And afterwards we were suddenly sober, strangely self-conscious of our nakedness. I didn't understand her, a nice husband like that and throwing herself at me like a whore. Dressed, we were like strangers—polite, almost formal, our bodies released from tension and the nerve vibration of excess energy.
"We'll go through the Canal," she said, adjusting her bra. I felt like a gigolo being offered payment.
That night a strange thing happened. I came on watch at midnight, relieving Florrie, and it was very quiet as we slipped along at about four knots under sail. The sky was clear, diamond-studded with stars, the horizon a sharp line through the glasses. A satellite was wheeling like a comet across the edge of Orion's belt. For almost half an hour I had the company of dolphins, a whole school of them snorting and sighing all around me. Up for'ard I could see their shapes quite plainly, picked out by phosphorescence as they played in the bow wave. And then they disappeared as suddenly and as unexpectedly as they had arrived. Shortly after that I picked up the steaming lights of a vessel, bearing 345° and headed almost straight for us. The time was 02.40 and within minutes there were four other vessels, all approaching us fast from different points of the compass. Their steaming lights showed they were not fishing boats, and never in my sea-going experience having found myself in a situation like this, I called Bert.
"Destroyers," he said. "It's happened to me before. Not in
the Aegean. Between Pylos and Malta. Have you sighted the carrier yet?" And having assured me that it would come up over the horizon "like a bloody great gas flare" he turned over and went to sleep again.
It did just that about five minutes later, its topmast light coming up over the horizon on our port bow, a single red glow like an oil refinery flame. By then one of the destroyers was very close. A searchlight stabbed the night blindingly. It remained fixed on us for almost ten minutes and then was suddenly extinguished. When my eyes became accustomed to the darkness again, the carrier had crossed our bows and was to the north-west of us, not more than a mile away and looking like the slab-sided section of a sea wall.
"The Sixth Fleet," Bert explained when he relieved me forty minutes later. And he added, "Heading up for the Dardanelles like that, I'm surprised they let you inside the destroyer screen." He was searching the horizon with the glasses. "I'm glad we're getting out of this area." He had a thoughtful look on his face as he put the glasses down. "I wouldn't like to be here if the Americans and Russians started a naval engagement. Times like this I can't help thinking we're all hell-bent on suicide, the whole effing human race." He checked the wheel and the compass course, and then, just as I was going below, he said, "Don't tell Florrie. She worries about her family. They're still in Cyprus."
Two days later we passed through the Corinth Canal, and in the late afternoon of June 15 we arrived back at Port Vathy in the island of Meganisi.
PART FOUR
Man the Killer
I
We anchored off in 4 fathoms at the head of the inlet, the sun hidden by the western hills, and as we rowed ashore, the houses of Vathy glimmered honey-coloured in the evening light, their reflections mirrored in the still water. I could see Zavelas sitting at his usual place at the kafeneion and he beckoned to us. "Kalaspera. You are back, eh?" It was difficult to know whether he was pleased or not, his face impassive. "Good trip?"
"Yes," I said. And Florrie added, "The islands were beautiful."
"I see them when I'm a kid. In caiques then. Not since." A flicker of a smile showed in his eyes. "Now it is cool and you like some cawfee, eh?" He waved aside Bert's mention of the Customs Officer. "I send for him and you do your business here. Is more comfortable after you have been at sea." He called to a boy playing in one of the boats and then clapped his hands for the proprietor.
Coffee and ouzo, the usual routine, and the ex-cop watching us, silent. There was something on his mind and it made me uneasy. Florrie felt it, too, for she was talking quickly, nervously, in a mixture of English and Greek.
"Why you come back?" Zavelas asked abruptly, the question directed at me.
Why had I come back? It was a question I had been asking myself. Curiosity, or was it something deeper, a premonition, some sixth sense warning me? Gilmore, when he had shown me Reitmayer's letter, had promised to let me know the result of the investigation. He knew the date we would be in Samos, but there had been no letter waiting for me at the Harbour Office there. "Are they continuing work on the dig behind Tiglia?" I asked.
"Yes. But not Professor Holerod. He is in London. Only Mr. Cartwright and the Dutch boy work there."
"And my father—is he still at Vatahori?"
He shook his head. "No. The Doctor is on Levkas. He has a small tent there and works alone."
"In that bay you showed me—Dessimo?"
"No. It is somewhere else."
"Where?"
"That's a secret between him and Cristos Pappadimas. But I can take you there if you want." And he added, "An' I guess the Doctor will be glad to see you. He's no money, and that's mighty hard on a poor Greek man like Pappadimas. He takes him what he can, and Miss Winters helps."
"Is she still here?"
"In my house."
I hadn't expected that and the thought of her so near brought back into my mind the picture I had of her, small, intense and slightly lost ... it had been there all the voyage, the last sight of her standing on the quay at Vathy, a solitary figure waving us goodbye. The Customs Officer arrived, and whilst he dealt with Bert's transit-log, I sat there, drinking my ouzo and wondering about myself and the complexity of my motives as I exchanged small talk with Zavelas.
It was just after the Customs Officer left that a boat came in, passed close to Coromandel and then headed for the quay. I saw her head, pale tow against the dark-featured Greek at the outboard. She was searching the quay. I waved and she waved back, and then I was hurrying across to meet her. Flor-rie's eyes followed my movement; she knew how I felt—at least that's what she said afterwards, that she'd known all along I was in love with her. But I didn't know it myself then, only that the sight of her, so fresh-looking, so blonde and slim —alien corn amongst the Turk-dark Greeks—gave a sudden lift to my spirits.
"Paul." Her face lit in a smile as she leapt like a cat from boat to quay. "We saw you sailing in. From beyond Tiglia. I thought it was Coromandel. So we started straight back." She was laughing, her face flushed, the words coming in a rush.
We talked for a moment, nothing in particular, talking for the sound of our voices, the sense of communication. The outboard coughed and died and the world broke in with Pappadimas tying the painter to a ring on the quay. "Two days ago I had a cable." She felt in the pocket of her anorak. "From Dr. Gilmore. I don't understand it." She fished it out and handed it to me.
Urgent Vandervoort understands damage inflicted Hol-royd's reputation. My letter Paul explains. Tell him on arrival possibility Holroyd returning Meganisi. Gilmore. It was dated June 14.
"Do you know what it means?"
"No," I said.
"But the letter—he says he wrote to you."
"I was expecting a letter from him at Samos." And I told her about the investigation. "Have you shown this cable to my father?"
"Yes. That's why I went out there with Cristos this afternoon."
"And what did he say?"
"Nothing, just read it and handed it back to me. He didn't say a word."
"Did he know what it was about?"
"I don't know. Yes, I think so. He must have done or he would have asked me about it. Instead, he just smiled."
But I was wondering about the letter, what it had contained. "You're staying with Zavelas."
"Yes. I was at Vatahori till your father moved over to Levkas. Then I came here."
"Zavelas knows something. I saw it as soon as he greeted us.
"About Dr. Van der Voort?"
"I don't know. Something. You don't know what it is?" No.
"And you've no idea what this cable is a
bout?"
"No. Except that Hans is puzzled. So is Alec. It's almost a month since Professor Holroyd left and they've been working on that dig all the time. They've found nothing. Nothing at all since they dug up those skulls. It's very odd."
But I was still wondering what had happened to Gilmore's letter, how I could get hold of the facts with the least possible delay. Something must have come out at the investigation, something more than just a failure to give credit to another anthropologist for his earlier work on the site. I glanced at my watch. It was already well past six. "If we took the boat now, how long would it take to get there—half an hour?"
"Three quarters at least," she said. "It's at the south end of the Meganisi Channel."
It would be getting dark by then. "See if you can fix it with Pappadimas," I said, and went back to the kafeneion to tell the Barretts where I was going. We left at quarter to seven, and by the time we were in the Meganisi Channel the island of Tiglia was a dark bulk between shadowed walls of rock with the mess tent a blue glow reflected in the shallows. Above us, the mountains of Levkas loomed black against the last of the sunset glow.
South of Tiglia, Pappadimas edged the boat close to the west side of the channel. The rocks were getting difficult to see, darkness closing in and the first stars showing above the
dim outline of Meganisi. "It's not far now," Sonia said. Her voice sounded nervous. "You won't find him very communicative. He lives in a world of his own. I'm afraid . . ." She hesitated, her voice barely audible above the noise of the outboard. "It may be all in his imagination, you see. And yet he's convinced that if he could only get through the rock fall . . ." She was leanino so close to me that I could feel the breath of her sigh on my cheek. "I don't know what to think. But I'm glad you're here. Perhaps he'll talk to you. So long as you're patient with him. He's very secretive about it. Hans came with me once, but he wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't show him anything. Said he was Professor Holroyd's stooge, accused him of coming to spy and practically threw him out. It was all very unpleasant and Hans had brought some stores, things he desperately needed." The engine died as the bows nuzzled the rocks. "Anyway, you'll see for yourself."
We were in a narrow gut and Pappadimas came for'ard, hauling the boat along, both hands on the rock, until it grounded on a shelf of gritty sand. The water was very still, no sound at all. We got out and she took my hand, leading the way. There was a path of sorts, winding up between the rocks. It led to a steep slope and there was a musty smell of broom in the air. "It's about another hundred feet up." She let go of my hand. "You'll find him camped under the overhang. I'll wait for you here."
I hesitated, staring up at the dim outline of what appeared to be an enormous cavity scooped out of the cliff above. Then I went on alone, and where the overhang jutted black against the stars, the slope levelled off abruptly, and I stopped. The line of the cliff, the pale glimmer of open sea beyond. It struck a chord. The light was different, of course, but standing there, noting the configuration of sea and land, I had no doubt. This was where Cassellis had taken the pictures. I called to him then, stumbling among fallen rocks, but there was no answer and his tent when I found it was empty. It was a very small tent, the sort you have to crawl into on your hands and knees, and I stood there, wondering at his toughness, alone up here,
living little better than the primitive men whose movements he was trying to trace.
The site was a good one, the sort of position that the ancient Greeks, with their eye for country, might have chosen for one of their temples. It looked down into the channel, and to the south I could just make out the fiat expanse of the sea running out to Arkudi and the island of Ithaca. A solitary light, flashing red every 3 seconds, signposted the route to the Gulf of Patras. It was like standing on the bridge of a ship, for this natural platform was almost at the tip of a promontory formed by a spur of Mount Porro. There was no breath of air, no sound, everything very still. And then suddenly, from behind me, the clink of metal on rock, the clatter of stones.
I turned then, feeling my way deeper into the shadow of the overhang. Past a great rock fallen from the roof I saw the glimmer of a light. It came from beyond a mound of rubble, and when I had climbed to the top of it, I found myself looking down into a steeply-sloped cavern. I could see him then, a dark figure in silhouette. The light came from an old acetylene lamp and the single small jet of flame showed the cavern blocked by a fall. He was bending down, levering at the face of the fall with a crowbar, and he was so intent on what he was doing that he didn't hear the scattering of rubble as I scrambled down to the floor of the cave.
I was about ten yards from him then and I paused, curious at the care with which he was prising loose a lump of rock wedged against the cavern wall. He put the crowbar down and began tapping at it with a sharp-pointed hammer. It broke and then he was using the crowbar again, and when the rock finally fell away in pieces, he pulled a rag from his pocket, dusting the wall carefully. Then he put on his steel-rimmed half spectacles, picked up the lamp and peered at it closely, moving the lamp this way and that like a miner searching for traces of some precious metal in the face of the rock.
I was so fascinated I stood rooted to the spot, not moving, not saying anything. A strange guttural sound came from his
throat, an exclamation of excitement, of satisfaction. And then some sixth sense seemed to warn him of my presence, for he turned suddenly, straightening up and facing me, the lamp held high. "Who's that?" He reached for the crowbar, and I thought he was going to come at me with it, but instead he backed against the wall as though to conceal something.
"It's Paul," I said, and I heard his breath escape in a long sigh. He took his glasses off then, leaning slightly forward, peering at me.
"What are you doing here? What do you want?" His voice was thick, a whisper I barely recognized. The beetling brows, the blue eyes lit by the lamp, wide and staring. Remembering that photograph, the hair prickled on my scalp, my nerves taut as I recalled what Gilmore had said: Loneliness, identification with the subject that had engrossed him for so many years.
I began talking to him then, explaining my presence, the words too fast. With an effort I forced myself to speak quietly, gently, the way you would talk to an animal defending its territory, and gradually he relaxed, became himself again.
"I thought for a moment . . ." He put the crowbar down and wiped the sweat from his face with the rag he had used to dust the w^all behind him. Silence then, a silence that dragged, his breathing heavy, the only sound in the stillness of the cave. He was leaning against the w-all, his lungs gasping air—an old man near the point of exhaustion.
He wiped his face again, recovering fast. He still had reserves of energy. "Last time you were here, I said I might have something to show you." His mood had changed, his personality too. He was smiling now and the smile transformed his face, lighting it with some inner excitement, so that he was suddenly like a child who has discovered something and cannot keep it to himself. "Come here."
He had turned and was holding the lamp to the wall, moving it slowly back and forth as he had done when I stood watching him. "Do you see anything?"
I had moved forward and was peering over his shoulder,
wondering what I was supposed to see on the pale, grey surface of the rock.
"You don't see it?"
"I'm not a geologist," I said, thinking it was something to do with the nature of the rock.
He sighed. "You've got sharp eyes—you could always pick out a grey plover . . . Now look—" And he began tracing a shape with his finger. "Do you see it now?"
"What is it?" I asked, trying to understand.
"A rhinoceros," he said. "A woolly rhinoceros. See it? There's the back, the head, the horn. And there's what the French call les macaronis—the lines the cave artists drew to show the weapons entering the body, the moment of kill. The men who drew these animals were the witch doctors of their day and by picture-writing the kill, they gave their hunters confiden
ce. Do you see it now?"
He was looking at me anxiously, expectantly, waiting to see my own excitement reinforce his own. "Yes," I said. "Yes, I see it." And for a moment I almost thought I did. But the rock wall was so marked by natural indentations, so scored by falls from the roof, that you could imagine almost any shape in the cracks and lines.
"It's not very clear," he said, his voice mirroring his disappointment at my lack of enthusiasm. "And the paint has gone. They scratched the outline first. Then painted the beast with ochre or charcoal, using a stick brush—sometimes blowing it on in the form of a dry powder. Here the paint is all gone. The effect of the air. But when I get deeper into the cave, beyond the rock fall . . ." He moved the light. "Here's another."
Again he traced an outline, but it was difficult to know whether it was real or whether he was imagining it, the way, when you're ill, you lie in bed seeing shapes in the cracks of the ceiling. "And here—" He took me nearer the entrance. "I discovered this last year. A pigmy elephant I think, but it's so vague and indistinct I can't be sure about it. Do you know Malta? Ghar Dalam—a cave—there are the bones of small ele-
Man the Killer
213
phants there, and if the land bridge existed . . ." He straightened up. "I thought it worth investigating, and now I'm certain. If I had somebody working with me . . ." He stared at me, his eyes fixed on my face, willing me, I thought, to offer to help him clear the rock fall. "Nobody knows why I'm here, what I'm doing—not even Sonia." He leaned towards me, his eyes boring into me. "You're not to talk about it, you understand? You're not to breathe a word to anybody."
Levkas Man (Mystery) Page 21
