Shot on Location (4 page)

They were out of earshot of Lange now. “Did you really come all this way just to help me?” she whispered.

“From London,” Brad lied. “I was there on business.”

“Yes, I know. I lied to you a minute ago. I called the desk after your flowers came—I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a cruel joke. Hold my hand, Brad. Hold it tight. I think I’m going out of my mind—all the reporters and the police and those awful guards.”

“Have you had any news at all?”

“I think Peter has, but he won’t tell me anything until it’s certain. That means it’s bad news, doesn’t it?”

“Not necessarily.”

“I think it does. Just three days ago we were together on Corfu and then Harry told me to come on back and make arrangements for the party—but I won’t bore you with that. Anyway, I flew back and he stayed over for another day’s shooting.”

“You were shooting on Corfu?”

“No. We weren’t shooting at all—not the film, I mean. It was Harry. He likes to fly about and get shots of the terrain wherever he’s planning to shoot. Then he screens what he’s got and chooses locations. That’s why he chartered the little plane.
Such
a little plane. No wonder they can’t find it. Brad, please take some coffee or something. Peter’s staring at us. He’s such a cold fish!”

She was afraid of the reporters, the police and of Peter Lange. She seemed on the threshold of a nervous breakdown, and when another ruckus occurred in the hall, outside the door, her nails dug into Brad’s hand. Lange went to the door again. This time he was brushed coolly aside, by someone with even more confidence and control than himself. Such authority could come only from a man of the law—some law, somewhere.

He was as tall as Brad, as lean as Brad, at least forty years old, expensively tailored and a Negro. He glanced at Lange, looked for Rhona and then walked to the buffet.

“Mrs. Avery,” he said, “I’m sorry to bust in this way. You remember me, of course.”

“You’re Mr. Martins,” Rhona said.

The man smiled warmly. “That’s right. You were pretty nervous when we talked yesterday but I knew you would remember. I do have a distinguishing mark, you might say.”

“You’re Mr. Brooks Martins,” Rhona repeated, “but I can’t remember who—oh, you’re from the American Embassy, aren’t you?”

“That’s close enough. I think we have some news at last, Mrs. Avery—” Martins paused and stared questioningly at Brad. “You’re not a reporter, I hope,” he said.

“I’m a friend of the family,” Brad answered. “I flew in from London this morning on the same plane with Mr. Lange. I was flying tourist. I’m one of the less affluent friends of the family.”

It might have been a mistake saying that. Rhona was still holding his hand. He felt the pressure lessen and then she let go. He looked at her for any visual evidence that she might be aware of or show any sign of conscience for Harry’s theft of his idea. She avoided his eyes and stared at Martins.

“I can vouch for Mr. Smith,” she said. “What is the news?”

Peter Lange stepped forward. “I’m sure Mr. Smith wouldn’t mind leaving if Martins has a confidential report to make. He can always come back later.”

“It’s not that confidential,” Martins said. “It’s not even positive. There’s been a report of what seems to be plane wreckage, sighted in a mountain pass about ten miles from the Albanian border north-west of Kastoria. It may or may not be the plane your husband chartered in Corfu. After all, that’s a long way from the home base and that little plane didn’t have much of a cruising range.”

“It might have refuelled,” Lange said.

“Yes, that’s a distinct possibility. From what we’ve been told at Corfu, the reason Mr. Avery wanted to be flown in this particular plane was because it needed so little space to land and take off and could be flown so close to the ground. So it wouldn’t even have been necessary to find a landing field. They might have set down in a cow pasture—”

“Goat pasture,” Lange corrected. “You’re in Greece, Mr. Martins.”

“So I am. All right, a goat pasture, a crossroads gas station—any good sized backyard. I understand the aerial search-party that spotted the wreckage has taken pictures. They’re being flown to Corfu for identification.”

Somebody had to ask the question. Brad volunteered.

“No report of bodies or signs of survivors?”

“No, nothing but the wreckage. I wanted to warn you, Mrs. Avery, so you can steel yourself for the press and police inquisition, if something breaks in the next few hours.”

“Mrs. Avery is grateful,” Lange said.

“There may be all kinds of repercussions,” Martins added. “The local authorities—what we call the ‘in’ group back in the States—may want to know what Avery was doing so near the border, if it does turn out to be the Avery plane.”

“There was a frightful bore at the airport,” Lange recalled. “A Captain Koumaris. He posted the guards in the corridor—the ones who weren’t going to let you in.”

“As long as all he does is bore, you’ve no problem, Mr. Lange. Meanwhile, all of what I’ve told you is under wraps and you won’t be bothered until it breaks. Mrs. Avery, are you all right?”

Rhona had listened to everything Martins said without speaking a word or moving a muscle. Now, as if someone had loosened a spring that held her tension in such tight control, she collapsed. Brad caught her as she started to fall. She was unconscious when he carried her into the bedroom and placed her on the bed.

“Do you want me to call the house doctor?” Martins asked from the doorway.

“I’m sure she’ll be all right,” Lange said. “Harry has his own doctor, Dr. Johnson, travelling with the company. I’ll call if she doesn’t come around.”

She had fainted—that was all. She was already beginning to stir and moan softly. It was when Brad began to massage her wrists that he noticed her nails had cut into his palm until it bled. What she needed now was a sedative and privacy.

RHONA WAS NOT the fainting type. There was no scent of magnolias or smelling salts in her personality; she wasn’t the delicate, ultra-feminine phoney. But her collapse was as genuine as the tension with which she had gripped Brad’s hand. Martins left the suite and Lange made it clear that Brad was no longer welcome.

“I think you should call that doctor,” Brad counselled. “If Martins’ story is true, Mrs. Avery may be in for more trouble before the day is over.”

“You’re probably right,” Lange said. He went to the telephone and asked to be connected to Dr. Rolf Johnson’s room. Brad heard the telephone ringing as Lange waited. After several rings he asked the operator to have Dr. Johnson paged in the lobby and restaurant. “He’s a fiend for yachting,” Lange told Brad. “He probably went out on a boat early this morning and won’t be back until dusk.”

“Would he do that with Avery’s plane missing?”

“Why the hell not? He couldn’t be expected to find Harry, could he? The man works hard. He needs relaxation. And I need rest, Mr. Smith. There’s a couch right here in Mrs. Avery’s room. I’m going to stretch out on it and try to relax. I never sleep in a plane. I’ll be here if Rhona needs anything.”

It was as tactful a brush as Brad had ever received. The burly boys in the corridor let him out and escorted him to the elevator, standing close, one at each shoulder, until the car arrived and he was safely ensconced inside with the doors closing. Brad still didn’t know what reasoning had inspired the guard, but somebody was making certain that no one reached Mrs. Avery without official knowledge.

He took the elevator all the way down to the lobby. The day was in full swing now. The lobby was filled with people and the restaurant was open. He could hear the plaintive paging of Dr. Johnson, as he threaded his way through the restaurant doorway and was seated at a small table, where he could watch the tourists breakfasting with one eye on their watches so they wouldn’t miss the tour buses when they arrived. He ordered a breakfast, to supplement the early coffee and rolls, and was just becoming acquainted with the delights of the local melons when a slender and almost too-handsome young man, in a fawn coloured suit, appeared in the doorway of the room, spoke briefly to the head waiter and then came directly to his table.

He was as polite as he was handsome. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I believe you are Mr. Bradley Smith.”

“That’s right,” Brad said.

“May I sit down? My name is David Draper. I’m personal secretary to Harry Avery. I think we should talk.”

“Okay, sit down,” Brad said.

Draper slid into the opposite chair. His eyes were uncommonly blue, and they studied Brad carefully.

“You don’t know me, of course,” he continued, “but I do know you. That is, I know of you. I handle all of Mr. Avery’s mail.”

“That’s interesting,” Brad said. “Do you ever answer it?”

“When I am instructed to do so. Of course, a lot of it is crank mail. Many people think they have gone to school with Mr. Avery, or that they have worked with him and given him ideas which he later used to advantage. You have no idea how careful a man of Mr. Avery’s position has to be about such correspondence.”

“And the safest way is to ignore it, right?”

“That’s usually sufficient.”

“And when it isn’t?”

“Then the matter passes out of my hands and into Mr. Lange’s. It becomes a legal matter.”

“Did Lange send you here to see me?”

“Mr. Lange suggested that it might be a good idea to see you. We are in a difficult time. Mr. Avery’s operations constitute a small empire. If Mr. Avery is dead the empire changes hands. It’s obvious that you are an old and cherished friend of Mrs. Avery, and a woman leans upon old friends in a time of crisis. She is also vulnerable in a time of crisis.”

“Keep talking,” Brad said. “You have a well modulated voice.”

“Thank you, but there really isn’t much more to say, is there?”

“Just one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Harry Avery plagiarized my story line for
The Bandits
and took my three thousand dollars to help finance the pilot.”

Draper sighed. “I seem to have wasted my time,” he said. “I hope not. I’m a quite passive man, but Mr. Lange can be really merciless—in a legal sense, of course. But I’m holding up your breakfast and you probably have a big day planned. There are some excellent city tours out of the hotel.”

“Wouldn’t you rather I took one of those seven day, island cruises?” Brad asked.

For the first time David Draper smiled. His teeth were beautifully capped. “It’s your holiday, Mr. Smith,” he said.

Draper left with his verbal knife planted neatly between Brad’s shoulder blades. It was clear that the guards in the hall would be the least of his obstacles in getting back to Rhona. But it was his hand that Rhona had clung to—not Peter Lange’s—and learning the reason for that emotional behaviour was worth the risk-taking.

It was holiday weather but Brad had no intention of taking a tour anywhere. After breakfast he returned to the registration desk and asked for the passport he had left with the clerk, when he checked in. The clerk explained that all passports had to be checked by the authorities and that it would be returned to him later in the day. Meanwhile, if he needed identification to cash cheques the hotel would be happy to oblige. Brad bought a packet of cigarettes instead and stepped outside the lobby, where the tour buses were lined up for loading. Each bus had its own tour guide, and launching each tour was a study in bedlam. Standing near the open doorway of the first bus was a girl—perhaps twenty-two—slender and dark haired and with the lively anxiety of a chaperone trying to mobilize a wayward group. At first glance she reminded him of the brunette at the pool in West Hollywood, but instead of a bikini and a chenille jacket she wore a light-blue shirtwaist dress, a white sweater and very sensible walking shoes. As he watched, she opened a large shoulder bag and took out a pair of sunglasses and a packet of cigarettes. At that moment a largish woman hurried up to the bus.

“Is this the Delphi tour?” she asked.

“Yes, Madame,” the girl answered. “If you are for Delphi, please board the bus now. We are leaving in two minutes.”

The woman whirled about and called to someone in a group gathered at the next bus: “Sammy, that’s the wrong bus. This is the bus for Delphi. Hurry up.” With the grace of a sale bargain-hunter, she climbed into the bus, unaware that she had elbowed the girl back against Brad’s shoulder and sent both the glasses and the cigarettes clattering to the pavement.

“Oh!” the girl gasped, “I’m sorry. My glasses—”

Brad stooped down and rescued the sunglasses while the girl scooped up the spilled cigarettes. Smiling, he returned the glasses and offered his own pack.

“Have an American cigarette,” he offered.

For an instant there was a look of anger in her face. Then the mask came back on. The tourist was the customer, and the customer was to be pampered. She accepted the cigarette and offered her own in exchange.

“Thank you. Have a Greek cigarette,” she said. “Go ahead. It’s quite good. There are some good things in Greece—still.”

Brad took the cigarette and lighted them both.

“Sammy!” shrilled the woman from inside the bus.

Brad laughed and the girl smiled.

“Are you for Delphi?” she asked.

“Not today. I have business at the hotel.”

“I see. That’s why you have no camera.”

Sammy arrived and she stepped back to allow him to enter. Sammy was about sixteen, six feet tall and wearing plaid Bermuda shorts, a sports shirt and two cameras about his neck. A dark young man in a chauffeur’s jacket and cap followed. He spoke quickly to the girl.

“Katerina, you took the Delphi and Stella is furious. She has her speech all worked out for the oracle and it’s even more dramatic than the routine she does at Epidauros.”

The girl laughed richly. “Good. My people are spared an ordeal. Have you seen my brother this morning?”

“Here?”

“He didn’t come home last night. I thought he might meet me here this morning.”

Again the masks—two of them this time—momentarily closing out Brad from the dialogue.

“Don’t worry. He’s with a girl for sure.” The driver flashed a smile and climbed up into the bus. The girl checked off the list of passengers in her hand and prepared to follow.

“Thanks for the cigarette,” Brad said. “I think there are many good things in Greece.”

The girl stared at him for a moment and then, impulsively, stepped closer. “If you see a boy—that is, a young man, a student, who wears a small beard—like a satyr. Do you understand a satyr?”

“I understand,” Brad said.

She smiled. “If he comes looking for me, Katerina, tell him to go home and wait. Tell him I am very angry.”

“You don’t look angry.”

“I am furious!” She donned the glasses and swung up on the lowest step of the bus entrance, as the driver started the motor.

“A light beard or a dark beard?” Brad called.

With one hand she tugged at her own hair. “Dark,” she called back.

“Does the boy have a name?”

“Stephanos!”

The bus roared forward and the girl stepped out of sight as the doors closed. Then the bus was gone and Brad was left standing on the pavement, smoking a Greek cigarette and feeling strangely happy, because on this morning, his first in Athens, he had been entrusted by a lovely girl with a message for her brother which would likely never be delivered. He waited until all of the tour buses had departed and then, because no bearded youth had come asking for Katerina, started walking towards the centre of the city. He had the message from David Draper to ponder, and he wondered how much of it would get back to Rhona. Surely she knew what Harry had done to him, but he had gone off to Vietnam, where the mails were slow and the distractions of a less glamorous kind than those of Hollywood. She had stopped writing long before her marriage to Harry. Once he had been reported dead—that might have been the reason. Theirs was a free, swinging affair with no strings attached and there was no reason why she shouldn’t marry Harry or any other available male. It was doubtful if anyone knew what happened to the few possessions he had left in her garage, possessions including the work sheets and carbons on
El Bandido
. Legally he might not have a leg to stand on, but he had always known that he would get satisfaction if he could meet Harry face to face. Harry was a hard driving, flamboyant type, who didn’t like to appear cheap, and, failing all other persuasions, there was always the therapeutic value of a hard right to the jaw. One way or another he would get satisfaction from Harry. But if Harry was dead he would have to deal with Rhona, which presented a much easier route. That was what worried Draper and Peter Lange, and it didn’t seem that two men, who weren’t concerned in this matter, had any right to be worried at all. Unless there was more to Harry’s empire than met the eye.

He began to feel foolish standing on the pavement, and so he started walking—that being the best way to become orientated in a strange city. He walked to Constitution Square and mingled with the patrons at the pavement cafés. He heard church bells and followed the sound through narrowing streets, where the old and the new mingled in the architectural blending of Byzantine cathedrals and ultra-modern commercial edifices. He became a pavement engineer at a construction site, where athletic, young Greek men, stripped to the waist, were unloading materials from a truck. They were beautiful people: museum pieces come to life. One had dark hair and a short, dark, satyr-like beard. He stifled an impulse to ask if his name was Stephanos. There must be thousands of young men in Athens who would fit the description of Katerina’s brother.

But, now that he was aware of the group, it seemed they were being unusually careful in the unloading of a small metal box, that required the undivided attention of two men supplying the muscle, and the bearded one as an overseer. When one of the handlers lost his grip and one end of the box cracked sharply against the pavement, a howl of protest rose from his companions. The box was lifted again, carefully, and then another sound—the plaintive wail of a klaxon—caused a second reaction. The group froze like players in a children’s game of statues. The first vehicle, sounding a klaxon, roared past the intersection and Brad caught a glimpse of uniformed men inside. It was followed by three more official cars and the last one bore the insignia of the American Embassy on the door. Brooks Martins was seated in the rear seat. Following hard on this small cavalcade was a mobile television unit and two taxis. He watched all of the cars cross the square and realized that they were turning in the direction of the Hilton. Brooks Martins had promised a break in the Harry Avery story. This was probably it. He looked about for a cab and realized that the truck and the workers had vanished. He had no idea whether or not transference of the box into the building had been completed. They were simply gone. He caught a cab at the edge of the square and directed the driver to take him back to the hotel.

The auto entrance was jammed when they arrived, and the crew, from the television unit of an American news service, was rolling equipment into the lobby. Brad dismissed the cab and mingled with the press representatives, who were streaming into the hotel. The management, hoping to minimize the distraction, directed them into a small ballroom off the main lobby and Brad was able to pass through without question. David Draper stood on a small dais at the end of the ballroom, in intense consultation with Brooks Martins. The same uniformed military officer who had escorted Peter Lange from the airport before dawn, was also on the dais, accompanied by several other military personnel, and a row of blue uniformed traffic police, in gleaming Grecian helmets, maintained a distance between the reporters and the dais. When the television equipment was ready, Draper raised both hands for silence and stepped forward.

“Gentlemen of the press,” he said, “I have an official announcement to make at this time. I have just been advised by Greek authorities and by the American Embassy that the plane, chartered by Mr. Harry Avery on Corfu last Monday, has been located and identified by an aerial search party. The wreckage was first sighted several hours ago. We have delayed making an announcement until aerial photos taken at the scene of discovery could be developed and examined and the identification of the plane made beyond all doubt.