“Sesame,” he said. “It is the fresh baked, sesame rolls that you smell, Mr. Smith. The scent of Athens. Blindfold me anywhere on earth and take me to Athens. Still blindfolded I will know her by the scents in the air. Welcome to Athenai, Mr. Smith! I leave you with my card.”
A small business card was proffered with a slight salute. The driver had disappeared inside the hotel lobby, laden with bags. The Greek overtook him on the return trip at the doorway, took his arm and spoke intently for a moment and then went into the hotel. The driver returned to the van and proceeded in silence. Leaning forward, Brad watched the streets for orientation. There was a special magic in an awakening city that late sleepers never knew. The thousand little tasks of daily renewal that seemed so mundane at noon. The van returned to Omonia Square and turned on to Stadiou. So intrigued was he, with the unfolding city, that he forgot the card in his hand until they had reached Constitution Square. He glanced at it as the van turned left. “Mikos Pallas” it read, in bold black letters, and underneath, in a smaller type, “Owner—Hotel Helias, Cape Town, South Africa.”
The van slid to a stop in front of the impressive Hilton. A few trucks were making deliveries and a window washer was polishing the hardware on the plate glass doors. A uniformed porter appeared, to take Brad’s bag from the van driver, and Brad reached for his wallet.
“What do I owe you?” he asked.
The driver wore the dour expression of cab drivers the world over. One hand scratched at the dark hair coiled beneath his leather cap. “Ten dollars—American,” he said. “The other passenger said that you would pay for both.”
“For both?” Brad flicked the business card of Mikos Pallas into the gutter. “Welcome to Athens, Mr. Smith!” he repeated bitterly. “Well, as they say, travel is broadening.”
He paid the driver and went inside to the lobby to register as Bradley Smith, representing Vance Properties of Los Angeles and London. There was virtually no activity in the lobby at this early hour, but the understated elegance of the decor made it clear that he must move fast before his bankroll disappeared. He asked for Mrs. Harry Avery and drew resistance. The regular desk clerk would come on duty at eight o’clock, he was told. He might get the information he desired at that time. It sounded like an evasive action. Brad took the key himself and left his bag to the porter. On the way to the elevator, he stopped at the flower shop where the door was open to allow delivery of a fresh supply. Oh, no, the shop was not yet open to the public, he was told, but money has a way of changing regulations. He ordered two dozen red roses sent immediately to Mrs. Harry Avery’s room—”I’ve forgotten the number. Get it from the room clerk.” He insisted on writing the enclosure card himself:
Rhona—It’s been such a long time! Heard about Harry’s plane. I’m in room 714. Call if you need me for anything—any time.
Brad Smith
He had the flowers put on his bill and left a five dollar tip for the delivery boy. If Rhona was in the hotel this was a sure way of making contact.
The response came sooner than he expected. He was too wide awake to make use of the massive bed. As soon as the porter left the room, he called down for breakfast and ordered a pot of black coffee and sesame rolls. The coffee arrived as ordered—the rolls were an assortment that included nothing as tantalizing as the street vendor’s wares. He drank the coffee on the balcony of his room and then decided to shower and get a fresh start on the day. He was under the spray when the telephone rang. Grabbing a huge shower towel, Brad hurried into the bedroom and picked up the phone. The voice he heard was professionally trained and lower pitched than he remembered, but it was definitely the voice of Rhona Brent.
“Brad? Brad, is it really you?” she asked.
“It’s really me,” Brad said.
“What a wonderful surprise! When can I see you?”
“Where are you?” Brad asked.
“On the top floor—the whole of it, practically. Harry likes plenty of room when he’s working. Come up, now, just as you are.”
“I think not. I just stepped out of the shower.”
“Oh. Well, in that case—”
Now there were background noises—a masculine voice raised in anger. Rhona tried to muffle the mouthpiece but he heard her protest: “I have a right to make a call. I’m not a prisoner, am I? … Brad, are you still there? Listen, I can’t talk right now but come up as soon as you can anyway. I’ve got to see you—please.”
“I said any time,” Brad reminded.
A half an hour passed before he finished showering, shaving and dressing in one of the light-weight lounge suits purchased with that first commission from Estelle Vance. Time enough, he hoped, for that heated discussion in the background to have cooled. He wanted no part of private fights. He took the elevator up to the Avery suites and found the entrance guarded by the same two swarthy men who had escorted Lange out of the airport earlier in the morning. It took vocal persuasion to get inside.
“I’m a friend of Mrs. Avery’s,” he said. “I was invited.”
“No one is to enter,” the larger guard said.
“Mrs. Avery called me on the telephone. My name is Smith. Go in and ask her.”
“No one is to enter. That is the order.”
“You must have a larger vocabulary than that,” Brad said. “Put it to music and you could dance to it on a table.” He pushed forward and began to pound on the door with both fists. “Rhona! It’s Brad! Call off the watchdogs—Hey!”
The carpeting suddenly disappeared from under Brad’s feet as he was flanked by the guards and hoisted backwards from the door. They held him firmly, with his feet kicking at the air, and only the sudden opening of the door spared him the humiliation of learning what might come next. But the door did open and he found himself facing Peter Lange, the man with the bored expression.
“What’s going on out here?” he demanded. “Put the man down!”
With solidity under his feet again, Brad regained composure.
“I’m Bradley Smith,” he said. “I was asked—”
“Of course. Mr. Smith, come in.”
Lange stepped away from the door and then closed it as Brad entered the suite. “In the next room,” he said. “Sorry about that out in the hall, but they do have orders. Rhona—your Mr. Smith is here.”
The next room was a bedroom—Brad glimpsed a bit of it when Rhona came through the door. He was shocked. She had sounded a little different on the telephone; she looked entirely different. She was older, of course, but that wasn’t against her. She had improved—lost baby fat and gained poise. Her hair was worn in a fashionable cut and her dress was so starkly simple it must have cost a fortune. But she had lost something. She smiled and it came off badly. The child in her smile was gone.
“Brad—it is you!” she cried. “You haven’t changed.” She came forward and placed her hands on his shoulders, holding him at arms length. “But you have changed,” she said quickly. “You’re harder.”
“Muscle,” Brad said.
“Oh, yes. You were a soldier for so long. Darling, have you met Peter? This is Peter Lange, Harry’s attorney. He flew in from London this morning—but so did you.”
“How did you know that?” Brad asked.
Rhona looked confused. “Why, I didn’t really. I assumed. I did get your flowers right after Peter arrived. See, I have them in a vase … Peter, Brad Smith is one of my oldest and dearest friends—and Harry’s, too. He read about Harry’s plane and sent a note offering to help in any way.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Lange said bluntly. As Rhona’s hands slid from Brad’s shoulder, her right arm linked in his and guided him towards a buffet on the far side of the room. “Have you had breakfast?” she asked. “I remember how you used to love a good breakfast. Here’s scrambled eggs and sausages and a pot of black coffee—” Her fingers locked about Brad’s and held tight. He knew now what was so different about Rhona: she was afraid. She was clinging to him, as she had the first
night they spent together back in Hollywood.
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.
Chapter Three
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 wi
th 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.”
Shot on Location Page 3
