Authors: Ekaterine Nikas
“I
guess not,” I said warily, trying to gauge his mood.
Though he spoke in his usual bantering tone, his expression
was grim.
“You
are no doubt wondering why I am here,” he said, his dark eyes regarding me with
unaccustomed seriousness.
I
shrugged.
“It’s your house, Spiro,
not mine.
I suppose your sister
wants me to leave?”
“Quite the contrary.
She has sent me to apologize for my
abrupt dismissal of you before.
The events of the day have put a great strain on her, and our latest
domestic crisis has only made things worse.
She was touched by your concern.”
This
speech made me feel more than a little guilty.
With my written suspicions of both him and his sister
burning a hole in my pocket, I hurried to change the subject.
“So your sister told you about Helen?”
He
nodded.
“Don't
you find her disappearance a little strange?" I asked.
"Of
course I find it strange.
What has
not been strange these last days?"
"But
the timing of it.
First Michael is
kidnapped, then Helen disappears.
Isn't it possible there's a connection?"
Spiro
shook his head.
"Please,
Christine, do not become like my sister, seeing conspiracies under every
bush.
Helen has probably grown
tired of this household and her work, and has simply gone to work somewhere
else."
"On
the very day Michael disappears?"
"Yes,
I agree, the timing is bad.
The
house is already in chaos; we do not need this additional aggravation.
Still, we must do our best.
Which reminds me.
Aphrodite tells me you have asked for a
taxi to be summoned at seven to drive you into town.”
“Yes,
is that a problem?”
“No
problem.
However, as I have some
business in town, I thought I would drive you myself and save you the taxi
fare.”
Driving
into town with Spiro was the last thing I wanted to do, but I couldn’t think of
a way to turn him down that wouldn’t either insult him or make him
suspicious.
In the end, I just
agreed quietly, "Sure.
That
will work out fine.
I have a small
errand of my own to see to."
*
*
*
Yiorgos
Spyropoulos was a short, solemn-looking man with thick black hair and pale eyes
fringed by long, dark lashes.
He
seemed to be watching me from behind those lashes as I asked him a second time if
he was the policeman who'd spent the previous evening at the hospital guarding
a young English boy named Michael Redfield.
Slowly he nodded.
"Why
do you wish to know?" he asked warily.
"I'm
a friend of Michael's and I'm worried about him and what's become of him.
I hoped you might tell me about what
happened at the hospital while you were there."
He
frowned.
"Nothing happened
while I was there, only after.
That is the problem."
"You
received a phone call?"
"Yes."
"Did
you recognize the voice?"
"No,"
he said, "but I did not suspect a deception.
There was no reason to think ten minutes would make a
difference.
It had been a quiet
night."
He regarded me
balefully across the desk.
I
nodded silently, wishing I could think of something to say that would make him
feel less defensive.
"When
you first came on duty, was there anyone keeping an eye on Michael's
room?"
“Yes,”
he replied, his tone more relaxed.
“A tall fellow who works for the boy's family.
Paul, I think his name is."
"Paul
was still there?" I exclaimed, surprised.
"What time was this?"
"About
ten o'clock."
I
frowned.
"Did he seem in a
hurry to leave?
Had he been
waiting there for you to arrive?"
"I
don't think so,” the policeman said.
“He seemed a bit surprised when I told him who I was and why I was
there, but he was friendly enough and seemed in no hurry to leave.
In fact, he went off and got us both
some coffee, and we sat talking for nearly an hour.
He left, oh, a little after eleven."
"Did
he get any phone calls while you were there?"
He
wrinkled his forehead in thought.
"I don't remember any."
"Did
he mention receiving any bad news about his mother?"
He
shook his head in surprise.
"No, nothing.
Why, has
something happened to the lady?"
"You
know," I said, "I'm beginning to wonder."
*
*
*
Spiro
and I had arranged to meet at one of the cafés in the Listón at nine, but it
was only eight-twenty when I left the police station and started strolling
slowly toward the square.
When we
had parted, Spiro had been more than a little curious about my plans, a
curiosity I had temporarily deflected by offering to invite him along on my
business if he would invite me along on his. He had been in no mood to share
secrets then; I was in no mood to share them now.
Yiorgos Spyropoulos had given me a great deal to think
about, and I preferred to do so outside of Spiro’s inhibiting presence.
"Well,
hello there!" exclaimed someone to my right.
"Hello,"
I replied automatically, turning to see who had addressed me.
It took me a moment to recognize the
small, white-haired woman smiling coyly at me from beneath an immense straw
hat, but then the bird-like tilt of her head as she waited for me to remember
brought it all back.
"You're
Robert's friend -- Mrs. Baxter, isn't it?"
"How
clever of you to remember, dear.
I
must confess I don't remember
your
name, though Bobby did introduce
us."
"It's
Christine, Christine Stewart."
"That's
a pretty name," she said, smiling.
"It's nice to meet you again, Christy."
"Actually,
it's Christine."
"Of
course, dear.
Now, tell me,
Christy, what are you doing out here all by yourself at this hour?
You have to be careful, you know; these
Greek Lotharios consider any woman strolling alone after dark fair game for
their overtures.
Why there's one
leering at you now -- and he's coming this way!"
I
followed her gaze.
I couldn’t spot
the Lothario, but I did see someone familiar in the distance.
Demetra
?
What in the world was she doing here?
Mrs.
Baxter slipped her arm through mine and began pulling me along.
"Come, my dear!
We'll show him."
I looked back, but Demetra was
gone.
Was that her, disappearing
into the shadow of an alley?
"Please, Mrs. Baxter,” I exclaimed in frustration, “I'm waiting for
someone --"
"Bobby?"
she demanded sharply, then she shook her head and kept pulling.
"He's a married man, Christy.
Take it from me: these brief holiday
flings just bring pain.
Come
on.
We'll go sit by the water,
drink some lemonade, listen to the crickets--"
"Cicadas,"
I corrected through clenched teeth.
"--
whatever, and have a nice girl-to-girl chat."
"But
you don't understand --"
"Christy,
take it from me, you're not the home-wrecking type.
Think of Bobby’s wife.
Think of what this means to her.”
My
fists began to clench.
How did one
get through to this woman?
I
wanted to find out what Demetra was doing in town, but she kept dragging me
farther and farther from where Demetra had disappeared. “Granted, Beth's a bit
of a cold fish,” she rattled on obliviously “ but I'm sure she loves Bobby in
her way, and --"
I
stopped and jerked on her arm.
"Mrs. Baxter, please!
Listen to me!
I'm not the
least interested in Robert Humphreys and I'm certainly not having an affair
with him!"
Still
she clung to me, so I swung her around to face me, and at the same moment I
felt something whiz past me, stinging my arm.
Mrs. Baxter stared up at me with a look of astonishment,
cried out faintly, and crumpled to the ground.
Horrified, I knelt down by her, wondering if she'd had a
heart attack or stroke.
Then I saw
the dark stain spreading across the bright yellow of her dress.
Remotely
I heard the sound of running feet and a man calling my name.
"Christine, is that you?” Spiro
exclaimed from somewhere far above me.
“Good God!
What has
happened?"
I
swallowed hard, trying to get enough moisture into my mouth to speak.
"Tell someone to call an
ambulance.
I think she's been
shot."
*
*
*
Once
again I was in a hospital corridor staring up at peeling green paint while
Lieutenant Mavros asked me questions.
This time, however, I was sitting in an ugly orange chair with a bandage
on my arm, and this time the Lieutenant's voice was almost gentle as he asked
me if I would rather answer the rest of his questions in the morning.
I
nodded wearily.
A
nurse came up and murmured something in his ear.
He nodded and turned to me.
"She is out of surgery now.
It's difficult to predict, but the doctors think she has a
good chance to recover."
"Thank
God!" I exclaimed, sinking my face into my hands.
"You
will excuse me for saying so, but you seem to take the situation very much to
heart, considering she is a stranger to you."
"I
feel responsible,” I said.
“After
all, that bullet was meant for me.
I keep thinking perhaps, if I hadn't jerked her back like that . .
."
He
frowned.
"Perhaps what?
Perhaps the bullet might have missed
her?
It is possible.
It is also possible that the bullet
might have struck a more vital place killing her on the spot, or killing
you.
Would that truly have been
better?"
"No,"
I admitted.
"Though I can't
help feeling it would be fairer for me to be lying on that recovery table
instead of her."
He
shook his head.
"Can one
wrong truly be considered more just than another?"
I
smiled faintly.
"A
philosopher-detective?"
"You
are surprised?" he replied with a shrug and a grin. "I am Greek,
after all."
I
found myself grinning back.
"That's
better," he said.
"And
now it is time to send you home."
He motioned to one of his men stationed at the end of the hall.
"Is Takis back with Kyrios
Skouras, yet?"