Strangers in Company (27 page)

“You poor thing, how are you?” Meg and Pam had detached themselves from the little crowd round Mike
at sight of her. “What with poor Andreas and your accident, I really do feel as if the Furies were after us. Have you heard about him?”

“Yes.” All she could stand.

“Some dockside quarrel, Mike says. But how are you, and Miss Marten?”

“I'm fine, but she's not too good, I'm afraid.” Marian was amazed how normal her voice sounded. “She's spending the day in bed.”

“What a shame to miss Aegina,” said Pam.

“The professor can't come either,” put in Meg. “He's had to go down to the police station about your accident. Really, what bad luck!”

“Isn't it?” Marian's feelings were beyond analysis.

“To the police station?” asked Mrs. Adams. “Why?”

“I don't know,” said Meg. “Mike told us.”

And here was Mike, coming forward to enquire solicitously how Marian felt Was she really sure she was up to the long day on Aegina? “You wouldn't rather spend it quietly with Miss Marten?”

“No, thanks.” Again she was proud of her tone. “She says she's just going to sleep all day. And I'm fine, thank you, really. They don't need me at the police station, too?” It was, surely, a natural question to ask.

“Of course not.” Something sharp in Mike's tone made her wonder if, however natural, the question had been wise. “Who wants a woman's word when they can have a man's?” And then, as if aware of some failure of his usual suavity. “And naturally they know how badly you'd been shaken, Mrs. Frenche. They didn't want to disturb you.”

“Kind,” she said mechanically, and moved forward with apparent docility as they all began to file out towards the waiting bus.

It was half empty. Most of the older members of the party had opted for the less exhausting city tour, but the schoolmistresses were all there, and Charles Esmond leaned eagerly forward in his aisle seat to ask Marian how poor Miss Marten felt

“Not too bad. She'll be fine by tonight, I hope.” How passionately she hoped it.

Mrs. Spencer was sitting behind the Esmonds. “All on your own today?” She smiled at Marian. “Won't you join me? I've lost my partner, too. The poor professor has had to go down and give evidence or something.”

“Thanks.” Marian hesitated for an endless moment, horribly tempted. Mrs. Adams could hardly stop her sitting down beside Mrs. Spencer, and surely, once there, she would be able to pass a note, do something. It seemed so simple. Dangerously simple? She had hesitated for only an instant. Now, “How nice of you,” she said, “but Mrs. Adams is very kindly looking after me. I was a bit shaken up too.” She made it rueful. “I don't know what I'd have done without her.”

“Nothing like a good first-aid course.” Mrs. Adams was jolly about it. “But that bruise of yours is beginning to show again. You ought always to put your head in your arms when you see an accident coming.”

“Yes,” said Marian, “but I didn't see it coming.”

“You go first.” Mrs. Adams gestured her into the window seat “I wish I had some witch hazel. Your friends at home are going to think you got yourself beaten up in Greece.”

Marian sat down silently. The unspeakable woman was enjoying every moment of this. It was horrible, and yet somehow, she felt, it might provide some clue of hope, some chance.… Play up to it? Let her enjoy herself? But, carefully, she warned herself. Oh, so carefully. There had, surely, under the assumed jolliness, been an increase in tension in Mrs. Adams since they came downstairs. Well, natural enough, you might say. But just the same Marian's sharpened perceptions told her that something, somewhere, had not gone quite as Mike and Mrs. Adams expected.

The professor's absence? Could that be the trouble? She had assumed that the story of his having gone to police headquarters had been merely a link in their endless chain of lies, but suppose it was true? Suppose some small
stitch of the elaborate conspiracy had unravelled and the professor had been pulled in? Surely that opened up all kinds of possibilities of hope?

It was so horrible to be thinking like this that Marian had suddenly to bite back tears. What was it that Adams had said last night? A fine little holiday romance she had got herself indeed. All the stories of all the middle-aged female fools she had ever heard crowded to mock her. He had played her so skilfully, so gently.… Even when she discovered that he could speak Greek, she had not let herself be warned. They had gone, she and Stella, to that fatal restaurant like lambs to the slaughter. How he must have laughed, internally, when, belatedly cautious, she asked for a taxi back to the hotel. He who knew that his friends were already waiting for them in that sinister, orange-scented backyard.

What would have happened if they had not gone to the ladies'? Presumably an attack in the street or a “lift” in a friend's car. There must have been a car, after all, to get them back to the hotel. It had doubtless been used again to take Stella to wherever she was now being held. And there was a horrible new problem that must be faced. If Stella was really now hidden somewhere else, the chances of the police getting there before the gang killed her were slight. But—the thought had been nibbling round the edges of Marian's mind ever since Mrs. Adams had made her casual announcement—suppose this was another of their web of lies?

After all, the basement of the Hotel Hermes was much the most convenient place to keep Stella, granted that she must leave with the party in the small hours of the night and give her protection to the false Mrs. Frenche. And this part of the plan carried conviction. Stella would get back to England, Marian thought, and through customs, and that was about as far as she would ever get. Dead girls tell no tales. A gang that had demonstrated such a genius for “accidents” in the course of the tour would have no trouble in disposing of Stella somewhere between Gatwick and London.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Adams' voice was convincingly anxious.

Had she been silent too long? But what in the world could she be expected to say? “Yes, thanks. A bit sleepy.” She breathed a sigh of relief when Mike stood up, took the familiar microphone, and began to give them instructions for boarding the ferry at Piraeus.

It sounded unpleasantly well organised to Marian. They were arriving early, it seemed, because the island boats got so crowded. They would be the first on board, and Mike advised them to make sure of seats in the cabin. “You can always watch each other's seats and take turns on deck afterwards.”

“Cabin for you,” said Mrs. Adams briskly. “You don't want to risk pneumonia up on deck. Besides, another coffee will do you good.”

The ferry was there, waiting. The bus pulled up on the wharf quite close to it They debouched in the usual untidy crocodile, were handed individual tickets by Mike and proceeded on board like good children on their way to Sunday church. One wild look round had shown Marian no sign of a policeman. The chance was gone before it had come. She was on board, following Mrs. Adams down to the cabin, hearing Mrs. Spencer ask if by any miracle they played bridge.

“I do, just a teeny bit,” said Mrs. Adams. “How about you, Mrs. Frenche?”

Better to play cards than to keep up this horrible pretence of conversation. “Not very well,” she admitted.

“Splendid.” Mrs. Adams settled them at a table with high brown leather seats. “You deal.” She handed a pack of cards to Mrs. Spencer. “And I'll see if I can find us that coffee. A pity we haven't a fourth.” She looked round the cabin. “Mrs. Esmond doesn't, I know. It looks as if we'll just have to make it cutthroat.” The word, in the light of Andreas' fate, was horrible.

As Mrs. Spencer dealt the first hand and the inevitable discussion of bidding conventions broke out, a tall woman with heavily dyed red hair stopped by their table.
“You let me make a fourth? I play well.” Without waiting for an invitation, she pulled a chair up to the table, snapped her fingers at the waiter who was bringing their coffee and ordered another one in quick French. “So. You and I will be partners”—she was facing Marian—“or do we, how do you call it—” She made gestures as of one cutting cards.

“Might as well stay as we are.” Mrs. Adams was grudging, but short of actual rudeness there was not much she could do. The three of them listened patiently to a confused disquisition half French half English on what seemed a most unusual bidding system.

“I'm afraid I'm not very good,” said Marian again, lost in the abstruse meanings of five no trumps.

“Not to worry—Is that how you say it? With me, Marcelle, you cannot lose. Just do your best, and leave all to me.”

She had extraordinary bridge conventions and equally extraordinary luck. After the first game, which she had bade to three no-trumps against a timid one heart from Marian and made with a trick over, she said, cheerfully shuffling, “We play for money? Yes? It is much more interesting that way. Not much money, just a little to add a touch of drama. In drachmae, if you like? Perhaps ten a hundred. That way, no one is bankrupt and all are happy. We do not count this last game, of course. That was just—what do you say—a trial canter?”

Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Adams were exchanging glances. Marian, after all, was still a dark horse, having been dummy in the first game. At last, “I don't see why not,” said Mrs. Adams. “If you don't mind?” to Marian.

It was all mad. What did it matter if she lost ten drachmae, or a hundred, or a thousand even? The chances were about ninety to one that she would be dead tomorrow. What was that phrase? “To move wild laughter in the throat of death.” She would have liked to laugh, wildly, hysterically. She had next to nothing to leave the twins anyway, nor did they need it. Might as well play this last game for any stakes they chose.

“Suits me,” she said casually. “It does make it more interesting.”

Her partner played an extraordinary, incomprehensible game and won consistently. “I tell you, I have the luck.” She smiled benevolently round the table after bidding and making a little slam in spades. She talked consistently as she played, and this was making her opponents angrier and angrier.

“I like to concentrate on my cards,” said Mrs. Adams pointedly.

“Oh, so do I,” agreed Marcelle, stubbing out a halfsmoked cigarette in the ashtray under Mrs. Adams' nose. “Always I concentrate, madly, like this.” She wrinkled her brow, showing layers of casually applied makeup. “And always I talk and I win. You are lucky, is it not madame?” She smiled her warm smile at Marian, who suddenly found herself wondering if she was quite so old as she looked. “By my count”—she had a piece of paper by her, with indecipherable squiggles on it that passed for the score—“we are five of your pounds the richer already. What will you do with it?”

“I don't know. Lose it I expect.”

“That's no way to think. Never think of defeat, madame; think always of victory. It is a maxim of some general's. I do not clearly recollect which. Perhaps our Napoleon, perhaps your Wellington.”

“Only one of them won,” said Mrs. Spencer disagreeably.

“Madame, you are so right. So of course it must have been your Wellington who said it. Unless, by any chance, it was that odious Bismarck.” She dealt with swift, clean movements as she talked, gave one glance at her quickly organised hand and bade three diamonds.

“Four spades.” On Marcelle's left, Mrs. Adams showed signs of fury.

Marian took one gloomy look at her hand with its one face card. “No bid.”

“Five hearts,” said Mrs. Spencer, and got a viperish look from her partner.

“Double,” said Marcelle sweetly. “You are brave, mesdames. I order you a drink to celebrate.” She had a genius for catching waiters' eyes, and four ouzos arrived in time to ease the crisis when Mrs. Spencer went down five.

“Doubled,” said Marcelle amiably. “I drink to you, partner.” And then, as the inevitable postmortem broke out between the other two ladies. “If you will excuse me a moment, I must go to the
toilette.
You wish to come, madame?” Once more that heartwarming smile.

But Mrs. Adams' hand was firm on her knee. “I don't believe so,” said Marian.

“You are lucky,” said Marcelle. “Coffee and ouzo go through me like lightning. A little moment, and I will return and give you your revenge. Unless you wish to change partners?”

“No, thanks.” Mrs. Adams was so definite that Mrs. Spencer had no chance to speak.

Returning five minutes or so later, Marcelle reported that they were well out from Athens. “There are islands everywhere? We go to see. Yes?”

“Do let's. It's so hot in here.” Marian put up an instinctive hand to her bruised cheek. “If you feel like it?” She turned deferentially to Mrs. Adams and hated herself for doing so.

“I don't see why not. So long as you don't catch cold. Madame here was in an accident last night,” she explained to Marcelle. “She is not well today.”

“She is well enough to play a good game of bridge,” said Marcelle. “But a puff of air will do us all good. Come then!” She put a loud mock fur coat round her shoulders and led the way out of the crowded saloon and up the steep double stairs to the main deck. Following, Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Spencer were still hotly disputing the responsibility for the disaster of the last game. For just one moment, Marcelle and Marian were alone at the rail, looking forward to the long mole of Aegina harbour, with its blue domed chapel. Marcelle's hand closed over Marian's, hard, on the rail. “Do nothing,” she said. “You are not alone. Wait.” And then, “Yes, that is Aegina. It is
the chapel of Saint Nicholas. Not in the least interesting. You have seen it, madame?” She turned to ask Mrs. Adams as the two other women joined them.

“No. And I don't intend to.” Mrs. Adams had not quite regained her temper. “We're nearer in than I thought. Might as well stay up on deck. If you feel up to it.” She turned to Marian with her sickening pretence of concern.