Gene said: “One gets different opinions. Some say he’ll soon be the most powerful figure in Greece.”
While they talked the clouds had broken, and the room brightened and darkened as the sun intermittently came through. The Venetian blinds had not been lowered, and Mme Lindos looked at her visitor whose face was lit with a reflection from the mirror on the wall. She thought again how young he looked in spite of his hollow cheeks: his was the youth which sometimes comes to people with singleness of mind. She remembered her first meeting with him twelve years ago, in the middle of the civil war; he had appeared on her doorstep in rags speaking Greek then with an accent she had thought Anatolian, had warned her to go into the cellar and stay there: the fighting was coming up this street. Sten gun under arm he had said this apologetically, like someone calling about the gas, and then, as it seemed summing her up in a glance, had asked her if she could care for a woman who was dying and needed attention and water. After that she had not seen him for nearly two weeks, when, during the worst famines and the worst massacres, he had come suddenly again with a few tins of food he had stolen from somewhere and left them in her hall.
Gene said: “Things are still bad here?”
“You do not need to listen to the politicians to discover the problems of Greece, Gene. Under the surface prosperity we have a food shortage, except for the rich, and the old, old bogy of inflation—and unemployment, or underemployment, everywhere. Many of our people—perhaps two million, perhaps more than a quarter of us all—have to live on less than two thousand drachmae a year. What is that in your currency? Seventy dollars? That is what we have to face and have to cure.”
Silence fell for a while. “How do you plan to spend your time here?” she asked.
“I have to see Michael Michaelis. And I shall wander round meeting some old friends.”
“Go carefully. Don’t get into trouble like last time.”
“I was of use.”
Her grey worldly-wise eyes flickered up to him for a moment. “I know you were of use. I know that, Gene. But you made enemies in high places as well as friends.”
“It’s an occupational risk.”
“That’s just what it’s not. If you are here on publishing business I’m sure no one will interfere with you. But if you start dabbling in our politics again … Besides, it is perhaps not altogether a pretty scene but it could be worse.”
“Do you have friends who know Anya Stonaris?”
She made a gesture disavowing responsibility. “… I have some.”
“I want to meet her. Could it be arranged in some casual way?”
“I suppose it is human nature that if you tell a man a woman is bad it makes him more eager to meet her.”
He said: “I’ve met a lot of so-called bad women. They bore me to death. This one probably will. But I’ve other reasons for wanting to get to know her.”
“Well, make no mistake. She is George Lascou’s woman without question.”
“That too,” said Gene, “ is something I’ll be interested to discover for myself.”
Chapter Five
The day ended well. Towards evening the last of the clouds split and a vivid sun fell on the scene like an arc light on a film set. The temples clustering at the foot of the Acropolis were like things drawn out of themselves by a stereoscope, and above them the great Parthenon stood crowned against the sky in four-dimensioned light.
Below it the modern city pullulated, a city of no visible connection except that of locality with the marble ruins of Cimon and Pericles, a city separated from the Hellenic age by two thousand years of neglect and non-inhabitation, a mushroom town grown in a hundred years from 5000 people to 1,250,000, spawning, sprawling, raucous and decentralised over all the great plain, ringed by mountains and stretching to the sea. Handsome boulevards and nineteenth century squares stood between the escarpments of the Acropolis and the Lycabettus; and around this central conglomerate a thousand featureless streets segmented to a German design stretched away until they deteriorated into rows of drab concrete boxes on the fringe of the plain.
It was in this sudden brilliance that Gene Vanbrugh walked back to his hotel. The Astoria in spite of its name was small and in a dark side street and rated B class. Gene had known the proprietor for years. As he entered the proprietor’s wife said in an undertone: “Oh, M. Vanbrugh, there is someone waiting for you upstairs.”
“Name?”
“She wouldn’t give a name. But she said you had asked her to call.”
“Where is she?”
“In the writing-room.”
Gene took his key and turned away.
“And M. Vanbrugh, Paul told me to tell you …”
“Yes?”
The woman glanced round. “ The police came while you were out, checking over our register. They said it was a routine call …”
“Yes?”
“But they asked for a description of foreign visitors. You are the only one. It is unusual for them to come like this. Paul said you should know.”
“Thank you. How long have they been gone?”
“About an hour.”
Thoughtfully Gene went up the stairs and into the writing-room. After the brightness outside there was nothing at first in the semi-darkness but dusty rexine furniture and the smell of mildew and moths. Then a foot scraped on the bare floor and a voice said in English:
“I have come to call on you, M. Vanbrugh.”
“I’m glad you’ve been so prompt.” He went to the window.
“Leave the shutters for just the present.”
He could see her now, braceleted, head-scarved, sitting at the table in the centre of the room, her hand moving among the tattered dog-eared magazines like someone reading braille. “Well?”
“You have here the name of the man who killed my husband?”
“I didn’t say that. I think I know the name of the man who drove the car.”
“Tell me that.”
Gene said: “What’s the good of trying to revenge yourself on a paid nobody? I’m interested in the man your husband was interested in. Do you know who that was?”
She got up. “ Gene Vanbrugh—is that your name?—let me tell you that today I am not a happy woman. I loved Juan. Does that mean anything to you? Yesterday I was—in amity, do you say?—a married woman, a successful dancer, known all over Europe, happy. You know. Today I am a widow. In losing Juan everything is lost.
Tonight I have no wish whether I live or die. It is so or it is so—well, who cares? For only one thing do I want to live—d’you understand?”
“Yes, I understand. But there are more ways——”
“Wait. You have understood that. Now understand this. You came upon me this morning saying you know much of this affair, knowing much, and saying you have the name of the murderer. What am I to think? Either you tell me that name or perhaps you are the murderer yourself.”
In the narrow street outside, some children were playing, and their shrill excited voices echoed in the room.
Gene said: “Juan Tolosa must have known what he was doing. You’re his wife. Why don’t you?
“Well, I do not.”
“Perhaps you know what he had to sell.”
She hesitated. “ He did not have it here. Was he such a fool? He left it safe in Spain.”
He took out a cigarette and offered the packet to her. She shook her black-maned head and watched him break a match head and carry the flame to his own cigarette.
He said: “Does Philip Tolosa know you have come here tonight?”
“No.”
“He didn’t want you to have any contact with me.”
“He thought you were a reporter.”
“Perhaps he knows more than you do.”
“Perhaps.”
One of the children outside had hurt himself and was crying. Maria went across and wrenched open a shutter. Sunlight came in like a rich visitor slumming, falling on dusty leather and unfamiliar floor.
S
he said: “I will go, since you have nothing to tell me.”
He said: “The man driving the car was probably a silversmith called Mandraki. There are only one or two such in Athens, since in the main Greeks like to fight their own battles. But he was there at the Little Jockey last night with a younger man I didn’t know. He is not the night-club type. I thought it strange at the time.”
“So?”
“But he’s just a hired man, a go-between. Can you remember what sort of contacts your husband has had since you came?”
“He was out a lot.”
“And Philip Tolosa?”
“Philip knows nothing. I have asked him.”
“You say this thing you were trying to sell is still in Spain?”
She turned, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her scarlet mackintosh. “ Juan was not born yesterday. What was the name you heard in Paris?”
“Avra.”
She shook her head. “It means nothing. Who is he?”
“A man I have met.… What are you going to do now?”
She said: “ I don’t know how it is that you are interested in. this. Even if you are—what is the word?—level, what have you to gain?”
“It’s a personal matter. But I want to help you. Shall you stay in Greece for some time?”
“I—don’t know. The funeral is tomorrow. It will depend on Philip and the others. You know. Soon I shall go back to Spain.”
“It would be better.”
“Why?”
Gene put out his cigarette, screwing it slowly round. “ I’ve already told you, Señora Tolosa, I think you may be in considerable danger yourself—and your brother-in-law.”
“Ha!”
“If one accident can happen, another may do. Tell me, is it letters you have in Spain? Or a diary? Or photographs? What will you do with them when you get home—burn them?”
“Why should I trust you? You may be for the people who killed Juan.”
“I don’t think you believe that or you wouldn’t have come here.”
She stared at him, her face like a rock. “ No, I don’t think I believe that.”
“Will you trust me?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Then will you come and see me again tomorrow? I think I can help you more than anyone else.”
“There is only one thing I want, and that is the life of the man who killed Juan.”
“First you have to be sure of his identity.”
She said: “This man Mal—Mandraki should know.”
“I doubt it. One like that only knows the next step above him.”
She was silent, but even her silences were combative. The more he saw of her the more formidable he realised she was. She was hardwood: hammer a nail into her and the nail would bend.
As she went to the door he said: “You haven’t told me what you came to tell mey have you?”
“I came to tell you nothing. I came to ask you what you don’t know.”
“If you want my help during the next few days, don’t come here again. Go to the first newspaper kiosk in Constitution Square, in the north-east corner. Ask for Papa André. He will tell you where I am staying.”
That appealed to her, not because she was a romantic and welcomed conspiracy but because it somehow convinced her that he was not on safe ground himself.
“Philip will wonder where I am.”
“Don’t trust him too far.”
“Why do you say that?”
“A hunch.”
After a moment she said: “ I can trust only myself.”
It was still daylight when she left. Through the blinds in his bedroom he watched her go off down the street. So far as he could tell nobody followed her.
He packed his grip and when dusk fell, paid his bill and left the hotel. He turned due south and was soon in the huddle of mean streets and tumbledown houses which mark the old Turkish quarter at the foot of the Acropolis. Unerring as a dog making for a buried bone, he pushed his way through the lanes of antique dealers, shoemakers, junk sellers, food stalls and second-hand clothes merchants; as the lights came on all this bazaar district was coming to life, people thronged, chattering, arguing, fingering the goods, elbowing each other out of the way. He got through the busiest part and turned into a narrow unpaved way with a gutter down the middle and wooden balconies nodding overhead. At the end of it he stopped and rapped at a door.
Somewhere near, hens were cackling sleepily. He knocked again. While he waited the floodlights were switched on for the Parthenon, and the great temple suddenly stood out like a prophecy above the noisy city.
A light came on and the door was opened by a middle-aged dark-skinned woman who frowned at him and pushed back her lank hair with nails as black-rimmed as a mourning envelope.
“You have accommodation?” he asked in Greek.
The woman made no reply but stepped aside to allow him in.
Chapter Six
The next morning Gene telephoned Mme Lindos.
“I’ve changed my address, Sophia. The Astoria couldn’t keep me. My present place isn’t on the phone, but I’ll put a call through to you from time to time in case you are able to do anything in that matter we were talking about yesterday.”
She said: “You are not in trouble already?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“Angelos Vyro rang this morning. He seemed very taken with you and wanted me to be sure to confirm his invitation to you to the fiftieth anniversary of his paper next Tuesday.”
“That’s very kind of him. I hope I shall still be here.”
Mme Lindos said: “I’m glad you have rung because by chance I have been able to arrange that meeting you desired.”
“Already? But that’s a miracle.”
“No, just good fortune. Do you know the Comte de Trieste?”
“An Italian?”
“No. A Corfiote. Certain of the old families there cling to the Italian titles conferred on them long ago. He is taking a party to the gala performance of Electra tomorrow evening. Mlle Stonaris will be one of the party.”
“And? …”
“You also will be one of the party.”
“But dear Sophia, how have you fixed it?”
“De Trieste was once under an obligation to my husband. And one of his party is sick. You will go to his house at seven-thirty. He knows all that it is necessary to know.”
“It is exactly what I wanted. Tell me one thing—is George Lascou to be one of the party?”
“No. It is a formal occasion. The King and Queen will be there. George Lascou will take his wife and sit with certain other members of the party.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“Let me warn you that this may be no occasion for thanks. Promise me you will go carefully.”
“I’ll go carefully,” said Gene.
Chapter Seven
I’ll go carefully, he thought, until he saw her again. He noticed first her bare arm and hand as she put her glass down, and wondered in a detached way why he instantly knew it was hers. Something in the colour of the skin. Then he followed his host and saw again the eyes he had seen before, the lips like painted petals, the elegant fastidious nose. The diamonds round her throat weren’t worth more than ten thousand pounds.
The Comte de Trieste said, speaking English for his benefit: “Allow me to introduce M. Vanbrugh to you. Mlle Stonaris. M. Taksim. General Telechos. Mr. Vanbrugh is visiting us from Paris.”
M. Taksim was a cotton millionaire from Istanbul, big and middle-aged and fair. General Telechos was older with a face pitted like a map of the moon. Gene remembered he had served under Metaxas.
Telechos said: “This is your first visit to Athens, sir?”
“No, I’ve been here before,” said Gene, using more accent than normal, “but it’s all quite a while ago, shortly after the war.”
“Ah, yes, you would be here like many of your countrymen. Helping us to our feet again. Rehabilitate, is it; your American
Mission. You like Athens, then, to return?”
“The air suits me. It has a kind of harsh clarity. There are no illusions in Greece, are there?” He turned to the girl. “Are there, mademoiselle?”
Her expression as she looked across the room was polite but uninterested. “ I should have thought many.”
“Maybe a foreigner is entitled to sentimentalise.”
“It’s a common mistake.”
“But excusable?”
“If you’re looking for excuses.” She opened her bag. He said: “Please smoke one of mine.”
“Thank you, no. I don’t very much like the tobacco from Virginia.”
“Or the people either?”
“Are you from Virginia?”
“Quite near—as those kind of distances go.”
“Then it would be polite to say only the tobacco.”
“But not polite after that question.”
She looked at him then with her great dark eyes before lowering them to fit her cigarette into its amber holder. After a few moments, as she was about to move off, he spoke to her again.
“We’ve met somewhere before, surely?”
“I don’t think so. What was your name?”
“Vanbrugh.”
“Oh. No. Have you been in Athens long?”
“This time a few days only. It’s quite something to be back again.”
“Quite something,” said M. Taksim. “ Quite something? Is that English? It’s also many years since I am in London.”
“They don’t say that in London,” said Anya Stonaris. “ It is what they say in Virginia.”
“We grow phrases with the tobacco,” said Gene. “Rotation crop.”
“I am afraid,” said the Turk, “this is an argot, is it not? I was in London three years and it is there also. The Cockerney. Very difficult.”
“You understand the language well,” Gene told the girl.
“I learned it in a hard school. Maurice, don’t you think——”
“What school was that?”
“For a year I helped at a canteen, after the liberation.”
“You must have been very young.”
“Well,” she said, “not old enough to know better.”
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