Decision at Delphi (33 page)

“Neither is Steve Kladas, technically,” Strang said, trying to cover his sudden alarm.
“Perspective’s
publicity department seems to have been supplying us with a lot of advance billing. When was this published?”

“January, I think.”

January it was.

“You look thoughtful,” Tommy said, handing him his drink.

“I am,” Strang said grimly. So Steve’s arrival in Greece had been announced before he left New York. Christophorou could
have heard about it even before he went visiting Steve’s sister in Sparta. Even before Christophorou got my letter, Strang thought, he probably knew all about the
Perspective
job. “Is this magazine read much?”

“A great deal.”

“And talked about?”

“That’s why it is read! What would one do for conversation if one couldn’t repeat what one reads? I borrow it steadily from Christophorou—Aleco’s father, that is. I visit the family every week, you know. The father hasn’t been at all well for some years now; confined to his room, most depressing.”

Strang put down the magazine. “Don’t you ever meet Aleco there?”

Tommy’s face changed. A blank mask stared back at Strang. “Not since the war.” He sat down in his chair again. “He never visits his family. They never talk of him.”

“They forward letters to him.”

“You would scarcely expect them to burn them.”

Strang looked startled.

“I told you it was a strange situation. I never can discuss Aleco with his father, of course. But one of his sisters did try to explain things to me. Seemingly, at the start of the civil war in Athens, Aleco warned his father that hostages would be taken into the mountains if the Communists had to retreat. His father wouldn’t believe him. The family stayed in Athens. Then, at the end, they were seized as hostages and marched toward the mountains. But I told you about that, didn’t I?”

How, wondered Strang, could such a warning be given? “Surely he can’t blame his father for staying in Athens. After all, that forced march was a surprise move.”

“It was also an idiotic, cruel, and completely bankrupt piece of blackmail,” Tommy said angrily, too absorbed in his own thoughts to catch Strang’s reasoning. “Anyhow, there’s the situation in the Christophorou family. Aleco does blame his father, for he has never seen his father since.”

“And his father?”

“Quite silent.”

Because he never could solve the problem of how his son had been able to give such a warning? Or had the old man solved it and, out of pride, kept silent? No, no, Strang told himself quickly, you are reading too much into that incident. All it proves is that Christophorou always did keep a close ear to the ground, a very close ear.

“I seem to have depressed you,” Tommy said, wondering.

Strang stared at the drink in his hand and finished it quickly. “What the hell is keeping Pringle?” he asked angrily, and went over to the telephone again.

This time, the line was not engaged. There was a short wait, though. Then a woman’s voice answered. It was American, polite but impersonal, and smothered with sleep.

“Mrs. Pringle? Is your husband there? This is Kenneth Strang.” But he could sense the answer before he heard it.

“I’m sorry. He left. With Colonel Zafiris.”

“Where can they be reached, do you know?”

“Haven’t the faintest. Sorry.”

“So am I. Sorry for waking you, too. Good night.” He put down the receiver quickly. “No luck,” he said to Tommy. “You are still stuck with us, I’m afraid. All we can do is wait.” He glanced over at the sofa. Katherini had finished her slow, quiet monologue. She looked at him. “It won’t take long now,” he
reassured her, and felt relieved when she nodded calmly. He noticed Cecilia had been writing something down in that notebook she carried in her bag. What’s going on? he wondered, took a step toward her, and then was halted by Tommy’s voice.

“Pringle has left his apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he will telephone you whenever he reaches wherever he is going. It must have been urgent.”

“Yes.” Urgent enough to push Pringle farther into the Greek political maze. Poor old Pringle, trying to keep a balance between helping and interfering. It was a slender line to walk.

“Waiting is always so difficult,” Tommy tried tactfully. “Let us comfort ourselves that we also serve. Please don’t be alarmed if I fall asleep around three o’clock. I always do.”

“We’ll be out of here long before then,” Strang said determinedly. Still thinking of Pringle and his problems, he asked, “You know George Ottway, don’t you? Would you pass on a warning to him?” He looked around sharply, as Katherini rose and walked into the little hall. The bathroom door opened and closed. Cecilia was studying the book on her lap. “Anything wrong?” he asked. She looked up and shook her head reassuringly.

“A warning for Ottway?” Tommy was startled enough to drop all comfortable drowsiness. He sat bolt upright, his amiable face contorted between a banished yawn and growing surprise.

“He could be facing some very nasty trouble. I’ve got a feeling that anyone who seems dangerous to this conspiracy is being eliminated. Neutralised, as it were. There’s an attempt to get Pringle moved out of Greece, for instance. The same thing could happen to Ottway.”

“Why?”

“Because he could identify a man called Nikos Kladas whom he knew as Sideros during the war.”

“Ottway’s a fairly hard-bitten type, quite capable of taking care of himself.”

“But he’s vulnerable.” Strang thought of Caroline Ottway.

“How?”

“He had a fairly close friendship with Nikos, back in the mountains.”

“Back in the mountains,” Tommy said a little stiffly, “close friendships were common. There is such a thing as comradeship—”

“I know, I know. Nikos was nineteen, perhaps less. A hero-worshipper, probably. The closer-than-glue type. Difficult to shake off. Until he transferred his admiration to Ares, and became one of his select little group. You have heard of Ares?”

Tommy had. He recovered himself. “But Ottway avoided Ares and his group of sadists like the plague. He admires soldiers, but he has nothing but contempt for killers. I have heard him on the subject of Ares. He certainly wouldn’t even exchange two sentences with this Nikos, once he became attached to Ares.”

“I’m sure that’s all true, too. But his past friendship could be twisted.”

“How?” Tommy was short, both in manner and voice. But his eyes showed he clearly understood.

“I heard the first innuendos, yesterday.”

“Preposterous!”

“Will you warn Ottway?”

“You’ve been talking to the wrong kind of people, Strang.”

“That’s very possible,” Strang agreed wryly.

“Who invented such a piece of nonsense?” Tommy demanded indignantly.

It took something of an effort to refrain from saying that Christophorou had at least passed on that particular piece of nonsense, even if he hadn’t invented it. “The rumour may be spread, that’s our worry,” Strang said patiently. “If Ottway has to leave Athens because of rumours he can’t pretend to ignore—”

“Sh!” said Tommy, glancing nervously at Cecilia, who had risen and was coming over toward them.

“Will you warn Ottway?” Strang insisted. “Put him on his guard, at least? For instance, his wife seems to trust a man called Yorghis, who has been giving her Greek lessons pretty openly. Yorghis will soon be visiting the Ottways’ new apartment.”

“Really—what have you against Yorghis?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“That is hardly sufficient reason—” Tommy began, but this time Cecilia did contradict him.

“Ken is right, you know,” she said gently. “I’ve just been hearing all about Yorghis. Evgenia Vasilika hired him to drive to Nauplion yesterday morning. Somewhere near there, he picked up Madame Duval and drove her back to Athens. How did she get off her yacht without being noticed? Quite simple. The yacht arrived before dawn; Madame Duval was taken ashore in the darkness to a lonely inlet.”

“Good heavens!” Tommy said.

Cecilia’s quiet voice changed. “How can people live like that?” she asked angrily. “Lies, deceit, treason, treachery—how can they bear it?”

Strang said, “Katherini told you everything?”

“Just about.”

“She’s crazy!” But why, he wondered worriedly, why did she talk?

“No, she isn’t. She’s incredibly realistic. Even spelled out the names for me.” Cecilia handed over her notebook to Strang. “And it
is
safer to share such information.”

“Safer for whom?” Strang asked angrily. “Five hours ago you knew nothing at all, and now—”

“It’s incredible, the ignorance we can live in,” Cecilia admitted.

“You’re crazier than she is,” he told her. He examined the list of names and places and dates. The style was cryptic, but decipherable. The information, in six well-filled pages, was considerable. Why did Katherini do this? he wondered again. “See if she is all right,” he told Cecilia, quickly. And quickly, too, he ripped out the six pages.

“Don’t destroy—”

“No. I’m keeping them.” Not you, my sweet, crazy darling. “Do I go into that bathroom, or do you?” He threw the notebook down on Tommy’s table, and jammed the dangerous papers into his pocket. Cecilia was already in the hall.

“Do you think the girl—?” Tommy was too alarmed to finish his sudden thought. He was on his feet, following Strang into the hall, his face white at the notion of suicide.

But there was no one in the bathroom. In the kitchen, they found the back door unbolted and unchained.

“Kriton Street!” Cecilia said. “Can she have gone to help Maria?”

“That’s just the kind of wild idea she’d have,” Strang said. He opened the door and listened. No sound of footsteps, of movement. He closed the door so that he could talk. “I’m
going down to have a look. What’s the geography, Tommy?”

“There’s a short corridor in the basement. At one end, there’s a flight up to the front hall. At the other, a door to a small back patch of ground, surrounded by walls.”

“Any door or gate there?”

“An old iron gate, high. Never used. Padlocked and chained. I remember it well: I had to climb over it when the Germans were coming in by the front entrance.”

“What’s outside the gate?”

“A rabbit warren of concrete and wood. But she’ll never climb over that gate. It’s ten feet high or more. I had a rope, hidden for such an emergency. Otherwise, I could never have managed it. As it was, I nearly broke my leg on the other side of the gate.”

“And how did you get out of the rabbit warren?”

“By guess and by God,” Tommy said. “There were several exits then. But that was seventeen years ago. They may be closed now—all this rebuilding, since the war, you know.”

“Chain this door,” Strang told him. “I’ll knock three times when I get back.” He nodded reassuringly to Cecilia and stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him to end any argument.

Quietly, he ran down the staircase, a monotonous repetition, between bare yellow walls, of flight and landing, flight and landing; a thing of little beauty but a temporary joy, for the solid stone stairs had no creak to them. The third floor, he noted, had a high ventilation window in its kitchen, just like Tommy’s, except that Mr. Louizis Michalopoulos, dreaming of past triumphs in the wool market, had left his window open on its hinge. It would be too much to expect that Mr. Demetrius Drakon would be as generous.

He was not. When Strang reached the second floor, he found the same type of window, but this one was covered by iron bars. The light in Drakon’s kitchen was on. But there was no sound from the apartment. The door, he noticed as he passed quickly, was the same as Tommy’s: no outside keyhole to be picklocked, everything held fast by interior bolts and chains.

Quickly, too, he passed the back of Christophorou’s apartment on the first floor. It was blacked out, blankly silent. And then there was only a short flight of steps to the basement corridor and the door leading out into the yard. At the other end of the corridor was another flight of stairs, leading up into the main hall. From the caretaker’s door, a zone of sleeping respectability, came a softly muted mezzo-soprano snore, steadily rhythmical.

The door into the yard was unlocked. He opened it carefully, but there was no creak in its hinges. A well-oiled door, he decided, his surprise deepening. In the cold darkness, broken by clouded moonlight, he saw a little stretch of bare earth, bounded by a high wall and a forest of buildings. The gate stood opposite him. He picked his way past a coil of rusted chicken wire, battered crates, a small hen coop. The iron gate’s padlock was open, its rusty chain hung loose. He pushed the gate; it swung open a couple of inches, quite soundlessly. Someone had been busy with his little oilcan around here.

He pulled the gate back into position, retreated back inside the house. Katherini had had the most fantastic luck, he thought, as he closed the door carefully behind him. That was, he added, if she had used the back exit. But she might have been in too much of a hurry to waste time in exploring an unknown yard; she might have come running down the service staircase and
headed straight for the front hall, a territory she at least knew. In which case, he would have quite a sprint ahead of him, trying to catch up. Or, perhaps, he wouldn’t; perhaps he would be too thankful to see that she had managed to escape out of this house alive. For that, he admitted as he walked quietly past the caretaker’s door and then started up the short flight of stairs that led to the front hall, had been the fear that had sent him rushing down from Tommy’s apartment, the fear that one of Madame Duval’s thugs had been guarding the service stairs and that Katherini had been caught. But Drakon’s apartment had been peaceful: no sound of questioning, of forced answers, of violence. Peace and unsuspicion everywhere, thank God.

And then, just as he reached the main hall, two men stepped out from the wall on either side of him and seized his wrists in an iron grip.

Strang’s first instinct was to struggle, free himself, hit out, run. But as he looked at the grave faces of the two compact men and saw the dark mistrust in their quick, observant eyes, he hesitated. They were neither Boris nor Andreas. And if they had been guarding Madame Duval, they wouldn’t be holding him by the wrists. By this time, he ought to have been cracked over his skull with that handy-looking revolver which the smaller of the men had produced in a businesslike way. “And who are you?” the small man asked now. The tone was inimical, but the man was curious, at least.