Decision at Delphi (12 page)

He sat down on the stone seat and opened his sketchbook. Back in New York, his archaeologist friends had warned him that there was little worth recording here: the Romans had ruined the Greek theatre with all their additions and afterthoughts. But although the purists could be right about the Roman brickwork—now pathetically exposed, its marble facing ripped away through the centuries by Christians and Arabs, either to decorate their own villas or just in a frenzy of general religious destruction—there was something that delighted an architect’s eye: the Greeks had known not only how to build, but where to build. Neither Romans with their eternal brickwork, nor thieves nor barbarians with their jealous hands, could destroy this site. He forgot everything else—even his chief reason for coming here, at this hour—and began to draw.

At half past six, he took a break, lit a cigarette, decided to stretch his legs and rest his eyes, and walked along the back of the top tier. The shadows were deepening. He glanced down at the other visitors to the theatre, perhaps forty or fifty in number, but so scattered over the giant steps and stairs formed by the rows of stone seats that he had scarcely noticed them. Most of them were sitting quite still, completely subdued, as he had been. He remembered to look for Miss Katherini and her elderly watchdog. They weren’t here. Perhaps he had missed them, after all; or perhaps they were late this evening. His eyes searched the amphitheatre again, its lower seats now lying in cold shadows. But they were not there. He did see someone
he knew, though, and she had seen him, too. Caroline Ottway waved, and began the long steep climb toward him. Resigned, he closed his sketchbook and put away his pencils. Work was obviously over for this evening.

He was looking out toward the sea when she arrived, flushed and breathless, but prettier than ever. She was wearing white today, which set off the carnations in her cheeks; and the beads twisted around her throat were green, of course.

Her eyes were bright and glancing.

“You’ve been here a long long time,” she said, quite frankly admitting that she had seen him enter the theatre. “Have you been working?”

“I made a start.”

“May I see?” She touched his sketchbook.

“No,” he said firmly.

“You never show anyone your work in progress?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want compliments?”

He laughed. It was no use trying to resist Caroline. “How’s your headache?”

She glanced at him, and then smiled for an answer. She looked toward the sea. “There are some fishing boats! And a tramp steamer!” She pointed delightedly at a small coastal freighter. “Where is it coming from?”

He judged its course. “From Messina, probably.”

“Just around the corner from here? And where do you think it’s going?”

“It’s hugging the coast line. Possibly it’s heading for Syracuse.” He wasn’t watching the freighter, any more. Farther to the east, there was another ship, a white yacht.

“Let’s say North Africa,” Caroline suggested. “That’s much more romantic.”

“Not in that little tub.”

She noticed the yacht.
“There’s
a ship to sail anywhere!”

He nodded. The yacht was too distant for its flag to be identified. But there was no doubt about her beautiful, simple lines. He had seen that yacht, or her twin sister, across the bay at Gibraltar.

“She must be coming from Messina, too,” Caroline said, adopting a good sea eye. “Oh, she’s leaving us,” she added in disappointment. The yacht certainly wasn’t going to hug the coast to Syracuse. She was already drawing away from Sicily to the south-east, to the toe of the Italian boot. “For the Adriatic? Or Egypt? Or Greece?” Caroline was asking.

He looked at her quickly, but she had not been expecting any answer. She was simply speaking the guesses that drifted in and out of that pretty little head with alarming rapidity. Her last guess produced another jump in thought. “We are leaving for Greece tomorrow.”

“I didn’t know you were leaving so soon.”

“Nor I. But George is so eager to reach Athens. We shall have to pack in a hurry.”

“Then it’s time you were getting back to your hotel.” He had a vision of Ottway, finishing his reports at his desk, outwardly business-like, inwardly fuming about his wandering wife. Strang took her arm to help her down over the rows of seats.

“Oh, George isn’t there. He went back into town to send off a cable. I came up here to say good-bye.” She looked around her, memorising the view. She laughed. “I came to say goodbye to you, too. And to tell you I’m sorry if I bothered you. And to let you know that I
can
be discreet. See, I haven’t even mentioned you-know-whom. I can keep my promises, can’t I?”

“For the first hour or so, certainly.”

“Oh—now! I’ll prove it to you. When we meet in Athens—”

“Shall we?”

“Of course! Everyone meets each other in the Grande Bretagne bar. By the way, I told George you had met my father. But you did, you know.”

“I only saw him.”

“You don’t have to go into details, do you?”

“Not if it upsets your story.”

“I don’t tell stories,” she said indignantly. “It is just that sometimes, occasionally, I—I have to find minimum explanations. You do understand, don’t you?”

“Vaguely. I’ve never been married.”

She glanced at him with one of her quick, now-what-do-you-really-mean-by-that looks. “You ought to be married,” she said. “You’d be a great comfort to some girl.”

“Is that all I’d be?”

She began to smile. “No,” she answered. “I imagine—” She didn’t go on.

“What?”

“Oh! We’ll have to hurry.” Her eyes were laughing, her cheeks flushed. “It’s closing time, don’t you see?”

“But how could you know? Your usual time signal isn’t here today.”

She frowned for a brief moment. “Oh, you mean the girl in the Dior dress? She left. This afternoon. Just about the time you were having a drink with George. They all left—the girl and the old woman and the chauffeur and five suitcases.”

“Did they, indeed?” Then the yacht that he had seen sailing away from Messina could very well have been the
Medea.
“What is the chauffeur like, by the way? A small round type with well-oiled black hair? Sort of patters as he walks, dances around when he is excited?”

“Nothing like that. Dark hair, yes; but he is almost as tall as you are. Not fat, either. An athletic-looking bloke, as George said when he first saw him.”

“In the garden, having his sun bath.”

She concentrated on the last steep steps, leading them round the ruined stage.

“I know. They are quite the opposite of the ancient Greeks in that kind of thing. And yet—George thought he could be Greek.”

“How on earth could he tell?”

“The man reminded him, I think, of someone he once knew.”

“Pretty good eyes, your husband has.” Pretty good field glasses, too, perhaps.

“Yes,” she said slowly, looking straight ahead. “He has seen me.” They were now on the sloping path that led down to the entrance gate. George Ottway had stopped there, by the ticket booth, and was studying the post cards for sale.

“You would have told him everything,” Strang reminded her. “This will save you finding that minimum explanation. By the way, does your husband know the Greeks have left?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “Didn’t you just say I told him everything?”

Ottway looked up to face them, at the exactly right moment. “Hallo, there I” he said cheerfully. “Had a pleasant climb?”

Strang went back to his hotel in a thoughtful mood. Ottway had even asked him to join his wife and himself for a drink, but he had begged off. He gave an excuse which, to his amusement, Ottway had accepted with a long look: he had some work to finish before dinner. “Perhaps we’ll see you later,” Caroline had said, glancing at her husband. “We are going dancing at the San Domenico tonight.” So, thought Strang, the Greeks have left and Ottway can step out again like a free man; no more subterfuges such as dark glasses, or standing with his back carefully turned to the Greek’s house, as he did when we met yesterday. “That would be pleasant,” Strang had said, “but I may have to keep pretty close to my room tonight. Steve will be turning up any time now.”

And when he met Steve, Strang was thinking as he reached the hotel, there was going to be quite a lot of talk. Steve was going to have to listen to some frank advice. Because, Strang
decided, I’m on the side of Lee Preston, this time certainly; alarms and excursions are no way to run a business, and we have a serious job to do. It is all very well to be erratic, offbeat, independent, but this job is a good job, worth doing, and let’s keep our minds on that, shall we, pal?

At the porter’s lodge, there was still no message from Steve.

After an early and lonely dinner, Strang settled in his room to wait. And, of course, just as he had arranged the desk and the light and spread out his sketches and picked up a pencil, there was a knock on the door. It was the sad-eyed maid, returning his laundry. That was a little surprising; it had been promised for the next day. More surprising was her low voice saying, “Your friend is on the terrace.” Then, in her normal tones, she added, “I hope the gentleman is pleased with the shirts?”

“Yes, thank you. Just lay them on the bed. Good night.”

She hesitated at the door, glancing into the corridor. “Is the gentleman leaving tomorrow? I wish him a good journey and a quick return.”

It was a tactful hint. “Is it your day off, tomorrow?” he asked, and rose and found his wallet. “I probably won’t leave until early Monday, but in case I don’t see you again—thank you for your most efficient services.”

To an Italian, the phrase of thanks spoken earnestly was almost as important as the tip. Her tired face came to life for a delighted moment. She wished him a good journey, for the second time. As Strang closed the door on her thanks, he heard the
facchino
outside say, with a laugh, “You made sure of that one, eh?”

“Why not?” the maid asked sharply. Their voices blurred in half-joking argument and faded into silence.

For a moment, as he pulled on his jacket and tightened the knot of his tie, Strang felt ridiculous. Play acting was something to be kept strictly for a stage. Yet human beings were odd: he had picked up his cue so easily from the maid, had backed her excuse for her visit to his room at this hour, as if he actually accepted this play acting as something quite natural. His feeling of foolishness passed into one of worry. If Steve had to send messages like this—or was it Steve?

He left his desk with his work spread out over it. He opened the shutters wide to let in the air, switched off all lights to keep the night moths out. In the corridor, the half-joking argument was still in progress. It was silenced abruptly as he appeared, and then, as he left the corridor, he could hear it begin again. He found himself a little envious. For at this moment, somehow, travelling was a lonely business.

He halted at the top of the steps leading down to the terrace, and lit a cigarette. There were bright lights spaced overhead, but there were enough patches of deep shadow among trees and flower beds to please the romantics. The terrace appeared empty; people were still at dinner in the restaurant on the other side of the hotel. More mysteries, he thought with rising annoyance, and he walked slowly down to the front balustrade. Then to his right, almost at the side of the terrace that looked toward Etna, he saw a man. The man had seen him, too. He was standing still, waiting, not under full lamplight, yet not in deep shadow. But he wasn’t Steve. He was thinner, much thinner. For a moment, Strang hesitated. All right, he thought,
all right. He threw away his cigarette and began walking slowly toward the stranger. It was Alexander Christophorou.

Strang halted. Christophorou stepped back into the shadow of some trees, and Strang followed him. In the darkness, they gripped hands. “I would have known you,” Christophorou was saying delightedly. “Even if I had not been expecting you, I would have known you.” The warmth in his voice, speaking English fluently, was unmistakable.

Strang relaxed. With undisguised relief, he said, “It’s good to see you again. It has been a long time.”

“Over here,” Christophorou directed, still keeping his voice low, as he led the way between flower beds and fruit trees, “we shall find a pleasant place to sit and talk.” They passed under a light, and each glanced at the other automatically. Christophorou smiled and said, “Yes, let’s have a close look.” Then they entered another patch of deep shadow. “Careful! There are little chairs here. And a table.”

“Last time we met, you were saying, ‘Careful! There is a deep hole here, a rock there.’ And we kept to the shadows then, too.” But why here? Strang wondered.

“Here, we can sit,” Christophorou said. “And this time, too, we still have something beautiful to watch while we talk.” He gestured to the dark outline of Etna against the ink-blue sky. “Your face has changed a little, Kenneth. Have you? I hope not.”

“Fifteen years older,” Strang reminded him.

“And I am fifty years older. But you noticed that.”

Strang thought of the face he had seen under the lamplight for a brief moment. Alexander Christophorou was still a handsome man, but he had aged rapidly. His dark hair was now receding, his face had become thinner, so that the aquiline nose and high
forehead were more accentuated. His deep-set brown eyes were still remarkable under the thin black eyebrows, but they had sunk further into their large sockets, just as his cheeks were now gaunt. The lips, once full and sensuous, were now almost severe. His smile was quick, fleeting. Fifteen years ago, he had probably been no older than twenty-seven or eight. Now, he looked like a man in his late fifties. What, Strang wondered, has he been through?

“I’m sorry we must sit in this darkness,” Christophorou said.

Strang recovered from his shock at Christophorou’s appearance. “Is it really necessary?” he asked lightly.

Christophorou laughed softly. (And that, Strang was glad to note, had not changed) “I am afraid so. Some people have become very interested in my visit to Sicily. I should like to keep them puzzled as much as possible. In fact—I am sorry, but I think it would be safer if we did not have dinner together tomorrow night. We shall postpone that until Athens.”