The Divided Child (41 page)

           
Geoffrey
led Elizabeth out, one arm around her shoulders, the other still clasping her
hand.
 
I turned away, trying to
convince myself the only reason I was upset was that Geoffrey’s trip to drop
Elizabeth at her hotel would mean a further delay in telling him about Spiro's
passport.
 

           
Robert
joined me in the hallway outside.
 
"Well, this has been a damnable morning, hasn’t it?” he said
grimly.
 
“And this news about
Elizabeth.
 
I can’t quite seem to
grasp it yet.
 
I thought she was
dead, and then she walks in -- big as life."

           
I
wasn’t in the mood to discuss Elizabeth’s miraculous reappearance. Instead I
asked, hoping I could be convinced, "Do you think there’s a possibility
Michael really did just run away?”

           
The
question seemed to take him by surprise.
 
But slowly he shook his head.
 
“To be honest, Christine, I don’t know what to believe.
 
Every time I begin to feel I have a
grip on what’s going on, something comes along that changes things entirely.”

           
“Have
you asked the Lieutenant what he plans to do?” I asked, figuring Robert, in his
official capacity as Michael’s trustee, might have some influence with Mavros.

           
Robert
shook his head in disgust.
 
"He’s given me the usual police rigmarole about a search being made
and official procedures being followed, but to be honest, I begin to wonder if
his heart is really in it.
 
You
know that Skouras and he are old friends?"

           
I
nodded.
 
“I wish
we
could do
something to find Michael."

           
For
a moment we stood there in worried silence, then he said thoughtfully, “You
know, perhaps there is.
 
It seems
to me the most useful clue to Michael’s disappearance is the phone call that
policeman received tricking him into leaving early.
 
Perhaps you can try to find out the fellow’s name and ask
him about the call?
 
He’d probably
be less on his guard speaking with you than with me.
 
You could learn what the caller actually said and how he sounded.”

           
“And
what will you do?” I asked.

           
“I
think I’ll toddle over to that barnyard that passes as a hospital here and see
if I can locate the orderly who spotted Michael on his way out.”

           
“Sounds
like a plan," I said, relieved to have something concrete to do.

           
He
flashed me a faint smile and reached out to clasp my hand.
 
“Be careful, Christine.
 
I don’t want anyone else turning up
missing."

           
"I’ll
be careful.
 
Goodbye."

           
He
disappeared down the hallway, and I made my way downstairs.
 
My questions about the policeman who'd
been stationed at the hospital the previous evening were met with considerable
suspicion by the middle-aged officer manning the reception area.

           
"Why
do you wish to know the man's name?" he demanded, his dark eyes sweeping
over me with suspicion.
 
"We
do not usually give out such information."

           
I
wracked my brain, searching for a reason he would find acceptable.
 
"Well, you see . . ." I
finally said, "last night I was at the hospital visiting a friend, and I,
well, this policeman and I began talking and, you see I thought he was quite
nice and he told me his name, only, you know, your Greek names are kind of hard
to remember, and he told me to come by and see him tonight, but I don't want
him to think I forgot his name, and so I --"

           
The
officer's scowl had transformed into a bemused grin and he held up a hand,
"Okay, okay, I find his name for you."
 
He left for a moment and I heard him talking with someone in
the next room, then he returned and picked up a small pad of paper.
 
He wrote down a name in Greek and then
English.
 
"Okay, Miss, here is
the name of your boyfriend."
 
He ripped off the top sheet and slid it across the desk to me.
 
"His name is Yiorgos -- in English
you say George --

Spy-ro-pou-los, and he comes in at
eight o'clock."

           
"Oh,
thank you.
 
Thank you very
much."

           
"
Parakaló
,"
he said, and winked.
 
"I hope
you will have a good evening."

           
"I'm
sure I will," I replied, slipping the paper into my purse and heading out
the door into blinding sunshine.

           
For
a moment the heat and light cheered me, but as I started down the street
towards the Esplanade and looked up at the Old Fortress glittering in the
distance, I suddenly ached for grey clouds and stinging rain and Michael safe
and sound, staring up at me like a grave little owl.

           
I
trudged dispiritedly past the sun-dappled Liston and through the park towards
Dimokratias and Geoffrey’s hotel.
 
When I finally reached the Corfu Palace, there was no answer at
Geoffrey’s room.
 
I went back
downstairs to the lobby and settled myself to wait.

           
I
waited for one hour and then two.
 
Still, he didn’t come.
 
It was
almost three when I finally gave up.
 
I was about to leave when I suddenly had an idea.
 
I crossed to the front desk.

           
"Is
Mrs. Elizabeth Conner registered here?" I asked.

           
The
man checked his revolving file.
 
"No, Miss."

           
"What
other hotels in town are of this class?"

           
"In
town, only the Cavalieri.
 
In
Kanoni, there is the Hilton.
 
He
plucked a brochure labeled "Greece/Corfu" from a wooden rack and
opened it on the counter to a listing of hotels.
 
"If you wish to call, here are the numbers.
 
You may use this telephone."
 
He pointed to a grey house phone behind
the front desk.
 
I smiled at him
gratefully, and he smiled back, motioning me toward a door through which I
could come around to the back.

           
I
had no luck with the Cavalieri; the dour woman who answered the phone frostily
informed me she had no record of a Kyria Conner.
 
The operator at the Hilton was more friendly -- and more
helpful.
 
Yes, Mrs. Redfield Conner
was registered; would I like to be connected with Mrs. Conner's room?

           
"No,
thank you," I said quickly and hung up.
 
For a moment I stood there holding the receiver; then I came
to a decision.
 
Borrowing paper and
an envelope, I quickly penned a note to Geoffrey, then took it upstairs and
slipped it under his door.

           
When
I returned to the lobby I had one more favor to ask my friend at the front
desk.
 
"Could you call me a
taxi to take me to the Hilton?"

           
"Of
course, Miss," he replied obligingly, "it would be a pleasure."

*
                                 
*
                                 
*

           
The
suburb of Kanoni stretches out on a small, hilly peninsula overlooking the
airport to the south of town.
 
It
is a maze-like strip of land, threaded by narrow, twisty roads and packed with
high-walled gardens, pretty hotels, and -- as one nears the peninsula's southernmost
tip -- clusters of garden-terrace tavernas and neon-lit discotheques.

           
The
Hilton was located near this southern tip, and it did look luxurious as we
drove up the curving drive amongst the shady trees and well-landscaped
gardens.
 
As I paid the taxi
driver, a doorman opened my door to help me out, and as I walked into the
grand-looking lobby with its expensively frigid air, I was not surprised this
had been Elizabeth's choice for accommodations.
 
It had that extra air of luxury I suspected she would always
require.

           
Unfortunately,
mixed with the air of luxury was the air of caution, and my enquiries as to her
room number were politely but efficiently rebuffed.
 
The man at the front desk explained in irritatingly perfect
English that it was the hotel's policy never to give out such information.
 
If I wished he would ring Mrs. Conner's
suite and I could ask her the room number myself.
 

           
"No,
that's okay.
 
Don't bother
her.
 
It's really not important,
and I think she might be sleeping."
 
The man shrugged and turned to help someone else, and I beat a hasty
retreat.

           
I
went and sat down in a small red and gold lounge and pondered how best to go
about finding out what I wanted to know.
 
Unfortunately, this went beyond what room Elizabeth was in.
 
I wanted to know why she'd come to
Corfu, and whether she knew anything about Michael's disappearance, and -- it
was impossible to pretend I didn't care -- whether Geoffrey was upstairs with
her now getting, well . . . reacquainted.

           
The
possibility hurt more than I wanted to admit.

           
Rehearsing
various speeches in my head, I picked up the house phone and asked the operator
to ring Elizabeth's room.
 
When she
picked up the receiver and said hello, however, my nerve deserted me.
 
I mumbled, "Sorry, I must have the
wrong room.
 
Is this 201?"

           
"No,"
she said impatiently, "it's 512," and hung up.

           
Thus,
almost by accident, I found out one of the things I wanted to know.
 
Up on the fifth floor I found out
another.
 

           
Elizabeth's
suite was at the end of a long corridor on the side of the hotel that faced the
sea.
 
For several minutes I stood
outside her door debating with myself.
 
Then I heard the sound of a woman giggling -- no, cooing is perhaps a
better word -- and a man murmuring something that sounded like an
endearment.
 
My hand, already
balled up in a fist and poised to knock, dropped limply to my side, and I
backed away, not wanting to hear more.

           
Then
a bell rang and the elevator doors opened.
 
A waiter pushing a room service cart started down the hallway
toward me.
 
On the cart was a
silver ice bucket in which a bottle of champagne was chilling.
 
Next to it, two champagne glasses, two
small plates, a napkin-covered basket, and a crystal vase filled with red roses
were distributed on a well-starched white linen cloth.
  
Somehow I wasn't surprised when
the cart pushed past me and the waiter lifted his arm to knock on the door of
room 512.

           
The
door opened.
 
I turned to face the
entrance of another room, delving into my purse as if I were looking for a key.
 

           
"The
champagne's here, darling," I heard Elizabeth call out.
 
Turning my head slightly, I saw her out
of the corner of my eye.
 
She stood
in the doorway wearing a beautiful silk peignoir the color of ripe
apricots.
 
She flashed the waiter a
dimpled smile which seemed to leave him rather dazed, for he merely nodded
mutely as she drew the cart into the room and slammed the door shut in his
face.

           
Feeling
as if I'd just had one slammed in my own, I walked to the elevator and jammed
my finger into the call button so hard it hurt.

Chapter Twenty-One

           
Not
sure what else to do, I took a taxi back to
Ithaki
to wait out the hours
until Yiorgos Spyropoulos came on duty.

           
Maria
was pleased to see me.
 
Spiro had
not yet returned from town, and Demetra was not in the best of moods.
 
Whether this was due to worry about her
brother or upset over the prodigal mother’s return I wasn’t sure, though Maria
hinted that her mistress had been storming around ranting about the “impostor”.

           
“Do
you
believe the woman is an impostor,” Maria asked in an anxious
undertone, “or has Kyrios Redfield’s first wife truly returned from the dead?”