“Where are we going?” I panted, trying my best to keep up without tripping.
“Back to the ship,” he said. “To the darkroom, in fact. We’re going to enlarge this photo and find out exactly what is in Devos’s hand.”
The ship’s atrium was practically deserted when we arrived. I supposed most of the passengers were enjoying their last few hours in Athens, or else were already in their staterooms dressing for dinner. To my surprise, Markos didn’t wait for me at the photo counter as I’d expected, but insisted on escorting me to my stateroom to fetch the negatives.
“I’m taking no chances with your safety, Robin. You know too much.” And having delivered this warning, impossibly, he grinned. “Besides, you’re much less likely to be waylaid by your charming aunt if she thinks you have a date.”
I could hardly argue with his reasoning. I gave him a rather nervous smile of acknowledgement, then unlocked the door to my stateroom. It had been straightened up by the cabin steward since I’d left that morning, but other than that, I saw nothing out of place. I crossed the tiny room to the nightstand where Pooping Pedro stood guard, pulled open the top drawer, and removed the envelope containing the photographs I’d taken in Florence and Pisa. I dug out the flimsy negative strips, being careful to handle them by the edges to prevent smudging, and held each one up toward the light streaming from the window. Even the innocent photos looked weird and difficult to identify with their black and white hues reversed, but at last I came to one that showed two black-faced women who could only be Maggie and me. My aunt’s red hair appeared gray in the negative, making her appear older than she actually was, and our light summer dresses looked more suited to a funeral than to a Mediterranean holiday. In the background, a rather sinister-looking black tower tilted ominously to the left, while in the middle ground over my shoulder, a white-haired man in a dark long-sleeved shirt handed something to—or received something from—a companion.
“This is it,” I said, giving it to Markos. “I’m sure of it.”
He held the negative up to the light, peered through it, and apparently reached the same conclusion. “Let’s go, then. I’d like to be safely shut away in the darkroom before the passengers start returning to the ship, all wanting to drop off their Athens film before dinner.”
I saw nothing to argue with in this plan, so I followed him to the midships staircase and down to the atrium on Europa Deck. We had a bad moment at the foot of the stairs, when an elderly lady caught at the sleeve of Markos’s suit coat.
“Excuse me, young man, but aren’t you the one who’s developing the film? I wonder if I can just give this to you now.”
As she fumbled in her big patent leather purse for the exposed film, Markos put his arm about my waist and pulled me close to his side. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m off duty at the moment,” he said, with a leering grin that left her in no doubt as to how he intended to spend his off-duty hours.
“Oh. Oh yes, of course.” She blinked at him, as if noticing for the first time that he was out of uniform—and that he had female companionship. “I beg your pardon. I only hoped—well, it’s a long walk to my stateroom, and—but I don’t want to interrupt anything. After all, I was young once myself. I’ll just turn it in tomorrow when I come down to breakfast.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Markos said impulsively. “Just leave it at the purser’s desk right over there, or put it outside your cabin door tonight with a note, and the steward will see that I get it.”
After that, we were hard pressed to escape the woman’s effusive thanks. After we’d finally shaken her off and reached the photo counter, I felt compelled to say something.
“That was sweet of you, Markos.”
He shrugged. “She reminded me of my YiaYia.”
“Did she?” I failed to see the resemblance. “From what I saw of your grandmother, I can’t imagine her being nearly so apologetic.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t be. But this lady reminded me that YiaYia would nail my hide to the wall if she saw me brushing off an old woman in such a way.”
“That does sound more like her,” I agreed, smiling as I recalled the elderly Greek lady who was Markos’s grandmother. “But couldn’t she take the film to the photo counter just as easily as she could take it to the purser’s desk?”
“Yes. But by the time she filled out the envelope with her name and cabin number, there would be half a dozen other passengers lined up behind her waiting to do the same thing, besides buying more film and flashbulbs for Venice, asking about the best time of day for photographing the Rialto Bridge—”
“I see your point.”
We reached the photo counter and ducked behind it without further mishap, then dodged through the door into the storage room. Markos opened the darkroom door, ignoring the “DO NOT OPEN” sign, and shut it quickly behind us, flipping the lock to prevent anyone entering and ruining the undeveloped photos by exposing them to light. He switched on a bare bulb overhead that cast an eerie reddish glow over the tiny room, and in the faint light I could see a countertop with an array of shallow trays and what appeared to be a clothesline stretched a couple of feet over it from one end to the other. Against an adjacent wall stood a small table holding what appeared to be an odd sort of camera pointed straight down at the flat surface that formed its base.
Even in the dim light my curiosity must have shown on my face, for Markos, although engaged in stripping off his coat and tie, nodded in the direction of the strange contraption and explained, “That’s the enlarger. I’m going to try and get a closer look at that package.”
“You mean you really are a photographer?”
His eyebrows rose. “I took a crash course in photography to prepare for my role in this operation. Does that surprise you?”
Actually, it did. Evidently a great deal of preparation had gone into what he called “this operation.” I would have liked to know more, but I could tell Markos was focused on the task at hand, and was no longer open to questioning. He unbuttoned his collar and cuffs, then rolled his sleeves halfway up to the elbow. After filling three trays, each with a different liquid, to a depth of about half an inch, he set a timer and reached for the light switch.
“I’m going to have to turn the lights off for a few minutes,” he said apologetically. “I have to make sure no light can get into the room. If you’re uncomfortable in the dark, you can come and stand next to me.”
Two weeks ago, I would have scoffed at the notion that I might be afraid of the dark. Now, however, I moved around the end of the counter without a word of protest. Markos took my arm with one hand and switched off the light with the other. We were instantly plunged into the darkest darkness I’d ever experienced.
“I would have thought you’d know no light could get in,” I said, my voice sounding strangely loud in the blackness. “After all, it is a darkroom, and you work in it every day.”
“Routine precaution,” he said. “One of the things I learned in class. Besides, we’re on a ship, remember? The walls are under constant stress from the sea. Who knows when one might shift just enough to admit a sliver of light? Even that little bit could ruin the film.”
It seemed like we waited in the dark forever, although Markos later said it was only five minutes. At last, satisfied, he switched on the dim red safelight overhead. He fed the negative into the enlarger, affixed a sheet of photographic paper to its flat base, and adjusted the camera-looking part of the contraption up and down until he was satisfied that the image would fill up the paper, leaving only a narrow white border at the edges. He switched on a bulb within the enlarger, focused the light on the photographic paper, and started the timer again. When it went off, he removed the paper and plunged it into the first of the three pans.
“This is the developer,” he explained, starting the timer once more. “Next is the stop bath, and the last one is the wash, which will remove the processing chemicals. Then I’ll hang it on the line to dry.”
“When will we be ab
le to see something?” I asked, practically bouncing up and down with impatience.
Markos nodded toward the developing pan. “Take a look.”
I couldn’t see much of anything at first. Soon, however, contrasts between light and dark began to emerge on the paper, followed by vague, blurry shapes.
I pointed toward the lower right-hand corner. “What’s that big white blob?”
“That’s your shoulder,” Markos said, and although it was too dark to see his expression, I could hear the laughter in his voice. “I’m not enlarging the whole photo, you know, just the part with Devos and his friend. Anything in the foreground of the original photo will be blurred. I can assure you, your shoulders are much more attractive than they will appear here.”
“Flatterer,” I muttered, and turned my attention back to the emerging photograph. I could see Devos clearly now, although his image appeared grainy.
“Do you know the man with him?” I asked, looking up at Markos.
He shook his head. “Not personally, no.”
“But you know who he is.”
“I think I might. There will be others who will be able to identify him, though.”
I suspected those “others” were his superiors at the Ministry of Culture, or else Interpol; in either case, he probably couldn’t tell me even if I asked. I returned to my examination of the photograph, now clearly visible in its pan of developing fluid. “Markos!” I exclaimed, leaning closer for a better look. “It’s Pedro!”
The brightly colored cardboard box was reduced to shades of gray, and the lettering was too blurry to be legible, but there was no mistaking the picture on the side of the box—a picture of a log with stubby legs, bright eyes, and a wide smile.
“But that’s impossible! I saw him throw his caga tió overboard only the night before. Unless,” I added doubtfully, “he changed his mind yet again, and his friend is buying, or giving, him another one.”
“The night you saw him throw it overboard,” Markos said thoughtfully, transferring the photo from the developing fluid to the stop bath, “was it in the box, or out of it?”
“Out of it,” I replied without hesitation, shuddering at the memory of that happy, smiling face disappearing into the foam churned up by the ship’s propellers.
“In other words, he kept the box.”
“I suppose so. That, or put it in the wastebasket in his cabin. But if he was going to do that, why not put the whole thing in the trash? Why dispose of the box one way and its contents another?”
“Unless he never disposed of the box at all.”
“But that doesn’t even make sense!”
“Doesn’t it? Tell me, Robin, when you saw the, er, souvenirs scattered on the bed, did you see any boxes?”
“No, but that’s not to say they weren’t there. After all, my vantage point wasn’t the best. Markos, what are you thinking?”
“Suppose for a moment that you are a customs official. Someone is returning from a cruise, and he declares the value of certain items he is bringing back to his home country as souvenirs. If you ask to see them, he produces the sales receipts showing the purchase of these items, and he has safely stowed away in his luggage the boxes or bags they came in. The baggage handlers at the dock and the airport can even attest that his suitcases weigh just as much as they ought, neither being so heavy nor so light as to arouse any suspicion that he is not carrying exactly what he claims to be. Would you have any reason to search his luggage and look inside those boxes?”
“Is that how the smuggling ring works?”
“I think it may be.”
“But he unloaded the caga tió box in Pisa, long before he disembarks in Venice,” I pointed out.
“Even better, for in such a case he avoids customs altogether. We can only suppose that in this case he had a buyer waiting, and that this buyer is apparently Italian, and so runs no risk of having to remove his purchase from the country.”
I leaned closer for a better look at the photograph. “Poor Pedro! I never realized he could be put to such illicit purposes.”
“Robin,” Markos said seriously, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear before I accidentally dipped it into the stop bath liquid, “I wish I could accompany you to Venice tomorrow, but I can’t. Everyone will want their photos ready before they disembark the next morning, and I’ll be busy in the darkroom all day. Promise me you will stay with your aunt and her doctor friend tomorrow. You know too much—you are in more danger than you realize.”
I might have made some sort of a joke just to lighten the moment, but the intensity in his eyes, glittering black as onyx in the dim safelight of the darkroom, caused the words to stick in my throat, and suddenly I could hardly breathe.
“I—I promise,” was all I could manage.
Chapter 16
I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,
A palace and a prison on each hand.
GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON,
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
I awoke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the gaps between porthole and curtains, and eagerly arose from bed. I flung back the drapes, and gasped in delight at the sight that met my eyes. The ship had entered the Venetian Lagoon, and now glided past islands bristling with pointed campanili and cupola-topped domes. The sun sparkled off waters teeming with every kind of boat imaginable, from utilitarian barges to luxurious private yachts to water taxis and vaporetti, the waterbuses that ferried passengers to and fro on regularly scheduled routes. It was difficult to believe that evil could exist in such an enchanting world, much less that any of it might be directed at me personally. Still, I had promised Markos, so—
A light tap on my door interrupted this thought, and I crossed the tiny cabin and opened the door to admit Maggie, already dressed for the day in crisp seersucker.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “We missed you at dinner last night.”
“I was—with Markos,” I said noncommittally. It was no more nor less than the truth.
“I thought you probably were, which is why I didn’t try very hard to track you down. I thought the two of you would not appreciate company.” She plopped down on the foot of the bed and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial near-whisper. “And now I’m going to ask you to return the favor. I think Paul may pop the question today.”
“Maggie!” I exclaimed. “That’s wonderful! But—well, are you sure you should marry him? I mean, Paul’s a great guy, but you haven’t really known him very long.”
“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But long acquaintance is no guarantee of lasting happiness, you know. Paul and I have both been married before, so we know what it takes to make a marriage work.” A shadow crossed her face. “We’ve also both lost a spouse to a long illness, so we know, too, that we’re not promised a certain amount of time on this earth—so sometimes you have to seize the day.”
“I think Uncle Herman would approve,” I said warmly. “I know I do, and I hope you and Paul will be very happy together.”
“I’m sure we will,” she said, smiling up at me like the cat that got the canary. “which is why I’m going to ask you if you can explore Venice with Markos, and give Paul the privacy he needs for a proper proposal.”
Markos. I’d promised him I wouldn’t go off on my own today, that I would stay close to Maggie and Paul. But this—surely this was different. Tomorrow we would disembark and head for the airport, and Maggie and Paul would have missed their chance. I couldn’t do that to her, not after seeing her grief a year ago at the loss of my uncle. Surely my aunt’s happiness trumped my impulsive promise to a man I’d only just met—didn’t it? But somewhere between Barcelona and Venice, Markos had become more—much more—than a chance-met stranger on a ship.
Fortunately, there was a third option. Markos might not be available, but that didn’t mean I had to explore Venice on my own. I’d look for the Hollises instead, and ask if I could join them.
“I wouldn’t dream of impos
ing on you,” I assured her.
“Thank you, Robin,” she said, and I could see the glint of joyful tears in her eyes as she hugged me close. “But don’t say anything to him at breakfast, for heaven’s sake! I would hate to be mistaken.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re mistaken. Anyone can see he’s crazy about you. You’d just better be sure to invite me to the wedding,” I added with a smile.
I was still smiling half an hour later when I reached the dining room. Maggie and Paul were there before me, looking for all the world like they were already an engaged couple. I ate a quick meal of juice, Danish pastry, and fruit, then made my excuses and left the two lovebirds alone.
“There’s no rush, Robin,” my aunt said. “We won’t be cleared to disembark anytime soon.”
“It may be hours,” Paul agreed. “The captain will have to file all sorts of paperwork with the port authorities before they’ll let us go.”
“Unless you’re in a hurry to get to the photo counter,” Maggie added coyly.
“Maybe,” I said, matching her tone.
Better, I thought, to let her think I was spending the day with Markos; otherwise she would feel obligated to invite me to join her. In fact, I needed time to find the Hollises; if I hadn’t located them by the time passengers were given clearance to disembark, I would never find them. And so I didn’t go to the photo counter at all, but to the Promenade Deck, where my fellow sightseers were gathered in one of the ship’s nightclubs. It hadn’t yet opened for the day, but it was here that we were to wait for clearance to leave the ship.
I recognized the nightclub at once—it was the same one where Markos had plunked me down at a corner table and plied me with ouzo—but it looked very different in the light of day. Sunlight streamed through the wide picture windows, replacing the dim yet intimate lighting of evening. No one tended bar, and no jazz combo occupied the raised dais at one end of the room—and even if they had, no one would have been able to hear them: The room was crowded with passengers, all jockeying for the best position for leaving the ship once the word was given. Staticky announcements crackled at intervals from the ship’s intercom, incomprehensible over the snatches of conversation from the crowd.
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