Decision at Delphi

by Helen Macinnes

  “He wouldn’t leave Sicily without collecting all his cameras,” Strang agreed. “I think I’ll get in touch with the local police, though.”

  “That’s unnecessary. I’ve already been in touch with them.”

  Strang stared through the darkness.

  Christophorou said, “That isn’t as bad as I made it sound. Just a precaution. That is all. Really, Kenneth, I did not mean to worry you like this. You seemed to be taking everything so calmly”— Christophorou himself sounded worried. But not so much by Kladas, for he asked, “When do you plan to leave here?”

  “I was supposed to leave for Rome by the early plane from Catania on Monday.” Supposed to...but what now?

  “Then straight on to Athens? Keep that plan.”

  “But if Steve—”

  “Keep it!” Christophorou’s hand gripped Strang’s. “I want to see you in Athens. So keep it. Tomorrow—what were you going to do tomorrow?”

  “Spend the morning at the Greek theatre, the afternoon working in my room.”

  “Keep that plan, too. Good-bye, Kenneth.”

  “Good-bye—” Strang paused in embarrassment. He couldn’t say “Christophorou.” That might sound like a rebuff. Alexander? Aleco? Too familiar. “But I don’t think I’ll concentrate much on my work,” he said quickly. “Where is Steve’s hotel?”

  “I would rather you did not visit it. That would only complicate my life still more. I don’t want you in the picture at all, Kenneth. It is quite enough to have to worry about Stefanos Kladas.”

  “Are you sure you are not overworrying?” Strang asked slowly.

  “Quite sure.” Christophorou sounded most definite. “Goodbye, Kenneth.”

  “Good-bye,” Strang said again.

  Christophorou smiled as he moved out into the half-shadows. “Aleco would be quite suitable,” he said gently. “After all, one doesn’t measure friendship by length of time only; depth of time is just as valuable. And danger gives the greatest depths of all.”

  Now they could see each other’s faces again.

  “You aren’t quite sure of me, Kenneth, are you?” The smile on Christophorou’s face faded. “Yet I haven’t changed. I am still fighting, in my own way.”

  “I had hoped the fight was over.” Then Strang added, “But I suppose the barbarians never leave us.”

  “Barbarians?” Christophorou looked puzzled. At last, he remembered. “Ah, yes,” he said. “How can they leave? They are part of us all, perhaps.” He turned, stepped into the pool of lamplight, and made his way to the steps. The trees hid him.

  Strang walked by another path toward the balustrade. Now he could light a cigarette. He smoked it slowly, without any pleasure. “You aren’t quite sure of me, Kenneth, are you?” Aleco had asked, mistaking Strang’s worry and indecision for distrust. Come to think of it, Aleco had not been quite sure of Strang, either. That was a most unsatisfactory meeting in every way, Strang thought: I don’t know much more than I did, except that there is a feeling of disaster all around Steve. Disaster—he could feel it as deep and black as the night around him. Suddenly, he was chilled. The late breeze had a sharp edge. So had this feeling of inadequacy; this sense of having disappointed, this admission of having been disappointed. The truth was that he couldn’t tell Aleco about Steve’s case and its documents; they were Steve’s business, not his. And Aleco couldn’t have told Strang more about his problems; he felt, probably, that he had reached the farthest point of indiscretion, stretching it as far as he could because of—what? Friendship? Or necessity?

  I’d like to think it was both, Steve decided. He looked down for a moment longer at the vast stretch of sea so far below him. Three torches moved slowly across the dark water, just off shore. They were night fishing, down there. Now that’s what I’d like to be doing, he thought; right now, I’d like to be in one of those small boats, drifting along, nothing to think about except the curious fish swimming nearer and nearer the flickering torches, nothing to worry about except making the oars dip silently, keeping our voices low, nothing to watch except the scattered lights on the hillsides under this huge canopy of star-sprinkled sky.

  He dropped his cigarette, ground it out with his heel, and started the long walk back to his room. If Steve didn’t turn up by tomorrow morning, he was going to the police.

  Among the antiques in the shadowed corridor, the facchino was dozing in a high-backed chair. But the sound of Strang’s light footstep, deadened as it was by the heavy rug, was enough to rouse him. He called over, “There is a message in your room, signore. It came ten minutes ago.” He acknowledged Strang’s thanks with a polite, “Buona notte!” and lapsed into his private brooding again. The hotel, thought Strang, had become message-conscious after last night’s constant inquiries. Also, his room was guarded well. Nothing, he verified as he glanced around it, had been disturbed. As always, his luggage and Steve’s small case lay neatly together. He looked at Steve’s case for an extra moment, and turned to pick up the large envelope propped against his travelling clock on the dressing table. Another fake, he thought bitterly, and then saw that the address was in Steve’s handwriting.

  The envelope was, strangely, unsealed. Did Steve not care if anyone read his business! It contained two photographs of the Greek theatre at Syracuse, and a lined page torn roughly from a cheap notebook. In Steve’s hand, and it was Steve’s large sprawl, read the bleak message: “Sorry I haven’t been able to see you, but must leave immediately for Greece. I have mailed all photographs and negatives to Papa Preston. Here are copies of the final Syracuse effort. Hope you approve. Stefanos.”

  Strang’s first reaction was one of enormous relief: Steve had collected the rest of his luggage and left; Christophorou worried too much. Then he reread the note, and—unbelievingly—read it a third time. He sat down on the edge of his bed. What was that about mailing photographs and negatives to Lee Preston? Steve was running out on the job. No, he couldn’t be. Steve had too much good sense to end his career with a whimper. Strang looked at the enclosed photographs. They were magnificent. Fine composition, dramatic use of shadows, good texture of stone, silk-smooth sky, and a perfect balance of gentle cloud.

  But the note—he looked back at it again. Not so good. Too casual. Not one mention of a meeting in Athens, or of that blasted case he had been carrying around for Steve. In a way, Steve’s offhand attitude was completely comic when you balanced it with all the worry and fuss he had been stirring up in Taormina. Either you had to laugh at yourself or you had to lose your temper with Steve. He decided to laugh. And then he wondered if the unsealed envelope and the casual note were not connected: anyone reading it would see that he had not met Steve in Taormina, would have no suspicion that Steve’s case was among his luggage.

  He rose, threw the note and the photographs on the dressing table. Lee Preston had been right, all along. Steve hadn’t his mind fixed on his job, not on this trip. He wondered gloomily if he should sit right down and compose a letter to Preston now; it might be wise to prepare him for the idea that another photographer might be needed for Greece. But he was depressed enough, as it was. He decided he had had quite enough of duty for one day; tonight, he was going out on the town. There had been a little place, when he had been making the rounds last night in search of Steve (and where had Steve been then—in a cosy little room with one of those cheerful Swedish blondes who had invaded Taormina by the bus load?) which looked a very promising spot to begin an evening.

  He was changing his shirt, struggling with a stiff cuff link, when the telephone rang.

  “Yes?” he asked curtly.

  “Kenneth?” It was Christophorou. “I have good news for you.”

  “Let me guess. Could it be that our friend has arrived and left?”

  “Yes. How did you—”

  “I got a note.”

  “Telephone?”

  “Not this time. Handwritten. The genuine article.”

  There was a little pause. “Could I see you?”


  “Well—I was just going out.”

  “Just a brief visit.” Aleco sounded anxious. “I am leaving early tomorrow morning.”

  Ah, well, thought Strang resignedly, wasn’t this always the way? “How long will it take you to get here?”

  “Forty seconds,” Aleco said with a laugh, and put down the receiver.

  Aleco’s sense of humour was returning, Strang thought. Or was he staying at this hotel? On this corridor? That could explain the sad-eyed maid who played courier for a nice fat tip. He began buttoning his shirt with all speed, and crossed over to the door to unlock it and leave it open one small inch. He was reaching for a tie when Christophorou stepped in, closed the door quietly, and locked it again.

  “Aren’t you taking a chance,” Strang asked with a grin as he knotted his tie, “walking all that distance of three doors away to my room?”

  “Four doors away.” Christophorou was smiling, too; but he was still security-conscious to some extent, for, as he walked over to the desk, ostensibly to look at the sketches, he closed the shutters.

  “We’ll be parboiled in here.”

  “Better that than broadcasting our voices all over the terrace,” Christophorou said a little sharply. “Even if you did get a note that reassured you, you must still be careful. Please remember that, Kenneth!”

  Strang turned away from fixing his tie in the looking glass and picked up Steve’s note. “I suppose you’d like to see it,” he said. “It came with these photographs in that envelope.”

  “Thank you,” Christophorou said gravely. He began to read. Strang could study his face properly. Perhaps the cold glare from the terrace lights had been too cruel. Certainly Alexander Christophorou was much older, and thinner; but now, his face seemed less taut, less bleakly sculptured. It was a quiet, thoughtful face, restrained, as all his movements were restrained. Even his clothes—a dark-blue suit, a white shirt, a narrow dark-blue tie tightly knotted—were neat understatement. Here, Strang felt, was a capable man, a clever man, with few illusions left. The optimism and confident hope that had marked him so strongly, fifteen years ago, might still be there; but now they were under strong discipline, strong control. “So Stefanos Kladas has left,” he was saying now. He handed the note back to Strang. “You accept this? It is definitely in his handwriting?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “I wonder,” Christophorou said slowly, “when this note arrived. And how.”

  “That’s easy enough to find out,” Strang said, and moved quickly to the telephone. His call to the night porter did not take long. “The envelope was delivered at ten o’clock, by a taxicab driver.”

  Christophorou was watching him thoughtfully.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Strang asked quickly.

  “Nothing,” Christophorou said reassuringly. “I suppose Stefanos Kladas hired a cab to get to the station, and gave the driver the envelope to deliver to you.”

  “To get to the Catania airport,” Strang corrected him. “Steve always travels by air. Hates the sea.”

  Christophorou looked surprised. “But with all his equipment, surely—”

  “Always by air. His expense account takes care of any excess baggage. No, you wouldn’t catch Steve taking any train to get on to the Messina ferry for the mainland. Besides, he seems to be in a hurry to get to Greece.”

  Christophorou was frowning down at the desk by which he still stood.

  “You are worried,” Strang said. He began to worry, too. “You don’t like Steve’s letter being delivered so late? Should we check on that cab driver?”

  Christophorou roused himself. “The cab driver?” He considered that question. “No. He was probably only following definite instructions. By ten o’clock, Stefanos Kladas would be well away from Taormina, and you would not feel tempted to call the airport to try to get in touch with him.”

  “I might call the airport, at that, and find out exactly when Steve did leave.”

  “That’s hardly necessary. I’ll have to make inquiries at the airport, so why should you? Let Stefanos Kladas have his way. He obviously wanted to slip out of Taormina.”

  “I wish everything else was as obvious,” Strang said sharply. “It seems to me that if everyone would just stop being so damned enigmatic—”

  “Including you, Kenneth?”

  Strang looked at Christophorou in surprise.

  “We all have our reasons. Mine are, simply, that I want to localise this danger, keep it from spreading. I think that is Stefanos Kladas’s idea, too. Certainly he has been avoiding contact with you. Otherwise, you would have found your life becoming extremely—complicated.”

  “What do you call it now?” Strang wanted to know. “All right, all right—I’m lucky. I’m the one who has nothing to worry about.” He restrained himself from looking over at Steve’s case. “So Steve has gone into hiding. Is that what you are telling me? But from whom?”

  “You have no idea?”

  “None.”

  “The difficulty with a man like Stefanos Kladas is that he thinks he can fight trouble by himself.”

  “Would it be tactless if I were to draw your attention to my poor little question left hanging in the air? It’s turning black in the face.”

  Christophorou smiled. “Have you ever heard a Greek admit he did not know the answer to a question?”

  “Only a Greek could say that. I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Perhaps,” said Christophorou, “I can answer your question when we meet in Athens.”

  “You need to consult the files, is that it?” Strang asked half jokingly. And certainly not newspaper files. “You really have become security-minded.”

  But Christophorou’s joking mood had passed. “You think I am too cautious, that I worry too much? Twice in my life, I worried not enough. And twice, I paid for that.” His voice was harsh, stilted, as if bitter memories had him by the throat.

  “Aleco—” Strang began impulsively, and stopped.

  Christophorou’s voice became gentle. “Perhaps you feel that I trust nobody. Is that what really upsets you?”

  “Perhaps your job doesn’t allow much trust in anybody,” Strang said. “And I’m not upset.” Or am I? A ridiculous word, in any case.

  “Yet what is this talk we are having, except a demonstration of trust? Yes, I still trust my friends. The only change in me, Kenneth, is that I no longer trust the enemy, not even when he smiles, not even when he offers gifts. He is always dangerous; most dangerous when he seems most innocent.”

  “But if your enemy has a change of heart?”

  “The more he changes, the more he is the same.”

  “You’ve become a thorough pessimist, Aleco,” Strang said, but his voice was sympathetic. “You have had reason enough,” he added, remembering Greece in 1944.

  Christophorou’s eyes were just a little amused.

  “But don’t be too harsh on the Westerners,” Strang said quickly. “.If we seem a little slow in understanding Greece, well—there’s always a big difference between those who were actually in a fight for existence and those who watched. All the sympathy in the world doesn’t quite bridge that gulf. Take that terrible story of mass kidnapping, for instance.”

  Christophorou looked at him. In surprise?

  “We aren’t totally ignorant in America,” Strang said. “How many children in Greece were kidnapped by the Communists, fter the Nazi war was over? Fifty thousand?” The number defeated any civilised mind. Thousands of children, thousands, had been seized in raids on the villages, had been taken north over the borders by the Communist bands operating out of Albania, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria. “And how many ever got back?” Strang asked. “Oh, yes, eleven thousand were returned from Yugoslavia when Tito quarrelled with Stalin. But the others?”

  Christophorou said nothing. His face was hard, a suffering mask of stone.

  I shouldn’t have talked so much, Strang thought. I’m a man from a country that has never known that kind of ruthless, political blackm
ail, has never had its children kidnapped by the thousands and taken into hostile countries. I should have kept my mouth shut. He turned away. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and picked up Steve’s photographs.

  “That is your job,” Christophorou said, pointing to them. “Stay with it.” Then he added, surprised, “I had no idea you felt so strongly—”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Strang asked sharply. “My God—” He stared at Christophorou. He tried to lighten his voice. “You really must have a pretty low opinion of Westerners.”

  “No, no! It is just that your own interests are so far removed from present-day politics.”

  “This isn’t an escape into the past,” Strang said, holding up the photographs. “Every time I look at its ruins, I remember the barbarians who made them. I also remember the men who built. What is left of their work has still got enough vision to silence most of us. And give us some much-needed hope, frankly. If man can build, he isn’t altogether lost. If he has done it once, he can do it again.” His own seriousness embarrassed him. He could never talk about this adequately, somehow. “The past and the present aren’t so far removed,” he added, still on the defensive, but smiling. “They are just separate rooms in the same house, and if you unlock the doors they all connect.”

  “I wonder,” said Christophorou. He was preparing to leave. He seemed abstracted. “You are an incurable optimist, Kenneth. But have you ever given serious thought to your—opposition? The barbarians, you’ve always called them. They are formidable people, a powerful enemy. They just can’t be dismissed in a contemptuous phrase, you know.” He reached the door and hesitated. “Do you know anything about nihilists?”

  Strang, half annoyed, was yet surprised. He thought of The Possessed.” Only what I read in Dostoevski,” he admitted. He waited.

  But Christophorou merely nodded. He unlocked the door. “Stefanos Kladas ought to be in Athens by this time. Stop worrying about him, Kenneth.”

  “Will you?”

  “That is my job. Or perhaps I am an incurable pessimist.” He smiled, then. His voice was confident, reassuring. “Kalé nichta!”