The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  Craig called after her, “Mimi says she is packing and coming back into town—so why bother?”

  Maritta pretended she hadn’t heard. Her pace increased. Just ahead of her, Adam and the Frenchman were sitting on the low wall that edged the beach near the square.

  “Maritta! Wait for me!” Craig shouted. But she hurried on. Adam and his friend now saw her direction. They slipped off the wall, began walking ahead of her. It looked as if she were following them.

  “Oh, let her be!” Tony said loudly. He had a tight grip on Craig’s arm. “Remarkable thing!” he said very quietly. “Why doesn’t she want anyone near that house at such an early hour?”

  Mimi was watching the two men walking ahead of Maritta. They were reaching the narrow lane that disappeared around some buildings at the water’s edge. They entered it, vanished from sight. Maritta would have to take that way, too. It was the quick route to the bay road. “Time for me to leave,” she said quietly. “I’ll be needed, I think.” There was a strange small smile on her lips. “Where did she put the information she received? In her pocket?” Then she looked at Craig’s face. “Don’t worry,” she said. “She will be luckier than Duclos.” She left them, walking swiftly, her graceful stride surviving even the broken paving stones. She waved back. “See you tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder.

  “I wonder if Tim needs any help,” Tony said, and looked towards the café. He saw Elias and another Greek sitting quietly in the shadows outside. “No, I think not.”

  Craig was still watching Maritta as she reached that dark lane. She was almost running now. Running right into it, he thought.

  “She’ll be all right,” Tony murmured. “Just an informal arrest. A quiet detention, until it’s safe to make it known.” His grip on Craig’s arm slackened as he drew him casually towards the deeply shadowed beach.

  “I’m not worrying about her,” Craig said grimly. Maritta and Alex—the hell with them. “It’s Veronica.”

  “Yes,” the Englishman agreed. “I think I’ll pass the word. You’d better wait here for Bannerman.” He glanced at the American’s face, and then looked back at the colonnade. “Do nothing rash.”

  “Nothing you wouldn’t do.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that one bit,” Tony said with a smile. “Meanwhile, there’s a chap over at the darkest table—by the edge of the colonnade. He’s the one who was trailing Veronica this morning.”

  “Striped shirt?” Craig resisted glancing around.

  Tony nodded. “He’s been trying to make up his mind whether he ought to keep an eye on Maritta, or whether he should ’phone in his report. I know the feeling well... The telephone wins, I hope... Good. He doesn’t think Maritta is in any trouble. She probably gave him no signal of distress. So a report is sufficient unto the evil thereof. I don’t imagine we want even that, do we? Shall I deal with him? Or you?”

  “I think your touch is more inspired.”

  “Thank you,” Tony said gravely, and moved with unconcerned nonchalance towards the man who had left his table and was heading, cautiously but definitely, for the café entrance. The man halted, stood aside. Bradley and Bannerman were coming out. Bannerman was still talking his head off; Bradley was looking peeved, as if he had just about reached saturation point. But he kept his polite mask in place.

  “No trouble at all,” Bannerman was saying. “You’ll need an extra hand with your luggage, and we may have to hurry. I think I see her lights now!” He pointed out beyond the breakwater. “These mail boats slip in so quickly. And they don’t always wait. She’s early tonight. Must have been good weather all the way. Come on, let’s run. No one will hold it against us.”

  Bradley and Bannerman started at a very quick pace down the waterfront. Elias and his man rose and followed at a half-run, passed them, drew ahead. They, too, were apparently worried about catching that boat. Other prospective passengers were rising from their café tables; some even began to run. The power of suggestion, thought Craig, lighting a cigarette to give him time to think. Think of a plan of his own... No use waiting for Bannerman. Once Tony could pass on the news about the house on the hill, Bannerman’s hands would be even fuller than they were now. Craig watched the distant figure of his friend running close beside Bradley. And suddenly, an extraordinary thing happened.

  Perhaps it was one of the paving stones with its raised edge that had caused it, perhaps the patched shadows on the street were to blame. Bradley stumbled, pitched forward. Bannerman was helping him up, dusting him off. Then they were hurrying again down the street.

  From the colonnade, came Tony’s voice calling out loudly for help. “I say—someone—quick! This man seems ill!”

  Craig’s eyes glanced over at the café. Tony was looking in bewilderment at the stout figure he had propped into the nearest chair. Three people went forward. “Is he drunk?” someone asked.

  “I don’t know. He collapsed practically on top of me,” Tony said. “Most peculiar, really.” He stepped back, let the waiter and some fishermen take over. There was a good deal of growing excitement, various suggestions, and then a simple solution arrived at. The inert body was carried indoors and the problem deposited on the poor woman who ran the place.

  Tony came back to where Craig was standing at the edge of the beach. “He will live,” he said. “But he won’t wake up for another six hours. Just in time to be arrested along with the rest of his friends. He was, you might say, a standing duck.”

  “You play rough.”

  “Only when I’m very hard pressed,” Tony said in his gentlest voice. “And we don’t have much time, you know.” He looked across the dark waters of the harbour to the breakwater. Under its meagre lights, the small crowd of travellers were carrying their luggage up to the motor-boats that would take them to the ship waiting out at sea. “Goodbye Alex,” he murmured.

  “They’ll let him get on board?”

  “Of course; he must be seen to be leaving safely. But on board—well, I suppose Elias has some way of having him detained in a cabin.”

  A matter of false passport, thought Craig. “Look, when Bannerman gets back, tell him I’m—”

  “You wait and tell him yourself. Why did he go down to the pier, anyway? Elias and his man were there.”

  “They didn’t know about a tie clip.”

  “Oh?” Then Tony laughed. “So that’s why old Tim clicked his heels together? That stumble, you know.”

  Yes, thought Craig, understanding it now, a fall and a brush-down from helping hands was a very quiet way of losing a tie clip. “Once Alex stopped being hurried he would notice it.”

  “Too late, too late.” Tony started to stroll down the street. “I had better meet Bannerman. Coming?”

  “No, I’m going.”

  “I think you should wait,” Tony said. He halted, frowning slightly.

  “Tell him not to worry. I’m using the direct method.” Craig moved off. Time to go. Maritta would have made her quiet exit. Alex had made his. Nothing would be endangered at this moment. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said as Tony came after him. “I’ll have Veronica back here in another twenty.”

  “Things are moving very rapidly,” Tony said, his voice no longer vague and drifting. “You heard Maritta.”

  “I know. That’s why we can’t wait.” Craig walked off rapidly towards the square. Tony watched him go. As soon as he was out of sight he’d probably start running. I would, thought Tony. And if I hadn’t to stay here and pass the word that the volcano is about to go up, I’d be on his heels.

  He waited patiently, smoking, wandered around the fishing boats on the dark beach, until he saw first Bannerman and then Elias returning in the very best of spirits. He crossed the street slowly, hands in pockets. “Now hear this,” Tony said, very quietly, as he joined them.

  20

  Craig followed the shore road, curving around the semicircle of the small bay, until it almost reached the yacht anchorage. Just before that point, marked b
y a sparse grouping of meagre trees, there was a rough track branching to his right up the hilly fields. This should bring him fairly close to the house he had marked on his walk that morning: the one with the dovecote, Elias had said. The track, trail, or fourth-class road should lead to the house itself.

  He glanced back as he started the winding climb. All was peace. The town clustering at the other end of the bay was a spreading galaxy of lights surrounded by darkness: a string of naked bulbs along the breakwater; another on the road he had travelled around the bay; a bright glimmer from the hotel and houses spaced along the shore; riding lights on the cabin cruiser and sloop, seemingly asleep at their anchorage; and, far out beyond the breakwater, the brilliance of the inter-island boat, lit from stem to stern, like a beacon of welcome on the black water. Above him was the vast stretch of ink-blue sky over sea, some stars appearing gradually, the waning moon now five nights into its last quarter, softly silvered clouds blowing gently in from the north.

  The breeze touched his cheek, cooled his brow. Down on the road, he had run as lightly, as silently as possible whenever the patches of shadows had been deep enough. Now, on the open hillside, he climbed at a steady pace. If he was being watched, he wanted to give no impression of abnormal haste.

  Normal. That was to be his password.

  And he was being watched. From behind him, down at the small cluster of stunted trees that marked the cut-off, came the soft cooing of a dove. It was so natural that he almost believed it, except that another dove sounded immediately, plaintively, from one of the long retaining walls that stretched along the dark hillside back, towards Mykonos. He didn’t alter his pace or turn his head. But the careful warnings changed the house just above him, sheltering quietly behind its high white walls, from a place of comfortable innocence to something more formidable. The downstairs windows were shuttered, giving only a few streaks of light. Upstairs, everything was in darkness except for one window that lay at the extreme end of the house. Veronica’s, possibly. Certainly it overlooked the opposite side of the rough garden from where the dovecote stood.

  The front gate was unlocked. The garden was a mass of shadows. He slowed his pace, marking the path that branched left to the dovecote, the clusters of bushes, the grouping of small trees, as he followed the paved walk to the house. There was a porch in front, covered with climbing vines, and then the door.

  His mouth went dry. Name, rank and serial number. Or name, purpose of visit, reason for making it. And that’s all, he reminded himself as he reached the three steps to the porch. Keep it simple: that’s what Partridge advised you. And check your arsenal. The automatic was deep in his right-hand pocket; the knife in his left. He knocked on the door. Come on, come on, he thought irritably: you know someone is here; don’t tell me you haven’t radio contact between your man on the hillside and this house. The door opened.

  “Is Miss Clark ready?” Craig asked, clearly but pleasantly.

  The man who had opened the door, a dark silhouette against the light from the hall behind him, stood in stolid silence, unmoving. Then, “Come in,” he said, drawing aside.

  “That’s all right. I don’t want to trouble you. I can wait for Miss Clark out here on the porch.”

  “No trouble,” the man insisted. He spoke English well. His first hesitation had not been caused by any language difficulties; perhaps he had been puzzled by Craig’s direct approach or by his total lack of interest in gaining entry to the house. He had had his orders, for he now led the way directly towards a well-lighted room on the left side of the high-ceilinged hall. There was another room, opposite, and the clatter of plates being cleared. Dinner was already over. Early for Mykonos, thought Craig, glancing at the narrow staircase that began outside the dining-room door and mounted steeply to a wooden gallery under a curved arch. Veronica, he was asking her silently, didn’t you hear my voice? I spoke loudly enough.

  “Go in,” said the man, who was dressed like a servant in a black alpaca jacket and narrow bow tie and yet seemed very much his own master. He nodded to the arched doorway of the sitting-room, and Craig walked in. He halted, looking around, ready for anything; and tried to hide his sudden sense of foolishness. He had interrupted a bridge game. No more than that. The whole setup couldn’t have been more suburban. Three men and a woman at a green card table in a large and handsome room, shutters cosily closed, a coffee tray in front of a large fireplace, couches covered with roses, pink silk shades on a dozen fussy lamps, too many pictures, too much bric-à-brac.

  The woman rose and came forward to welcome him. She was a faded beauty but still strong and graceful in body. She had a charming smile, as soft as the low-necked lace blouse she wore with her long silk skirt. “Do come in,” she said in pleasantly accented English. She was, possibly, French.

  “I don’t want to disturb you.” Craig was keeping near the door, hanging on to his smile, which he hoped didn’t seem as unnatural as it felt. “I’ve come to help Veronica back to town with her overnight case. Has she finished packing?”

  “How very thoughtful of you, Mr.—”

  “Craig. John Craig.”

  “You are not disturbing us in the slightest. We were only cutting for deal.”

  The three men murmured their agreement but did not rise. Two were quiet-faced unknowns; but the third man, who now turned to look over his shoulder and nod across the room in greeting, froze Craig’s spine. He was Heinrich Berg. Insarov.

  “Do sit down, Mr. Craig,” the woman was saying in her best hostess style. She had a delicately studied way of pointing, with her palm held upwards, fingers relaxed.

  “No thank you. I can’t stay long. The party is just about to begin in town. Would you tell Veronica I’m here?”

  “A party?” asked Berg, rising, drifting slowly over to where Craig stood. His voice was politely interested, quiet and even to match the look in his eyes.

  Craig was forced to look back at him. “It’s to replace the one that fell flat on Delos.”

  “And Maritta?”

  “She is staying in town overnight, too.”

  “Why didn’t she come here for Miss Clark?” The blue eyes were disingenuous.

  He is measuring me, Craig thought. He is wondering if my smile is as stupid as I hope it looks: he is like a wrestler, circling around, arms lax, muscles loose. All right, I’ll be the fatuous American. “No taxis,” he replied, and laughed. They all smiled, as if they knew Maritta.

  “Jeanne,” said Berg, “why don’t you go upstairs and tell Miss Clark that her friend is here?”

  She nodded and went into the hall. If, thought Craig, I were to see her in a heavy sweater, yachting style, I might even identify her as the woman who brought Bradley so expertly across the harbour this evening.

  Berg was saying, “Miss Clark is a charming girl. But she worries us. Why does she want to leave this house? We think it is rather comfortable.” He smiled sadly back at his friends around the table, who nodded and agreed with an equally desolated smile. “In fact, Mr. Craig—Craig?”

  “Craig.”

  “We were a little hurt. After all, Maritta has been very kind, everyone has tried to make Miss Clark feel at home. Now why should she want to leave? Do you know?”

  Craig shook his head. “But I’d make one guess.”

  “Oh?” The blue eyes were blandly innocent, but the scarred eyebrow was more noticeable.

  “Transportation.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you were twenty-five, and a girl, and with all your friends living right in Mykonos, would you enjoy walking back and forth three times a day?”

  Berg stared at him. And then was amused. His silent friends were amused, too. “I suppose this house might seem inconvenient if one did not enjoy walking,” he agreed. “And Americans do not walk very much, do they?” He turned towards a servant who was carrying in a silver tray with bottle, snifters, and cigars. “Ah, here is the brandy. Will you join us, Mr. Craig? You know, I keep feeling we have met. Some
place. Where?”

  Craig looked thoughtful, polite. Then he smiled and shook his head. “I think,” he said, moving towards the hall, “I hear Veronica now.” He ignored the servant with the tray, although it was hard to be oblivious of someone he had shouldered off the jetty into the harbour only four hours ago. The man’s cold look pierced his shoulders. And I bet that quick whisper to Berg has nothing to do with the selection of a cigar, Craig thought. Now what happens? We were so close to leaving, so damned close. He smiled up the staircase and said, “Hallo, there! Everyone is gathering at Tony’s place. The fun starts any minute. Come on, Veronica, we’ll have to hurry.” He took her small night case. Her face was too pale, he noted; her eyes were frightened, her smile taut. She took his outstretched hand. Her fingers were ice cold, their clutch desperate. “We’ll get the rest of your things tomorrow, when we find a taxi. There wasn’t one in sight tonight. We’ll have to walk. Sorry.” He looked down at her shoes and saw with relief that they were fiat-heeled. “But there’s some moonlight, so a walk has its compensations,” he went on, still speaking rapidly, still trying to get her back to normal. Thank God she hadn’t blurted out some innocent question about what was he doing here or how had he known she was leaving. “Maritta is sorry the Delos picnic turned into such a rabble. We’ll have a better party right in town. You know, you should wear blue more often; it suits you.”

  She laughed at that. And the tight grip of his hand as he steadied her down the last few stairs was reassuring. “My trouble is I can’t resist wearing it,” she could joke back, and faced the men in the room with growing confidence. “Goodbye,” she said, still trying to keep her voice normal, walking on to the front door. “Goodbye,” she repeated to the woman, who followed them across the hall.

  Will we really be allowed to leave? Craig wondered. His back was turned to the two servants, now; his hands were fully occupied with Veronica and her small case. But the door was opened and he was thanking the faded glamour girl and calling good night in general over his shoulder. The door closed behind them. We made it, he thought, we made it.