplined ranks again. “I recognised the man in that car,” he went on, “the one you say went to Metsos Drakon’s flat.” Then he stopped, looking sharply at Tommy. “The first floor?” Lord, he thought, my brain is turning to cheese: you don’t need an elevator to reach the first floor.

  “The first floor,” Tommy insisted.

  “I think—” Cecilia called across the room, and then stopped apologetically. It was difficult to contradict such a patient host. “I’d have called it the second floor,” she ended tactfully.

  “Oh, you Americans!” Tommy said delightedly, as the truth dawned. “Why don’t you call things by their right names? There’s the ground floor, then the first floor, then the second, then the third, where you now are. Naturally! I suppose you’d call this the fourth?”

  Strang smiled politely. “That’s right. Now let’s straighten me out. No one has gone to Christophorou’s apartment, which is on the first floor, American style. Both visitors have gone to Drakon’s, on the second. Right?”

  “American style? Right!” Tommy said, still diverted. “And so we return Michalopoulos to his usual state of virtue. I must admit I was rather surprised.”

  Strang glanced at his watch. “Feeling better?” he asked Katherini. “All right, here’s the latest news: I saw Nikos Kladas get out of the car—yes, the same green car that chased you and Petros all over Athens—and come into this house. He is in Drakon’s apartment, right now, along with your aunt.”

  Katherini surprised him. She said, with an interest that chased her fears away, “And the green car?”

  “It left. Andreas was driving. I don’t think there was anyone else in the car, for Andreas got out to help Nikos Kladas into the hall. That leg must have been badly hurt.”

  Katherini laughed. “Then Petros escaped. He escaped! They didn’t find him. I knew it!” She looked at Strang triumphantly.

  “You were right and I was wrong,” he said, thinking, as he watched her, that there was nothing like two thick slabs of butter-coated bread to soothe raw nerves. But he wished he didn’t always get a feeling of some underbattle of the sexes between that girl and him. All right, all right: so men were stupid oafs, bumbling braggarts. Who had taught her to dislike men so much? Men? Or her aunt? “And now—if you’ll go on eating?” He picked up the telephone. Cecilia had laughed, and perhaps that cheered him up. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that Petros had managed to evade the great Nikos. One thing was quite certain: Nikos wouldn’t be here if Petros had been caught. Katherini was right about that. He waited impatiently for Pringle to answer at his end.

  “See—you are safe here,” Cecilia was reassuring Kath
erini. “They think you are with Petros. And now they’ll be scared— they’ll think you and Petros are both in some police station, talking a hundred and twenty words to the minute.”

  I wish that were so, Strang thought; that would have solved a lot of problems, but we had Miss Katherini’s tangled loyalties to treat lightly. Still, we’ve managed one thing: somehow, in our stumbling, improvising way, we have sent Madame Duval into temporary hiding; the house on Kriton Street is no longer so safe. That’s why she came here. And now Nikos, too. They are off balance. They’ve got to decide what to do next, if Petros and Katherini can’t be found. They don’t know how catastrophic, or how negligible, Katherini’s escape may be for them. And in spite of the nagging anxiety of this long wait by the telephone, Strang’s spirits began to lift. Good for old Petros, he thought with sudden and intense gratitude.

  At last, Pringle’s receiver was lifted, and Pringle’s voice came through, brusque, important. “Later—” Pringle cut him short. “I’m busy right now. Got someone here. See you tomorrow.”

  “Is that Christophorou with you?”

  “No. He left ten minutes ago. He’s probably—”

  “Good! Now listen—”

  “I can’t. Not right now.” Pringle dropped his voice. “The Colonel is here.”

  “The rows of medals I met last night? Is he still dragging his feet?”

  “Far from it. I underestimated that situation, I’m glad to say.”

  “So did someone else, I think.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I have urgent news for the Colonel. Better listen and pass it on.”

  “About what?”

  “The conspiracy.”

  There was a silence more explicit than words. Then Pringle?s voice said sharply, “Shut up, you damn fool! How do you know about that?”

  “Through the old confidence game. He tells me all; I trust him completely; I hand over the documents. What’s more, how could this damn fool get you to listen, unless he mentioned the unmentionable? We are at Tommy’s apartment, beleaguered. Yes, Tommy’s. Miss Hillard is with me. And a girl who can tell you a lot about the people involved in the unmentionable you-know-what. We’re trying to keep her hidden, and alive, until we can bring her around to your place.”