Decision at Delphi

by Helen Macinnes

  As for Katherini Roilos...a futile escape ending-in a strange return to Kriton Street. And only three sentences spoken: “Come, Maria. We have friends. We can escape.” But the fools had seized her, and she had said nothing more. In spite of questioning, nothing. Then, even as Andreas was telephoning the news of the girl’s return, the police had broken into the house. Andreas had been talking about a truck which he and Sideros had followed. What truck? Andreas was under close arrest, Sideros was dead. What truck? What friends did Roilos have?

  The small unanswerable questions... They always arose. Where was Evgenia Vasilika? She scarcely mattered, merely one of Elektra’s sycophants. There would be more scandal than danger if she had been arrested. Yorghis’s arrest had been for the simple matter of defrauding his employers. It was fortunate that the arrest had not occurred before he handed over the Ottway woman’s camera. It had reached Cyprus yesterday, all nicely prepared, even Caroline Ottway’s initials added to the leather carrying case. Ottway was in Cyprus now. Why? Part of his normal duties? Soon they would be over. Permanently. Yorghis, stupid in some things, had been clever about that. Ottway’s career would never recover.

  But more important than Vasilika or Yorghis or the pawns captured at Kriton Street—mostly belonging, fortunately, to Elektra and Sideros—was the question of Stefanos Kladas. The last report received said he had been taken off the Medea, and was imprisoned in a fisherman’s hut; further instructions were awaited. The instructions had been sent yesterday, but no answer had come back. Why? Had he been executed? Or had he escaped? If he had, he was practically naked. No money. Helpless. He would head over the mountains to Thalos. Yes, he had friends there; but there was also the shepherd Levadi, who would report Stefanos Kladas to the farm Sideros had set up as a stronghold, only five kilometres north of Thalos. Levadi hated a deserter; Levadi accepted any command if he thought it came from Elektra. A simple creature, that Levadi, his hate and trust never changing. There was, too, the practical reward: a hut on one of the slopes of Parnassos, a few sheep, a dog. How easy it was to satisfy some men’s dreams.

  The biggest question of all was Zafiris. No one in Athens paid him a second thought: one of those honest, dull soldiers whose politeness covered their uneasiness when they faced brain power. How painful it had been to see him, in these last two or three years, dutifully attending every reception in Athens, stolid and bewildered, a tiger put to live on an iceberg. Such men would face a tank division more confidently than wit or intelligence.

  Zafiris.

  Was that his man at the window across the street? The man seemed to have gone now. Had he?

  Christophorou spoke aloud. “Nonsense!” he told himself. “You are exhausted. That is why you worry. Get to bed! Sleep! Then you will not keep thinking, at this useless moment, of the small things you may have left undone. The big things are assured.”

  He moved through the small hall toward his bedroom, switching on its light. A scrap of paper caught his eye. It lay almost at the threshold of the front door. He must have walked over it when he entered. It was a hastily scrawled note on a small sheet torn from a diary. “Have tried to reach you all day. Telephone immediately.” The signature was his sister’s.

  His sister? Yes. The writing was genuine. No doubt, the old man had decided to have a deathbed scene. Very touching-that he should be invited to join it. And on such a day! He could imagine himself. He had said his good-bye to them all fifteen years ago. How like his sister to insist on forgiveness for everyone, blessings for all. Nothing was ever final, with such women. And even if he did take her at her word—“Telephone immediately”—she would be angry with his thoughtlessness in disturbing the household at dawn. He crumpled the note and carried it into the bedroom to throw in the trash basket. He paused at the window before he closed its curtains. Yes, someone was standing at the window opposite; someone had just opened it a little. As if he had smoked too many cigarettes in that room? Had he been waiting there so long that the air had turned stale?

  Christophorou drew the curtains closed, switched on his light. It might be just as well to make sure he had a quick exit all ready. He left the light bright in his bedroom—let any curious eyes note that!—and went into the kitchen. He unbolted the back door, and listened. Nothing. He ran lightly down the short flight of stairs to the basement corridor, taking out his keys. He would rest better—sleep was out of the question now— knowing that this door into the yard and the padlock on the gate outside were unlocked.

  His key jammed in the lock. He had to struggle with it to get it out. He tried again, more carefully. It wouldn’t unlock, but jammed again. Again he had a battle to pull it free.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Christophorou!” the caretaker said in relief, her head cautiously poking around her half-opened door. “I’ve been that scared since last night—”

  “I thought I heard a noise in the yard. But none of my keys fit. Where is yours?”

  Her head disappeared. In a moment, she was back, a coat slipped over her nightdress, her feet clattering in her late husband’s slippers.

  “Sh!” he told her. “We don’t want to give anyone any warning out there.” He took the key. It turned easily in the look.

  “It’s a new key,” she whispered.

  “Did you lose the old one?”

  She looked indignant. But before she could start on one of her endless self-justifications, he entered the yard. His key for the padlock would not work, either. Quickly he retreated back to the corridor, noticing as he passed through the yard that it had been tidied up. The coil of rope, the ladder, which had lain so long there, unquestioned, hidden behind a clutter of packing cases, had been removed with the crates themselves. Only the improvised hen house remained, with its four miserable pullets.

  “No one is loitering out there,” he told the woman. “Have you got a key for the gate, by the way?”

  She shrugged. “The gate is never used now. What do I need with a key? If the landlord wasn’t so mean, he would build a real wall.” Then she dropped her voice. “He must have screamed when the police made him change the locks. Such expense!”

  “Police?” He kept his voice light. “Are they expecting burglars?”

  The woman said nervously, “No, no. It’s those deaths. Some men were looking at the locks last night.”

  “What men?”

  “They were here before the police came. First, there were two of them—a Greek and a foreigner with him. An American. And then a lot more came; a soldier—an officer, too. They went up the back stairs.” Her eyes widened. “With guns,” she whispered. “So quietly!”

  “An American? That’s not very likely.”

  “He was an American,” she insisted. “He was telling the Greek something about that door. The Greek went into the yard, too. I heard him trying the gate. Then the others came— and they went upstairs.”

  “They must have been the police,” he told her.

  “No. When the police came later, the officer—a colonel, I heard someone call him—and his men left.”

  “And the American,” he said. “Don’t forget your American.”

  “He didn’t leave with them. He left with a girl—”

  “A girl?”

  “About this height.” She gestured above his shoulders. “A scarf over her head, I couldn’t see her properly. But fine stockings and shoes with heels so tall and thin that—”

  “How very odd,” he said, to break the flow of description.

  “They came down in the elevator and left with another American. His car was waiting outside for them.”

  “Did the police allow that?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “What kind of car?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Well,” he said, locking the door, handing her back the keys, “I am glad to see we are being so well guarded. I suppose the police have some men in Mr. Drakon’s apartment?”

  “They searched and took photographs all morning. They sealed the door
, and went away. But they’ve left two men in the street.”

  “Yes. I saw them.” Two on the street, for everyone to see. How reassuring. Was that why they were there, so obviously? He turned away, thoughtfully.

  “Oh, Mr. Christophorou!” she called after him. “There was a lady here today. She came twice. She wouldn’t leave the note in your letter box, wouldn’t even give it to me.” There was a hint of renewed complaint in the woman’s voice. “She—”

  “Yes, yes. I got it all right.” He ran upstairs to the kitchen door and bolted it behind him.

  It could have been Strang, the girl could have been Hillard. Impossible. Or had they been visiting Tommy? Hardly, at that hour. Still. And a colonel. And who was the other American, with a car?

  Even without finding any definite answers, he did not like this at all, not one bit of it. The back entrances so cleverly made useless. Not one bit.

  He entered his bedroom, looked at the telephone, and hesitated. His sister had refused to leave that note with the caretaker; that sounded strange. He picked up the receiver. He did not have to wait for anyone to be wakened up and come slowly to answer his call. It was his sister’s voice, too, as if she had been sitting beside the telephone.

  “Ah, yes,” she said. “Please wait one moment.”

  He lit a cigarette, his eyes narrowing. Her voice had been tired, tense, but not emotional. So there was no illness in the house. And whom had she gone to fetch? Not his father, not at this hour. The old man scarcely ever would use the telephone, even at midday. But it was his father’s voice, cold, impersonal, with no greeting, no first name, nothing but a plunge into a bare statement, which sharply broke the silence.

  “Yesterday morning, I had a visitor. An official visitor. I was asked to identify a certain ring.”

  Christophorou’s cigarette was crushed between his fingers. “Ring?” he repeated, almost stupidly.

  “I identified it. It was my duty—as a citizen. And now, as your father—” The old voice hesitated.

  Fantastic, Christophorou thought, and typical. First he informs against me, and then tells me about it. “It is your sad duty to warn me?” he asked, bitingly. How could such people ever win? Doing their smug duty in the name of so-called justice, and then helping that very justice to be evaded. They had lost even before they began to fight.

  “No—to urge you to make an honourable end.”

  “End?” He frowned, understood, and almost laughed. Now this is ridiculous! What ring are you talking about?” His mind was alert again. I have that ring, he thought, I have it where you could not possibly discover it.

  “You know what ring—”

  “Nonsense! This whole thing is absolute nonsense.”

  “You will not find it so easy to persuade Colonel Zafiris of that.”

  “Zafiris?” He took a deep breath. “The man is a fool—you know that. Why take him seriously?”

  His father said nothing at all.

  “What do you expect me to do?” he asked, suddenly angered. “Blow my brains out?”

  There was a pause. Then his father sighed wearily and replaced the receiver on its cradle. The cutting of the connection was final. Christophorou jammed down his own receiver.

  He threw away the broken cigarette. Quickly, he began another call. They could have tapped his telephone, but he would like to see Zafiris make something out of this message. He glanced at his watch; it was almost quarter past six. Six fifteen. Allow fifteen, say seventeen minutes—that sounded better—for Xenia to phone his warning and get the cab around here. Seventeen minutes would be ample. Anastas and his cab were only three streets away, waiting for just such a call.

  Xenia’s sleep-filled voice said, “Yes?”

  “Penelope, my dear—I’m sorry we shall have to postpone that picnic today. I’m catching a cold; grippe, perhaps. Don’t worry. All I need is aspirin and a day in bed.”

  “You have the wrong number.” Xenia’s voice was wide awake.

  “What? Isn’t this 615-632?” He glanced at his watch as he spoke. Six fifteen, exactly.

  “No.” She slammed down the receiver. A good girl, Xenia. She would be running downstairs now, to the telephone in her little shop, over which she had her room. And Anastas would be here at six thirty-two.

  He didn’t waste time changing his clothes. But there were one or two small things he wanted to take with him. He lifted his hair-brush from his dressing-table, pressed a small natural marking on its wooden back just beside the silver initials, and then pulled with a quick twist. The upper half of the brush’s back slid open. There was the ring, and the keys to the Delphi house. He slipped them all into his pocket. From the concealed compartment at the back of his desk drawer, he took the small revolver that he had picked out of Elektra’s handbag; a very neat Biretta, which slipped easily into his trouser pocket. Money, which he always had in reserve; a small, closely written diary, in code, which had lain carefully concealed in the base of a floor lamp; and he was ready.

  He gave one last impersonal glance around his room, at the rows of books, his pictures, records, carefully chosen furniture. A pleasant place it had been. But possessions were like emotional attachments; they existed for him, not he for them. A man who even kept memories was a man forging his own chains.

  It was now six thirty. He put on his coat and hat. He Would shave and bathe and breakfast in Xenia’s little flat. (She ought to have had a report from Sparta by this time.) He would wait there until the news started to break. There he would see what remained to be done to complete this first round.

  He closed his door quietly, hurried silently to the front entrance. He opened its door a bare inch, listened to the hum of the taxi as it came gently down the hill. Quite near now. He stepped out into the pale golden sunshine, nodded to the two men as he went down the steps, his movements deliberate and unworried. He took about twenty paces away from the men before he looked around, hailed the taxi, had its door open, and was inside and away.

  Behind them, a car had suddenly started moving; so they, too, were prepared for emergencies. But Anastas knew his job. They turned the first corner, drove a short stretch, turned another corner, stopped by a waiting car for the brief moment it took Christophorou to make the change. Then he was speeding on, down the long stretch of street, while the car with Christophorou quickly turned around the nearest corner and seemed to be travelling leisurely back toward Dimocritos Street. It had been a very closely timed operation, but it had been well-practised for just such a necessity. On the long, roundabout, boring drive down to Xenia’s apartment, he even had time to start some rethinking about Zafiris.

  He never needed much sleep, but he allowed himself three hours. Lack of it could act as a drug on the brain. By ten o’clock, Christophorou had washed, shaved, and dressed in grey flannels and a worn tweed jacket of English cut. His emergency wardrobe was proving useful at last. The thought amused him that, with those dark circles under-shadowing his eyes and his hair not too carefully combed, he now looked like a slightly debauched Oxford don. But there was little else to amuse him.

  There was still no news whatsoever from the Sparta area.

  And a full report had now come in about the American girl, Cecilia Hillard. She was no longer to be found at her hotel. Some careful questioning had resulted in the discovery that she had left the hotel, about seven o’clock yesterday evening, accompanied by an American who was not Strang. The American had carried a small overnight case. They drove away in a private car. Further investigation had uncovered the owner of the car: Robert Pringle, an attaché at the American Embassy. The house, where he rented the third-floor apartment, had been placed under careful supervision since yesterday evening by police, or intelligence agents.

  So the girl had been not such an insignificant question mark, after all. Now the caretaker’s story about the American and a girl, two nights ago, slipping out into another American’s car began to make complete sense. Strang. Hillard. And Pringle.

  Christopho
rou took a deep breath. And now, too, he was remembering a telephone call from Strang, earlier on that evening, when he had been at Pringle’s apartment. A harmless conversation it had seemed, an inquiry about Beaumont’s address, but in retrospect, with the new facts to give a different perspective, had Strang only been covering up the real purpose of a call at that late hour? Now Christophorou recalled the report from the Bulgarian: Strang and Hillard had left Erinna Street only a short time before that telephone call to Pringle.

  There it was: Katherini Roilos to Strang; Strang to Pringle; Pringle to Zafiris.

  Downstairs, among her shelves of canned goods, her cheeses, her sacks of rice and small crates of vegetables, Xenia heard the frightening crash. She ran upstairs. Had Metsos fallen, met with an accident?

  But Metsos was standing, quite still, near, the window, looking down into the narrow busy street. His breakfast tray had been swept off the table and lay in a broken mess on the floor. “Leave it,” he told her. “Get back to your shop.”

  She did what she was told.

  Christophorou left the window and sat down in a chair. In this last week, he had been concentrating too much on Elektra and Sideros, on their attempted manipulations, their planned take-over, their secret negotiations with lip-service Communists. It was easy, now, to see his mistake. Yes, he had been too preoccupied with them. But for a good reason: they were clever, ruthless opponents who needed such concentration if they were to be defeated. If he had not done that, the revolution would have lost its truth, become merely another façade for a power that would use and then destroy him and his followers as totally as they would destroy the bourgeois capitalists. So his mistake had not been completely stupid. Nothing necessary was ever stupid. If he had not countered Elektra and Sideros, he would not even be alive this morning.

  And today was going to be such a fantastic cumulation of events that Zafiris and his colleagues would find they had merely been busy counting snowflakes while an avalanche was gathering its weight to fall on them. By the end of this week, Zafiris would be back in the army proper; he would be needed there. If we leave him alive, Christophorou added to his thoughts.