The flight was brief and uneventful. By the time the plane approached the Corfu airfield, the saffron coast of Albania half a mile behind them and the lush green of the olive groves below, Brad had learned a little more about George Ankouris. He was a bachelor. He had received his flight training from the British and, later, the Americans and fought against the Communists under Van Fleet. He lived in an apartment on the beach, liked girls, and was survived by an uncle and a spinster cousin, both of whom were waiting at the end of the runway when the plane landed. As the pilot taxied towards a hangar, bearing the inscription, in English, G. Ankouris, Charter Flights, Brad could see two sombre faced people, standing near a waiting hearse. The man, heavily moustached, had to be the uncle; the other, a woman, was wearing the traditional funeral black. But standing apart from them was another woman whose rapt attention was on the small plane. When the door opened on a hastily manoeuvred boarding platform, he scrambled down, just behind the pilot and stepped aside to make way for the men, who had come with the hearse. Now he could see the woman at closer range. She, too, wore black but of a different cut. Form fitting, it accented the youth of her body. She was not more than twenty-two. Her dark hair was Italian-cut, her eye lashes were heavy, and she wore narrow gold rings in her ears.
Brad nudged the pilot. “Do you know that woman?” he asked.
The pilot nodded. “George’s,” he said. “Uncle Andreas disapproved. Uncle Andreas has the money. No marriage.”
Brad decided to forego meeting Uncle Andreas and the cousin, veered away as they approached the plane, and walked towards the girl. At still closer range she appeared to be twenty-five or twenty-six. Her eyes were olive-coloured and looked almost oriental. He smiled and she started to turn away.
“Don’t go—please,” he said. “I knew Harry Avery. He told me that George had a girl on Corfu.”
“Harry Avery?” she echoed.
“That’s right. He was a friend of George’s, wasn’t he?”
There was instant fire in her eyes. She might be part Turkish, he decided. “That is a joke?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“Harry Avery paid George money to fly around in his plane. That is business. That is not friend.”
“But you were George’s friend?”
“Yes, until—”
“Until what?”
“Why should I tell you this? Who are you?”
“My name is Smith. I knew Harry Avery. I know Rhona Brent.”
“Oh, that one!”
Brad detected a clear note of envy. “Did George know Rhona Brent, too?”
“That one, like you say, was friend.”
“George’s friend?”
“What you think? She is not my friend! She is too grand.”
“George was a climber, too?”
“Climber? What is climber?”
“George was ambitious.”
The girl didn’t answer. She stared towards the plane, where George’s coffin was now being removed. Both the uncle and the cousin were sobbing violently. The girl extracted a face tissue from her handbag and brushed away a few quick tears. “This is too sad,” she said abruptly. “I go now.”
“You’re too upset to go alone,” Brad told her. “Lean on me.” He took her arm and they started walking towards the cab stand. Passing the tie-down, she stopped and glared at a huge new twin-engine cabin plane.
“Two, three years I loved George,” she said. “I could have married rich man, but I loved George. You think he would leave me something, no?”
“Maybe he was broke.”
“Oh, no! He showed me this plane. ‘One more trip with Harry Avery, and I buy this,’ he said. ‘Then I make so much money we don’t need Uncle Andreas.’ One more trip.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“Last Sunday.”
“The day before the flight with Avery?”
“Yes.”
“That looks like an expensive plane,” Brad admitted.
“It costs 10,000 English pounds.”
Brad whistled under his breath. “I wonder what he had on Avery.”
“Had on?”
“An American expression. Look, why don’t I take you home? You do have a home?”
“I have apartment near the Casino, where I work.”
“Good. We can talk in the cab. Taxi—”
They got into the cab together and she gave the driver the address. When they were under way Brad said: “I thought maybe you lived at the beach with George.”
“Oh, no. George has office in his apartment.”
“Do you have the key?”
She smiled coyly. “Yes.”
“Then why don’t we go there first? Maybe he did leave you something. Sometimes a man has a premonition about his own death. If he did leave something, you don’t want it to go to Uncle Andreas or the cousin.”
She thought that was a good idea and instructed the driver accordingly. The driver muttered a Greek curse and made a sharp U turn that took them away from the city towards the suburbs. It was about a ten minute drive before the cab stopped in front of a row of modern, middle-class apartments and the girl, key in hand, hopped out. Brad followed. The driver held out his hand and Brad told him to wait. He followed the girl to the door, which was already opening under the application of her key. George was a lousy housekeeper. Magazines and maps were strewn over the living room and two glasses were on the bar. One had a lipstick insignia. Brad sniffed. Very stale martini.
“Look in the bedroom,” he suggested.
The bed was unmade and George’s pyjamas were bunched on the floor. The wardrobe door was open. The girl let out a little feminine squeal and began to rake through the hangers. She took out a pale blue, chiffon negligée and held it up under her chin.
“This he left me,” she announced defiantly.
“Finders keepers,” Brad said.
The apartment was furnished in sparse, Danish modern—stark but colourful. He found a teak desk, under the shuttered windows, and began to comb through the drawers. The first drawer was filled with stationery.
“You like this one?”
He turned around and saw that she had found a red stain negligée and slipped it on over her mourning black. “It’s you,” he said.
“And there is nightgown, too.”
“I’ll take your word for it that it fits,” Brad said. He turned his back, so she couldn’t see what he was doing, and then took out Harry’s wallet and removed four fifty dollar bills. He slipped them inside the envelope, sealed it and turned around. “I was right,” he said. “Here’s a sealed letter. It must be for you.”
She tossed the red gown on the bed and ran to snatch the envelope from his hand. She ripped it open and her eyes grew wide and moist. “Such a sweet man,” she cooed. “He left me something.”
“Yes. Now let’s get out of here before Uncle Andreas comes.”
“I take the nightgowns, too.”
“I like the red best,” Brad said.
“I take the blue, too.”
Without letting go of the envelope, she piled the garments over her arm. She looked back, wistfully, at the still incompletely ravaged wardrobe, as he steered her back through the apartment and out of the door. The cab was waiting. He helped her in and handed the driver a ten dollar bill. As he closed the door, she cried out: “You come with me?”
“Later,” Brad said.
“But you don’t know where I live!”
“That makes the chase more interesting. Goodbye, now.”
“Come to the casino,” she cried, as the cab lurched forward, “I dance—”
Brad waved until the cab was out of sight, and then returned to the apartment, which he had carefully neglected to lock. Once inside, he put on the safety catch and began a thorough search. Not for an instant did he believe that Harry Avery would pay anything like ten thousand English pounds for a charter plane. He hadn’t made his millions with that kind of sloppy acc
ounting. George must have had another source of income and some method of tabulating. He returned to the desk and began to search the other drawers. The first item of interest he found was a chequebook, with a balance of less than 12,000 drachmae, under 400 dollars. He couldn’t have bought the twin-engine plane with that. He looked for other bank books, examined every scrap of paper and came up with nothing, until he reached the bottom drawer of the desk. It was locked. He prised open the lock with a letter opener and there, all by itself on the bottom of the drawer, he found the one thing he needed to make everything compute. The teaser, the down payment, the promise of riches to come. Some people got into a rut.
It was a diamond bracelet—the twin to the one Rhona had left in his bed.
Well, it was a long way from Arizona where the wind howls in across the desert, the sun beats down, and a lovely young girl waits and wonders if this is all the life she will ever have. And then one day a salesman comes by, with big talk about Hollywood, and the dreams begin. Something like that was running through his mind, as he picked up the bracelet and held it up to the light. Something like that. He put the bracelet into his coat pocket and walked to the still open wardrobe. The girl had missed a couple of negligées, but they weren’t Rhona’s style. She wouldn’t have had to go that far with George unless she was looking for thrills, and she was too good a business woman to play that risky a game, right under Harry’s nose. If he were a detective, he could probably have the lipstick on the martini glass analysed and come a lot closer to the truth. Martini was an American drink. It was enough to know that a woman had been with George, just before his last flight. It was enough to know that George had received one of Rhona’s retainers.
It was a long way from Arizona.
Chapter Nineteen
MIKOS PALLAS, DAPPER in English tweeds and with a pale cashmere topcoat thrown over his arm, advanced towards the gate, where the flight to Istanbul was being loaded, ticket and passport in hand. Humming a ditty he had heard in a Piraeus cabaret, he felt greatly pleased with himself. His brief stay in Athens had been profitable and that was what the game was all about. Life was travel, nothing more. Some men wandered through it like sleepwalkers, with no attainable goals; but Mikos Pallas never failed to make a profit wherever he went, whether it be in merchandise, services or merely establishing contacts for future exploitation. It was by chance that he had become curious about the unmarked truck and the unusually industrious young men unloading what turned out to be the time bomb that later destroyed the structure on which they pretended to work; but it was by experience, and an uncanny confidence in his own intuition, that he had photographed them and thus been of service to the security police. This was the finest kind of profit. Winds of change were blowing and new alliances must be made. The Americans had such a descriptive phrase for such an occupation: fence mending.
As the loud speaker began to announce the impending arrival of the Olympia flight from Corfu, he stepped before the ticket inspector. Only then did he notice a security police officer at his side. Unsuspecting, Pallas offered his ticket with a warm smile.
“Passport, please,” requested the ticket taker.
Pallas relinquished the passport. The inspector examined it and handed it to the security officer.
“Mikos Pallas?” asked the officer.
“Everything is in order,” Pallas answered.
“I’m afraid not. I must ask you to come with me.”
“Come with you? Why? This is preposterous. I have an appointment tomorrow morning with a very high official in Istanbul—”
“I have my orders,” said the officer.
Forced out of line, Pallas continued to protest. The official was adamant. Mikos Pallas was wanted at the police headquarters for questioning, concerning a theft of one million Deutschmarks from an Athens brokerage.
“But this is outrageous!” he fumed. “I was the one who put the police on to the anarchist who took the money! Get Captain Koumaris on the telephone at once! He knows of what service I have been!”
“That is impossible,” the officer said. “He was murdered yesterday.”
“Murdered—”
“And none of the money has been recovered.”
“What has that to do with me?”
“I can’t say, Mr. Pallas. It is Lieutenant Zervios to whom you must explain. Following Stephanos Brisos to Kastoria might have been a trap.”
“Brisos? Who is Brisos? I know nothing!”
“If you know nothing,” the officer said politely, “I am sure Zervios will apologize for any inconvenience that may come to you.”
Pallas trembled imperceptibly under his impeccable tweeds. Policemen were the same everywhere. When one of them was killed, the others were out for blood. But not, surely, the blood of Mikos Pallas! The fear came in a chill wave and then passed. It was nothing. He had money in his wallet and good connections. True, there was some shady business in the past—dealings with the Germans in the occupation—that had led to his migration to South Africa, but then, the Germans were not so hated any more in military circles. Following the security officer to his car, Pallas tried to place Zervios. No matter. He would be ambitious. All men are ambitious for something. All men have a price. As Pallas entered the official car, the plane from Corfu came out of the black sky and began its descent to the lighted runway. Longingly, Mikos Pallas watched the silver bird.
When Brad emerged from the airport, he walked briskly towards the taxi rank and then stopped, as his name was called sharply:
“Mr. Smith!”
He turned about and saw David Draper hurrying towards him. Hatless, coat tails flying, Draper seemed unduly excited.
“I missed you at the gate,” he panted. “Don’t bother with a cab. I have a car.”
“How did you know I would be here?” Brad asked.
“Rhona—Mrs. Avery became disturbed when you didn’t return. Peter said you had gone to Corfu. I called the Corfu airport half an hour ago and learned you were on this flight.”
“Did Mrs. Avery send you to pick me up?”
“No. Not exactly. I got restless just sitting about the apartment. This way. I’m parked over here.”
Draper took Brad’s arm and steered him towards the parking area.
“Just sitting about?” Brad echoed. “I’d think you would be busy with those press conferences of yours, after Avery’s body was returned.”
They reached the car—a small convertible with the top down. Draper got in behind the wheel and waited until Brad was seated, before starting the motor.
“Actually,” he said, “the excitement’s pretty well over, as far as the reporters are concerned. You understand. Yesterday’s headlines have to make way for something new.”
“How’s Rhona?”
“Bearing up well. She seemed to sense that Harry wouldn’t be found alive. Woman’s intuition, I suppose. Why did you go to Corfu?”
“Curiosity,” Brad said.
The car was under way now, moving towards Athens on that long dark highway. Once free of the airport, Draper bore down on the accelerator.
“Curiosity about what?”
“George Ankouris,” Brad said. “How did Avery happen to hire his plane? Was he recommended?”
“I don’t know. I think he’d used the charter service before. I’ve only been with Avery about eight months. Why is the pilot so important?”
“Because he was the only other person in that plane, and it still takes two to tango.”
“I suppose you know what that means.”
“I do now that I’ve been to Corfu.”
“Why don’t you just stop trying, Mr. Smith,” Draper said.
“Trying what?”
“Trying to get a piece of Avery’s fortune. I know why you came to Athens. That dear-old-friend routine may impress an emotionally vulnerable woman, but I’m the one who’s read those demanding letters of yours for the past six months. You don’t have a leg to stand on and you know it. I advise you to go home
.”
“I got a better offer from Lange,” Brad said. “He gave the same advice, with a guarantee of ten thousand dollars and a one way plane ticket.”
“You should have taken it. I’m not so generous.”
“What’s your offer?”
Draper didn’t answer for several minutes. He was driving hard. He didn’t slacken speed until the little convertible passed the fringes of the city and began to move through the late hour traffic.
“The streets of Athens can be dangerous at night,” he said, “especially to a man on foot. An American in particular. Funny how so many foreigners have the idea that all Americans are rich. We have holdups and muggings here, as well as in New York.”
“Are you worried?” Brad asked.
“Not for myself. I just wouldn’t want something to happen to a fellow American.”
“If that’s a threat, it’s a pretty weak one,” Brad said.
“Let’s find out.”
Without warning, Draper swung out of the traffic lane and stopped at the kerb. He reached across Brad and opened the door.
“Get out,” he said.
“Here?”
“Right here.”
“But I have to see Mrs. Avery tonight. You could at least take me to a taxi rank.”
“That would be cheating. All you have to do, Smith, is get from here to the Hilton without mishap. That should be easy for such an experienced world traveller.”
It was an infantile action from an infantile mind. Brad remembered Harry’s disdainful reference to Draper and the word seemed to fit.
“Aren’t you curious about what I learned in Corfu?” he asked.
“You learned nothing in Corfu. There’s nothing to learn. Go home, Smith.”
“Go to hell,” Brad said, and got out of the car. He watched Draper pull back into the street and drive on. As the twin red circles of the tail lights diminished in the distance, Brad adjusted the camera straps and started walking. He had no idea where he had been dropped in relation to the Hilton, but he decided to continue in the direction the convertible had taken, until he could find a taxi. There was little traffic on the street and none on the pavement, but recalling Draper’s warning, he hugged the kerb and walked briskly to burn off his anger. He reached the first intersection. Seeing no traffic, he started to cross the street. Suddenly he was caught in the glare of headlights speeding towards him. He broke into a run and made it to the opposite pavement inches ahead of the racing convertible.
Shot on Location Page 20
