Greek Fire (18 page)

As he reached the outer door the assault on the pantry door suddenly changed, the kicking stopped and the door creaked and bulged under a sudden weight. Otho had come.

No one in the hall—yet. Out you go. Along the passage to the fire escape. As he neared the lift it suddenly glowed with light, and he slid rapidly past and gained the heavy curtains at the end which hid the escape door. The lift hissed and the door opened and Manos stepped out. He went straight to the door of Lascou's flat and pressed the bell. After a second he saw that it was ajar and pushed it and went in. Gene came quickly from behind the curtains and went to the lift. As he got in he heard shouting. He pressed a button; with agonising slowness the lift door closed; he began to go down.

Telephone messages travel faster than lifts. Might be someone at the bottom waiting. But he hadn't yet been seen, been recognised; the boy would hardly give a coherent description.

The lift stopped at the first floor. He got out, wedged the inner door with a packet of Gauloise cigarettes. To the curtained door on this floor: push the bar and go out on to the iron platform above the fire escape. Crowds, lights, traffic, people, noise were suddenly full size again, telescoped up to him. This was the way he had left the building on Saturday. He stood on the steps of the last flight, and as they swung down ran down them into the darkness of the yard.

The walls of the yard stood up all around him. It was deeply shadowed in here, a pool out of the sun. Only one light showed on the first floor; soon there would be others. As he moved towards the door of the yard someone tapped his arm.

Maria stood there in the dark. She looked dreadful. The brief shot of energy he had been able to pump into her had dissipated itself like adrenalin. She said: “The door is locked.”

“I told you. But it will unlock.”

“Not. I could not.”

She swayed and he grasped her arm, pulled her across the yard. On Saturday there had been a bolt at the bottom of the wooden door, but when he bent to this he found it already pulled back. He tugged at the latch but it wouldn't move. He felt along the door with his fingers.

Someone had found it unbolted from the inside on Sunday morning. At the top there was another bolt. He could reach it with his fingers but couldn't get grasp enough to shift it. He looked at Maria but she was too far gone to help. Back across the yard, casting about, nose down like a rat, he grabbed up a bucket, ran back with it, stood on it, tugged at the rusty bolt. The bolt grunted and screeched back.

He took Maria by the arm and guided her out into the street. One or two people stared at them as they came out; Maria needed his support. Since Saturday the outer wall of the yard had been plastered with election slogans. They began to walk towards the square.

She said: “And I do not remember the name of the street.”

“Maria, an eye for an eye isn't much of a philosophy these days.”

“It was a repayment. He had got the letters. Look at my face from this afternoon. What else could I have done?”

They reached the busy rim of the square, crossed to the great space given over to cafés and promenading and talk. He stopped and looked back. Heracles House without its founder showed no distinguishable change. The top floor was lighted but no distress flares blazed. Nothing in nature's aspect intimated.…

She said: “And now the scores are even.”

“Not if you're caught; they won't be even then.”

“I don't care what happens to me now.”

“There are other things to live for besides revenge.”

“At least I can live with myself.”

Circulation, you could tell, was coming back to her brain.

“Eleuthera Street you must ask for. Number twelve. But if you take this way out, you must promise me two things.”

“Yes?”

“Do what you're told, no questions asked. No breaking down or breaking out. And if you're caught, no talk about the people who are helping you. Got that?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“There is the kiosk. I am coming no further with you.”

“I am not such a fool as I seem, but—I am shaken. You know? I have never killed a man before. God, it is much – worse than I ever thought!”

Gene smiled wryly: “ It usually is.”

He pressed the button, the coins tinkled and he said: “This is Vanbrugh.”

The tired voice of the old man at the other end said: “Well, my son?”

“I need your help. The way we once talked of it—remember—the last time I was here.”

“Of course. When will you come?”

“It is not for me, it is for a woman. I want you to get her out. She's on her way now.”

“A Greek? What has she done?”

“No, a Spaniard. Name, Maria Tolosa. You'll find her very upset, stunned, but she'll do as she's told. She must go.”

“By the way we talked of? Yes. It may take a little time——”

“Get her as far as some port—Bari or Istanbul, where she can take a ship for Spain. If she needs money, give it her; see she has enough for her passage.”

“And you? You are all right—safe?”

“If she's clear, when she's clear, I'll maybe take you up that promise myself.”

“She is wanted for something?”

“No. It's unlikely she ever will be. But there's the risk. You feel like taking the risk?”

“Of course. She will not talk?”

“She'll not talk. I'll phone you this time each night, if I can.”

“You will like me to make arrangements for you? In two, three days? It's as you feel.”

“In two or three days, maybe. But it wouldn't be safe—us travelling together. First things first.”

“So long as you are sure, my son, that you are putting it the right way round.”

He glanced through the glass at the crowded taverna half fogged in steam and smoke. A radio was blaring a local dance hit. Near the phone a fat man with a napkin tucked under his ear was gulping up dripping spoonfuls of
avgolemoui
. Two girls were drinking retsina out of blue mugs and shouting a conversation at the proprietor who stood behind a marble slab cooking something on a charcoal fire and working the bellows with his foot. Gene tried another number.

The ringing went on and on.

“
Pronto
,” said a voice at last.

“Mlle Stonaris, please.”

“Mlle Stonaris is out. Who is that who wants her?”

“Can you tell me where I can get in touch with her? It's a private matter and urgent.”

“She has gone out for the evening but she did not say where. Can I leave a message?”

“Thank you, no,” he said, and rang off.

It was not yet eleven. He pushed his way out of the taverna and then through the interwoven crowds in the street. He jumped on a trolley bus crawling up Venizelou Street but got off it again about a quarter of a mile beyond Ommonia Square and made in the direction of the main station. He turned into a mean street lined with stalls and the remnants of a market. Faded vegetable leaves and stalks crunched and slid under his feet; a boy with a tray of sweet almond cakes cried his wares. Someone caught Gene's arm.

“
Oktopadi
,” said an old man. “ Fat shrimps. A bargain price for these I have left. Don't go in. The police are there.”

Gene stared at a wizened face. “ Where?”

“They came this morning an hour after you left. They have questioned the old woman but she will tell them nothing. Can I be permitted to sell you half a kilo?”

Gene felt in his pocket and began to count out some dirty notes. “They have found my things?”

“That is so. I did not see them but that is the message.”

“Old Agnes?”

“They can do nothing to her for taking a lodger in all innocence. She asked me to be on the watch for you. Thank you,
koubare
. Eighty drachmae change.”

“Keep it. Was there any other message?”

“No, sir. Your health, sir. And
thank
you.” The old man turned away.

After a moment Gene went along the street as far as the next turning, ducked into a narrow alley and walked quickly down it. At the corner was another small taverna; he went in and ordered beer.

It was quieter here and the proprietor, a lowering Boeotian with Slav cheek bones, did not encourage custom. Gene smoked a cigarette while he thought it out.

Agnes could tell the police nothing even if she would. Nor would his belongings: a change of clothes, some money, shaving tackle, letters of introduction to two Greek publishers. He had latitude, time to breathe, time to get out. But sooner or later—and it might not be more than a matter of hours—someone would bring his photograph to the little boy, and the boy would point and say ‘
yes
!' Then it would no longer be a little game, side-stepping a few policemen egged on by Kolono to question him about an accident he had not even witnessed or to harass him on some technical infringement of regulations.

He watched a lizard inching its way up the wall beside him. It paused now undecided and flicked an experimental tongue. He must get out of the city, if possible out of the country, before the real hunt began. Every hour counted.

But one thing counted more than hours, even if it meant missing the night plane out.

A customer's shadow touched the wall as he moved to a table and the lizard darted suddenly into a crack. By the time the shadow was gone the lizard had gone.

One other call had to be made now for different reasons.

He finished his drink and left. He walked back the way he had come, moving easily through the strident crowds, cutting across the main streets until he was in the quieter residential district. Mme Lindo's house was well lighted, more so than he had expected. He pressed the bell.

Louisa recognised him at once and let him in. “Good evening, sir. The others are all in the drawing-room. They've just finished dinner.”

“Mme Lindos has visitors?”

“Oh, yes, sir, I thought …” She looked at him. “You—weren't coming to the party?”

“I wanted to see Mme Lindos privately. Is there a chance to do that?”

“Well, sir, I can't …”

A door opened on the landing above and Mme Lindos began to come down the stairs; with her was a tall dark woman; they were both in evening dress. Near the bottom Mme Lindos stopped, holding the banister and peering.

“Gene. So you have come after all.”

“Yes,” he said, making the best of it. “But I'm afraid I can't stay.”

“Of course you must stay. I have a surprise for you which may help you to change your mind.” She came awkwardly down the rest of the stairs, looking at him keenly. His was a difficult face to read, but there was a casual-seeming alertness about it that reminded her of the first time they had met. “ Gene, allow me to introduce you to Lady Camwell. She and Sir Giles are visiting this country and are naturally intesested in our press. Mr. Vanbrugh is an American with a profound knowledge of Greece.”

Gene bowed and murmured the usual things. His memory had come to him; Vyro and his fiftieth anniversary; he
had
been invited here tonight; a week ago only; a week ago he had come here in innocence, or it seemed like innocence now. He said in Greek to Mme Lindos: “Sophia, I'm in trouble.”

Mme Lindos had been moving them towards the drawing-room. “Trouble? What sort?”

“I want to talk to you alone.”

“Come in, then. How can I help?”

“Money. And some advice.”

Mme Lindos said to Lady Camwell: “Forgive us, my friend likes to practise his Greek. It is a joke we have.” To Gene: “Of course. Anything I have. Are you in a hurry?”

“I can stay a little while.”

“I told you I have a surprise for you. Mlle Stonaris is here.”

Gene stepped back as if he'd moved on to an unbolted trap-door. “I thought you didn't know her.”

“She phoned and asked if she might come. She came before the others and asked me questions about you. I persuaded her to stay on. What is wrong, Gene? Tell me now.”

“I'm on my way out. But it's not a thing to involve my friends in.” He smiled at Lady Camwell. “Excuse me.”

“Of course,” said Lady Camwell vaguely. She was a tall absent-minded-looking woman in a long greenish dress that didn't fit her and didn't suit her.

They went into the warmth and chatter of the drawing-room. Coffee cups clicked and a dozen faces turned to look at him. Only
she
did not look up.

Leon de Trieste; two Americans called Regent, proprietors of a Chicago magazine; Sir Giles Camwell looking like and elderly schoolmaster; the Greek Ambassador to Turkey, who was on home leave, had his sister with him; there was a scattering of other distinguished Greeks; Angelos Vyro, of course, and in a far corner his younger son, Paul Vyro, talking to Anya.

One or two of them looked at Gene's clothes. Anya's eyes at last came up to his. They were as cold and as hostile as he had ever seen them. All the same, for ten seconds he forgot murder and the people round him, and she didn't go on with what she was saying. Then she looked away and the thing was gone like a momentary shiver. The boy beside her was all eyes; to re-claim her attention he got up and brought her more coffee. She said something in her soft voice and he laughed.

“I keep the squares on the walls to remind me,” said Mme Lindos. “ In one's mind's eye one can still see … Left was the Utrillo; that went first and paid for wood and coal. Right was a Toulouse-Lautrec, the Moulin Rouge from the balcony, it was considered one of his best; above was an unfinished Cézanne.…”

“I don't know how you could bear to part with them, really I don't,” said Mrs. Regent.

“When one has had no food for two days it is quite astonishing how weak one's artistic sensibilities become.”

“The installation of modern printing presses,” Regent was saying to Vyro, “is the aspect of modern journalism most frequently neglected. Nobody, I say, can carry up-to-the-moment ideas if he's using yesterday's tools.…”