Levkas Man (Mystery)

by Hammond Innes

  lall. "I had no alternative. I was at the end of my strength." He paused, breathing heavily, reliving in the darkness his experience. "It was easier than I had expected. The water was cool, refreshing. And when I'd hauled myself out and recovered from the shock, I felt my way into the gallery and worked along it with my arms stretched wide, touching the walls, and when the walls fell away, I knew I had entered some sort of a cave. That was when I struck my first match."

  He was excited then, his words coming faster: "Can you imagine, Paul—how I felt? The sudden realization. All those paintings. And nobody to share my discovery, no means of telling the world what I had found." He laughed then, that same hard jeering laugh that I remembered and hated. But this time he was laughing at himself, at the irony of it. "All my life—seeking. And now suddenly I had stumbled by chance on what I had been searching for. I struck match after match. I was crazed with excitement." He paused. Then added slowly, "In the end there were no more matches. I was in darkness, complete darkness, standing like a fool in the greatest art gallery in the world and I couldn't see it." He sighed, a dreadful, tearing sigh. "Well, that's how it was. That's how I stumbled on the work of Levkas Man." He repeated those words slowly—Levkas Man. "That's the name I have given to him. Sitting here in the dark I've had time to think—about this cave and about what it means. I've no doubts now. My theory was right. A land-bridge did exist. And now I must start at the other end—at Pantelleria. If something similar exists on Pantelleria . . . Give me that torch again." His hand clawed at my arm. "I've been in the dark so long. Ho^v long have I been here, did you say? Three days?"

  "About that."

  "Seventy-two hours."

  "But not all in darkness," I said. "You had a spotlight, didn't you?"

  "Yes. For a few hours. It was magnificent—very bright. But then it faded."

  "Bert could have lielped you. He was an expert diver. He could have got you out." I was angry, angry at his stupidity. "Why did you do it? If you'd only spoken to him . . ."

  "So it was Barrett. I didn't know." His voice sounded suddenly tired. "If he'd spoken to me, explained who he was. I thous;ht—"

  'How could he?" I cut in. "You damn near killed him. He's suffering from concussion and a broken arm."

  "I'm sorry. It was that torch of his. I had to see."

  "He was lucky to get out alive."

  His hand was on my arm again. "You don't understand. You can't imagine. To be alone—in the dark—unable to see these paintings. All my life—"

  "To hell with your life, and your scientific searchings! We're talking about people now. Live people. A man called Barrett." And I added harshly, 'There's Holroyd, too. He's dead now. But he was alive Avhen he came down that rope."

  There ^as silence then, a ghastly stillness, no sound of breathing even. It was as though the shock of my words had rendered him speechless.

  "What happened to him?"

  Silence.

  "He was dead when you hooked the spotlight onto his fingers. He'd been dead some time."

  "The battery was just about exhausted then," he murmured, as though that constituted some sort of an explanation.

  "Was that why you took Bert's spot—for fear he'd see what you'd done?"

  He sighed. "You don't know what it's like to be in total darkness and then to watch his glow-worm figure climbing down out of that hole in the cave roof."

  "You knew who it was then?"

  "Of course. " His voice sounded remote, infinitely sad. And then, as though Holroyd's death was of no real importance, he said, "When I began my Journal, I was endeavouring to strike a balance between the good and the evil

  that was inside me, to find out whether there was any hope for our species—what sort of a being Man really was. Well, now I know." There was a pause, and then he said, "Do you remember that night you came to me, up above in the entrance to the cave-shelter, I said this place was evil?"

  "It was outside," I said. "Under the stars, and you were holding that stone lamp in your hand."

  "Yes. I could feel it in the stone of that lamp. And all the time I have been alone here in the dark, that sense and knowledge of evil has burned itself into me. Man is a killer, and he carries the seed of his own destruction in him. Switch the torch on again, just for a moment—so that you can see what I'm talking about."

  I did so and his skull-like head leaped out of the dark at me, its beetling brows, its deep lines and the mane of white hair standing up from the dome of his forehead. He was leaning back, his head against the wall, pressed against the red belly of that bull. His eyes stared past me as I swept the beam of the torch over the cave. "Now, just the two of us— seeing it for the first time. There have been bears here— those pits in the floor are their hibernating beds. But no humans. We are back twenty thousand years at least and in all that time man hasn't changed."

  'You killed him? Is that what you're saying?"

  He stared at me, frowning. "Haven't you understood a word I've been saying? I'm talking about my Journal—about my attempt to define the nature of Man."

  "And I'm talking about Holroyd," I said, trying to pin him down. "I have to know what happened."

  "Why? What possible interest is it to you?" And he added slowly, staring up at the bison pawing the roof, "He shouldn't have come here. You shouldn't have let him." And he added wearily, "He could have climbed back up that rope."

  "He was trapped, trying to rescue you."

  But my words didn't register. "Instinctive defence of territory," he murmured. "It's in all of us, and it goes very

  deep." He gave a dry cough. "You didn't bring any water with you, I suppose?"

  "No. Nor any food."

  "The food doesn't matter. But I'm dry—very dry. It makes it difficult to talk." He leaned forward, his eyes fastening on mine. "All my life has been a struggle. Always seeking after truth. Nothing else has ever mattered to me—not since your mother was killed. There was a moment when I thought I could live life differently, through you. But I failed in that, and afterwards I resumed my restless seeking." He reached out suddenly, grabbing hold of my hand, his fingers hard and dry, his voice urgent. "When we get out of here—we'll go on together, eh? Promise me, boy." His gTip was weak, his hand trembling. "You're bound for Pantelleria, isn't that right? We'll start there—on Pantelleria. Then we'll complete the chain of evidence—irrefutable proof. They'll have to recognize me then. They'll have to accept my theory."

  It was fascinating, almost terrifying, his sheer egotism. He seemed to be living in a world of his own, divorced from other people. "All the time we've been talking," I said, "there are men up above us ^vorking at that rock fall, trying to get through to you."

  His eyes widened, suddenly blazing. "Then stop them."

  "They're trying to reach you."

  "I don't want them here. This—" His hand moved, indicating the cave—"This is something between us alone. Just the two of us. Nobody else. Tell them I'm dead, anything— but keep them out of here. I'm not going to have anybody else—"

  "They're also looking for Holroyd," I said.

  "Then tell them you've seen him and that they needn't bother any more."

  I shook my head. "There's still the Greek. There was a Greek with him."

  He was suddenly very still, his body sagging. "Who's up there—Cartwrigh t?"

  "Cartwright and Hans Winters, about half a dozen men

  from Vathy. Zavelas, too, and Kotiadis." He didn't say anything after that and I got to my feet. "If they don't get through that fall by tonight, I'll have to try and get you out underwater."

  "No." He said it emphatically, a total rejection of the possibility that made me turn and look at him. His eyes were closed and there was a stillness about him, a resignation. I had a feeling then that he had accepted the inevitability of death and that his closed eyes were a conscious rejection of sight, preparation for the darkness that would close in on him again when I had left. This feeling was so strong that for a moment I felt complete
ly numb. It was strange, the two of us so distant all these years and yet the sense of closeness, of communication without words.

  "You can't stay here," I heard myself murmur.

  He didn't say anything for a moment, his body shuddering. "I'm not afraid of death." It was a declaration. His eyes opened and he stared about him with extraordinary intensity, as though trying to fix the painted walls of his prison firmly on the retina of his brain. And then suddenly he put his hands up to his face, covering his eyes, and his body shook with a strange sobbing sound.

  "I'll go now," I said awkwardly.

  "Yes, go—quickly. And remember, when you sail from Levkas, there'll be nobody alive but yourself who has seen the work of these cave artists. It will be your secret—and mine. Do you understand?"

  I was staring at him, appalled.

  "Do you understand, Paul?"

  "Yes. Yes, I think so."

  He reached up and seized hold of my hand again. "If I'm right—and I am right—the trail of Levkas Man leads on through the Sicilian offshore islands of Levanzo and Maret-timo to Pantelleria and the coast of Africa—Tunisia probably, maybe Djerba." The grip on my hand tightened convulsively. "Paul! Promise me. Promise me that you'll go on. That you'll follow the trail, prove me right."

  "I've no qualifications. And anyway . . ."

  "You don't need qualifications. All you need is conviction and the driving urgency that it gives you. Experts will always follow a dedicated, determined man. Look at Schliemann— an amateur. He believed in Homer. And as a result, he discovered Troy, Mycenae, Knossos. You could be the same. Building on my reputation and on the manuscripts I have left with Sonia. Promise me." He was staring up into my face, the grip of his fingers suddenly like iron.

  I didn't know what to say. That I'd no money? That his world was too remote? That, anyway, Cartwright would break through that rock fall to discover Holroyd's body and the painted cave that he so desperately wanted to preserve for himself as a total secret? "I'm going now," I said finally.

  The grip on my hand slowly relaxed until his arm dropped slackly, and he sat there, his back against the wall, his body bowed. He seemed suddenly to have shrunk, the collapse of his spirit deflating him physically. I left him then, feeling sick at heart, hating the place and the evil that lurked there, glad when the paintings were behind me. I didn't look back as I entered the gallery of the mammoths. I didn't want to see his loneliness, the crumpled dejection of his body squatting there below the red belly of that bull.

  I came out into the cave beyond with its pool of black sea water. And there was Holroyd's body still floating, a reminder that something had been done here that could not be undone. The atmosphere of evil breathed down my neck, emanating from the painted caves. Alone, I had difficulty getting the heavy cylinder onto my back. I did it in a sitting position, and as I struggled to my feet, the torch shone on a half-segment of stone. I recognized it instantly—another of those Stone Age lamps. I should have realized the significance of it, lying there broken on the rock floor, but my mind was on other things and it didn't connect. All I knew, as I slung the lead belt round my waist and pulled the mask down over my face, was that its presence added to my sense of evil. I was in such a hurry then that I almost forgot to check the state of

  my air. Nervously my fingers felt for the stem indicator, relieved to find that the cylinder was still almost half-full.

  I entered the water with only one thing in my mind, to get the hell out of that place as quickly as possible. But then, when I was in the water, my fears left me. The practical side of me seemed to take command. Almost without thinking I swam over to the rope, drew the diver's knife from the sheath strapped to my calf, and cut the end of it where it trailed in the water. I tied a bowline, and then, making a noose, slipped it over Holroyd's arm. That was when I saw the wound in his head, the white of bone jagged around a grey pulp. His skull had been cracked like the shell of an egg. I trod water for a moment, staring at that wound half-concealed by the dark hair waving like weed in the water, understanding now what the old man had been talking about, his total rejection of rescue. Understanding, too, the broken segment of that stone lamp.

  I felt suddenly very cold, cold in my guts, and I turned quickly and dived for the blow hole, trailing the corpse behind me like a dog on a lead. What I had started to do instinctively, a sort of tidying-up operation, now became a matter of urgency, for I couldn't leave it there in the pool to stare the first rescuer in the face. But it was only when I came out through the roof into the lower cavern, the hiss of the demand valve in my ears and the blatter of my bubbled exhalations disappearing into the hole behind me, that I paused to consider what I was going to do with it.

  If I took it out into the channel it would be discovered almost at once, and tiien the questions would start. The alternative was to conceal it in a crevice, but that meant weighting it with a rock, and the only means I had of fastening a rock to it ^vas with the rope. I hung there in the cave, the body ballooning above me, ghostly at the end of its umbilical nylon cord. Tie a rock to it and if it were discovered, then it would be obvious that his death had not been a natural one. The bubbles of my breathing warned me that I could not stay there indefinitely. I glanced at the

  watch on my wrist. It was 1 1.12— almost an hour and a half since I had left the boat. And I had forgotten to check the time when I had entered the water in the cavern above.

  I dived then to where daylight showed as a pale glimmer below the fallen slab. My torch showed a crevice above the slab. I pulled on the rope, got hold of the stiff cold body and pushed it in, trudging energetically with my flippers. I left him there, taking the rope end with me, and wriggled through inider the slab into the open water of the Meganisi Channel.

  I can still remember the growing brightness of the sunlight as I slanted upwards, going out past the rock with the sandal on it, across a plain of sea grass until I could see the underwater shape of Coromandel, a dark whale-shadow bulging below the surface of the sea, which was like the back of a mirror, flecked with a myriad dust-motes iridescent in the sun. And as I broke through it and saw the boat with its masts against the blue sky, it was like coming out of a nightmare.

  I reached the ladder, clambering awkwardly out, no longer weightless, cylinder and belt dragging at me. And then Sonia's face, as I pushed the mask up blinking in the sun, and Gilmore behind her, the red sea horses bright as blood. "Are you all right, Paul? What happened? You've been so long." Her voice was remote, a muffled sound, my ears clogged.

  "I'm okay," I mumbled, collapsing on the hot deck, where I lay in a pool of water, my lungs gasping for air. I felt utterly drained, tired beyond belief. Her hands were on my shoulders, vorking at the straps. She was bending over me, and when she had freed me of the weight of the cylinder, she groped under my body to find the quick release clasp of the belt and slipped the lead weight from my waist.

  I sat up then, feeling dazed—the sunshine, the sky, the smell of the land and the mountains towering brown; but it was like a picture postcard, something unreal. The reality was in my mind, the memory of that cave with my father

  talking and Holroyd's body floating in the still dark pool.

  "What happened? Did you find him?" Sonia, still bending over me, her face drained, her eyes large. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, I'm all right." My voice sounded disembodied, remote.

  "What happened then?"

  "Nothing."

  "You've been gone over an hour and a half. What did you find?"

  "Nothing, I tell you." I got to my feet, standing there shivering in the sunlight.

  "But . . ." She was staring at me, searching my face, probing for the truth I dared not tell her. "You found him? You must have found him."

  I started to push past her, but she gripped my arm. "Please—" She was clinging to me and I flung her off.

  "Leave me alone," I said.

  "Tell me, Paul. Please tell me what you found." And then she added on a conciliatory n
ote, "You're shivering. I'll get you a towel."

  "I'll get it myself."

  I was at the wheelhouse door, her hands clutching at me. "What happened, for God's sake?"

  I looked down at her, seeing her pale face, frightened and bewildered, and wondering whether to tell her. But this wasn't something I could share with anybody else, not even her. And Dr. Gilmore there, listening, alert and curious. "It's up to the others now." I got clear of her then and went below, where I peeled off the jacket of the wet suit and towelled myself down, standing naked in the saloon, my mind going over and over everything I'd seen, the things he'd said. And when I was dry, I wrapped the towel round me and went over to the drink cupboard. I thought a cognac would steady me, help me to see things in perspective. I poured myself a stiff one and drank it neat, feeling the fire in it reach down into my guts. But it needed more than that to deaden the memory of what had happened. I poured myself another,

  drinking it slowly this time and trying to think. And then Dr. Gilmore came in.

  He sat himself down facing me, still alert and curious, but not saying anything. He just sat there watching me, waiting until I was ready. And gradually I realized I would have to tell him.

  He had shifted his position, was leaning slightly forward. "Holroyd's dead, is he?" And when I didn't answer, he added, "That's why you're drinking—why you were so abrupt with Sonia."

  I nodded. "Yes, he's dead," I said.

  "And Pieter?"

  "He's very weak—exhausted. He says he's not afraid of death. He wants to be left there."

  After that he got it out of me, bit by bit—the cave, the body, the whole story of that fifteen minutes or so I had spent with him. And when it was done and I had told him everything, he sat there, silent and sad-looking, not commenting, not condemning, just quietly thinking it out whilst I had another cognac. And then footsteps on the companionway and Sonia standing there.