The Two Faces of January (16 page)

“In these clothes?” Rydal smiled. “No, thank you, I am honored by your invitation, but I think I'll go to bed after a simple dinner.”

The news was coming on.

“Seasickness?”

“No, a bug I picked up in Crete,” Rydal continued in Italian.

“Hope you feel better tomorrow!” said the man, going off.

Rydal waved in reply to him.

Now the news of Knossos was the third item. The ticket-seller had been queried, and, as Rydal had supposed, he had described him and not Chester. Dark hair, dark eyes, about twenty-five. A man's grey felt hat of American manufacture and also a guidebook of Greece had been found on the palace grounds, but there was no name or initial on them. Rydal had to force himself to stay where he was, leaning with crossed legs against a windowsill of the lounge, gazing dreamily at his metaxa. He must not speak a word of Greek to anyone on the ship, not even to a steward. He had spoken a mixture of English and Italian to the steward today in regard to his lunch. The ticket-seller had stated that the young man spoke fluent Greek with an “English” accent, which could mean either American or English, Rydal supposed. When the news report was over, Rydal stared sideways out the window on to the darkening sea for a minute or two. There was more noise in the lounge than there had been this morning. He did not hear any of the passengers discussing the Knossos news. Then Rydal strolled to the doorway and went to his state-room. He would do without dinner tonight.

It was quite likely, he thought, that the police would be on hand in Piraeus to look over the ship's passengers for a young man of about twenty-five, et cetera, who spoke Greek. Rydal felt sudden panic. Chester might see him being questioned, on deck, by the gangway, before any of the passengers were allowed off. Chester might decide it was the perfect moment to come forth and say Rydal Keener killed his wife, that it was not true that Rydal Keener didn't speak Greek, because he did, that he had been going to turn Rydal Keener over to the police as soon as he could free himself long enough to get to a telephone. Chester could say that Rydal Keener had threatened to kill him if he reported to the police what had happened at Knossos. Rydal's panic did not last more than a few seconds. It just wouldn't happen like that. Chester had too much to lose himself.

In an effort to arrive at a sense of mental orderliness, however brief and flashing it might be, he read poetry that evening. He had two slim books with him, one from America and one from London. The one from America was
The End
by Robert Mitchell, and Rydal opened it to the poem called “Innocence”, which was his favorite, next to the longest first poem, which concerned a young man's consciousness of being alone—or merely existing—in a large city. The one called “Innocence” said, in part:

I have never sung. Never sung a song.

I have been happy and opened my mouth and only

shouts would follow.

Great bellows.

I was trying to make the world see me.

. . . But I did not sing when I was young although I have

always been all song

My lips have burst with the songs I have never sung

and never even known—

all disconnected and bursting to be said.

The final verse was a sad one, maturity had set in, there were no more songs to be sung, said the poet, and Rydal did not read the last stanza. The poem to him spoke of the incompleteness of his love during the time of Agnes. This had crossed his mind on the first reading of the poem more than a year ago, and until now he had avoided the poem, though he liked it. Now he read it with savor, looking at the spelling even of every word. Rydal remembered an early poem of his own, written at fifteen, not in the notebooks he now had with him:

What was purple last week

Has become red.

The sky is wider.

The brook out the window

(something something)

With the waterfall—

Does its water change,

Or is it the same water

Arrested, forever tumbling its pretty length downward?

I wish the landscape out the window,

The barren, beautiful trees,

The swifts that flew by

When you and I stood watching,

Would arrest themselves forever.

Your hand, your eye have captured—

I want no spring.

I want for nothing.

In later years, Rydal had read so many poems that spoke of waterfalls being arrested, that the image had become a cliché to him. The most imaginative element of his poem, probably, was that he had written it in spring, when the trees were not barren, and he had set the poem in winter. It evoked Agnes to him more strongly than better poems he had written since, to her or about her.

Around 10 he put on his overcoat, swathed the lower part of his face in his muffler—it was now windy and rainy—and went out on deck. It was not possible to walk around the deck, but only for a stretch on either side amidships. Rydal walked steadily and tensely, up and down the port side. A man with a pipe stood hunched at the rail, looking out at the sea. Rydal crossed the ship through a corridor and went out on the starboard deck. It was empty. Spray bounced from the broad rail and hit his face. The stars were hidden, the sky black. The ship drove straight against the wind, and Rydal stood leaning against it, the tails of his overcoat flapping. He was glad the voyage would be over tomorrow morning at 9, glad it wouldn't last for another two or three days. The ship cast a small glow of light in a circle around it, and beyond the glow was darkness, and no star or light showed where the sky or sea might end or begin. He stepped inside the corridor to light a cigarette, and went out again to the rail. The door opened again, and was whammed shut by the wind. Rydal glanced over his shoulder.

Chester had come out. He was wearing a cap. He seemed to hesitate, balanced on the balls of his feet, and Rydal could not tell if he were drunk or swayed by the wind against his back. He came towards Rydal.

“Evening,” Chester said, his voice deep and steady.

Rydal straightened a little, on guard. “Just as well we're not seen talking together.”

“What?” Chester leaned closer.

Rydal repeated it more loudly, and glanced above him to see if anyone were in sight, able to listen, on the deck above. He saw nothing but an empty white rail, the glassy face of the pilot-house above the bridge.

Chester said nothing, but came a few inches closer and leaned on the rail.

Rydal wanted only to get away from him, but not so quickly that it would seem a retreat, that he were running. An un­expected roll of the ship lifted them both a little, on to their toes. Another like that, Rydal thought, and he could fairly lift Chester like a doll and toss him over. Chester could probably more easily toss him over.

“Good night,” Rydal said, turning away.

Chester's blow caught him in the pit of the stomach, an unbelievably fast blow, and even through the overcoat, it hurt. Chester gave him another, right on the hand that covered his stomach. This one hurt the fingers of his right hand. A blow to the jaw knocked him down. Rydal lay partly in the trough below the rail, motionless, clutching his stomach and trying desperately to start breathing again. Then he grabbed Chester's ankle with two hands and pulled. Chester kicked him with his other foot and caught him in the neck. The pain made him almost pass out. He went limp, and for a few seconds could not move. He felt Chester lifting him by the front of his coat, by an arm between his legs. He was half-way up the rail, and then he began to struggle, and Chester dropped him.

There was a long moment of stillness. Rydal lay with his cheek against the deck, drawing his hands up slowly in a position to push himself up.

He heard Chester's footsteps walking away. He heard the slam of the door. Then someone's whistling, a tune. On hands and knees, Rydal crawled forward, into shadow. The whistling stopped. A hand touched his back.

“Hey! What's the matter? You're sick?” The words were Greek.

Rydal could barely see a seaman's rough shoes, uncreased blue trousers. He struggled upright. “Thank you. I lost something. On the deck here,” Rydal said in English.

“What do you say? You are all right?”

Rydal took a deep breath and smiled, though they stood now in the patch of darkness just aft of the deck's roof, out of the flow of lights from the covered part of the deck. He managed to throw off the sailor's hand on his arm, to give the sailor a slap in return. “I'm okay. Just looking for something on the deck.”

The sailor nodded, not understanding a word. “Take care. Rough sea. Good night, sir,” he said, and turned away and climbed a white ladder to the bridge.

Rydal clung to the rail for a few minutes, until his breathing became normal. His stomach still hurt. His jaw stung. Rydal smiled bitterly. For a middle-aged man, Chester fought very well. Of course it had been a surprise attack. It wouldn't happen again. He passed his hands over his face, then looked at his hands for blood. There seemed to be no blood. Then he went in to his state-room.

14

The Greek
police officer, scarcely looking at Rydal's face, laid a hand on his shoulder, and said in English, “Would you step aside, please?”

There was another police officer on the other side of the gangplank, watching the trickle of debarking passengers. About thirty of the first and second class had already de­barked. The third and steerage classes were getting off from a lower deck.

Rydal had without remonstrance stepped to one side of the officer and slightly behind him. The officer, like his colleague, was still closely watching the slowly moving line of passengers. Rydal was alone. Then he saw, beside the other officer, a sturdy young man with tightly waving light-brown hair, a frown between his eyes as he tried to find someone down on the dock. Then his hand shot up, he grinned, and a voice yelled something from below.

“Non
so
!” shouted the young man with brown hair. “Non
so
!” Then, also in Italian, as he broke out in a laugh,
“Maybe they think I'm a dope smuggler! Do I look like a dope smuggler?—Wait for me! Wait there!”

Chester appeared in the saloon doorway, stepped onto the deck, taller than the people in front of him. He was wearing his cap. Then he saw Rydal standing behind the tall, slender police officer. Rydal saw in his face that he understood. There was a slight smile, one of nervous satisfaction, on Chester's lips. Chester loitered, letting several people get in front of him. He carried the duffel in which he kept his Scotch. Now was the time, Rydal thought, for Chester to tell the policeman
his
story, confirm their suspicion that Rydal was the young man the ticket-seller at Knossos had seen on Monday afternoon. And Chester seemed to be turning this over in his mind, but his wary eyes avoided those of the tall police officer, and Chester drifted on with the other passengers, down the gang plank. Chester was afraid to stick his nose in too far. Rydal kept his eye on him, down on the dock. He was waiting for his porter with his luggage. Eager taxi-drivers were pouncing on people's luggage, dragging it towards their taxis before it was completely assembled, and distraught tourists shouted at them in half a dozen languages to keep their hands off.

A young man with dark, curly hair joined Rydal, glanced at him with wide, alarmed eyes, then stood by Rydal at the rail.

The police questioned the young man with light-brown hair first. He spoke Italian and a little French, but no Greek. One officer tried him out in Greek: “Are you stupid? Can't learn Greek?” with an apologetic chuckle. The young man's face was blank, and he looked helplessly at the other officer, who asked him in Greek if he had visited Knossos. This brought no response, and the question was put in primitive French.

“Si. Domenica. Dimanche, je visite,” said the young man, looking at them with a square, open face.

“Combien de temps est-ce que vous êtes dans Crète?” asked one of the officers.

He said he had spent three days in Iraklion, staying at the Hotel Astir with his aunt and uncle, who were down on the pier. He was asked for his passport. Both policemen looked at it, and then the young man was asked in French where he was going from here.

“Nous allons à la Turquie demain,” said the young man.

“Bien.” The officer closed the dark-green passport and handed it back to the young man, who rushed happily down the gangplank.

They turned to Rydal.

“You are American?” one asked him.

Rydal nodded. “Yes.” He pulled his passport case from his overcoat pocket, a brown cowhide case, opened it, and handed them his passport.

The officers compared the picture with him. In answer to their question, he said he had been in Iraklion four days.

“You have been in Greece more than two months. You speak Greek?” asked one of the officers in Greek.

Rydal was attentive, but gave no sign of understanding. “What are you asking me?”

“If you've learned any Greek,” said the other officer, still in Greek.

“Eef you know some Grick,” obliged the young man on Rydal's right, with a smile.

“If you please,” the officer said sternly in Greek to the young man.

“Just a few words,” Rydal said. “Kalispera. Efarhista,” with an apologetic shrug.

“When did you visit Knossos?” This question was also in Greek.

Rydal said, with annoyance, “Can't you talk to me in English? What're you asking me?”

“Quand—” He began again, “Vous avez visité Knossou, sans doute.”

Rydal smiled. “Vous—avez—visité—Knossos. Yeah. Saturday. Or maybe Sunday. Yeah, Sunday. Why?—Pourquoi?”

“
Why?
Is he stupid?” the officer said, nudging his com
panion.

They were hipped on the stupid bit.

“Di—manche?
”
Then, in Greek, “Any witnesses for that? Anyone with you?”

Rydal continued to lean against the rail. “I don't know what you're asking me.”

“Who are you travelling with?” the officer asked in French.

Rydal frowned, and asked him to repeat it.

“Je . . . moi . . . seul,” he said, frowning now. “Nobody.” Rydal spread his hands, palms down.

His passport was handed back to him, and the officer shrugged, and moved sideways towards the young man beside Rydal.

“Partir,” said the other officer to Rydal, with a faint gesture in the direction of a salute.

“Thanks,” Rydal said, put the passport into his pocket, and went down the gangplank with his suitcase.

Chester was not in sight. Rydal looked for him in every direction. Then he got into a taxi and told the driver to go to Athens. Chester was not going to stop anywhere near the King's Palace again, Rydal was quite sure. He'd go to a hotel around Omonia Square, most likely, like the Acropole Palace or the El Greco, both first-class hotels, because Chester liked his comforts. Chester would also probably try to talk to Niko the first thing, but not before he dropped all that luggage off somewhere. Rydal couldn't imagine Chester getting out in front of the American Express and having a crucial talk with Niko on the pavement with the taxi waiting at the curb with the luggage in it.

“Where do you want to go?” asked the driver as they were entering the city.

“To . . . to the American Express,” Rydal said. He wanted to talk to Niko immediately.

Constitution Square with its face of white, expectant buildings gazing on the jumbled area of short trees, of criss-crossing cement walks, gave Rydal a wrench at the heart, and he thought of Colette. The Square had the atmosphere of an empty room, a room that waited for someone, not knowing that the person would never come. It had become suddenly a sad place. He sat up and watched for Niko as they rolled along Othonos Street towards Niko's sidewalk. Then Rydal caught sight of his sponges.

“Hundred drachs, okay?” Rydal asked. He could have got the ride for eighty, but he was in no mood for bargaining. He gave the driver a hundred note, and got out with his suitcase.

Niko saw him when he was three yards away, and his face lit with a surprised smile. “Mister
Keener
! I just saw your friend! Sa-ay—we got to talk!” in a whisper.

“What did he want?” Rydal nervously touched and inspected one of the larger sponges hanging at the height of Niko's elbow.

“He wants to see me today at one o'clock. I should meet him on Stadiou and Omirou on the corner. Say, what kind of trouble is he in?”

“He killed his wife in Knossos,” Rydal said.

Niko looked utterly surprised, but he said, in English, “Yeah. Yeah. Seen the paper yesterday. So that was the woman! His wife!”

“Yes.”

“You just come from Piraeus? The boat, too?”

“Yes. Listen, Niko, do you know what he's going to say to you when you see him at one o'clock?”

“What?”

“He'll ask you to find a man who will kill me.” Rydal said it in the simplest Greek.

“Kill
you
? What in hell!”
said Niko, as if this were the most outrageous proposition he had ever heard.

“Oh, he'll ask you to find him a tough guy. He may not tell you what it's for, he knows you're a friend of mine, but that's what it'll be for. Now Niko, what I really need from you is a place to stay in. To hide in, understand? Your place or at one of your friend's, if you know somebody you can trust. Naturally, I'll pay my expenses to whoever—”

“My
place. Sure, you stay at
my
place,” Niko said hospitably. “Just walk in. I don't even have to speak to Anna first. Anna likes you.”

Rydal nodded. “You see, Chester was trying to kill me when he killed his wife. She walked under that big vase by mistake. You see, Niko? You read the papers, didn't you?”

“Sure, and I heard it on the radio. Why does he want to kill you? You helped him.” Niko peered harder at Rydal. “You ask him for too much money?”

“I haven't asked him for any money,” Rydal said patiently, though he was nervous enough to have thrown a curse into his answer. “Oh, his wife took a fancy to me and I liked her, too, and that didn't help.” Rydal calmly waited, sadly waited, while this important fragment of the story percolated through Niko's brain. “Mr. Chamberlain, alias MacFarland, is a crook, you know, Niko. Crooks don't trust anybody else. He's afraid because I know too much. Do you see?” It was most important that Niko see, that Niko understand, because, though Niko would do anything for money, and Rydal couldn't begin to compete with Chester in the money department, Niko was still something of a friend of his. Niko wouldn't help to get him killed, Rydal thought. Niko had to know the story, know the real whys of his own behavior, and then—let him make as much money as he could off Chester, Rydal didn't care. “He tried to kill me last night on the boat,” Rydal added.

“He did? How?”

“Slugged me and tried to throw me overboard.” Rydal saw that Niko didn't quite believe that. No matter. Niko probably thought it was a contributory anecdote, backing up the main theme of his story, which he did believe. “You see, it's just a matter of hours. Certainly by today, they'll identify—” Rydal shut up as a small man with a cigar in his mouth approached Niko.

“A sponge, sir?” Niko said in Greek. “Thirty, fifty and eighty drachs.”

“Nyah,” mused the man, not looking at Niko, only fingering various sponges that hung from Niko as if they lay on a counter in front of him. “Had a sponge for only a month and it fell to pieces.”

“What?” Niko giggled. “Not one of my genuine sponges. Must have been a phony sponge. Maybe sold by a Piraeus man.” He laughed, and his lead-framed front tooth showed.

“Which ones are thirty?”

Rydal lingered on, standing some six feet away. The man had not even glanced at him. The transaction was completed, and the man walked away with his sponge, the unlighted cigar stub still in his mouth. Rydal came back. “Okay, I'll go to Anna's now,” he said. “But I wanted you to know why, Niko. The police are already looking for a fellow of my age with dark hair. They'll get my name, because I was with Chamberlain at a couple of hotels, you see? In Iraklion and Chania. Registered at the same time with him and his wife. So I won't be able to stay at any hotel where I have to show my passport.”

“You want a new passport?” Niko asked, leaning closer to him.

Rydal had to laugh. “Are you coming home for lunch today?”

“Naw. I bring a sandwish today,” he said, switching to English again. One hand emerged, holding a lump of paper tied with dirty white string.

“Come home for lunch,” Rydal said. “I want to talk to you.”

“I got that appointment at one.”

“I want you to keep the appointment. Come home for lunch at twelve. Okay?”

Niko pretended to hesitate, then said, “Okay.”

Rydal bought a newspaper at a little store between Constitution Square and Niko's place. The paper said the police were inquiring at hotels in Iraklion to see if a young American woman with red-blond hair had been registered, with a husband or alone, the day of or the day before the murder, which was Monday. Since today was Wednesday, the news was Tuesday's or Tuesday night's news. The body had been found only yesterday morning. They would next inquire of the airlines and of the shipping line, Rydal supposed, thinking that the woman might have gone to visit Knossos the day she arrived in Crete, and without registering in a hotel. Then—but then would be no doubt today—they would make inquiries in other towns on Crete, and soon find that a woman answering this description had been registered at the Hotel Nikë in Chania with her husband William Chamberlain, and that they had been accompanied by a young American with dark hair by the name of Rydal Keener, who seemed to be a friend, no doubt the young man whom the ticket-seller at Knossos remembered seeing with them.

Rydal smiled as he walked on. Chester must have seen to it that Colette had removed every identifying paper from her pocketbook. Or maybe Colette, with her practicality, had done it herself. Rydal wondered if Chester would be clever enough to know that it was only a matter of hours before the police would come knocking on his hotel room door, if he registered in a hotel as William Chamberlain? Chester should know that, without any news or any newspaper, if he had any brains at all. Athens had a morning newspaper in English, the
Daily Post.
He supposed Chester had bought it.

Niko's street was a one-way, that the authorities, after digging it up for sewer installation, had never got around to paving. There was invariably a peddler with a pushcart full of cheap shoes on his corner. There was a portable vegetable and fruit shop made of stacked crates two doors away from Niko's semi-basement apartment. Niko's number, 51, was barely legible in worn-out paint beside the door. Rydal knocked loudly and waited. Behind the door was a long cement corridor that led to Niko's and Anna's real door. Rydal had to knock twice before he heard Anna's quick, scurrying footsteps in the corridor.