“Do you remember it?”
“I hope so. I spent a lot of energy memorising it.”
“And my congratulations,” Elias said unexpectedly. “You have been most helpful.”
“My thanks, too,” Craig said, and gave her a warm smile. “You’d terrify Maritta if she knew how much you learned from Veronica in a couple of hours. That was one thing she never intended to happen.”
Mimi laughed, delighted with both their words and that idea. “Oh, I knew how to steer the conversation, that was all. And Veronica needed to talk. But I would have learned much less, I think, if it had not been for you.” Her dark grey eyes looked at Craig and turned most serious. “I did tell one fib. I said I had known your sister when she lived in Paris, was devoted to her, so I felt I knew you well, too. And I thought you were someone Veronica could trust, quite apart from being two Americans in a foreign land. Then she said that she had wanted to speak to you, this morning, but—just couldn’t; you might be embarrassed, you weren’t really interested in her or her troubles. ‘Tell me what they are,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk with John Craig. He is a very casual type. But he will listen, I’m sure’. And that decided her. You had helped her once before, she said.” Mimi’s eyes were studying him thoughtfully. “Whatever you did, then, certainly had results this morning.” She opened the door carefully, glanced out into the empty corridor. “All peaceful,” she said softly. “How very nice...” She closed the door soundlessly behind her.
Elias was looking at the telephone again. “Do I call my aunt and tell her that you were only staying at the Triton for one night until you found a room to rent? That is quite usual, you know. Most people rent rooms; much cheaper. And there are so many hundreds of them, here on Mykonos, that even Maas might take a week to find you.” He paused, then added casually, as if he had only just thought of it, “Of course, you could accept her invitation—meanwhile.”
“Is that what you want me to do?” Craig asked bluntly.
“I am not in charge of you.” Elias was slightly amused. “Certainly not for the last ten minutes or so.” He glanced at his watch.
“But who else? Partridge is half-way to Smyrna.” Craig was unexpectedly depressed about that fact. It left him feeling isolated, uncertain. “Who is the new man in charge here?”
“In charge of the Americans?” Elias’ emphasis was polite but decided. “Why not Bannerman? I think our friend is now walking towards the Triton Hotel. He should have arrived in the taxi that returned from Tourliani some ten minutes ago.”
“He stepped out of the helicopter as Partridge stepped on?” Craig found the vision amused him, even lightened part of his depression.
Elias nodded. His fingers touched the telephone. “Do I call the Triton and block that invitation?”
“I’ll take your advice and keep Maritta happy.”
“That is always the clever thing to do.”
“Meanwhile,” added Craig.
* * *
He had left Elias and taken a circuitous route back to the hotel. He needed the walk, he needed a fifteen-minute delay before he met Tim Bannerman. There were a number of things he had to sort out in his mind. Craig always found that his brain worked best if he brought himself right up against his problems, examined their variables, and then established the precedence of their importance. Nice comforting procrastinations, a general wait-and-see feeling, were not for him. On the one hand but on the other hand—no thank you. He liked to catch the facts by the scruff of their necks, pull them face up and have a good look at them, however unpleasant. And if he couldn’t catch them all—for he was the amateur wading in very deep waters—he could at least see their shape if he thought hard enough about what he had actually glimpsed.
So...
The Smyrna area was Partridge’s first concern. He had only visited Mykonos to make sure that the situation had not been endangered by any information that might have been tortured out of Duclos. Even Insarov’s arrival here had not shifted Partridge’s concern. Rather, it had intensified it. It was clear warning that the climax was approaching. Hence the haste in which Partridge had returned to Smyrna. For that was where he intended this whole counter-operation to be completed successfully. It was in Smyrna that the dangerous role, played by one of his agents, could be safely ended along with the career of an American called Alex. From Smyrna, too, would come the instructions to pick up Insarov and all his friends.
The Mykonos area was therefore of secondary importance, so far. It was only a kind of safety net, carefully rigged to save Partridge’s agent and catch Alex if the plans at Smyrna swung out of control.
But that was all from Partridge’s point of view, thought Craig. From Insarov’s? In his calculations, Mykonos was to be the successful climax of all this operation. He had geared everything to that. Therefore, any instructions followed by Maritta Maas were geared to that, too. Therefore, even such a small thing as this invitation to Delos was to be examined from every side. Nothing that Maritta was told to do could be considered as whim or charming fancy.
Maritta and this bright idea for a party... What had she said back in his hotel room in Paris about Delos? Yes, in Paris Maritta had already known about the small tourist pavilion on Delos. For emergencies, she had said. Emergencies. Were the emergencies on Delos tonight—or here on Mykonos? Certainly, Maritta had made sure her uncle’s friends would have the house on the hillside, emptied dovecote and all, very much to themselves. She had also made sure that Veronica and the people she liked, the people to whom she might have talked, were all safely off this island. Tonight. And if these inferences seemed a little far-fetched, he had only to remind himself that nothing Maritta did could be considered whim or fancy.
Yet, one thing puzzled him. He was remembering Paris again; this time Partridge talking to him about the man at his sister’s party—the man called Alex—who was coming to Mykonos, where he would hand over to Maritta the information he had collected. (But now it seemed the information to be delivered was the source itself—an abducted expert.) Maritta and Alex had worked together before. Therefore they could identify each other quickly, and Alex’s delivery would be safely made with neither doubt nor delay. But that meant Maritta had to be here when Alex arrived. She alone was Alex’s contact. In that case, she would never have arranged to go to Delos if the Stefanie were expected tonight. Craig, he told himself sadly, you just got carried away in your deductions: a hell of a historian you’ll make.
And then his thought leaped. If Alex was sailing on the Stefanie, why should he need anyone to identify him? Or why should he have to come here, at all, if the Stefanie brought in its prize? His job was over in Smyrna when he enticed that man aboard. Or wasn’t it?
Craig smothered his rising excitement. Once more, he went over the facts he knew about Alex, few as they were. Yes, Alex was a courier, passing on information to a safe contact whom he definitely knew. Now what was it Partridge had said in the Triton’s little garden? Something—oh, dammit, it was a phrase, a simple but revealing phrase. About Alex and his duties. No, it had slipped to the back of Craig’s mind, was hovering there, tantalising, elusive. Relax; don’t strain it, he told himself. If the phrase was important, it would turn up in its own good time.
He headed for the little street where the Triton stood. There were a lot of people around now. Shops had opened again. Trade was brisk. Life was normal. “I tell you,” one white-haired Englishwoman was saying to her exhausted friend, as Craig stood aside to let them pass, “there are three hundred and sixty-five churches, and we’ve only found two hundred and ninety-three.”
* * *
Madame Iphigenia was at her post in the Triton’s small lobby. “There was a telephone call,” she announced. “A woman’s voice.”
“Did she leave any number?”
“She refused to give it,” Madame Iphigenia said with annoyance.
Then that was Maritta. “She will call again. I’ll be in my room.”
“We change your room.” Madam
e had dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “My nephew Elias advises that. It has not such a pleasant view, but no one knows you are now there except myself and one maid. My nephew also advises you leave most of your luggage in your old room. Come. I show you.”
“Just let me get my toothbrush.”
“It is already provided.”
“Well, just let me get my camera. Right?”
So they made the quick and familiar journey, and he managed to get Partridge’s automatic safely into his pocket in a matter of seconds while Madame Iphigenia played watchdog at the door. He changed into a fresh shirt, picked up his raincoat and a sweater for tonight’s journey. It would be a cool trip across the strait to Delos. He almost forgot razor and tooth brush. A man spending a night on Delos would certainly take these. Now let anyone check on this place, he thought, as he slipped them into his coat pocket.
“You remember this way?” Madame whispered as she led him along a twisting corridor. Indeed, he did. That morning, it had been part of their tour of inspection. The rooms were unused in this wing of the house, under change and construction for the summer season. “I am sorry,” she said with real anguish as she showed him into his new quarters, still smelling of paint. “The workmen will not be back until Monday. No one comes up here. It is all right?”
“It’s very much all right. Thank you for helping me. What did Elias expect?” A secret search, or some unexpected visit?
She hesitated. “I do not know what this trouble is. I do know my nephew.” And with that, she left him. As she disappeared around a corner, he heard a distant voice calling her back to the front desk. He dumped his coat, camera and sweater, and after a last glance at the makeshift arrangements he made his way down by the back stairs to the enclosed garden. It would be better that he be found easily when that telephone call came for him. There was also the matter of Bannerman.
* * *
The telephone call came first. “I thought I wasn’t going to find you,” Maritta began.
“And I’ve been looking for you all day.”
“Have you heard about my party on Delos?”
“Are you turning archaeologist?”
“No, no. It’s a moonlight party. Tonight. Will you come?”
“Yes. But how? Do we swim?”
“Five o’clock at the harbour. Bring a coat. And a bright smile.”
“When do we get back?”
“Oh, we’ll stay overnight. There are eight of us. Veronica included. I’m glad you accepted before you heard she was coming.”
“There’s only one thing. I’m expecting some of my friends from Athens to arrive tomorrow evening.”
“Oh, we’ll be back before that. I’ve arranged for our boat to pick us up at three tomorrow. It’s only an hour’s journey from Delos.”
“Weather permitting.”
“We are in luck, I think. The water has scarcely one ripple. At five o’clock, then?”
“At five. Coat, smile and camera.”
“Tomorrow morning you can take some heavenly pictures by the dawn’s early light.” She laughed, rang off.
He replaced the receiver, stood frowning down at it. He had managed that all right, but he felt no sense of achievement. Without Partridge’s warnings, he thought, where would I have been with a girl like that? Neatly wrapped up in a package labelled Fool. I wouldn’t have been the first, and certainly not the last. And she could fool me yet, he thought sombrely.
Madame Iphigenia cleared her throat tactfully. He swung out of his thoughts, looked up and saw Bannerman, as natty a tourist as ever dawdled along the cafés on the waterfront. Faded red shorts and a pink linen shirt, no less. Behind him, the silent young assistant manager was absolutely slain with admiration.
“Hallo, John!” Bannerman said. “Told you I’d join you for some bouzoukia. Found any places, yet, where they haven’t heard of ‘Never on Sunday’?”
So we continue Athens, thought Craig, and gave a smile of relief. “How’s Clothilde? And the Mortimers? Still in Athens?”
“They’ll be here this week-end. Clothilde really means to arrive in a caïque. She always seems to find one that hauls coal. So I backed out of that. What about a drink?”
“Fine. I’m on my way to Delos at five, so we’ll have one for the road.”
“Any room for me on that trip?” Bannerman asked with a grin as he clattered downstairs to the dining-room and bar.
“Not unless you like sleeping on the cold hard ground.”
The silent young man was on their heels, ready to see that they were served, no doubt. He took their order, relayed it to the kitchen, busied himself in the dining-room as they went into the small garden. “Hell,” Bannerman said softly. But he didn’t have to worry long about continuing their light conversation, for Madame’s stern voice sent her assistant back upstairs to take charge of the desk, and they were free to talk.
“Partridge thought he was just curious,” Craig said quietly as the young man left the dining-room with a last backward glance.
“Well, people are innocent until they give cause for suspicion. Can’t go around thinking everyone is part of a nasty plot,” Bannerman said lightly. “But that little guy isn’t local. Elias has been checking. He came in as a replacement only three days ago—from Athens. Highly recommended. Madame Iphigenia is about to blow a fuse. She’s kept him so busy running errands all day that he’s worn out. Didn’t even have the energy, or time, to check on your luggage.” Bannerman’s broad smile was reassuring. “They’ve planted an eye in every hotel, of course, just in case someone recognisable—like Rosie—suddenly turned up as Mr. Smith.” He studied Craig’s face. “Nothing to worry about. Elias has good eyes of his own.”
Madame Iphigenia was making sure of that. She had installed herself in the dining-room and was checking linen and silver.
“Both houses are being watched?” Craig was still uneasy. There had been a slip-up three nights ago, when Maritta’s guests began arriving. But that, of course, had been before Elias had appeared.
“Closely. He has men on the square next door as well as up on the hillside, too. Believe me—”
“I do.” Craig had to smile. Now he could see why Elias had taken such a dim view of his own stroll up there today.
“He has a man up on the headland above the yacht anchorage just to see what’s sailing in from the north. He has a man in touch with the harbour master who checks every vessel in and out. He has even made sure that the launch taking you to Delos is manned by the usual local men. You can leave all the details dealing with geography to Elias. He knows how.”
“And what’s your job?” Craig asked, some of his anxiety leaving him. “Looking after me?”
“And myself, and a couple of other Americans who are wandering around looking like poet and painter. Also, we are keeping out own lines of communication open. Co-operation doesn’t go as far as letting the other fellow handle your own particular business.” Bannerman grinned cheerfully. “The English have sent at least one man here, too. They have a certain interest.” He sounded vague about that. “Then the French—well, they’ll be breathing hard on Elias’ neck.”
“I take it, when you didn’t mention him, that there is no word of Duclos?”
“None.” Bannerman watched Craig’s face. Quietly, he added, “That’s the second good man the French have lost in this operation. The first was in Paris on the morning you arrived there—they killed him to protect Alex, we think. Yes, you could say that the French are hopping mad. They won’t let one escape, you can be sure of that. So ease up.”
“Alex—” began Craig, and stopped. Suddenly the lost phrase had decided to stop playing coy and came right to the front of Craig’s mind. “Extension of his duties,” Partridge had said, talking of Alex and the attempt at abduction. Yes, an extension of his duties... And there was something else too: Alex’s special mission had been an “additional assignment.”
“Come on now. Share that one,” Bannerman said with amuse
ment.
“Haven’t thought it out yet,” Craig admitted. “It may mean nothing. He’s a careful, supercautious man, isn’t he?”
“Alex? As cagey as they come.”
In that case, would he arrive here on the Stefanie? Craig’s mind was racing now. “Suppose he had his usual job to do, as well. Wouldn’t that explain why he had to come to Mykonos at all? Otherwise—why should he endanger himself by appearing here? The additional assignment—” Craig paused to make sure that Bannerman had caught his meaning—“was completed when he trapped our expert. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.”
“Go on.”
“He would probably baulk at travelling in the same yacht as the man he helped to capture, wouldn’t he? He might be the type who would complete his special assignment, and then want to forget he had anything to do with it. The supercautious wash their hands of everything as quickly as possible.”
“They do.” A small smile glimmered at the back of Bannerman’s intelligent eyes. “And I’m not stealing any of your thunder if I tell you we had some similar thoughts. Why else did we want you on Mykonos? But there’s one thing—we don’t intend to let that son of a bitch get out of Turkey. That’s why Partridge is there.” He looked at his watch. “He’s there, all right.”
Craig was silent.
“Now what?” Bannerman asked sharply. “Do you agree with Elias?”
“Elias? I wouldn’t know. I keep trying to guess what Elias is thinking and come up with the wrong answers.”
“You froze when I mentioned Partridge and Smyrna. Why?” As Craig still hesitated, Bannerman added with one of his old friendly smiles, “I really want to hear what you think, John. Come on, give!”
“Well—” He decided to risk it. “I feel that the kidnapping may be completed. Partridge could have reached Smyrna too late to prevent it.” He hesitated, but Bannerman was listening seriously, waiting for Craig’s reasons, face and eyes now intent. Craig said, “There has been too much happening under the surface today, too many preparations right here on Mykonos. That house on the hill is ready and waiting. Maritta spent the morning at the Gerhard Ludwig place in town—so Elias’ men reported. She wouldn’t go there except under orders, and they wouldn’t be given her unless something important had developed. So important that it was time to give her final and detailed instructions? They’re so confident of success that they may actually know they have succeeded.” He hesitated, decided he had said more than enough. “And that—for what it’s worth—is how I see it. I hope I’m wrong.”
The Double Image Page 27
