by Brian Lumley
It was growing dark now, would be quite dark by 9:00 or 9:15. Palazzi had promised the night watchman he would be off the rock by then. That promise had been made as he returned from his midday meal in Elli’s Taverna toting a small, cheap bottle of ouzo to reinforce their friendship. But still, Palazzi didn’t wish to outstay his welcome—or give the old boy any reason to question his motives.
He picked at his well-groomed fingernails for a little while, then took up his binoculars one last time and found Garrison’s courtyard where it was lighted by the glow of shaded lamps above the inner doors. And even as he watched, so the lights went out one by one, and straining his eyes he saw a pair of dim figures moving amongst the courtyard’s shadows. Then—
There they were! Hand in hand, their pace leisurely as they descended into the maze of streets. And dressed for dancing, yes! Garrison in a paper-light white suit and open-neck shirt, his woman in a halter and culottes.
His woman…
Palazzi’s eager, wolfish grin slipped a little. Another enigma: she, too, was supposed to be blind. At least she, too, wore a blind person’s spectacles. Well, blind she may or may not be—but beautiful she most certainly was. And her figure…!
Palazzi allowed his thoughts to wander back to the topless girls he had watched on the little beach. Funny how binoculars, bringing those naked breasts so close you could almost pucker your lips and kiss them, seemed at the same time somehow to set them in another, alien realm. Much more exciting to actually be within reach, even if one mustn’t touch. And the pretty English girls he had seen two days ago: they had been close, especially the girl with the big ones. Braless, her nipples stiff with excitement, shaping her blouse as she leaned out over the ramparts…
Palazzi suddenly felt himself erect, his penis huge in his pants. Nothing new. The thrill of anticipation. Not sexual (he told himself), rather environmental. But pleasing anyway. He stroked his hard through his trousers—then jerked guiltily alert as he heard a rattle of stones, a jingle of keys, and a wheezy, boozy, inquiring Greek voice.
“Coming!” he called out, his Greek only so-so. “Just coming.” He scrambled from the wall, dusted himself off, made for the great stone arch which would lead him to the steep, winding descent. “But such a lovely night. I quite forgot the time. It’s the solitude I like, you know? Just sitting up here on my own.” He wasn’t sure the old fellow really understood him. “You enjoyed the ouzo? Good! And yes, thank you, the sunset really was quite beautiful.”
From far below, music and the sounds of muted revelry began to drift up into the darkening air. Lindos was rising from its evening torpor. Palazzi could feel its spiced lamb and retsina breath in his face, beckoning him to the feast…
ALL THROUGH THE DAY GARRISON’S MOOD AND MORALE HAD gradually deteriorated. Vicki had sensed it, had seen how he tried to keep a rein on feelings and emotions he himself did not fully understand, and she, too, had grown restless in sympathy with his near-schizophrenic mood. She had known (mercifully) that it was his own schizophrenia, springing perhaps from a delicate suppression of the two “live-in” mentalities which were now permanent facets of his id, his psyche—had known that neither Schroeder nor Koenig had outwardly manifested themselves during the course of the day—but the mere thought of the effort of will he must exercise simply to remain ascendant was chilling. She doubted if she would ever become accustomed to it.
She traced the source of the trouble back to this morning’s dream, possibly as far back as their encounter with the Greek youths. Until then all had seemed to be going well, their holiday had been doing both of them a great deal of good. But now, tonight—?
Now he fidgeted and frowned a lot. He had toyed with his food and argued over the bill, then stomped angrily out of the taverna where they had eaten. He had also consumed too much brandy, had allowed himself to get upset too easily when the music of a particular taverna (they had tried several) wasn’t just exactly to his liking, and had complained bitterly of “rowdy, drunken grockles,” when in fact the holiday-makers were as yet quite sober and extremely well behaved. He was, in short, on the point of boiling over, blowing up to release the tensions seething within. And that was the last thing that Vicki wanted.
Oh, no, for she knew that just beneath the surface of the Garrison she had so loved (again that doubt, that niggling past tense) there lurked others only too ready to spring into being. Vicki knew that she—and Lindos, too, for that matter—could well do without the advent of Herr Willy Koenig, late of the Schutzstaffel and personal bodyguard to his beloved Colonel Thomas Schroeder. And her sentiments, or lack of them, applied just as well to the Colonel himself. Oh, she had been fond of both of them in life, in the flesh, but now that they dwelled in Garrison’s head, in his very being, she was afraid of them and hated them. Neither one of them must be allowed to surface tonight.
Which was why, at her first opportunity, she allowed Garrison to “catch” her frowning and stroking her brow.
“Oh?” he was quick to query, leaning towards her across their wicker table.
“Nothing. A headache coming on, I think.”
Garrison was immediately sympathetic, reaching to touch her brow—and his face clouding over in a moment, knowing she lied. “If you had a headache,” he told her quietly, “I could cure it in a moment. You know that.”
“Tired, then,” she tried desperately to cover up. “Perhaps I’m just a little—”
“Tired?” he shook his head. “No, not that either. We slept for an hour or two this afternoon after our climb.” He pursed his lips, breathed deeply, began to look angry—then let out all of his air and anger in one great sigh. “What the hell—it’s me, eh?”
“Oh, Richard!” she gave his hand an urgent squeeze. “It’s just that you seem to be working yourself up to something. And I don’t know what…to…” She let the sentence taper off, her voice breaking a little.
He stared at her for a moment, and it was as if she could feel the warmth of his golden eyes right through the dark, heavy lenses of his glasses. A warmth that drew something of her anxiety right out of her. “I don’t know either,” he admitted. “It’s a feeling, that’s all. That I’m missing something. That something’s wrong. With the world, with me. Hell, you know what’s wrong, Vicki!”
“Look,” she squeezed his hand again, “why don’t we call it a day, have an early night? We can sit in the courtyard. I’ll make coffee—a lot of it. Coffee and brandy—and a cigar for you. You’ll like that. We don’t have to do anything except sit there and relax, and listen to that little bird singing his one sad note.”
Garrison nodded, smiled however wanly. “Yes, he is sad, that little bloke. With his poot!…poot!…poot!. I wonder what he looks like?”
“Maybe he’s ugly,” Vicki said, rising and putting down money on the table. “Perhaps that’s why he only comes out at night.”
AND LATER, AS THEY CLIMBED THROUGH THE NARROW STREETS AND rose above the babble of bright, crowded tavernas, Garrison added: “And maybe that’s why he’s so sad, eh? Being ugly, I mean, and only one note to sing.”
“But such a beautiful note,” Vicki answered as they reached the door to their courtyard. “Like liquid moonlight.”
Garrison caught her round the waist, kissed her hungrily and gently fondled her breasts in the darkness. “Listen, what do you say we forget the coffee and brandy, eh? Why don’t we help the little guy out and make some music of our own?”
Together they stepped over the threshold, closing the door quietly behind them…
PALAZZI HAD STARTED WITH THE SWISS PAIR. Staying only one narrow street—or rooftop—away from his own less than splendid accommodation, they had seemed the obvious choice.
On leaving the rock of the Acropolis he had spent a few minutes on the lower slopes of the climb, talking to the old Greek lace ladies where they tidied away their wares for the night, finally telling them goodnight and ensuring that they were watching him when he entered his accommodation at the foot of the ro
ck. Then—
—Five minutes to change into his “working clothes” and climb out through a window high in the rear wall of his room, and a few more to flit across the flat, shadowy roofs. And ah!—how the adrenalin had flowed in Paulo Palazzi’s veins.
Night was his element, in which he was less than a shadow, and the sheer excitement of the night was an almost physical force within him.
But…his excitement had quickly ebbed. The Swiss couple were a bitter disappointment; pickings in their rooms wouldn’t even cover the cost of Palazzi’s holiday. A fistful of cheap jewelry, some Drachmas, a few Swiss Francs. Miserable!
Disgruntled, he was out of the burgled room only a little after 10:15 P.M.
Now he was tempted to go after Garrison, the Big One—but he resisted. He knew that his urgency was spawned of disappointment and greed. No, better first to do the French job and let the Garrisons settle into their evenings’ entertainment. Besides, the Frog’s accommodation was closest. Also…well, Palazzi still had a sort of feeling about Garrison and his woman. Something about them that made him nervy.
The thief’s instinct served him well, for at 10:25 as he entered the darkened courtyard of the French couple’s villa and began silently to pick their lock, Garrison and Vicki were just having their conversation about the music of a different sort of night-venturing bird and entering their own accommodation. Had Palazzi gone there first he must certainly have been disturbed as he went about his business.
Of course he was not to learn this until some thirty minutes later when, coming at a crouching, gliding lope across the roofs, he saw the lamp over their door glowing yellow and heard their muted voices from within. At that Palazzi cursed long, vividly and silently—before resigning himself to a serious revision of his plans. And while his mind worked he stretched himself out on the roof almost directly above the pair on their raised wooden bed, listening to the sounds of their lovemaking.
Of their actual conversation he could hear very little: breathless, hoarse murmurs, panting sighs and moans of pleasure. But the soft slap, slap, slap of perspiring bodies in loving collision was very distinct—and protracted! They knew how to do it, these two.
Despite the necessary revision of his plan, Palazzi began to feel excited—sexually this time—and his penis grew fat, elongating itself within the zippered confines of his jump suit. For he could picture that beautiful body down there, the body of Garrison’s woman, all open and soft and pinkly moist, her thighs spread wide, inviting, as Garrison rode in and out of her, in and out. And those breasts of hers, nipples erect, slippery with perspiration and spittle as the blind man’s mouth worked on them and sucked them into a life of their own.
Blind man. Jesus! The poor bastard didn’t even know how good she looked! How good and ripe and golden. Not if he really was blind. Palazzi licked his lips, stifled a lump rising in his throat, forced himself to concentrate upon the plan’s revision and gradually calmed down.
Actually there wasn’t a great deal to revise. If he was to be out of Lindos tomorrow he must do the job tonight. He didn’t like the idea of doing it while they were asleep in there, but—they must at least be part-blind, mustn’t they? And certainly they’d be exhausted and sleeping like the dead.
In any case, he had no choice, for the Froggy too had disappointed him. Less than ten thousand Drachmas, no French currency at all, only an old gold-plated Rolex Oyster and some bits of jewelry worth maybe three hundred thousand Lire in the right market. Terrible!
But Garrison…Ah! He was different. His woman’s jewelry alone—no, half of it—would be worth a small fortune. If only they’d get finished with their rutting and get to sleep. 11:20 already, and they were still at it.
Five minutes later the noises began to come faster. For a moment or two they grew frantic and then: a little cry, sharp and sweet, gurgling down into a sigh, and Garrison’s hoarse panting gradually subsiding. And finally silence.
Silence for a few minutes. Then the weary slap of naked feet upon the floor, and the lights blinking out. The courtyard light, too, and again silence. The rustle of a sheet. A sigh. And Palazzi patiently waiting on the roof…
NEITHER GARRISON NOR VICKI DREAMED ANYTHING OF ANY importance that night. Not before Palazzi’s visit, and certainly not afterwards.
As the thief had expected, their lovemaking had drained them. Except for their deep, regular breathing, they lay still and silent as he went about his business of discovering and pocketing their money and personal valuables. And there was plenty to find. More than enough to make up for all other disappointments.
But it hadn’t been all that easy; there had been a point when the thought had crossed Palazzi’s mind that perhaps he had better turn back. That had been shortly after entering through an open window—to discover Garrison’s woman stretched out at his very feet!
Palazzi’s night vision was trained to a marvelous degree. Gloomy as the large room was and the moon in the wrong quarter of the sky (the right one for the thief), and only starlight ghosting through the small windows, still he had been able to make out every object in the room with clear definition. The faint beam of a pencil-slim torch had supplied what little extra light was needed for the serious work.
But the girl, Garrison’s woman sprawled there at Palazzi’s feet. With her face turned to one side and a handkerchief loosely knotted over her forehead, its folds covering her eyes. Her chest rising and falling, rising and falling.
Naked under a sheet, the points of her breasts sticking up and forming peaked hillocks of white linen on her chest. Her arms thrown wide, legs open under the sheet, feet protruding. An attitude of unconscious abandon…
Across the room Garrison had the large bed to himself—the bed where the two had made love. It was typical of the raised Greek beds much in evidence throughout the village; but the woman’s bed was also raised, higher in fact. Lying upon a sort of square landing or platform, its deep mattress rested upon the ceramic-tiled roof of the tiny bathroom, shower and toilet unit. And spread-eagled, the woman’s form almost filled the railed-off bed space; so that the thief had to step carefully indeed to avoid touching or disturbing her. Careful, too, to avoid the possibility of his shadow falling on her face. Even with her eyes covered by the handkerchief, still she might sense his presence.
And then the wooden stairs to negotiate (without making them creak), and upon the floor the jumble of their discarded clothing, piled where they had stripped their bodies naked. A little heap of the woman’s jewelry lying on a tiny casual table—her open purse hanging from the knobbed newel at the foot of the stairs—and Garrison’s wallet in the inside pocket of his coat, flung casually across the back of a chair.
And the jewelry, not half but all of a fortune! Palazzi was tempted to whistle, tempted again when he saw the contents of Garrison’s wallet. A fat wad of crisp English £20 notes, at least thirty of them, and an equal amount of high denomination Drachmas. The woman’s purse also bulging.
At that point some of the pieces of jewelry had moved and chinked dully in Palazzi’s pockets. Garrison too had moved. Only a slight movement, true, accompanied by a little grunt of discomfort, but sufficient to freeze Palazzi to the floor as if taken root there. He waited, watching, listening. Garrison, lying face-down, was starting to snort a little, blowing air into his pillow. He threw out an arm and automatically adjusted his position, stopped snorting. Palazzi waited.
Starlight silvered and softened the room’s sharper edges.
All was quiet once more…
Palazzi waited no longer. It was time to get out. The night was moving on. When they had finished making love, he had waited on the roof for over an hour before making his first move, since when he’d been in here with them for a full fifteen minutes. The time now was exactly 1:08 A.M. The Swiss couple would still be dancing; the Froggies on their way back from Rhodes, unless they had decided to stay over for the night; and Palazzi was still one hundred percent safe, but he knew he couldn’t afford to waste any time no
w. And nothing to waste time on, not really. Nothing to linger over…
Climbing the open stairs back to where Vicki Maler lay stretched out on her back, Palazzi found himself glancing across the room at the sleeping form of her lover. The man must be wearing a luminous watch on his wrist, its dial glowing close to his face, for there was a distinct patch of yellow light on the pillow where he lay face-down. A sort of golden luminescence.
Suddenly Palazzi’s desire to be out of there swelled up strong in him. He foolishly allowed a stair tread to creak as he crept higher, which caused him to freeze again for a moment and hold his breath before he dared to continue. He was allowing himself to become spooked. But why? What was there to worry about?
He had removed light bulbs as he went, putting them all safely out of the way. Even if Garrison and his woman woke up and hit the switches the room would remain in darkness. And of what use bright lights to their eyes anyway? No, nothing to worry about here. Why, they didn’t even have a telephone! The entire village could only have a dozen or so.
Palazzi stepped over the sleeping woman’s form and seated himself on the marble sill of the open window. As he swung one leg over the sill onto the flat roof outside, she stirred. Her right knee bent, straightened; the sheet got hooked up on her foot, sliding down her perfect body. Her brown, beautiful breasts were exposed. Starlight gleamed on the round globes of flesh, increasing their desirability tenfold.
Palazzi’s hands were free, and so was his personal demon. He slowly, carefully unzippered the front of his jump suit, took out his suddenly stiff penis, gripped it and stroked the taut skin to and fro; then released it and raised his hand over the girl’s right breast. He readied his other hand over her mouth, and—
—lowered both hands simultaneously.
She came awake, felt the strange hands on her mouth, her breast. One hand clamping, the other squeezing, molding, pinching. Hot hands. Feverish. Not Garrison’s.
“Richard!” she would have cried out, but couldn’t.