As, the hotel manager ushered Patrick from his office, Inspector Manolakis picked up the telephone and spoke curtly into it. He was a man of about Patrick’s age, slightly built, with an aquiline nose and alert, intelligent eyes. The death of a foreigner must be a great headache for the police; it could happen so easily; one often heard of people on holiday dying of heart attacks, Manolakis had doubtless dealt with such cases before.
Patrick resolved to put the whole tragic business at the back of his mind for the moment. His original plan had been to hire a car at once, and that was what he would do. Accordingly, he set out to walk the mile or so to the town where it could be arranged.
It was already very hot. The sun beat down on the nape of his neck and his shirt stuck to him. He would have to buy some sort of hat. He’d see to it after fixing the car.
There was a choice of travel firms offering tours of Crete and other services, in offices facing the water-front. Patrick went into the first one. It was busy, and he stood at the back to wait his turn. Bright posters on the walls advertised island holidays and trips to Olympia.
An American tourist was having a complicated session with the clerk discussing hotels in Athens and Delphi. Some change of plan was being arranged. The American was short and slim, with crisp grey hair; he was strung about with expensive cameras and wanted to stay at the Athens Hilton. Patrick listened idly while the business was concluded.
Two French girls wanting tickets for the next coach trip to Knossos was a minor matter after that. Patrick’s turn came at last and he was soon dealt with, the car would arrive in half an hour.
This was efficient; Patrick said so, at which the clerk beamed, and they parted amiably. Patrick went to cash a cheque and seek a hat while the car was delivered.
There were a number of shops along the water-front and more in streets running inland to a square with a red-tiled, white-washed church of Byzantine style. Patrick browsed around and eventually bought a lightweight straw affair of conventional shape with plenty of holes for ventilation, and then visited the bank. After all this effort he felt thirsty. There was a kafenion on the water-front, so he sat at a table in the shade and ordered coffee, meaning to ask for metrio in the manner advised by his phrase-book, but was unnerved when the waiter dashed off saying, ‘Yes, sir, Nescafe, amesos,’ leaving him no time.
Despite the reassuring amesos, the coffee took ten minutes to arrive, but it was pleasant to sit watching the harbour. There were several fishing boats at anchor, and a large cabin cruiser was moored near some steps in the harbour wall. Patrick was close enough to read her name, painted on the stern: the Psyche.
The American who had been in the travel bureau was sitting at a table some distance away. He was with his wife now, a well-built woman with winged, tinted spectacles and dark hair. They were consulting a map. When he left, Patrick passed behind them; three copper bracelets adorned the woman’s strong, freckled arm. Patrick heard her husband say, ‘Well, honey, you’d built yourself some kind of a dream, I guess. Of course there’s other folk in Crete, it’s no desert island.’
Was his wife complaining about the crowds? Patrick himself was pleasantly surprised at the lack of them. There must be miles of empty hillsides and deserted beaches on the island.
He went back for the car. A small Fiat awaited him. He signed the papers and took the keys.
There were no other customers waiting for attention. Patrick asked the clerk if he had any information about the recent movements of the S.S. Persephone. The man knew the ship; he had even been aboard, for his firm’s Heraklion office supplied the coaches that took her passengers to Knossos, but he had no details of her present itinerary. However, he would certainly find out where she was now, where she was bound for next, and when she was last in Heraklion.