When he moved out on deck, Yanni was already on the jetty expertly hooking the line over an iron bollard.
He grinned. "How long since you brought a boat into harbour, Mr. Lomax?"
"I got us here," Lomax said. "That's all that counts.
How far is it to the police station?"
"Just around the corner," Yanni said. "A couple of minutes, that's all. Shall I get Sergeant Kytros?" Lomax nodded. "I'll wait here." A hollow booming echoed across the water as the boy ran along the wooden planking of the jetty to the wharf and disappeared into the darkness.
When Lomax turned, he saw that Riki was on his feet
He stood looking down at the body of his brother, legs braced apart, damaged arm held firmly against his side.
"Who sicked you and your brother and Dimitri on to me?" Lomax said. "Was it Alexias Pavlo?"
Riki looked up slowly. In the yellow light of the lamp his eyes were black holes, the face glistening with sweat, a mask of pain.
He said nothing and yet his hatred lay between them like a living thing and Lomax shivered as if somewhere, someone had walked over his grave. A small wind lifted from the water, slicing through his damp clothing and he turned, stepped over the rail and walked along the jetty. When he reached the wharf he hesitated, knowing that the sensible thing to do was to wait for Kytros, to let him handle things. And then he thought of Dimitri waiting out there at the farm for news that he was dead and anger moved inside him. He climbed into the truck and a moment later drove rapidly away.
A solitary light greeted him from the darkness of the hollow when he took the truck down towards the farmhouse. He braked to a halt, cut the engine and sat there looking towards the porch. After a moment, he jumped down to the ground and moved up the steps.
He took the Beretta from his waistband, held it against his right thigh with the safety catch off and went in. The kitchen was in darkness, but a thin strip of light showed at the bottom of the door leading to the living room.
He stood there, conscious of the uncanny stillness, the absolute quiet, and somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled menacingly. He opened the door and stepped into the living room in one smooth movement.
A fire crackled on the hearth and a lamp stood on the table in the centre of the room, its yellow glow beating the shadows back into their corners.
And then he noticed the bottle lying on the sheepskin rug where it had fallen. Red wine spilling across the floor like blood, reached out towards the legs that protruded from the shadows behind one of the great wing-backed chairs beside the fire.
Dimitri Paros stared up at the ceiling, eyes fixed for eternity, a half-smile frozen into place. The horn-handle of a gutting knife jutted from beneath his chin, the long blade passing through the roof of the mouth into the brain.
In one hand he still clutched a wine-glass, its contents spilled on the floor beside him, and Lomax pushed the Beretta into his waistband and dropped to one knee.
When he touched the white face with the back of one hand, he found it still warm. He was only just dead, that much was obvious, and Lomax sighed and started to get to his feet.
A slight breeze touched the back of his neck and the door creaked. A familiar voice said, "Please to stand very still."
Alexias Pavlo moved into the room leaning heavily on his cane, a Mauser clutched firmly in his other hand. He removed the Beretta, slipping it into his pocket, and glanced down at Dimitri.
When he looked again at Lomax, his face was dark with vengeance and as implacable, hewn out of stone.
"Now I will see you hang, Captain Lomax," he said.
A Prospect of Gallows
The cell was small and bare with whitewashed walls and illuminated by a single bulb. There was a small, barred window, a washbasin and the bunk on which he was lying.
The door was reinforced with bands of iron and a tiny grille gave a limited view of the corridor. From the direction of the office he could hear the low murmur of voices.
He wrapped a blanket around his body against the bitter cold that seeped through his damp clothing and smoked one of the cigarettes Kytros had given him.
Through the bars of the window he could see the blue-black night sky and a scattering of stars and in the distance thunder rumbled again. He got to his feet and moved to the window and far out to sea lightning flickered below the horizon.
A step sounded in the corridor. As he turned, Stavrou the gaoler, a tall, thick-set man in crumpled khaki uniform, unlocked the door.
Lomax dropped the blanket on the bed and moved into the corridor. "Now what?"
"The sergeant's been having a word with Father John," Stavrou said. "The old man wants to have a word with you before he goes."
The office was a place of shadows, its only illumination the green shaded lamp on the desk. Father John sat beside it, a hand to his brow, as Kytros stood at the window. As Lomax paused in the doorway, the old man turned his head sharply.
For a long moment there was silence between them and then he pushed himself to Ms feet. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"I shouldn't imagine so," Lomax said.
"Sergeant Kytros tells me you have accused Alexias JPavlo in this matter," the priest said calmly.
"And you don't think him capable, I suppose?" Lomax said.
"Of killing?" Father John shrugged. "The Devil is in each one of us. However, this evening, Alexias Pavlo was where he has been every Thursday night for years. Playing chess at my home until nine-thirty."
"That still gave him enough time," Lomax said stubbornly.
The old man shook his head. "I hardly think so."
At that moment a stone rattled against the shutters that covered the window. "They're beginning to get nasty," Kytros said.
Father John and Lomax moved to join him. Through the narrow slats of the shutters Lomax saw twenty or thirty people standing in small groups, some talking, others just looking towards the police station.
"What do they want?" he said.
"You, I should imagine," Kytros replied calmly.
"It will be a long time before the island sees the end of this night's work," Father John said, pulling his cloak over his shoulders.
"And naturally, I'm to blame?" Lomax said.
"To say with certainty where responsibility lies for anything in this life is difficult," the old man said. "I am only sure of this: Two men are dead. You should have left on the boat, Mr. Lomax. I see now that we should have compelled you to go."
Lomax sat down and helped himself to a cigarette from a packet on the desk. "It would have been so damned convenient for you all, Father. You could have gone on pretending that I was to blame. That the man responsible for so much evil wasn't one of your own people."
The old man looked at him, a slight puzzled frown oa Ms face. For a moment he seemed about to speak and then appeared to think better of it.
He turned to Kytros. "I must go now. I've still to visit the parents of Nikita Samos."
"Thank you for coming, Father," Kytros said.
"I'll order the people outside to go to their homes," the old man went on. "If you need me later, don't hesitate to call."
He turned again to Lomax, hesitated and then went to the door. As it closed behind him, Kytros moved to the window. After a while, he gave a grunt of satisfaction.
"Are they going?" Lomax asked.
"For the moment, but they'll be back."
Stavrou busied himself at a table in the shadows where a pot bubbled on a small spirit stove. He filled two cups and brought them to the desk and Lomax inhaled the fragrance of good coffee. It was hot and scalding, filling him with new life, and he sighed with pleasure and lit another cigarette.
Kytros sat on the other side of the desk. He inserted a Turkish cigarette into a plain silver holder and lit it. He leaned back so that he was on the edge of the circle of light, his face in shadow.
"One thing puzzles me," he said. "Dimitri Paros liked to be in at the kill where most things were concerned, yet he chose to forgo the pleasure of personally eliminating a man he hated. I wonder why?"
"He said he had business to take care of."
"It must have been important."
He opened his drawer and took out the Beretta and the gutting knife which had killed Dimitri. It was of common pattern, the handle of black horn bound with brass and slightly curved. When he pressed the button with his thumb, a nine-inch blade appeared as if by magic.
He pushed it back into place and frowned. "Rather an unusual way to stab a man to death, wouldn't you say?"
"An old commando trick," Lomax said. "Here, I'll show you."
He took the knife and stood, holding it concealed in the palm of his right hand against his thigh. His arm swung upwards suddenly, the blade jumping out of his hand like a snake's tongue. He dropped it point first into the desk and sat down again.
"It's a convenient way of killing a man at close quarters from the front. Death is instantaneous because the blade penetrates the brain."
"And this was the method used to kill Dimitri Paros?"
"I'm sure of it. There was still a smile on his face. You must have noticed that yourself. He was killed by someone he knew well and I'd like to point out that he'd hardly have been smiling at me."
"A good point," Kytros admitted, "though I wouldn't have described it as a pleasant smile."
"There was nothing pleasant about the bastard," Lomax said. "Another thing, if I'd wanted to kill him, why use the knife when I had the Beretta?"
Kytros sighed. "A confusing business, Mr. Lomax. If only you'd waited for me at the wharf. Things could have been so different."
"The story of my life. What happens now?"
"There are various loose ends. The autopsy for instance. Doctor Spanos is doing it now. Afterwards..."
Stavrou moved forward swinging his keys and Lomax said bitterly, "In other words I'm still number one on the list."
"I'm afraid so," Kytros said.
"Have it your way. Just remember I'm a British citizen."
Kytros nodded. "I'll radio Crete. They'll notify your embassy in Athens at once. Is there anything else?"
"I could do with a change of clothing. I'm still rather damp and it's pretty cold in that cell."
"I'll see what I can do," Kytros said. "Now, you must excuse me. I have many things to attend to."
Stavrou took Lomax back to the cell and locked him in. When he had gone, Lomax hitched the blanket about his shoulders and sat on the bed, his back against the wall.
If only he'd waited for Kytros on the wharf. But it was too late for that kind of talk now. He was trapped in a web of circumstantial evidence, already judged and condemned.
Steps sounded in the corridor. As he turned to the door Stavrou's face appeared at the grille. He opened the door and tossed a woollen sweater on the bed. "Something to be going on with."
Lomax peeled off his jacket and reached for the sweater. As he pulled it over his head, there was a movement in the shadows and Katina moved forward.
Her face was very white, the eyes dark pools. They stood there in a private world of their own saying nothing and Stavrou cleared his throat. "Five minutes, that's all."
The door closed, the key turned in the lock and they were alone. She raised a hand and gently touched his face. "Are you all right? They haven't hurt you?"
"A few bruises. Nothing to speak of."
And then he noticed that she had been weeping and drew her down on to the bed. "What is it, Katina?"
"I went to The Little Ship to ask my uncle to help, but he refused to see me," she said. "Nikoli and the rest of his crowd are drinking themselves into a frenzy. It was terrible."
"You think they mean trouble?"
She nodded slowly. "I believe they intend to handle things in their own way if they can."
"Have you told Kytros?"
She shook her head. "Apparently he went out just before I arrived."
Lomax got to his feet slowly, an unpleasant, crawling sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Things don't look so good, do they?"
"There are forty or fifty men waiting in the street outside," she said. "And more arriving every minute."
He slumped down on to the bed again, his mouth suddenly dry, and she took an automatic out of the pocket of her sheepskin jacket and handed it to him.
"I'm afraid it's rather old, but it's the best I could do."
His hand tightened over the worn butt and he frowned. "Are you suggesting I use this?"
