Decision at Delphi

by Helen Macinnes

  “He has original ideas in classrooms.”

  “But where else, meanwhile? We are still searching for a flat—I think we’ve got one, actually—and I couldn’t have Yorghis in our hotel bedroom, and I certainly couldn’t go to his room, and we tried the hotel lobby, and so we came here.” She pushed over a notebook for Strang to admire. “See what I learned in one hour—all about streets and traffic and people. It’s really a very practical way of doing things.”

  “You don’t waste time, do you?” He signalled to a waiter.

  “Well, I haven’t much time to waste. I have to know how to manage a household in Greek, you know.”

  “Unless you got an English-speaking cook.”

  She shook her head. “George likes to speak Greek. We are going to get a maid from one of the islands.”

  “That’s much more authentic,” he agreed. “I hope she comes from an island strong on decorative costume.”

  She looked at him, and then decided to smile. “And how are you?”

  “All right.” He signalled again for the waiter. “Don’t they want people to order?” he asked.

  “Now,” she said gently, “you know that time doesn’t matter here.”

  “Oh, so that’s the explanation for all that slow traffic. I wondered.”

  “Now,” she said again, a little anxiously, “you don’t sound like yourself at all. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Fine, just fine.”

  “How is your work?”

  He was amused in spite of himself. Whenever George’s work was going badly, his temper must obviously shorten. “I’ve just had too little sleep. And I’m thirsty,” he said. “And how have you found Athens?” There was no need to ask how she felt. She was glowing. Today, she was wearing black, but nothing could dull down her skin and eyes.

  “I’ve never met so many people so quickly and all at once. They’re terribly hospitable, aren’t they? I didn’t quite expect all this—Cyprus, you know. However, lots of people seem to remember George. And that’s nice.”

  “So you’ve been partying like mad.” He looked once more for the waiter.

  “George is too busy. I have to go and make excuses for him, so no one feels we aren’t grateful. Two on Sunday, three yesterday. Imagine!”

  “You love every moment of it, so don’t expect sympathy,” he told her. “But didn’t you just arrive on Sunday?”

  “Yes,” she said delightedly, “and there were the invitations, all waiting for us. George, of course, was hauled away to a meeting, scarcely had time to wash his hands, one of those all-evening-intonight sessions.” She lowered her voice. “Cyprus. It’s all settled, but it isn’t settled, if you know what I mean. Terribly worrying. I’ve scarcely seen George in those last two days —There’s a waiter now!” she said quickly.

  “Impossible! It must be a mirage.” But he could order, at least. Now all he had to do was to wait for the beer to be brewed.

  The theme of parties seemed to fascinate her, for she went on about them. Or perhaps, with that small frown knitting her eyebrows, she had some doubts which she hoped to talk out and away. That is the trouble about having a hard-worked husband, Strang thought gloomily: she has to find a sympathetic uncle with a bendable ear, and I’m it.

  She was saying, at the end of a description of her first party, “Wasn’t that just my luck? George says I was an idiot to go to that one. But how was I to know? I wouldn’t have gone, really, if Evgenia Vasilika had not telephoned and said she had known my father, and I was just to come without George, and she even sent her car to collect me and bring me back in time for a dinner with some of the other embassy wives. I was all alone at the hotel, and it seemed such a good way to put in the next three hours. But I did have to pay for it all, next day.” She sighed. “You saw her inviting us to her table in the bar, didn’t you? I couldn’t snub her. And George couldn’t snub me. So I had to go and sit with her, and George had to follow. Oh, dear!” she ended, probably remembering an after-scene with an angry husband. “But it was really such a pure party—just tea and cakes, and people sitting around talking about art and literature. Lots of people, too, mostly foreigners: Americans and English and French. Even some diplomats from the smaller legations. If they all like Evgenia Vasilika, why don’t the Greeks?”

  “Perhaps she is a social-climber using a cheque-book and a sharp elbow.”

  “Oh, now! Her family was terribly distinguished—all generals and patriots and heroes in the long-ago wars. George says she is a dabbler, trying to prove she is better than they were.”

  “What does she dabble in? Politics?”

  “She used to. That was the trouble, perhaps. But now it’s all art and literature. She seems to know everything and everyone.” Caroline Ottway hesitated. “She talked about you. I shouldn’t be surprised if she asks you and your friend Mr. Kladas to her next salon.”

  Strang recovered from his own surprise. “Thanks for the warning.”

  Caroline was delighted. “How nice and quick you are! Of course, you might have wanted to go, but George says she is really pure arsenic to him. Men often agree on women, don’t they?”

  Strang looked at her in amazement. So, all this conversation had been leading up to just that: a friendly little warning about an invitation that might descend on him unexpectedly.

  “I think George is too cruel about her,” she said, registering her own small opinion. “I must leave. I have a luncheon at one o’clock.” She began putting her notebook away.

  “Not so fast,” he said. “I’m a bit stupid this morning. Who talked about Steve and me? Miss Vasilika or you?”

  She looked a little flustered. “It was just part of a conversation. You know...”

  “But I don’t know.”

  “I mean, your name came up and I said how nice you were. But if you make me late for my luncheon, I’ll take it all back, Kenneth Strang!”

  “So my name came up, did it?”

  “Well, she was interested in your work for Perspective. That came up first. She knows quite a lot about ruins.”

  “And she wondered however such a job could be done, and did Kladas and I work closely together, so very difficult with two such different media as photography and drawing?”

  Caroline Ottway’s radiance had gone. “Not exactly.” She looked at him warily. “But I did say you were working alone when I met you in Taormina.”

  “And that Steve and I had probably planned our work ahead, when we were together in Naples?”

  “Not exactly,” she repeated. “But shouldn’t I have mentioned Naples?”

  He looked at her. Evgenia Vasilika had questioned her on Sunday. Monday, he had arrived, and within a few hours his luggage had been searched. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said at last.

  “I never even breathed the name of—” she lowered her voice—“of Yannis.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  “And I brushed all mention of Stefanos Kladas aside, I really did. I said I had never actually met him, just seen him with you in Naples. What was wrong with that? I mean—you weren’t there in secret, were you?”

  “No, no. It’s just that I don’t like people sticking their long, sharp noses into something that is none of their blasted business.”

  “You sound like George. Only your choice of adjectives is different.” She shook her head, still contrite, but recovering visibly. “Honestly, I didn’t start that conversation. It just—”

  “I know,” he agreed. “It just happened.” He rose. “You’ll be late for your luncheon.”

  “So will everyone else; only women are going to be there.” She tried to laugh. It was little nervous, but her natural good humour was returning. “I am sorry, Kenneth.” The use of his first name was a nice little bit of appeasement. “You must come to dinner as soon as we are settled in our flat,” she called over her shoulder. “And do bring your friend Mr. Kladas, too, won’t you?” She waved a prettily gloved little hand, and passed the rows of admiring tab
les, God in His Heaven, all well with the world.

  Pringle had said, “Put all this behind you...” But that wasn’t so easy, not with Miss Caroline around. The question had been raised, and it would not lie down: what had the descendant of generals, patriots, and heroes to do with all this? Six weeks ago, in New York, he would have raised an eyebrow, murmured something about mere coincidence. But in the last few days he had learned one small truth: coincidences were not always meaningless pieces of chance—they only seemed that way to the unsuspecting. What a blissful state ignorance had been!

  The porter’s desk had a cable for him. “It came just after you went out, Mr. Strang,” the porter said, tactfully disclosing his efficient interest in all his guests. It was a very long cable from Lee Preston. Strang went into the bar to study it in comfort. There were fewer flowered hats and more men at this time of day. He chose a table in the farthest corner from the door and ordered a Scotch. He needed some stronger support than beer. Long cables didn’t carry birthday wishes.

  Translated from its peculiar jargon into good republican English, the cable was quite clear. The search for an immediate replacement in photographers had been intense. Johnnie Kupheimer was in Alaska. Bradley Summers had shingles. Sean O’Malley had three weeks to go in Reno. Only possible solution: C. L. Hillard, arriving immediately.

  I knew it, Strang told himself, I knew it! Preston wanted her, in the first place.

  Then he calmed down, admitting that if he had accepted C. L. Hillard, in the first place, there wouldn’t be any present difficulties for Perspective. He read on. Preston’s next words hinted as much. NO PROBLEMS NOW. HILLARD FULLY BRIEFED. KNOWLEDGEABLE ABOUT ANCIENT GREECE, BUT NERVOUS. PLEASE TREAT KINDLY, YOU LUMMOX.

  As if, Strang thought angrily, I didn’t know how to handle women. Then the comic side of the message struck him; only, today, he wasn’t feeling very comic. This morning, he had made a good attempt to hold back thoughts about Steve. Now, the wall had been breached, the flood of questions kept pouring through. How had Steve walked into the trap that had cost him his life? Steve had dodged traps before; he knew what the words “treachery” and “ruthlessness” really meant. How had he been caught this time? And who had set the trap, who had closed it?

  This isn’t doing any good at all, he admitted with his third Scotch. I am just circling around, not even pointing at any solution. Leave it to Aleco and Pringle and those impressive four rows of medals. That combination ought to be able to pounce on the answer. Which reminds me, I ought to get in touch with Aleco and tell him of this woman Vasilika and her most opportune questions about Naples. And I ought to phone Preston and tell him to delay C. L. Hillard for one week, perhaps two, for safety, until this mess is all cleared up; there’s no need to drag her into the contamination area. How quick is “immediately”? She’ll need passport and shots and vaccination... I’d better start that call to Preston right away. And I’ll have to break the news about Steve, too.

  He postponed that, by calling Aleco first. A man’s voice said that Mr. Christophorou wasn’t at his desk; any message? Strang left his name and said he could be found at his hotel.

  Then he started a call to Preston’s home number—it would be just about shower-and-shaving time in New York—and had a sandwich and coffee while he waited for contact. His meals, he thought, were symbolic of the way his life was going these days: haphazard. He had better warn Preston that he would be doing no real work for a week or so. How could anyone concentrate on prostyle or peripteral, on the balance of a cornice over an architrave or the composition of the frieze between? That only sounded like double talk to him at this moment. Who could keep his mind on his work if he knew that tomorrow might see another Sarajevo that began with the assassination of one man and ended in the deaths of millions?

  His call never did reach Preston, who had already left to catch a plane to Washington. So Strang went out to one of the little kiosks at a nearby corner, bought every variety of newspaper, from extreme left through liberal and moderate to extreme right, and went back into the bar to wait for Aleco. The papers would keep him usefully occupied, giving him some idea (allowing for his by-guess-and-by-God method of translation) of present-day politics in Greece, and some much-needed practice in the language itself. But nowhere could he find any mention of Steve’s death.

  There probably was a reason for that. Yet it was odd to feel himself so thoroughly shut away from all news of developments: for almost a week—yes, it had been a week ago since he had arrived in Taormina—he had known something was going on, even if he had only seen part of the story. Now, nothing. He was on the outside, completely, and couldn’t even glimpse in.

  Gradually, the bar began to fill. What a hell of a way to spend a good afternoon, he thought angrily, noticing his mound of cigarette stubs, pushing the papers aside, ordering another drink to keep his elbow hold on this table. A flotilla of flowered hats had eyed it as an excellent vantage point for tea, and then had sailed on regretfully when he showed no signs of gallantry or surrender.

  Bob Pringle came in with two other Americans, left them to speak to some Greek friends, circulated a little, stopped to speak again, and then—apparently—caught his first glimpse of Strang and came over for a quick handshake. “Can’t stay but a minute,” he said. He glanced down at the newspapers. “I see you’re doing what I’ve been doing.”

  Strang said in surprise, “I thought you never needed to read newspapers.”

  “It’s always interesting to see how stories are treated.”

  “I’m too impatient, I guess.” Strang dropped his voice. “But it would have been nice to read that a bunch of crooks had been rounded up. Just so that we could all go back to our own jobs again.” Pringle’s pleasant, even-featured face, whose chief distinction was its total lack of expression, gave him no clue. So he risked a direct question. “Were the documents of any use at all?”

  Pringle looked at him for a thoughtful moment. “I can’t say. Because I don’t know.” He sat down, with his back to the room, and said, “Do you know what they were about?”

  “No.”

  Pringle looked actually baffled. “I hope they are handling it properly,” he said, almost to himself.

  “Greeks aren’t stupid.”

  “Not even their enemies can call them that,” Pringle conceded, but his face, hadn’t recovered its usual benign diplomatic calm. “Those two men last night—when I saw them, I almost flipped. Too late, then, of course, to say anything.”

  “Didn’t you know them?” Strang was alarmed.

  “Oh, they are authentic, all right. But—” He paused, shrugged with a good Greek accent. “The Colonel had a fine war record. All those medals are for real. In the last ten years, though, he has just been collecting dust, ever since they put him in an office and called it Intelligence. The other guy you met last night is temporarily attached to Intelligence as a political expert. But his politics keep interfering with his intelligence. Also, he’s nursing a bad ulcer.” Pringle paused again. “Oh, blast all political ambitions,” he said angrily.

  “Perhaps the two of them work well together.”

  “That is what worries me most. On the surface, all politeness. Underneath, they hate each other’s guts. The civilian is quite sure the Colonel’s medals are eatable, chocolate wrapped in gold foil. That’s the only kind he ever had himself.”

  “Then why,” asked Strang, “did Aleco contact them?”

  “They were the only ones available last night at such short notice. Everything was arranged pretty quickly, you’ll agree.”

  “It might have been wiser to have postponed my visit to you till today.”

  “Well, we didn’t,” Pringle said dryly, sharing the blame with Aleco. “Too much haste—that old toe-stubber.” He thought for a moment. “If I hear nothing but the thunders of silence, I’ll make inquiries in a few places to see that these two aren’t wasting valuable hours jockeying for position. They will each want full credit for solving this problem. Th
at may be the trouble, I’m afraid. I don’t know much about Zafiris—that’s the Colonel—but four rows of medals aren’t going to give way to any ulcerated civilian. What do you think?”

  “Aleco will keep an eye on them, I’m pretty sure. They are his choice, after all.”

  “Both eyes, I hope. By the way—I came over to tell you about Steve Kladas. The Italian police think his death was either accident or suicide.”

  “How?”

  “He fell from the ferry, between Sicily and Italy.”

  “You told me his body had been found on the southwestern tip of Italy.”

  “The currents in the Strait of Messina play peculiar tricks. His luggage, certainly, came across in the ferry. The police found it in Reggio yesterday. Some of the cameras had disappeared, which is only to be expected.”

  “Yesterday? But they looked in Reggio on Sunday and found nothing.” That was what Christophorou had said.

  It was Pringle’s turn to look surprised. “No,” he said, “the police only entered the picture after the body was found. That was at dawn, Monday. Yesterday. Kladas, I’m afraid, wasn’t very recognisable, but tracing him was easy because of his clothes and passport and money. Nothing had been stolen from him. So the police started checking his movements. Not much success there, but they did find that his luggage had gone over to Reggio on the ferry from Messina. It had been lying there since Saturday.” His voice was sympathetic. It was a very ugly business, altogether. “We’ll never know the real story,” he said. Then he rose, and his voice became brisk once more. “About that other matter—I’ll keep prodding quietly. But it’s a tricky business, you know, making inquiries without giving the appearance of interfering in Greek affairs. That’s taboo, definitely. Good-bye, Strang. My wife will call you towards the end of the week and ask you to dinner.” Pringle had a most engaging smile when he was not worried. “I hope you’ll come,” he added warmly.

  “I’d like to. Thanks. And I hope—”

  “There’s Aleco!” Pringle cut in quickly. He lowered his voice. “No need to tell him I am a little depressed by his choice.”