Strangers in Company (30 page)

“Ladies and gentlemen.” His English was extremely good. “You will forgive me if I ask you to remain in this bus. We have a small problem here on Aegina today, and everyone must be checked before they take the ferry. It will be easier for us all if you stay here, and let us examine your papers as you sit in comfort”

The back of Mike's neck was rigid. “Naturally,” he said, “we will cooperate with you in every way, Captain, but I can tell you now that these are the group I brought over from Athens this morning. Oh”—he remembered Loukas—“with the exception of this man, who asked for a lift back from Aghia Marina.”

“And him I know,” said the police captain. “Off with you, Loukas. You're not what I want—today. But if the rest of the ladies and gentlemen would have their papers ready, we can make this very quick and easy.”

Mike rose and picked up the microphone. “You have all heard what the police captain says? I do hope you have your passports with you and will make them available for his inspection. Here are my papers.” He handed over a neat wallet which received only the most cursory examination.

The same was true of the bus driver, but then he was, of course, a local man, addressed by the police captain as
Alex, before he moved down the aisle to examine the papers of the four schoolmistresses who sat across the front of the bus. They were all in their late twenties, and their papers got merely the briefest examination and a laughing comment on one of the likenesses, before the policeman moved back to four rather older members of the party. Here, he was much more thorough, producing, Marian saw with a qualm of pure terror, a small photograph from his own wallet and comparing it both with the women themselves and with their passport photographs. Beside her, Mrs. Adams had seen too and was beginning to shake.

The policeman had given Charles Esmond‘s passport the briefest glance and was now working steadily through every page of his mother's. A middle-aged woman. There could be no doubt that this was what he was looking for; the question was, how good was the photograph? And how strong were Mrs. Adams' nerves? “I told you the walk down would be too much for you,” Marian turned on her angrily. “Are you feeling worse again?”

“Better give her some of this.” Edvardson leaned over the back of the seat and handed Marian a silver-topped flask. “It's only brandy.” He had seen Mrs. Adams' quick start of terror. “Do you good.” The policeman had reached him now, having disposed summarily of the rest of the younger schoolmistresses. He took his passport to give it the quick look reserved for those of men, then took another look. “Professor Edvardson!” He held out a friendly hand. “I remember you from when I was only a cadet. Welcome back to Greece!” And then, with a sudden change of tone. “You are on business?”

Edvardson laughed. “Not your kind. Nor mine, come to that. I'm looking for birds this time.”

“By God, I remember.” For a moment, the man had forgotten his immediate problem. “That's why they called you the madman. You found owls on the Acropolis when we found hand grenades.”

“I found grenades, too.” said the professor mildly. “You have some trouble on the island today?”

“Yes. An escape. A middle-aged woman. Or a devil. You'll remember her, madman. Medusa, they called her. A Communist devil.” He was looking beyond Edvardson now, at the next two women to be examined, Marian and Mrs. Adams, and suddenly his face stiffened. “Yes; Medusa. Your passport, madame, if you please.”

“Here.” Marian had it ready and handed it over with a hand that, proudly, did not shake.

“That's interesting.” The professor was half turned to watch what was going on. “You see the likeness, too. I can tell you, when this lady got her hair wet, back at Olympia, it gave me a real shock for a moment But Medusa must be much older by now, surely?”

“In reality, yes,” said the policeman. “In disguise, who can say?” And, to Marian, “I think I must ask you to come to headquarters with me, just as a matter of form. And your friend, perhaps? She is not well?” Mrs. Adams was now shaking all over.

“Neither well nor a friend,” said Edvardson. “She insisted on walking down from the temple to Aghia Marina with us and has been suffering ever since. That's why my fiancée is sitting with her, instead of with me, where she belongs.”

“Your fiancée!” The policeman slapped his thigh. “The madman married at last!” He sobered for a moment “You have told her of the other one? What Medusa did to her?”

“Not yet. We only met on this tour, but you will understand, I am sure, that I can vouch for her absolutely.”

“It's not everyone whose word I'd take, but yours, in these circumstances, yes.” He handed Marian back her passport. “Madame, I congratulate you. You are to marry a very brave man.”

“And I thought he was just a bird watcher.” For some reason, this broke the tension. The police captain gave a bark of laughter and a quick look at Mrs. Adams' passport, recommended more brandy, went quickly through the papers of a miscellaneous group of young women at the back of the bus and left them, with a final, friendly
clap on the professor's shoulder and a quick phrase in Greek.

“What did he say?” Marian could not resist the question, seeing the effect it had had on the professor.

“He wished me many handsome sons.”

“What no daughters?” asked Marian.

The ferry had pulled in to the mole while the inquisition had been in process, and now two junior policemen appeared to shepherd them on board. The professor took Marian's arm firmly, then offered the other one to Mrs. Adams. “I do hope you are feeling better.”

“Much, thank you.” She was looking from one of them to the other, in an obvious mixture of suspicion and amazement.

Settled in the same brown leather cabin, or its twin, Marian saw that Mike, too, was eyeing them with considerable interest. She stretched out her ringless left hand to the professor. “Isn't it time you did something about it?” she asked.

She had not expected him to lift and kiss it, nor imagined what this would do to her. “High time,” he said. “Shall we go to the museum this evening and steal you a gold ring from the grave of Agamemnon?”

“Nothing of the kind.” She was Medusa, playing at being Mrs. Frenche. “Diamonds or nothing for me.”

“Then”—regretfully—“I'm afraid it will have to be nothing until we get home.”

If we get home, her mind supplied the gloss. But at least Mike had taken his cue and was busy circulating the news of this surprising “engagement” among their party. People came up in ones and twos to congratulate them, while Mrs. Adams, plied with ouzo by the professor in apparent celebration, was rapidly getting beyond rational thought. It made Marian anxious, but a quick look at Edvardson decided her to leave all to him. In fact, inevitably, she fell asleep, waking, this time, with her head on his shoulder. “And very nice, too,” he said, “but we're coming in to Piraeus.”

There was another passport check here, but a much less
thorough one, and they were soon in their bus, where Loukas awaited them, looking, Marian thought, as if he had been there, peacefully, all day. Where was Medusa now, she wondered, and what had the policeman meant when he asked if she had been told about “the other one”?

She would probably never know. Playing up to Edvardson in their pretended engagement, how had she let herself imagine for an instant that it was real? Lunacy, of course. She had let his consummate acting fool her, just as it had the others. Well, face it, she had wanted to believe him, to be fooled, to be happy. Please God he had not noticed. When they got back to London—if they got back to London—she must release him as lightly, as easily as possible.

The ride back to Athens passed swiftly, her senses blurred by exhaustion and misery. They were at the hotel, which she had never expected to see again. There was something she had forgotten to ask the professor. Something vital he had not told her.

“I hope Stella's feeling better,” she said loudly as she stood up to collect her cardigan from the rack.

Edvardson was standing, too, feeling at the back of the shelf for his binoculars. “I expect she will be,” he said. And then, very low, “Medusa.”

So she must keep up the pretence, even with Stella. Well, she could see that it was safer so. “Mike.” she paused by him as she left the bus. “I'm worn out. Would you be a darling and have me some supper sent up? I think I'll sleep till it's plane time.”

“A very good idea.” He approved. “Indeed I'll look after it for you, Mrs. Frenche. And I don't believe I'd disturb Miss Marten if I were you. The doctor was going to give her something to make her sleep.”

I'll bet he was, thought Marian. She turned to Edvardson, who was hovering beside her. “You won't think I'm too unsociable if I catch up on some of last night's sleep?” She ought to use some endearment, but could not.

“No, indeed,” said Edvardson. “How could I, when it
was my fault you lost it?” And then, aware of the double meaning, he gave her a grin so wicked that there was nothing for it but to make tracks for the lift, hearing, as she went, his instruction that she quit worrying, leave everything to him and get her some sleep.

Perfect, she thought, both for her and for Mike. She resisted the temptation to knock on Stella's door, opened her own, told herself to do some packing before she slept, fell on her bed and was asleep.

She was being shaken awake. An instinctive gesture got the shaker in the face. Mrs. Adams? Medusa?

“Come now,” said the professor. “Just because you've got a bruised face. I've done your packing,” he went on, as she pulled herself muzzily up from the depths of sleep, “and here's your ring. That was a good thought of yours.” He was fitting it on her engagement finger, and the diamond winked at her mockingly. “There's bound to be another checkup on the plane. Isn't it lucky my credit's good in Athens?”

“It's not real?” She looked at it with something like horror.

“Well, for Pete's sake—” For a moment he loomed over her, close enough to take her breath away, then, at a knock on the door, broke into that familiar, irresistable grin. “Foiled again.” He turned away to hand out her two suitcases.

“Stella?” She was remembering it all.

“Gone down with Mike. He's seeing us off at the airport. Nice of him? Over and above the line of duty, that's for sure. Come on, love, time to go. And make that hair of yours just as untidy as you can.”

“That,” said Marian crossly, “is no problem.”

In the bus, inevitably, she had to sit beside Stella and thought she felt her instinctive recoil. Of course. Stella thought her Medusa and must continue to think so until they were safely on the plane. What a blessing that this was a night flight. In the dimmed light of the bus, the chance of Stella's recognising her must be slight. But she could not, herself, resist one quick, anxious glance at her
silent companion. After all, it would be logical to be summing her up. In fact, Stella looked better than she had feared, but was keeping her head sullenly turned in the other direction and had, so far, said nothing.

She kept it up all the way out to the airport, while, behind them, the professor explained to the Esmonds that Mrs. Spencer had suddenly decided to have another week on Aegina. Mr. Adams was missing, too, but nobody mentioned him, and Marian could only wonder how Mike and the professor had explained his disappearance. His wife (if she was his wife) was sitting by herself, staring stonily out into the darkness. It was a quiet, tense ride, and Marian, silent like everyone else, could not help wondering whether disaster awaited them at the end of it.

But the airport looked reassuringly normal. No strung-out lines of guards here to alarm the tourists. It was incredible to remember back to lighthearted talk—it seemed aeons ago—about the importance of the tourist trade to Greece. And yet could even the tourist trade be more important than the escape of a known Communist agent like Medusa, and one with a career at which Thor Edvardson had only, horribly, hinted? For the first time, Marian found herself questioning his judgment, back there on Aegina. Surely Medusa should have been handed over to the authorities? It seemed, now that she had her wits again, an extraordinary decision for Edvardson to have made.

They were out of the bus now, with a last friendly beam and shake of the hand from Loukas, the driver who had helped to save her yesterday. Was she safe now? They straggled, in the usual ragged groups, into the air terminal. She and Stella walked side by side, totally silent as they had been since they first met. Mike had gone on ahead, but Cairnthorpe kept at the back of the party, and Edvardson close behind Marian. At the top of the stairs, entering the final departure lounge, she could not check a start. There were police behind the officials at the desks. Another bus had pulled in just ahead of them, and the party from it were making a slow, stop-go progress through the checkpoints.

She saw Mike speaking to one of the policemen. Then he came back to where they had joined the loosely formed queue. “Just a formality,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about! Marian's hand seemed to have frozen onto her passport. Beside her, she felt Stella rigid. The line moved forward slowly, erratically. Once again, it was middle-aged women who were being stopped and cross-questioned. Hopeless. Turn and run for it? Impossible, undignified and absurd.

Edvardson must have read her thoughts. He took her arm. “Chin up, love,” he said. “It's the last hurdle.”

It got him a look of quick amazement from Stella on the other side. And yet why should she be surprised? She must be convinced by now that he was the head of the gang. They were getting horribly near the control point. The other coach party was through, milling down the steps into the final lounge, and Marian saw Mrs. Esmond and Charles present their passports. Charles was waved through, and his mother let pass after a hard look at her passport by one of the policemen. Miss Gear and Miss Grange, who had joined them on the bus, got the same treatment. Hopeless. Would they arrest Stella, too, as an accomplice? And Edvardson?