20 - The Corfu Affair (3 page)

He saw no apparent hostility among the dark-tanned Corfiotes as he dutifully strolled the esplanade and admired the many bandstands, the view across the sparkling blue bay, the wealth of statues in the park, monuments to dead and gone British governors rather than those of the classical Greek kind, and the looming bulk of the old castle, standing up above the east end of the town. Because it was in character, he took time out to cast admiring glances on the many comely young women passing by. Here, as he saw, ancient and modern walked side by side. There were those who favored the traditional, and looked as if they might have just this minute stepped off the musical-comedy stage, with their gold-embroidered jackets in velvet over crisp white linen full-sleeved blouses: while others were as modern as any he might have seen back home, complete with miniskirts and op-art prints.

It was warm. The constant tight-wound tension of trying to do several things at once while seeming to be doing nothing at all made him even warmer. In a while he selected an open-fronted cafe at random and waited for an attractive dark-eyed waitress to attend to him.

"Just something long and cool to drink," he told her, as soon as he discovered she could manage rudimentary English.

"Not food? You want to eat something too?"

"Not really, not unless it's just a light snack. You understand what I mean by 'nack'?"

"Oh yes!" she nodded violently. "One little bit to fill the mouth, to keep the stomach quiet until later. I know. I will bring souvlakia."

"Not until you tell me what it is, you won't!"

"It is very good!" she assured him. "It is the lumps of lamb-meat on a stick and roasted in the fire."

"Shiskebab without the flames." He shook his head. "Not for me."

"No? Perhaps you like dolmadakia better?"

"What's that, before I get it?"

"It is lamb-meat again, but this time it is minced up very small and with rice, plenty of spices, very good, and wrapped up in grape-leaves. Very delicious!"

"I'd hate to sit down to a real meal, in your terms. No, darling, not that. Look, perhaps just a mouthful or two of soup?"

"Ah! Soupa avgolemonov! I bring!" And before he could halt her she went away, to return rapidly with a generous helping of liquid that his palate deduced was chicken soup flavored with lemon. He consumed it to be sociable, and she made up for this by bringing him a tall glass of orange juice that really was delicious. With the ice thus thoroughly broken, he was able to lead her into casual conversation and prod her, very carefully, into talking about the Argyr Palace and its odd tenant. If there was any reluctance, he failed to spot it. As far as her language would stand the strain he was able to learn that the Countess was locally admired and respected but little known. All anyone ever saw of her was the big black car in which she drove to and from the airport, going or coming back. For the rest she kept to herself, as befitted a lady of title and a widow.

"How about staff? Does she use any local people?"

"Not at all. It is believed that her workpeople come by sea, and go the same way, when she goes away, out of the season, but we never see any of them. She is very private. There is one…"

"Yes?"

"A young lady, very beautiful, with blue eyes and yellow hair, very agreeable. Often she comes, here, to get food from the market. She is—what do you say?—cook? I have seen her, not spoken. Others say she is friendly but very keen with money, makes a good bargain. Some say she is in charge, is manager-housekeeper and companion. She does not talk much."

Solo kept the voluble waitress a little longer but there was no more to be had from her. In a while he detached himself and strolled away, heading out of the town. According to his map and information the Palace was no more than five or six miles away, and he fancied the walk. The exercise gave him time to review the possibilities.

The young blue-eyed blonde cook-housekeeper sounded like his best bet for a contact. Without consciously working it out he had decided that his best play was a frontal attack: he would barge in like the brash tourist he was pretending to be, and trust to his wide-eyed stare to get him through. He was so preoccupied that he completely missed the spread beauty of the scene. Great oaks, walnuts and acacia gave him their shade. In the hedges on either side bloomed hyacinth and honeysuckle, bee-orchis and buttercup. He saw nothing. He was engrossed in other things.

His mind was so busy that his eyes almost missed the sudden and small side road that went precipitously down to his left. This had to lead him close to the Argyr, by his calculations. Five minutes of following it got him within sight of the sea. He halted between high rocky banks and considered his position, then he tackled the rugged wall on his right, scrambling and struggling his way up through the clutching thorns of wild roses, moving through bright splashes of color from wild anemone. Twenty perspiring minutes later he had his reward. He saw the Palace, recognizing it at once from the picture he had seen at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

It lay back and away to his right, huddling against the mountain, framed in a fold of rock and backed with the dark green of olive groves. Seen this close it was more Disney-like than ever. The white stone was bright enough to have been freshly laundered and the woodwork of window-frames and shutters was the unlikely pink of candy floss. A powder puff palace for a cosmetic surgeon. Resting here on the rock spur he could see something else, too. The main road went by up there. The little side road he had just quitted went straight on down to the sea, to a derelict landing stage. And this rock spur went straight on down, too, right into the water. So how the devil did you get into the palace grounds?

He clambered higher and over the spur until he could see down the far side, and the riddle was solved. The palace had an extensive forecourt, with an ornamental garden and a drive that led down to a small plage, a place of tiles and seats and a limpid pool. But the private road led on, swung to the left and seemed to plunge headlong into the rock wall. So there had to be a gate, a way through and out into the road. That much was obvious, and he would have come to the gate had he gone on about ten minutes longer down the road. The implications were disturbing. This place was a fort! Only one way in, if you discounted the sea. And that meant there was also only one way out. A good agent, no matter how valiant, likes to know the way out if he has to run.

Solo looked again at the palace, and sighed. Hitching round his "camera" he rested it on a rock and ran out the telescopic lens. If this was Thrush it looked less like it than any place he had ever seen. It was like the concretization of somebody's fairy tale whim. Still, it had to be studied and he proceeded to do that. His acquaintance with architectural styles was meager but he knew enough to guess that this edifice was not of any particular style or period but the work of many hands and various whims. Getting a pinpoint focus he began raking the front, floor by floor. Spires, battlements, and then balconies—and not a sign of life anywhere. The light was against him, so that he couldn't have seen into any of the rooms had he wanted to. But all at once he caught a brief flash of movement and trained his lens back to one of the upper balconies.

There! Something moved, sharpened under his gentle fingers into a slim arm, a hand that moved and clutched something white and fluttering. A sheet, or a towel. In the next moment someone stood up and stretched in a luxurious yawn. He fingered the zoom wheel and the picture ballooned rapidly. A woman, turning now to look down and kick something away clear. She turned again and set her hands on the balcony edge.

Solo held his breath. He was no voyeur by choice, but this was a picture to be filed in memory for the sake of it. This was Countess Louise herself as few men could have seen her. Off-guard, unaware of observation and totally unclad, she was like some ancient Greek goddess come alive. Midnight-blue hair caught the sun and shone in a halo round her face. The same sun caressed the magnificent swells and curves of her shape, a shape that any model would have traded her soul to own.

A cynical voice at the back of Solo's mind told him that this woman was a cosmetic surgeon, that the curves were probably artifice, but the part of him that looked through his eyes denied it. This was artless perfection, and innocence. Caution tried to remind him that she was deadly dangerous, but caution was wasting its time. His hand slipped and he swore as he gently nursed the lenses back into line. He saw that she had moved a step or two, to stand by a curious dark object on the balcony wall. Just in time he realized what it was and ducked, turning away and sliding his camera around so that it was out of her sight. A telescope! He should have guessed she would have such a thing. Feeling her eyes on him he swung his head and went through the motions of staring at the scenery. In a while he risked a look in that direction again, and she had vanished out of sight.

He sat and pondered, hard. In the course of a highly exciting life he had learned the virtue of knowing when to run, but he had never learned to like doing it; nor did he now. This place was dangerous. That woman was dangerous. She had just caught him snooping. So his best bet was to depart from there, speedily. But he argued with himself.

"So I run!" he muttered. "Then what? On an island this size, where is there to go?" Having spiked that argument he went on to justify himself. He was playing the part of an irreverent and hard-necked tourist, wasn't he? All right, then, so he was snooping. What could be more natural? Why not carry it through? After all, nobody had taken a shot at him—not yet!

He sat still and surveyed the domain he had come to see. His gaze traveled down the front of the building, to the forecourt and grounds, along the path to the plage, and then on to the seafront itself. This was almost directly below him. Here someone had built two pier arms of stone faced with marble out into the sea so that they almost enclosed an area of about an acre of the lazuli-blue water, making it a natural pool. Or a harbor? There was a stone stairway rising out of the water that would be ideal for disembarking from a small boat. Then his eyes found something else.

One of the walls had been built onto the rock spur where he sat; close to that wall, floating but tethered, was an airbed. On the airbed was stretched a slim shape. Another woman. He didn't need his telescope this time to confirm that he was regarding a delectable picture as different from the first as it was possible to get. Blonde—so it had to be the cook-housekeeper.

He secured the camera into its disguised form and set away to scramble down the side of the rock until he could stand on the wall and walk along it. The nearer he got the more he was convinced that he had never in all his life seen a cook who looked like this one. The two scraps of pastel-blue fabric that stood between her and Eve would hardly have made him a handkerchief. The areas thus revealed were golden brown, with all the exuberant loveliness of youth. 'No more than twenty-five,' he estimated. 'Which is kind of young to be a chef; but she could come and cook for me, any time!'

By the time he stopped walking he could have reached out and touched her. But he didn't. Instead, he used a moment to get back his breath and dignity, then, putting on his best nasal tones, he said:

"Hi, there!

She snapped awake so suddenly that the airbed teetered dangerously and it looked as if her bikini was going to get wet. Her eyes were blue, and widely indignant as she glared at him.

"Who are you? How did you get here? What do you want?"

"Whoa, now!" he grinned. "One at a time. Matter of fact, I was looking for a castle. I thought I'd found it, but now I'm not so sure."

She stared again, breathing hard. "A castle? What do you mean, you were looking for a castle? Have you lost one?" As he listened, he guessed that she would have a nice voice in more favorable circumstances. By the sound, she came from somewhere very close to the Mason-Dixon line. He poured on the wide-eyed charm.

"That's neat. Have I lost one, hah! Do I look like I would lose a castle, always supposing I had one to lose?"

"You look as if you could lose just about anything, including your way. I don't see any road stretching away in back of you. Is it your habit to stroll casually over mountains and into private property?"

"Private?" he queried, and she extended her long arm to point. He looked and saw what he had guessed, a pair of heavy iron gates barring a tunnel cut through the rock.

"Private!" she repeated, and he shrugged.

"I didn't see those. I could see the road going straight on down to the sea, and no castle. I knew it had to be hereabouts someplace. But I don't get it. There isn't a thing in the guidebook about the Achilleion being privately owned. Since when?"

CHAPTER THREE

Now her blue gaze grew so sharp that he could have used it for shaving. "You," she said, "are either a stupid fool or a terrible liar. Which is it, Mister...?"

"Summers. Nathan Summers. You don't leave me a great deal of choice there, Miss...?"

"My name is Winter. Katherine Winter."

He grinned. This was an unexpected bonus and he grasped it quickly. "That's one for the book, isn't it? Summers—Winter! What d'you know! And what a chilly name for a pretty—er—warm-looking kind of person. Doesn't suit you at all."

She thawed a little, but not much. "You still haven't answered my question, Mr. Summers. Let me put you into the picture just a little. In the first place, this is not a castle. The only castle I know of, in this region, is in town. This is a palace. There is a difference. In the second place, this is not the Achilleion. Frankly, I do not see how anybody could possibly make such a mistake as that, especially someone with a guidebook. And in the third and most important place, this is private property, and it says so, clearly, on the other side of those gates. Now, Mr. Summers?"

"Three strikes and out," he admitted cheerfully. "You certainly make me sound like a Grade A cluck. But look at it from where I am. In the book it says the Achilleion is about seven or eight miles south of town. So I walk. It's a nice day and I like walking. But after a while I begin to wonder. I know you don't expect to see signposts stuck up in the middle of the road saying 'This way to the Achilleion', nor would you look for a palace—or a castle—right there
beside
the road. But there has to be some signs of life! And I had walked just a bit more than I bargained for. So I suspected it was tucked away someplace. Then I saw a side-road. So I wandered a little. And I was right. It certainly is tidily tucked away! But now you tell me this isn't the Achilleion at all! Now what kind of a deal is it when somebody owns a palace, private?"