“Elias didn’t discuss this with you?”
“No.”
“Two separate opinions,” Bannerman said slowly, thoughtfully. And from two very different points of view. Both added up to the same thing. Mimi’s report on the Clark girl had turned out to be a depth charge. “If Elias and you are right, we have real trouble ahead.” But he did not sound over-pessimistic at the prospect. Perhaps he enjoyed the idea that, instead of being assigned to a place of secondary importance, he had stepped right into the critical area. He tried to check his rising excitement. “If you are right,” he repeated. “Poor old Partridge,” he added with some real sympathy, “he will be even madder than the French.” Strange how things break, he thought; Partridge has worked for four solid months, day and night, on the Berg-Insarov puzzle. “This is really his show, you know. We wouldn’t be here, any of us, if he hadn’t seen one small glimmer of light in a purposely thick fog.”
“Operation Pear Tree,” Craig said. He was feeling slightly better now that Elias was expecting anything to happen, any time. At least, he thought, we won’t come in for a landing with the wheels up.
“Did he tell you?” Bannerman asked in surprise.
“No. Mimi dropped the word. It’s puzzling our allies, I think.”
“Then it should puzzle the opposition still more. I don’t expect many of them know ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’ Do you remember the tune? Good. When you’ve got something to tell me, or vice versa, and there’s a crowd around or something, whistle a few bars, will you? Keep it just for emergencies.” He rose, clapped Craig on the shoulder. “I may come to wave you off to Delos. We’ll see...” He raised his voice to normal as he reached the dining-room. “I’ll wire Clothilde in Athens and tell her that the Triton is keeping a couple of rooms for her and the Mortimers.”
“When do they get here?” Craig called back. “I was thinking they’d arrive tomorrow evening.”
“Sunday. Perhaps even Monday. They may find themselves unloading coal or sugar all around the Aegean. Clothilde has a special knack of picking the slowest caïque.” Bannerman, taking the steps two at a time, clattered his way up into the lobby. Madame Iphigenia had reached it just ahead of him: she knew when to take her cue. The very correct and silent young man was at the desk. He was a little flustered, as if he had just made it there before Madame had started up the staircase. “I have a wire to send to Athens,” Bannerman confided earnestly. “How do I go about it?” There wasn’t even a small smile showing on his face.
“Markos will translate it for you and send it,” Madame said, staring fixedly at her assistant. She looked exactly like that statue on the main square, as if she were facing the Turkish fleet, her chin out, jaw set, eyes steeled, and a two-thousand-year-old Greek curse right there on her lips.
17
It was almost five o’clock, and the strong western sun shone straight into the harbour of Mykonos. Even as Craig walked along the waterfront, raincoat over his shoulder, sweater and camera case in one hand, he could easily distinguish the launch Maritta had hired from the other boats all along the wharf. It was the one with the crowd of people around it. Either the party had grown or the send-off was to be an event. Strange how the news had spread—there must be at least thirty of Mykonos’ younger set grouped together on the breakwater. Or quay. Or jetty. Or mole. Or wharf. He never could make up his mind what to call it. It served all these purposes. It was a bulwark of heavy stones rising less than five feet above sea level, with a flat top of cement, twelve feet or so wide, on which crates and sacks and men and mules could all find space. On its left was the open sea, if not wine-coloured in the evening glow then certainly dark blue tinged with copper, and a protecting waist-high wall to discourage the spray. On its right was the still water of the harbour, and an array of small craft roped to their moorings on the wharf.
He passed two caïques still unloading crates of fruit and boxes of soft drinks, several fishing boats now being scoured clean, rowing boats, another caïque, and reached the crowd—a merry one, as he had guessed by the drift of voices over the calm water. French, English, American. No wonder the German, Swedish and Dutch tourists had looked a little sourly at the breakwater from their café tables under the arcades. It was a fine evening for a sail across a few miles of rippling sea to Delos. And this was a wonderful idea for a party, he thought as his eyes looked over the bronzed faces and bright clothes for someone he could recognise; if only, he added to that, Maritta had not been instructed to invent it. For a moment he envied all these innocents, hooting and hollering around, who took it at face value.
And there was Veronica. With Tony and Michel in attendance. They were grouped in front of the launch. He hoped she wasn’t looking so relaxed and happy because of them. They couldn’t be as witty as all that, dammit, he thought as he heard her laugh.
“Yes, she’s beautiful,” Mimi’s voice said at his elbow. She pulled him gently over to the sea wall, with a smile of apology to three girls with swinging hair and pink-white lips who were just about to surround him. “They want to go, too,” she murmured. “You looked a very pleasing prospect.” She leaned against the wall, stared out to the open sea, and pointed to a far-off island. “Maritta is not coming,” she said softly.
He studied the island.
“The blankets and food arrived with one of the servants in charge. Don’t look around, John! He’s standing over at the other side of the mole. The caïque is just behind him.”
“Checking us on board?” He forced a smile, tried to look as if they were talking about something pleasant. He swung himself up to sit on the wall, which let him have a quick glance at the man standing by the edge of the quay. Thin expressionless face, watchful eyes. From where he stood, he could keep easy count of everyone who stepped on board the launch. “What excuse did Maritta send? I bet it was a beauty.”
Mimi nodded. “Better get the details from Veronica. We’ve been talking long enough together. I’ll start making the rounds—just the girl who wants to meet everyone. One thing: I told her I had let you know about her problems. I said you would help her. I had to, John! Why else did I listen to her this morning if I was not going to tell you? That was my story, remember!” She looked towards the north and pointed again. “Look! Fishing boats! Where did they come from?” She was including two young Frenchmen in her question. Craig jumped down and left them speculating about their cameras. The tantalisations of photography (it sounded all right in French) were the perfect pictures always presented when the light was too yellow, the sun too glaring and direct.
Craig moved through the crowd, and then halted, avoiding the interested glance of one of the girls with the pink-white lips so very pale against her tanned skin. He stood for an agonising minute, looking towards the north headland, staring at the three red fishing boats and the cabin cruiser that was following them in to the smooth waters of the harbour. Then his mind began to work. He calculated quickly and waited. His timing must be exact. The cruiser was drawing towards the yacht anchorage. The three boats were gliding around to find a space somewhere along the quay, their sails now flapping idly. Okay, he told himself, okay. He walked over to Veronica.
“Hallo!” he said with a wide smile. “And when do we shove off?” He gave Tony and Michel a friendly nod.
“Five o’clock always means five-thirty in this part of the world,” Michel announced. “That is one of its charms.”
“We seem to have some extra company,” Craig said, looking at two men with sleeping bags and a girl carrying a blanket.
“Why, it’s Josie!” Michel exclaimed, and turned to welcome her.
Craig looked at Veronica. “What’s this I hear about Maritta?”
Tony said, “One of those impossible guests fell down some stairs and broke his leg. Maritta is staying with him until the doctor arrives. Really bad luck.”
“Yes. Pity he didn’t break his neck.”
Tony laughed before he looked shocked. Then laughed again.
�
�Don’t you think someone should start loading people on to the boat? It would be a pity to miss the sunset on Delos.”
“But they all want to come,” Tony said in mock despair.
“Then let them. They can sail over there and back, anyway. The launch will hold about thirty, tightly packed. In this sea there’s no danger.” The launch was an odd contraption, definitely one of those mad Greek inventions, with a flat-topped hatch rising out of the deck and taking up most of it. On either side of this protuberance there were long shelves, acting as benches, facing out to sea, backed by ropes for the seated to grasp. The railing in front of their legs was another lightly strung rope. The captain and his mate were aft, along with a high smell of kerosene. Their smiles were cheerful.
“It can take forty, even in a storm,” Tony told him, in the tone of an old-timer. “Never lost a passenger yet. It bobs like a cork, even up the highest wave.”
“That must be fun,” Craig observed and half-turned from Tony, edging him out. “And when did the broken leg take place?”
Veronica’s smile widened as Tony drifted away to start organising. “He will never manage it in under twenty minutes,” she warned Craig.
“That’s a pity. I was counting on ten.” He was watching the three fishing boats. Soon they would be very close, blotting this part of the quay from any watcher on the hillside. If Maritta or her friends had a telescope trained on the launch, their view was about to be ruined. Perhaps permanently. The three boats, barely fifteen feet long, had stopped moving. It looked as if they were waiting for the launch to leave and give them space to tie up. There was a good deal of raucous shouting, anyway, between its captain and the fishermen.
Veronica studied his face. She said, “It really was an accident. I saw it. But his leg isn’t broken. Only a twisted ankle, I think. He complained a lot, though.”
“And it happened just before you left?”
“Why, yes.”
“Veronica,” he asked quickly, “will you help me?” He looked deep into her blue eyes. “I mean that. Will you?”
“Of course,” she said slowly, trying to hide her growing astonishment. But I thought I was the one who needed help. Is he in some kind of trouble, too? “What’s wrong?”
“Trust me. Please! And cover up for me, will you? I’m not going to Delos.”
The soft smile was wiped off her face.
“No, no,” he said urgently, “keep smiling as we talk. Please. The monster is watching us.”
Her eyes flickered over towards the man Maritta had sent. He was staring at her, in that grim and sullen way which she disliked so much. She forced a smile as she looked back at Craig. “I won’t notice your absence until we reach Delos. And then I’ll laugh it off. Is that what you want?”
“Yes. Say that I probably stayed behind to keep Maritta company, cheer her up.”
She dropped her eyes. She was half believing that herself. Her smile vanished.
He grasped her hands. “Please!” he said again.
She nodded.
His grip on her hands tightened. “That’s my girl,” he said softly as he released her. She looked at him, wide-eyed. If the monster hadn’t been watching them, he would have kissed her, right there and then. Instead, he backed away, seemingly still continuing their conversation. “I’ll give Tony a hand,” he called to her. “It’s time we were leaving. Save a seat for me!” He kept on backing to the edge of the quay, then turned very quickly as he reached the haggard-faced man, bumping heavily into him, saying “Sorry!” as his hands went out as if to save the man from toppling back into the water. He seemed to lose his own balance. His shoulder crashed against the swaying figure. The man fell, too astonished to shout, and landed with a splash between the launch’s stern and the high prow of the caïque.
There were screams, yells, and a rush of excitement.
“Throw a life preserver!” Craig told Tony. “I’ll get a small boat to pick him up.” He left, making his way through the jam of people. The shouts had given way to laughter, loud advice, raucous comment. There was a mixed stream of Mykoniots and visitors beginning to run up the quay. Craig bundled his coat tightly around the camera case, looked for the likeliest small boy. He found one, trying to edge his way into the steadily growing crowd.
Craig caught his arm gently, smiled, bent down to reach the right eye level, held out thirty drachmas (a round dollar in any man’s money) and offered the bundle. “Triton,” he said, pointing to the bundle, then back over his shoulder in the direction of the town. “Triton?” The boy nodded. He was about eleven or twelve years old, large brown eyes in a thin intelligent face. Craig tapped the bundle again. “Triton. Madame Iphigenia.” No, that was the wrong word. “Kiria Iphigenia. Triton.”
I know, I know, the boy’s eyes seemed to say impatiently. He took the thirty drachmas, tucked the bundle under his arm, looked in the direction of the excitement around the launch. A cheer was being raised.
“It’s all over,” Craig said. “Get going, buster!” He gestured down the jetty, quietly, urgently. The boy folded the bill safely into his pocket. He tapped his narrow chest. “Petros,” he told Craig solemnly. Craig shook hands formally. That seemed to seal the bargain.
“Triton. Kiria Iphigenia,” the boy assured him, as if he were addressing a very small child.
Craig nodded, put a finger briefly up to his lips. Let’s hope, he thought, that the gesture translates itself properly into Greek.
It must have. The boy’s eyes opened wide, bright with a new excitement. He grinned widely, tapped the side of his nose, pushed his way through the fringes of the crowd, headed for town.
Craig straightened his legs, pulling on his sweater. It was too hot for this time of evening, but its dark blue colour disguised the striped shirt he had worn for the trip to Delos. Now all he had to do was to find a straggle of tourists. He chose a clump of people, fishermen and visitors combined, and filtered into its centre. The trek along the breakwater became short and simple. Alone, he would have felt every step under sharp-eyed scrutiny from either the front-street arcades or the house on the hillside. He kept his head down, his hands in his pockets, and stayed with the crowd.
Far behind him, now, he heard the launch let off a high tenor blast. He didn’t look around, kept on walking, and was still in the shelter of the group as he reached real land. He passed three fishermen leaning against the wall of a chapel as he made the sharp left turn into the front street. He was almost certain that the youngest was the man Elias had sent chasing after Mimi, today, but he had only time for one quick glance and one returned stare. He walked on nonchalantly, chose the first café he saw, and slipped out of the cluster of tourists to find a small table at the very back of its deep awning. The trouble was that those Greeks, to foreign eyes, seemed very much alike, with their grave faces and dark hair and heavy moustaches. The fishermen had noticed him certainly. If he was Elias’ man, then all Craig had to do was to sit here and get some thoughts back into order. Also, he’d like to watch a little.
He edged his chair around just enough to let him have clear sight past the screen of men at the front-row tables. Now he had a good but protected view of the long breakwater. To his surprise and pleasure, the launch had already moved away from its moorings. Quick work after all, he thought gratefully. Tony must have got them all on board in record time once the man was pulled out of the harbour. There was a small close group on the deck of the caïque, as if that was where he had been deposited. No doubt they were getting him to cough up a surfeit of water, and telling him never to stand again at the edge of a wharf crowded with young maniacs. Certainly there was no sight of the man on the jetty itself. It was rapidly emptying, returning to its usual placid routine.
Craig watched the launch move into the harbour, sweep around widely to port, pass the end of the breakwater and out to sea. It gave three short and cheerful blasts of farewell. In a similar mood, he ordered ouzo and coffee. Well, there I go, he thought, bound for Delos. Not even the waterlog
ged man in the dark suit, now climbing on to the jetty from the deck of the caïque, would guess otherwise.
* * *
It was forty minutes later, almost six o’clock, before Bannerman strolled in. He looked around the few tables that were occupied—this was a fisherman’s haunt; later in the evening it would be crowded with them—and said, “You’ve got good taste in cafés.” He sat down facing Craig, his back turned to the street.
“It was the first place I could duck into and stay out of sight.”
“Sorry I missed the fun on the dock. But there was an emergency. I came here as soon as possible.”
Judging from Bannerman’s face, his news was bad. Craig said, “Well, I’m glad our communications system is working, anyway. That was Elias’ man I saw?”
Bannerman nodded. “What made you bug out?”
“Because Maritta did.”
“Oh!” said Bannerman, a new light dawning. Quickly he asked, “And they think you’ve left?”
“I tried raising a little fuss, enough to cover my retreat back into town, I hope.”
“I heard about that.” Bannerman almost smiled. “Veronica Clark was a great help, too. Got them on board and the launch moving before anyone could count who was sailing. What did you tell her?”
Craig was still staring. Veronica had done that?
“What did you tell her to get her co-operation?”
“Nothing. Just that I wasn’t going. Just that I needed her to cover for me. That’s all.”
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