They rode up in the self-service elevator, walked down the corridor, and Chester used his key. The room was full of suitcases, opened and closed.
“I am very glad to see you. Very,” Chester said. “Won’t you sit down? Here. I’ll get rid of this suitcase.”
The plain-clothes man sat down on the chair Chester had cleared, the uniformed man preferred to stand.
“You are William Chamberlain whose wife Mary Ellen Chamberlain was killed Monday?” asked the plain-clothes man.
“Yes,” Chester said. He was standing by the bureau, the Scotch bottle behind him, and he would have liked a drink, but he thought he should wait a few minutes before he proposed one.
“Why did you not speak to the police?” asked the man.
“I was afraid to,” Chester said promptly. “Until now, until today—” He broke off. “The young man who did it, Rydal Keener, has been with me every minute. Until today. Even today he trailed me in the streets, watching everything I did. I’ve been in a—I’m afraid I’ve been in no state to cope with the police. I mean try to get their help. The loss of my wife was such a terrible shock, I’ve been nearly out of my mind.”
“Tell us what happened,” said the plain-clothes man, and pulled out a pad and a fountain pen.
Chester told them. He began with Rydal Keener striking up an acquaintance in Iraklion, then told of Rydal’s flirting with his wife. It went on for three days or so, while they went to Chania. Rydal spoke Greek, so he made himself quite useful to them, and he hadn’t much money and Chester had paid him a little for his services, but Rydal Keener kept making advances to his wife, which his wife consistently rejected. On Monday in Iraklion, Chester asked Rydal to leave them, but he insisted on going with them to visit the Palace of Knossos. Rydal Keener was in a furious mood, because he hadn’t got anywhere with his wife, and because Chester had asked him to leave. He retaliated in a brutal way, by pushing a vase or dropping a vase from the top terrace on to his wife.
“Of course, he was trying to hit me,” Chester said as he finished his story. “That’s the only thing that makes any sense. I had just moved away from where she was when she was hit. She’d come forward to talk to me—something like that. It’s hard to remember the details.” Chester passed his hand over his thin hair. “Excuse me, but may I offer you gentlemen a drink? A Scotch?”
“Not just now, thank you,” said the plain-clothes man, his head lowered as he wrote in his notebook.
The policeman shook his head.
Chester poured himself a drink in the empty glass that was on the night table, added a little water in the bathroom. He came back and took the same position by the bureau. “To continue . . . Where was I? Yes. I stayed by my wife a few moments. I was so stunned by what had happened, I didn’t know what to do. I then heard—later, from the newspapers—that Keener had asked the ticket-seller if I had gone out, if I’d taken a taxi away. Already he was planning, you see, to make it appear that I’d done the . . . the killing and had run away from the scene.” Chester’s throat choked up with a genuine emotion—of some kind. He paused, and looked at each of the men, looked for signs of belief in their faces. They looked merely interested.
“Go on,” said the plain-clothes man. “What happened next?”
“After a few minutes, I don’t know how many minutes, I started looking for Keener. I was in a rage. I wanted to throttle him with my bare hands. I couldn’t find him in the palace, so I ran out. I looked on the road. By this time it was getting dark, and I couldn’t see very well. I went to Iraklion, thinking—”
“How did you go to Iraklion?”
“I stopped the bus. On the road.”
“I see. Go on.”
“And sure enough I found him in Iraklion. He was . . .” Chester hesitated, then decided to go ahead. “He was actually waiting for me at the hotel where I had left my luggage. He spoke to me and said if I called the police, he would kill me. He said he had a gun in his pocket. I was sure he meant it. He made me go to another hotel with him—I don’t know why, it was a worse hotel, and maybe he’d tipped the owner to keep his mouth shut if he saw any strange behavior between him and me, I don’t know.” Chester took a couple of swallows of his drink. “Then the next morning—”
“You stayed in the same room at the hotel?” asked the plain-clothes man, again with his smile that was touched with humor.
“Not ostensibly,” Chester replied with a grim smile. “We had two rooms. But he stayed in mine all night, keeping guard on me.” Chester suddenly remembered the little walk he had taken early in the morning. The hotel-keeper might remember it, if he were questioned. Maybe they wouldn’t question him that closely, Chester thought. Or if they did, and he mentioned it, Chester could say that he had sneaked out and hadn’t been able to find a policeman at that hour, or that he was still simply too shocked and too afraid to try to get police help.
“And then?”
“The next morning, we took the boat back to Athens. Even . . . even on the boat, he made an attempt on my life. He knocked me down on the deck and tried to throw me overboard. Luckily, I put up a good fight, and someone came along so Keener had to stop the fight. I was glad to get to Athens, because I thought from here I could certainly get help for myself.”
“And did you try? Today?” The plain-clothes man had fairly interrupted him.
“I spent today trying to locate Keener. He disappeared from me as soon as . . . well, as soon as the boat docked. I lost him at Piraeus. I got off the boat first. I was going to report him in Athens, you see.” Chester covered his eyes. Then he walked with his drink to the bed and sat down.
“Take eet easy,” said the plain-clothes man. “What happened after you got to Athens?”
“I’m sorry,” Chester said. “These last days have been such a strain. I’m sure what I’m saying to you doesn’t make sense, because it doesn’t sound logical. I kept thinking, in Athens there are enough police. I’ll just walk up to one, even if Keener’s with me and even if he tries to shoot me, and say to the policeman, ‘Here’s the man you want for the murder of my wife.’” His voice broke on the last word.
There was a silence of several seconds. The plain-clothes man looked at the police officer. So did Chester. The uniformed officer did not so much as twitch a muscle in his face. He might not even have understood English.
“People whose wives are murdered,” said the plain-clothes man slowly, “are not always logical.”
“No,” Chester agreed. “I suppose not.”
The plain-clothes man looked at his colleague, and half closed his eyes in a way that might have meant anything—the same as a wink, or that he didn’t believe Chester, or that his eyes hurt. Then he looked at Chester. “Where were you trying to find thees Keener?”
“I was looking around Constitution Square,” Chester answered. “He made a couple of remarks about spending a lot of time there. Around the American Express.”
“Hm. Thees fellow ees an American, ees he not? Not using a stolen American passport?”
“Oh, no. No, no, he’s an American, all right. But he speaks Greek quite well, as far as I can tell, and my wife told me he said he spoke several other languages, too.”
“Hm.” The plain-clothes man looked at his colleague and nodded and said something in Greek.
The other nodded also, and shrugged.
“He was questioned on the boat this morning and got through us. Sleeped by us,” said the plain-clothes man.
“Oh?—What do you mean?”
“All the young men passengers looking like him were detained by the police. Questioned. He must have been detained also. But—they were Piraeus police,” he said with a chuckle. “Well—we have been checking all the Athens hotels for Rydal Keener since noon today. He ees not registered at any hotel in Athens.”
“No. I didn’t think he w
ould be. I’m sure he knew you’d get his name sooner or later—in connection with us.”
“Yes. Eet was not too easy. Do you know your wife had not one identifying object on her person? Not even anything with an initial?”
Chester shook his head sadly. “I didn’t know that. I usually carry her passport for her.” He regretted saying the word passport.
Now the plain-clothes man was looking musingly at him. “No, for her identification, we are indebted to a man in Chania, the manager of the Hotel Nikë who spoke to the police in Crete only this morning. He had your names on his register.” He stood up. “Please to use your telephone?”
“Go ahead,” said Chester.
The plain-clothes man spoke in Greek to the hotel operator. After a moment, he began a conversation in Greek, a conversation in which he did most of the talking. The name “Chamberlain”, pronounced suddenly slowly, almost disdainfully, made Chester feel uneasy.
The other man stood like a soldier, hands behind him, occasionally letting his eyes drift to Chester and away.
The plain-clothes man put his hand over the telephone and said to Chester, “Can you tell us—Do you happen to know any other place thees Keener might be? Any other town he spoke of?”
“No,” Chester said. “I’m sorry.”
“Any people in Athens he spoke of? Anyone he knows?”
Chester shook his head. “I don’t remember anybody. I don’t think he ever mentioned anybody. But I’m sure he knows several people here, people who would hide him.”
The plain-clothes man spoke into the telephone again, and then hung up. He turned to Chester. “We are not going to put into the newspapers that we have identified your wife. We do not want Keener to run farther, you see? We do not want him to think that we have spoken to you and that you have told your story against him. You see?”
Chester saw. But he wondered if Rydal would see through it? “Until you catch him—” Chester began, and abandoned it. “I’m very nervous—with him after me. I’d like to leave for Paris right away. If necessary, of course, I’d be glad to come back to talk to you when you’ve found him.”
“Well, as a matter of fact that would not be advisable, because we intend to keep watch on you. To guard you and maybe in that way we find Keener. Keener may be unwise enough to try to kill you before you talk to the police—he thinks. Or he may be so impulsive—what ees the word? Wanting revenge that he will try to kill you anyway, thinking you have talked to the police by now. You see?” The man’s smile, his easy gesture with one hand was curiously bland. And his eyes were amused.
“You mean I’m to be a sort of decoy,” Chester said.
The man thought about this, then nodded vaguely. “I doubt very much really if he will try to find you and kill you. He must know it ees too late. Logically, he would try to sneak out of the country, maybe change his passport.” The man was buttoning his overcoat. He beckoned to the officer, and they walked to the door.
Chester wanted to ask them to keep in touch with him, to telephone him tonight and tell him if anything had happened. But he said nothing.
“We shall keep a man downstairs in the lobby. If you go out, the man will follow you,” said the plain-clothes man. “Don’t let eet disturb you. Eet’s for your protection.” He smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Cham-ber-lain.”
“Thank you,” Chester said. “Thank you very much.” He closed the door after them.
Then he took a deep breath and lay down at full length on the bed, on his back. With luck, Rydal Keener’s body would be found on some dark pavement tonight, or early tomorrow morning. He shouldn’t have paid that guy first, however. Chester knew that, just as a matter of business principle. But on the other hand, how could he have paid him off after he did the job, if a police guard were shadowing him? And not getting his money, Andreou might have decided to mug him, police guard or no. Yes, things were best the way they were.
When Rydal Keener was dead, that would be the end of the story, the police guard would be removed, and he would leave for France on his new passport. William Chamberlain would vanish from the earth. Off would come his beard and moustache, and he would be Mr.—something yet unknown in France and in the States.
But if Andreou didn’t succeed in killing Rydal—if he was a double-crosser, a friend of Niko, and of Rydal, possibly, too—then a little maneuver involving precise co-ordination would be necessary. It hinged on whether the police found Rydal. If they found Rydal, and he told them his story, Chester would have to have his new passport in hand, give the police guard the slip, even if it meant leaving the hotel with all his luggage in his room, and vanish in the direction of Paris. Chester really didn’t think it would come to that. He had a high regard for Rydal’s cleverness, and Rydal didn’t want to get caught. Rydal might want to hit back at him, but not through the police. In a way, Chester thought, their motives were very much alike—and if anything, Chester considered himself the less vindictive of the two. It was going to come down to a private duel.
Chester was full of hope and confidence. It was something that sang in his veins, an old, familiar sensation to him. Optimism had always won the day for him. A man was no good without optimism, no good at all. Dreamily, Chester put out his right arm on the bed, unconsciously expecting to find Colette beside him. It was a double bed. The bed was empty, flat.
16
Rydal had taken a nap in mid-afternoon, after Niko had returned from his 1 o’clock meeting with Chester and reported what Chester wanted from him—a passport and an assassin. Rydal knew Andreou slightly. He had come to Niko’s apartment one evening in December. Andreou was a florist. He had greenhouses at his home on the western fringe of the city, and he brought in fresh flowers every morning to his shop on Leoharos Street. His wife tended the shop. Rydal was glad that Andreou and his wife, honest and hardworking people, were going to get Chester’s five thousand dollars. So after Niko had come and gone a little after 2, Rydal had slept on the three-quarter-sized couch near the simmering iron pot. He had slept for about an hour, and awakened, wonderfully refreshed, to find Anna seated across the room stringing green beans into a pot on her lap, a band of sunlight stretching from the narrow horizontal window behind her and striking her shoulders and her neck. She was like a Vermeer.
“You sleep well? That is good for you,” Anna said.
She had turned off the radio, he noticed, no doubt out of courtesy to him. She fixed him a cup of tea. He lay drowsily on the couch, sipping it, slowly coming awake. He thought of Andreou and his meeting Chester at 5 o’clock. Niko said he had told Andreou to look very tough and to say the minimum. Andreou had worked for a while in the Greek Merchant Marine, and had picked up some English in his travels. Rydal thought Andreou would do all right. And besides, Chester had not much choice. It was this that reassured Rydal, that Chester’s field of possibilities was so circumscribed. Who else but Niko could he ask for an assassin? Chester would know very well that he was either staying with Niko or that Niko knew where he was. But Chester would not tell the police to question Niko, or to follow him to see where he lived. Chester would not even mention Niko, because Chester didn’t really want him, Rydal, to be spoken to by the police. Rydal felt quite safe at Niko and Anna Kalfros’s. But he did not think it safe to go outdoors, so when Anna said she had to go out for butter at 4 o’clock, Rydal did not offer to get it for her, and he told her why. Anna understood. She approved greatly of Andreou collecting money for a crime he would not commit. It appealed both to her sense of justice and her sense of humor.
Niko came in just before 7. He said that he had spoken to Andreou around 3, and that he had agreed to meet Chester at 5 p.m. in a restaurant near his florist shop. “Andreou said he would come by tonight to say hello to you,” Niko said, smiling.
“Oh? Around what time?” Rydal was wondering if Andreou would be followed, if Chester had been spoken to by the police—say, at so
me time that afternoon—and if Chester had been followed to the restaurant.
“After work,” said Niko vaguely. He was dropping his strings of sponges carefully and methodically on to the floor in a corner of the room. “He work till about eight tonight.”
“You talked to him after he saw Chester?” Rydal asked.
“Naw. Don’t talk to him since three o’clock.” Niko kept on practicing his English—it was a small way of showing off in front of his wife, who didn’t understand much or any of it—though Rydal was speaking to him in Greek, mainly because he wanted to be sure that Niko understood what he was saying.
“I hope the police weren’t following Chester,” Rydal said.
“The police?”
“If they were following Chester, they’ll question Andreou. He might not be able to explain why he had an appointment with Chester.” Rydal picked up the newspaper Niko had brought in. The Knossos story was on the second page now, a three-inch-long item: the police were still pursuing clues to the identity of “the young woman with red hair”, but they had made no progress to date. The police were looking for Rydal Keener, the young man with dark hair described by Perikles Goulandris, the ticket-seller. Keener was believed to be hiding in Athens.
And if they had his name, Rydal thought, they had the Chamberlains’, because they came from the same place, a hotel register, and whom did they think they were fooling? The public, perhaps, but not him. Rydal put the paper down.
“Um-m. I read it, too,” said Niko. He was pouring three glasses of retsina.
“I don’t believe that,” Rydal said, half to himself.
“What?” asked Niko.
“That they haven’t identified Colette. Anna, what’s the best station for Greek news?”
Anna happily went over to her radio and tuned in on an Athens station.
The news came in almost at once. It was 7. Midway in the newscast was a short sentence: “The police of Iraklion are continuing their efforts to determine the identity of the young woman found dead in the Palace of Knossos, but thus far without success.”
The Two Faces of January Page 20