“What has happened to her? For God’s sake—”
“She is being held as a hostage.”
Strang gripped the other’s arm.
Elias said, “Please—please, if you would let me explain how it all happened.” He drew his arm free. “It would not seem so bad if you would let me explain.”
“Seem?” Strang said savagely, and turned away. He walked over to the car, and stood there, his hand on its door, unable to get in, to move, to act, to think.
“I’ll get the coat,” Elias said, and left. And I must explain to him, he was thinking, that it was not our fault: there was no carelessness, no stupidity; and we have some leads, many ideas; it is not hopeless. “Where did the American sleep?” he asked one of the children, and followed the boy to the house. Some doors away, he saw Myrrha Kladas, who must have heard the car and come out to wave good-bye. She was looking along the street, towards the American. She broke into a run.
“What is it? Something has happened to Stefanos?”
“No. To the American girl.”
“What?”
Elias took the coat which the child had brought him.
“Tell me,” Myrrha insisted, “tell me!” She hurried beside him back to the car. “Has Odysseus killed her?”
“No.”
“He is free?”
“Yes. But he won’t escape.” We know the car he used, Elias was thinking; we have traced him as far as Thebes. That is not much, but it is better than nothing. He is travelling north. But the borders are being patrolled. He won’t find it so easy to get across. Not so easy. “He won’t escape,” he repeated as if he were persuading himself.
“What happened to the girl?”
“She was seized last night.”
Myrrha grasped his arm and stopped him. “A hostage,” she said. “That is his old pattern. A hostage. He will bargain his way free. And he will go. But the girl?” She looked at Elias. “You know, and I know, what has happened to hostages.”
“Be quiet!” Elias said angrily. “Have we not troubles enough without—” He glanced toward the American. “We will find her,” he said, his mouth tightening, shaking off her hand from his arm. He started walking.
“Then search Parnassos, all around there, every wood, every hillside, every but, every—”
“Parnassos...” Elias halted and stared at her.
She stood still. “I—I do not remember well enough. Ask Levadi. He knows all that country. He knows it even better than Odysseus.”
“We shall ask Levadi. But I am also asking you. Now. Come over to the car. We can talk about it, quietly, there.”
“But it is so long ago.”
“And have you forgotten?”
Myrrha Kladas looked towards the car, at the American.
“There is no time to lose,” Elias reminded her brusquely. “Tell me all you can remember about that district. What were Odysseus’s special hiding-places? Where did Odysseus take you, for instance, when you disappeared for many weeks?”
Myrrha stared at him. Then she glanced quickly over her shoulder.
Elias turned and called to the curious women, who had come following Myrrha along the village street. “Go back to your work. I must talk with Myrrha Kladas—about her brother Stefanos, who is in the hospital in Athens and cannot talk for himself.”
Myrrha Kladas looked at Elias again. “Thank you,” she said, softly. She walked over to the car. Elias, having routed the gaping children, hurried after her. She was saying to Strang, “I shall tell all I know. Perhaps it will help.”
“It may, indeed,” Elias said with a burst of renewed confidence.
Strang listened to their quiet voices, to the steady flow of Greek, the question-and-answer game now played with deep earnestness. Gradually, his attention began to focus, gradually his mind began to work. From that deep plunge into the black abyss of complete despair, of utter helplessness, he began to climb back. Hope lay in action, not in surrender. We’ll find Cecilia, he kept telling himself. I’ll find her.
He forced himself to stop seeing her face, hearing her voice; for, remembering her, he was lost. He must become as cold, as calm, as quick-witted as Elias. He must know the facts, and think into them, and around, and over them. Man’s mind, not his emotions, was his strongest shield, his sharpest weapon.
The talk had ended. Myrrha Kladas stood back from the car. “Thank you,” Strang said very quietly, and got in. Elias saluted the slight black-clothed figure, and followed Strang. The car swept round and left the group of children, surrounding Myrrha, laughing, waving. She raised a hand, to give Strang one last small sign of friendship. The car went bumping and swaying down the rough little road between the olive trees toward the main highway.
Elias leaned over to speak to Costas. They would stop at Tripolis: he would telephone Athens from there, this new information might change some plans. There was a hint of excitement, of triumph in his normally restrained voice. Then he sat back, beside Strang, and waited.
As the car finished the long climb up the mountain’s side and started down toward the high plains of Arcadia, Strang sat more erect, searched for his cigarettes, looked squarely at Elias. “All right,” he said, “tell me.”
Elias accepted one of the American cigarettes, although he disliked them, and the proffered lighter. He noted that the American’s movements were as controlled as his voice. He gave a nod of relief and approval. “It was daring. It was simple. And it was well planned,” he began.
25
Yes, it had been daring, and well-planned. And the setting, yesterday evening, in the Pringles’ apartment, although Elias could not know that, had been most helpful, too.
Cecilia had put down the receiver, and stood looking at it, with the smile Ken’s voice had brought still curving her lips. Strange how a voice could make you so happy, words which were spoken by millions and millions of people but which, in that one voice, became unique. So this wasn’t spring madness or a dream, she told herself. It might still be unbelievable, but it was real: I love this man and he loves me, and don’t ask me how it happened because I can’t tell you—it just happened. Like that. And that’s all. That’s all and that’s everything.
“Well, is he all right?” Effie Pringle asked. After three years of marriage, she could allow herself to be entertained by that dazed look on her guest’s face. “Would you arrange this bowl of flowers for the centre of the table? Fanny is late. I think I’ll start camouflaging some court bouillon for the fish.” Oh dear, she thought, with only Fanny to clean every morning and to come in when she’s needed for little dinners, I do get overambitious with my menus.
“It’s just seven o’clock,” Cecilia said encouragingly. The Beaumonts weren’t expected until half past eight, which meant nine. Dinner wasn’t until half an hour later than that, at least. But Effie Pringle wouldn’t be comforted.
“Heavens! Fanny is late. I hope another grandchild hasn’t caught whooping cough. It seems that women don’t really know what involvement is until they have grandchildren,” she said gloomily. But being two months pregnant was a stage in life that made you feel such involvement was almost upon you. Morning sickness and evening worry... She rounded up some of her old cheerfulness as she left for the kitchen. “You know,” she called back, “you’re an awfully calm person to have around. You look so cool and unperturbed. I wish I could learn that trick. Oh God! Where did Fanny put those bay leaves I bought yesterday?”
That was the setting: a long, dreary day ended; the serious tensions gone, the siege lifting; trouble no greater now than a misplaced bay leaf; the apartment, a charming little place of green and white, adequately lit at last by the peaceful gold of evening; dark-red ikons, bright-pink flowers, champagne on ice; Bob soon to arrive home and have fuller details cajoled out of him about all the secret excitement that had been going on in the world outside. And Cecilia, purposefully calm to keep Effie from fretting (she had been told so little that she had been imagining a hundred possible disasters,
all ending in Bob’s transfer from Athens), now relaxing, now forgetting her own forebodings. All was well, nothing had happened to Ken, he would be back in Athens tomorrow, she was the luckiest of women, she was the happiest of women.
The telephone rang. “It’s for you, Effie,” Cecilia called.
“Oh, no! Don’t tell me Bob has got stuck at the office and won’t be home until ten! Not tonight!” She came running to the telephone, a look of comic resignation already forming on her face. As she listened, she seemed to crumple. “Yes,” she kept saying, “yes,” her voice becoming smaller and smaller. With an effort, she said, “I’ll come at once.” She put down the receiver, staring at Cecilia unbelievingly. “Bob—” she said at last—” Bob was hit by a taxi. They have taken him to the hospital.”
So Cecilia was alone in the apartment. “No,” said Effie, when Cecilia had wanted to accompany her to the hospital, “you stay here. Someone has got to be here to explain to the Beaumonts. I’ll telephone you and let you know how Bob is. No, darling. I can get a cab easily by myself. I’m all right. Keep that door locked. And I’ll call you.”
The door was locked. It was almost eight o’clock. The sunlight had gone from the room. And Cecilia drew the curtains, turned on some of the lights, turned off the gas under the court bouillon, and worried about Bob and Effie. Perhaps Bob had not been badly hurt, perhaps he would be fit enough to be brought home. She tried to comfort herself with perhapses, but all she could think about was Effie standing, her face taut with worry and anguish, beside the telephone.
It rang again. And again it was a call from the hospital. It was a typical hospital-nurse voice, so very calm, detached, making bad news sound like a railway timetable. Mr. Pringle was seriously injured. An operation was necessary, immediately. Mrs. Pringle was in a very distressed state. Would Miss Hillard please bring some night clothes for Mrs. Pringle? Mrs. Pringle would have to stay at the hospital, possibly for the next twenty-four hours. Here was the hospital address. It was easy to reach—just beyond the British Embassy.
That was all. A precise, abrupt, businesslike call. Cecilia found a night dress, a robe, a toothbrush, soap, handkerchiefs. She took one of Effie’s larger hatboxes, emptied its garden-party straw hat on to the bed, jammed the things she had collected inside it. Fanny still had not arrived. So she scribbled a note for the Beaumonts, explaining what had happened. Then she pulled on her coat, grabbed her handbag along with the hatbox, left her note balanced on the outside door handle, and ran.
The self-service elevator was too slow. She kept on running down the stairs. The man on guard in the hall would go with her to the hospital. (There had been two on guard last night, but since early this afternoon, one was all that had been necessary. There was another on guard somewhere in the rear of the apartment house, checking all the deliveries by the service entry.) But when she reached the hall, it was empty. So the man was no longer needed, she thought, and felt relieved, too, at that idea: the all clear must have been sounded.
(But the man, at this moment, had just been summoned to the telephone in the shop across the street: an emergency message from headquarters, so he had been told, which kept him fuming over their carelessness as he waited for the connection, stupidly broken, to be re-established. And Fanny? She was blissfully standing in line to see a new American movie. She had received a note from Mrs. Pringle at six o’clock saying that the dinner party had been cancelled.)
Cecilia stepped out on to the sidewalk. There was a taxi, starting forward from its parking-place. She signalled, and went to meet it. “Do you speak English?” she asked the driver. He nodded. So she opened the door. From the sidewalk behind her, a woman seemed to think the taxi had stopped for her. “I’m sorry,” Cecilia said firmly, and got in. She pitched forward with a scream that ended in a gasp of pain. The blow on the back of her head had been quick, neat, and sufficient. The woman stepped in, closed the door smartly even as the cab drew away and a man came running out of a shop across the street.
Two passers-by stopped. “Was that a scream?” one asked. “And what is that man yelling about?”
“Look,” said another, stopping at the kerb, “someone has dropped a hatbox!” And, too late to do any good, a small, inquisitive crowd began to gather.
26
“You see,” Elias was asking anxiously, “it was well planned?”
They were speeding, Costas at the wheel, Elias finishing his story, Strang saying nothing, along the straight road across the vast plain towards Tripolis. Willow trees and wells, wells and willow trees, long rows of women bending their yellow-and-red-starved heads over long rows of dark furrows. “I see,” Strang said. “But that is all you know about Miss Hillard?” A note left for the Beaumonts mentioning a telephone message from the hospital; a hatbox dropped at the side of the street; a taxicab disappearing into the maze of evening traffic—was that all?
“Yes. But you understand that the agent on duty went across to the shop only because he was told the emergency call came from the office of Colonel Zafiris. Such a call could be of greatest importance.”
“Yes.” But it had been a fake, like the telephone call to Cecilia.
“He did see the taxicab—its type, its number.”
“Yes.” But the cab had been abandoned three blocks away in a quiet square. Had Cecilia been unconscious? How else had they lifted her into another car?
Elias said, “I think you did not understand, perhaps, the importance of that number. It was the same cab that helped Christophorou escape.” Elias thought, perhaps he has not really listened to anything I told him, except about the American girl. He sighed. “Please!” he said sharply. “Even in the best of plans, there is a small mistake—so small that it seems of no importance, a loose thread in a piece of cloth. But if we can find two, three loose threads—each so small that, by itself, it means nothing—then we begin to find the colour, perhaps even the pattern of the cloth. It takes much work, much patience, but we begin to see—”
“And time?” asked Strang. “Much time?” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. It was no one’s fault, he had to remind himself. He looked at Elias’s frowning eyes. The Greek was upset, too; he was troubled, deeply troubled, behind that cold, grave face. Strang said more gently, “Perhaps I missed something important at the beginning of your story. Would you repeat it?” And this time, Strang thought, I shall listen with my mind as well as with my ears. Perhaps there was more to Elias’s account of the events than an attempt at justification, a parade of explanations. Elias shrugged his shoulders, and began all over again with unusual patience.
The taxi, which Christophorou had used to make his sudden escape from his apartment yesterday at dawn, had been an American car of 1958 design, long and big and two-toned in the colours of green and white. After a long wild chase around Athens, it had vanished near the open market not far from the old Turkish bazaar. The whole area had been searched by the police, every garage, every yard, every shed, a considerable undertaking; and there, in a little street off the market square, a small garage had been found with three cars, one of them a green-and-white American Plymouth. But its number was not the one they were searching for, and it had no licence as a taxi. Moreover, as the owner of the garage was at work on this car, and swore he had been working on it for the last two days, and as five other taxis of similar design and colour were discovered in other garages in other parts of Athens, the police could only make out a report of what they had found, giving the description and licence plates of the three cars: one green-and-white Plymouth, out of order, front bumper damaged; one blue Renault; one grey Fiat.
Checks, of course, had been made on all the roads leading out of Athens. That afternoon, about four o’clock, a blue Renault had been one in the stream of traffic that had been checked at Eleusis. It was driven by a woman. Passed through the examination point, it had taken the road to Thebes. It halted some five kilometres farther on, at a café beside a bus station. The driver of the next bus to arrive from
Athens noticed that one of his passengers, a peasant seemingly, had left the bus at that stop, although his ticket was still good for some kilometres ahead. The bus continued on its way to Thebes. On one of the hills, if was overtaken, and then passed, by a blue Renault, its one occupant a man. The bus driver was sure it was the same man who had left his bus at the café where he had seen a blue Renault waiting, although the man had now taken off the ragged old coat which he had worn in the bus. Who ever heard of a peasant not taking full benefit of his paid bus fare? Who ever heard of a peasant driving a good car? The bus driver, alerted perhaps because of the check on traffic back at Eleusis, reported what he had noticed at the next small town, and gave the Renault’s number. It was the same Renault that had been noticed in the small garage near the old market quarter of Athens.
The Renault was traced as far as Thebes. It had been noticed in Pindar Street just after six o’clock by a group of young men at a coffeehouse; they had admired its speed. And a young boy had seen a blue car leave the town as he drove his father’s donkey home from Thebes. The car had stopped on a quiet stretch of road, on a bridge over a hillside stream. A man had got out, dropped something into the ravine below him, driven away to Levadia. The boy was sure of that. Standing on the heights of Thebes, he had watched the car take the long, lonely stretch of road, over the flat marshlands and plains which stretched to the north. Then, curious, he had climbed down to the stream, and searched, and searched. But he found, to his disappointment, nothing he could use. It was only a small round cylinder of metal, with pretty markings on it. He had taken it home to see if his father could find some use for it.
But farther to the northwest, at Levadia, the car had not been seen. (There were rumours, of course, but they had only wasted time and energy.) It was possible that, in the failing light and early darkness, it had skirted Levadia before the alarm had been raised, and was now far to the north.
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