Levkas Man (7 page)

Finally she said, ‘Very well then—Dr Gilmore has it.'

‘Gilmore?' He didn't bother to hide his annoyance. ‘But you have a copy, haven't you?'

She gave him a tight-lipped smile. ‘It was in manuscript.'

‘I see.' He hesitated. ‘Well, I expect Dr Gilmore will be at the Rijksmuseum for tonight's lecture. I'll have a word with him.' He turned to me. ‘And I'll contact you again as soon as I have any news. I take it this address will find you?'

I was about to say I was leaving next day, but Sonia Winters intervened. ‘I'll see to it that any letters are forwarded.'

He smiled, his eyes twinkling. ‘I'm sure you will, Miss Winters.' He was suddenly all charm as he said goodbye to her. I took him downstairs then. ‘Tell me,' he said, as I opened the door for him, ‘is Miss Winters a relative?'

‘No.'

‘Do you know her well?'

‘I've met her twice.'

He grunted. ‘Well, it's none of my business, but she seems to regard herself as something more than a secretary.' And he added, ‘I would strongly advise you to make certain you have control of your father's writings—his notes, his journal, everything. They could be of great value—scientifically.' His manner was suddenly confidential. ‘I have a great deal of influence in academic circles and I know what I'm talking about.' He smiled and patted my arm in a friendly way. ‘I hope when we meet again the situation will have resolved itself.'

Back in the study I found her standing in the same position. ‘That man.' Her voice trembled. ‘If Dr Van der Voort had known the money came from him …' She stared at me. ‘Have you got a cigarette, please?'

There were only three left in the crumpled packet I took from my pocket. She took one almost blindly and I lit it for her. ‘He hated the academic world, all the institutional professors who sit in judgment, never dirtying their hands in the field, never getting sweaty and tired, living off the work of others and not risking a penny of their own money. The English in particular.'

‘He always hated the English,' I said. ‘He was a South African, remember.'

She turned on me then. ‘You think that lets you out—that he hated you because you're English. Let me tell you this: It was because of what you are, not your nationality … Goede Hemel!' she said. ‘Can't you understand? The academic world is a terribly ruthless one. That's why he opted out. He said they were like leeches, sucking the blood of others, taking all the credit. And that man Holroyd is the worst of the lot. His whole life, his whole reputation—it's built on the brains of others.'

‘Then why did you tell him Gilmore had the Journal?'

‘Because he's the only one Dr Van der Voort trusted. The Journal is safe with him. He knows the sort of man Holroyd is. And anyway, it isn't the Journal Holroyd's after—that wouldn't help him.'

She paused then and I said, ‘Where's the old man now—d'you know?'

‘How should I know?' She went over to the desk, drawing on the cigarette as though she had never smoked one before and staring out of the window, her back towards me. ‘It would never have happened if he'd known. He'd never have accepted the money. But he was desperate, and then he remembered the letter he'd had from Lord Craigallan. It was like the answer to a prayer. Even then he delayed for months. And after he'd written to Craigallan and had been promised a Land-Rover and the help of a qualified assistant, he never suspected.'

‘He must have realized there were strings attached.'

‘Political strings, yes. He was used to that. Politics meant nothing to him any more. All he cared about was completing the work he had already started. He was like a child in some ways, and his illness had frightened him. It had made him raelize that he hadn't much time. And now this.' And she added, ‘I never read the Journal. But Dr Gilmore has. That's what he wanted to see him about. I think he was afraid something like this …' Her voice trailed away. She was silent for a moment. Finally, she stubbed out her cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray. ‘I didn't expect you back here.' Her voice was hard and brittle. ‘Then, when I saw the light on this evening, I came straight over. I felt I had to tell you what Hans had said in his letter.' And she added, ‘But it doesn't matter now. You know it all.' She turned suddenly and faced me. ‘I suppose you didn't get the job you were after?'

‘No. But I've got the offer of another.'

‘Oh.' Her face looked tired. ‘And it makes no difference—what's happened out there?'

‘No.' What the hell did she expect me to say? ‘I haven't the money to go looking for him.'

‘No, I suppose not.' Moving slightly her hand touched the plate I had left on the desk and she glanced down at the sordid remains of my meal. ‘I should have thrown those biscuits away.' She seemed at a loss for a moment. Then she smiled, a bright, artificial smile. ‘I'll make you some coffee, shall I?' She was already moving towards the kitchen and I didn't stop her. She clearly felt the need to do something actively feminine and I needed time to collect my thoughts.

Two things filled my mind—the way this house drew those who were connected with my father, as though his brooding personality were a living force within its walk, and the extraordinary pattern that was dragging me almost against my will into the area of his activities. What if that pattern continued? I sat down at the desk and lit one of my two remaining cigarettes, thinking about it, conscious of a sense of inevitability, wondering what I would do if our paths crossed.

I was still thinking about that when the girl returned with coffee on a tray. ‘I'm sorry, there's no milk,' she said. ‘And it's instant coffee.' I offered her my last cigarette and she took it. The coffee was thin and bitter. We drank it in silence, our thoughts running on different lines. And when I tried to get her to explain what had happened, she only shook her head and said, ‘It's no good. It wouldn't mean very much to you.' And she added, half to herself, ‘I'm worried about Hans. He's a very serious boy and so absorbed in his studies that he wouldn't know what to make of this.' She was withdrawn and very tense, sitting there, nursing her steaming cup and puffing at her cigarette. Her fingers were long and slender, her wrists small. The boyish cut of her hair emphasized the delicacy of her features. It was the first time I had had the chance to study her face. It was like a piece of fine china, very pale, very clean-cut, the brow high, the nose straight and finely chiselled, the mouth and jaw strong.

She met my gaze and smiled uncertainly. Her eyes were the colour of aquamarine and in the gleam of the lamplight they looked brilliant against the surrounding whites. ‘When are you leaving?' she asked.

‘Tomorrow.'

She nodded. She wasn't really interested. ‘It's that man Borg, I suppose.' And she added, ‘He's a crook, isn't he?'

‘He deals in antiques,' I said.

‘And where's he sending you?'

‘Malta. And then Turkey.' I don't know why I told her. I suppose I wanted her reaction, to share the feeling I had of a pattern forming.

Her eyes widened, but that was all. ‘Well, I hope you have a good voyage.' She drank the rest of her coffee and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I must go now.' She got to her feet, her hands smoothing automatically at her woollen dress. It was very brief and close-fitting so that she looked even smaller than she really was. I, too, had risen, and she hesitated, staring up at me. ‘If you're short of money …'

‘No, I'll be all right, thank you.'

I saw her down to the door. It was cold outside, the canal a black ribbon broken by the reflection of the lighted windows opposite. We stood there for a moment, an awkward pause that held us silent. Finally she said, ‘My address is No.
27B
—if you need to contact me.' She turned then and was gone, walking quickly towards the bridge.

I watched her for a moment, feeling suddenly alone, then abruptly I went back up the steep little staircase and got my coat. It was already nine-thirty. Not much time, but there was just a chance—a last chance to break the pattern. And if I stayed in that house I knew the pull of his personality would be overwhelming. But all through the icy streets, though I was walking fast, I couldn't get away from him, my mind going over again what Holroyd had told me, the girl's behaviour, and that nice old man with his strange concern for a student he hadn't seen in thirty years.

There was no wind and when I reached the Oosterdok a mist was hanging white over the water, the ships standing like ghosts at the quays, with only their funnels and masts visible. It was just on ten when I entered the Prins Hendrik and Stolk was there, his tousled hair standing out of the dark collar of his monkey jacket as he leaned on the bar. He was with a bunch of Norwegians, all talking bad English, and I hesitated. But then he turned and saw me. ‘You!' he shouted in his deep booming voice. ‘Vat you doing here? Iss the yob no good?'

I told him the man had recovered and he laughed. ‘So, no yob, eh?' He called for another Bokma. ‘Drink that. And now I introduce you to Kaptein Johannessen. He is bound for Durban and afterwards Auckland and his third officer has—what do you think, eh?—measles. He has measles, ja.' And they roared with laughter.

I stayed drinking with them for an hour, and all the time I was turning it over in my mind. Johannessen was a big, friendly man, his officers a decent crowd, like all Norwegians. And the ship was going to New Zealand. I had only to ask him. I had only to say I wanted the job. Stolk gave me the opening and waited. But somehow the words stuck in my throat. A ship, the sea, the uncomplicated routine life, the crude jokes, the laughter, the easy companionship—I had it in my grasp, and I let it go. ‘You refuse this yob,' Stolk boomed, ‘and you can buy your own Bokma.'

It was bloody stupid of me. The ship was going where I wanted to go—a new life, and all I said was, ‘I've got a job already, thank you.'

It was the old man, of course. I knew that. And walking back alone through the deserted streets, back again to that house and my childhood bedroom, I tried to understand what it was I had done. I'd been given the chance of escaping from the pattern and. God knows why, I had rejected it. I'm not the sort of person to suffer from a guilt complex and the discovery that he was my father didn't really make a damned bit of difference.

Lying in bed, still thinking about it, I began to be dimly aware that it wasn't so much the old man as the world he represented that was drawing me away from the old shipboard life towards an uncertain future. The things he had tried to teach me, and which I had rejected—it almost seemed as though they had lain dormant in my sub-conscious. There was no other way to account for the awakening of interest I had felt when looking at his books, particularly when talking to the girl and Dr Gilmore. And then, too, there was the feeling that I had to see him again if I were ever to understand my own behaviour pattern—a favourite phrase of his I remembered. About the only thing we had in common was the hastiness of temper that led to violence.

I was at Borg's shop just before ten with my suitcase packed. He was standing by the Buddha, waiting for me, and I could see he was relieved. ‘You're all ready. Good. I have ordered a taxi.' He pulled an envelope out of the pocket of his loose-fitting tweed jacket. ‘That is your air ticket, also sterling for Malta and some drachmas—you will need that in the islands.' He handed it to me, smiling. ‘You see, I am trusting you.'

‘You've no option,' I said, and the friendliness went out of his eyes. He stood there, waiting, knowing I had a reason for saying that. ‘Have you got a big chart? I asked. ‘One that includes the whole of Greece?'

He took me through into his office and produced the Eastern Mediterranean sheet. It was folded in four, and as he opened it out, the creases showed that it had been much used. Black hairs gleamed on the back of his hand and his signet ring flashed in the sunlight from the window as he traced the line from Malta to Crete. ‘About five hundred miles,' he said. ‘And Heraklion is a port of entry. You can get your Greek transit papers there.'

‘Is it a power boat?' I asked.

‘Sail and power. It's an old boat, but she has a new engine.'

‘Say four days.' My eyes were searching the long, south-thrusting peninsula of the Greek mainland. ‘Another two, perhaps three days to Samos. And you don't need me there until early May. That's more than a month.'

‘A month is not too long for the authorities to get used to your presence. What are you getting at?'

I had found what I wanted and I straightened up. ‘No objection if I take a more northerly route, have you? We've plenty of time.'

‘Why?'

‘The Ionian Sea—I've always wanted to have a look at the west coast of Greece.'

He knew it wasn't the real reason, and for a moment I thought he was going to be difficult. I put the envelope with the ticket and the money down on the desk. He looked at it and then at me. ‘How long will it take you?'

‘A week,' I said. ‘Not more.'

He hesitated. Finally he nodded. ‘Ja. Well … okay.'

We talked over the details then, and when the taxi came he took me out to it himself.

‘And when I've completed delivery?' I asked.

‘Then we have another little talk, oh?'

Just over an hour later I was in the air.

Two

MAN THE SEEKER

1

It was dark when I arrived in Malta, the air soft and smelling of the sea. The airport taxi took me to the Phoenicia Hotel and from there I got a bus to the yacht marina at Ta' Xbiex. The waterfront was crowded with boats, a forest of spars standing against the night sky, and it took me some time to locate
Coromandel
. She was lying on the Manoel Island side between a chromium-plated gin palace and a big Italian ocean-racer. She appeared to be a conversion from some sort of fishing boat; and sandwiched between those two gleaming monsters, stern-on to the quay like all the rest, she looked her age. A light showed in the wheelhouse for'ard and my hail was answered immediately by a short, ruddy-faced man with greying hair. He was dressed in blue jeans and an old blue jersey and he came aft wiping his hands on a piece of cotton waste.