by Mary Stewart
I hit him as hard as I could over the head.
I missed him. Just as the blow fell, something warned him. He didn’t turn into the light. He lashed backwards with a crooked elbow that caught the torch, knocking it flying, then swept on to strike me full across the breast in a heavy blow that sent me staggering to fall at the foot of the bed. The torch hurtled wide a second time and went out for good. As I went down I saw, in one swift flash of the flying light, the Greek turn and leap for the doorway, with Simon after him in a lunge. And in the doorway stood Danielle, fully dressed, with wide brilliant eyes and parted lips.
She whipped back to let the man pass. Then, with a languid-seeming movement that was nevertheless as swift as a snake’s, she stepped into the path of Simon’s rush. I heard the other man running up the corridor towards her room and the open window, as Simon came violently up against her body. I heard her gasp as his weight jammed her hard against the doorpost. He stopped short.
I couldn’t see more than the dim outlines of movement against the grey light of the corridor, but she must have been clinging to him, for he said, harsh and breathless, ‘Let me go!’ and she laughed in her throat. Along the corridor a door slammed. Simon moved sharply and I heard him say, very softly: ‘Do you hear me? Take your hands away, or you’ll get hurt.’
I hadn’t heard him even sound ruffled before; now I realised with something like a sharp little shock that he was angry. Danielle must not have set much store by it, for I heard her murmur, with the breath hurrying through the husky voice: ‘Go on doing that. I like it …’
There was a second of frozen silence, then in the near-darkness the group by the door exploded into movement. The girl was flung aside against the other door-jamb with a violence that sent the breath out of her in a sharp cry that held more surprise than anything else. Before she could recover herself Simon was back in the room, hurling himself across it towards the window, tearing at the catch.
The casement was rusty, and it must have been stiff. As it screeched wider I heard, like an echo at the other end of the building, the shriek of rusty hinges, and the thud as a heavy body dropped to the ground. Steps clattered and slithered away into the darkness.
Simon was up on the sill, a dark bulk against the greying sky. But before he could swing himself out and after the quarry Danielle flew after him like an arrow and clung to his arm.
‘Simon … Simon, let him go, Simon dear, what a fuss …’ In spite of his recent violence she clung to him still, pleading in that voice which under its overtones of sexiness might have held a touch of fear. ‘Simon, no! He was with me. Don’t you understand? With me.’
I saw his hand fall from the window-catch. He turned. ‘What? What d’you mean?’
‘What I say. He was in my room. He only came to see me.’
I said from the floor beside the bed where I was still sitting: ‘It’s true. I heard them.’
I heard her laugh again, but the sound didn’t hold its usual assurance. Simon shook her off as if she didn’t exist and dropped lightly back into the room. ‘I – see. He’s gone, anyway … Camilla? Are you all right?’
‘Perfectly. Is there any light?’
‘I think the bulb’s out. Half a minute.’ He seemed to be feeling in his pockets. ‘What are you doing down there? Did that brute hit you?’
‘Yes, but I’m all right. I was just – I was just keeping out of the way.’ I got up a bit unsteadily and sat on the bed, just as Simon found matches and struck one. He surveyed me by its light. I smiled rather waveringly up at him. I saw then that he was dressed only in a pair of grey flannels. In the light of the match I could see the gleam of sweat on his chest and a shining dark trickle of blood from a cut at the base of the neck, where a deep vee of sunburn showed. He was breathing a little faster than usual – not much, but perceptibly a bit faster – and his eyes for once didn’t look cool and amused at all. But the match burned steadily in a tremorless hand. I asked anxiously: ‘What about you?’
‘Don’t give it a thought. Honours were about even … more’s the pity.’
Danielle said petulantly: ‘What did you have to fight for?’
He said crisply: ‘My dear girl, he attacked me. What would you expect me to do?’ He had lit another match and was looking round the room for the light-bulb.
I said: ‘That was Dimitrios, wasn’t it?’
Simon gave me a fleeting look of surprise as he picked the light-bulb up from the wash-basin. Danielle turned her head as if startled, then smiled that cat-and-cream smile of hers. ‘You recognised him? Of course.’
Simon had dragged one of the wooden chairs forward, and now mounted it to fit the light-bulb into its socket. The light flashed on, harsh on the disorder of the bare little room. He got off the chair, looking at me.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Quite. But Simon – where’s Nigel?’
‘I’ve no idea. He hasn’t been to bed; that much is apparent.’ In spite of the tossed state of the bed, the sheet still lay tucked flatly in. No one had slept there. Simon hesitated, then turned to Danielle. She was standing near the door, leaning against the wall in a pose of lazy grace. Her eyes looked long and sleepy again under the thick lashes. She had taken a cigarette out of a pocket and was lighting it. She dropped the burnt-out match on the floor. All through the operation the narrow glinting gaze had been on Simon … all over him.
He said flatly: ‘You say that man was with you? How did he get in?’
‘I let him in.’
‘By the door?’
‘No. By the window.’
‘Come off it, Danielle. Your window’s twelve feet from the ground. Don’t tell me you plaited sheets or let down your hair for him. Did you unlock the door for him, or has he got a key?’
She said sulkily, under the coldness of his voice: ‘I don’t see what the hell it’s got to do with you, but yes, I did unlock it.’
‘It’s got everything to do with me that your visitor was apparently prowling round where he’s no damned right to be. And there’s the little detail that he went for me with apparent intent to do damage, if not worse. What was he doing in Nigel’s room?’
‘How do I know?’
‘He jumped out of your window in the end. He could have gone that way in the first place. Why didn’t he?’
‘It was easier to get out through the door, and quieter. The key’s in the lock.’
‘Then why did he come in here?’
She shrugged. ‘He must have heard you moving and dodged in so that you wouldn’t see him. I don’t know.’
‘He wasn’t to know there was no one in the room.’
‘I’d told him they were nearly all empty. I expect he took a chance. And now I’m tired of this, and tired of the inquisition, and I’m going to bed.’ She straightened, yawning deliberately and daintily, like a cat, showing all her pretty teeth and that pale pink tongue. Then she turned her head and let the big sleepy eyes move insolently over me. Simon had found the end of a battered carton of cigarettes in his trousers pocket and had given me one. He bent over me to light it. His breathing was quite even again now. If it hadn’t been for the cut where the torch had hit him, and that thin glaze of sweat drying on his skin, you would never have guessed that a few minutes ago he had been fighting for his life in the dark.
Danielle said, sounding suddenly waspish: ‘What are you doing here anyway, Camilla?’
‘I heard a noise and I came along.’
She smiled. ‘And got knocked down. Did he hurt you?’
‘I hope not as much as I hurt him.’
She looked momentarily startled, and this gave me a quite absurd prick of satisfaction. ‘You hurt him? How?’
‘I hit him over the back of the neck with the torch. Hard.’
She stared at me for a moment longer, a very queer look.
‘You hit him?’ Her voice sounded quite shaken. ‘I can’t see – you have no business … He is my lover, and if I wish to let him come here—�
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I said sharply: ‘He was doing his best to kill Simon. And besides, I owed him something.’
She looked at me almost stupidly. ‘You – owed him something?’
‘Yes. And don’t play the innocent, Danielle. You didn’t look so innocent on the Shining Ones this afternoon.’
‘I … see.’
She let out a breath. Simon said sharply: ‘What are you talking about? What happened?’
‘Nothing. It was Camilla’s imagination. She thinks Dimitrios – oh, it’s so silly that I won’t speak of it. It was a joke. And now I’m sick of this. I’m going.’ She dropped the half-smoked cigarette on the floor and turned quickly. I got to my feet.
‘Just a minute,’ said Simon pleasantly. ‘No, please don’t go yet, Camilla. We’re forgetting Nigel. Danielle, have you any idea where he might be? Did he say anything last night to—?’
She said viciously: ‘Why should I know where the fool went? I don’t know and I don’t care. He could be dead as far as I’m concerned.’
I said: ‘I think I know where he went.’
Simon was dabbing at his cut neck with a handkerchief. I saw his brows shoot up. ‘You seem to know an awful lot tonight.’
‘Doesn’t she?’ Danielle had stopped in the doorway, and turned her head sharply. Her voice was not, like his, amused. ‘All right, you tell us.’
I said: ‘It’s only a guess. But … well, Simon, d’you remember our talk in here the other night, about Nigel and his work, and needing a gimmick, and the Dutch boy walking from Jannina and all that?’
‘Yes. You’re not suggesting that Nigel has taken a leaf out of that boy’s book, are you?’
I said: ‘There’s been a mule stolen from the excavations above the shrine. I know because the guide told me this morning … yesterday morning, I suppose I should say. And you know I saw Nigel early the same morning, and he was trying not to be seen—’
‘Where?’ asked Danielle.
‘Just outside the studio here.’
‘Which way was he going?’
‘I didn’t see. He seemed to be making further up Parnassus – towards the stadium.’
‘Ah well,’ said Simon, ‘you may be right. I suppose what Nigel does is very much his own affair, and he was certainly feeling thoroughly unsettled. He may easily have cut loose for a few days.’ He turned to rinse his bloodstained handkerchief out under the tap. ‘I think we’d better just tidy his room up and get out of it. There’s blood on the wash-basin here, and I’m afraid the floor isn’t all it should be. We’d better have a look at the damage and do what we can.’
I said: ‘Leave that. I’ll clean the basin up. But let me have a look at that cut, will you? Danielle, perhaps you’ll be good enough to clear the floor and pick up that broken glass?’
She sent me one of those looks of glittering dislike, which was, this time, quite justified. ‘It won’t take you long. I’m tired. You forget, I haven’t been to sleep yet tonight, and oh, how I need that sleep …’ She yawned, sent another narrow-eyed look at me, and went out rather quickly, shutting the door behind her. My eyes met Simon’s in the mirror. I said: ‘You wanted to get rid of her, didn’t you?’
‘You’re coming on, aren’t you, thought-reader. Yes.’
‘Why?’
The smile vanished. He turned and looked down at me. His eyes were grave, sombre even. ‘Because I don’t like the feel of this thing, Camilla.’
‘The feel of it?’
‘Yes. Too much is happening. Some of it may be irrelevant, or it may matter the hell of a lot. Danielle and this man, for instance … and Danielle and Nigel. I’ve begun to wonder.’
‘Then I was right. Turn round towards the light and let me have a look at that cut … you didn’t want me to go on talking about Nigel in front of her?’
‘No.’
‘It’s not deep, but you’re going to have a bruise and a stiff shoulder, I think. Have you any antiseptic in your room? You don’t think he’s gone off with a Modestine into the mountains?’
‘Yes. No, I mean. No, I don’t believe he’s off on a trip, but yes, I have some antiseptic.’
‘Then don’t forget to put it on. The wound’s quite clean and it’s stopped bleeding.’ I stood back and looked at him inquiringly. ‘Then what have Danielle and Nigel and this Greek of hers got to do with – us with you, I mean?’
He said slowly: ‘This Greek – this lover of Danielle’s … you said his name was Dimitrios?’
‘Yes. I met him yesterday on the way back from the corrie. He was with her above the Shining Ones.’
‘Ah yes. The Shining Ones. What happened there, incidentally? What did you “owe” Dimitrios?’
‘Oh, it was nothing, really. He was unpleasant in a greasy sort of way, and talked a lot about people being thrown off the cliff and so on. We were awfully near the edge, and he could see I didn’t like it, and it amused him … and Danielle, too. It was just a nasty little trick to make me look a fool – which I did, I may say. I bolted.’
There was a frown between his eyes. ‘I see, Camilla, has nothing occurred to you about this – Dimitrios?’
‘Occurred to me? What sort of thing? I don’t like him, and I think—’ I stopped short. I said, on a long breath: ‘Dimitrios!’
‘Exactly. You remember? Angelos had a cousin called Dimitrios Dragoumis, who had gone to live at Itea. At Itea, mark you.’
‘And I saw the jeep down at Itea … Danielle had driven it straight down there when she got in from Athens! If it’s the same Dimitrios … then Dimitrios Dragoumis is Danielle’s lover, and that was his house I saw. She wasn’t visiting any friend called “Elena”, she was visiting him, and I’ll bet, if the jeep’s anything to go by, that she was there when I passed the house!’
‘You’re certain it was the same jeep?’
‘Quite. I told you I recognised the doll hanging in the windscreen. There was someone tinkering with the engine, and that wasn’t Dimitrios, but all the same, I’ve a feeling we’re right. It’s the same Dimitrios. That would explain why Danielle’s so darned interested in you.’ I added: ‘Or partly.’
He passed that one.
‘Well, then, say we’re right, and let’s look at what we have … Dimitrios Dragoumis is Danielle’s lover. Whether there actually is anyone called Elena or not, it’s quite true that Danielle has been in the habit of spending her afternoons down near Itea, swimming. She told me once she’d found a secluded little cove where the water was clean (it’s filthy in Itea itself) but she wouldn’t tell me where it was. My guess is that she met, not “Elena”, but Dimitrios, on these swimming expeditions, and took up with him. He may have been there to fish – he’s a fisherman, did I tell you, and owns a caique?’
‘He told me he was a guide.’
‘There’s no guide in Delphi of that name, that I do know. And if he took the trouble to lie …’ He didn’t finish the sentence. He was frowning down at his cigarette. ‘Well, let’s go on. Dimitrios, the cousin of Angelos, sends Danielle into Athens to hire him a car – on a matter of life and death. In other words, in a hell of a hurry.’
‘Well?’
His eyes lifted. ‘An expensive need. And he’s a sailor. Why would he want a car?’
I sat down again on the bed. ‘I don’t know. Go on.’
Absently, he flicked a gout of ash into the wash-basin.
‘Danielle hired a car for him, but then got the better offer of a jeep from her French friend Hervé Clément, and came up in that. She didn’t revisit the garage to let them know … and she hadn’t given them Dragoumis’ name – hence all the nonsense about “Monsieur Simon”, and the interfering but well-meant efforts of Miss Camilla Haven. But Danielle’s actions do spell something, don’t they?’
‘Urgency,’ I said slowly, ‘yes. And secrecy?’
‘Exactly. And I could bear to know what’s urgent and secret about Danielle, and Dimitrios the cousin of Angelos,’ said Simon.
14
Courage i
s a thing
All men admire. Think what it will mean
For your good name and mine, if you do this.
SOPHOCLES: Ajax.
(tr. E. F. Watling.)
A PAUSE. A beetle blundered in through the open casement, hit the wall with a crack like a pistol-shot, and zoomed out again into the dark.
‘But – the car?’ I said, seizing on what was still my own piece of the mystery. ‘Why the car? You said Dimitrios Dragoumis was a fisherman. What would he need a car for, from Athens, with all that hush-hush nonsense about it?’
‘That’s just it,’ said Simon. ‘He is a fisherman, and he owns a boat. And now he has a jeep … got from Athens and kept very quiet locally. To me, that adds up to one thing. Transport.’
I said, in a voice that sounded queer: ‘Urgent, secret transport …’ Then, sitting up briskly: ‘But – no, Simon. It’s absurd.’
‘Why?’
‘I can see what you’re getting at … the reason why Angelos’ cousin might need this urgent and secret transport. You mean that you think Dimitrios has found Angelos’ cache – whatever it was that Michael found on Parnassus? And the jeep and the caique are to carry – oh!’
‘Well?’
‘The mule! Simon – the mule!’
He nodded. ‘You can’t take a jeep up Parnassus, can you? The mule was stolen the night I saw Stephanos. Danielle brought the jeep up the same day. I’ll bet you anything you like that Dimitrios’ caique will shortly be lying carefully invisible in one of the tiny inlets beyond Amphissa.’
I said: ‘Look, hold on, Simon. You’re only guessing. It could have been Nigel who took the mule. He’s gone off somewhere, and we were talking about the Dutch boy to him, and—’
‘And it would have been very much simpler for Nigel to have bought the donkey – which went dirt cheap – off the Dutch boy,’ said Simon, ‘than to have stolen a mule from the excavations. He wasn’t all that hard up, and there really wasn’t all that need of secrecy for him. In fact, if he was off on a trek of that sort, you’d even have thought publicity was necessary.’