by Gavin Scott
For a mile or two he followed the path he and Sophie had taken on their way to Limani Sangri, but then, at the lake where he had been reminded of ‘Morte d’Arthur’, he branched off in the direction of Bohemond’s castle.
This time when he reached the little chapel where he had searched for Kretzmer, he stepped inside with a different purpose. Sitting in its cool darkness, he considered his options. From now on, as he approached the mill, he would be easy to spot and his only hope of concealing himself was to go down flat in the heather and worm his way forwards on his belly. Then, when he was close to the mill, he could rise to his feet and make a dash for the door before Kretzmer had time to take action.
Even as he laid out this scenario, he knew it would be a mistake. Kretzmer would undoubtedly react violently to the sudden attack and their encounter would end in a shootout. Even if Forrester prevailed he would probably have to kill the German, and for some reason the idea now distressed him. Before leaving the chapel, without quite knowing why, he whispered a short prayer to the faded image of the Virgin on the far wall.
As a result of his deliberations, when he stepped out of the chapel he made no effort to conceal himself, walking steadily towards the windmill in full view of anyone who lay concealed within it. The closer he got the more vividly he was aware that though this method of approach might indeed reassure Kretzmer, it would also give him the perfect opportunity to pick him off at a distance. From long experience Forrester knew that the effective range of the Luger pistol Kretzmer had used in the cave was about one hundred and sixty feet: he came to a halt in front of the mill at two hundred.
Not far away now, the sea glittered glassily beyond Bohemond’s castle. For a moment he had a vivid image of father and daughter leaping from the battlements with the Urim and the Thummim strapped to their bodies and bursting into celestial light in mid-air, and with it a gust of pity swept through him.
“Kretzmer!” he shouted. “I know you’re in there.” He did not know it, of course, but if he was wrong there would be no one there to contradict him. “Listen! There’s a detachment of soldiers combing the island for you. Before long they’ll find you and the chances are they’ll kill you. I’d like to talk. Will you talk?”
There was no answer. The mill’s canvas sails creaked gently in the breeze. Crickets chirped and bees buzzed. Not far away Forrester could hear the stream trickling lazily over its stony bed.
He took out the Luger and held it up by the barrel. “I am armed,” he said, “as you are. But I’d like to resolve this without shooting. If you don’t want to do that, fire a warning shot. Otherwise I’ll assume you’re ready to talk.”
Forrester waited a long moment and then, still holding the Luger by the barrel, began to move slowly forward until he was around a hundred and sixty feet from the mill.
In range.
He stood, unmoving, ready to dive into the heather at the first crack of a pistol.
Nothing happened. He walked another ten yards towards the mill and stopped again. This time, knowing that Kretzmer could now pick him off easily, it was harder to make himself wait. But he did.
“Kretzmer! Can you hear me? I’m coming into the mill. I mean you no harm. Hold your fire.”
Again nothing. Now Forrester walked briskly, heading straight for the mill door. The paint was cracked and ancient; the mill’s sun-bleached canvas sails went round right above his head, making just enough noise to stop him hearing if anyone was moving about inside the building. He pushed open the door.
“I’m coming in.”
For a moment, as he left the bright sunlight and entered the dim dustiness of the interior, he was blinded, and if Kretzmer had been there, waiting for him, the crack of the Luger would have been the last thing he heard. But then his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and he saw the huge toothed wooden wheel turning as it connected with the cogs that revolved the millstone. A dusty shaft of sunlight trickled lazily through a hole in the floor above.
“Kretzmer!”
Still no reply. Forrester walked around the circular interior of the mill – nothing. He came to the rough wooden ladder that led up through the trapdoor into the sail-loft.
“Kretzmer, I’m coming up.”
He jammed the gun into his belt to free both hands for the ladder and began to climb. If Kretzmer was waiting for the moment of maximum vulnerability, this was it. He made himself draw deep, steady breaths as he climbed towards the trapdoor. Then his head and shoulders rose into the upper floor.
He paused then, but there was no need to look around for the German. Kretzmer lay huddled on a pile of sacking, shivering violently as he tried to keep his gun steady. His torn jacket was draped over him as a makeshift blanket. He had taken off his mask but the sight of his mangled face no longer horrified Forrester.
“Jesus,” said Forrester softly. “You’re in a bad way.”
“Verpiss dich,” said Kretzmer.
“Fuck off to you,” said Forrester and hauled himself up into the loft.
“You are not taking the stone,” said Kretzmer.
“Never mind the stone,” said Forrester. “You need a doctor.”
“You’ll need an undertaker if you come any closer,” said Kretzmer. “Stay away. Ich lasse es fallen.” I will let it fall.
It was a second or two before Forrester realised what the German was talking about – and then he saw the stone balanced on the edge of the hole in the floor.
“If it goes down it will smash on der Mühlstein.”
The millstone: of course.
“You wouldn’t do that,” said Forrester.
“You want to find out?” said Kretzmer.
No, Forrester did not want to find out. He looked at the man’s pale clammy skin, the thick drops of sweat gathered on what remained of his forehead like condensation on a windowpane.
“What happened? How did you get like this?”
Kretzmer made a noise that sounded like the ghost of a laugh. The ghost of something, anyway.
“Cracked ribs when the boat hit,” he said, wheezing. “Maybe also something hurt inside.”
“You probably punctured a lung,” said Forrester. “You look as if you’ve got pneumonia.”
Kretzmer stared at him balefully. “Warum sollten Sie darauf?”
“Good question. I don’t know that I do care. But I don’t want to see you shot down like a dog by the soldiers from Athens.”
Kretzmer said nothing.
“They arrived a few hours ago and they’re scouring the island for you right now. They’ve been told you’re probably a murderer as well as a thief.”
“I am neither. I have taken the stone, and pointed my gun at some people, but I have not killed anybody. Here, anyway.”
“I’m inclined to believe you,” said Forrester. “But if the soldiers find you they won’t need much excuse to write a report saying ‘Shot while trying to escape.’”
“Again, what matters it to you, English? You have been trying to kill me yourself ever since Crete.”
Forrester thought about this. “Perhaps I’ve seen one pointless death too many,” he said at last.
“Maybe you have. But you still won’t talk me into giving you the stone. And if you try to take it I’ll smash it to smithereens.”
“The stone doesn’t belong to you, Kretzmer. It doesn’t belong to me either. And the truth is neither of us wants or needs to possess the damn thing. We don’t want to put it on the mantelpiece, for Christ’s sake, do we? We want to know what it says. Am I right?”
“These are just words coming out of your mouth,” said Kretzmer weakly. “They mean nothing.”
“They mean this,” said Forrester, realising it even as he spoke. “That we agree to work on the tablet together. To publish a joint paper on what we discover. What do you say to that?”
For a long moment Kretzmer simply stared at him. Then he closed his eye briefly and then opened it again to glare. Forrester noticed now how red and bloodshot it was. “
Why should I believe you?” he said. “You can promise this now – and then when you have the stone you can do what you like, turn me over to the authorities, anything.”
Forrester considered. “I won’t take the stone,” he said at last. “I’ll leave it here with you. I’ll divert the soldiers away from the mill and I’ll help you get out of here. I don’t know how yet, but I will. Do you believe me?”
For what seemed like eternity the two men regarded one another, and then Kretzmer said, “Do you have anything to eat?”
Forrester reached into his pocket and brought out a handful of nuts and raisins he had taken from the kitchens of the kastello. Slowly he tipped them onto the sacking. Not letting go of his gun, Kretzmer picked up one of the raisins with his free hand and pushed it painfully into his mouth.
Then another. And a third. Then he said: “Whose name will come first on the paper?”
“Mine, of course,” said Forrester, “because F comes before K in the alphabet.”
“You will make me do all the work,” said Kretzmer, “and claim all the credit.”
“I would naturally expect you to work harder than me because you are German,” Forrester replied. “And I will claim as much credit as I can. But your strange appearance will undoubtedly appeal to the popular press, and you will therefore probably get most of the publicity, however little you deserve it.” Forrester saw the ghost of a smile pass across Kretzmer’s ruined face.
Then there was some shouting in the distance and Forrester peered through the gap in the stones through which Kretzmer had doubtless watched his own approach, and saw that the soldiers from Athens were about half a mile away, heading in their direction.
“I’m going to take your jacket,” said Forrester, and when Kretzmer nodded, he reached in for it. “I will be going towards the cliffs, near the castle, and then I will turn back, pass the mill again and go towards the soldiers, to whom I will speak. But I am not going to betray you.”
“If you do,” said Kretzmer, “I will push the stone through the hole in the floor and it will be destroyed.”
“I know,” said Forrester.
Then he climbed back down the ladder, slipped out of the door and, keeping the mill between himself and the oncoming platoon so he was invisible to them, ran as fast as he could towards the castle and threw something over the edge of the cliffs.
When the soldiers finally saw him he was running towards them and waving his arms.
“Over here!” he shouted. “He ran when he saw me and fell. Come along, hurry!” He began to run towards the castle again and the soldiers almost automatically fell into step with him. By the time they reached the edge of the cliff, Kretzmer’s jacket was being drawn inexorably towards Roufíchtra Medusa.
“There he is!” said Forrester, pointing, and though it was only the jacket they could see, such was the power of suggestion that, had they been asked to testify in court, each of them would have sworn they had seen the German being sucked into the whirlpool.
“Should we climb down to the bottom of the cliff and see if we can swim out to retrieve the body?” asked Forrester. Sergeant Bogdolu Pyrolithos peered down the hundred feet of sheer rock that separated them from the water, and shook his head.
“I do not think that will be necessary,” he said.
26
TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES
An hour later, as Forrester and the platoon were coming through the pinewood above the kastello, he saw Sophie coming up towards him. He strode ahead of the others and as he reached her she threw her arms around him and held him close. “Thank God,” she said. “When Yanni told me where you had gone I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Yanni shouldn’t have told you,” said Forrester.
“And you shouldn’t have gone,” said Sophie.
“I had to,” said Forrester, “but I’m sorry I didn’t warn you first.” Then, speaking softly and quickly before the soldiers caught up with them he said, “It worked out well. I found Kretzmer, we did a deal and the stone is safe.”
“A deal? With that monster? God in heaven,” said Sophie. “How did you manage that?”
Sergeant Pyrolithos and his men had almost caught up. “No time to tell you now,” said Forrester. “I have to get Brother Thersites from the monastery.”
“That may not be possible right away. Inspector Kostopoulos has named the murderer.”
“Has he, by God? And who does he say it is?”
“Prince Atreides. They followed up your idea about Keith’s sketchbook and searched for the missing page, which turned up in the prince’s room. It proved he’d been at the shrine.”
“How?”
“Keith had sketched his panama hat, of all things, lying near the edge of the grove. He must have taken it off when he planted the explosive.”
“And he didn’t destroy it as soon as he had it?”
“Apparently not.”
“That’s incredible. But Kostopoulos decided it was conclusive?”
“Well, there was also Penelope’s evidence that Constantine went into the castle just before Keith was shot – and Socrates testified that he had seen the prince carrying something that smelled of almonds, which from what you said must have been the explosive.”
“Socrates?”
“The gardener. The little bent old man with the broken nose.”
“How did Atreides respond?”
“With loud protestations of innocence. Inspector Kostopoulos is still trying to make him confess.”
They heard a door slam below them in the village – and then a burst of gunfire.
“Jesus,” said Forrester. “What methods is he using?” The sergeant and his men began to run immediately, pushing ahead of Forrester and Sophie.
By the time they reached the kastello the platoon had clattered off down the village street, and the action had clearly shifted down towards the harbour. There were two shots off to the north, where a steep set of stairs led to the water, and then a fusillade of rifle fire somewhere beyond that. Forrester was hurrying past a little fountain surrounded by shocked-looking villagers when a tall, oddly stooped figure appeared from an alley, and he was about to ask him what was going on when the man stumbled and fell at his feet.
It was General Ari Alexandros.
Blood was soaking Alexandros’s shirt as Forrester knelt beside him, searching for the wound to staunch the flow, but before he found it the General spoke.
“Shoulder wound,” he said. “The bastard tried to kill me again. Didn’t manage it. Get me up.”
As Forrester did so there was another burst of gunfire from the harbour and then silence.
With his arm around Forrester’s shoulder and a villager supporting him on the other side, Alexandros lurched painfully back up the street towards the kastello.
“What happened?” said Forrester.
“That idiot Kostopoulos let Atreides get hold of a gun. He shot his way out of the house and made a break for the harbour. Your friend Venables and I went after him from opposite ends of the street. Atreides must have seen his chance while I was reloading.”
“He shot you?”
“And I shot back. The English fired at the same time, and now the bastard will cause no more trouble.”
“He’s dead?” said Forrester.
“Dead,” said the General. “And I owe it to you, Duncan.”
“Me?”
“You were the one who put us on to him. With the sketchbook and the smell of almonds.”
Penelope, Euripides and some of the other servants reached them and Penelope took over and organised them to get the wounded man up to the house. Brother Thersites had already been called and within minutes the General was lying on the dining-room table having the bullet removed.
* * *
“Well, well,” said Charles Runcorn, as they gathered in the main room to hear the results of the operation. “Perhaps it was just his panama hat, but I have to admit the prince gave the impression of being such a harmle
ss little chap.”
“As harmless as those fascist swine ever are,” said David Venables, coming in from the street. The left side of his face was covered in blood.
“What on earth happened to you?” said Durrell.
“Oh, this is nothing,” said Venables, reaching a hand up to his torn scalp. “One of that little bastard’s bullets sent a stone splinter my way. A couple of stitches will see me right.”
“You should get it done as soon as General Alexandros has been helped,” said Ariadne. “Here, let me clean it for you.”
As she began her work, Inspector Kostopoulos came in, beaming. “Well,” he said, “murderer found and murderer punished, all in one day. Is what newspapers will be calling Kostopoulos touch.”
“Did Atreides admit his guilt when you were questioning him?” said Forrester. “Did he say why he’d killed Michaelaides and Beamish before he stole your gun and escaped?”
“Was no need,” said Kostopoulos, looking slightly offended at the reference to the loss of his weapon. “Is obvious. Atreides trying to poison General in Athens, maybe with kouros, maybe not, fails, kills Michaelaides by accidental. Comes here, tries to bring down shrine on General, gets Stephanides instead. As proved by Socrates smelling him with dynamite and Englishman’s stolen drawing showing panama hat near shrine, as always worn by Atreides. Later of course he is stealing drawing, but must have realised Englishman had seen it, so killing him at castle, as proved by General’s lady seeing him sneak through walls just before English was shot. Altogether, he knew his goat was cooked, which is why he terrified to be questioned by Kostopoulos. Then, natural, shot while trying to escape,” he added, with some satisfaction.
“But why did Prince Atreides want to kill General Alexandros in the first place?” said Ariadne, returning with a cloth and a bowl of water to attend to Venables’s head.
“To stop him joining the communists, you little fool,” said Helena Spetsos. “Ari is the best fighter in Greece. The people love him for what he did during the war against the Germans. Young men would flock to his banner. If Ari joins ELAS and there is a civil war, ELAS will win.”