by Colin Forbes
'And Christina is down there. Are you mad? If your aim is bad you could hit her…'
'Since when was my aim bad?' He glanced down. 'Now look what you've done. They have started walking towards the gully – the place Petros said they must not reach.'
'The problem is solved then. Forget it.'
'No, I will not forget it.' Dimitrios grinned evilly, hoisted his rifle and tapped Constantine's jaw gently with the heavy butt. 'Interfere again and you'll need a new jaw. You understand? No distractions this time. A moving target? Bull's-eye. Again…'
He repositioned the rifle, rested it firmly in a cleft in the rock, thrust the butt firmly against his shoulder, lined up the sight, took the first pressure. One final squeeze…
The bullet slammed into the rock less than an inch from the hand on the trigger. A rock splinter cut Dimitrios' cheekbone. His rifle jerked up. This time it fired. The shot winged into the sky. A second bullet slammed into the rock between the two brothers crouched less than half a foot from each other. The third bullet struck Constantine's shotgun. He let go, yelled. The weapon dropped out of sight over the brink. They were scrambling out of the nest when a fresh bullet nicked the heel of Dimitrios' shoe. He jumped with sheer fright.
A hundred feet above them, perched on a ledge protruding from the mountain wall, Marler reloaded. He aimed down in seconds, pulled the trigger. The fifth bullet ripped a shard of cloth from Dimitrios' right shoulder. Before he followed Constantine, who was scrambling back towards the staircase, he risked a glance upwards.
He saw Marler on the ledge and beneath the huge overhang of rock. Constantine looked back, saw the few seconds when his brother was glancing up.
'Come on!' he yelled. 'He missed five times. He'll kill you with his next shot…'
'Stupid cretin!' Dimitrios yelled back as he also began to run. 'He aimed to miss…' Dimitrios was enough of a marksman to recognize shooting superior to his own. Feeling safe as he ran out of sight of the ledge, he jumped with fright again as a fusillade of bullets peppered the rock walls on all sides, showering him with sharp splinters. How could this be?
'Shoot the bastards!' Christina urged Newman viciously.
Newman was standing, legs braced apart, rifle aimed up at the mountain as he continued shooting at the fleeing figures still in view from below. Christina, eyes blazing, stared up at Marler, now edging his way back along the ledge – at her hated cousins disappearing from sight down the staircase. Newman smiled, lowered his rifle, reloaded.
'You're one lousy shot,' she informed him, her hand pressed into her hip.
'You think so?' He smiled again. 'I aimed to miss – just as Marler did. There's been enough killing. And we don't want to start up a fresh vendetta with your lovely family.'
'Blessed be the merciful,' said the priest.
'I don't know about that, Father.' Newman grinned again. 'I might agree – so long as the merciful are alive. Which isn't often the case if you read history. Now, where was Andreas Gavalas murdered? And what did you see?'
The priest led them to the gully wending its way down to the sea. Near the top, where tufts of bleached grass stood at the edge of the dried-up watercourse, he pointed. A smooth-sided cleft large enough to hide a man. This had been Andreas' temporary grave. The priest, taking a 'walk of solitude', had discovered the body by accident.
The hilt of a knife had protruded from beneath the left shoulder blade and the man was dead. Hurrying back towards the monastery for help, the priest had met several monks who had accompanied him back to the cleft. The body had vanished.
The priest had reported the incident to General Geiger, the German commander-in-chief. Geiger had checked with the only patrol in the vicinity. Later he had told the priest he was satisfied his men had no knowledge of what had happened.
'Then who took away the body?' Newman asked. 'And did you see the British raiding party approaching up the gully after landing from the sea?'
'Yes. I saw them from the monastery. Perhaps that is why my steps led me this way. Presumptuous curiosity. Not a virtue.'
'How many men in the raiding party?' Newman persisted.
'Four. I watched them through field glasses before starting on my walk down here.'
'Four Greeks, you mean?' Newman asked casually.
'No. Three British soldiers and one man dressed in peasant garb. I presume that was Andreas Gavalas who knew the island. I knew they were British because they wore green camouflage raincoats.'
'Surely they would have been seen by that German lookout unit I heard was established in the monastery?' Newman suggested. 'If you saw them coming, the Germans must have done?'
'The British were clever – and lucky. They landed when a thick winter sea mist was covering this area. When I saw them through my field glasses the mist had parted for a short time. At that moment the watchguard unit was being replaced by new men coming on duty.'
'And have you ever heard a whisper as to who might have removed Andreas' body?'
The priest pulled at his beard, his eyes avoided Newman's. 'It is a mystery,' he eventually replied. 'And now I must return if you will excuse me.'
'The whole business is peculiar,' Newman responded.
He stared round the scrub-covered platform. Very little cover for a raiding party which must have relied on the mist to reach the shelter of the mountain. Doubtless Andreas had known ways of penetrating the fastness. Marler was walking towards them at a jaunty pace, rifle propped over his shoulder, as Newman stared once again upwards. What a life – confined most of your days inside that fortress-like complex perched half-way to the sky. A large bird, probably an eagle, drifted off a tongue of rock and circled them high up.
'Can you take me back to Athens in that car?' Christina asked Newman. 'My cousins drove me up here in an old Cadillac. I have been abandoned.'
'All the way to Athens?' Newman queried in surprise.
'I'm not going back to the Devil's Valley – to where Petros is waiting to beat hell out of me. I've finished with that life.' She moved closer to him, her eyes enormous. 'I will pay for my passage. The last ferry leaves in two hours. You will take me? Please.'
'And how will you pay me?' Newman enquired ironically, expecting a certain answer. She had lowered her voice so only he could hear her.
'With information. About Harry Masterson.'
'You just bought yourself a one-way ticket.'
Marler arrived, brushed dirt off his jacket, grinned at Christina. 'You get around, little lady.'
She walked slowly up to him, a half-smile on her face. 'We met earlier, you may recall…'
'How could I forget?' He smiled sardonically.
'I do not forget either. I have something for you, Marler. A keepsake. Is that not the right word?'
She was still smiling when her right hand whipped up, palm open, and hit him with all her considerable force across the face. The blow jerked his head sideways. She smiled again, watching the red weal which had appeared across his cheek,
'Now we are quits. Is that not the right phrase?' She turned to Newman. 'Now, I am ready when you are.'
The priest had lingered with Spyros a few yards away, as though reluctant to leave. His expression was a study in indecision. He seemed to make up his mind suddenly and walked to within a few feet of Newman. He took a deep breath before he uttered the words and then walked rapidly away towards the mountain.
'The disappearance of that body. There was something else on the island when it vanished, I suggest you look in that direction. I refer to the Greek Key.'
18
Nick drove the Mercedes back along the far side of the mountain, much to Newman's relief when he saw the ground beyond the brink sloped away gradually. It had been his idea to use this route after talking with Christina.
Those two hard cases, Dimitrios and Constantine,' he pointed out to Marler before they started back, 'will travel in their Cadillac to Siros port. Then they'll ditch the car and fly back in their chopper. They landed on open ground jus
t outside Siros according to Christina. They came here in that machine which overflew our ferry.'
'What's the plan?' Marler demanded.
'If we can catch up with that Cadillac I'd like a few words with them – and I guess you would. This time with our fists, Petros has to be discouraged from sending his jackals after us. I don't want to spend the rest of our time in
Greece looking over our shoulders. When we get back to Athens I want a quiet talk with Christina on her own, I'm sure she has more information.'
'Why not me? I've known the girl a bit longer…'
'Oh, yes!' Newman's tone was ironical. 'You got to know her so well she pasted you one.'
'It was the only way I could hope to get her to talk…'
'It was the only way you thought you could get her to talk – and she didn't.'
'It's just possible you could be right,' Marler admitted reluctantly. He felt his face. 'She's a beauty bat she packs a rare punch…'
'Which you richly deserved. Let's get over to the car.'
'May I enquire what is the next object of the exercise with her?'
'Christina met Harry Masterson in London, probably pointed him to Exmoor and those three ex-commandos, Why? Only she can tell me. So, old boy,' Newman went on, mimicking Marler, 'I'd appreciate it if from now on you leave the beauty to me. And on the way back we'd better assume those two thugs may be waiting to ambush us.'
They arranged the seating to anticipate the worst. Marler, loaded rifle across his lap, sat in front next to Nick. In the rear they placed Newman, Christina – sitting in the middle – and Spyros occupied the other corner. The hunchback was apologetic as Nick drove away from the plateau, heading for the far side of the mountain.
'I was not a great help to you, Mr Newman. The priest told you everything.'
'Everything? Are you sure about that? Who took away Andreas' body? And what is the Greek Key?'
'Don't ask me that.' The hunchback shuddered, clasped his veined hands tightly. 'I know nothing about such things.'
'But I do.' Christina pressed her shoulder against Newman, turned and gazed at him. 'Maybe later, when we are alone, the two of us should talk.'
'I'd welcome that.' Newman stared back at her. 'You speak very good English.'
'That was my mother's doing. I was lucky enough to be well-educated. And sometimes I think that is why my cousins – and Petros – hate me. They are still men of the soil. They think like peasants, behave like them. My mother was left money by a distant relative. She banked it secretly. Petros was furious. One night she packed me off to Zurich. To a school. I found I was good at languages. As well as Greek I speak German and English. I took a law degree. Then I made a mistake.'
'Which was?'
'I came back for my mother's funeral. Petros insisted I must pay my respects by staying in Devil's Valley for a time. Like a fool I agreed. Time went by. They all made me think their way. Now I have had enough of them for two lifetimes. We will talk later.'
Spyros had produced something from under his floppy jacket. Newman heard a strange sound, glanced across Christina. Spyros was clicking a length of black worry beads. His expression was anxious. Newman looked out of the window. The view was spectacular: a vast panorama stretching all the way down across the island to the sickle-shaped harbour.
There was tension inside the car. As they approached each bend Marler leaned forward, gripping his rifle, alert for any sign of the Gavalas brothers. He had warned Nick to be ready for an emergency stop at any second. Nick kept wiping a hand dry, then grasping the wheel tightly, staring ahead while he crawled round the bends.
The worry beads stopped clicking. Newman remained quite still. Spyros leaned forward, staring in his direction. Newman went on gazing out of the window as the car continued its steep and tortuous descent. Now he could pick out individual boats berthed in Siros harbour.
'My cousin, Sarantis, is an archaeologist,' Spyros began. 'Is that the right word?'
'He goes on excavations – digging up ancient sites. A lot of them round the Plaka district in Athens,' Newman encouraged him.
'That is so. But Sarantis likes places where there are few of his kind. Like Cape Sounion. The Temple of Poseidon.'
'Sensible chap.' Newman forced himself to stay relaxed. 'So what about Sarantis?'
'He is very old. Like me. But he has a wonderful memory for faces. He was near Cape Sounion when the Englishman, Masterson, was thrown from the cliff not many weeks past.'
'He saw it happen?'
'No. But he did see the two men who went to the temple shortly before the killing.'
Two men? You are sure? You did say he was very old,' Newman reminded him gently.
'Eighty years. He recognized Masterson from the pictures later in the papers – the man thrown from the cliff, he said.'
'And the second man,' Newman probed. 'He could describe him? How does he know Masterson was thrown off- if he didn't see it happen?'
'I think he did, but he felt it was dangerous to admit that. He has a good memory for faces,' Spyros repeated, in the manner of the old.
'He described this second man to you?' Newman enquired.
'No. But you could ask him. He would tell you. He likes the English. Treat him gently, please. He is frightened by what he saw at Cape Sounion.'
'You have his address in Athens?'
'Athens? He lives here on Siros. In a house near the top of the port. We could see him before you take the ferry back to Athens.'
'Let's do that,' Newman agreed. 'Maybe we've stumbled on just what we've been seeking. By pure chance – coming to Siros. I have experienced that when I was a foreign correspondent,' he told Marler, who was watching him in the rear-view mirror. 'A stroke of luck when you least expect it. And it opens up a whole new picture – maybe leading all the way back to Exmoor.'
'Sounds just a shade too easy to me,' Marler commented, switching his gaze to the view beyond the windscreen.
Approaching the outskirts of the port, Nick spoke in Greek to Spyros who gabbled vehemently in reply. Newman was watching the view out of his window, apparently taking no interest in the conversation, his expression blank as he absorbed every word of what was being said. Spyros was having second thoughts about mentioning Sarantis; Nick was reassuring him.
Driving down a narrow paved street, closed in again by the glaring white walls of the stone houses, Nick swung off the street up a curving walled ramp. The house was isolated from the town, grey shutters masked the windows, the brilliant red front door was closed. Marler leapt out of the car, gripping his rifle, and poked his head in the rear window to speak to Spyros.
'Is there a rear way out of this place?' he asked urgently.
Newman noticed he had released the safety catch on his rifle. He was tense, quick-moving. Spyros looked up at him and gestured.
'Round the other side. There is a terrace leading to a door. A flight of steps runs down into the street.'
'What's the matter?' asked Newman as he also left the Mercedes holding his own rifle.
'Something not quite right here,' Marler said tersely.
'What makes you think that?'
'Sixth sense.' Marler spoke to Spyros again. 'This Sarantis. Does he live alone? Any wife, servants?'
'No. By himself. A woman comes in each day…'
'Will she be here now?'
Marler was firing the questions. Frequently he glanced at the closed shutters. He frowned as he glanced up at the flat roof. 'Any way to get up there?' he demanded before Spyros answered his first question. Nick, who had switched off the engine, had caught the atmosphere, stood near the front of the car, his right hand under his loose jacket, close to the revolver.
'The woman comes only in the mornings,' Spyros replied. 'And round that corner there is a flight of steps leading to the roof…'
'I'll take the roof,' Marler snapped. 'Bob, you take the rear door. Nick, wait by the front door here…'
'You wait in the car with Spyros,' Newman warned Christina and
ran after Marler.
'The front door is ajar,' Newman warned Nick. 'Synchronize our watches. OK? Eighty seconds from now we both go in. Caution is the word…'
Newman ran round the side of the house. Marler was taking the steps to the roof two at a time. The terrace widened overlooking the deserted street. Siesta time. Probably all day. The heat burned his back. The grey shutters were closed over the windows at the back. Newman arrived at a door painted a bright blue.
This door was half-open. Somewhere out of sight further down the street a car started up, sped away. Could mean nothing. He checked his watch. Thirty seconds to go. He stood to one side of the doorway, listening. The sound of the car departing had vanished. A heavy heat-laden silence descended on the terrace. No sound of movement inside the single-storey house. He had the feeling the place was empty. So why were both doors open?
Ten seconds. He took a firm grasp on his rifle, held it at waist level. Raising his right foot he kicked the door wide open, darted inside, pressed his body against a wall.
A drop of at least twenty degrees. Positively cool compared with outside. He was inside a large L-shaped living room. A lot of soft furnishing: armchairs, couches. An arched fireplace took up most of the opposite wall. His eyes swivelled, getting accustomed to the dim light. A desk pushed up against the right-hand wall. Its surface littered with papers. He could hear Nick prowling round out of sight. His eyes were fixed on the desk area.
A chair was overturned. The body of an old man lay sprawled on the tiled floor. He lay very still on his back, his eyes staring at the roughcast ceiling. His right hand stretched out, clawed except for the index finger pointing towards Newman as though in a gesture of protest. Nick appeared, gun in hand, followed by Marler who moved with the silence of a cat.
'Anyone in the place?' Newman asked. Both shook their heads. 'Get Spyros. Warn him. I think we're too late…'
'Dead as a dodo,' Marler pronounced in a neutral tone.
He was crouched over the body, had checked the neck pulse. He remained crouched on his haunches, his forehead wrinkled as he looked round. Newman was standing gazing down at the old man. He pointed to a scrape mark on the tiles close to the desk.