Then he did sleep, so soundly that he never heard her leave the bed or the room. It was daylight streaming in through the windows that finally awakened him, and by that time the only momento of her visit was the bracelet, winking at him on her pillow.
Chapter Six
IT WAS A little past seven when Brad arrived at the mail desk in the lobby. Rhona was as good as her word: the envelope addressed to Bradley Smith was waiting. Inside he found a small coloured picture of an old church that seemed to grow out of the mountains, and four fifty-dollar bills. He asked the clerk for a manila envelope, addressed it to himself, placed the bracelet inside the envelope and had it locked in the hotel safe.
He was travelling light: the new raincoat and a shaving kit for personal items and his service binoculars, in a case about his neck. His service revolver was back in that nice apartment in West Hollywood. He approached the car rental agency in the lobby and changed his mind. Peter Lange, looking too good to be true in white flannels and a blue yachting jacket and cap, was holding the clerk in earnest conversation, and if Rhona didn’t want David Draper to know about this journey it could be assumed that Peter Lange was to be kept in the dark as well. He paused, long enough to pick up a tour brochure from the company Katerina worked for, and found that it carried the home office address where all tours originated. The brochure offered full services, including private cars. It seemed a wiser base of operations.
The taxi he caught outside the hotel took him to a tour office on Amalai Street, where early risers were gathering to get the pick of the seats on the morning tours. Katerina had just reported for work and only a compassionate eye could see that she was operating under great strain. He caught her attention and she met him in a quiet corner of the room.
“Is everything all right?”
“Of course,” she said.
“I don’t believe you. What is it? Did Stephanos come home last night?”
“No—fortunately. But I did have a late visitor. Captain Koumaris.”
“Did he give you trouble?”
“Trouble? Oh, no. He was very proper. He’s always very proper. You would never guess that he’s the biggest beast of the lot. But I’m not supposed to discuss the Junta with tourists.”
“Forget I’m a tourist. Damn it, what did he say?”
“He warned me that Stephanos may not be able to continue at the university next semester. You must know that there’s no chance for him in Greece without an education. Koumaris knows it, that’s for sure. Some day he and his inquisition will fall. In the meantime, like all frightened little people, they govern by terror.”
“The explosion was sabotage, then?”
“Sabotage, harassment, letting off steam. Who knows? I try not to ask. What I don’t know I can’t tell if I’m put through the Truth Machine. One thing I do know. There will be more explosions and Stephanos will be suspected and watched. It no longer matters if he’s a part of the revolution. He’s young. Some people hate all the young.”
“Katerina,” Brad said, “I have to leave Athens for a few days on business. I have a telephone number for you to call, if there’s any more trouble.” He dug Brooks Martins’ card out of his wallet and wrote the number on the margin of the brochure. He was taking a chance on Martins but he couldn’t leave Katerina without any protection. He gave the brochure to Katerina and added: “This is the number of an American—with the Embassy, I think. He gave it to me for my own use. If you need him for any reason just say that you’re my girl.”
“But I’m not!”
“Lie a little. Tell him that you’re my girl and that I’m a man with a violent temper who will raise all sorts of hell if any harm comes to you. As we say in America, you can’t have too much insurance.”
“Where are you going?” Katerina asked.
“To Kastoria. I’ll need a car and a driver because I have to travel fast and I don’t know the roads. Can you take care of it for me?”
“The car is easy,” she reflected. “All you have to do is choose your model. The driver may be more difficult—” She folded the brochure thoughtfully and tucked it inside her purse. “I may know someone,” she added. “Can you wait about fifteen minutes?”
“Is there a coffee shop nearby?”
“Next door. I’ll make it as soon as I can. And thank you, Mr. Smith, for the telephone number, even if I never use it.”
He found the coffee shop and had a quick breakfast. When he returned to the tour office Katerina had prepared the paper work for the rental. He paid the deposit fee and followed her directions to the downstairs garage. When he arrived, an attendant was filling the tank of a new Fiat sports sedan and the driver, a bare-headed boy of about sixteen, was already seated behind the wheel. Brad tossed his gear into the back seat and got into the front seat beside the boy.
“Are you the driver?” he asked.
The boy smiled broadly. “No, sir,” he said. “I work in the garage. I am to take you to the driver. She’s a beautiful car.”
“Are you sure you can handle her?”
“Oh, yes, Mister. She handles easy. It’s just a little way.”
“All right, then. Just be sure it’s still a beautiful car when we get to the driver.”
The attendant capped the tank and waved them on. The motor started and the boy swung the fast little car into the stream of traffic. He drove skilfully; in a very short time they were free of the business district and heading towards the sea. It was a beautiful day, with just enough wind to fill the sails of the small boats that leaned against the sky. It was the kind of day when the ancients must have devised the god Apollo, but Brad was too preoccupied to appreciate the scenery. When he glanced at his wrist watch the boy said:
“Just a little way now, Mister. You’ll have a very fine driver, you’ll see.”
“Where do we meet him?”
“At the place where he stays. Near the yacht club.”
“He sounds like a sailor.”
“Sometimes. He is Greek.”
About ten minutes later, the boy slackened speed and turned off the highway into a narrow street that threaded its way to the water’s edge. Brad looked back. Behind them stood a skyline of luxury class hotels and apartment buildings; but there’s no class distinction with sea lovers, and nearer the shore, wedged in between boat houses and service sheds, were the small cottages of the poor. A few yards from the entry to the yacht harbour stood a weathered and unmarked commercial building. The boy parked the car and turned off the ignition.
“We are here,” he announced.
“What are you going to do now?” Brad asked.
“I go inside and tell the driver you are waiting.”
“How do you get back to Athens?”
“There is a bus.”
Brad handed the boy a few dollars and received a broad smile in exchange. The boy ran into the large shed and Brad got out of the car to stretch his legs. Now he could see the small boat harbour, and beyond it, in deeper water, several large yachts riding at anchor. The longest and sleekest was a blinding white vessel, with its bows pointed seaward. Impressed, he raised his binoculars to examine it more closely, and then let them span back towards the dock. A small motor launch was preparing to pull away from the loading area, and stepping into it was a tall man wearing white flannels, a blue jacket and a blue yachting cap. Brad adjusted the glasses as the man turned towards him. It was Peter Lange. Too far away to notice he was being observed, Lange got into the boat and it headed out to sea. Brad was following the direction of the small craft when he heard footsteps hurrying out from the building behind him. There was the sound of the boot of the car being opened and gear being stowed inside. By this time the direction of the motor launch was obvious: it was racing straight towards the long, white, yacht.
“You admire the Columbia, Mr. Smith?”
Brad lowered the binoculars and turned about. It was Stephanos who had addressed him. Attired in khaki shorts, a knitted shirt and heavy walking boots, he looked
more like a mountain climber than a driver. But he jangled the car keys as his eyes followed the small boat to the yacht.
“So you’re my mysterious driver,” Brad mused. “Your sister thinks fast, doesn’t she?”
Stephanos smiled. “Yes, she does.”
“What is the Columbia?”
“The yacht you’ve been staring at through the binoculars. It belongs to the American millionaire, Bernard Blair.”
“The steel magnate?”
“Steel—oil—banking. I don’t know about these things—only that he is a very rich man and that is his yacht.”
“Is he on board now?”
“Give me the glasses and I will tell you,” Stephanos said. He took the binoculars from Brad’s hand and focused them on the yacht. “The owner’s flag isn’t flying,” he reported, “but someone is aboard.” He chuckled and handed the glasses back to Brad. “See for yourself,” he said.
Brad focused the glasses again. A tall, sun-bronzed girl, with silvered hair and owl-like, coloured glasses, now stood at the boarding ladder waiting for Peter Lange to climb up from the motor boat. She wore the briefest of bikinis, and, even from a distance, was unusually attractive and remarkably poised. Without lowering the glasses, he asked: “Who is she?”
“You don’t recognize her!” Stephanos gasped. “Pattison Blair wouldn’t like that at all!”
“Pattison Blair,” Brad mused. He had been out of circulation for a long time, but not so far out that he had missed the stories about Pattison Blair. “Is she the one who swam nude at Santa Monica beach?” he asked.
“I know nothing about Santa Monica,” Stephanos admitted, “but this lady swims nude everywhere. I have a friend, Demetrios, who is a photographer. He hired a helicopter and flew low over the Columbia to get some pictures. He got them—Pattison Blair sun bathing and swimming in the nude. He sent her some prints and a note suggesting that she might like to buy the negatives.”
“We call that blackmail, where I come from,” Brad said.
“That may be. I don’t meddle with other people’s professions. Anyway, she sent back a note with the address of a publisher in the United States and the suggestion that he sell them for a centre-fold. It upset Demetrios so much he destroyed the negatives. Every artist has an ego. But you surprise me, Mr. Smith. My sister told me that you’re a friend of Harry Avery. I thought you would know about Pattison Blair.”
“What do you mean?” Brad asked.
“That they are very good friends. I think the gossip columns call such a relationship, a liaison.”
“Harry and Pattison Blair!”
Brad began to realize how long five years could be. The Harry Avery who had signed an I.O.U. for $3,000, now played house with one of the richest young women in the world. He wondered if Rhona knew about this. Then he wondered if Stephanos was lying.
“How do you know all this?” he demanded.
“I have friends who are actors,” Stephanos said. “Some of them are working as extras in Harry Avery’s new film.”
“Aphrodite?”
“Yes, Aphrodite. They tell me most of the love scenes have already been shot—some of them on the Columbia. It’s supposed to be a secret, of course, but Aphrodite is played by Pattison Blair.”
It fit the pattern. If Mikos Pallas was accurate in his report of Harry’s habits, Pattison Blair was the natural Aphrodite. Brad raised the binoculars again. Now Peter Lange had joined the girl on the deck of the yacht. They were in earnest conversation and that only made Stephanos’ gossip seem more valid. He lowered the glasses and put them into the case. Stephanos responded by getting in behind the steering wheel of the car and starting the motor. “Destination: Kastoria,” he said, as Brad got into the car beside him.
“Right,” Brad said.
“Because you go to find your friend, Harry Avery. I read the newspapers, Mr. Smith. He must be a very good friend.”
“I’m not sure,” Brad said. “But he owes me money.”
“Much money?”
“I’ll settle for a quarter of a million.”
Stephanos spun the wheel and guided the car back on to the highway. “Now, that is what I call a settlement!” he said.
“Let’s hope your friend is alive!”
The ladder that reached from the deck of the Columbia down to the small motor launch was one of Peter Lange’s most interesting climbs. Like Harry Avery, he was an accomplished climber of another sort. Like Harry Avery, he bore hidden scars. Unlike Harry Avery, he wasn’t a millionaire, but he worked for and with millionaires and this gave him the kind of satisfaction only a self-educated man could know. He had a brilliant mind—this had been evident in his teens and had resulted in his first scholarship. He acquired the other essentials for success—humility (apparent), articulation, self-control and the social graces. He was good looking and attractive to women, but he avoided marriage. The right kind of wife could be a priceless asset to a man on his way to a fortune, but the right kind of wife hadn’t appeared. He had love affairs on a discreet level, always careful not to become involved with the wife or mistress of an important client. It was his ability to control passion that was Peter Lange’s greatest pride—that and his legal mind. Actually, he didn’t like most women—especially those who feigned intellect and invaded such masculine arenas as finance and politics. Most women, he believed, were emotionally unstable. It was a pity they had been given the vote. Only on rare occasions had he encountered a truly brilliant female and one of these was waiting for him on the deck of the Columbia. That she was also extremely beautiful and extremely wealthy made her intellect even more exciting. But Pattison Blair was Harry Avery’s latest conquest and so he climbed carefully and with no show of anticipation.
On the deck of the Columbia he faced her with complete composure.
“I must apologize for getting you up so early,” he said. “You’re very kind to see me at this hour.”
Whatever concern she might be feeling for Harry’s safety was under control. He appreciated that.
“You won’t believe this,” she said, “but I rise at six o’clock almost every morning. I like an early swim. I breakfasted an hour ago, but there’s hot coffee in the lounge. Would you like some?”
“Love it,” Peter Lange said.
She had the free swinging stride and confidence of the well-born. Even an accomplished actress couldn’t fake that. She picked up a short beach coat from one of the deck-chairs and tossed it over her shoulders as they entered the lounge. A small buffet was set at one end of the room. No servants were in sight. Pattison Blair poured coffee from a silver service into a plain white coffee mug, and handed it to him.
“Sugar and cream on the buffet,” she said.
“Nothing, thank you,” he said.
“Toast and muffins in the warming dish,” she added. “Sorry, but I ate all the scrambled eggs. I can have the cook make something if you’re hungry.”
“I had breakfast at the hotel,” Lange said.
“I thought you would. The sea air makes me famished.” She removed the top from the warmer and took out a narrow piece of toast. Nibbling it, she sat down on a deep-cushioned divan. “Please sit down, Mr. Lange,” she said. “You’re so very tall and I like to look at people when I talk to them. Now, what is this news you have of Harry?”
“He’s missing,” Lange said simply.
“But I know that—” She stopped abruptly. “You mean something else,” she said.
“Yes, I do. What I mean is that the wreckage of the plane has been reached. The pilot was inside—dead. Harry is missing.”
“He wasn’t in the plane?”
“Not when it was found. What I wonder—what I hoped you might be able to tell me—is whether or not he was in the plane at all.”
“But how could I tell you that?”
“It’s possible—since the plane was small and easy to land—that he might have had the pilot leave him somewhere.”
“But where? And why?”
She dropped the toast into a convenient ash tray. “Meet me, do you mean? That’s ridiculous! If Harry wanted to meet me, he would come here to the yacht as he always does. We don’t play games.”
“No, I didn’t mean that he was meeting you. I know you don’t play games. That’s the problem. You’re always very open about your men, Miss Blair. I thought it possible that Harry might have been meeting your father.”
“Barney? Why would he do that? Why would he do that without telling me?”
“Perhaps he wouldn’t. But he wasn’t found in the plane and there’s no trace of him, in spite of a search by several interested parties. None of his equipment has been found. No cameras. No film.”
She was worried. The concern so evident in her eyes gave him an advantage, and it was rarely that anyone had an advantage over Pattison Blair.
“Why did you think Harry would meet my father secretly?” she demanded.
“Perhaps because your father asked him to do so.”
“But he didn’t!”
“Are you certain? Miss Blair, there’s no reason for evasion between us. I’m Harry Avery’s legal adviser and I know all of his plans that concern legal actions. I know that he’s planning to divorce his wife and marry you in the very near future.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, from my point of view. There was some problem with Mrs. Avery, but that’s been taken care of in a rather complete manner. The only obstacle remaining is Bernard Blair. It’s rumoured that he’s vowed Harry Avery will never become his son-in-law.”
“Rubbish! Barney always objects to my husband and I’ve had three.”
“But you haven’t had five, have you? Three years ago there was an obscure but ambitious young French actor to whom you announced your engagement. He had an unfortunate skiing accident in the Alps that resulted in his death. Last year you were rumoured about to marry a highly successful Spanish racing driver who didn’t survive the Grand Prix—”
Shot on Location Page 7