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 café. 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.

The big man stared at the green bills which were nearly concealed in Chester’s large hand. He moistened his lips and said, “I want all of eet before the work ees done, because . . . eet would not be safe eef I seen you . . . afterward. Unnerstand? Not safe—me or you.” He gestured.

Chester saw his point, but didn’t trust him. He wiped his damp forehead with his fingers. “Well, perhaps first you should tell me if you think you can do it at all.”

“Who ees the man?” He shook his head at Chester’s offer of a cigarette.

Chester lit his, then said, “The man is Rydal Keener.” He saw no sign of recognition in the man’s face. That was good. Unless the man had been so prepared for the statement that he hadn’t had to show surprise. “You know him?”

“No,” said the man.

“He’s an American, dark-haired, about twenty-five—” Chester spoke distinctly. “Medium height, rather slim. But you’ve got to find out where he’s staying. Niko knows. Do you know where Niko lives?”

“No,” said the man in his rather blank tone, shaking his head.

Chester didn’t know whether to believe him. A good friend of Niko and he didn’t know where Niko lived? “Well—Niko knows where Rydal Keener is. He’s either with Niko or with a friend. You’ll have to find out from Niko. It’ll be up to you to find him, and I would like the job done as soon as possible. Tonight, if possible.”

“Tonight?” He considered this. Then shrugged.

“Niko may still be in front of the American Express. It’s up to you to talk to him and find out where Rydal Keener is. Niko will tell you. Won’t he?”

“Sure. He tell me,” said the man, as if this weren’t all his difficulties, he had others.

“Okay. But I think—” Chester glanced around him, then leaned closer. “I think in all fairness, you had better give me some details as to how you’re going to go about it—before I pay you five thousand dollars. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”

The man looked as if he had never heard the phrase “fair enough”.

“How do you think you will do it?” Chester asked.

The man, still frowning, put out his thick right arm, then jerked his fist towards himself, the gesture of mugging someone, breaking a neck, from behind.

The gesture somehow reassured Chester. The man’s anxious expression became the expression of a natural and even healthy tension before a dangerous task. “You’re free tonight for the job?”

“For five thousand dollars?” The man smiled for the first time. Two of his front teeth were gold-rimmed. “Yes,” he said.

That “Yes” had conviction to Chester. Chester asked a few more questions. No, the man had no gun. Guns were not safe, they made too much noise. He was a strong fellow who could do things with his two hands. Chester felt sure of that.

When Chester left the restaurant at 5:25, Andreou had his five thousand dollars. Andreou had said he was staying on for a couple of minutes to finish his drink, and then he would go to the American Express to see Niko. Chester took a taxi to his hotel. He thought he would take a hot bath, get into pyjamas, and have his dinner sent up from the hotel restaurant.

The police were in the lobby when he arrived. A uniformed policeman and a plain-clothes man sat on a couple of the upholstered straight chairs between the desk and the elevator. Chester saw the man behind the desk give a nod to the policemen. The man stood up and came towards Chester. Chester stood where he was. He saw a man who was depositing his key at the desk look curiously at him and the policemen before he went out.

“Mr. Chamberlain?” asked the plain-clothes man. He was dark-haired, with a long nose. There was something humorous, or sly, in the way he tilted his head as he looked at Chester.

“Yes,” said Chester.

“Platon Stapos of the police,” the man said, making a pass with his open billfold, too quickly for Chester to see anything, but Chester was sure he was a genuine policeman. He looked around the lobby, at the quiet area with tables and chairs behind him, but the man behind the desk was obviously all ears, even leaning forward over the desk now so not a word would escape him. “May we go up to your room? It would be more private.”

“Yes, of course. I’d be very glad to talk to you.” Chester looked in a frightened way over his shoulder, through the two pairs of glass doors of the hotel. It was part of his act. Then he went with the men to the elevator. “Oh, my key. Just a minute.” Chester walked to the desk. The fascinated clerk turned quickly and got his key, then handed it to him.

They rode up in the self-service elevator, walked down the corridor, and Chester used his key. The room was full of suitcases, opened and closed.

“I am very glad to see you. Very,” Chester said. “Won’t you sit down? Here. I’ll get rid of this suitcase.”

The plain-clothes man sat down on the chair Chester had cleared, the uniformed man preferred to stand.

“You are William Chamberlain whose wife Mary Ellen Chamberlain was killed Monday?” asked the plain-clothes man.

“Yes,” Chester said. He was standing by the bureau, the Scotch bottle behind him, and he would have liked a drink, but he thought he should wait a few minutes before he proposed one.

“Why did you not speak to the police?” asked the man.

“I was afraid to,” Chester said promptly. “Until now, until today—” He broke off. “The young man who did it, Rydal Keener, has been with me every minute. Until today. Even today he trailed me in the streets, watching everything I did. I’ve been in a—I’m afraid I’ve been in no state to cope with the police. I mean try to get their help. The loss of my wife was such a terrible shock, I’ve been nearly out of my mind.”

“Tell us what happened,” said the plain-clothes man, and pulled out a pad and a fountain pen.

Chester told them. He began with Rydal Keener striking up an acquaintance in Iraklion, then told of Rydal’s flirting with his wife. It went on for three days or so, while they went to Chania. Rydal spoke Greek, so he made himself quite useful to them, and he hadn’t much money and Chester had paid him a little for his services, but Rydal Keener kept making advances to his wife, which his wife consistently rejected. On Monday in Iraklion, Chester asked Rydal to leave them, but he insisted on going with them to visit the Palace of Knossos. Rydal Keener was in a furious mood, because he hadn’t got anywhere with his wife, and because Chester had asked him to leave. He retaliated in a brutal way, by pushing a vase or dropping a vase from the top terrace on to his wife.

“Of course, he was trying to hit me,” Chester said as he finished his story. “That’s the only thing that makes any sense. I had just moved away from where she was when she was hit. She’d come forward to talk to me—something like that. It’s hard to remember the details.” Chester passed his hand over his thin hair. “Excuse me, but may I offer you gentlemen a drink? A Scotch?”

“Not just now, thank you,” said the plain-clothes man, his head lowered as he wrote in his notebook.

The policeman shook his head.

Chester poured himself a drink in the empty glass that was on the night table, added a little water in the bathroom. He came back and took the same position by the bureau. “To continue . . . Where was I? Yes. I stayed by my wife a few moments. I was so stunned by what had happened, I didn’t know what to do. I then heard—later, from the newspapers—that Keener had asked the ticket-seller if I had gone out, if I’d taken a taxi away. Already he was planning, you see, to make it appear that I’d done the . . . the killing and had run away from the scene.” Chester’s throat choked up with a genuine emotion—of some kind. He paused, and looked at each of the men, looked for signs of belief in their faces. They looked merely interested.

“Go on,” said the plain-clothes man. “What happened next?”

“After a few minutes, I don’t know how many minutes, I started looking for Keener. I was in a rage. I wanted to throttle him with my bare hands. I couldn’t find him in the palace, so I ran out. I looked on the road. By this time it was getting dark, and I couldn’t see very well. I went to Iraklion, thinking—”

“How did you go to Iraklion?”

“I stopped the bus. On the road.”

“I see. Go on.”

“And sure enough I found him in Iraklion. He was . . .” Chester hesitated, then decided to go ahead. “He was actually waiting for me at the hotel where I had left my luggage. He spoke to me and said if I called the police, he would kill me. He said he had a gun in his pocket. I was sure he meant it. He made me go to another hotel with him—I don’t know why, it was a worse hotel, and maybe he’d tipped the owner to keep his mouth shut if he saw any strange behavior between him and me, I don’t know.” Chester took a couple of swallows of his drink. “Then the next morning—”

“You stayed in the same room at the hotel?” asked the plain-clothes man, again with his smile that was touched with humor.

“Not ostensibly,” Chester replied with a grim smile. “We had two rooms. But he stayed in mine all night, keeping guard on me.” Chester suddenly remembered the little walk he had taken early in the morning. The hotel-keeper might remember it, if he were questioned. Maybe they wouldn’t question him that closely, Chester thought. Or if they did, and he mentioned it, Chester could say that he had sneaked out and hadn’t been able to find a policeman at that hour, or that he was still simply too shocked and too afraid to try to get police help.

“And then?”

“The next morning, we took the boat back to Athens. Even . . . even on the boat, he made an attempt on my life. He knocked me down on the deck and tried to throw me overboard. Luckily, I put up a good fight, and someone came along so Keener had to stop the fight. I was glad to get to Athens, because I thought from here I could certainly get help for myself.”

“And did you try? Today?” The plain-clothes man had fairly interrupted him.

“I spent today trying to locate Keener. He disappeared from me as soon as . . . well, as soon as the boat docked. I lost him at Piraeus. I got off the boat first. I was going to report him in Athens, you see.” Chester covered his eyes. Then he walked with his drink to the bed and sat down.

“Take eet easy,” said the plain-clothes man. “What happened after you got to Athens?”

“I’m sorry,” Chester said. “These last days have been such a strain. I’m sure what I’m saying to you doesn’t make sense, because it doesn’t sound logical. I kept thinking, in Athens there are enough police. I’ll just walk up to one, even if Keener’s with me and even if he tries to shoot me, and say to the policeman, ‘Here’s the man you want for the murder of my wife.’” His voice broke on the last word.

There was a silence of several seconds. The plain-clothes man looked at the police officer. So did Chester. The uniformed officer did not so much as twitch a muscle in his face. He might not even have understood English.

“People whose wives are murdered,” said the plain-clothes man slowly, “are not always logical.”

“No,” Chester agreed. “I suppose not.”

The plain-clothes man looked at his colleague, and half closed his eyes in a way that might have meant anything—the same as a wink, or that he didn’t believe Chester, or that his eyes hurt. Then he looked at Chester. “Where were you trying to find thees Keener?”

“I was looking around Constitution Square,” Chester answered. “He made a couple of remarks about spending a lot of time there. Around the American Express.”

“Hm. Thees fellow ees an American, ees he not? Not using a stolen American passport?”

“Oh, no. No, no, he’s an American, all right. But he speaks Greek quite well, as far as I can tell, and my wife told me he said he spoke several other languages, too.”

“Hm.” The plain-clothes man looked at his colleague and nodded and said something in Greek.

The other nodded also, and shrugged.

“He was questioned on the boat this morning and got through us. Sleeped by us,” said the plain-clothes man.

“Oh?—What do you mean?”

“All the young men passengers looking like him were detained by the police. Questioned. He must have been detained also. But—they were Piraeus police,” he said with a chuckle. “Well—we have been checking all the Athens hotels for Rydal Keener since noon today. He ees not registered at any hotel in Athens.”

“No. I didn’t think he would be. I’m sure he knew you’d get his name sooner or later—in connection with us.”

“Yes. Eet was not too easy. Do you know your wife had not one identifying object on her person? Not even anything with an initial?”

Chester shook his head sadly. “I didn’t know that. I usually carry her passport for her.” He regretted saying the word passport.

Now the plain-clothes man was looking musingly at him. “No, for her identification, we are indebted to a man in Chania, the manager of the Hotel Nikë who spoke to the police in Crete only this morning. He had your names on his register.” He stood up. “Please to use your telephone?”

“Go ahead,” said Chester.

The plain-clothes man spoke in Greek to the hotel operator. After a moment, he began a conversation in Greek, a conversation in which he did most of the talking. The name “Chamberlain”, pronounced suddenly slowly, almost disdainfully, made Chester feel uneasy.

The other man stood like a soldier, hands behind him, occasionally letting his eyes drift to Chester and away.

The plain-clothes man put his hand over the telephone and said to Chester, “Can you tell us—Do you happen to know any other place thees Keener might be? Any other town he spoke of?”

“No,” Chester said. “I’m sorry.”

“Any people in Athens he spoke of? Anyone he knows?”

Chester shook his head. “I don’t remember anybody. I don’t think he ever mentioned anybody. But I’m sure he knows several people here, people who would hide him.”

The plain-clothes man spoke into the telephone again, and then hung up. He turned to Chester. “We are not going to put into the newspapers that we have identified your wife. We do not want Keener to run farther, you see? We do not want him to think that we have spoken to you and that you have told your story against him. You see?”

Chester saw. But he wondered if Rydal would see through it? “Until you catch him—” Chester began, and abandoned it. “I’m very nervous—with him after me. I’d like to leave for Paris right away. If necessary, of course, I’d be glad to come back to talk to you when you’ve found him.”

“Well, as a matter of fact that would not be advisable, because we intend to keep watch on you. To guard you and maybe in that way we find Keener. Keener may be unwise enough to try to kill you before you talk to the police—he thinks. Or he may be so impulsive—what ees the word? Wanting revenge that he will try to kill you anyway, thinking you have talked to the police by now. You see?” The man’s smile, his easy gesture with one hand was curiously bland. And his eyes were amused.

“You mean I’m to be a sort of decoy,” Chester said.

The man thought about this, then nodded vaguely. “I doubt very much really if he will try to find you and kill you. He must know it ees too late. Logically, he would try to sneak out of the country, maybe change his passport.” The man was buttoning his overcoat. He beckoned to the officer, and they walked to the door.

Chester wanted to ask them to keep in touch with him, to telephone him tonight and tell him if anything had happened. But he said nothing.

“We shall keep a man downstairs in the lobby. If you go out, the man will follow you,” said the plain-clothes man. “Don’t let eet disturb you. Eet’s for your protection.” He smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Cham-ber-lain.”

“Thank you,” Chester said. “Thank you very much.” He closed the door after them.

Then he took a deep breath and lay down at full length on the bed, on his back. With luck, Rydal Keener’s body would be found on some dark pavement tonight, or early tomorrow morning. He shouldn’t have paid that guy first, however. Chester knew that, just as a matter of business principle. But on the other hand, how could he have paid him off after he did the job, if a police guard were shadowing him? And not getting his money, Andreou might have decided to mug him, police guard or no. Yes, things were best the way they were.

When Rydal Keener was dead, that would be the end of the story, the police guard would be removed, and he would leave for France on his new passport. William Chamberlain would vanish from the earth. Off would come his beard and moustache, and he would be Mr.—something yet unknown in France and in the States.

But if Andreou didn’t succeed in killing Rydal—if he was a ­double-crosser, a friend of Niko, and of Rydal, possibly, too—then a little maneuver involving precise co-ordination would be necessary. It hinged on whether the police found Rydal. If they found Rydal, and he told them his story, Chester would have to have his new passport in hand, give the police guard the slip, even if it meant leaving the hotel with all his luggage in his room, and vanish in the direction of Paris. Chester really didn’t think it would come to that. He had a high regard for Rydal’s cleverness, and Rydal didn’t want to get caught. Rydal might want to hit back at him, but not through the police. In a way, Chester thought, their motives were very much alike—and if anything, Chester considered himself the less vindictive of the two. It was going to come down to a private duel.

Chester was full of hope and confidence. It was something that sang in his veins, an old, familiar sensation to him. Optimism had always won the day for him. A man was no good without optimism, no good at all. Dreamily, Chester put out his right arm on the bed, unconsciously expecting to find Colette beside him. It was a double bed. The bed was empty, flat.