The Two Faces of January (17 page)

“Who is it?”

“Greetings, Anna! Rydal,” he said.

“Ah-h!” The bolt slid. Anna beamed at him, bright-eyed, apple-cheeked. She was broad and low-slung, her center of gravity down near the earth. Her golden-grey hair was done in a braid around her head, reminding Rydal of classic Greek statues, but her face beneath had been molded by no genius. Her nose was pink and shapeless, she was nearly chinless, but her eyes were lively and kind. Anna was simple, though not stupid.

She led him down the dank cement corridor into the wood-heated room that served as their living-room and kitchen combined. Behind a hanging cloth curtain was a room no bigger than an alcove which was her and Niko's bedroom. Rydal remembered suddenly that Niko had said they had never had any children, because something was wrong with Anna, and she never could have any. Niko used this as an excuse to see other women sometimes—claiming that if any became pregnant, he would be happy to support and care for the child. It was not a pleasant memory to Rydal, because he felt it was a lie. Rydal accepted a cup of tea and a shot of Niko's inferior brandy that was always on the kitchen shelf over the stove. The room smelled of onion and chicken. A big black pot was simmering on the stove.

After two or three minutes of pleasantries, Anna's face grew suddenly solemn, and she said in almost a whisper, “Did you see anything of the trouble in Crete? Holy God, an American woman killed in the Palace of
Knossou
!”

“Did I see anything of it? Yes,” Rydal said. He told her all about it, making it as brief and clear as he could, pausing after every sentence for her to gasp, whisper an exclamation, cross herself or send her hands flying out from her breast and back again. When he came to the incident of being questioned by the police in Piraeus just a little more than an hour ago, she rushed to him and clutched his shoulders in her small, strong hands, as if to reassure herself, or him, that he was still among the living.

“I think I escaped by about three hours,” Rydal said.

“What do you mean?”

“I think within a couple of hours, they'll have my name. They could have had it this morning, if they'd been a bit faster. I was lucky, that's all.”

“Who would tell them your name? Chamberlain?”

It was still a little difficult for her to grasp. “No, as I said, he's afraid to turn me in—I think. He's been too afraid up to now. No, the police could get it from the hotels where I registered with Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain.”

She nodded. Basically, she understood, he thought. She certainly understood that Mr. Chamberlain hated him because his wife had liked him. That was simple and really sufficed as as a motive for Chester. She knew about the Greek agent George Papanopolos's death, of course, but that had been days ago, and he was only an unknown policeman, after all. What she remembered best about that, Rydal supposed, was that it had netted Niko one thousand dollars American. Rydal glanced around the room for signs of prosperity, and saw that the rug was new—a ghastly imitation Oriental with very bright colors that looked as if it had been made, or rather printed, only yesterday, and he saw a new, much larger radio, which was in fact playing softly in the middle of the table on which Niko and Anna ate.

“What a beautiful radio!” Rydal said. It was a sizeable square box of beige wood with lacquered brass knobs, and the sound came from a round aperture backed by dark-red tapestry-like material.

Without a word, Anna turned it up to ear-splitting volume, folded her arms, and waited for Rydal's compliments.

“
It's great! Magnificent! Turn it down
!
”

Anna turned it down. “We can get England!
England!
That is England.” She pointed to the radio, which was again playing softly.

“Oh, really?” Rydal said respectfully. He thought of B.B.C. programs coming over, Anna hovering over English plays and poetry recitals, and understanding only a word here and there. Anna was an Anglophile, worshipped everything English, though she had never been to England, and her efforts to learn the language had gained her a vocabulary of only ten or twelve words, as far as Rydal could tell. He wished he had remembered to pick up a couple of packages of Player's for her. He would get them when he next went out. Anna didn't really smoke but she liked English cigarettes because they were English, and she liked to smoke one after a meal.

She was pouring him more brandy. Rydal looked at his watch. It was 1
1:37.
He cleared his throat and said, “Anna, as I said to Niko, I think I'd better stay with you people for a couple of days. At least tonight, I'm sure. I don't know what tomorrow's going to bring.”

“Stay with us? Why, of course. You know, Rydal, you're always welcome here. Always. Look at the couch!” She pointed to the sagging three-quarter-sized couch next to the kitchen section.

Rydal had never stayed with them overnight, though they had often invited him “to come and stay a week” with them, mainly because they thought he paid too much at the Hotel Melchior Condylis.

“Are you going to call up Geneviève?” Anna asked with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

Geneviève. Rydal's heart seemed to turn over, tiredly. Geneviève was the twenty-year-old daughter of an archaeologist in the French School of Archaeology in the city, and she herself had a Ph.D. in anthropology. Once Rydal had brought her in to meet Anna and Niko, once after a dinner when he and Geneviève had been feeling rather gay. Anna liked to imagine a hot romance between them, a romance that would lead to marriage. Geneviève was very fond of him, but Rydal did not know if she was in love with him or not, probably not. She was the prettiest girl he had met in Athens. He had kissed Genevi
ève several times, and once they had necked for about fifteen minutes on a sofa in her house while her parents were out. Rydal had thought of asking her to marry him, to go back to the States with him (or maybe he could have found a position in Paris as a lawyer for an American concern there), but he hadn't been absolutely sure, something had said to him that Geneviève wasn't
it,
that he should wait. And now, after Colette, he was quite sure Geneviève wasn't it. Geneviève had paled to nothing, yet not completely nothing, because now she was an episode, an unfinished episode that he felt vaguely ashamed of and responsible for. He couldn't quit Athens, for instance, without saying a thing to Geneviève, without saying a good­bye. He wondered how much he had promised her, how much he had led her to believe? It was strangely all vague to him now.

“Well?” Anna waited. “Or did you meet someone else?”

Anna seemed already to have forgotten about Colette. He'd made the story weak, perhaps, or he had implied that Colette had been fonder of him than he of her. Rydal felt suddenly very much alone. He stood up. “I'll talk to Geneviève, I suppose.” He drank off the brandy. “You see, tonight, Anna, my name may be in the newspapers. I'm suspected of murder—murder of Mrs. Chamberlain.”

Anna looked appropriately solemn.

Rydal had the bored, hopeless feeling that comes of trying to explain to a child something that is too complex for it.

Anna saw his discomfort. She took the brandy bottle and hospitably poured him some more, poured his little glass full. “I know. But it will blow over. You'll see.”

“The point is, I
am
guilty of . . .”
He sought for the right phrase in Greek. “I'm guilty of helping a man who I knew had killed someone. In that hotel. The Greek agent. Aiding and abetting a felon, we'd call it in English,” he said, translating the words literally into Greek. “I should never have helped him. I don't know why I did it. Now Chester will say that I killed his wife, and I have no proof that I didn't. It'll just be his word against mine.”

“Chester?”

“That's his first name. Chester.”

15

Chester had
taken a room at the Hotel El Greco at Athinas and Lycourgou Streets, just off Omonia Square. This was a dusty, proletarian sort of square compared to Constitution, and Chester had the feeling of being at the wrong end of town. But at least it was a good distance away from the King's Palace Hotel. The taxi-driver had driven a long way up Stadiou Street, it seemed to Chester, to get to Omonia. Here at the El Greco, in a room that looked brand-new, like a model bedroom in the furniture section of Macy's, Chester had looked for the second time at the
Daily Post
he had bought when he stopped to talk to Niko—Colette had not been identified as yet—
and he had gone through her three suitcases to see if there was anything in them he should keep with him. He took her Kleenex box and her toothpaste. His hands were shaking, and he had looked through her suitcases quickly, afraid he would do something odd, if he slowed up, such as scream, fall on the suitcases and tear his hair, or even start cramming some of her things, like his favorite scarf or her perfume, into his own suitcase. He locked the two suitcases of Colette that locked with the keys that hung from their handles. The third he supposed he would have to fasten some way, but let the American Express worry about that. He was going to send them to Jesse Doty in New York to hold for him. Chester could not think what else to do with them.

At twenty to 11, well fortified by Scotches that he had drunk in his room, Chester went out to keep his appointment with Niko at Stadiou and Omirou. Chester had written the street names down on the edge of his
Daily Post.
He was not sure Niko would keep the appointment, if Rydal had spoken to him, and of course Rydal would have by now. Chester had seen from inside his taxi on the Piraeus dock that Rydal had got free from the police there. He had made the taxi-driver wait while he watched what was going on at the head of the ship's gangplank. Chester had hoped, had believed, Rydal had been arrested, they had taken so long with him. And then Rydal had come walking down the gangplank with his suitcase, and Chester had experienced a strange kind of relief which he couldn't understand, until he realized that if Rydal had been detained, he would have told the police all about Chester MacFarland, alias William Chamberlain. Chester would have had to leave the country at once, or try to, try to cross some border illegally, without showing a passport. Yes, it would have been hell. But now he had a chance at Rydal. He supposed Rydal was staying at some friend's place instead of a hotel. It pleased Chester to make Rydal feel uneasy. He intended to make him feel far worse than that.

Chester almost did not recognize Niko at first. He wore a new dark-blue overcoat, a new and spotless grey hat. In fact, Chester recognized him only by the dirty gym shoes, his incongruous footgear. Niko smiled, and Chester saw the horrible framed tooth and the gap next to it.

“Hello, Niko,” said Chester.

“Hello,
sir,
”
he said, as if “
sir” were a name.

“Well—” Chester looked around, saw a café across the street, and proposed that they go over there to talk.

They crossed Stadiou, a difficult operation that stranded them for a few moments in the middle of the street while traffic whizzed by, front and back. It was a very nice overcoat indeed that Niko was wearing, and Chester supposed that his own money had paid for it. They entered the café, which happened to be a pretty fancy one, and Chester felt conspicuous in the company of the gym shoes until they were seated.

“I suppose you've seen Rydal,” Chester said at once.

“Oh, yes. Seen him this morning, just after you.” Niko accepted an American cigarette from Chester.

The waiter came.

Chester ordered a Scotch. Niko asked for coffee and something else that Chester couldn't understand.

“And I suppose he's staying with you?” Chester said casually. He hated such blunt prying, but on the other hand, he couldn't imagine anything surprising or offending Niko.

“No,” Niko said.

“Where is he staying?”

“He stay with a friend.” Niko jerked a thumb vaguely.

“Do you know where?”

“Sure, I know where.”

Chester nodded. “Where?”

“Ah—near Acropoli.” Another jerk of the thumb. “I don't know the name of the street.”

“But you know the friend he's with?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Who is the friend?” Chester asked.

Niko leaned closer across the table, smiling. “Why you want to know?”

Chester sat up also. He smiled also, man to man, crook to crook. Niko had made a tidy sum from him. “You know, Niko, Rydal and I are connected—somewhat. We have to keep in touch. He did me a good turn here in Athens about the passports. So did you. In Piraeus this morning, Rydal and I got separated, and it was best for us not to stay together this morning. Understand?” He was speaking softly but distinctly. “But Rydal and I may be able to help each other, and very soon. If you don't tell me where he is, I'll find out somehow. Or Rydal will communicate with me. I'm easy to find. I'm at a hotel.”

“Where?”

Chester smiled. “I'll tell you, if you tell me who Rydal is with. Plus the address.”

Niko smiled broadly, and he looked a little embarrassed. “Oh, okay, if you at a hotel, that's easy. Rydal will find
you
.”

Chester chuckled tensely, automatically. “That's right. I'm sure he will.”

A silence fell. Seconds passed.

Did he talk
to you about Crete?
Chester started to ask, but he had decided in his hotel room not to get into that. Niko might not believe him, if he said Rydal killed his wife. There was no reason for him to waste his energy in convincing Niko that he was justified in what he wanted to do. Niko didn't care about justice. Chester was breathing a little harder. He picked up his Scotch and sipped it.

The waiter had set down a cup of thick-looking, dark black coffee and a white pastry of some kind in front of Niko.

“I need two things from you, Niko, and I promise to pay you well,” said Chester.

“Yes?” Niko's front tooth showed.

“I'm in the market for another passport. I brought a photograph with me.” Chester was speaking softly, so softly Niko had to lean forward, but Chester looked on either side of him to see if anyone were within hearing. Their nearest neighbor was a man buried in a newspaper, ten feet away. “How soon can you get another passport?”

“Hm-m. Maybe day after tomorrow.”

“I want you to get it. Here's the photo.” Chester handed it across the table to him, the photograph concealed in his palm, held there by his thumb.

Niko's soiled paw came out, whisked it away into his overcoat pocket. He nodded.

“I'll pay you the usual—advance today,” Chester said.

“Half,” said Niko flatly. “Five thousand. A new passport—ten thousand.”

Chester stared at him. “Ten? Why not five?”

“Ten,” Niko said.

Chester grimaced. “Very well. And no moustache on this one. The moustache has got to be taken off the photo. Got that?”

“Sure.”

“The other thing is—I need a reliable person to do a very important job for me. Someone who isn't afraid.”

Niko pushed the pastry into his mouth, and bit off a large piece. “What kind of a job?” he asked, barely intelligibly.

“A dangerous job,” Chester said. “Just get me the right man, and I'll explain to him what it is. But I'd like somebody right away. Tonight, if possible.”

Niko chewed and reflected.

“Do you think you know such a person? A brave man. Or maybe you know someone who would know such a person. I'd pay well. Five thousand dollars.” Chester smiled slightly, letting the figure sink in. Money would make it work, he was sure.

“Yes,” Niko said suddenly, positively.

Chester listened to its echo, trying to tell if it were real. “Good,” he said. “The next question is, can you arrange a meeting tonight? For him and me. Even late this afternoon. Is the man you have in mind in Athens?”

“Oh, yes. I telephone him.” Niko seemed serious about it.

“And—what meeting place would you suggest? You can tell me now. I'll get there.”

“He work on—Leoharos Street. You know Klafthmonos Square?”

“No, I don't.”

“Ugh. Write it down. Leoharos.”

Chester let Niko write it for him. There was a restaurant off Leoharos which had a name like “trapezium”, the word for bank. Chester said he was sure he could find it. Niko said he would tell his friend, whose name was Andreou, to be there at 5 o'clock, as soon as he stopped work.

“What does he look like?” Chester asked.

“Oh, he find you. He recognize American,” said Niko.

“Yes, but—What does he look like, anyway?”

“Big fellow.” Niko spread his hands. “Strong. Black hair.” A circular movement with his finger, perhaps to indicate curly hair, perhaps a sign that the fellow was a bit odd.

“You can tell him I will pay him half—tonight—if we come to an agreement. Twenty-five hundred. Understand, Niko?”

“Yeah,” Niko said.

“Now about the passport,” Chester said softly, and reached for his wallet.

Five minutes later, he parted from Niko on the pavement in front of the caf
é. He had given Niko five thousand. Niko would expect a thousand for himself when the deal was concluded, he had said. Chester had agreed. He walked up Stadiou automatically in the direction of his hotel. He felt better, much better. But he didn't want to go back to that hotel room.
Anywhere
but that. Chester turned around. He walked down Stadiou, thinking of the mail that was surely there for him at the American Express post office. Well, with a new passport—day after tomorrow—he could start over, write his friends in New York, and get them to re-write and send their letters to his new name. And to the American Express in Paris. Yes, by God, the minute he got that passport, he was flying to Paris. Just as well he hadn't asked them as yet to write to William Chamberlain in Athens. He must have known, must have had a sixth sense about that. He wished he had a sixth sense about what was happening in America. It was not at all reassuring to him that the New York
Times
and the Paris
Herald Tribune
were not talking about the investigation of Chester MacFarland or Howard Cheever. He knew he was being investigated now, and the silence of the newspapers gave him the feeling that the investigators were building up a mountain of evidence that would really smash him when it fell.

Chester found himself reaching for his money in front of a movie-cashier's booth. He hadn't the faintest idea what he was going in to see. It didn't matter. It turned out to be a Japanese film with a Japanese sound track and Greek sub-titles.

The Restaurant Trapeziou or Trapezium—Chester couldn't make out the letters—was on a corner, a middle-category restaurant with not very clean white tablecloths and waiters in long dirty white aprons. It was as cold in the place as outdoors, and the handful of patrons, mostly men, were eating in their hats and overcoats. Chester was early. He sat down at a table, and, when a waiter came over and said, “Kalispera,” and handed him a menu, Chester mumbled in English that he was waiting for someone. The man came in a minute later. Chester was positive that he was the man, a big, thick fellow with curly black hair, hatless, in a half-wornout grey overcoat. His lips were slightly parted and there was a frown between his eyebrows as he looked over the restaurant. Chester stared down at the tablecloth and smoked his cigarette, confident that the man would come over to him. But what if he spoke no English? They'd have to get hold of Niko. No, someone else, a friend of this man.

“Chamberlain?” asked a voice quietly.

Chester nodded. “Good evening.”

The man pulled a chair out for himself. He ordered something from the waiter. Chester asked for an ouzo. Obviously, it was not the kind of place that had Scotch. Scotch was always displayed on a shelf somewhere, if a restaurant had it.

“I . . . hope you speak English well enough to understand me,” Chester said, irked by the language barrier which was there, at best. In America, he would have known instantly how to handle a man like this: it was all in the choice of words, all in the way one said them.

“Sure,” said the man.

“I am willing to pay five thousand dollars American for what I want done.”

The man nodded, as if he heard this kind of figure every day. “What ees eet?”

“Are you a brave man?”

“Brave?” He looked confused.

Chester took a breath. If it wasn't going to work, he didn't want to prolong the conversation.

A tall pink drink arrived for the man, and Chester's ouzo.

“You're a friend of Niko's?” Chester asked.

“Sure. Yes.”

“A good friend?”

“Good friend,” the man said, nodding. His frown was back.

“I want a certain person killed. Shot, perhaps. Understand?”

The man seemed to hesitate, or balk, one of his thick hands lifted a fraction of an inch from the table, but he nodded. “Sure, I understand.”

“But there is one thing I demand in exchange for the money I'm offering you,” Chester added hastily, “and that is that you don't tell Niko what you're going to do. Don't talk to Niko at all, in fact. Understand? This has to be a promise.”

The man nodded. “Who ees the man?”

“You must first promise not to speak to Niko about this.”

“Okay.”

It was an unsatisfactory promise. Chester slowly reached for his wallet, looked at it slightly below the level of the table, as casually as if he were about to draw out a hundred-drachma note, and pulled out three five-hundred dollar bills. It was time for the money to show, he thought. “I'll give you fifteen hundred now, on account,” Chester said.