Don't Look Now and Other Stories

by Daphne Du Maurier

  I wondered why this chalet, and none of its neighbors, was unshuttered, and stepping inside I heard from the bathroom beyond the sound of running water. Not further disappointment, and the place booked after all? I put my head round the open door, and saw that it was a little Greek maid swabbing the bathroom floor. She seemed startled at the sight of me. I gestured, pointed, said, "Is this taken?" She did not understand, but answered me in Greek. Then she seized her cloth and pail and, plainly terrified, brushed past me to the entrance, leaving her work unfinished.

  I went back into the bedroom and picked up the telephone, and in a moment the smooth voice of the reception clerk answered.

  "This is Mr. Grey," I told him, "Mr. Timothy Grey. I was speaking to you just now about changing my chalet."

  "Yes, Mr. Grey," he replied. He sounded puzzled. "Where are you speaking from?"

  "Hold on a minute," I said. I put down the receiver and crossed the room to the balcony. The number was above the open door. It was 62. I went back to the telephone. "I'm speaking from the chalet I have chosen," I said. "It happened to be open--one of the maids was cleaning the bathroom, and I'm afraid I scared her away. This chalet is ideal for my purpose. It is No. 62."

  He did not answer immediately, and when he did he sounded doubtful. "No. 62?" he repeated. And then, after a moment's hesitation, "I am not sure if it is available."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake..." I began, exasperated, and I heard him talking in Greek to someone beside him at the desk. The conversation went back and forth between them; there was obviously some difficulty, which made me all the more determined.

  "Are you there?" I said. "What's the trouble?"

  More hurried whispers, and then he spoke to me again. "No trouble, Mr. Grey. It is just that we feel you might be more comfortable in No. 57, which is a little nearer to the hotel."

  "Nonsense," I said, "I prefer the view from here. What's wrong with No. 62? Doesn't the plumbing work?"

  "Certainly the plumbing works," he assured me, while the whispering started again. "There is nothing wrong with the chalet. If you have made up your mind I will send down the porter with your luggage and the key."

  He rang off, possibly to finish his discussion with the whisperer at his side. Perhaps they were going to step up the price. If they did, I would have further argument. The chalet was no different from its empty neighbors, but the position, dead center to sea and mountains, was all I had dreamed and more. I stood on the balcony, looking out across the sea and smiling. What a prospect, what a place! I would unpack and have a swim, then put up my easel and do a preliminary sketch before starting serious work in the morning.

  I heard voices, and saw the little maid staring at me from halfway up the garden path, cloth and pail still in hand. Then, as the young porter advanced downhill bearing my suitcase and painting gear, she must have realized that I was to be the occupant of No. 62, for she stopped him midway, and another whispered conversation began. I had evidently caused a break in the smooth routine of the hotel. A few moments later they climbed the steps to the chalet together, the porter to set down my luggage, the maid doubtless to finish her swabbing of the bathroom floor. I had no desire to be on awkward terms with either of them, and, smiling cheerfully, placed coins in both their hands.

  "Lovely view," I said loudly, pointing to the sea. "Must go for a swim," and made breaststroke gestures to show my intent, hoping for the ready smile of the native Greek, usually so responsive to goodwill.

  The porter evaded my eyes and bowed gravely, accepting my tip nevertheless. As for the little maid, distress was evident in her face, and forgetting about the bathroom floor she hurried after him. I could hear them talking as they walked up the garden path together to the hotel.

  Well, it was not my problem. Staff and management must sort out their troubles between them. I had got what I wanted, and that was all that concerned me. I unpacked and made myself at home. Then, slipping on bathing trunks, I stepped down to the ledge of rock beneath the balcony, and ventured a toe into the water. It was surprisingly chill, despite the hot sun that had been upon it all day. Never mind. I must prove my mettle, if only to myself. I took the plunge and gasped, and being a cautious swimmer at the best of times, especially in strange waters, swam round and round in circles rather like a sea lion pup in a zoological pool.

  Refreshing, undoubtedly, but a few minutes were enough, and as I climbed out again onto the rocks I saw that the porter and the little maid had been watching me all the time from behind a flowering bush up the garden path. I hoped I had not lost face. And anyway, why the interest? People must be swimming every day from the other chalets. The bathing suits on the various balconies proved it. I dried myself on the balcony, observing how the sun, now in the western sky behind my chalet, made dappled patterns on the water. Fishing boats were returning to the little harbor port a few miles distant, the chug-chug engines making a pleasing sound.

  I dressed, taking the precaution of having a hot bath, for the first swim of the year is always numbing, and then set up my easel and instantly became absorbed. This was why I was here, and nothing else mattered. I worked for a couple of hours, and as the light failed, and the color of the sea deepened and the mountains turned a softer purple blue, I rejoiced to think that tomorrow I should be able to seize this afterglow in paint instead of charcoal, and the picture would begin to come alive.

  It was time to stop. I stacked away my gear, and before changing for dinner and drawing the shutters--doubtless there were mosquitoes, and I had no wish to be bitten--watched a motorboat with gently purring engine draw in softly to the eastward point with the landing stage away to my right. Three people aboard, fishing enthusiasts no doubt, a woman among them. One man, a local, probably, made the boat fast, and stepped on the landing stage to help the woman ashore. Then all three stared in my direction, and the second man, who had been standing in the stern, put up a pair of binoculars and fixed them on me. He held them steady for several minutes, focusing, no doubt, on every detail of my personal appearance, which is unremarkable enough, heaven knows, and would have continued had I not suddenly become annoyed and withdrawn into the bedroom, slamming the shutters to. How rude can you get, I asked myself. Then I remembered that these western chalets were all unoccupied, and mine was the first to open for the season. Possibly this was the reason for the intense interest I appeared to cause, beginning with members of the hotel staff and now embracing guests as well. Interest would soon fade. I was neither pop star nor millionaire. And my painting efforts, however pleasing to myself, were hardly likely to draw a fascinated crowd.

  Punctually at eight o'clock I walked up the garden path to the hotel and presented myself in the dining room for dinner. It was moderately full and I was allotted a table in the corner, suitable to my single status, close to the screen dividing the service entrance from the kitchens. Never mind. I preferred this position to the center of the room, where I could tell immediately that the hotel clientele were on what my mother used to describe as an "all fellows to football" basis.

  I enjoyed my dinner, treated myself--despite my deluxe chalet--to half a bottle of domestica wine, and was peeling an orange when an almighty crash from the far end of the room disturbed us all. Waiters hurried to the scene. Heads turned, mine among them. A hoarse American voice, hailing from the deep South, called loudly, "For God's sake clear up this God-darn mess!" It came from a square-shouldered man of middle age, whose face was so swollen and blistered by exposure to the sun that he looked as if he had been stung by a million bees. His eyes were sunk into his head, which was bald on top, with a grizzled thatch on either side, and the pink crown had the appearance of being tightly stretched, like the skin of a sausage about to burst. A pair of enormous ears the size of clams gave further distortion to his appearance, while a drooping wisp of mustache did nothing to hide the protruding underlip, thick as blubber and about as moist. I have seldom set eyes on a more unattractive individual. A woman, I suppose his wife, sat beside him, stiff an
d bolt upright, apparently unmoved by the debris on the floor, which appeared to consist chiefly of bottles. She was likewise middle-aged, with a mop of tow-colored hair turning white, and a face as sunburned as her husband's, but mahogany brown instead of red.

  "Let's get the hell out of here and go to the bar!" The hoarse strains echoed across the room. The guests at the other tables turned discreetly back to their own dinner, and I must have been the only one to watch the unsteady exit of the bee-stung spouse and his wife--I could see the deaf-aid in her ear, hence possibly her husband's rasping tones--as he literally rolled past me to the bar, a lurching vessel in the wake of his steady partner. I silently commended the efficiency of the hotel staff, who made short work of clearing the wreckage.

  The dining room emptied. "Coffee in the bar, sir," murmured my waiter. Fearing a crush and loud chatter I hesitated before entering, for the camaraderie of hotel bars has always bored me, but I hate going without my after-dinner coffee. I need not have worried. The bar was empty, apart from the white-coated server behind the bar, and the American sitting at a table with his wife. Neither of them was speaking. There were three empty beer bottles already on the table before him. Greek music played softly from some lair behind the bar. I sat myself on a stool and ordered coffee.

  The bartender, who spoke excellent English, asked if I had spent a pleasant day. I told him yes. I had had a good flight, found the road from Herakleion hazardous, and my first swim rather cold. He explained that it was still early in the year. "In any case," I told him, "I have come to paint, and swimming will take second place. I have a chalet right on the waterfront, No. 62, and the view from the balcony is perfect."

  Rather odd. He was polishing a glass, and his expression changed. He seemed about to say something, then evidently thought better of it, and continued with his work.

  "Turn that goddamn record off!"

  The hoarse, imperious summons filled the empty room. The barman made at once for the gramophone in the corner and adjusted the switch. A moment later the summons rang forth again.

  "Bring me another bottle of beer!"

  Now, had I been the bartender I should have turned to the man and, like a parent to a child, insisted that he said please. Instead, the brute was promptly served, and I was just downing my coffee when the voice from the table echoed through the room once more.

  "Hi, you there, chalet No. 62. You're not superstitious?"

  I turned on my stool. He was staring at me, glass in hand. His wife looked straight in front of her. Perhaps she had removed her deaf-aid. Remembering the maxim that one must humor madmen and drunks, I replied courteously enough.

  "No," I said, "I'm not superstitious. Should I be?"

  He began to laugh, his scarlet face creasing into a hundred lines.

  "Well, God darn it, I would be," he answered. "The fellow from that chalet was drowned only two weeks ago. Missing for two days, and then his body brought up in a net by a local fisherman, half-eaten by octopuses."

  He began to shake with laughter, slapping his hand on his knee. I turned away in disgust, and raised my eyebrows in inquiry to the bartender.

  "An unfortunate accident," he murmured. "Mr. Gordon was such a nice gentleman. Interested in archaeology. It was very warm the night he disappeared, and he must have gone swimming after dinner. Of course the police were called. We were all most distressed here at the hotel. You understand, sir, we don't talk about it much. It would be bad for business. But I do assure you that bathing is perfectly safe. This is the first accident we have ever had."

  "Oh, quite," I said.

  Nevertheless... It was rather off-putting, the fact that the poor chap had been the last to use my chalet. However, it was not as though he had died in the bed. And I was not superstitious. I understood now why the staff had been reluctant to let the chalet again so soon, and why the little maid had been upset.

  "I tell you one thing," boomed the revolting voice. "Don't go swimming after midnight, or the octopuses will get you too." This statement was followed by another outburst of laughter. Then he said, "Come on, Maud. We're for bed," and he noisily shoved the table aside.

  I breathed more easily when the room was clear and we were alone.

  "What an impossible man," I said. "Can't the management get rid of him?"

  The bartender shrugged. "Business is business. What can they do? The Stolls have plenty of money. This is their second season here, and they arrived when we opened in March. They seem to be crazy about the place. It's only this year, though, that Mr. Stoll has become such a heavy drinker. He'll kill himself if he goes on at this rate. It's always like this, night after night. Yet his day must be healthy enough. Out at sea fishing from early morning until sundown."

  "I dare say more bottles go over the side than he catches fish," I observed.

  "Could be," the bartender agreed. "He never brings his fish to the hotel. The boatman takes them home, I dare say."

  "I feel sorry for the wife."

  The bartender shrugged. "She's the one with the money," he replied sotto voce, for a couple of guests had just entered the bar, "and I don't think Mr. Stoll has it all his own way. Being deaf may be convenient to her at times. But she never leaves his side, I'll grant her that. Goes fishing with him every day. Yes, gentlemen, what can I get for you?"

  He turned to his new customers, and I made my escape. The cliche that it takes all sorts to make a world passed through my head. Thank heaven it was not my world, and Mr. Stoll and his deaf wife could burn themselves black under the sun all day at sea as far as I was concerned, and break beer bottles every evening into the bargain. In any event, they were not neighbors. No. 62 may have had the unfortunate victim of a drowning accident for its last occupant, but at least this had insured privacy for its present tenant.

  I walked down the garden path to my abode. It was a clear starlit night. The air was balmy, and sweet with the scent of the flowering shrubs planted thickly in the red earth. Standing on my balcony I looked out across the sea towards the distant shrouded mountains and the harbor lights from the little fishing port. To my right winked the lights of the other chalets, giving a pleasing, almost fairy impression, like a clever backcloth on a stage. Truly a wonderful spot, and I blessed the travel agent who had recommended it.

  I let myself in through my shuttered doorway and turned on the bedside lamp. The room looked welcoming and snug; I could not have been better housed. I undressed, and before getting into bed remembered I had left a book I wanted to glance at on the balcony. I opened the shutters and picked it up from the deck chair where I had thrown it, and once more, before turning in, glanced out at the open sea. Most of the fairy lights had been extinguished, but the chalet that stood on its own on the extreme point still had its light burning on the balcony. The boat, tied to the landing stage, bore a riding light. Seconds later I saw something moving close to my rocks. It was the snorkel of an underwater swimmer. I could see the narrow pipe, like a minute periscope, move steadily across the still, dark surface of the sea. Then it disappeared to the far left out of sight. I drew my shutters and went inside.

  I don't know why it was, but the sight of that moving object was somehow disconcerting. It made me think of the unfortunate man who had been drowned during a midnight swim. My predecessor. He too, perhaps, had sallied forth one balmy evening such as this, intent on underwater exploration, and by so doing lost his life. One would imagine the unhappy accident would scare off other hotel visitors from swimming alone at night. I made a firm decision never to bathe except in broad daylight, and--chickenhearted, maybe--well within my depth.

  I read a few pages of my book, then, feeling ready for sleep, turned to switch out my light. In doing so I clumsily bumped the telephone, which fell to the floor. I bent over, picked it up, luckily no damage done, and saw that the small drawer that was part of the fixture had fallen open. It contained a scrap of paper, or rather card, with the name Charles Gordon upon it, and an address in Bloomsbury. Surely Gordon had been the na
me of my predecessor? The little maid, when she cleaned the room, had not thought to open the drawer. I turned the card over. There was something scrawled on the other side, the words "Not after midnight." And then, maybe as an afterthought, the figure 38. I replaced the card in the drawer and switched off the light. Perhaps I was overtired after the journey, but it was well past two before I finally got off to sleep. I lay awake for no rhyme or reason, listening to the water lapping against the rocks beneath my balcony.

  I painted solidly for three days, never quitting my chalet except for the morning swim and my evening meal at the hotel. Nobody bothered me. An obliging waiter brought my breakfast, from which I saved rolls for midday lunch, the little maid made my bed and did her chores without disturbing me, and when I had finished my impressionistic scene on the afternoon of the third day I felt quite certain it was one of the best things I had ever done. It would take pride of place in the planned exhibition of my work. Well satisfied, I could now relax, and I determined to explore along the coast the following day, and discover another view to whip up inspiration. The weather was glorious. Warm as a good English June. And the best thing about the whole site was the total absence of neighbors. The other guests kept to their side of the domain, and, apart from bows and nods from adjoining tables as one entered the dining room for dinner, no one attempted to strike up acquaintance. I took good care to drink my coffee in the bar before the obnoxious Mr. Stoll had left his table.