THE DOUBLE IMAGE

BY

HELEN MACINNES
 Fawcdtt Crest Books by Helen MacInnes;

  Above Suspicion
  Agent In Place
  Decision at Delphi
  The Double Image
  Friends and Lovers
  The Hidden Target
  Horizon
  Message from Malaga
  North From Rome
  Pray For a Brave Heart
  Prelude to Terror -
  Rest and Be Thankful
  The Salzburg Connection
  Th.e Snare of the Hunter
  While Still We Live
 Helen MacInnes

 



 FAWCETT CREST o NEW YORK
 A Fawcett Crest Book Published by Ballantine Books. Copyright C 1965,
 1966 by Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc.

 All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
 Conventions, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
 thereof Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of
 Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House
 of Canada Limited, Toronto.

 Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 66-12370

 ISBN 0449-20860-5

 This edition published by arrangement with Harcourt, Brace & World.

 All characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to persons
 living or dead is purely coincidental.

 Manufactured in the United States of America

 First Fawcett Crest Edition: April 1967
 First Ballantine Books Edition: October 1985
 Thirtieth Printing: February
 To the men who doyet get medals

 April in Paris, and a sprinkle of rain, a sudden whip of coot breeze, a
 graying sky to end the bright promise of the evenmg. John Craig decided that
 his saunter along the Boulevard Saint-Germain might come to a quick end any
 moment now, and began looking in earnest for a place of retreat.
  He stretched his spine, bringing his height up to six feet, to let him look
  over the heads of the crowd and search for the caf6 he wanted. His face,
  rugged in its features, was normally pleasant in expression, as if he were
  trying to soften the ttarker effect of a strong jaw and firm mouth. His
  eyes, under well-marked brows, were gray and alert; his neatly cut hair was
  dark and thick. He carried himself well, shoulders straight, waistline
  taut. He had the easy stride of an athlete; and yet, here again, he
  underplayed the effect by avoiding any flamboyance or overconfidence in his
  movements. An amiable young man, strangers thought when they met him,
  rather quiet on the whole. Later, they might change that opinion: he
  underplayed his real interests, too, as if he thought intellectual display
  was just another form of boasting, unnecessary if you were any good, em-
  barrassing if you weren't. At this moment, the expression on his face was
  one of minor irritation. Damned fool, he told himself, to leave his
  raincoat back at the hotel.
  The caf6s were numerous along this stretch of the boulevard, some big and
  brassy, others dim and dreary, most of them with rows of little outside
  tables nudging the traffic on the broad sidewalk into a narrow stream.
  People hurried, either because of the time of day (half past five, a home
  to reach, friends to meet) or because of the threat of a soaking. Only one
  man, walking slowly toward Craig, seemed totally
                9
 10        HELEN MACINNES

 purposeless. He came to a halt, oblivious of the people behind, of their
 jostling and open annoyance as they maneuvered around him. Craig, his own
 path blocked by the bottleneck, drew aside to the curb and let three pretty
 girls regain their flouncing formation, then a stout woman pass with a
 bulging shopping bag and a bouquet of celery, then an old muttering man,
 then two young bearded men who had seized the chance to squeeze by,
 then-hey, enough of thatl Craig stopped being polite and pushed on, glancing
 reprovingly at the daydreamer who had started it all. Dreamer? No. The man's
 face was pale, worried, frightened. His fine dark eyes, deep set, stared
 unseeingly at Craig. And at that instant, Craig recognized the high broad
 brow, the long narrowing face, the prominent nose and vanishing hairline.
 "Why," he said in complete astonishment, "it's Professor Sussman-" and broke
 off, embarrassed. Sussman, at the sound of his name, at the friendly voice,
 had left his own world of dark thought. His eyes stopped staring blindly;
 now they were alive again, but puzzled, half-recognition dawning.
  Craig wished he had just walked on and left the eminent Professor of Art
  and Archaeology formulating some new idea about Etruscan tombs right on a
  busy Paris street. "I took one of your courses at Columbia," he said
  awkwardly, "just the year before you left for Berkeley." He made a quick
  grab for Sussman's arm as the man!s small thin body was shouldered aside,
  almost off the sidewalk.
  Sussman was smiling, the old warmth back in his eyes. "I remember, I
  remember. Carr, isn't it?"
 "Craig. John Craig."
  Sussman's quick, rushing voice said impatiently, "Carr or Craig, I am still
  sorry I did not convince you to become an archaeologist. You had the proper
  questioning mind. Modem history, weren't you? See, I do remernberl" His
  hand was tight, his voice suddenly intense.
  Craig's embarrassment deepened. There was too much emotion here for his
  taste. He tried, politely, to disengage his hand from Sussman's grip. A
  strange city, taken at its most blaring and bustling hour, might bewilder
  an elderly scholar, but surely not to this point of despair. "There's the
  second rain warning. I think I'd better--"
  "Have a drink with me. You have time?" Again there, was that pleading
  urgency in Sussman's voice.
           TaE DouBLE ImAGE       11

  Craig nodded. He is the drowning man and I am the life belt, he thought.
  "If you don't mind retracing your steps, we might just manage to reach the
  Deux Magots before the rain really sets in. Actually, I was heading there
  when
  Professor Sussman looked back along the boulevard, shook his head. "Too
  busy, too noisy. I know of another place."
  You do? wondered Craig. So you aren't lost in Paris? But he said nothing,
  found he was retracing his steps with Professor Sussman's arm guiding his
  elbow.
  "Around the comer," Sussman directed. "I used to come here when I lived in
  Paris. That was in the days of my exile. Just before the war. In fact, it
  was the favorite caf6 of the young intellectuals in the thirties." He
  stopped in surprise, perhaps even in dismay, as they saw a narrow faded
  awning stretched over two miserable rows of small zinc tables. The tables
  were empty except for one couple, a young bearded man and a girl in a
  belted coat, sitting in gloomy sRence. "Oh, well," said Professor Sussman
  philosophically, "everything changes, nothing stays the same. Shall we sit
  outside, until the rain drives us in?"
  That shouldn't be long, Craig thought wryly: the narrow awning over the
  sidewalk of this dingy little side street wouldn't give much protection.
  Sussman, anyway, seemed improved in spirits; he was almost back to normal,
  a little lost in thought, but with no more blank fear staring nakedly out
  of his face. He had chosen a chair that let him watch the boulevard some
  fifty feet away, which left Craig with a view of the narrow street curving
  down toward some thin bare trees faintly touched with green. Its buildings
  were old and grimy with city air, too unimportant to be scrubbed and
  polished like the grand monuments of the New Paris. Across the street was
  a small night club which might be interesting six hours from now, a dingy
  printing shop, a battered-looking school resting from its labors. But there
  was also a clear view of the girl who sat five tables away, and even if she
  was sad and her lips drooping and her large eyes only aware of the
  knucklehead opposite herwhat else could you call a man who'd make a girl
  like that look so unhappy and, judging by the angry tilt of his jaw, meant
  to keep her that way?-she was still a very pleasant view indeed.
  Craig settled back in his chair, ordered Scotch, was surprised to hear
  Professor Sussman echo that. (Strange how
 12        HELEN MACINNES

 you could attend a year of a man's lectures, admire his books, stand in awe
 of his international reputation as a scholar, be amused by his mannerisms,
 be delighted by his praise and stimulated by his ideas, and still not know
 one real thing about his personal tastes or his private fife.) Craig lit a
 cigarette, listened to the soft fall of rain on the awning above him,
 studied the view. She was talking, now, in a voice too low to be identified.
 Was she French? English? There was no doubt about her companion: he had just
 raised his voice sharply, "For Christ's sak&--2' The rest of the sentence
 was lost as he dropped his voice again.
  Craig shook his head, half-smiled, looked at Professor Sussman for an acid
  comment. But the professor had been watching his own view-the corner of the
  boulevard, less busy now with people although the cars and buses still
  charged along its broad length like a herd of elephants stampeding from a
  forest fire. Strain had come back into SussmaWs face, but he was in control
  of his emotions. "No, don't look round," he warned quickly, as Craig
  shifted his chair a little to let him see the boulevard, too. "He has
  gone," Sussman said softly. "He didn't see us." He was speaking almost to
  himself.
  "Are you being followedT' Craig was incredulous enough to be blunt.
 "I don't know. Perhaps. It could be likely."
 "But why-f9
  "No matter now. He didn't see us. Let's talk about something more
  civilized. What are you doing in Paris? Are you working here, or visiting?"
  "I'm on my way to the Mediterranean-Italy and Greece. Perhaps to Turkey, if
  the money holds out. I'd like to see Troy. 99
  "Sol Perhaps I converted you a little?" Sussman was pleased. "Let me see-it
  is five years since you were coming to my lectures-the First World War,
  that was your field. Or have I forgotten?"
  No, the professor was completely right. But he can't be interested in me,
  Craig thought; he is really only trying to forget something else. All
  right, let's take it from there. This may not be the way I planned to spend
  my first evening in Paris, but it seems I'm stuck with it, and I might as
  well make the most of it. What would Sussman think of my ictea for a book?
           Tim DouBLE ImAGE       13
  Sussman was remembering hard. "Yes, that was itl Blockade as a weapon of
  war. Did you finish your thesis on thatT'
  Craig nodded. He smiled at himself a little~ "Never could find a more
  appealing title."
  "We leave that to the historical novelists. And now you are traveling, and
  you will write a book?"
  "If all goes well." He felt pleased, flattered. Old Sussman really did
  remember him and some of his little ambitions.
  "On more blockades? No, no-Lam not laughing. It is an important subjecL
  Anything that can help to decide the outcome of any war is something to be
  treated most seriously." Sussman was speaking rapidly, with real interest,
  his own problem seemingly forgotten.
  "rin thinking not so much about the endings of war, now, as its beginnings.
  I've been doing some work on trade routes as motives for war."
  "Beginning with the Trojan War?" Sussman was even smiling broadly. "So you
  did believe some of my theories-~'
  "Couldn!t forget them," Craig admitted with a grin. He hadn!t accepted all
  of theM but Sussman had certainly opened the doors of history wide.
  "Then ancient historians have some use, even to young economists? And where
  will you end your book? Trade routes and colonies and coaling stations have
  had their eras. Of course, you might say that today the new control points
  for the extension of power are newspapers, radio, televisSomething wrong?"
  "Nothing." Craig hoped his voice was nonchalant enough. Better, he decided
  quickly, to appear inattentive and stupid than have Sussman turn his head
  to look down the'little street. "Just watching the rain, and wondering if
  it wilt clear before I have to leave." Just watching the rain and the
  narrow curve of street, and the man who had come walking slowly into view,
  then stopped, looking at the caM, and stepped back into a doorway. "If I
  can't get a taxi over to the Tuileries, is there any short cut I could
  take? You know Paris well, don't you? This little street-where does it
  lead?" His suspicion was idiotic, he told himself, but he waited anxiously
  for the answer to his apparently innocent question.
  "Back to the Boulevard Saint-Germain. It wanders around like so many little
  Paris streets." Sussman shook his head, looking at Craig's flannel suit.
  "Americans always think
 14        HELEN MACINNES
 Europe in spring means sunshine and warm evenings." He himself was wearing
 heavy tweeds under his raincoat, even rubbers over his shoes.
  "How long did you live in ParisT' The man in the doorway was lighting a
  cigarette. And what was abnormal about that, or even the fact that he
  waited in a doorway on a rain-soaked street? Craig tried to concentrate on
  his drink, to ignore the fact that the man could have been the same one who
  had worried Sussman. Idiotic, he told himself again.
  "I left Germany in 1934. 1 went to Rome, then Athens. In 1936, 1 came here.
  I taught, and wrote my first articles, and married a French girl, and had
  two children. And then, in 1940----~' Sussman threw up his hands. "Friends
  sheltered my wife and children, got them false names, false papers, saved
  them. There wasn't much that could be done to disguise me." He tapped his
  nose, smiling, but watching Craig closely. "I almost reached the Swiss
  border. I ended in Auschwitz. And that is why, my friend, I am in Europe,
  To bear witness. I have been in Frankfurt---~"
  "The trials?" Good God, no wonder Sussman had looked as if he had been
  visiting a mortuary. "That must have been a painful experience."
  "It had to be done. I am one of the survivors of Auschwitz who could
  testify against a certain group of Nazis."
  "And they pleaded they were only taking orders?" Craig asked in derision.
  Sussman nodded. "rheir plea was true. That is one of the grini aspects of
  that trial. Because the man who directed their operations, or at least the
  man who seemed to be in charge when I saw him at Auschwitz-" He paused, his
  eyes staring at the table. "That man is buried in the British sector of
  Berlin. I went there to see that grave." He closed his eyes. "His name was
  Heinrich Berg."
  "Well, that's all over now. You've only to finish your visit to Paris and
  go back to California. How do you like Berkeley?" The man in the doorway
  was still there. Waiting for a friend? The rain had almost stopped.
  Sussman!s instant look of delight, almost child-like in its wonder,
  transformed his face. "We live on top of a hill. We have a view of the Bay,
  of the sunset over the Pacific. And in the garden-did you know you can have
  an orange fruit and blossom both on the same tree at the same time?"
            Tim DounLE ImAeE      15

  Craig had to smile, too.
  "And tulips bloom at the same time as rosesl"
  "I didn't know you were a gardener." And when did tulips usually bloom
  anyway?
  "Oh, Marie is the gardener. I watch from my study, and give advice. I'm
  leaving Paris tomorrow. IT be home by Friday!'
  HomeSo the exile had found his refuge.
  "I wouldn't have come to Paris, except Marie wanted me to visit her
  people, bring back a firsthand report. I shall have to invent a lot of
  nice things about them. I never liked them. and now they are more stupid
  and selfish than ever. It was fortunate I had the good sense to stay at
  a hotel. Familiesl" He shook his head over them. Then he noticed that
  Craig!s interest had been slipping away. He gazed over his shoulder to
  look, too, at the table where the couple sat. "I don7t think their talk
  has been so friendly as ours," he said. "Shaw was right: youth is much
  too good to be wasted on the young. And she is quite beauti-P He did not
  finish the -word. His eyes dilated; he turned back to face Craig. From
  the doorway down the street, the man had stepped out and was walking
  toward the caf6.
  "Shall we leave? Can I take you back to your hotel?" Craig suggested. The
  man was still some distance away, walking slowly.
  "No. That would be an admission. . . . Besides, I must make sure I was
  not wrong when I saw him the first time."
  "An admission of what?" Craig's concern grew as he noticed the return of
  fear in Sussman's eyes.
  "That I have recognized him. If it is he. Perhaps it isn't." There was
  more self-encouragement than real hope in that phrase.
  Or Perhaps Sussman had been thinking too much about Auschwitz. "When did
  you first see this character?"
  "On the Boulevard Saint-Germain. I was buying a paper. Suddenly, he stood
  beside me. He waited for me to look at

 him99
  "Waited?" This is crazy, thought Craig. He looked at Sussman's long,
  intent face, uncomfortably, nervously.
  "I don't think he saw my panic. I think-I hope I kept my face frozen. I
  walked away. And then, only a few minutes later, the shock really struck
  me.,, Sussman!& voice was almost in a whisper now.
 16        HELEN MACINNES

 "But why?"
  "Because I had just seen a dead man walking the streets Of Paris."
  Ile slow footsteps stopped. A chair scraped as the man sat down. He took
  off his hat, shook it free of raindrops, turned down the collar of his
  black coat. He was fairly tall, well fed and well exercised, somewhere
  around fifty, with a slight wave in his dark hair touched with gray at
  the temples and a calm, almost benign look on a remarkably handsome face.
  He ordered a vermouth cassis in quick and authentic French, and paid no
  attention at all either to the young couple or to Sussman and Craig. He
  could have been a lawyer or a diplomat or a business executive or-as
  things went nowadays-a leader of a large trade union. Successful and
  tactfully prosperous and, certainly at this moment, no threat to anyone.
  A man who had been caught in a heavy shower of rain, taken shelter,
  stopped at the nearest caf6 for a drink just like a dozen other
  people-for there were others appearing in the little street, now that the
  rain had ended, and several were even heading toward the awning.
  Craig relaxed. Everything was beginning to look more normal, even to the
  cheerful voices of two women who had just entered the caf6 with two
  joking escorts, a bitter look following them through the doorway from the
  unhappy young man who was still arguing with his girl. Next came two more
  men, talking earnestly. Then a man with fair hair and a tightly belted
  trench coat, soaking wet. All these entered the caM, too. "Things are
  looking up," Craig said. "I guess we got here too early."
  Sussman was recovering. He even made an effort at normal conversation.
  "I've been thinking about your book," he said as if to excuse his
  silence. "It is a good subject, rich enough for five books. Perhaps you
  will do that? Now, I think I could help you a little. I still have
  friends in Italy and Greece who are working on archaeological sites. Some
  are historians, others are art experts. Would you like me to give you
  their names? I shall write them to let them know you may call on them."
 "That would be very useful indeed. Thank you---~'
  "I thank you," Sussman said very softly. "Besides, scholarship is not
  much different from business or politics-the right connections are always
  necessary, and usually reward. ing." He pulled out several letters from
  his jacket pocket,
           I~m DouBLP, ImAaE      17
 selected an envelope, took out a pencil and glasses. "Give me your address
 in Paris."
  "Hotel Saint-Honor6. Rue de Castiglione." Craig watched his name and
  address being carefully written on the back of a business envelope.
  "I shall think of the people who would be most interesting for you to
  meet," Sussman said as he put letters and pencil and glasses carefully
  back into their proper places, "and I shall mail you the list tomorrow,
  before I leav& When do you expect to be in Greece?"
 "In a couple of weeks. I had the idea---"
  "Excuse me," a voice said in French. "My watch seems to have stopped. I
  wonder if you could tell me the right time?" The man in the black coat
  was standing at Sussman's elbow.
  It was Sussman, surprisingly, who recovered first. While Craig was still
  startled by the abrupt interruption, Sussman was taking out a heavy
  silver watch from an inside pocket. He studied it, looked up at the
  smiling, polite face looking down at him. "It is exactly twenty-two
  minutes past six.,2
  "Ibank you." The man was on his way, pulling down his bat as he began the
  short walk toward the boulevard.
  "I didn't even notice him leave his table," Craig said, glancing toward
  it with amazement. In the doorway of the caf6, he saw the fair-haired man
  in the wet raincoat watching them. Or perhaps the man had been only
  gauging the weather, or expecting a friend, for he fit a cigarette as he
  moved back into the room. Sussman, his eyes on the Boulevard
  Saint-Germain, was quite silent.
 "So it was the wrong man. You didn't know him."
  Sussman said slowly, "On the contrary. That was Heinrich Berg."
 "You are sure?"
 "Quite sure."
 "But it's twenty years since you saw him at Auschwitz."
  "And thirty years since we were students at Munich University. And
  fifty-two years since we were born in the little town of GrUnwald, not
  far from Munich. As young boys, we used to play together. Did you notice
  the twist on his left eyebrow-just a small thin scar, not too noticeable
  except when he is under tension? He got that from a piece of broken glass
  when we were climbing over a wall into an orchard. Oh yes, I was quite
  acceptable then: my father had won a medal in the First World War; my
  mother had
 18        HELEN MACINNES
 plenty of food on the dinner table for my friends to eat. What astonishes
 you? That we lived so wen? Or that Berg and I are the same age? Or that I
 remember the expression of his eyes when be was calculating how far he could
 push me? Clever blue eyes, giving nothing away, hiding -his real thoughts,
 looking so innocent. Yes, he has changed a lot. Once, he was very thin, very
 blond. But he has not changed in his eyes or in that little twist of the
 eyebrow where the hair never grew straight again. I know that man- The
 question is: did he learn that I know him?"
 "You had me convinced that you didn't."
 "Then I have to thank you again."
 "For what?"
  "For my recovery from shock." Sussman smiled in his relief. "Yes, I handled
  that quite well, I think. But it was typical. . ._ The way he tried to
  force a recognition."
  Craig felt a little uneasy. The incident had seemed insignificant, normal.
  He hadn't noticed any secret challenge in the stranger's face, or voice.
  "You are sure that he is Berg?"
 "Positive."
 "One of those who should be on triair,
 "Most definitely."
  Craig, sensing the painful memories that the Frankfurt trials must have
  aroused in Sussman, said as tactfully as he knew how, "Couldn't it be
  possible that you might b&---~'
  "Mistaken? No. He knew I was in Paris. He probably followed me from my
  hotel, chose the moment to confront me at the newspaper kiosk. He wasn't
  quite sure, he followed me again, and made me face him once more. You saw
  that part, at least."
 "But how could he know you were in Paris or where----~'
  "It was no secret that I was coming to Paris," Sus an aid angrily. "I was
  interviewed by a reporter in Frankfurt; I poke of my plans quite naturally.
  Why not?"
  Why not indeed? "Well," said Craig slowly, uncertainly, "what are you going
  to do?" There might be a good deal of embarrassment for the professor if he
  couldn't bolster his assertions with some solid proof. Suspicions could
  become a neurosis, even a mania. They could destroy his work, all his
  career.
  "I'm going back to my hotel and telephone the Embassy. If it is closed, I
  shall visit it tomorrow morning on my way to
           THE Doui3LE ImAoE      19

 the airport. If I get no action there, I shall send a telegram to
 Frankfurt."
  Craig was startled by all this unexpected efficiency. The old boy (not so
  old, if he was the same age as Berg-if that stranger had been Berg, if Berg
  were still alive and not six feet under Berlin soil) was not only aroused
  but determined.
  "You are thinking it is all water under the bridge? That I am foolish to
  take action?"
  "No, no. Not that, exactly. I just see you back at another trial in
  Frankfurt." Craig smiled to ease the small tension that had arisen between
  them.
  "It would be worth it," Sussman said grimly. Then he smiled, too, rising to
  his feet, holding out his hand. "Water under the bridge flows on. There are
  other bridges, other people standing on them such as you and your genera-
  tion, my friend. You think I should cling to the wreck of my bridge and not
  try to warn you of the hidden strength of that water?" He was shaking hands
  with great warmth. "Thank you again. Your moral support was all I needed,
  it seems."
  "I'll walk part of the way with you. How far is your hotelrl
  "Just a short block beyond the boulevard." He listened to the renewed
  patter of rain on the awning overhead, gestured to the splashing downpour
  on the street. "You stay here, I see."
  "We'd better have another drink," Craig suggested. "It can't last long."
  Sussman was buttoning his raincoat, pulling a small blue beret out from his
  pocket. "I'm prepared for it. Good luck, Craig. Write a fine book. Send me
  the proofs if you want an outside eye to read them." And he was off, step-
  ping briskly up the street toward the bright boulevard.
  As he stood watching Sussman's determined stride, Craig listened
  impatiently to the argument still coming from the bearded young man and his
  girl. Was this some new way of making love? Idiots, he thought, and turned
  away from the darkening street and the chill of the sidewalk to the warmly
  lit caf6. Another drink, even of that atrocious Scotch, would be welcome.
  He stepped quickly aside to avoid a collision with a man in a burry-the
  fair-haired man in the damp raincoat, who was too busy looking up the
  street
 20       HELEN MACINNES

 to notice Craig. Everyone's crazy except me, he thought in amusement, and
 I'm beginning to have some doubts about myself. For be was standing at the
 door, watching Sussman reach the boulevard, and behind him the man who bad
 urgently remembered he had a train to catch. But the man's pace was more
 normal, now, and he started crossing the boulevard ahead of Sussman who must
 have seen him and yet did not swerve or change direction. If Sussman paid no
 attention to this man, why should you? Craig asked himself: relax, fellow,
 relax.
  He had his drink at the bar. The room was small, fairlY clean, cosy enough,
  but sadly needing customers. It was just as well that Sussman hadn't come
  in here. The talk around the sparsely filled tables was uninspired, and
  even if French always gave an interesting flavor to the smallest remarks,
  they were still, when translated, just of the So-I-saidto-him and
  So-he-said-to-me variety. A large wooden Buddha was fixed up against one
  wall, smiling down at the tables through his coating of dust. Over the bar,
  above the bottles and new cheap chrome, hung a large yellowed lithograph of
  Socrates lifting his cup of hemlock in a farewell toast to his pupils. A
  little more of this cute irony, Craig thought and it won't be this sickly
  tasting ice that makes me pg. He didn't finish his drink, but left in
  almost as great a hurry as the man in the wet raincoat.
  The shower was tapering off. The awning dripped. Only the girl was sitting
  out there, now. She was sitting very still, hunched together, staring at
  the blackness of the night. How long has she been alone like this?
  Craig hesitated under the awning's edge, glanced at her face. She was
  crying quite soundlessly. He looked away, but he didn't leave. His excuse
  could be that he was waiting for the last few splatters of rain to thin
  into nothing. But the silent crying troubled him. He hesitated, looked
  again. She seemed aware of nothing. She was trying to rise, stumbling
  against the corner of a chair. He caught her arm and steadied her. "Are you
  all right?"
  She understood English, for she nodded. She drew her arm away, took a
  steadying breath, averted her face. The waiter, apologetic but insistent,
  called as he hurried out to them, "Mademoiselle, mademoisellel"
  Craig looked at the tab on her table, left under a saucer, completely
  forgotten in her man's Grand Exit. What does
           THE DouBLE ImAois      21
 Sir Walter Raleigh do, he wondered now: pretend he has noticed nothing and
 stop embarrassing her? So Craig looked at the street, wet and shining,
 puffed up the collar of his jacket to protect his shirt from the last
 drops. She was fumbling with her purse. It dropped and scattered its con-
 tents. Sir Walter-could at least bend his back and pick up the collection
 of small- objects that bounced and rolled under the chairs. By the time
 she had paid the waiter, Craig had retrieved a compact, a lipstick,
 cigarette case and lighter.
 "Anything else missingT'
  First she shook her head, not looking at hira. Then she said, in English,
  "Ohl My keyst" So he found them, too, after a little search. She was in
  control of herself by the time he had handed them over. She could face
  him for a moment, saying, "Thank you," before she stepped out into the
  street. Quite beautiful, Sussman had said, and the old boy had been
  right. Smooth black hair, pale fine skin, lips soft in color and in
  shape, dark eyes perhaps blue or gray. She drew the heavy collar of her
  sweater more closely around her neck, .tightened the belt of her raincoat
  for warmth, shivered, and then started up toward the boulevard. Below the
  coat, her legs were slender, excellently shaped; her feet neat in
  high-heeled and very thin shoes.
  He caught up with her near the comer. She hesitated there, as if the
  bright lights and the rush of traffic and the crowd of people, all
  purposeful, all knowing where they were going, had completely sapped the
  last remnants of decision. "If," he said as he stood beside her, "I'm
  lucky enough to get a cab, can I drop you somewhere?"
 "No, thank you."
 "If I'm lucky enough to get a cab, will you take it?"
 She looked down at her purse, briefly, shook her head.
  He remembered the bill she had given the waiter, not even bothering to
  wait for her change. Only a couple of francs, a few centimes left? As if
  to force the issue, he saw a taxi and signaled. Miraculously, it stopped.
 "I'll give you a lift," he said firmly.
  "No, thanks. I'll walk. Thank you." The quiet voice was less icy.
  "On those wet streets, in these shoes? You're crazy." He held the door
  open. The driver looked round impatiently, firing off a staccato burst
  of short sharp syllables. "Get in,"
 22        HELEN MACINNES
 Craig told her. "I won't bite. I won't even bark." She stepped in.
  "Now where?" he asked more gently. It would be just his luck if she lived
  out by the Champs-Elys6es, or somewhere high on Montmartre. He would be
  late for Sue and George: a fine way for young brother to welcome them
  back from Moscow; a first meeting in almost four years and he wouldn't
  even have time to change his shirt and brush his hair. He glanced at his
  watch, but-he hoped-not too noticeably. "Where do I drop youT'
 "Rue Bonaparte at the Quai Malaquais."
  "That's no detour at all. Right on my way." And somehow, be was sorry
  about that.
  She sat very still, head up, eyes front, her arms tightly folded as if
  to warm her body. He didn't press her for an exact address. He didn't ask
  her name, or where she lived in the United States. He kept his promise,
  and did not talk at all. He had a feeling she was very close to a second
  bout of tears. When he helped her out of the taxL he only said, "I'd
  recommend two aspirin and a hot toddy."
  She tried to smile, gave him her hand. "I hope I didn't make you late.
  She turned away quickly, cutting her good-bye short. He watched her for
  a brief moment, and then got back into the cab.
  Blue eyes. Of that, be was sure now. And a pity, a pity about everything.
  He hoped shed have better luck with her next young man. Or perhaps
  tomorrow night she'd be sitting at another caf6 table taking another
  emotional beating. Sussman, echoing Shaw, had been right, youth was far
  too good to be wasted on the young. Of course, Sus an probably included
  him among the oblivious; thirty-two would seem almost juvenile to
  Sussman. Good God, he thought suddenly, Sussman was just about my age
  when he was caught by the Gestapo. A cold finger touched his spine. If
  I had been he, would I have made as good a showing with my next twenty
  years? Some generations really got the sharptoothed end of the stick.
  He put these thoughts aside as they crossed the Seine. They were hardly
  good preparation for a family reunion. So he concentrated on the
  buildings rising around him, scrubbed back to the color they had been
  centuries ago. Calculated lights outlined their proportions, discovered
  their detail, added drama and grace to their solid strength. Trees along
  the
           TRE DouBLE ImArm      23

 winding river were covering bare arms with bright spring dresses. And above
 the rooftops, above the glow of a large city, high overhead in a clearing
 sky, there were the first stars shining into view. Paris in April. This was
 how it should be.
 When a man was thirty minutes late for a party, he might as well take ten
 more and arrive in a clean shirt-especially when he was armed with a
 bottle of Piper-Heidsieck, 1955, to launch his apologies. The Farradays
 were at the Meurice, probably because that was the place most diplomats
 seemed to drift into. Fortunately, it was only a short distance from
 Craig's hotel, although a long way in price and style. But as his
 brother-in-law explained once the exuberant welcome eased off, he was
 celebrating hard, and Sue deserved a suite no less, and in any case it was
 only for one night, and even a press attach6 who didn't rate this splendor
 could damned well dip into his own pocket for that length of time.
  Craig had never heard so much rush of self-explanation
 from George. He was a lot thinner and looked more than
 his thirty-eight years. Sue, on the other hand, had put on
 some weight, cut her fair hair short and brushed it straight.
 Not pregnant, John Craig decided, glancing at her thickened
 hip line; just an excess of solid-silhouette food, and not
 enough exercise. That accounted also for the loss of color
 in her face. Her lipstick was much too dark and vivid, a
 remembrance of days past. It was the shadows under her
 eyes that really troubled him, along with the worry creases
 on her brow. But she was still as quick and sensitive as
 ever, still with her sense of humor. For she was laughing
 in the old way, puffing down the skirt of her dress from
 its wrinkles around the waist, guessing his thoughts cor
 rectly, saying, "George is the lucky one. When he worries,
 he loses weight. All I do is eat and eat. And sit brooding.
 Don't be so alarmed, John. IT soon get rid of this." She
 smacked her waistline lightly, threw her arms wide. "I'm
 free, I'm free, I'm freel Oh, it's wonderful, wonderful. Won
                24
           Tim DouBLE ImAGE      25
 derful to see you, wonderful to talk my bead off, wonderful to go where I
 want when 1. want, wonderful-" She broke off, almost in tears. "John, you
 look exactly the same, and thank God for that." She gave him a very intense
 hug: he had always been her favorite brother.
  Craig patted her shoulder, ruffled her hair, and looked over her head at
  George. "What was that you said about one night?" he asked, trying to get
  emotions calmed down. "I thought you were planning to be here for a week."
  And that's why I had planned two weeks in Paris, he thought ruefully: one
  week for family, one week to recover and see the town on my own.
  "We're leaving tomorrow for Washington. Say, you got this champagne icedl"
  "Four hours, courtesy of the barman at my hotel." And a nice-sized tip.
  "Then it's just right for drinking. Sue, get some glass 5sure, these will
  do, over on the table."
  Craig noticed that a little dining table, places for three, flowers,
  candles and all, had been set up near the window of the sitting room.
  "We thought we'd have supper here, easier for talking, less waste of time,"
  George said. "And we are having a few friends drop in here afterward. Just
  some men who have been stationed at one timeor another in Moscow."
  "They belong to the I-Was-There Club," Sue said cheerfully. She had quite
  recovered. She noticed the expression on her brother's face. "I'm sorry,
  John; we had to see them tonight-but you know how it is. There really is
  quite a bond between men who have lived through the same tensions-~'
  "A bond of curiosity," George said dryly. "They want to hear the latest
  inside gossip and informed guesses."
 "Veterans of Foreign Peace?" Craig suggested.
  "They'd never have forgiven us if we had slipped through Paris without
  seeing then74" Sue went on. She had a habit of Overexplaining out of sheer
  politeness.
 "That doesn't surprise me," Craig assured her.
 "But you look so astonished."
  "Well, after all-one night in Parist" And that really did amaze him, There
  must be some kind of emergency, he thought. "Why, you only got here a
  couple of hours ago."
 "And we very nearly didn't," Sue burst out.
 Craig stared.
 26        HELEN MAcINNEs

  George said quickly, "Now let's not exaggerate. We'd have got here
  eventually." He looked at the astounded Craig, gave a thin smile. "We
  were almost detained." His hand was steady as he poured the champagne and
  offered a glass to Craig.
  Almost detained? Craig regiimed his breath. He raised the glass. "Then
  here's to your safe arrivall" He noticed that both drank to that without
  one smile. He tried to make a joke of it and lighten the hedvy moment.
  "Don7t tell me you were doing some cloak-and-daggering."
  "Haven't the training, or the stamina. But that's the label Moscow wanted
  to pin an me."
  "Don't you see," Sue said impatiently, "so many of their embassies are
  engaged in active espionage that every now and again they have to polish
  up their public image? So they tarnish ours."
  "Now, Sue," Craig said, "we do have spies floating around. You know
  that."
  "And that makes us just as bad as them? So there are no good ones and bad
  ones, and we are all equally to blame? Oh, Johnl Leave that kind of talk
  to the neutralists who want to justify their evasionsl"
  "Darling," George said quickly, "have some more champagne. We said we
  wouldn't talk about this, remember?"
  "I think we'd better," Sue said determinedly, "or else well leave John
  thinking his sister is filled with prejudices instead of experiences.
  Dear John, I'm still me-just a lot older, a little wiser and much sadder.
  Come on, choose a Louis Fifteenth chair, and listen to George before you
  start judging me." She sat down, tried to relax, act normally. "George
  was arrested four days ago," she said.
  "What?" Craig almost spilled his champagne over the blueAnd-gold rug. He
  sat down, carefully, on a yellow satin sofa, placed his glass safely on
  a smoked-glass table top, lit a cigarette. "Ready and waiting," he said.
  George Farraday chose to pace slowly around the room as he talked. He,
  too, had abandoned his glass for a cigarette. He tried to keep his voice
  light, as if to play down his memories. "Oh, it wasn't much. I was
  released in five hours. And I have to thank Sue for that."
  "Wasn't muchl" That was Sue, indignant. "Why, they hadn't even notified
  the Embassy that they had picked you UP.
           THE Doui3LE IMAGE      27

 "fhat couldn't have been very pleasant," Craig said.
  "No," Farraday admitted. "I kept thinking of Barghoorn, the Yale
  professor who got arrested last November. Not one of us knew about it for
  a couple of weeks. He wasn't guilty of a damned thing, either. Thaes one
  thing you've got to remember, John. When we detain a Russian or satellite
  citizen in the United States, we have an honest case against him. We have
  real evidence. The Russians invent evidence. So that is a big difference
  between them and us. Apart from all that good-ones and bad-ones talk, and
  God knows there are plenty of both groups in every country, there are
  some very big differences indeed between us and them." He looked at his
  brother-in-law, waiting.
 There was no argument in Craig's eyes, simply curiosity.
  "All right," Farraday went on, "then I can tell you what happened." He
  stopped at the mantelpiece to drain his glass and set it back on the
  marble top. "I had been having lunch with one of our visiting newsmen.
  I left him, and got onto a bus to get home. The bus was crowded. I was
  standing halfway down the aisle. A woman who had followed me onto the bus
  was standing beside me. Suddenly she whispered, in English, 'Mail this
  to my daughter in America for me. Pleasel' And she shoved an envelope
  into my hand. Now my arm was down by my side, just like this, and as she
  looked away I opened my hand and let the letter drop on the floor. No one
  noticed that. It was lost under the feet as I pushed toward the door,
  anywhere to get away from that letter. Almost at once, the bus stopped.
  And strange, strange ---a black car was waiting just ahead of it Two men
  got onto the bus, knew me at once, hustled me off. I made a bit of a
  protest. No one moved, no one did anything. The men strong-armed me into
  the car. I was taken to headquarters and charged with receiving secret
  information from one of my 'agents' who had already confessed. They were
  annoyed a littl&--2' George paused to savor his understatement-"when they
  didn't find the envelope in any of my pockets. However, they found it in
  the bus, and then charged I had got rid of the 'evidence' when I saw I
  was about to be arrested. It could have been nasty. I kept demanding to
  get in touch with our Embassy but no one seemed to listen."
 "Could they do that?" Craig was horrified.
  "As long as the Embassy waWt asking about me, they weren't worrying about
  protocol."
 28        HELEN MACINNES

 'Men how----"
  "Sue. Your sister has brains; did you ever appreciate that?" George was
  smiling broadly, now, ready to tell the more pleasant part of his story.
  "She had been wary for the last few weeks, expected something to happen
  to someone at the Embassy-"
  "I was only remembering their usual tit-for-tat diplomacy," Sue broke in,
  disclaiming any sixth sense. "After all, we had recently arrested some
  spies of theirs, and they would be looking for someone to hold as a
  future exchange if he hadn't diplomatic immunity~'
 "But George has that," Craig interrupted.
  "Let me finish, my bright young brotherl Someone as an exchange if he
  hadn't diplomatic immunity, or someone with diplomatic immunity whom they
  could boot out of the country in disgrace. Get it now2"
 "I get it. And were you booted out?"
  Farraday said, "I just scraped through, there: no envelope on me, and the
  Embassy taking a very firm line. If you act fast enough, you can assert
  your rights."
 "Well, congratulations to the Embassy!"
  "The minute Sue told them I must be in trouble, they moved."
  Sue? Craig looked at her in amazement. Old scatterbrained,
  happy-go-lucky, pink-bespectacled Sue?
  "As I said, she had been expecting something. She had talked me into
  promising to telephone her every hour on the hour, no matter where I was.
  And a damned fool I felt keeping that promise. So, when three o'clock
  came that afternoon and no phone call, she got in touch with the Embassy,
  told them where I had lunched and with whom, told them she'd give me
  until four o'clock and if no call came from me by that time, she was
  pressing every panic button in sight. However, they took charge. We
  didn't even make the newspapers, thank God."
  "She certainly deserves a suite at the Meurice," Craig conceded. He rose
  and went over to Sue, and kissed the tip of her nose, "That's for you,
  bright eyes. You can dine out for six months on that story."
  "No, no. I keep my little Ups tightly buttoned, even in Washington.
  There's always some goony bird who'll believe that if George was
  arrested, there must be a real reason and
           T)uE DouBLE ImArE      29
 it's possible he was a spy; dear me, the Russians would never behave that
 way if he were not, now would they?"
  "Let's finish the champagne," George said. "There will be more arriving
  with dinner any minute now."
  "Cue to drop all interest in your story? But as family, George, and I hope
  not as a goony bird"-Craig shook his head over his sister's slang, as
  out-of-date as her lipstick"why did the NKVD choose you? Or is it now the
  MVD? Or KGV? Never could keep those initials straight."
  "Smart to change them," Sue said with one of her old light laughs. "Rouses
  hope way back in our minds that the secret police changes its nature along
  with its name. But security remains security, whether it's KGV or any other
  title. And one thing that's maintained is 'No ideological coexistence.'
  That's why they didn't like George."
  George said briefly, "I just kept trying to persuade them to let a free
  flow of newspapers and magazines come in from the West. We can buy their
  newspapers in Times Square; why not our newspapers on sale in Moscow?"
 "And they won't allow it?"
  George shook his head. "Some of our representatives at that
  cultural-exchange meeting in Moscow, last January, pressed this point. All
  they got was a bang on the table and an angry 'nere is no ideological
  coexistence possiblel' I've had the same treatment twice. Really ends all
  conversation. As one of my British chums said, 'If that's final, what price
  peaceful coexistenceT Which, of course, is the sixty-fourdollar question."
  He fell silent, frowning. Then he forced a pretty good smile. "Where's that
  dinner, blast it? I'm hungry. What did you order, Sue?"
  "What you used to like: oysters, langoustes and some Saneerre nicely
  chilled, tournedos with insertions of pfit6 Strasbourg and a
  Nuits-Saint-Georges, asparagus with drawn butter, followed by a little Brie
  just properly flowing, and brandied cherries straight from the flames."
  "We'll be eating hamburger for the next three weeks." But his warning was
  decorated with a large and happy smile.
  "We're celebrating," she said firmly, and laughed. She got up, and danced
  around the room. "Wonderful, wonderful nightt" The waiter, whose
  well-trained knock had been lost in Sue's improvised singing, recovered his
  well-trained face after the initial shock of entry. Dinner was served.
 30        HELEN MACINNES

  And now there were only the pleasant things to be discussed: the comic
  things that had happened in Moscow, the kindly people, the family at home
  (Father Craig still being sought for advice by the old patients in his
  little town in .Ohio; a country doctor never could retire, it seemed), and
  all the nephews and nieces scattered around the country (three brand new
  since Sue had last seen her four other brothers). Then there were John's
  plans to be talked over. Sue was relieved, tactfully, that her youngest
  brother had at last made up his mind what he wanted to do with his life.
  George was still enough of an old newspaperman to have some practical
  reservations.
  "I suppose," he said, "this book will be read by five hundred people
  instead of five hundred thousand? In a way, that's a pity. You can write,
  John."
  Sue said, "But they will be the most important five hundred."
  "I guess so," George conceded. It had been an excellent dinner. "In fact,
  he'll probably end up in Washington as one of those whiz-bang economic
  historians telling all the rest of us what to do."
  John Craig was amused, shook his head. There were some plans you couldn't
  formulate, not at this early stage of the game. It took a long time to
  build up any reputation, any standing in his world. He thought of Professor
  Sussman. There had been some pretty hideous and violent interruptions in
  Sussman's life, of course, but he was now becoming a "world authority" in
  his field. A heady phrase, world authority . . .
  "A nice racket, anyway. You can choose where you want to travel," George
  said amiably. "Before you start writing a book, you say, 'Now let's see:
  what places do I want to visit?, And then you get hold of a map, and start
  planning your chapters. Back in my young days, there weren't so many
  foundations willing to give traveling fellowships for a tour through the
  Greek Islands. It's the splurge in culture."
  "High time there was an explosion in that, too," Sue said. She was watching
  John. He had always had too many interests, spread his talents too widely,
  but now he was concentrating. She hoped it wasn't too narrowly. She
  remembered the slight family panic, some ten years ago, when a talent scout
  had offered John a test in Hollywood. "And to think you might have become
  one of those television stars with
           Tim DouBLE ImAGE       31

 a long, lean look and a quizzical expression in your quiet gray eyes," she
 murmured. She studied him with approval. "You haven't altered, did I tell
 you? How nice that some people don't change muchl Reassuring, somehow. But
 what are you thinking about, JohnTl It certainly wasn't about college
 dramatics, or weekend skiing parties, or all the girls he hadn't married.
  "Actually, I was thinking of a professor I met today; bumped into him on
  the Boulevard Saint-Germain." He noticed the solemn polite silence settling
  on both their faces, and decided to startle them out of their incipient
  boredom. "He was on his way home to Berkeley from the Frankfurt trials. He
  bad been giving evidence on Auschwitz. A strange mixed-up world, isn't it?
  He is an archaeologist."
  "A cruel mixed-up. world," Sue said softly. "That must have been a
  frightful experience, remembering all those hideous details."
  "I'd like to have met him," George said, definitely interested. "A pity we
  aren't staying longer. What's his namer,
  "Sussman. He's leaving tomorrow anyway. You might meet him on the plane.
  His flight leaves at noon.",
  "Must be hitchhiking, courtesy of army or air force," George decided. "We
  leave by regular flight in the evening. What was his impression of the
  trials? The Germans really do mean businessr,
 "He didn't talk so much about the trials----~',
  "Is archaeology as engrossing as all that?" George asked, astounded. "My
  God, those scholars_J1
  "He had his worries. He was sure he had just seen one of the important
  Nazis walking free on the streets of Paris."
  "Well, that could be. There are several quiet ones who escaped in the
  general collapse."
  "But this one is dead. At least, he has a grave, tombstone and all, in
  Berlin."
  "Dead, and alive? Are you sure Professor Sussman hadn't been under too much
  strain?"
 Craig didn't answer.
  "That can happen, you know. When I got off the plane today I kept looking
  at every face, wondering who was friend or foe. Nerve ends rubbed just a
  little bit too raw. That's all.tt
  Sue said, "Ifyour professor really did see a war criminal, he'd better
  report it. Don't you, think?"
 32        HELEN MACINNES

 "He was going to telephone the Embassy here."
  "Poor old Embassy," George, said. "It gets every traveling citizen's
  troubles."
  "But where else can a citizen go? When we're up against something
  unexpected, what can we do? We don!t know the proper channels."
  George admitted that, with pursed lips and a shrug of his shoulders. "Oh,
  well, anyway, I think he'd have done better to get in touch with
  Frankfurt."
 "He will do that if necessary."
 "He really believes his story?"
 "He's completely convinced."
 44,&nd you?"
  Craig was saved by the ring of a telephone from the emm barrassment of
  openly admitting his doubts. He had believed, and then he had retreated
  from that belief. All those details about being followed, tracked down
  from Frankfurt ... Sussman had only been guessing; how could he have
  known? Yes, it had been the details that had stopped Craig believing. And
  yet, and yet . . . Why else would he have mentioned Sussman at all to
  George and Sue if he didn't deep down, somewhere inside his mind, believe
  part of the story?
  George said from the telephone, "They are on their way. Let's get rid of
  that table, Sue. And where's the coffee? Perhaps we should order brandy,
  too."
  "Scotch," Sue corrected. "They don't sip. They drink. Who's arriving
  first?"
 "Bob and Ed. Val is on their heels, they say."
  Sue, amid the ffurry of waiters and table removal, of coffee tray brought
  in, of orders for extra ice and soda, briefed her brother. Bob Bradley
  was now with NATO; he had been with the State Department, for a short
  time; stationed in Moscow when they first arrived there. Ed Wilshot was
  a newsman, who also had been in Moscow then. Val Sutherland was another
  reporter, who had taken Wilshot's place after he had been asked to leave,
  and was now in transit to another post. Then there would be Tom O'Malley,
  an Australian journalist; and Joe Antonini, who had been one of the
  experts in tracking down all the hidden microphones that had recently
  been discovered in the U.S. Embassy in Moscow.
  It was, thought John Craig, going to be a merry, merry evening for
  everyone except him. He had that stranger-at-thereunion feeling even now
  as Farraday greeted the first ar-
             Tim DouBLE ImAoE       33
 rivals. The Old Boys' Club, most definitely. Sue seemed to know what he was
 thinkin& "You won't be the only one who hasn't been to Moscow," she told him
 gently. 'Trank Rosenfeld is going to drop in. He's a
 businessman-refrigeration -used to be in charge of his firm!s office in
 Saigon when George was a reporter there. Goodness, that's over ten years
 ago, when Viet Nam was still Indochinal Then Rosie was moved to the head
 office in Paris, and George was transferred to the Embassy here, so they got
 together again. He!s not really very bright about the things that
 matter---~'
 "Snob," he told her.
  "I mean, he's inclined to repeat this morning's editorial as his views on
  the world situation. But he's very sweet and helpful. About firiding you an
  apartment, or a hotel at short notice. You know .... 11
  "He sounds as if he needed someone to be nice to him in this setup. Me?" He
  grinned widely, and pushed her off to welcome the rest of her guests. They
  were all here except the businessman. None of them looked as if they needed
  any help at all in feeling right at home. They were introduced to him, gave
  him a warm handshake and an appraising look, friendly enough; made a brief
  attempt at general remarks; and then grouped together talking their heads
  off. Once the questions they were firing at George Farraday were answered,
  or fended off (no mention, CYaig noted, of the arrest), and the general
  talk of Moscow had simmered down, there might be some reasonable
  conversation.
  Craig settled himself near the window, where Sue joined him tactfully. She
  wasn't much needed either, at this moment. She talked and he watched. It
  was interesting, in a way, to place character by voice, manner and face. It
  was dangerous, too, of course: the mildest-mannered man could turn out to
  be a roaring lion; the bellowing bull could be a braying donkey. And what
  do they think I am? he wondered with some amusement. A little frog puffed
  up in his own puddle of scholarship? Someone who was putting his brains and
  energies, such as they were, into tracking down facts that would never make
  tomorrow's headlines? And yet, the past was prologue.
  The last guest arrived, and the tight group around the fireplace broke
  their close formation. He wasn't known to any of them, for George was
  making careful introductions all around. He was a heavy-set, dark-haired
  man in a quiet
 34        HELEN MACINNES

 dark gray suit, slightly formal in manner, almost solemn, although-as
 George made a few jokes-his grave politeness could ease into a beaming
 smile. They were talking as old friends do; no serious discussion about
 world-shaking problems there. The others drifted away, once the phrase ".
 . . sales conferences all week . . ." dropped like a dud bomb into the
 room's sudden silence. "Frankl" Sue called delightedly, and her sweet and
 helpful businessman started toward her with hands outstretched. His grip
 was strong, Craig noticed when his turn came to have his hand pumped. His
 smile divided his face into two camps: below, was a rounded jaw line, a
 full underlip, a chin with a marked cleft; above, was a sharp nose, clever
 brown eyes, a remarkable brow. Hed probably sell a lot of refrigerators,
 Craig decided. But what the hell do I talk to him about? The question was
 answered by Rosenfeld (after a warmly expressed welcome to Paris)
 wandering away toward Bradley and Antonini. Craig repressed a wry smile,
 caught Sue's worried eyes for a second, then looked around the
 blue-and-gold sitting room. There were more interesting prospects,
 tonight, than a slightly strayed scholar.
  She went into action. "III get you another drink, John."
  "No," he said quickly. "I'm all right" But his protest didn7t stop her.
  He knew what would come next, and wished he was a couple of miles away,
  walking along the Boulevard Saint-Gein ain to have that drink at a crummy
  little bar. What was that girl with the blue eyes and smooth dark hair
  doing now?
  Sue was saying, "Don't you men ever get tired standing around talking?
  It really is more comfortable to sit. We have plenty of chairs. George,
  help me." So the wide circle was formed, men sitting down around Craig
  in silence. Now what? he wondered. He thought he might try a question to
  start them off again; they were looking at him with polite expectancy.
  What about something wild like When will Stalin become an okay word
  again? Or, How many agents have the Russians inffltrated into NATO?
  But Sue rushed on, most charmingly. "John was telling us about a very odd
  thing that happened to him today. He met one of his old professors who
  insisted that he had just seen a Nazi walking the streets of Paris. A
  supposedly dead Nazi--one who should have been on trial at Frankfurtl"
                                    1W

           T)RE DouBLE ImAGE      35

  Oh no, thought Craig, not all that story to be told again to all those
  disbelieving facesl
  "Did you get his name?" O'Malley, the tall Australian, asked. He had a thin
  face, a permanently tanned complexion which contrasted with his thick crown
  of white hair. He was the oldest man in this room; the others were in their
  thirties or forties, while he was at least around fifty. His manner was
  sharp, but his eyes were friendly.
 "Berg," Craig said. "Heinrich Berg."
  '"Nhat was his particular specialtyr, Bradley, the representative from
  NATO, wanted to know in his calm quiet way. "Shoveling gassed corpses into
  ovens?"
 "I have no idea."
  "Your friend didn't tell you?" Bradley raised his eyebrows just a little.
  Everything he did would be just a little; he was much too well mannered to
  let emotion distort his handsome face. It wasn't just the neatly tailored
  tweed suit and the casual way it was worn that made Craig think Bradley was
  probably one of those intelligent civilians who had found a useful niche
  for their talents in NATO's vast organizatiom He had a diffident way,
  almost self-effacing, pleasantly modest, combined with the attentive eye of
  the natural diplomat. Even his indiscretions would be calculated.
 "No, he didn't."
  "But he can't go around pointing out someone on the streets of Paris,
  saying, 'Mere's a war criminall' Now, can he?"
 "No," Craig agreed with a smile.
  Sue rushed in. "John, don't be so resistant. We're all interested. This
  professor-what's his name?"
 "Sussman."
  "He was a prisoner in Auschwitz, wasn't he? He had just been testifying at
  Frankfurt. So he could know what he was talking about, couldn't he?" She
  looked around the circle of polite faces.
  "Perhaps. Perhaps not," O'Malley said slowly. "I covered some of the
  opening trials at Frankfurt last year. There were a lot of emotions
  aroused-horror, fear, bitterness, shame. And a lot of wild talk, including
  accusations."
 "And denials," someone said
  "Fewer than you think," 0 ;Malley asserted. "Give them credit for having
  the trials at all. That's more than the East Germans have done. My God,
  when I think of the Nazis
 36        HELEN MACINNES

 they've got as ministers of culture, agriculture, trade and supply. What
 about them, VaIrl
  "You're the expert on the Nazis," Sutherland said agreeably. "You tell
  me.,,
  "Well, they've got Reichelet and Merkel, and---" O'Malley stopped, noticing
  Sue's look of resignation. He turned back to Craig. "Look, Sussman's story
  is worth listening to. Where can I find himr'
  "I don't know that, either. I just met him walking along the boulevard-"
 . "Accidentally?" Bradley asked. "I mean, you aren't an old friend of his?"
 Someone, his voice implied, you really know?
  "Nothing like that. Haven't seen him since I took one of his classes at
  Columbia back in 1959. He's a remarkably sane and sensible man. Today, of
  course, he was upset. He was sure this Heinrich Berg---P He stopped. How
  could he explain Sussman's fears without making him seem ridiculous to a
  batch of strangers who had never known him? "Oh, well," he said, "I gave
  him a drink to cheer him up, and then he left. He's going back to Berkeley
  tomorrow."
  "What does he teachr' This was Rosenfeld's only contribution to the
  conversation. But Craig was thankful for it.
 "Art and archaeology- 99
  That did it. Interest evaporated. Talk began about travel. O'Malley was
  trying to be sent to Rhodes; Sutherland was on his way to Viet Nam.
  (Rosenfeld didn't even bat an eyelash, far less talk about his experiences
  there, Craig noted, and George Farraday simply said, "I bet it isn!t much
  changed since I was in Saigon. Rumor and suspicion and back-parlor plots.
  Just don't listen to too many Buddhists, Val. And make sure they really are
  Buddhists before you listen.") The morose Ed Wilshot poured himself another
  drink and mumbled something about taking three weeks off the chain and
  heading south for some sunshine. Joe Antonini, the hiddenmicrophone expert,
  was tight-lipped about his next assignment and turned that question neatly
  aside by saying to Bradley, "Hey, Bob, let me finish that story I was
  telling YOU. The day before I was leaving Moscow, I was hit by a car.
  Fortunately, I jumped in time. Just a scrape on my leg and a bruise on my
  shoulder. They took me to the hospital, very efficient, very polite, wanted
  to make sure there were no serious injuries. But once I was over the first
  shock, I felt fine. And I started using my head again. So I balked at the
  has-
             THn DouBLE ImAoE       37

 pital door, made my good-byes, and struggled free from their help. It was
 like one of those old Keystone comedies--everyone gesticulating wildly,
 no one listening to anyone else. I ran for twenty yards, then turned and
 yelled, 'See, I'm all rightl I just proved it. Thank you and good-bye."'
 "They slipped up there," Bradley said with a laugh.
  "In more ways than one. If they wanted to inject truth serum into
  someone, and find out how many hidden microphones we had put out of
  commission, then I was the wrong man. I was only a very junior member of
  our team."
  "I thought the number was published," O'Malley said. "Well over a
  hundred, weren't there? Or was that a careful underestimationT'
  Craig was startled by the calm way they were talking about matters that
  would have roused loud headlines only a few years ago. He was still more
  startled when the full meaning of O'Malley's remark hit him. Was Soviet
  interest not so much in the number of microphones discovered in the Em-
  bassy's walls and ceilings, but in the few that had been discovered and
  left in position? Or in any which possibly had not yet been found? The
  difference between the answers to those two important questions would be
  vital for the assessment of any information gathered by the Soviet
  monitors.
  "You look shocked," Bradley murmured. "Or is it difficult to swallow our
  little stories?"
  It wasn't shock so much as surprise over AntoninPs cool detachment. There
  he was now, telling of a light bulb discovered in a lady's bedroom that
  had transmitted everything from a sigh to a rustled nightgown, as if he
  had forgotten the threat of a forced stay in a Moscow hospital.
  "Sue," Bradley went on, "I don't think your brother approves of our
  talk."
  "Your brother," Craig assured her worried face, "hasn't a thought left
  in his head except that of bed, and sleep. It has been a long day." At
  least he had concealed his annoyance. Damn Bradley's eyes, did he think
  historians only studied the soft, sweet side of history? We don't shock
  so easily, he thought as he smiled all around and began shaking hands.
  Bradley said, "Time for me, too. Can I give you a lift? You won't find
  a taxi at this hour."
 "Oh, I'm close by, practically within running distance."
 "Where are you staying?"
 "The Saint-Honor6."
 38        HELEN MACINNES

  "IT get in touch. We could have dinner some evening when I get into town.
  By the way, would you like me to take any steps about Professor Sussman's
  problem? I know some people in Frankfurt."
 "That might do no harm."
 "But not much goodT'
  Craig shrugged - his shoulders. If he were Bradley, hed take the
  necessary steps and risk looking foolish if Berg's body was found in
  Berg's grave. But that was for Bradley to decide.
  "The trials always stir up a lot of ghosts from the past," Bradley said.
  "If I were Sussman, I suppose rd suffer from delusions, too." So Bradley
  had decided. And he ought to know about such things, Craig thought as he
  hid his disappointment and made for the door. Sue and George were there.
  He found himself promising to come to breakfast next morning-they both
  had a very full day ahead of them before they left for New York.
  Breakfast, even with one eye open, was the only hour left for a family
  farewell.
  "And," Sue added to her hug and kiss, "heaven knows when we'll see you
  again. We may be en route to Burma or Greenland by the time you get back
  to New York."
  So breakfast it would be, promptly at nine. And after that, he thought
  more cheerfully, I'll be free; free to do what I want to do, to go where
  I want to go, and all in my own sweet time. Rosenfeld, standing behind
  him to make his own good-bye, was saying that it had been a wonderful
  party, a wonderful evening. A nice, simple-minded soul, Craig decided,
  and possibly a successful businessman, too.
  Out in the cool, quiet street, there was only the sound of his footsteps
  ringing out rather more briskly than he actually felt. His sense of
  depression wouldn't leave him. He blamed it on the wasted evening. What
  else did you call a party where the men he had met would soon forget his
  face, even his name? Sue Farraday's young brother; that would be the
  fading memory, dimly recalled if he ever saw any of them again.
  But he was wrong: in two places far removed from the Meurice, he was
  under serious discussion in Paris that night. One was a studio, high over
  a garage; the other, an unused dressing room behind the stage of a smart
  girl-show.
 33
 The garage was halfway down a most respectable street, part of an old
 building sandwiched between two new apartment houses. Soon the improvers
 would have their way; the old building would be torn down, replaced with
 a square block of unimaginative concrete and rows of mass-produced windows
 for decoration. It would be ten stories high to match its neighbors, and
 the last remnant of Toulouse-Lautrec in this district would be swept out
 with the plinth and plaster. Meanwhile, the garage was a useful place to
 have the car washed, a tire changed, a slow puncture repaired; something
 quiet and noiseless so as not to offend the status-cGnscious incomers.
  Androuet, its owner, was an obliging fellow. He even sold gasoline by the
  can, the usual pumps being out of the question, and reserved some of his
  floor space, stretching far out behind the old building, for a few of his
  best customers. There they could park their cars overnight, or when they
  were away for weekends and didn't need them. There was even room for the
  light pickup truck which belonged to his only customer living in this
  building-the man who had rented the two old studios on the top floor for
  his antique furniture business. He was young, but he paid his rent
  regularly and didn't give any noisy parties to annoy the two old women,
  or the retired butcher and his wife, who rented the flats below him.
  Between them and the garage lay the overcrowded rooms of Androuet and his
  enormous family, and Androuet's only complaint about the top-floor tenant
  was that he had clients who would too often come blundering through the
  garage looking for the wooden stairway that led to the floors above.
  Others knew their way, didn't interrupt his work. And others, again,
  probably out-of-town dealers, stayed
                39
 40        HELEN MACINNES

 overnight. But without dealers and clients, there would be no regular
 rent: Androuet's complaints died away completely on the first day of each
 month.
  He was waiting, now, one of the garage doors half open, for one of his
  customers to park his car. That would be the last tonight; he could close
  up and get to bed, and his oldest boy could take care of the
  early-morning business. It was past midnight, he noted, but he waited
  doggedly for Monsieur Rosenfeld to appear. And if M. Rosenfeld again
  protested that there was no need to have kept the garageopen for him,
  that he could have left his car out in the street for one night, then
  Androuet must have a quick answer ready. He studied that problem as he
  stood at the door and looked down the street toward the well-lighted
  avenue-brakes were good, battery had been recharged last week, tires
  checked only yesterday, so what now? But there was M. Rosenfeld's gray
  Renault, making a left turn into the street. Androuet pushed the door
  wide, still debating his problem.
  M. Rosenfeld wasn't in a talkative mood tonight. He drove the Renault
  into its own small parking place at the back of the garage, leaving the
  entrance clear for any other car in the morning. Not that he needed to
  bother. M. Rosenfeld was usually out first as well as last in. But
  Androuet admired neatness just as he liked earning some extra cash, so
  he was friendly and voluble in spite of his tired face and sore feet.
  "You must be missing the wife and kids, Monsieur Rosenfeld," he said,
  noting the time again on the big wall clock. Seven minutes past twelve,
  exact. "When do you expect them back from America?"
  "In two or three weeks. Sorry I kept you up. Tomorrow, yoifd better leave
  the door unlocked. I can push it aside myself."
  "With all these crooks around nowadays? No, no, Monsieur Rosenfeld."
  Androuet's thin, earnest lips meant what they said. "We can't take
  chances like that. Besides, it was better to bring the car in here
  tonight. I've noticed the 'indicator for the last couple of days. It's
  not working properly. Ill get the boy to look it over in the morning.
  When do you want the car tomorrow?"
  "Eight. Eight-thirty." Rosenfeld halted at the big door. "And you might
  get him to do a complete overhaul on the wiring. Something's wrong with
  the taiWghts. Good night, Androuet."
           THE DouBLE IMArE       41
  Androuet watched him go. It never ceased to cause him a little wonder,
  a little resentment, that an American could speak French just as
  accurately as he did. He forgot all that, however, as he locked the big
  door, then pulled a little book from his cash drawer and entered
  carefully under the date of Thursday, 16th April: Arrived 12W A.M.
  Unaccompanied. He put 'his small record safely back in its locked
  compartment, switched off the one meager light, climbed the wooden stairs
  to his wife and twelve children. She would grumble at being disturbed so
  late, but five hundred new francs were good pay for a little overtime.
  As for the man who had made the bargain with him, two weeks ago-he was
  a detective hired by Madame Rosenfeld, to keep an eye on a lonely hus-
  band. It was an explanation Androuct easily accepted: his vision of life
  was always focused between two sheets of a bed.

  Rosenfeld entered his apartment, switched on the lights in the living
  room. He threw aside his hat and raincoat, and walked slowly over to the
  window. Casually, he closed the long curtains, turned on some music, and
  settled down to wait for ten minutes. Then he entered his bedroom,
  switched on its lights, drew its heavy curtains as he unfastened his tie.
  After that, he moved quickly, turning off lights and music in the living
  room to show anyone who might be watching the windows that he was now
  going to bed. He put on a black raincoat, French in style and fabric,
  slipped his feet into black tight-fitting slippers, and checked his
  pockets for small flashlight and keys. Entering the bedroom again, he
  locked that door securely. From a drawer, he drew out a small tape
  recorder and, as he put it down at the side of his bed, started its play
  back. Gentle sounds of soporific music filled the rose-pink room. He left
  the small bed-table lamp glowing, but switched off the bright ceiling
  lights.
  He paused at the bathroom door. Nice picture of a an reading in bed, he
  hopedL Soon, the music would end, and the sound of a man's deep breathing
  would be played; and then, as the table lamp on its automatic control
  blacked out, the sounds would change to a mixed variety of masculine
  snores. 1he boys who thought up that tape had a nice sense of humor as
  well as of timing. He gave a last glance at Milly's bed: yes, he missed
  her and the kids, all right Tonight, though, he was glad they were safely
  out of this, three thousand miles away. He was suffering from an attack
 42        HELEN MACINNES

 of premonitions, and that was something he had learned to take seriously. In
 his job, you had to develop a kind of builtin radar all your own.
  With his hooded flashlight, and his two master keys ready, he began his
  journey. Quickly he passed through the bathroom, locked its door behind
  him. Quickly along the carpeted corridor, with the chil&en!s empty rooms
  staring blankly after him. Quickly through the small kitchen, out by its
  service door, into the back hall with its stone floor and garbage cans.
  Eight silent paces and he was at the service entrance of another apartment
  He had every right to enter it. It was his.
  He had leased it under another name, for a bachelor who only wanted a very
  small pied-ti-terre in Paris. (The bachelor even made an appearance, now
  and again, whenever it seemed necessary.) The place was basically furnished
  and looked as heartless as that sounded. But even if it had no stretch of
  front windows, or no view of the rear courtyard, its position was good: it
  lay along the side wall of the apartment house, right up against the
  four-story building of Androuet's garage. And the chief asset was its
  bathroom window, standard in size, easily negotiated. It looked out over
  the flat crest of Androuet's roof.
  Rosenfeld locked and bolted the bathroom door, swung open the bathroom
  window, stepped up on the toilet seat, climbed over the window sill, and
  was on the stretch of flat roof. A clutter of tipsy chimney pots, poking
  their ancient heads through the blue slate tiles, protected him from any
  watcher across the street. Eleven quiet paces toward the back of the
  building and he had reached the small attic door that had once let chimney
  sweeps and roof repairers get to work. He had a key for that, too. The
  inside ladder was short, thank God; that always seemed the worst part of
  this little journey. He lowered himself carefully.
  He was now on the top landing of the old house, blocked off from the
  staircase by a very solid door so that this small area had become a private
  hall for the two studio doors. He stood in the darkness, by the ladder's
  bottom rung, and took out his flashlight again. The door that led into the
  front studio had an elegant sign in sixteenth-century cursive, no less,
  YVES DUCLOS, FURNITURE REPAIRS, ANTIQUES BOUGHT AND SOLD, BY "PoINTmENT
  ONLY. But it was to the other studio, at the back of the building, that
  Rosenfeld turned. He
            THE DouBLz WAGE       43

 pressed the button beside the door. There was no sound of ringing.
 Instead, a small flashing light would now be signaling -inside Duclos'
 living quarters. Duclos must have been waiting for it. The door opened at
 once. Rosenfeld stepped inside, glancing at his watch. Four and a half
 minutes, an told, since he had stood in his bedroom. Not bad, he thought,
 for a man in his forties. And five pounds overweight, too, he added, just
 to cut down his vanity.
  Duclos said, "Don't worry about being late. I knew you were at the
  Farraday party." He spoke English fluently, without any trace of French
  accent. He was in his midthirties, of medium height and weight, with the
  dark hair, bright blue eyes and fresh complexion of a true Celt. He had
  brought some Breton touches into this large room, too, with a tier of
  heavy box beds blocking the fireplace completely (he distrusted
  chimneys), faded red linen covering every inch of the giant windows,
  heavy candlesticks on a long table (he also distrusted electric light
  bulbs in places where talk might be serious), a couple of carved wooden
  screens to give some tactful privacy as well as to break up the vast
  floor space. How did it go?"
  "Always good to see them." Rosenfeld was keeping his voice low as he took
  off his coat and threw it on the nearest chair. There were two men
  sitting behind the screen that lay farthest from the window. He could see
  their shapes through the latticework, but the candlelight wasn't strong
  enough to let them be identified. He nodded his head in their direction,
  cocked an eyebrow.
  "Got in from Berlin today," Duclos murmured. "I told you this meeting was
  urgent."
  Rosenfeld thought of Androuet. "When did they get here?" he asked,
  frowning.
  "I picked them up this afternoon near Versailles, where I was buying a
  couple of chairs at an auction. They came here, inside the track. No one
  saw them,"
 "What about Androuetr
 "Is he causing trouble?"
  "No, but he's watching my times of arrival and departure. Someone is
  curious about me. You7ve had no signs?"
  Duclos shook his head. "Androuet didn't see them, anyWay. I drew him out
  of the garage by pretending to notice something interesting on the
  street, and then wandering out to have a look at it. He followed me. like
  a lamb.'
 44        HELEN MACINNES

  "I hope it was a good excuse, something that will stand up in Androuet's
  afterthoughts."
  "It was a very handsome woman. Don't worry. My guests were out of the
  truck and upstairs before he stopped thinking of hips. I even got his
  help to carry the chairs upstairs to the landing."
  It was possibly all right, Rosenfeld thought. Daclos had a lot of panache
  to disguise his essential caution. His chief, Bernard, over at the
  Sfiret6, wouldn't have selected him to work on this special job of
  co-operation with the Americans if he wasn't one of his most careful, as
  well as diplomatic, operatives.
  "Don't worry," Duclos repeated softly. "I'll watch Androuet from now on.
  How did they hook him? Women, or moneyT'
  "I don't know if he is hooked yet. Probably just accepting a hefty bribe,
  and finding reasons to excuse himself."
  "That's always the first step in being hooked," DucIos said, and he was
  right. It was one of the first steps, anyway, Rosenfeld thought, and-his
  warning about Androuet given and taken-he began walking toward the
  screen. Duclos caught his arm gently, and asked again, "How did the
  Farraday party go? I know who was there. Was Antonini questionedr'
  Okay, okay, Rosenfeld thought: he co-operates with me and I co-operate
  with him. That's Bernard's bright idea, and it has been a good one so
  far. "Only in a general chitchat kind of way. He dodged giving any
  serious answers."
 "Did no one show special interest in him?"
 "No approaches that I saw, except normal friendly ones."
  "Yet we had information that a Communist agent was going to be at that
  party tonight."
 Rosenfeld halted completely. "Are you serious?"
 "Never more serious."
 "Any name?"
  "No. But there was a photograph of the man. Our agent was bringing it to
  us yesterday morning. A truck smashed his small car to pieces."
 Rosenfeld glanced over at the screen.
 "Tell me. Quickly."
  "He was following one of their couriers, saw him make a drop in the Bois
  de Boulogne at eight in the morning. He decided to stay around and see
  who would pick up the message. That's generally a long wait. So he took
  a chance, walked past
                                    Iwo

           THE DouBLE ImAoE        45

 the seat where the courier had sat and found an old pencil stub lying on
 the ground."
 "Did he examine it?"
  "Yes, he knew what to do. He pulled out the false lead to check if there
  was the usual roll of microfilm inside. Instead, there was a thin roll
  of paper with very small writing.99
 "What?" Ibis was wrong, this was all wrong.
  "It read: Get invitation for Farraday party tonight. Call us six o'clock
  further instructions. He replaced it, sealed it with the lead, dropped
  it where he had found it. Then he waited almost two hours behind some
  trees, until a man stopped at the seat, picked up the pencil, and
  strolled off. He just had time to photograph the man-one shot caught him
  full face."
  "How tall?" The French agent must have made some contact with the
  S-ftret6 before he was killed, Rosenfeld guessed, or else Duclos wouldn't
  know so much.
  "Height was difficult to estimate accurately. Around average, perhaps a
  little over. He stooped, carried himself badly. Clever? Also, he wore a
  shapeless coat. So his weight and build were impossible to judge at that
  distance."
  "Not six foot three, with white hair, deeply tanned complexion?"
 "Nothing like that. Nothing particularly noticeable."
  That eliminated Tom O'Malley, the Australian, from the Meurice gathering.
  "nen he was an American," Rosenfeld said. He sighed.
  "Our agent got back to his car, and radiophoned us from there. He decided
  to bring in the photograph rather than try to follow the American. Ten
  minutes later, our man was dead."
 "What about the camera?" A brutal question, but needed.
 "Lifted from his pocket before we got to him."
  They knew what they wanted, Rosenfeld thought. They must have seen him
  use it, probably were watching him ever since he picked up the pencil
  stub. Time enough, in those two hours, to sound an alert and be ready to
  act. It was the American they were protecting, not the simple little
  message. Yet it still baffled him, or, rather, the manner of delivery
  puzzled him. The Communists used such pencils, but only for some, really
  important message, microfilmed, lengthy, us~ ual[Y filled with items
  about highly secret matters.
 DuclOs was saying, 'qhe truck was stolen, of course. The
 46       HELEN MACINNES

 driver and his helper vanished after they lifted the camera. 'Mere was a
 terrific uproar, complete traffic jam, shrieking women, crowds of people. If
 we hadn't received the radio report, we might have thought they were only
 two hijackers who panicked after an accident and ran. That is what we were
 supposed to think, I'm sure. And that's how we gave it out to the press."
  Rosenfeld was still thinking about the pencil stub. "It's all wrong-using
  a valuable drop for a simple message like that. They could have telephoned
  him quite safely if that was all they had to say. D'you think-is it
  possible that they had no other way of contacting him that day, no way of
  instructing him to get an invitation to the Farraday party?"
  "Just as we," suggested Duclos, "couldn't reach you before the party began
  to warn you who might be there?"
  "Wednesday was my day off the chain this week," Rosenfeld said lightly. "I
  didn't expect business to pick up so----" He paused.
  "Perhaps it was the American's day off, too?" Duclos asked thoughtfully.
  "We might begin from there."
  Rosenfeld nodded. His lips tightened as he recalled the faces of the men he
  had met less than three hours ago. His eyes narrowed. He felt, as he always
  did when he found an American involved in such work, just a little sick.
 . Duclos probably suffered from French traitors in the same way, for he said
 tactfully, "Perhaps he didn't go to the party. The action today might have
 scared them off. His instructions could have been changed on that six
 o'clock, call, you know."
  That could be. Sue Farraday had mentioned three guests who had to beg off
  at the last minute. Poor Sue ... she had been happy about reaching Paris,
  getting away from mystery and threat. And a man had died because of her
  little party, and what more would come of it? Rosenfeld decided he had
  better find out the names of the three missing guests. His feeling of
  sickness increased.
  A cheerful voice said, "Haven't you chaps finished your local- gossip?
  Hello, Rosiel Come in and join our little s& ance. We need help with an
  obstreperous ghost." The Englishman had risen and was standing at one side
  of the screen. He laughed with real pleasure as he saw the astonishment on
  Rosenfeld's face. "Rosie!" he said again, coming forward with his light
  step, his hand outstretched.
           THE DouBLE ImAGE       47
 "Chris Hollandl"
 "Mee years, isn't it? Well, well
 "Two and a half."
  "You've been taking it easy, I see. Putting on a little weight?"
  "I can still buckle the same belt around my waist," Rosie protested. "With
  a struggle."As they shook hands, and kept shaking hands (Duclos was much
  impressed by this AngloAmerican display of real affection), Rosenfeld was
  studying Holland's face.. He was thinner, with a little more gray sprinkled
  through his neatly cut well-brushed hair. His skin, over the even, pleasant
  but unremarkable features, was now less tanned. Some lines had been added,
  too, around the grayish-brown eyes. But he still had that same amused look
  in theM that same quiet smile. "And how are the savage and licentious
  soldiery? Made you a colonel, yetT'
 "Half-colonel," Holland murmured.
  Not bad, not bad at all, thought Rosenfeld: British Intelligence didn't
  hand out promotions like petits fours with the ice cream. It must be some
  really big piece of news that had brought Holland to Paris, something that
  concerned the Americans and French as well as the British. And his feeling
  of urgency was increased as the other visitor from Berlin stepped forward
  and Holland introduced him, "Here is Partridge. We've been doing a little
  work together recently." Michael James Partridge, American, thirty-seven;
  Korea; then counterintelligence training at Fort Holabird in Maryland;
  became a civilian, moved to Berlin; past five years there spent in putting
  his education at the Army Intelligence School to very practical use. A good
  man, on his way up.
  "I've heard of you," Rosenfeld said as he shook hands with the American. He
  looked at the light sandy hair, the gray eyes behind the thin-framed
  glasses, the lean face with its high brow, the shy smile, the casual
  clothes that increased the college-teacher look. So here, thought
  Rosenfeld, is my replacement. Once I get him squared away, show him the
  files, explain matters pending, instruct him in the local difficulties,
  this man will take over here when I go back to Washington. He smiled
  amiably. "Planning to stay long?" he asked casually.
  "That depends." Partridge was equally casual. "Chris is going back to
  Berlin in a few days. We thought it better if we met you here, very
  quietly. After that Venetian affair---~'
 48       HELEN MACINNES
 He didn't end the sentence, just smiled pleasantly and led the way back
 to the four chairs grouped behind the screen around a small table.
  Duclos looked enquiringly at Rosenfeld, who explained, "The last time
  Chris and I met was in Venice."
  "September, 1961," Chris said smoothly. "That was a nice little job of
  co-operation."
  Duclos caught on. "Ah-the plot to assassinate de Gaulle which you
  uncovered2" He relaxed and asked no more questions.
  "And so," continued Chris, "Rosie and I must not even seem tomeet again.
  We might alarm some more conspirators, and we don't want to warn them,
  do we? Really, by this time'~--he was looking at Rosie, now-"I thought
  the cold war might actually have, melted." He sighed. "They never give
  up, do they?"
 "Some always keep trying. What is it now?"
  "We have quite a story to tell you. Take place, as we say in Berlin." So
  they all sat down around the table. "This is highly classified
  information, old boy. Jim, have you got that damned gadget working?"
  "It's working," Partridge said. Acquaintances making an effort to seem
  close to him would call him "Mike." His real friends knew better. Now,
  he pointed to the small box that lay beside his ash tray. "Present for
  you," he told Rosie. "Just something our engineers were fooling around
  with. It scrambles the sound waves within a twenty-foot radius."
  "That's going to ease a lot of headaches. Sure it works? Okay, okay ...
  And thanks." Rosenfeld was relaxing visibly. But he was still trying to
  guess what news from Berlin was so important that Holland had decided to
  bring it himself. "Don't you trust even a coded message any more?" he
  asked jokingly.
  Chris Holland threw him a sharp look. Partridge's eyebrows went up for
  a split second. "Not at the moment," Chris said very evenly. "Because it
  happens to be a very special code that starts my story. A Russian code,
  only used since last November. A real puzzler." He smiled happily.
  "Fortunately, we had a warning about its importance along with
  information about its peculiar difficulties."
  So, thought Rosie as he translated from Holland's understatement into
  more exact language, the British have a Soviet code clerk working for
  them, a defector in place. He knew
            T)n DouBLE ImArm      49
 better than to ask Holland the where or the how of the situation, far less
 the defector's name. But as he nodded approvingly and murmured
 "Congratulations," his mind went into high speed. A code as difficult and
 special as this one must have been would be used for high-priority
 messages
 'from Moscow Central. And if it had come to Holland's attention, then the
 messages were being sent to Berlin; that was obvious. Possibly to the
 Soviet intelligence establishment there, the highly secret Rezidentura,
 with a senior intelligence agent in charge. "Sounds very high-level,
 indeed," Rosie said. But how, he wondered, did a Soviet code clerk manage
 to hear about such a special code? The master spy in charge of the
 Rezidentura. would have memorized it, received all its messages himself.
 Unless, of course, the code had been so difficult that he had used the
 code clerk to help him break out the message-a violation of security
 regulations, certainly, but that had happened before.
  Holland had been watching Rosie. The slight frown combined with the
  inflection in Rosie's voice when he had used the words "high level" were
  enough for Holland's own quick mind. "Our information was reliable," he
  said quietly. "So we found out."
  "You managed to catch some of those coded messages coming into Berlin?
  That was a hell of a job. The directors of spy networks get three or four
  every week, don't they?"
  "It was quite a job of work," Holland conceded. He glanced at Partridge.
  "We had some excellent co-operation, too. But even if it was difficult,
  it's still easier than catching the master spy with his little receiver.
  I wish, just once, that I could walk right in at the moment he was
  listening to MosCOW.99
  Rosenfeld and Duclos both nodded. The director of a network, always a
  Russian, had several receiving sets in different parts of the foreign
  city in which he worked; he would even use a car for mobility, so that
  he couldn't be tracked down to one spot. And, because he had entered that
  foreign country illegally---on a false passport and with a carefully
  invented personal history-and then used various names and identities once
  he had established himself, he was difficult to uncover. Especially when
  none of the groups he organized ever knew who he was. To them, he was
  only one of his code names. Not even the leaders of those groups knew
  him, far less the exemplary citizens they had recruited as "sources" of
  infor-
   50        HELEN MACINNES

 mation. He, and possibly the two other Russians who were his assistants
 (they had come into the country legally, as diplomats or trade
 representatives or newsmen for a Russian paper), knew the extent of the
 network that spread out from him. He alone knew all its members. And just as
 none knew him, so also none understood the real purpose of all the small
 bits and pieces of information they were instructed to collect, of the small
 actions they were called upon to perforra. 1heirs, but to do, and protest
 their innocence when arrested. Or catch the public's tender emotions with a
 plea of blackmail or duress. It was, thought Rosenfeld, a sad, sad world.
  Holland was saying, "At the very beginning of January, we noticed that this
  special code was being used in a strange way. It would appear, for one
  sentence, right in the middle of a message being sent in a quite different
  code."
  "And these messages," Partridge explained quickly, "were on the steady
  three-a-week basis beamed at Berlin. They varied, naturally. But that one
  sentence, in its own special code, remained constant."
  "A general directive to all areas of Berlinr' Duclos asked, frowning.
  'Ve found it was going out to certain other areas in West Germany, too. So
  we checked quietly with our friends, and we pooled all our discoveries.
  But--2' Partridge looked at Holland, becoming conscious of his
  silenc&---~'that's your story. Sorry," he finished lamely. And don't let
  your excitement carry you away again, he told himself; you keep quiet,
  juniorl
  Holland resumed. "The sentence was very simple. It repeated the same
  warning and the same question, three times a week for three weeks running."
  "It said?" Rosenfeld, about to light his cigarette, paused. This had to be
  really important.
 "UTMOST CAUTION: IS THERE ANY TALK OF HEINRICH BERG?"
  Rosenfeld took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth, staring at Holland.
  Holland said quickly, "Oh no, Rosie, nol Blast you, manl Here I make this
  bloody journey to Paris, and you know all about Heinrich Berg." He threw up
  his hands, exchanged a wry smile with Partridge. Duclos, was puzzled but
  gloomy; if Rosie knows, he was thinking, then he hasn't been co-operat-
             THia Douimp, ImArm     51

 ing fully with us. And I liked him, I really liked and trusted him. He
 looked reprovingly at Rosie.
  Rosenfeld said quietly, "I don't. I only heard his name mentioned tonight
  at the Meurice party."
  "By whom?" Duclos wanted to know. He was relieved, though.
  "By a young American, John Craig. He didn't say much. And perhaps that
  was just as well. He's intelligent, I think---.?' Rosenfeld was frowning.
  He put the cigarette back between his lips and lit it. He decided to
  wait. "Go ahead, Chris. You have the real story. All I have is a small
  piece of conversation. It can be added later, as an interesting
  footnote."
  Holland nodded, said briskly, "We all went to work to find out who
  Henrich Berg was. You can imagine the files we examined, the search
  through old Nazi documents and newspapers, correspondence, everything.
  We put a silent team to work." A smile showed in his eyes, touched his
  lips briefly. "We, too, were using the utmost caution. There was no need
  to tip our hand and show we were intensely interested in Heinrich Berg.
  We found out, in short, that he had joined the Nazi party in 1934 after
  graduating from Munich University. He was a bright lad, took an advanced
  degree in psychology. He got into the brain-power group of the Nazis, and
  was attached in a seemingly minor capacity to the German Embassy in
  Moscow for four years. In 1941, he was back in Berlin, working
  unobtrusively under Himmler. Then he invented a special job for himself,
  in 1944, got Himmler's full approvaL and-as a remarkably self-effacing
  officer in the Security Police-he made inspection tours of the concentra-
  tion camps where political prisoners might be found and he would make a
  list of names of those whom he considered dangerous to the future of the
  Reich. That is, men who could be future leaders of anti-Nazi movements
  or regimes."
  "1944. . ." Rosenfeld said thoughtfully. "He was foreseeing a possible
  Nazi defeat, then?"
  "Now, Rosie," Holland said with amusement, "you're jumping ahead of me
  and stealing some of Jim's thunder. He did a great deal of work on this.
  All I'm stating is that Heinrich Berg was removing all possible future
  opposition. The men he selected were sent to an extermination camp. But
  some, strangely enough, never arrived there at all. They seemingly
  managed to escape, and their escape was always expertly concealed,
  usually listed as 'dead in transit.' That
 52      HELEN MACINI-TES
 is where Jim discovered something very interesting. But"he looked at the
 younger man with a grin--"that's your story, isn't itT'
  Partridge said, "The men who escaped tamed out to be very much alive. After
  the war was over, they appeared in their own countries-mostly Eastern
  European-where they helped establish Communist governments. Tbat was what
  they were, Communi ts. And that was what Berg was really doing in 1944-45:
  getting rid of the democrats, keeping alive the Communist. Clever fellowT'
 "A double agent," Rosenfeld said slowly.
  "No. A Communist agent who had thoroughly infiltrated the Nazis. Another
  Richard Sorge, in fact. I began to get a glimmer of something like that
  when I puzzled over the lists of the politicals he had marked for
  extermination. So we began to dig deeply into his early life. We unearthed
  some !ecrets. He had become a member of the Communist party in 1931,
  recruited at Munich University. Spent three summers abroad, ostensibly to
  study psychology in Viennabut I think he learned more Pavlov than Freud. He
  made at least two side trips into Russian--one to Moscow, one to Minsk.
  Ready to infiltrate by 1934, anyway."
  Holland laughed softly. "A clever fellow, that's definite at least. He was
  registered as dead, April, 1945, and buried in Berlin. So we had a special
  squad dig up his grave one night and smuggle his coTm out where the experts
  could examine the remains of Heinrich Berg. The bone structure made the
  corpse some three inches taller than ever Berg had been. Also, Berg had a
  couple of molars missing-so his dentist's records said. The corpse had a
  full set, top and bottom. Careless? No. I'd imagine that in the holocaust
  raging around him when he was selecting a corpse for his coffin, he hadn't
  time to examine its teeth or measure it from tip of heel to crown of head.
  The remnants of an S.D. uniform, correct rank, had been thrown around the
  body. He was in a bit of a harry."
  "So where do you think he is nowr Rosenfeld asked too innocently.
  Holland studied him. Partridge, who didn't know him so well, plunged right
  ahead. "Well, with that record, it was pretty obvious be slipped into the
  Russian lines and headed east But we have uncovered surer proof than that.
  He had a wife and two children. They stayed behind, in the French
           THE DOUBLE ImAaE       53

 zone-she got -a job as a cleaning woman in a canteen. Then about three
 years later, in 1948, she suddenly packed up and left with the children.
 The French didn't quite like the way her departure was so secret, so well
 arranged. Cie i g women don!t have that kind of influence. So they opened
 a file on her. It didn't collect much. Just one postcard to her mother
 from Minsk, saying she would write when her new address was settled, and
 then nothing for several years until one letter slipped through to the
 West, asking for warm clothing. The letter came from Yakutsk, in Siberia,
 and she asked that no German name be used, but gave a new one: Insarov."
 "She said nothing about her husband?"
  "Nothing. But we did find out that in 1956, among various people
  returning to Moscow from different parts of Siberia, there was an Igor
  Insarov, who was once more very much in favor. He has become important,
  no doubt of that. He is back with Intelligence again. Security, we think.
  We hear he heads a special unit on psychological control. That fits, all
  right. Insarov could be Berg."
  "You got all that information in three and a balf months? See what
  co-operation can do?" Rosenfeld smiled for Duclos.
  "Three and a half months were one hundred and six days and one hundred
  and six nights," Partridge said wearily. "We knew we were working against
  time."
  "Because," Holland explained, "in February, that special code was used
  in the same way, again. But this time the message was longer. IF FILES
  CONTAINING ANY IMPORTANT REFERENCE TO HEINRICH BERG STILL FMST, REMOVE
  PERTINENT DATA AND DESTROY. REPORT ON FINDINGS AND ACTION TAKEN, BY
  REGULAR CHANNELS. Fortunately, we were in a position to make very quick
  copies of those references, and replace them in time. We didn't even
  arrest the agents who were suddenly, interested in those files. Some of
  them had been totally unsuspected, but now-although they don't know
  it-they are helping us. That's quite a nice little bonus."
  "So Berg was trying to blot out his identity?" Rosenfeld asked. In that
  case he could very well risk coming to Paris.
  "Someone was. And why? I think the answer is in a report we had from one
  of our best sources in Moscow. At the beginning of this month, Igor
  Insarov left Moscow for Prague under the name of a Russian doctor. From
  Prague, we
 54       HELEN MAcINNEs
 learned that a Soviet medical official had arrived and left the same day for
 ZUrich, traveling now as an Austrian businessman. And from ZUrich-well, we
 are still evaluating some of the reports that have come from there. One was
 much too definite, too quick. It came from a man we suspect is the kind of
 double agent who plays both sides for cash. He reported that the Austrian
 businessman had left for Rome. But we heard, two days ago, from one of our
 own men who has infiltrated a Soviet spy network in the Zflrich area and
 works in its passport bureau. He says that the passport for an Austrian
 businessman had been turned in, and replaced by all the necessary papers for
 entry and residence in France." He smiled at Duclos. "Youll have your work
 cut out, I think."
  "Very difficult," Duclos agreed worriedly. "If he has taken over the name
  and history and papers of a real French citizen-possibly of Alsatian
  origin, to account for any slight accent-then that is hard to trace. And if
  the French citizen has disappeared or died a long time ago, behind the Iron
  Curtain? Almost impossible to trace." He paused. "You really believe that
  Insarov is in France?"
  "Frankly, we don't know. We only think he might be. We are checking in
  Rome, too. But one thing is certain. He is on the loose. And he wouldn't
  have come out so secretly if he wasn't up to something very big."
 "What?"
 "Ibat's what all of us had better find out."
  "And you really believe," Duclos insisted in his practical way, "that Berg
  and Insarov are the same man?"
  "Again, we don't know. We only deduce from the facts we found that he could
  very well be."
 "Did Berg's wife follow him to Moscow from Yakutsk?"
  "No. She has vanished, and the two daughters as well. Insarov-as far as
  anyone knows-is unmarried."
 "What about photographsT'
  "None of Insarov. He is a most self-effacing and careful man. Perhaps his
  exile in Siberia taught him to be that. Of Heinrich Berg, we have two
  photographs: one when he attended a NUrnberg rally with Hitler, Goebbels
  and Himmler-but that black Security Police cap made Himmler's boys all look
  the same grim-faced type; the other was taken when he joined the Nazi party
  in 1934."
  Rosenfeld waited. The silence continued. "Finished?" he asked Holland and
  Partridge. They nodded. "Then here is
           Tim Doui3LE ImAaE      55

 my footnote to your obstreperous ghost" And now it was making some real
 sense, Rosenfeld thought. "Heinrich Berg was seen yesterday in Paris. He
 was identified by a Professor Sussman, who had been a prisoner in
 Auschwitz. Sussman could have made a mistake, of course, but I'll check.
 I'll do that through John Craig. I think I can arrange to meet him
 tactfully. Ill start finding out what Sussman is doing here. If he is a
 French citizen, Ill get Yves to help me. You two" -he looked at Holland
 and Partridge, who were still staring at him in amazement-"can concentrate
 on Insarov. We'll concentrate on Berg."
  "Fair enough," Holland agreed. "And well keep in close touch. Usual
  channels. Ill be leaving in a couple of days. Too bad we can't have a
  nice, relaxed dinner together."
  "Mat's what comes from being a notorious character. You shouldn't have
  arrested a Communist agent right in the middle of the Piazza San Marco."
  Rosenfeld turned to Partridge. "YouIl be around for some time?" I bet you
  will, he thought.-
  "Hes unsullied, simon-pure," Holland said with a bright smile. "He has
  been just as self-effacing as Colonel Insarov."
  'Then let's keep him that way. Don't contact me at my office." And then,
  as Partridge looked surprised-no doubt he had already worked out a nice
  role as a visiting sales an -Rosenfeld added, "Just a small premonition.
  Let's play this very carefully. Which reminds me-~'
  "Don't worry," Yves Duclos, said, "III get them safely into the van by
  five-thirty, before young Androuet comes down into the garage at six and
  opens the doors."
  Rosenfeld glanced at his watch, and got to his feet. "You have four hours
  for sleep. I'd better climb home. I've just invited myself to breakfast
  at the Meurice. I have to see the Farradays anyway." And now he looked
  grim and tired. "We think we may have an American on our hands who is de-
  voted to Russian ideals," he said very quietly.
  Holland looked at him with real sympathy. "Any clue?" SO that was the
  reason that Rosie's usual jokes had been missing tonight.
  Rosenfeld shook his head. "Well, good luck with every~-thing.
  Christopher Holland shook hands warmly. "Here's to our next meeting,
  Rosie.11 And let's hope it is one of those happy Post-mortems, with all
  friends intact.
 56       HF.LEN MAONNEs

  Perhaps Rosie had the same thoughts. He nodded, turned away without
  speaking. To Partridge, he said as he buttoned up his black raincoat,
  "Ill phone you tomorrow at noon. Where?"
  Partridge gave him a number. He was certainly efficient, well prepared.
  "Thanks, Jim," Rosenfeld said, and won a startled smile. Could he have
  been scared of me? Rosenfeld wondered in amazement. He looked almost
  natural, there. Scared of me? My God, I must be getting old.
  Yves came out into the hall with him, turned on the light as he climbed
  toward the door in the roof. He paused as he unlocked it, signaled for
  the light to switch off before he opened the little panel of solid wood
  and stepped out on the roof. Now for all that locking, unlocking. Some
  months ago, when he had organized this route of arrival and departure,
  he had been inclined to laugh at his overcaution. Tonight, he blessed it.
  He blessed the soft clouds, too, that had covered the sky again with
  broken patterns of silvered Buff, casting vague shadows over the
  rooftops. The street was asleep, its windows shaded and quiet, strange
  contrast with the glow from the far-off boulevards, with the sound of
  traffic from the avenue.
  It had all been a very cosy setup, a neat arrangement, he thought as he
  reached his own bedroom. Too bad he would have to stop visiting the
  studio for a while. He cursed Androuet's quick eye for a fast franc; and
  then laughed softly. Perhaps he ought to be thanking Androuet and his
  garage; they had supplied the first small warning signal. And for that,
  he was always grateful.
 44

 The smart girl-show had opened two months ago near the Rue dAmsterdam. It
 was part of the new wave in small night clubs, rolling west and away from
 the clich6s of Montmartre toward the unlikely surroundings of the Gare
 Saint-Lazare. Here, on a narrow, workaday street climbing the cobblestoned
 hill above the busy station, the club had taken over a cheap bar along
 with a neighboring cheese-and-sausage shop, converted them into one
 building, and used their rabbit-warren back premises for dressing rooms
 and offices.
  Its patrons were a mixture of the restless rich and the pseudo
  avant-garde. It captured their trade with a roon36 subdued in d6cor and
  lighting, where the dance floor was twelve feet square and the music was
  both insistent and sour. Scotch was the correct drink at the crowded
  tables. Conversation was in French, Italian and English, with many ref-
  erenCes to the past season at Arosa, or the imminent trek to Sardinia and
  Elba (Saint-Moritz and Ischia were now definitely out), or the film.
  festival (Venice was out, too), or the New York galleries, or the
  Dalmation beaches. And occasionally, with correct unconcern, eyes would
  turn to watch the small stage, backed by black velvet, where the amusing
  revival of a real girl-show was now in progress. The girls were pale pink
  and white, no sun tan allowed, buttocks and bosoms thinned out into a
  streamimned contour so that the addition of surrealist items on the long
  lank bodies would have richest effect. Abruptly, unexpectedly, there
  would be a highly inventive interruption to their fertility-cult vibra-
  tions and rhythmical spasms: a moment of intellectual excitement combined
  with mental shock; an occurrence with content; a serious comment on the
  absurdity of life. It was to this 57
 58        HELEN MACINNES

 interruption-moment-occurrence-comment that the club owed its newest name:
 Le Happening.
  In the small entrance lobby, near the coatroom, a young woman was waiting
  for an escort who was ungallant enough to be late. (By arrangement. The
  number of late minutes was part of the recognition signal.) She was
  expensively dressed in simple black, a small green satin bag clutched in
  whitegloved hand, no jewels except for earrings. And they were very much in
  the atmosphere of the club. The right ear wore a ruby, the left ear an
  emerald, both encircled with pearls. Her face, pretty and cool, was deeply
  tanned; her eye shadow was green, her lips the palest pink. She slid her
  small watch back into the handbag. It was almost time: fifteen minutes
  after midnight. Quickly, she looked at the an who had just entered.
  Raincoat belted but not buttoned, thick-framed glasses, newspaper under one
  arm, new pigskin gloves, and a book with a red-and-white jacket. Yes, this
  must be he. Thank heavens he was presentable. He was eyeing her, too,
  looking at the red and green earrings, at her green bag and long white
  gloves.
  "Sorry I'm late," he said, glancing at his watch. "Four minutes."
 "Seven minutes, darling."
  They both relaxed, smiling. "Then I'm very sorry." He jammed book and
  gloves into his coat pocket and handed it over, his face averted, to the
  elderly woman who looked after the coatroom. The folded newspaper, its
  Greek type clearly shown in the part of headline visible, was replaced
  under his left arm. "'Me train was late," he said. He was so sure that this
  was Erica that he had started leading her toward the curtained door even as
  she murmured correctly, "Next time, you must take a plane." Foolish but
  necessary, he supposed, like his car parked on the Rue Li6ge, where he had
  waited a full ten minutes for this entrance.
  A table had been reserved for them near the door, but tucked protectingly
  against a wall. A "happening" was in progress, all eyes intent on the
  stage. Their entry, expertly guided by one of the owners of the place, who
  had glanced at the newspaper and the bright little green bag, then welcomed
  them with a nod, was unnoticed. They sat down in the semidarkness with some
  feeling of safety. Even when the. muted blue illumination colored the room
  again, it was dirk enough to keep their table nicely shadowed. Drinks came
           THE DouBLE ImAoE       59
 quietly. They didn't need to make a pretense of animated conversation. For
 no one seemed to be paying them the slightest attention. They looked, this
 well-dressed man and this elegant young woman, like many of the other
 couples who were watching the silvered square of dance floor with tolerant
 amusement.
  So this was Alex, she thought, as he fit her cigarette. And can he be
  nervous, when he talks so little? Or is he trying to gauge me? After all,
  it is the first time we have made contact. But it won't be the last, so
  lets hope he loses some of this stiff manner. Would he have preferred to
  work with a man? Instinctively, she opened her bag, drew out her mirror,
  pretended to add some lipstick to her perfectly colored Ups. She was
  reassured by what she saw. In the soft light, her face seemed luminous, as
  pretty as she remembered it: pale gold hair was perfect, slightly
  negligent, yet carefully in place; triangle of green shadow on each eyelid
  made the eyes look truly green. He was studying her profile. Now that was
  much better. She hoped heliked tiptilted noses and long lashes. One might
  as well enjoy one's work.
  But, when he spoke, his voice was businesslike. His elbow was on the table,
  his chin resting in his cupped hand so that his lips were shielded. "Keep
  your bag open," he told her. "I have to leave soon."
  "What a pity," she said. And I'm just a necessary nuisance, she thought
  angrily. She smiled brightly.
  "That's better," he told her, glancing at his watch. "You were much too
  solemn."
  She had to laugh. Alex was only anxious about his own private timetable.
  Where did he live? What did he do for a living? She would never know. He
  was an American, that was all she could guess; his French was fluent
  enough, but the accent was unmistakable. He knew how to dress, have his
  hair cut, hold himself. He was good-looking but in an inconspicuous way.
  For that, she was grateful. If one had to make a public appearance, perhaps
  run into friends, there would be no need to explain her companion. He would
  fit in perfectly. Even his age-the late thirties-was right; he would have
  money to spend. "When?" she asked, as the lights dimmed for another
  girl-show and the dancers started pushing their way through the tables to
  their own chairs. "Now?"
 He nodded, relieved that he did not have to prompt her.
 60        HELEN MACINNES
 He dropped his arm, straightened his sleeve, pulled his cuff into place.
 "Now."
  Her lipstick fell from her fingers. He bent to pick it up, left it lying
  under the black shadow of the table, brought up his closed fist as if he
  held it safely retrieved. She showed only a fleeting astonishment as her
  hand felt the strange shape of the cuff link he had pressed into it.
  Quietly, she dropped it into the small zipper compartment in her bag,
  replaced her mirror, snapped everything secure. So, she thought, he had
  come prepared to meet Bruno, he was annoyed that he hadn't a lipstick to
  replace mine; idiot, did he imagine that I'd exclaim and open my hand and
  have a look at his cuff link? Does he think that a woman has to be plain,
  dowdy and intense before she can have brains? He was one of those very
  security-minded people, who liked things to go as planned. He would be
  frowning now, instead of smiling with relief, if he could know her guesses:
  he had got a message this evening, probably around six, when she had been
  given her emergency instructions, telling him to cancel Bruno and sub-
  stitute her. She almost said, "Don't worry about how I get home. Someone is
  waiting for me in a car nearby. I'll see he gets your cuff link." But she
  resisted the impulse. She would only set him on edge again, at all this
  extra caution which spelled danger. Sources of information never liked the
  feeling of danger; couriers, like herself, were accustomed to it. She, for
  one, enjoyed it.
  "Like to leave?" she asked, her hand lying lightly over her green bag. From
  now until she delivered the cuff link, that bag was part of her body. "I'll
  go first. That looks better. Shall I make my exit directly, or head for the
  ladies' room?"
  "Directly." He wanted her out of this place before his visit backstage.
  That was another operation altogether, and it was its combination with this
  meeting with Erica that really had annoyed him. Much too dangerous, he
  felt, even if some crisis had caused it. But instructions were
  instructions, and you did not make a protest over a telephone.
  "Then," she said with a pretty pout, "we are having a small quarrel. And I
  take my leave with a woman's last word." She tucked the bag under her arm,
  holding it securely with her hand. At least, he thought, she intends to
  keep it safe, but what if someone in French Counterintelligence arrested
  her on her way to deliver the gold cuff link? What if her purse was
  searched? Such an unlikely object would be at once
            T*m DouBLE ImAGE      61

 examined; it wouldn't take long for trained men to find the way the heavy
 design lifted off, like a cap, and exposed the small flat square of
 microfilm Blown up, it would make four fail pages of concise information. He
 had found out all the answers to the questions in last week's pencil stub-a
 dangerous, worrying job. And now a woman, still in her twenties, enjoying
 every minute of her little play-acting, was holding his possible death
 warrant in her green satin purse. She was rising, saying clearly, 'Thank you
 for a miserable evenin& And don't call me tomorrow. Or the next day,
 either." She walked out as the lights dimmed completely, and all eyes turned
 to watch the stage.
  He gave her five minutes to get her wrap and leave. Even N no one had been
  listening at all, she still would have played her exit lines perfectly. She
  was as exhibitionist as the girlshow. It wasn't difficult for him to look
  depressed as he paid and left the room the folded newspaper in his hand. He
  had his handkerchief out as he entered the lobby, up at his face as if he
  were battling an attack of sneezing.
  He collected his coat, for he wouldn't leave by the front entrance, and, as
  a seeming afterthought, made his way to the men's lavatory. With the show
  in progress, there was no one standing around the narrow corridors, and it
  was a Simple matter to leave one and enter another that led behind the
  stage. A couple of men, watching the girls from the wings, Paid him no
  attention-special friends dropped in to the dressing rooms frequently. A
  man fussed over lights, an elder1Y dresser argued quietly with the make-up
  artist, who practiced his technique too obviously on himself. He disliked
  this place the more he visited it; what had seemed intefflgently amusing at
  first did not stand up to repetition, and was now Preciously erotic and
  pretentiously boring. The nonsense world, he reflected, the supply and
  demand of decadence. It was comic, though, that the secret backers of this
  night club should find it so easy to stimulate the neurotic among their
  enemies and make them still more incompetent to deal with the real world.
  The last corridor reached along the back of the night club. It contained
  four unused dressing rooms, two doors marked "Supplies, electrical," and
  the back entrance from the old delivery Yard. It was poorly lit, its walls
  were peeling and cracked in the best Italian movie style, and it smelled
  faintly of cheese and sausage. A fair-haired young man in worn
 62        HELEN MACINNES

 overalls and soiled undershirt was sitting on a crate near the entrance. He
 rose as he saw Alex, came toward him, his eyes checking the folded Greek
 newspaper, and knocked five times in rapid succession on a dressing-room
 door. It opened. A man's voice said quietly, "Come inl" It wasn't the voice
 that Alex had been expecting. Yet it held a familiar note as "Come inl" was
 repeated. Makarov---could it be Makarov?
  And it was Konstantin Makarov who was sitting behind the door, keeping out
  of sight from the corridor. He closed the door swiftly, pointed to the
  chair that faced the looking glass on one wall, took the remaining chair
  (it was in the comer of the small empty room~ beyond the stretch of light
  from the bulb that hung high over Alex's head), and lit another long
  cigarette. There were two stubs at his feet Other stubs lay in the dust
  near Alex's feet. Whoever had been sitting here had retreated to the next
  dressing room through the connecting door that lay between Makarov's chair
  and the mirror.
  Makarov glanced at his watch. "Well timed. Congratulations. You have been
  doing well in everything."
  This was Makarov's old manner-cool, but pleasant, and completely
  professional. There was no reference to the fact that he had not seen Alex
  since he had recruited him in Moscow. Was he now stationed in Paris,
  perhaps as assistant to the director of the network which controlled Alex?
  The director, himself, might very well be the man watching this room from
  next door. The mirror was certainly a oneway arrangement, letting Alex be
  seen as clearly as through a window, while he stared blankly at its chipped
  frame and then let his eyes wander back to Makarov. He had no objection to
  being watched and studied. A director must have a defmite curiosity about
  those who worked for him. He would be a Russian, of course, and, like
  Makarov, a highly trained intelligence agent. This meeting, thought Alex
  with rising excitement and pleasure, must be important if Makarov and his
  superior are taking a personal interest in it. But I can't even show that
  I'm honored he trusts me this much. He is merely the man I met in Moscow at
  many literary parties, under a name which was probably just 6 invented as
  the names he used in Washington and at the United Nations. Does he remember
  the night we got drunk together and he talked about his visits to America?
 Makarov's cold gray eyes held a small smile, as if this
           THE DouBLE ImAcm       63
 meeting was a nice little joke to be shared between old friends. He was a
 short man, solid, square-faced, snub-nosed. Thinning red hair receded from
 a massive brow. He spoke English fluently, with a husky rasp in his voice-he
 always seemed to be on the point of clearing his throat--and his manner was
 that of a dependable and pleasant-tempered man. Suddenly, the joke was gone
 from his eyes. Briskly he said, "You will know me as Peter."
  Alex nodded. That was definite: the past was wiped out; Makarov was dead,
  Peter lived.
 "First," said Peter, "you made the delivery to Erica?"
 "Yes."
 "What did you think of her?"
 "A pretty girl," Alex said coldly.
  "And a clever one. Don't underestimate her, my friend. You did not like
  her? In one way, that has a big advantage. You will be able to keep your
  mind on business when you work with her. Oh, yes, you may have to see more
  of Erica. Bruno is out."
 Alex asked, in quick alarn3~ "Something happenedr
  "He was followed into the Bois, yesterday morning. The drop was
  intercepted-no, no, don't look so worried. We took quick action.
  Regrettable, of course. We would prefer not to be forced to defend
  ourselves in that way. But results justilled our decision. Bruno has been
  saved from his carelessness and is now away from Paris, and you have been
  saved from discovery. You were in very great danger, my friend."
 Alex was still too close to panic. He could say nothing.
  "You will understand now why we advised you, on your six o'clock call to
  us, not to ask Antonini any direct questions at Farraday's party. We had
  hoped that by getting an invitation, you could talk closely with AntoninL
  But because of the interception of our orders to you, we decided that no
  suspicion must be aroused. We were forced to rely on what you could pick up
  in general conversation. Which leads me to our second point of business:
  what did Antonini say about the discovery of the microphones in the
  American Embassy in Moscow? Give me an exact report while the words are
  still fresh in your mind."
 Alex told him, quickly, concisely.
 "Was that all?" Peter hid his disappointment well.
 "He said he was the wrong man to be asked any questions."
 "Meaning that there was someone else who could tell more?
 64        HELEN MACINNES

 Or was that just a feint, to save himself from further trouble, to pretend
 he is of less importance than he actually is?" The questions were
 rhetorical, for Peter was lost in thought. "Did the man Rosenfeld talk
 privately with Antonini? With any of the others? No?" Again there was only
 the hint of disappointment. "Well, then, anything else?"
  "The usual stories about Moscow," Alex said. "And one story about a dead
  Nazi who may be alive." He smiled, allowing himself some credit for
  having waited, as a matter of tact and protocol, for the end of Petees
  important questions before he presented his one small triumph. "The name
  was Heinrich Berg."
  Peter said nothing. He did not move a muscle. He was watching and
  waiting.
  Alex explained quickly, "I noted that name, late in February, when I was
  asked to check any files where Berg might be mentioned. I found nothing.
  I reported that back tG headquarters, in March."
 "Who was speaking of Berg?"
  "Mrs. Farraday brought the subject up. Her brother, John Craig, had heard
  the story from one of his professors whom he met in Paris yesterday."
 "And Craig believed this story?"
  "No. But the professor-his name is Sussman-I think he should be
  questioned. If he did see Berg, then--"
 "Berg is of no interest W us."
  Isn't he? He cerUdnly was last February. Alex remembered the chances he
  had taken to try to find out about Berg. And the extreme care to protect
  himself. Utmost caution, his instructions had read. Utmost danger of
  self-revelation, they should have been labeled.
 "What kind of man is this John CraigT'
  "Quiet, disinterested; perhaps stupid outside of his own subject; the
  type of intellectual who doesn't have much interest in what is going on.
  Politically immature. The talk, which was frank, seemed to shock him.
  Perhaps he did not want to believe what he heard. In that case, he might
  be useful to us. Physically, he is personable. Pleasant, easy man. ners.
  An economic historian, I believe."
 "Why is he in Paris?"
  "He is only passing through on his way to the Greek Islands-Crete and
  Rhodes, places like that. So his sister
           THE DouBLE ImAGE       65
 told me. He is wTiting a book about trade routes. She told me that, too."
 "Did he himself see this Heinrich Berg?"
  Alex hid his surprise at the reintroduction of Berg, who was of no interest
  to anyone. "No. Craig only gave Sussman a drink to cheer him up-Im quoting
  him-and then Sussman left. Craig was embarrassed at the story being spread
  around by his sister-he didn't believe it himself, as far as I could
  judge." And I don't make many mistakes, as Peter must well know if he has
  read any of my reports, and I think he has. "Craig is staying at the
  Saint-Honor6. Do you want me to see him soonT'
  "No. Forget Berg. Forget this fantastic story. We have something more
  important to occupy your mind." Peter paused for emphasis. "Can you arrange
  for yourself to be assigned to Smyrna?"
 "No."
  "But there is a very large American installation near therel With their
  wives and children, the Americans have established----o"
  "I know. It is quite a civilian colony. Even so, I would need a very good
  excuse even to visit it. People would want to know why I was going to that
  part of Turkey."
 "You have friends stationed there?"
  You know I have, Alex thought; you've read my dossier. You've got all my
  possible sources of information around the world. He nodded.
 "When do you go on vacationT'
  "Actually, I've been planning to go to Spain for a few weeks."
 "Have you talked about Spain?"
  "Not yet . . ." Alex was embarrassed. "It's purely a private affair, not a
  business trip this time." It was a delicate reference to the fact that he
  hadn't had a real holiday in three years.
  "71hen you will cancel your idea of Spain. And you will spend your little
  holiday in visiting your friends around Smyrna. That is a good excuse,
  isn't it? Ephesus is near by, and many excursions youll enjoy. You can also
  hire a boat in Smyrna and sail around some of the Greek Islands---even as
  far as the island of Mykonos. Yes, that would be a pleasant way to come
  back to Paris. On Mykonos, you could hand your information to Erica,
  herself. You wouldn't have to
 66       HELEN MACINNES

 worry about meeting a stranger-no more tiresome identifications necessary.
 Your work would be done, you would know you had delivered it into safe
 hands, you could forget about it and even have a few days of real vacation."
  Alex had to smile at Peter's almost authentic enthusiasm. Smyrna should be
  pleasant at this time of year; the Greek Islands would be heaven. Too bad
  that he had business as Well as pleasure on this vacation. Still, he could
  have been sent to Lille or Marseilles; that kind of "vacation" had happened
  before.
  "And now you must leave," Peter said, rising to his feet, smiling
  regretfully. "You will hear from me. Then you will know the details of your
  assignment. Meanwhile, there will be no more visits to the Bois de
  Boulogne, no more meetings here. Not for you, my friend." He shook hands
  very formally. "We value you, comrade."
 Alex flushed with pleasure. "I'll do my best."
 "And that will be excellent."
  Alex left quickly, ignoring the young man who let him out by the delivery
  entrance. I've been promoted, he was thinking: it is something big, and
  I've been picked for the job. He didn't even mind the devious journey back
  to his parked car, or the careful maneuverings before he could hit the
  right road. Even the dull drive back to his rooms, after this long day in
  Paris, didn't worry him tonight.

  The man who now called himself! Peter opened the connecting door between
  the dressing rooms. "What did you think of himr,
  Insarov rose from his chair, switched off the translucent mirror. His
  usually calm face was frowning. He smoothed his dark hair, touched with
  gray at the temples, as he always did when he was making up his mind about
  a rather evasive problem. "Impression, favorable. He is intelligent. I
  could almost feel him making guesses about you, about me sitting in this
  room. But this is why you recruited him in the first place." Insarov's
  bright blue eyes looked very directly at Peter. "You say he is right for
  this job. I accept that." And I hold you responsible, the steady gaze said.
  "He has never failed us yet. When something is impossible, he says so
  frankly. His judgment is good. He is cautious. He is punctual. He does not
  do this for the money. He is dedicated, completely."
            THE DouBLE ImArm      67

  "Yes, yes, I know that. Pity, though, that we haven't something to hold
  him-if necessary. Weren't there photographs?"
  "We have some, taken at a Moscow party," Peter said nervously. "But we
  have never needed to use them." And we never will, he hoped. His own
  contributions to that party still made him sweat cold. He repressed a
  shiver, and smiled.
  "Then good." Insarov stopped smoothing his hai,r; the frown vanished. "We
  needed an American with the right connections for this job. We have one."
  He pulled on his coat. "Make sure the corridor is safe."
  Peter moved to the door, then, with his hand on the key, paused to ask,
  "That other American--Craig-I think we should keep an eye on him."
  "Just normal surveillance until you are satisfied." Insarov did not seem
  too worried by that problem.
  "But does Craig really disbelieve Sussman's storyT' Peter asked,
  frowning. "Berg is important to us, isn't he?"
  Insarov's handsome face was bland. "I really don't know," be said, and
  shrugged. "Now I'll say good night. Or is it good morning? I shall be in
  touch," he promised. As he signed to Peter to open the door, he smiled
  at his understatement In the next ten days, he would keep Peter very busy
  indeed. But had he been noncommittal enough about Berg? Uninterested
  enough in Craig so as not to stress any personal connection with Berg?
  As for Craig-he would be watched, his background checked, more thoroughly
  than Peter was planning to do. Fate took care of those who take care of
  themselves, and Insarov was one who took most excellent care. Even his
  wildest risks were calculated. Methodical Peter would shudder at them,
  but that was why he would always stay second in command. Without risk,
  there was no victory. "Good night, Comrade Makarov," he murmured as he
  stepped into the silent corridor.
  Peter stared after him. So he knows about that, too? Peter's rising
  terror needed all of the ten minutes of waiting, while Insarov walked
  through the dark streets, before it was repressed. He might think he had
  mastered it, but it would never leave him. It would ensure complete
  obedience, a nicely conditioned devotion. He would be praised for his
  loyalty to Insarov, and he would be flattered by such a public image,
  even come to believe it himself and maintain it wholeheartedly.
 A strenuous day, thought Insarov as he entered the waiting
 68       HELEN MACINNES

 car. He said nothing to the driver, who knew his business. In silence,
 they headed south toward the Seine, crossed it, and turned east to the
 labyrinth of the Left Bank. A successful day, he thought, as they reached
 the Saint-Germain district once more. At the intersection of two small,
 scarcely lighted streets, he got out, waited in a doorway for the car to
 speed away, and then strolled back to his rented apartment.
 55

 John Craig had slept too well, but that left him with such a feeling of
 energy and general cheerfulness that he had no qualms over the small
 margin he had given himself to reach the Meurice. He shaved, showered and
 dressed in twelve minutes. He was putting the last things into his
 pockets, searching for a small map of Paris to make sure he wandered in
 the right directions once he had said good-bye to Sue and George,
 congratulating himself on having made it as he picked up his key, when the
 telephone rang. There were two gentlemen downstairs who wanted to see him
 most urgently. "Sorry," he told the desk clerk, it would have to be some
 other time; he was leaving for breakfast. "They are already on their way,
 monsieur," the clerk said and hung up. Like hell they are, Craig thought,
 and locked his door.
  They came out of the elevator just as he was starting along the corridor.
  They were mild-looking men, who appraised him with sad thoughtful eyes.
  "I'm sorry," he said. "I have an engagement at nine o'clock."
  "We shall not detain you long, Monsieur Craig," the younger one said in
  good English. He gestured to his friend. "This is Detective Galland of
  the Sixigme Arrondissement-the Sixth District, you would say? I am
  Tillier, also of that arrondissement. Perhaps we should go to the shelter
  of your room? Just a few questions, only formalities. We visited your
  hotel last evening, about ten o'clock, but we were told you were out for
  the evening." CArrying: a bottle of champagne, he remembered. Who said
  the police of Paris were tactless? "We thought you might not be returning
  until very, very late. And so we must catch you at this hour. Because we
  should like to have your opinion of Professor Sussman."
Craig, who hadn't budged an inch toward his door, looked 69
 70       HELEN MACINNES

 at them sharply, then moved back toward his room. So Sussman went to the
 police, he thought; he must really be desperate. "Come in," he said. "I know
 that Professor Sussman's problem isn't actually in your line, but I hope
 you'll help him and perhaps even get in touch with the right people who
 could-"
  "Monsieur Craig," Tillier said gently, "the professor is dead."
 Craig stared at Tillier, then at Galland. "What?"
 "A suicide. Yesterday evening."
  Craig sat down on his bed. Galland talked in quick French to Tillier, who
  nodded. The American's shock was very real, he decided. No need to waste
  too much time here. "If you could just explain thisr' He pointed to the
  envelope that Galland drew out of his pocket. It was the one on which Suss-
  man had written down Craig's address.
  "He was going to send me some names of his friends in Rome and Athens-I'll
  be traveling in that direction soonand I gave him that address when we had
  a drink together yesterday."
 "When and where?"
  Craig answered the questions briefly. Tillier was making notes.
 "Was he depressed when you saw himr'
 G'At first, yes."
 "He stopped being depressed?"
  "Not exactly. He was,--P Grim, determined, shocked; but also confident,
  hopeful, looking forward to his return to California and his family.
  "Suicide?" asked Craig angrily. "I don't believe it. He wasn't the type-~'
  "But he was depressed. You said so. And that verifies what his wife's
  relatives in Paris have told us. He was very morose, gloomy."
  "He disliked them. No wonder he felt morose when he had to visit them."
  Tillier nodded, but hesitated in entering that in his notebook. "Have you
  met them? Are they disagreeable?"
  "Never seen them Look, I'm not a close friend of Sussman. I only met him by
  accident yesterday. But I do know -at lent I feel sure-that he didn!t
  commit-"
  "It would have been impossible for his death to be caused by an accident,
  Monsieur Craig."
 "How did he dier,
           Tim DOUBLE IMAGE       71

  The two policemen exchanged glances. "He fell from 'his window," Tillier
  said. "And it was of such a nature, I assure you, that he could not have
  overbalanced and fallen. There is a railing, as high as my waist, outside
  of his window, and I am taller than he was. And much heavier. No, even if
  he stumbled at his window, he would not have fallen over into the courtyard
  of his hotel. Have you visited him there? Then perhaps you remember----~'
 "I don't even know the name of his hotel."
 "You did not expect to meet him again?"
 Craig shook his head. "He was leaving today for America."
  The telephone rang. "That's my breakfast engagement," Craig said, and
  picked up the telephone before Galland could reach it. It was Sue. He
  wasn!t forgetting; no, far from it, he reassured her: it was just that two
  policemen were here asking him about Sussman, yes, Sussman; they said he
  had committed suicide and he was telling them that he couldift believe it.
  Then he stoppedas he heard some mumbling, an exclamation, at the other end
  of the line. Galland was looking at him with tight lips. "Sue ... Sue-are
  you thereT' he asked.
  A man's voice tookover. "Look, Craig, I want to make sure that these two
  guys are policemen. Put one of them on the line."
  "They say they're from the sixth arrondissement." And what!s the additional
  fuss about? he wondered.
 "Put one of them on the line."
  Craig gave the receiver to Galland, who was standing at his elbow. He took
  it, answered curtly, speaking in French. Yes, of the Sixth District ... the
  Twenty-fourth Precinct, SaintGermain-des-Pr6s . . . Fourteen Rue de rAbbaye
  . . . Yes, of course ... He quite understood ... But yes, certainly ... And
  he was politely at ease again as he handed the receivcF back to Craig.
  The man's voice-was it Rosenfeld's?-told Craig briskly, "Just say good-bye
  and get over here. Don't argue the toss with them. Or else you'll spend the
  next weeks hanging round Paris while they investigate. Got it?"
  Not quite. But I'll catch on, Craig thought. He said, "I'll be over in five
  minutes."
  Galland had been talking quickly to Tillier. "Just one thing," Tillier
  suggested, as Craig turned away from the teleo
 72        HELEN MAChiNES

 phone, "if it was not suicide, if it could not be an accident, then what?
 Murderr'
 , Craig began to catch on, all right. "I just don't know," he said. And
 that was true enough. He had no proof of anything, just a lot of vague
 suspicions running wild; it would take more than eight weeks to check them
 out, if they could be checked. The police would end by thinking he was
 crazy, just. as he had thought Sussman was a little crazy. "If it is, I
 hope you catch him," he added grimly.
  'Well, that's about all." Tillier closed his notebook quickly, and
  followed Galland to the door. "We regret we made you late for the
  farewell breakfast party with your sister."
  Rosenfeld really had pulled sentiment, Craig thought "Tbat couldn't be
  helped."
  "Your brother-in-law has our address. If we have any more questions, he
  assure& us that you Will be delighted to pay us a visit."
  Craig nodded. Brother-in-law, he was thinking. "Yes, of course," he said.

  in the blue-and-gold sitting room Sue was pouring coffee at the table
  near the opened window, George was busy looking through a newspaper with
  a quick and practiced eye. Rosenfeld was fnishing his third croissant as
  he listened. "I tell yoI4" Craig said, ending his brief recital of the
  detectives! visit, "I don't believe that Sussman committed suicide."
  George folded the newspaper quickly, pointed to a small comer tucked away
  on the back page. "Just a momend Here it is: Professor Jacob Sussman,
  etcetera, et cetera, suicide, by throwing himself from his hotel-room
  window. Estimated time of death, between seven and eight-diirty, when the
  body was discovered. Had been suffering from severe depression. Hotel
  owner says he behaved oddly when he returned to his room about seven.
  American Consulate is taking charge of arrangements, et cetera, et
  cetera." He handed the paper over to Rosenfeld's outstretched hand, then
  glanced at his watch and shook his head. "IT have to run. Got meetings
  of one sort or another tin late this afternoon. Rosie, you take charge
  here. Ta John to relax and leave police business to policemen. Especially
  when he's a foreigner."
  But Rosenfeld was getting to his feet. "I'd better move out, too." And
  again avoid the front lobby, he thought. No use having Sue and George
  identified with this visit of his to
           THE DOUBLE IMAGE       73

 the Meurice. Keep them out of trouble; they've had enough of their own in
 the last few weeks. He had managed to pick up the information he had come
 here to find; it solved nothing. Still, it did narrow the field, and that
 was always a small step in the right direction. The three guests who had
 called off from last night!s party were no longer interesting. Two were
 French reporters who had been sent to Marseilles yesterday morning in order
 to cover the heroin-factory story. The third man was a Canadian, but he had
 eliminated him!elf by falling in his bathtub a couple of days ago and was in
 the hospital at the time the stranger in the Bois de Boulogne had been
 collecting that chewed-up pencil stub. As for the guest who had practically
 invited himself to the party, there were two candidates for that
 distinction, one of them slightly more emphatic than the other. Wilshot had
 telephoned to say he was coming to welcome the Farradays that evening.
 Bradley was more diplomatic: he had called to ask when hed have a chance of
 seeing them, and been invited. And their height? Around average, no more
 than a couple of inchee difference between them. They both could qualify. So
 did every other man at that party, last night, except Craig and the
 Australian. Rosenfeld looked at Craig's set face, now, and hesitated. Better
 spend a few more minutes here, he thought, and keep Craig out of trouble,
 too. He's in a dangerous mood. George's advice has riled him. Rosenfeld said
 gently, "George is right, you know. But so are you, possibly.99
 Craig looked at him with renewed interest.
  "Judging by that newspaper report," Rosenfeld went on, "I shouldn!t wonder
  if the police agree with you. Why else should they let that item be
  published and still go on checking every leadr,
 "You mean the report is a smoke screenr'
  Rosenfeld waited until George and Sue, comparing their timetables for
  today, had drawn out of earshot. "It could be. They never would have
  bothered visiting you this morning if they were quite sure it was suicide.
  So you just leave it to them. They are very good. Don't worry about that."
  But Craig's worry was about something else. "I ought to have stayed and
  talked. If they are thinking about murderperhaps they would have listened
  to me after all."
  "Talk about what?" Rosenfeld was instantly alerL "About Berg being seen?
  About Sussman's suspicion?"
 74       HELEN MACINNES

  "About the man I saw leaving the caf6 in such a damned hurry. He was
  right on Sussman's heels. At the time--well, I thought I was starting to
  imagine things, like Sussman." "How old was this man?"
                              of
  "He was young. Fair hair, wet raincoat . . . Craig paused, looked at
  Rosenfeld speculatively. "Berg was much older, about fifty, I'd guess."
  Rosenfeld's face went completely blank with the shock. His voice dropped.
  "You saw Berg? Craig----~' He gestured to two chairs in a quiet comer of
  the room.
  But George Farraday, his last-minute instructions to Sue now ended, came
  over to join them for a hearty but hurried good-bye to Craig. "Aren't you
  coming?" he asked Rosenfeld.
 "Shortly."
  "That's too late for me. I'm already ten minutes behind schedule. What
  about meeting me for lunch, along with Sutherland and three fellows from
  th&--"
 "No. In fact, George, you haven't met me today at all."
  George Farraday half smiled. "I haven't? Okay. Anything else I haven't
  done?"
  "You haven't heard that your brother-in-law was visited by the police this
  morning. And you haven't heard him say Sussman wasn't a suicide. You only
  know what he told you last night. And that goes for Sue, too. RightT'
  Farraday said, "There dies another good story. Surprising how many of them,
  nowadays, have got to be smothered." He seemed to be joking, but his eyes
  were thoughtful.
  "That keeps it a lot safer for everyone." Rosie looked pointedly at Craig.
  "Goodbye, George. And take off the pack. I'll handle this."
  That reassured George. A last kiss for Sue, a wave to Craig, a nod to
  Rosie, and he was out of the room. She wasn't so easily persuaded. Perhaps
  she didn't know Rosie as well as she thought she did. "You mean there could
  be danger for John in all this business? Good heavens, Rosie, he only gave
  the poor man a drink!"
  "Oh, not any real danger. Just publicity in newspapers, delays in getting
  away from Paris, complications . . . You know, Sue. Now, I want to hear
  from John everything he can tell me about Sussman's career. So why don't
  you start changing into street clothes, and pack your overnight things, and
  make a list of all that shopping you want to get done?"
 Sue went toward the bedroom, even if a little reluctantly.
            TAE DOUBLE IMAGE      75

 She had a busy day ahead of her, that was true. "I had some things to
 discuss with John," she protested faintly. "Don't be too long, Rosie. I have
 a hairdresser's appointment at half past ten. And don't tell me my hair
 looks fine as it isl" She closed the bedroom door with a firm little bang.
  "Craig----~" Rosenfeld was beginning exactly where he had been interrupted.
  "LeVs sit over here. Tell me- what happened yesterday when you met Sussman,
  from the very first minute you saw him until the last. Anything could be
  important, even a seemingly stupid detail. It's all fresh in your memory,
  isn't itr' For Craig still hesitated, as if he were weighing him up. "Why
  am I so damned curious, is that what you're thinking? Well, ies obvious
  that this could have been a political murder, an assassination. Right? In
  that case, I wouldn't advise you to take your story to the sixth
  arrondissement. It isn't in their line of business. You need something like
  the Sfiret6 for this. I have made some friends in Paris who have certain
  contacts, even some influence, there. They are the kind of people you
  should be getting in touch with. You give me the facts and I'll see they
  get them. Today.'*
  Craig was watching him, with amusement showing in his cool gray eyes.
 "Well, wbatT'
 "I was just wondering how many refrigerators you do sell."
  "Refrigeration. Not refrigerators." Rosenfeld grinned, inclined his head.
  "I like your caution, anyway." He lit a cigarette, sat back, did no more
  persuading. A man like Craig made up his own mind. It would be easy to
  enlist Craig's help by explaining a number of facts about Heinrich Berg; it
  was also impossible. He thought, perhaps-if be won't talk now-I'll have to
  get Bernard at the Shet6 to send a couple of men and pick Oraig up at his
  hotel. He wouldn't like that. Nor would 1. It could put him in danger,
  bring his name into the open. And much might be lost: time, surprise, Berg
  himself. Rosenfeld drew a deep, silent breath.
  And Craig was thinking, I'll have to trust him. George does, that's
  evident. And who else is there, anyway? "Sussman's death is more than a
  French probleaL is that it, Rosie?" he asked quietly.
  Rosie looked at him in amazement. "That's i4 exactly.By God, he thought,
  this man is no fool.
 76        HPLEN MAcINms

  "All right," said Craig, and began his story. "I met him by accident. .
  . ."

  The story ended. Rosie, his face expressionless, was silent. Craig rose,
  poured himself a glass of water. It was a relief to get rid of all those
  facts; it was strange, too, when he had been forced to produce them in
  sequence, how they began to explain each other. "One thing I do know
  about you, Rosie," he said with a smile. "You're a good listener."
  Rosie had looked up quickly, and then relaxed. "I was just giving
  thanks," he said and rose, too. "It is really a pleasure to watch an
  accurate memory at work. Is that what they teach you in historyT'
  And what does that small joke mean? That he doesn!t really believe
  Sussman's story? He is letting me down lightly? "Isn't it possible,"
  Craig tried, "that Berg stopped at our table to point out Sussman to the
  man in the raincoat? The more I,think of the sequence of events-the way
  Berg waited across the street until his man arrived, as if he had sent
  for him or---w"
  "Don't," said Rosie gently, "don't think about them any more." Pretty
  good, he thought of Craig!s remarks, pretty good at that.
 "You didn't believe----.P' Craig began sharply.
  "I believe everything you said. I am asking you to forget it. Let me do
  the remembering. I will." Rosie was thinking, Berg and Insarov.... Yes,
  that seemed more and more likely. Better get in touch with Partridge and
  Duclos, as soon as possible. Let them contact Holland and Bernard at the
  SftretA-.
 "Forget it? That's a steep order."
  "It's just practical advice. Berg isn1 alone. I can see the mark of an
  organization, a well-disciplined and powerful
   9t
 group.
  "An organization?" Craig didn't like the sound of that word in the way
  Rosie bad spoken it: it carried a threat. Was Rosie trying to warn him,
  without giving too much away? "He could have been acting alone, you
  know-with a friend or paid thug to help him."
  "If he were alone and wanted to escape arrest as a Nazi war criminal, he
  only had to pick up and run, hide somewhere else, adopt a new name, a new
  life. There's plenty of space in this world for clever fugitives. But he
  wanted to
           THE DouBLE ImAGE       77

 stay here, unmolested. Why? A mission to perform, perhaps? Then he isn't
 alone. He didift kill Sussman, but he ordered the killing. If he has done
 that once, he can do it again. And for the same reason: protection of his
 mission. Dedicated men, you know, have a brutal logic. To them people like
 Sussman are just specks of dust in the machinery-to be wiped off, and
 forgotten."
  "I get the message," Craig said abruptly. "I don't talk about Berg."
  "And you follow your own routine exactly, as if yesterday had never
  happened."
  "You think they'll be interested in me even if I keep my mouth shut?"
  "Very interested-until they are convinced they don't have to reckon with
  you. So play it safe, Craig. Play it very safe."
  Craig took a deep breath. He walked over to the window and looked out
  over the busy street. Beyond it were the Tuileries Gardens, neat paths
  and flower beds and carefully arranged trees. Children playing, people
  walking, sitting, talking, thinking. About what? Families and illness and
  holidays; bills to be paid, a dress to be bought, a new car, a television
  set; marriages and love affairs, business and pleasure . . . Nice, normal
  world, whose worries and alarms now seemed very simple. "And only
  yesterday morning," he said with a wry smile, "I was a reasonably happy
  man."
 "So was I," said Rosie.
  Craig looked back at him. I ought to be thanking him for his warning, he
  thought, instead of feeling sorry for myself. "When will I see you again?
  And where? rd like to know how the action goe& IT breathe a little easier
  when I hear that Berg is arrested." Now did I say something simpleminded,
  there? he wondered, as he noticed the amusement showing briefly in
  Rosie's eyes.
 I Rosie came over to stand beside him. "Ill miss this city when I have to
 leave it," he said, looking across the Tuileries to the Seine. "Possibly
 the next time well meet will bein New York in the fall."
 "rd like to know sooner than that."
  "I'll telephone you, keep you posted. But no meetings here. No visible
  contact."
  "Are you sure they won't tap my phone at the hotel?" Craig asked, half
  joking, half annoyed.
 78        HELEN MACINNES

  "They might at that. If I can't risk telephoning, then I'll have to send
  someone with a message."
  Disguises are coming off, thought Craig: Rosie trusts me a little, at
  least. And that restored something of his good humor. Distrust, when it
  wasn't earned, had a savage bite.
  "He will know you," Rosie went on. "He'll make contact quite easily."
 "You disappoint me, Rosie. No high-signs?"
  "Oh, he will shake hands, and leave a nickel in your palm.st
 "I'll end up rich if you send me enough contacts."
  Rosie laughed, clapped his shoulder. "See you in New York, Craig, and you
  can tell me all about Troy. That's one place I really want to visit. I'd
  like to stand on the walls, look out over the plain down to the sea where
  the Argive fleet----~" He laughed at the expression on the younger man's
  face. "Do you know what I once thought I was going to be? An
  archaeologist." He moved, still shaking his head, to the bedroom door. "All
  clear, Sue. Do I rate a farewell kiss, or aren't you talking to me any
  more?" His good-bye was easy and affectionate, and remarkably quick. Craig,
  watching it from the window, had to admire the tact with which Rosie could
  fend off questions and yet give acceptable answers. In two minutes, Sue,
  who thought she was being considerably enlightened, had learned exactly
  nothing.
  "But how nice," she said as the door to the sitting room closed, and they
  were left alone, "how nice that Rosie knows someone at the police station
  who can really keep your name out of the papers. I want to see Sussman's
  murderer caught, but I don't want to see you mixed up in it. These Nazis
  can be so vindictive, you know."
  "Suicide. Not murder. And III be careful," he promised. "Now what about
  your hair appointment? I'll walk you there, and we can talk about Father.
  rm. more anxious about him than I admitted last night"
 "WhatT' she said, her worries flowing into new channels.
 And how's that for a brief imitation of Rosie? he asked
 himself as they set out together. It worked, too. It was
 family, family, all the way, until the last kiss and p I arting
 hug.
 "Follow your own routine," Rosie had told him, and that was exactly what
 John Craig did for the next five days.
  He admired some of the pictures at the Louvre and most of the sculpture,
  preferred Sainte-Chapefle to Notre-Dame, took refuge from Sacr&Coeur in
  the Saint-Pieffe-de-Montmartre, spent an afternoon in Versailles, a day
  at Chartres, wandered through Les Halles (and ate one of the best
  luncheons he had in Paris in the packed company of solid merchants and
  stall-holders testing the meat and cheese they had sold that morning),
  explored the various little quartiers, looked at Paris from all sides of
  the Eiffel Tower, loitered at the bookstalls when he meant to be walking
  through more museums, got some almost-exercise in the parks, took in a
  couple of night clubs and three movies, tried several restaurants with
  stars before their names (he balanced this expenditure with bistros and
  Left Bank brayseries), and blessed the prevalence of the French caM as
  pleasant easement for tired feet.
  And no one followed him. Or perhaps he was trying not to notice, and
  succeeding remarkably well. There was, he decided, no use worrying over
  something beyond his control. He was a traveler on his first voyage of
  discovery to Europe, something he had begun to plan as far back as his
  Korean days, when his one ambition was to get as far away from the
  Pacific as possible and leave the mysterious East to newcomers who didn't
  remember foxholes. And the plans had lain at the back of his mind during
  the years at college, during the postgraduate grind, and the extra jobs,
  and the teaching, and all the damned budgeting for pleasures and weekends
  that disrupted his time but were a hell of a lot of fun, too, and the
  articles and reviews that had led grad79
 80      HELF-N MAcINNEs
 ually, slowly but surely, to this visit to Europe. it was more than a bit
 of travel: it was the cumulation of hopes and despairs, of dreams and
 decisions, twelve years in the making and now actually his.
 Or was it?
  He might not have noticed anyone trailing behind him trying to play the
  invisible man, but strange encounters were not so easily ignored. There
  had been several of them, most of them either definitely or possibly
  innocent; but two were more serious (although if Rosie hadn't planted a
  warning in his mind, he might have just classified them under odd
  coincidence, the kind of thing that added a little spice to life), and
  one took his breath away. Fortunately, no one was testing his pulse at
  that moment.
  Under definitely innooent came the old lady who had lost the right M6tro;
  the young Dutch couple who wanted their photograph taken against the
  gargoyles of NotreDame (they had set the focus; all he was asked to do
  was to push the button of their camera); an American who was looking for
  a restaurant where prices were reasonable and the waiter might say thank
  you for his tip.
  Under possibly innocent came the two English girls who attached
  themselves to him as a useful translator and then proceeded to give him
  a history lesson through the corridors of Versailles, ending with a shy
  invitation to a nice spot of tea somewhere in the little town before they
  all caught the bus back to Paris; and the Algerian student, of an age
  that indicated he was one of the chronics-the perpetual undergraduates
  who followed a policy of drift and never took a degree in anything. He
  shared Craig's lunch table in an overcrowded brasserie, talked volubly
  about universities and politics, expressed the wish to visit the United
  States and, in between scathing denunciations of imperialism in Cuba and
  Viet Nam, wondered what American scholarships or grants he could get to
  keep him at a college there. He ended with a handsome invitation for the
  evening: he would act as Craig,s guide to the more recherchS night clubs
  in Montmartre. He seemed disconsolate over Craig's smiling but definite
  refusal, the end of a most promising friendship as well as a free night
  out on the town.

  But two encounters were more serious, definitely disturbing. Their skill
  and effrontery might have been amusing if
            T)aE Doumn ImAm       81
 they hadn7t left Craig with the feeling that he was skirting disaster. The
 first was with a man possibly in his late twenties, nice clean-cut
 American-boy type, who bumped into him in the lobby of his own hotel, late
 Saturday afternoon.
  "Pardon me," the stranger said, and then grinned widely as he caught
  Craig's arm. "Hit Remember me? I'm Willis Jordan, Columbia 'fifty-nine.
  Now let me see, you're-yes, you're Craig. How's that for memory?"
  It was pretty good, Craig thought. He hadn't the smallest recollection
  of Jordan. Not that that proved anything. Columbia University was a big
  place. He shook hands, half expecting to feel a nickel crushed into his
  palm, but there was nothing. "Frankly, I don't remember you at all," he
  said, keeping his voice friendly. After all, he had just shaken hands.
  "Why should you? I was just one of the College boys trying to crash an
  advanced course on ancient history. You were one of the regulars, a
  graduate student no less. You didn't think much of us, did you? Quite
  right. We didn't last more than three lectures. Way beyond me, that
  stuff. But it made us feel good at the time. Big deal. Between you and
  me, did you ever learn much from old Sussman? He was the worst lecturer
  I ever heard, couldn't make out what he was saying most of the time. Or
  was that just because I was stupid? Could be." He laughed very generously
  at himself. "Come on and have a drink, just one, and give me all the news
  on Columbia. Haven't seen it in years."
  And how do you know that I have? Craig wondered, and let that slip pass.
  The rest was so very good; simple and friendly, a little overconfident,
  like the undergraduate who had crashed Professor Sussman's course. He
  resisted the impulse to say good-bye and clear out, but that would look
  as if the name of Sussman had scared him off. "Fine," he said, and led
  the way into the hotel bar. It was small, square in shape, discreetly lit
  from the shaded brackets on its walls, a pleasant little place whose
  nineteenth-century elegance was fading into something cosy and
  comfortable. There were a few tables, thoughtfully spaced, and green
  velvet armchairs to match the antique green walls. Everything was old,
  a little worn, but clean and welcoming. Rather like the solitary
  bartender, behind his small mahogany counter with its three stools,
  stirring a dry Martini for a quietly dressed American with light sandy
  hair, a high forehead and thin-framed glasses. CYaig
 82       HELIEN MACINNES

 had seen him around on other evenings, so he was a guest here, too. He could
 have been a young college professor, only his interests-judging from the
 magazines he always seemed to be reading-lay in auctions and antiques. "No
 luck at all, today," he was answering the barman, as Craig and his hail-
 fellow came to stand beside him. "Nothing but junk, Jules, nothing but trash
 held together by some glue."
  Jules shook his head over the temerity of the furniture market, poured the
  Martini carefully, said, "You should try the Loire Valley, Monsieur
  Partreege. There are fine things to be discovered there."
  "Perhaps I shall. Thank you, Jules." The American took his glass, tasted
  the Martini, nodded his approval, and left the bar for the one table still
  free, where he could study his catalogue in peace.
  Mr. Jordan seemed relieved that the other American had gone. "Now well have
  room for our elbows," he said, grinning widely. "What's yours, Craig?
  Scotch? I'll try one of Jules' Martinis." Jules hardly flickered an eyebrow
  even if his first name was reserved for guests who came steadily. Jordan
  was too busy to notice. He was studying Craig, his smile still in place,
  trying to get back onto the subject of Sussman. "And what are you doing
  here?"
 "Seeing Paris."
 "For how long?"
 "Another few days."
 "Thinking of going skiingT'
 Craig stared. "It's a bit late in the year for that."
  "You know, funny thing, that's how I remembered your face. I'll never
  forget you hobbling on crutches around the campus-broke a leg, didn't you?
  Made a big impression on me. Here's someone who goes skiing and can
  understand Sussman, tool"
  And here's someone who has been reading through the old class yearbooks,
  thought Craig. Then he had a stab of guilt. Perhaps he was being too unkind
  to Mr. Jordan, perhaps the man had really been around Columbia from 1955 to
  1959. "It!s easy enough to go skiing if you do tutoring on the weekends and
  your pupil has an uncle who owns a ski lodge."
  But Jordan twisted back to the real subject. "And how is old Sussman? Still
  teaching away?"
  Craig looked at the smiling face,and took a deep breath. Then he said, very
  quietly, "He's dead."
            THE DouBuz ImAGia     83
 "When?" The smile faded perfectly.
  "Three days ago. In Paris. It was in all the papers. Suicide." And that,
  thought Craig grimly, will save unnecessary questions.
  "Now what could have caused it, &you suppose?" Jordan7s sympathy was even
  harder to take than his genial curiosity. Craig shrugged. "Tough," said
  Jordan. "You always liked him. When did you last see him?"
 "We had a drink together on the day he died."
  "How was he then? I mean-it's a really terrible thing, suicide. Didn't
  you feel something was wrong?"
  "No. Or I wouldn't have said good-bye to him and let him walk away."
  "You mean, he was quite normal-just sat talking about nothing, passing
  the time of day?"
  "I hope not He asked me about my work, gave me some advice, a lot of
  encouragement."
  "I can see why you feel so bad, talking about yourself and all the time
  he must have been worrying about something else."
  "Now, look here, Jordan----P Craig began in real anger, and stopped.
  Don't be goaded, he reminded himself. "How the hell do I know what you're
  thinking? You might be planning suicide right now. How does a man read
  another's thoughts? Sussman was depressed, yes: he had just been giving
  testimony at Frankfurt. I thought some talk about his own subject would
  get his mind off those trials, make him forget. I was wrong. So----~"
  "Hold on, hold on, I didn't mean it that way. Of course you couldn't
  guess. But something must have been troubling him badly. Now you'd think,
  wouldn't you, that he had a fine chance to tell you his problems when he
  met you, and get rid of them? You knew him well----~,
  "I guess I didn't know him well enough," Craig said sadly, honestly. He
  frowned at his drink. I used to laugh at movies where one guy at a bar
  hit out at another guy, but I swear if Jordan,doesn't take that
  sympathetic voice out of my hearing in the next three minutes, he isn't
  going to have much voice left. One sharp blow across his throat with the
  back of my hand-yes, just the way I used to practice it in Korea for
  night-patrol work. Karate in Saint-Honorg bar. A nice headline.
 84       HELEN MACINNES
  "Now that's an interesting thought, whatever it is," Jordan said, watching
  his face.
  "Who knows anyone well enough?" Craig finished his drink. "What about
  another? You haven't told me yet what you're doing in Europe. Business or
  pleasure?"
  Jordan looked at his watch. "It's past six. Got to get going. I have to
  meet a lawyer tonight; I'm publicity man for Eurasia Films, and we're
  running into trouble over distribution of a movie about the French Army.99
 "Business on a Saturday night? That's working you hard."
  "Has to be, has to be ... I'm back in Brussels tomorrow. That's the way it
  goes. Well, good to see you again. Here, Jules, keep the change." He pushed
  some readyfrancs across the counter, patted Craig's shoulder, and left.
 "Another Scotch, Mr. Craig?"
  Craig nodded. If ever a man needed grog it was John Craig, standing in a
  quiet and pleasant little bar, with the gentle hum of innocent voices
  rising from the tables behind him.
  "And what about you, Mr. Partreege?" Jules asked of the thin-faced
  American, who had come back to the bar.
  "No, thanks. Just put the rest on the bill." He dropped an extra tip near
  Jules, glanced at Craig, almost spoke, hesitated, then said, "Sorry, I
  thought I had met you before. My mistake." He looked enquiringly at Jules
  with a touch of perplexity mixed with amusement over his small error.
  Jules said quickly, "This is Mr. Craig, who is a guest here, too. VV
  Partridge, pausing as he was about to turn away, said, "You really look
  very much like a man I knew in Japan about ten years ago."
  "I've been there, but I don't think we ever met." Is this another try?
  They're keeping me busy, Craig thought.
  "My name's Jim Partridge." The stranger put out his hand. Craig took it.
  Pressed into his palm, he felt a small round object. "Perhaps we can have
  a drink together some evening?"
 "No reason why we shouldn't."
  Partridge said very quietly, "You handled him well. No slips." And turned
  away definitely, this time.
  Craig finished his drink slowly. The tension was gone. So was that very
  unpleasant feeling of actual fear, when the an who called himself Jordan
  had patted his shoulder and lefL
           Mm DouBLE ImA(m        85
 He had stood there, waiting for the second drink, wondering what mistakes
 he had made. Thank God for Jim Partridge. "No slips," he had said. But how
 had he known? Had he been able to listen to the conversation? It was a
 fantastic thought. Possible? Gadgets, nowadays, were ingenious. Perhaps
 12 learn when we do have that drink together. At least one thing I do know
 now: I'm not alone.
  That was a good feeling. He could even look back on the encounter with
  Jordan and study it with cool amusement

  Then there was, two days later, the second encounter. It began, in
  contrast to the Jordan incident, very quietly indeed. And ended with no
  amusement at all.
  It was late on Monday afternoon. Craig had been searching for old maps
  of ancient Greece and the eastern MediterFanean, the kind of thing that
  he might possibly discover in the secondhand bookshops around the
  Beaux-Arts districL That was also the district where the girl lived, the
  girl with the dark hair and blue eyes who had walked away from his taxi
  five nights ago, name unknown, address unknown, swallowed up in the maze
  of streets, vanishing into the shadows. And although he produced a
  reasonable excuse each day to get him over to the Left Bank and keep an
  eye open for that smooth dark head, he had no luck at all. He had the
  fanciful idea that if he only kept thinking hard enough about her, she
  might walk out of that bakees shop, or down the street, or be standing
  in this bookstore like the hundred other students who did much of their
  pleasure reading there. But like all fanciful ideas, it was high in
  expectations and low in results. He never saw her. Perhaps she had left
  Paris, perhaps she wasn't a student. And probably she had forgotten all
  about him by this time. Why, he wondered with considerable irritation,
  why the hell didn't he forget her?
  His search for maps and ancient charts had led him along the Rue de Seine
  toward the Boulevard Saint-Germain. He saw a possible bookshop, entered
  it, and found so much to interest him that he was there for half an hour
  or more. There were a dozen people around, picking up books, ffipping
  over pages, putting the books down, choosing others, reading. The shelves
  were crowded to the ceiling, the stacks were so close together that the
  alleys between them allowed only one-way passage. Craig was in such an
  alley when a polite French voice said, "Pardon, monsieur." Craig looked
 86        HELEN MACINNES

 up and saw a middle-aged man with kindly eyes in a likable face. Craig
 closed the book he had been reading and stuffed it back quickly on its
 shelf. "Sorry," he said, "I'm in your way."
  The stranger broke into English. "Not at all. I don't think I'm going to
  find what I'm looking for, either." Then he laughed. "Are you following me?
  We are becoming good acquaintances, this afternoon. Didn't I hear you
  asking for maps down on the Rue Bonaparte? No luck? 1, too, have had no
  success." His English was very passable, and saved Craig groping around for
  a few polite phrases in return.
  "I'm giving up the search," Craig said, coming out of the book-lined
  passage. "It's all yours." He stood aside to let the Frenchman enter. The
  man's eyes were studying the shelves. He shook his head. "Not here," he
  said resignedly. "Just let me ask the owner. Perhaps he can tell us of an-
  other bookshop that might have your maps and my Leonardo da Vinci
  illustrations. One moment, monsieurl" He pressed his way through the groups
  of students and elderly men, reached the owner behind his table stacked
  high with dusty books. There was a quick outflow of fine French phrases.
  Craig made his way to the door, hesitated, started slowly toward the
  Boulevard Saint-Germain. Helpful people were pleasant, but generally
  useless. And yet he didn't want to be rude in return for some politeness
  (heaven knew it was scarce enough in Paris, nowadays, where foreigners were
  considered a necessary nuisance), and so he halted to wait for the stranger
  and at least say thank you.
  "You are going in the right direction," his mentor told him cheerfully.
  "There is a shop, very big, very new, you might not think it of any help;
  but there is a back room, I am told, with all kinds of amazing curiosities.
  Let me show you. It is on the boulevard itself." He fell into step beside
  Craig, mentioning his name (Ardouin), his profession ("an engineer for
  aeroplanes"), his hobby (collecting illustrations of old inventions for
  warfare such as da Vinci's designs). There was such a bookstore, but the
  back room had been cleared for new stock.
  Ardouin, in his own words, was desolated. This extra journey for nothing!
  Craig must have a drink with him, and they could finish their talk about
  ancient cartographers who guessed so much and were sometimes almost right
 Craig, ready to call it the end of an acquaintanceship yet
           THE DouBLE ImAoE       87
 still unwilling to cut it short rudely, walked along with the little
 Frenchman, trying to think of a chance for disengagement. And suddenly,
 against the friendly chatter at his elbow, against the background of
 cheerful street noise and bustle, there was a grim and warning note. They
 were walking along the same part of the boulevard where he had met Suss-
 man. They were passing two caf6s where they could have had that drink.
 "No, no," said his new friend, "not herel There is a much more interesting
 place quite near. When I was a student in Paris, it was where the amusing
 people met. Just down here, around this cornerl"
  Craig kept his steady pace, didn't let himself hesitate. He even managed
  to hold back the quick flash of anger that surged through his body. Youll
  have to go through with it, he told himself, go through with it to the
  end. "But of course," he heard himself say in a natural voice, answering
  a question about New York. "There are fashions in caf6s everywhere, I
  guess." He looked at the faded little awning they were now reaching, the
  few tables on the narrow sidewalk. "Why," he said, "I know this placel
  I was here only a few nights ago. There's a Buddha inside, and a picture
  of Socrates. Right?"
  Again Ardouin was desolated. "And I thought I would show you something
  new, something different," he said. "Shall we sit outside?" And he was
  choosing the table where Craig had sat before, selecting Sussman's chair
  for himself. He fell very silent.
  "Yes," said Craig, "this is even the same table. I hope you aren!t
  superstitious."
  Ardouin blinked a little. "Engineers are not usually superstitious," he
  said with a smile.
  "You've taken the same chair where my friend sat. And he is now dead."
 "But I am sorryl Does that worry you?"
 "I don't find it exactly cheerful."
  "A drink is what we need," Ardouin said quickly, and signaled the
  waiter-he was new but he looked just as sad and slow as the other one,
  five nights ago. "All Americans drink Scotch, no?"
  "It isn't very good Scotch, here. I'll try Cinzano. I must say~' he
  looked around, noticing a car parked nearby with its driver reading a
  newspaper---~'this caf6 is really on the losing end of this street." It
  was almost as woebegone in sun-
   88       HELEN MACINNES
 shine as it had been in the rain. Few people walked here, and those were in
 a hurry, as if they were using it only as a short cut to some place more
 important.
  "Then we shall talk about pleasant things. Last time, perhaps you were
  listening to depressing talk?"
  From the doorway farther down the curving street, on its opposite side, a
  man in a black overcoat stepped out and came walking slowly toward the caM.
  For a moment, Craig had no answer. He looked away from the walking man,
  found a cigarette and his lighter, was relieved to see that his hands were
  steadier than he felt. "I spent more time looking than listening," he said.
  Good God, he was thinking, is Heinrich Berg going to walk up here?
  "Looking?" The Frenchman was alert. "And what was so interesting on this
  streetT'
  "A girl. She was sitting over there, behind your chair. And having a very
  bad time." Quickly, he gave a brief description of the quarrel.
  "How extraordinary," Ardouin said with complete indifference.
  "It wag. I mean, what could have caused such a long quarrel as that? I keep
  thinking about it." Yes, Heinrich Berg was sitting down at the very same
  table he bad occupied last Wednesday. "Or, rather, I keep wondering what
  her man would have thought if he could have sat here, where I am, and
  watched his own performance. Or would he have needed a stranger's eyes,
  too, to see what he was throwing awayT9
  "I doWt understand why you should be so concerned," began Ardouin
  impatiently, and then corrected his tone of voice to something more
  natural. "Unless, of course, she was very pretty."
  "But naturallyl That is what was so extraordinary." Craig looked in
  astonishment at Ardouin. "Haven't you noticed a considerable decline in
  pretty girls in the last few years? What's gone wrong? A cult of ugliness?
  Or it might be that this is a base form of democracy-let everyone look
  equally unappetizing, destroy the beauties, turn all girls into the same
  type with the same hair styles, the same grotesque eyes, the same vapid
  lips? Now I'm assuming that as a Frenchman you have certain standards for
  the chic and the beautiful, but-looking around Paris-I'd like to ask you
  what has been happening." Craig rattled on, listening to himself
           Tim DouBLE ImAGE       89
 with a mild disbelief and a touch of rising laughter. For Ardouin was
 taking him seriously. Ardouin was looking at him nervously, and then with
 annoyance, and then with complete irritation; the once kindly eyes were
 showing both contempt and impatience. He finished his drink quickly,
 glanced at his watch.
  "You must goT1 Craig asked. Now it's my turn to be desolated. "I think
  I'll wait here for a while."
  "Still hoping that you will see the girl again?" Ardouin asked, shaking
  his head. These Americans . . .
  "Why not? This place seems to have its regulars." He glanced_at some new
  arrivals, recognizing them faintly from his last visit. "She may be one
  of them. Good luck with the war machinesl"
  That produced a startled look, and then a very quick Werd. Au revoir."
  A nice formal bow, and Ardouin was in retreat toward the boulevard.
  Leaving me to pay for the drinks, thought Craig. But it had been worth
  it.
  He did wait for a while. He let Berg pass him with only a cursory,
  natural glance. Just another regular, that was Craig's attitude. He
  noticed that the car, parked not far away, had started to leave, too. He
  wondered whether he might not have ended inside it if he had started to
  tell Ardouin to phone for the police, for anyone, to catch a man who was
  possibly connected with murder. Even if that was a bit of imaginative
  exaggeration about the car, he was thinking how he might have behaved if
  Rosie hadn't given him fair warning. Rosie had only been wrong in one
  thing so far: he hadift given him any telephone number to call in an
  emergency like this. With the right number, he could have said, "If you
  want Berg, then he is sitting at a table only twenty feet or so away from
  me." And then, annoyance fading, he knew Rosie had been right. One step
  toward a telephone, either before or after Berg had left, and Craig might
  have found out whether his crude guess about the waiting car was
  fantastic or not.
  I suppose, he thought heavily, I'm being watched even now. So he paid and
  left If he looked depressed, the enemy could assume that he had become
  tired of waiting for a girl. And who was the enemy? That was one question
  he was going to ask Rosie. He would like to know who was turning his
  visit to Paris into a nightmare. That was a score that
 90        HELEN MACINNES
 needed a little settling, quite apart from the bill that had mounted high
 with Sussman's death.
  He went back to the Saint-HonorA, with the hope that Jim Partridge would be
  reading quietly in the bar-the news about Berg must be passed on as quickly
  as possible. But Partridge was entertaining two French friends tonight, a
  dark-haired young man with blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, and a charming
  red-haired Frenchwoman. They were talking of furniture, of designs in
  fabrics, with occasional laughter over Partridge's brave attempts at French
  and their equally comic efforts in English to help him out. It was a merry
  little business meeting, and Craig, just two tables away, found himself
  believing it authentic. Partridge had only given a polite nod of
  recognition and a bare "Good evening" as he had entered and found a seat.
  It was a frustrating feeling to sit there, in possession of some real news,
  and to have to keep it clamped to himself. Eventually, as Partridge and his
  friends left, he got the silent message: we'll contact you when we are good
  and ready, so sit tight and keep your mouth shut. What the flaming hell, he
  thought; don't they want to catch Berg?
  He went out searching for dinner, which he didn't enjoy and which cost far
  too much anyway. And that was another thing, he told himself as he went
  angrily to bed after a disappointing movie: you'd better clear out to the
  Mediterranean; another week of Paris and your budget win be so wrecked that
  you'll have only a few weeks left in Europe. Get back to your own world,
  CTaig, and stay where you belong. But can there be any separate worlds? he
  wondered as he thought of Sussman.
 77

 "It was tempting," Roiie said softly. "It was very tempting to have that
 man followed."
 "You think he might have been Berg?" Partridge asked.
  "The waiter's description of him was almost a duplicate of what Craig
  told me at the Meurice last Thursday morning. He wore the same kind of
  coat, walked from the same doorway, sat down at the exact table."
  "No wonder Craig was so tight-faced this evening. He came into the
  Saint-Honor6 bar about seven when I was there with Yves Duclos and Mimi.
  He looked as if he had just about had it." Partridge watched Rosie
  prowling around the small room restlessly, checking the locked window,
  pulling the torn shade closer to the sill, dragging the narrow strips of
  curtain more together. Fortunately, the light was too dim to throw any
  shadows in the direction of the run-down street outside. "Not very
  elegant," Partridge agreed as Rosie stared at the brash cubist design on
  the curtains, "but this is the kind of place where everyone finds it pays
  to mind his own business. Balances my room over at the Saint-Ho=6 very
  nicely." Both hotels had been Partridge's own idea. He had moved into
  them last Thursday soon after he had arrived in Paris; a cheap bag for
  this room, a leather suitcase resPectably labeled for the Saint-Honor6,
  and he was nicely set up. "Easy commuting, too."
  "Very neat," agreed Rosie, and gave his full approval. He sat down once
  more on the only chair, and faced Partridge, who was lounging on the
  narrow bed.
  "So Berg walked away from that caf6,11 Partridge said thoughtfully,
  wondering what agent had slipped up there.
  "If that was a mistake, then it's mine. Berg has not only brains but
  intuition. Better give him no warning signals of 91
 92        HELEN MACINNES

 any kind. Better wait, try to find out what his mission in Paris is. Then
 we can pick him up, get Insarov-Berg in one neat package. That's the way
 I see it anyway. I may be wrong. I've been arguing with Bernard over at
 the Sfiret6 about this. He is, naturally enough, interested in any spy
 networks that are working in Paris. I feel that there may be more than a
 network involved. If Berg is Insarov, that is - - ." His voice trailed
 away with his thoughts.
  "YoWre beginning to believe it, too2" Partridge asked quickly, and he
  couldn't be more delighted.
  "Yes, but not for a very satisfactory reason-that is, not satisfactory
  to anyone except myself. I read through the dossiers you collected on
  both Berg and Insarov. And it was by remembering some of the Insarov
  details that I-well, lees say that Berg's actions today didn't astonish
  me too much."
 "You studied Insarov and came up with Berg2"
  "Thaes about it. But it doesn!t prove a thing. I could be wrong."
  Yet he had believed it enough, himself, to persuade Bernard to have a
  waiter installed for the last four days in the caf6, Partridge thought.
  "No photographs possible2"
  He doesn't miss much, thought Rosie, and smiled. "No. The waiter had a
  microfalm lighter all ready to use, but Berg didn't take out a cigarette.
  And he kept his back turned to the restaurant. And he waved away any
  attempt to take an order; managed to avert his face, too. So. the waiter
  followed his basic orders, which were to note any middle-aged --an who
  wasn't known as a regular customer and to report to the S0ret6 at once.
  He did this, but Berg was already leaving. He staged his exit right past
  Craig's table, and then was picked up by a car that had been waiting near
  by." Rosie thought that over. "I didn't have anyone ready to follow him,
  but you know something? I feel relieved about that. If it was a mistake,
  I think it was a mistake in the right direction. One suspicion aroused,
  and the whole Berg-In. sarov operation would plunge underground. When,
  and where, it would emerge wouldn't even be worth a guess." He made a
  good attempt at a smi1c. "Yes, you could say that I had almost as bad a
  day as Craig, poor deviV
  Partridge nodded understandingly. They could easily lose the fingertip
  hold they had on this case. Then all the work Chris Holland and he had
  done in those intense four months
           THE DouBLE ImAGE       93
 would be made useless. "I think the French might be pretty riled, too,
 if we lost Insarov just at this time. Duclos was pretty excited about
 some new developments."
 6&0h?99

  "He gave me a few background details over dinner, asked me to pass them
  on to you tonight. He's missing your visits to his studio."
 "Better to get his news this way," Rosie said tersely.
 "Someone still interested in you?"
  "Infatuated with me, damn them. But let's disappoint them, shall we?" His
  smile became blandly innocent. "And what's exciting the French?"
  "A night club called Le Happening. And guess who gave them the break on
  this? Interpol."
  "Interpol? What were they expecting at Le Happeningheroin or white-slave
  traffic?"
  "Either. One of the part-owners was almost convicted twelve years ago of
  smuggling drugs and shipping stranded chorus girls into the slave states.
  So when this new club was started a few months ago with no visible
  backers, Interpol took a quiet interest. The Paris police co-operated and
  placed three of its agents as a waiter, a stagehand, and the coatroom
  biddy. She reported that last Wednesday night, or, rather, in the small
  hours of Thursday morning, a blonde girl waited for an American in the
  lobby. He wore dark glasses. He carried a book in a bright jacket, and
  displayed a pair of new gloves quite prominently. He also had a folded
  newspaper under his arm in a distinctive alphabet-she thought Greek. He
  just dumped his coat -on the counter, keeping his face turned to the
  girl. They did not call each other by any name when they met. They only
  stayed a brief time. The girl left first. The American collected his
  coat-he had a handkerchief up at his face, blast him-and then made for
  the men's room. But he didn't go in. He kept on going, past the back of
  the stage, to the rear of the building. He never came back. Must have
  left by one of the old entrances to the delivery yard."
  "Good for the hat-check chickl" Rosie was always delighted by efficiency.
  "She's reaching sixty. One of the best operatives in the Narcotics
  branch. She knows a recognition signal when she sees one. Oh, yes-the
  girl wore odd earrings: one emerald, one ruby. Sounds charming, don't you
  think?"
 94        HELEN MACINNES
  "And what did the Narcotics Squad find next morning -1 suppose they
  searched the back premises?"
  "They certainly did. In the hours when the place is closed except for
  cleaners, they got one of their men to slip into the back corridor. Storage
  and unused dressing rooms. Nothing there in the way of cartons or
  containers. No sign of heroin in the dust on the floor. But there was a
  mirror on the wall between two rooms. A see-through mirror."
  "Well, now-the clever little rascals."
  "That was when Interpol and the French police decided it might be espionage
  and not drug-smuggling. They handed the problem over to the SOret6. Bernard
  has been working on it.29
  "He has, has -he?"
  "I think he was waiting to get some results before he told us about it,"
  Partridge said tactfully.
  "Very thoughtful of him." Rosie took a long breath. "Cooperationl Oh well,
  it's his country. But dammit, you!d think---" He caught hold of himself.
  "Perhaps I've lived too long here. I'm beginning to assume this is partly
  my country, too. All right, all right . . . He's working on the problem?"
  "He had some of his experts install a listening device in the rooms with
  the connecting mirror. It wasn't too easyno furniture worth mentioning, no
  lamp shades, and the electric bulbs are doubtless changed regularly."
  Partridge's amusement boiled over into a fit of laughter. "So they wired
  the mirror for sound-used its frame."
  Very funny, very funny, thought Rosie, but where does this lead us?
  "And it workedl" Partridge said, recovering himself. "At two a.m. on
  Saturday morning, there was a brief conversation between a Russian and a
  man who was to use the name of Jordan. Instructions were given to Jordan
  about meeting Craig that afternoon or evening in the Saint-Honor6 lobby.
  Also, he learned certain information about Craig based on a telephoned
  report from New York about a Columbia College yearbook. Also, a photograph
  taken of Craig at the Eiffel Tower was examined and discussed."
  Rosie relaxed. "We're in business," he said very softly. He studied the arm
  of his chair. It was a violent purplish red, a cheap imitation velvet wom
  into mauve patches. He picked at a loose thread. "You'll call me as soon as
  Duclos passes on any more newsr, It was Rosie's way of giving an order.
           THE DouDLE IMAGE       95

 He rose from the abominable chair, caught sight of the giant yellow roses
 on the blue wallpaper, and groaned. "I hope you don't ever have to sleep
 here."
  Partridge was picking up the soiled raincoat which had lain near him on
  the bed. He pulled it on, and it transformed his gray flannel suit into
  something less affluent and more suitable for his departure through the
  neglected lobby downstairs. "I'll follow you out-I want to get back to
  the Saint-Honor6 tonight."
  So Jim Partridge was worried about Craig, too. And with every reason.
  Rosie said regretfully, "It would be easier on him if we could explain
  things more."
 "You'd trust him as far as that?"
  "If we were forced to, I'd trust him. But let's hope it never comes to
  that."
 "Amateurs worry me. They're too big a responsibility."
  Rosie inclined his head in half-agreement. Sometimes, though, they
  produced the most astounding results. He thought of Venice, almost three
  years ago. "Bless their little hearts," he said.
  "Of course, Craig seems to have the right impulses. I mean, if you
  trusted him with the truth, he'd probably accept it. He wouldn't start
  trying to prove you're an idiot or a liar just so he could dodge the real
  issue and still, keep his conscience happy."
 "You seem to know him well," Rosie murmured.
  "I've been listening to you. I think you like the guy. By the way, what
  happened to the man who took Craig to the camr,
  "Photographed and followed. He way lead us to interesting people."
 "And Jordan? The same treatment?"
    go
 "Yes.
  "Well, that's progress of sorts. You know, I think Berg must be staying
  some place very close to that cafi. How else could he have appeared so
  quickly once his man had delivered Craig to the right table? And theres
  the problem, too, of how that man knew that Craig was going to be wan-
  dering through bookshops."
  "My guess is that he didn't know, that he was told to go to work on Craig
  whenever Craig was visiting the Left Bank. And that has been quite often.
  He seemingly likes the place."
 "The curious thing," Partridge said thoughtfully, "is the
 96        HELEN MAcINNEs
 difference between the two sets of instructions. Those given Jordan were
 precise. Those given the second man, if you are right, were much
 more-imaginative. What's your hunch, Rosie? That there are two different
 bosses giving their own type of instructions? Or is there a split in
 commandr,
  "Jim, you know I'm always battling against hunches. They seem so damned
  idiotic when they don't pay off." Rosie's amused eyes studied the younger
  man's face. He relented. "But I wouldn't discard that guess of yours.
  Every small idea counts in this game. And that was a good one." Rosie
  paused at the door. "When you call me, add ninety minutes to the time you
  ffix for the meeting. Where shall it be?"
 "Duclos suggested Mimi's shop. Rue La Fay--"
  "I've heard of it. Hand-blocked linens and upholstery satin, a for the
  Cadillac trade. You'd never believe it, but the last time I saw Mimi she
  had the Lido all tied up with her bikini." Rosie was still grinning
  broadly as he left. For such a solidly constructed man, his movements
  were surprisingly light. Partridge, standing at the door, couldnt even
  hear the usual creak of the faulty floor boards.
  He gave Rosie six minutes before he buckled the belt of his coat, turned
  up its collar to hide his clean shirt, pulled on a battered hat with a
  dipping brim, slipped off his glasses and put them into his pocket. He
  only needed them for reading, but they had become a habit; made him look
  more responsible, he had thought, a little more serious, older, more
  eligible for promotion. A bad habit, he decided, breeding the type of
  mind that 'was afraid of hunches. For he was still puzzling out Insarov,
  the man with the imaginative instructions, the man who played it by ear
  as well as relying on a machine-like mind. Insarov's specialty was
  psychological warfare, wasn't it? So thaes how Rosie guessed he would
  stage a confrontation scene. Damn it alL he said to himself, I made out
  all those reports; Rosie only read thenL So why couldn't I have risked
  a guess at Insarov's behavior patterns? Re-enactment, disclosure through
  shock? Yes, it was easy to see it all now, once it had happened. A nice
  case of hindsight. Not good enough; not good enough, when you dealt with
  a man like Insarov.
  Then, as he left the room, he knew one of the answers to the puzzle. He
  had kept thinking of Insarov as some fantastic brain, some inexorable
  planner, a powerful force gath-
             Tim DouBLn ImAoia     97
 ering strength to destroy his enemy. But Rosie had met that type before;
 Rosie knew he was human. And one thing all human beings shared in common,
 apart from the need to eat and drink and sleep and function as a body:
 each had his Achillee heel. What was Insarov's? And what's yours, Jim? He
 reached the desolate lobby, pushed open the finger. smeared door, and
 stepped into the dark street.

  Partridges call came sooner than expected. It caught Rosie in his office,
  just before noon on Tuesday, the very next day. "Ic! Basdevant," began
  Partridge crisply, and then continued in heavily accented English. "About
  the question of the new refrigeration unit for the Caen Sausage and Tripe
  Distributore processing plant-when can you have it installed?"
  "Any time. Just sign the order and we can start work on it at once."
  "Good. Then I shall sign the contract at four o'clock this afternoon, if
  that is suitable for you."
  "Most suitable," said Rosie. "We shall have everything drawn up and
  ready. At your convenience, Monsieur Basdevant." He could not resist
  adding, "The first name is Alphonse, is it not?"
 "CorrecL There will be no delay in installation?"
  "I assure you, we have the unit available. I realize the urgency of your
  problem."
  "With. the approach of a warm spring," the Sausage and Tripe distributor
  said, "we must insist--~'
 "Have no fear, monsieur, your products will be safe with
 92
 us.
 Monsieur Alphonse Basdevant bade a pleasant good day.
  So, Rosie thought, we meet at half past two, and don't be late. Something
  has developed, has it? Something big? In addition to that encouraging
  piece of news, he was beginning to have high hopes for Partridge. The
  over-serious calculating machine was showing a touch of humor. Or perhaps
  he had had it all along, and Rosie had smothered it. Some light relief
  was welcome, anyway; there was no better safety valve. It counteracted
  Rosie's depressing discovery of that morning. His telephone had been
  tapped.
 He became businesslike, instructed his secretary to fill out
 98      HELIEN MACINNES

 a standard contract for a refrigeration unit, to be signed this
 afternoon on behalf of Caen Sausage and Tripe Distributors by their
 agent Alphonse Basdevant. Time and place of delivery to be added on
 Basdevant's instructions. She could leave it on his desk. He was now
 going to lunch and then to a fitting at his tailor's. About time, too,
 didn!t she think?
 HH                              -1

 Rosie approved of Mimi's shop. It was close to a Mitro, a bus stop, and
 a taxi rank. It lay on a busy street. And it shared the same entrance with
 five other specialized places-
  little dressmaker, a little hat designer, a little travel agency,
  little boutique for Florentine handbags and Perugian sweaters, and a
 little man for big parties. (The adjective "little" showed how talented
 and expensive they all were.) There were constant comings and goings, a
 perpetual drift of people so intenton their highly important business that
 the more ordinary mortals such as Rosie were not even worth one glance.
  Mimi, in person, was far from little. She was the only girl that Rosie
  could remember who had made a bikini look as if it had been designed for
  a Caryatid solemnly gazing over the Acropolis, one thigh forward ready
  to march in sacred procession to Athenes, high altar. Her hair was now
  a rich ripe auburn, piled loosely over a white face and dark ey~-brows.
  But the smoke-gray eyes still had the pure intent gaze of the Caryatid,
  seemingly blank, aware of everything. She opened the door, with its
  CLOSED ON TUESDAY sign already displayed, and locked it securely behind
  him. "Cher Roseel" she said, giving him a soft cheek to kiss and an
  enveloping hug from her beautiful strong arms. Then she retired with her
  long slow stride to her own comer, settled before her drawing board,
  continued her work on a current design, and left the three men to
  themselves.
  Duclos' eyes were a bright blue today, a sign that excitement was running
  through his veins. Partridge had been anxious, even tense, but with
  Rosie's safe arrival he relaxed. Now he was watching Duclos, impatient
  and curious. Rosie looked at them both, pushed aside a bolt of antique
  satin from the one comfortable chair over which it had been
                99
 100       HELEN MACINNES

 draped to entice a customer, and sat down. My news will keep, he thought,
 looking at the expectant faces. He put aside the memory of a hurried and
 horrible lunch, of the long, long journey to cover the equivalent of ten
 blocks between the restaurant and Mimi's. "Sorry I'm late. I'm ready, Yves.
 Don't disappoint me."
  "Jim told you about Le Happening and the mirror we wired for sound?" Duclos
  began. "It works. There was a long session in the unused dressing rooms
  last night. We picked it up, all of it. And taped it. You can hear it in
  detail when you visit Bernard. Part of it is in Russian, of course. We've
  had that translated. Part of it is in French, when a woman was getting her
  instructions from someone who gave his code name as Peter. Her name is
  Erica. She's the same woman, the coatroom attendant assures u.% who met the
  American in the lobby last week. His name came into Erica's conversation
  with Peter. It is Alex. Her instructions were to travel to Greece and take
  up residence on the island of Mykonos. Alex would visit her there, briefly,
  on his way back to Paris. He would pass her some information of the highest
  importance. She would deliver it within a few hours to someone on the
  island. She would receive further instructions about that later. In the
  meantime, she is to concentrate on making her journey to Mykonos seem
  plausible. She is borrowing a house, rented by her uncle, so that she can
  enjoy a summer of painting. She will invite another girl to accompany her,
  someone who also is an artist. Then the two of them can have many parties,
  meet many people. In this way, the couriers or agents who make contact with
  her during the summer will seem to be a natural part of the general
  picture. Alex will be her first visitor. She is to expect him in the'early
  part of May."
  Duclos paused to take a map out of his pocket, unfold it, stretch it flat
  on a small table.
  "Mykonos." Rosie glanced over at Partridge, who only smiled quietly.
  Mykonos had appeared in Partridges report on Heinrich Berg, a small item
  dealing with Berg's closest friends in Nazi Germany who were still known to
  be alive and free. There were only two of them left in that category; one
  was a woman, Berg's mistress, who had shared his politics as well as his
  bed, and was now rumored to be in Milan; the other was Gerhard Ludwig, who
  had never been a member of the Nazi party but had left Germany in 1950. It
            THE DOUBLE IMAGE     101

 was known that he had been living in Greece and writing travel books.
 Three years ago, he had left Athens for the Greek Islands. He was reported
 living in Mykonos.
  "Yes, Mykonosl" Duclos answered. "It's the most perfect place for their
  purpose. It has a constant stream of visitorswriters, painters, scholars,
  ordinary tourists who are cruising through the Aegean. It has an art
  colony~quite a number of French intellectuals have rented houses. There
  is a harbor for small yachts, sailing boats, fishing boats. The cruise
  ships call there; and so do the inter-island mail boats. And then
  Delos----~'
  "Yes, it's perfect," agreed Rosie. Unlikely in its innocence; and
  therefore all the more perfect. He rose and went over to look at the map.
  Mykonos had a central position among the scattered groups of islands in
  the Aegean.
  "But where," asked Partridge, "is Alex arriving from? Mykonos gives us
  no indication where he has been gathering information: it's just about
  halfway between Greece and Turkey." He came over to join the others at
  the map. "It was a simpler problem for us two years ago, when we had some
  worry about the islands of Lesbos and Chios which lie very close to
  Turkey--Chios is only a few miles, practically swimming distance, from
  the Turkish coast, and the quickest way to get from Greece to Smyrna."
  Duclos was startled. "Just one second!" he said sharply. He looked
  annoyed, almost deflated. "Will you please wait until we finish with
  questions about Mykonos before you start talking of Smyrna, or Izmir, as
  the Turks call it?" Having established control, he added with a friendly
  smile, "You Americans-you are always blasting off in every direction."
  "Okay," said Partridge with a grin. "I was heading right back to Mykonos
  anyway, because what worried us in Lesbos particularly was an attempt to
  form a base of Communist espionage operations which would gather
  information about the Turkish coast all the way south from Canakkale on
  the Dardanelles to the American base near Smyrna using Chios as either
  a cutout or a bandy transit station but if you look at these islands'
  position on the map you'll agree the project was a bit too obvious even
  if daring and so it failed and I'm only blasting off because Rosie says
  they al. ways keep trying bless the clever little rascals and that lands
  me right smack on Mykonos." He paused for breath, his grin broadening.
  If you talked fast enough, you could still make
 102       HELEN MACINNES
 your point at the right and proper time. "All right; over to you, Yves.
 Questions about Mykonos."
  "I have a couple," Rosie said, repressing his own smile. "But let me ask
  them sitting down. I had a lot of exercise today." He led the return to
  their chairs, settled himself once more, avoided Partridge's quick,
  enquiring eyes. "First, who is the girl that Erica will invite to Mykonos?
  Any indicationsr, She could be another member of Erica's Communist group;
  or a sympathizer, eager to help and obey; or some innocent who hadn't the
  faintest idea for what purpose she was being used.
  "Mere were two definite specifications," Duclos said. "The girl must be
  politically immature and emotionally unattached. There were also
  suggestions that she must be charming enough to attract friends on Mykonos,
  trusting enough so that she would not be suspicious. Perfect cover for
  Erica, wasn't it?13
  "So the girl will go in good faith. She will hear and see no political evil
  because she doesn't believe that people like Erica can be part of her
  world." Rosie shook his head; how often he had seen that pattern Fepeated.
  It never amused
 liij3L
  6$Exactly. Erica will choose her, herself. In fact, she had two
  possibilities in mind, right away, and gave their names to Peter so that he
  could have a check made on them for security. Her favorite candidate was-~'
  and here Duclos cleared his throat lightly---%n American student in Paris.
  Erica and she have attended the same art classes, seemingly. Name Veronica
  Clark. Age: twenty-five. She lives in a small hotel in the Beaux-Arts
  district: Hotel Beauharnais."
  "Poor Veronica," Partridge said. "What art student would refuse a visit to
  Mykonos?"
  Rosie looked at him thoughtfully. "What intelligence agent, for that
  matter? You seem to be the expert on the Aegean, Jim. If it isn't a rude
  question, how did you manage that, sitting at a desk in Germany?"
  "The nucleus of the Lesbos organization was recruited from a Communist
  network in West Berlin. We seem to be facing the same kind of thing now,
  but this time they're working out of Paris. And-this time, too-the boss-man
  has appeared, himself, to make sure that there will be no more failures.
  Could be?"
 "Insarov?" Rosie nodded. That could be.
           I'ma DouBLE ImAGn     103
  Duclos threw up his hands. "Let us finish with Erica, first," he
  insisted. "You had two questions about her, Rosie. You've only asked
  one."
  "Had she anything to say about the American called Alex? Anything that
  could give us a lead on him?"
  "She remarked that her meeting with Alex last week had troubled her; he
  was cautious to an extreme. But perhaps he would feel easier when he did
  not have to carry new gloves and a travel book on tours to Scandinavia.
  She was reproved for her flippancy. She was told that he had every reason
  to be cautious in Paris."
  "Meaning he is well known? Of some importance?" Rosie asked quickly.
  "He has an important job, certainly. That we learned from the Russian
  conversation that followed next. Shall I go on with it, now?"
  "One last question about dear Erica," Partridge said, glanoing at Rosie.
  "Did you have her followed, photographed?"
  Duclos looked at Rosie, too. "We tried to play it your way," he told him.
  "We only followed a little. After she changed cars twice, we decided that
  any more following would only lead to discovery."
  "We'll get her on Mykonos, anyway," Rosie said impatiently.
 "If you play it carefully."
 "You mean Mykonos is of no interest to your'
  "Personally, I am interested. But Bernard sees his first
 duty in putting the spy network in Paris quite out of busi
 ness. Understandably. After all, the American base in Turkey
 is your affair, not ours." He was watching Partridge's as
 tonished eyes with some ainu sement. "Yes, at Smyrna. It is
 nice to know you may be very near the truth," he agreed.--
 "Any proof?" Partridge asked intently.
  "Only what we heard in the conversation between two Russians as soon as
  Erica had departed. One was Peterhis voice is deep, hoarse, identifiable.
  The other we could not place, but he is most certainly Petees superior.
  Now, let me remember . . . ... Yves was putting his facts into the neat
  and logical order that he found agreeable: the free-floating ideas, the
  quick jumps in thinking practiced by his American friends were something
  that irked his sense of balance and proportion. Small details, perhaps
  of greatest importance, could be lost in the excitement of discovery.
  This report was
 104      HELEN MACINNES

his to give, and he was determined to give it in his way. "Alex is going to
 Smyrna. Purpose not disclosed. He has important contacts there. Names not
 disclosed-but from Peter's remarks, we judge that these contacts do not know
 that Alex is a Communist agent. After that, he proceeds to Mykonos. His
 mission accomplished, he returns to Paris. So much for Alex, except that
 reference was made by Peter to the Farraday party, which Alex attended. So
 he is the American you are looking for, Rosie."
 Rosie, grimly silent, nodded.
  "Next, there was talk of John Craig. They are no longer interested in him.
  They know, now, his purpose for traveling abroad; they checked thoroughly
  on his credentials as a historian. Peter had some reservations. What if
  Craig were to extend his visit to Troy down as far as Ephesus, which is
  close to Smyrna? What if he were to meet Alex by chance? There, the other
  Russian was much more casual and confident. Overcaution, he said, was
  another name for timidity. Alex would meet several people who knew him, no
  doubt. That was why he would use his real name in Smyrna and have an
  innocent excuse for his travels. No one would question him unless he seemed
  evasive. If he was not good enough to stand up to a meeting with Craig or
  anyone else who knew him, he was of no use for this mission. Peter made a
  hasty retraction. Alex, it seems, had been his choice."
  "So Craig is off their list," Partridge said reflectively, and caught
  Rosie's speculative eye on him, and shrugged apologetically. Stiff, he
  thought, that wasn't a bad idea of mine; Craig's a natural for this job.
  "It was just then," Duclos continued, his voice quickening, rising, "at the
  point where Peter was flustered, and as annoyed as he dared to be, that he
  made a slip. He said, 'In spite of what you think, I did not select Alex
  because of any personal interest. You will find, Comrade Insarov, that he
  is the man for this mission! There followed a very definite silence. As
  now." Duclos smiled at Partridge. "That guess of yours was certainly right.
  Insarov must be Berg-why else would he be interested in Craig, whose only
  claim to notice is that he has seen Berg?"
  "There was more than guessing involved," said Rosie, giving Partridge his
  full due.
  "And more than one man involved, too," Partridge re, minded them. How many
  agents had been alerted, each pro-
             THE DouBLR ImAGE      105
 ducing a small fraction of information, and some of it useless, all
 risking their lives? How many analysts breaking down those fractions? How
 many evaluators fitting them together in different ways? "You know, when
 I started work in Intelligence, I had a vision of Partridge, out there all
 by himself, keeping the peace with his little pistol and brilliant action,
 a life of fast cars and beautiful women and expense accounts that didn't
 have to be rendered." He allowed himself a laugh then, covering his own
 elation with a touch of self-ridicule.
  "And lastlyt-Duclos insisted on giving the report in fun, in logical
  order-ithey may be closing down Le Happening. Its uses are over, I
  suppose."
  "Or have they noticed your interest in the club? These things do get
  around," Rosic said. That had been one of his chief problems, all along.
  "Fortunately," Duclos assured him, "I think our interest in 1A Happening
  will be blamed on Interpol. Bernard is adding a little proof of that: he
  is getting the police to raid the club for narcotics tonight. I thought
  I might drop around--2' He looked at Rosie, who had glanced up sharply
  and raised an eyebrow. But Rosie made no other comment. And that, thought
  Duclos, saves a useless argument. He went on, "As for Insarov, he is
  leaving Paris this afternoon. He mentioned business in Milan next week.
  If everything goes well, Peter is to set their plan in motion. From
  Paris? We couldn't fathom that. Our experts are working over that part
  of the transcript, phrase by phrase."
  "Poor old bloody experts," Partridge said cheerfully, "and they never get
  a trip to Mykonos, either." He choked back some of his jubilation. "I
  hope you!re planning to send me along, Rosie. Are you going, Yves?"
  Duclos grinned widely. "I'm doing my best on that, right now. Erica is
  possibly a French national, and she is certainly part of a Paris network.
  She would be a good catch for us. And she knows Peter, who is obviously
  the director, or one of the aides to the director, of that network. SO-2,
  Duclos spread his hands, and beamedL "It seems as if you'll get one of
  your old dreams, Jim: she's very pretty, this Erica, and with style.
  Bernard had a good picture of her made for his files, drawn from a
  precise description by the coatroom attendant Blond, nose retrouss6,
  green eyes, excellent figure,
 106       HELEN MACINNES
 good clothes. But naturally-she mu t fit the circles in which she seems
 to move."
  Rosie was not listening. He didn't even respond with the joke that Yves
  had expected. He said, "Jin3~ I'm turning this operation over to you.
  From today. The best thing I can do is to retire into the background."
  Partridge and Duclos stared at him, at each other. "But---" Partridge
  began.
  "Let them think I haven't one suspicion that something big is shaping up.
  Relax their nerves for them, shall we? Yes, Jim, that's the way it has
  to be. They don't know you at all. But apparently they know me."
  "So you were followed today," Partridge said. He wished his guess about
  Rosie's delay in arriving here hadn't been so right.
  "Very intently. I shook them off, I think. They'll only allow me one
  success like that. Just one more, and they'll know I'm on guard,
  expecting something. Which is proof I know something." He studied his
  hands. "Damn their eyes and ears, they've even tapped my telephone,' he
  said in rising anger.
  "They've really drawn a bead on you," Partridge said slowly.
  Duclos was perturbed. "But Rosie, how could that be? Yoifre careful,
  you're----w"
  "They are only testing me, so far. But I'd like to know who gave them the
  clue that I was the man to watch," Rosie said softly, dangerously. "It's
  someone in security, that's for sure. Or someone who is in contact with
  him."
  "I don't think the leak came from us," Duclos said quickly. "After all,
  there is only Bernard and I who know-"
  "It didn't come from you, Yves," Rosie said heavily. "It
 came from someone who has connections or trusting friends
 in a branch of our own security. And that's one thing I'm
 going to find out, even if I'm sitting on the side lines. By
 God, I'll find that out." He glared around the room. Then
 he relaxed, forcing a smile. "Now I had better make an
 involved exit from this place. Said I would be back at the
 office by fou ' r. Which reminds me, Jim, there's a contract
 waiting on my desk for you to sign." And how will he handle
 that? Rosie wondered.
  Partridge rose and went over to the telephone beside Miml. He was the
  Caen Distributor once more, telling Rosie's secre-
              T~m DouBLE IMAGE     107
 tary that he wanted to speak with Monsieur Rosenfeld. Not yet returned?
 Then let him be most kindly informed that it was unfortunately impossible
 to sign the agreement today; another offer at a much better price was
 under consideration. With regrets and distinguished salutations ...
  Hell do all right, Rosie admitted to himself. He knows as much as you do
  about this project, perhaps even more in some of the details he gathered
  during the last four months. He knows the support we can give him, and
  where to get it. He can cope with Greek and Turkish Intelligence-he must
  have worked closely with them on the Lesbos-Izmir affair. He!s the
  eventual replacement for you, anyway, so shut up. But all these
  admissions didn't comfort Rosie. This was one operation that he would
  have liked to see through, all the way to the very end. Oh, well, there
  was no use in delaying his exit. He shook hands with Yves. "That was an
  excellent report you made, a good piece of work by everyone concerned.
  My congratulations to Bernard. Tell him ril be at the golf club on
  Sunday. IT thank him, then, myself."
  "And just when the overhead route to my studio was working so perfectly,"
  Duclos said with real regret. "Never mind, Rosie. YoOl be using it again
  by August. Want to bet?"
  To Partridge, Rosie said, "Don't let the blue skies of Mykonos deceive
  you. This will be no picnic."
 "I could use your advice-~'
  "You don't need it" He knows the ropes, he knows where to get help and
  how to use it. "Except," Rosie added lightly, "I think you'd better pack
  that little pistol, too."
 Partridge grinned. "I still need your advice. Can I contact
 YOU?,$
  "Not in person. Through channels. I'll always be available even if I'm
  in the background. And I'll send you all new information I turn up on
  Wilshot and Bradley." His voice had been kept low. Then, more naturally,
  "Oh, and Jim7--~'
 "Yes?"
 "Go easy on Craig.-
 Partridge's grin widened. "He's a natural."
  "I know. Thafs our big temptation, isn't it?" Rosie clapped Partridge's
  shoulder as he turned away to cross the room to Mimi. She was working
  happily at her desk, and had turned,on her radio to keep her company;
  perhaps also to show she was much too busy listening to Les Sylphides to
  have heard any of their long discussion. She was a woman of
 108      HELEN MACI14NES
 infinite tact. Rosie slipped his arm around the strong waist as they
 walked in close step to the door. "Take care of yourself, MimL"
  "But I always do, Roseel" She gave him a generous hug, a kiss on both
  cheeks. He left without looking back at the watching faces. "Was that
  good-bye?" she asked as she locked the door and was startled by an
  afterthought
  "A temporary one," Jim Partridge said. He actually meant that, which
  startled him, too. His promotion was exhilarating, he might as well admit
  it. But he hadn't wanted it, not quite this way. He wondered if he'd have
  the good sense and the guts to step aside like that, let a younger man
  who could be a competitor take over? Then the weight of the new re-
  sponsibility hit him, full force. He walked over to the small table,
  pulled a stool beside it, and sat down to look at the map.
  Duclos was still thinking about Rosie. "Perhaps he was too quick, there.
  He knows enough dodges to cover up his moves. He didn't need to,~'
  "Didn't he? I'll quote you, Yves: 'If everything goes well, Peter is to
  set their plan in motion.' But if they think that we are interested in
  them, then everything is not going well and Peter will set quite a
  different plan in motion." Insarov hadn't prepared so thoroughly without
  having some alternative to fall back on. Not Insarov. "You know what that
  could mean for us."
  "They win; we lose," Duclos said soberly. "Are you planning to go to
  Mykonos yourself or are you sending someone else?"
  Partridge thought of three men who could be sent And yet, time was short.
  There would have to be a long briefing, a thorough preparation. "There
  are so many small pieces to be remembered in this damned jigsaw puzzle,"
  he said, "and if they are not placed correctly, then--2' He searched for
  a cigarette and lit it.
  "Then," Duclos finished for him, "the main pieces won!t drop naturally
  into place?"
 Partridge nodded.
  Duclos placed his finger on Smyrna. "What's their plan? To make sure of
  Cyprus, once the U.N. troops leave it? To play the same game on Rhodes,
  setting Turk against Greek, and both against the Americans? They tried
  that before. And when they fail, they wait a little, learn from their
           THE DOUBLE IMArm      109
 mistakes, try another way. Get rid of American bases, isn't that their
 purposeT'
  Partridge looked at Duclo!? finger, now tapping Smyrna impatiently. The
  American base there was NATO's chief installation in the eastern
  Mediterranean. "I didn1 think you worried so much about NATO," he teased
  gently.
  "I've criticized it," the Frenchman admitted, "and, from our point of
  view, with justification. But as of this moment, I prefer not to see it
  castrated." He relaxed into a smile. "Friends are the only people who can
  agree to disagree, no? Besides, Jim, it is one thing to give up a base
  by your own decision; quite another to be forced out of it by your
  enemy's skill in psychological warfare. That would only prove to the
  world that we are very, very stupid. It is not an agreeable label to have
  hung around our necks."
  Partridge stubbed out his half-finished cigarette. "Self-defeating," he
  admitted. Duclos and I can work together, he thought, and gave thanks.
  "I wonder if you could handle Milan for us, try to discover where Insarov
  goes from there?"
 "I'll talk with Bernard about that."
  "That would be helpful. It's just possible that Insarov would discount
  any co-operation between you and us. Under present conditions," he added
  tactfully, not mentioning de Gaulle. "By the way, I think you'd be
  interested to know that we've sent Antonini to the Smyrna base. There is
  quite a job for him to do there, I hear."
  "More listening devices-just like those he found in your Moscow Embassy?"
  Duclos was shocked.
  "Also," Partridge went on, "Val Sutherland is following bim.99
  Duclos stared. He inclined his head, pursed his lips. "Tben he is not a
  journalist? And his Saigon assignment was only a cover story?"
  "It still is. He is supposed to be in Viet Nam, right now, but he will
  make a long tour of news-gathering in and out of the front lines, which
  will explain any absence from Saigon. It was thought best to keep his
  visit to Smyrna quite incognito. You agree?"
  Duclos did agree, emphatically, and with considerable relief. What he had
  been told was a demonstration of trust. Rosie's going would not make so
  much difference after all. "So Sutherland is the man the Communists ought
  to have
 110       HELEN MACINNES

 tried to question, and not Antonini?" The idea amused him. That had been one
 small victory, at least.
  "Sutherland is the head of our tear-out-the-walls-and-ceilings experts. He
  has quite a sense of humor in fixing the Russians' gadgets so that they
  don't know which to trust or distrust. That can really foul up their
  calculations. They don't like to move unless they are really sure-they
  learned that lesson from Khrushchev's rockets in Cuba, remember? A big
  mistake."
  "A mistake only because it failed," Duclos said. "We have information that
  the military will never forgive Khrushchev for that. Another excuse will be
  found to be used against him in the history books, of course-something more
  peace-like than charging him with the Cuban failure. It would never do to
  emphasize how important those rockets in Cuba really were."
  Partridge looked at Duclos thoughtfully. Rockets in Cuba ... rockets in
  Cyprus? "Do you suppose," he asked slowly, "that Alex is being sent to
  Smyrna to learn who Sutherland is and what he has discovered? As I said,
  one of Sutherland's jokes is to leave a few of their listening devices
  working so that we can feed bits and pieces of false information through
  them. He does this because we can never be sure that we've discovered all
  the gadgets they've installed. Yet, if they don't know what information
  they can trust, their next big operation may be turned into another fiasco.
  So they need Sutherland. They have got to have him."
 "Abduction?" Duclos was startled.
  "And questioning. They tried that on Antonini in Moscow, remember? How else
  could they get the completely full information they want? They've got to
  have it before they start setting any plan into operation."
  "7rhen you'd do well to guard Sutherland. Completely. Every way." A new
  idea gleamed brightly in Duclos' eyes. "Insarov ... Isn't he interested in
  psychology, in the art of questioning a prisoner? Would he deal with
  Sutherland himself, if they managed to get him?"
  "Sutherland might be considered too important for subordinates to deal
  with," Partridge agreed. His worry grew.
  "Perhaps they'll still aim for Antonini. Even I assumed he was your chief
  expert until you told me the facts."
  "I think they may now be looking around for another man. Antonini let one
  small remark slip at the Farradays'
           THE DouBLE IMAGE      111
 party. Something about not being the guy the Russians were looking for.
 He said it half-jokingly, among friends. But Alex was there. He would pick
 it up and report it. So the question is now: does Insarov believe it was
 a joke or the truth? I don't think we can risk anything on his answer.
 We'd better make sure that we have someone else in Smyrna along with
 Antonini and Sutherland. Someone who was in Moscow at the time they were
 there. Someone who was one of Antonini's friends." Partridge's voice
 quickened as if he already could see the man. "And now he turns up in
 Smyrna, is seen again with Antonini. Not constantly. Just enough. As if
 they were together but trying to conceal the fact. How's that for a nice
 red herring?"
  "Thank God I don't fit the T61e," Duclos said. "Who is he? George
  Farraday?"
  "No amateurs on this job. We want a professional who knows what he is
  letting himself in for. Thomas O'Malley."
  "Ibe Australian? Who is he working for-you?" And I never guessed it,
  Duclos thought with annoyance. He liked O'Malley, had known him for a
  couple of years.
  "For British Intelligence. And if you don't know that, Yves, then I don't
  think Insarov will."
  "But he might not believe, either, that an Australian could be on your
  team of experts."
  "Except that O'Malley was born in the United States and lived there until
  his people took him back to Australia when he was twelve years old.
  Insarov will soon find that out, once he starts digging into O'Malley's
  history."
  "But will he believe that 'Australian journalist' could be a cover for
  working with Americans?"
  "Why not?" He has been conditioned by his own experience to believe such
  a pattern of espionage exists-it's employed constantly by his own side.
  Think of the Polish journalists and the Czech diplomats who have been
  working for the Russians."
  Duclos nodded. Yes, he had to admit, even chauffeurs at. tached to the
  Eastern, European missions abroad had turned out to be radio experts or
  fully qualified engineers, often of far more importance in rank than the
  diplomats they drove around. All of them had been trained by the
  Russians; all of them acted on Moscow's instructions. Their own coun.
  tries, Communist as they were, came second.
 "Yes, O'Malley's the man for this job. He is as tough as
 112 . HELEN MACINNES

 they come," Partridge was saying. "He has such a sense of humor that he
 might even enjoy it."
  "That depends on how far Insarov will go with his questioning, doesn't
  it?" Duclos asked grimly.
  "We make sure," Partridge said equally grimly, "that Insarov never
  reaches that distance."
 "It is still a cold-blooded idea-using O'Malley as a decoy."
  "You inspired it. You said Insarov might deal with the questioning
  himself. If he thought O'Malley was the an they wanted, he would be on
  hand when they tried to take him. It's easier to question a man near the
  abduction point than to smuggle him through hostile territory, like
  Turkey, into Russia. If you were Insarov, where would you have your
  prisoner taken out from Smyrna?" Partridge pointed toward the map.
  Duclos didn't even need to look at it. "Into the Aegean," he said. "But
  that doesn't necessarily mean Mykonos."
  "No," Partridge agreed. But, he thought, it does mean some place where
  Insarov feels he has established a margin of safety.
  "The examination of a prisoner could even be done on a boat, a small
  yacht," Duclos said unhappily.
  "Yes," Partridge agreed again. But, he thought, that depends on the
  weather and Insarov's seamanship. The Aegean could make more people
  helpless in shorter time than any other body of water. Even the best of
  sailors ran for the shelter of an island when the north wind suddenly
  rose. "Anyway," he said, closing the topic, "it will be entirely up to
  O'Malley whether he wants to help us in this. I'll contact him through
  Chris Holland, of course."
  "That should make everything quite regular," Duclos said acidly.
  "We are not asking O'Malley to do anything we wouldn't be prepared to do
  ourselves."
  "You mean you'd let yourself be abducted by Insarov to help the British?"
 "If it would catch Insarov-yes. And so would you."
  "I'd have to think about that. To help my own countryI'd agree. But, for
  the sake of the British-" He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know," he
  said honestly.
  "Against men like Insarov," Partridge said, "there are no French or
  British or Americans. Let's leave that kind of stupidity to our
  politicians."
            TFm DouDLE ImArm     113
  Duclos was smiling. Partridge had offered him one of his own favorite
  arguments. "Touchi," he said quietly.
  Partridge relaxed. "Why argue, anyway? As Rosie would say, we could all be
  wrong. Insarov may now be en route back to Moscow by way of Milan."
  Duclos laughed briefly at some thought of his own. "Sorry. I was thinking
  of that innocent little party at the Meurice. Apart from the Farradays and
  John Craig, everyone else was Intelligence of some kind, except for Wilshot
  and Bradley.99
 "And which of those two is Alex?"
 "The one who is planning to go to Smyrna."
  Partridge smiled. "They are both going to Greece. Separately. Seemingly
  quite ignorant of each other's vacation plans. Bradley has leave coming up
  from his job with NATO; Wilshot has been talking of finding some sun and a
  story about Grivas in Athens. Take your pick, Yves. Which?"
  "Then well have to wait and see which one travels farther east than
  Athens," said Duclos amiably.
  "That's about it," Partridge agreed. Unless, of course, Rosie turned up
  some extra information: Alex seen without horn-rimmed glasses or his face
  averted or his handkerchief covering his nose and mouth. Too cautious,
  Erica had called him. But she was the one whose picture was filed in Ber-
  nard's office. "Erica's choice-the American girl over at the Hotel
  Beauhamais---what do you think we should do about her?"
 "Nothing."
 "Let her be played for an idiot?"
  "Just that," Duclos said. "It's better than having her dead, isn't it?"
  Put that way, it was. "Well, I'd better get back to the Saint-Honor6,"
  Partridge said, glancing at his watch.
 "Are you going to talk with Craig?"
  "If he hasn't already packed and left Paris in disgust." Partridge could
  guess Craig's view of the situation: we do nothing, while Berg walks around
  unarrested.
 'qhat would be a pity. As you said, he's a natural."
  He is more than that now, thought Partridge. Craig is a necessity. He has
  met both Wilshot and Bradley; he can identify Berg at one glance. And who
  else have we got who can make that claim? "We'll keep in touch. By
  telephone. I don't think we should meet again in Paris."
 114       HELEN MACINNES

  "You won't drop in at Le Happening tonight? We needn't meet. But you
  never know who may be drifting around there. Alex, for instance? And
  there are a couple of other men who have been making weekly visits behind
  stage. They're due to turn up this evening. So the coatroom attendant
  tells me.99
 "Have you talked much with her?" Partridge asked quickly.
  "No, no. Just a word in passing. Don't worry. She thinks I'm another
  policeman, one of her own crowd."
  "You know," Partridge began, and then stopped short. He wasn't only
  taking over Rosie's job, it seemed; he was taking over Rosie's
  supercaution. Anyway, Duclos had his own job to do for Bernard, and the
  night club had become part of their action. "Can I plan on your help in
  Mykonos, or will Bernard need you here?" he asked.
  "Plan on it," Duclos said with a wide grin. "I've always wanted to paint.
  Mimi, will you come as my model?" He caught up some opalescent silk from
  a display stand and draped its transparency around her shoulders.
  Partridge closed the door on their laughter. No picnic, Rosie had said.
  But Partridge was smiling as he straightened the CLOSED ON TuEsDAY
  notice. From what he had heard, Mimi at a picnic could be as dangerous
  as a sidewinder.
  Then he put thoughts, ideas, - guesses, worries out of his mind, and
  concentrated on his careful journey to the SaintHonor6.
 Partridge had been right about John Craig. That afternoon he decided to
 leave Paris and head for Rome and points east. Possibly tomorrow,
 Wednesday, marking a week exactly since he had arrived here and gone
 strolling along the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Almost a week since Sussman
 had died; almost a week for Heinrich Berg to walk around the streets of
 Paris, a completely free man enjoying his victory. What was Rosie doing,
 Partridge, Messieurs Galland and Tillier of the Sixi~me Arrondissement?
 What the hell was anyone doing?
  After an angry lunch, he tried to walk some of his bad temper away by
  marching at a good pace along the left bank of the Seine. He didn't stop
  at the bookstalls today. He didn!t even slow up for the comer of the Rue
  Bonaparte as he usually did when he passed this way. The girl was never
  in sight. Around this district he had passed hundreds of pretty girls,
  hundreds of students, singly, in groups, but she was never one of them.
  By half past three his temper was less ragged. He took a bus back across
  the Seine toward the Avenue de l'Op6ra, and walked on to the American Ex-
  press office. There was sunshine above, trees were now a brighter green.
  Spring clothes were venturing out, faces looked happy to be breathing
  gentler air. April was a resurgence, a welling of plans and hopes. And
  all he could feel was annoyance and disappointment mixed with incredible
  loneliness. Why, he thought suddenly, no one has stopped to speak to me
  or strike up an acquaintance in the last twenty-four hours. And at that,
  he had to smile at himself.
  He felt still better when he reached his destination and collected a nice
  assortment of travel folders. Rome, Brindisi, Corfu, Athens, Crete,
  Rhodes, Istanbul . . . Domes and towers, blue Wes and minarets, sunshine
  and rippling water;
                115
 116       HELEN MACINNES

 delightful exaggeration and a highly colored come-on? Even so, this was
 more like it. Now for some airline details, an enjoyable hour of decision,
 and then back to the hotel to pack.
  But, standing in the downstairs hall, studying a flight schedule for
  Rome, a crowd of young Americans around him opening letters they had just
  collected, he glanced up at a couple of long-haired jubilants pulling out
  their expected checks, and beyond them, now visible, now haff-hidden, now
  visible again, he saw the girl. Or was it? Quickly he pushed his way
  through the various small groups, some triumphant, some downcast,
  clustering together as if they were afraid of being alone, and almost
  reached the smooth dark head, the profile that he remembered. Then he
  halted, amazed at his speedy reaction; embarrassed, too. It was the girl,
  all right, a slender outline in gray suit and white silk shirt among the
  sloppy Joes and straggle-headed Janes flapping around in their uniform
  of beatnik conformity--dirty blue jeans and drooping sweaters, straight
  from the Rue de la Huchette. From her thin-heeled pumps to her softly
  brushed hair, she was quite remarkable. Simplicity. A distinction of
  taste, of quiet manners, of independence.
  He stood, hesitating. He could hardly go up and say, "Remember me?" He
  was the man who had witnessed her hurL Watching her now, he could realize
  how her tears, shed in public, would be an agonizing memory. He had been
  the invading stranger, someone she never wanted to see again.
  She was studying a list which she held in her hand, her face grave as she
  calculated and then relaxing a little as she came to some decision. As
  she slipped the piece of paper into her handbag, she glanced up as if she
  had actually felt him look at her. For a moment, her eyes widened. She
  had recognized him. Tben, just as abruptly, she averted her head and
  turned toward the door. He let her go. And I'll never get a second
  chance, he thought; luck doesn't run that way. He followed slowly, giving
  her plenty of time to escape from an unwelcome encounter.
  But as he came through the doorway into the gentle warm sunshine, she was
  standing there. Waiting. Looking toward him. Slightly uncertain, she took
  a step forward; then thought better of it. Does she think I don't want
  to meet her again? he wondered in amazement. This time, as she moved away
  with her head high, he caught up with her. "Hello,
           THE DouBLE ImAoE      117
 therel" he said, and stopped her completely. "Sorry for staring. I didn't
 think you'd recognize me."
  "And I wasnt sure that you remembered me." She smiled. "I wanted to.---I
  wanted to thank you."
  "Then come and have a drink with me." He glanced at his watch. "Or tea,
  or coffee, or something." My God, he thought, where has all my
  conversation gone to?
  "rm. meeting some people at half past four." She frowned at her own
  watch. "It isn't far, fortunately."
  "That gives us exactly ten minutes to get to know each other. Couldn't
  you be late? Or send despairing messages?"
 "Such as?" Her eyes were actually smiling.
 "Oh, that you're coming down with measles."
  She laughed, shook her head. "Mis is too important for me. You see, I'm
  running away." The laughter had vanished; her voice and eyes became
  expressionless.
 He stared at her. "Where are you meeting your friends?"
 "The Caf6 de la Paix."
 "I'll walk you there. If I may.,'
  "Of course." She started walking slowly, and he fell into pace. She
  glanced at the folders in his hand. "Are you leaving Paris, too?"
 "Tomorrow. At least, that was the plan."
  She took the folders and looked through them. "All these places? But how
  wonderfull"
  "I'm traveling until September. Getting material for a book."
 "On what?" She was genuinely interested.
  "Trade routes," he said, and waited for her comments. They weren't
  stupid. She didn't gush "How fascinatingl" She didn't take refuge in a
  blank "Ohl" She said, "I think we'd need more than ten minutes to hear
  about that. Are you an economist?"
 "Partly that, partly a historian."
 "Ancient history?"
  "Prying to learn something about it," he said with an at. tempt at
  diffidence.
  "Rhodes," she said softly. "I've always wanted to visit it. Do you know,
  in June, there's a valley filled with butterflies? They rise in a
  cloud----~" She smiled, handing him back the folders, checking her
  enthusiasm. "Of course, if the cloud was so thick that it blotted out
  everything, it might be more frightening than beautiful.",
 118       HELEN MACINNES

  "So you're leaving Paris, too," he said, wondering where she was going.
  Back to America?
  "For a little while." She added with painful frankness, "I think that's
  the best cure, don't you?"
  He thought of last Wednesday evening, of that long and unhappy quarrel.
  So she was still vulnerable, was she? "It usually works," he said
  briefly.
  "I'd have thought you would never run away from your emotions." She
  looked at him with new interest.
  "I guess we all do, at times." He stopped thinking of his own defeats.
  "And where are you bound for?"
       to
 "Mykonos.
  "That isn't so far from Rhodes. Perhaps you'll see your cloud of
  butterflies yet."
  She shook her head. "Ile budget won't stretch as far as that. I can just
  manage the fare to Mykonos and back I don't have to worry about hotel
  bills. I'm staying with a friend-a girl I know at art school here. Her
  uncle has tent her his house for the summer. It must be nice to have
  uncles like that."
  "Provided they stay in the background and don't arrange your days for
  you."
  "Oh, Maritta's uncle isn't going to be around much, if at all.99
  "Then it sounds perfect. How long will you actually stay with your Greek
  friend? I might be passing Mykonos in

 July---21
  "Greek? Maritta is French. Her father was Flemish, I think. Her second
  name is Maas. Anyway, she was born in Paris. But lots of French
  artists and writers go to Mykonos, YOU know."
 "You're going to paint?"
 "And relax."
 And forget, he thought. "How long---~' he began again.
  "Three weeks. I have to be back in Paris to finish MY classes."
  "You take them very seriously. More than your friend does."
  "Maritta doesn't have to take anything very seriously)" she said with
  a smile.
 "Ah, those rich uncles again."
 "There's only one, as far as I know. And not so rich,
            THE DouBLr, ImAGE    119

 really. He just knows how to spend the money he has. That's an art in
 itself, isn!t it?"
  "Wish I could afford it," he said with a grin. He saw the CaM de la Paix
  just ahead of them. He had passed this corner several times in the last
  few days, and it always reminded him of a bend in a river with several
  currents all jostling in perpetual motion. People rose from tables,
  people sat down at tables, people walked past on the narrow strip of
  sidewalk left to them, buses and cars poured in and out of seven
  tributaries to sweep around the Place de rOp6ra and gouge their way
  through the persistent streams of pedes~-trians. "This may hardly be the
  place," he said, raising his voice to be heard above the grinding gears
  and screeching brakes, "but doWt you think it's time we introduced our-
  selves? I'm John Craig."
 "And I'm Veronica Clark."
 "What!s your address, by the way?"
 "The Hotel Beauharnais."
  "Would you have---P A sad-faced woman, with a basket of posies for sale,
  stepped backward from a table and separated them. "Would you----~'
  "I see them," she said in a low voice. "Uncle Peter looks very solemn.
  Do you think he is wondering if I'll be a good influence on Maritta after
  all? How late are we?"
  "Mirty-five seconds." Craig looked over the tables, caught sight of a
  blonde girl with her hand upraised as a welcoming sign. "Are you afraid
  of him?" he asked, looking now at the square-faced, blunt-nosed man who
  sat, Spanish grandee fashion, beside her. He was middle-aged, heavily
  constructed, and very well dressed. Not that that meant a thing: the
  first three hundred dollars that any fly-by-night operator made seemed
  to go on a suit nowadays. I'm doing him an injustice, Craig thought; he
  looks a very solid citizen, indeed.
  "I don't know him. Maritta is a little nervous about him, though. He's
  very old-fashioned, she says." Veronica waved back to her friend.
  "Let me come and apologize for you." Tbirty-five seconds' worth of
  apology. He led her toward the table where the blonde and her tight-faced
  uncle waited. Maritta might be quite a handful at that, Craig decided,
  admiring the tiptilted nose, marking the expensively casual hair and the
  little black dress with its mink jacket. Green eyes, he noted, and a
  Warmly welcoming smile. "I'm sorry," he said, igno i in-
                              ring
 120       HELEN MACINNES

 troductions to prove he wasn't staying. "It's my fault. We met by
 accident. No, thank you'~-this to Maritta, who was pointing to the chair
 beside her--PI'm on my way. Miss Clark and I didn't quite finish our
 conversation." He pulled out a chair for Veronica, said to her quietly,
 "Would you have dinner with me tonight?"
 "I'd love to."
  "Oh, dear," Maritta said, "I'm leaving tomorrow, Ronnie. I thought we'd
  go over----~' She paused, looking at Craig with a dazzling smile of sweet
  apology. "I'm really so sorry."
  "Then well lunch tomorrow, instead," he told Veronica. "I'll call you in
  the morning?" He shook her hand. "Goodbye," with a bow for Green Eyes.
  "Good-bye, sir. Sorry to intrude." And that should hold the old bastard,
  he thought, turning to make a quick and efficient exit, bumping into the
  sad-faced flower girl again. Well, he thought now, as he left the tight
  rows of tables and waited for the traffic to stop so that be could cross
  the street, it's always the way; you wander around Paris for a week and
  never see her, and when you do meet her you are granted ten minutes and
  thirty-five seconds. But even two minutes and twenty-seven seconds would
  have been worth it.
  I Perhaps he wouldn't leave tomorrow. A few more days would be pleasant.
  The week of tensions and loneliness dropped away from him, and he strode
  down the avenue with as much zest and interest as if he were setting out
  for his first walk through Paris.

  When he came down to the hotel bar at six, showered, changed, and very
  much in his right mind, he found the small green room empty except for
  an Indian drinking orange juice and an Egyptian sipping lemonade. Jules'
  welcome was astoundingly warm. He rushed to mix a Scotch and soda, and
  his voice almost trembled as he confided that, today, two English ladies
  had come in demanding tea. With cake. Yesterday, there had been three
  American children wanting something called Cokes. Cokes, cakes and fruit
  drinks, Craig reflected, would convert Jules to tolerating heretics like
  himself who drank Scotch with ice and soda. It was not, Jules went on,
  that he disliked tea or those other drinks, except this room was not the
  place; it was an invasion of sacred rights, and he was not a cow to
  dispense milk. Besides, it drove away the real customers. And there's the
  rub, thought
           THE DouBLE IMAGE      121

 Craig, and drank his Scotch and seemed to listen. She was a quite
 remarkable girl. In the middle of that tourist and expatriate crowd in the
 American Express building, she had been unique among beehive hair styles
 and haystack heads. At the Caf6 de la Paix, she had made mink look
 negligible. He had known a lot of girls in the last fourteen years, some
 rather more than well. Two he had almost married. In every case, he had
 drifted into love before he had headed out, sometimes with regrets to
 remember, more often with frank relief. But drifted was the word; it had
 been a gradual thing of weeks, getting pleasanter and pleasanter until it
 seemed inevitable. That was love, he had thought. Love at first sight? He
 had never believed in it. He still didn't. ... Impossible. At his age? It
 was worse than impossible; it was silly.
  "Good evening, Jules," Jim Partridge said, sliding onto the stool next
  to Craig. "Hello, therel And how are you?"
  "Fe' eling my age. How are you?" He looks exhausted, Craig thought.
  Business must have been hard today.
  Partridge was studying the younger man with amusement. "Is that what's
  making you so happy and scared?"
  "What?" Damn it all, I'm not so transparent as that. Or has Partridge got
  a gadget for thought-reading as well as one for listening to
  conversations across a room? Craig shook his head and laughed.
  "Glad to see you in a better mood than I expected,' Partridge said
  softly. "Make it a double Martini, tonight,' he told Jules in a cheerful
  voice. "Found a couple of good chairs today, authentic Louis Fifteenth,
  with some of the original tapestry still on them. A little careful
  cleaning and cautious repairs and we've really got something."
  "Better mood?" Craig echoed, suddenly remembering the recriminations he
  had worked up over lunch today. "I've a few complaints-Y
  "That's right," Partridge said smoothly. "Let's. get the dust out of my
  throat, first, shall we? And what about resting our backs in a
  comfortable chair?" He took a sip of his drink, gave Jules his approval,
  and led the way to a table against a wall. He sat down with visible
  relief, took off his glasses, looked ten years younger and gave a grin
  to match. "Are you doing anything this evening? I'm at a loose end
  myself. What about dinner together, in some nice quiet little place not
  too far away? That will save time."
 122       HELEN MACINNES

 "Suits me. I've a lot to say. And the quicker, the better."
 "How soon do you feet like eating?"
 "Any time. I didn't have much lunch, today."
  And I had none at all, thought Partridge. "Fine. We'll shock the French
  but we'll get a dining room to ourselves. Just let me finish this drink
  gratefully. Have another, won!t you?"
  Craig shook his head. All he wanted was a subdued corner in that quiet
  dining room. Still, he was going to be given at least some time with
  Partridge, so he might as well look cheerful meanwhile and talk politely.
  Partridge didn't hurry. He smoked a cigarette as he finished his drink
  at normal speed, and listened to Craig. I'll have to remember, Partridge
  told himself, how little he knows. IT have to try to put myself in his
  place, forget everything I've discussed with Rosie and Bernard and Duclos
  and -Chris Holland in these last six days; forget everything I've read
  in those last months, every clue, guess, inference, deduction, fact. All
  he knows is that Heinrich Berg is a Nazi, the kind who would be none the
  worse of a hanging. All he knows is that Berg has friends whove given him
  a hard time this week. All he knows is that Berg walks free, and
  Sussman's murder is being called suicide. That is all he knows. Good God,
  where do I begin to talk with him? And how much could he stand? How much
  is safe-for him, for us?
  "You've really been very patient," Partridge said, finishing his drink
  at last. "Look, can I borrow ten more minutes from you? I need to wash
  up. Came straight from the street. I'll admit I was anxious in case you
  had left Paris. And I wouldn't have blamed you, either." He drew out his
  wallet, riffled through some business cards and a snapshot of a girl in
  a bathing suit, found a small photograph and handed it over to Craig.
  "Recognize your friend?"
  Craig, completely disarmed by this time, took it with the same easy smile
  with which it had been presented to him. It was a small study in
  truculence, unflattering enough to be a police photograph. The man
  staring back at him under the sharp lighting was young, fair-haired. He
  wore a belted raincoat. In the picture, the raincoat was dry. Apart from
  that, it was the man who had rushed from the caf6 to follow Sussman.
 "Thought that would keep you happy, meanwhile," Par-           THE DOUBLE IMAGE      123

 tridge murmured, taking the photograph back as he rose.
 "Who got him?"
  "Galland and Tillier, of course. Strictly police business. See you in ten
  minutes? I'll meet you at the comer of the street." Partridge made his
  way leisurely out of the bar, which was now beginning to have a few more
  customers. To his practiced eye, they all seemed reasonable people. No
  pore Jordans swooping down on Craig, anyway. Once out into the lobby and
  past the observant porter, he increased his speed. Ten minutes weren!t
  so long, considering he had to make his usual evening phone check with
  Bernard's office. Not that Bernard's man could have had many worries
  trailing Craig today: suspicion was off him, thank heavens. But it was
  wise to keep a finger on the pulse; in this line of business anything
  could happen.

  The restaurant was about two blocks' walking distance from the Rue
  Saint-Honor6. It lay at the junction of several small streets lined with
  newly built butcher shops. Nearby was a giant, smoothly surfaced square
  almost filled with the solid bulk of a huge garage. As they skirted it,
  Partridge had looked at it without much enthusiasm. "You'd never believe
  it," he said, breaking his long silence, "but only four years ago this
  was one of the old Paris markets. Open stalls, cobblestones,
  sixteenth-century houses as background. It used to amuse me to find all
  that tucked away behind bright avenues and smart shops. Let's hope
  progress hasn't dolled up our restaurant with chrome and steam tables."
  But the restaurant had insisted on keeping its own character. And it was
  good. Not expensive. Just good. Craig relaxed completely.
  The room, almost empty at this early hour, was pleasant and placid. The
  waiters, old as the furniture, knew'how to retire into the background as
  soon as they had served the food. The corner which Partridge had chosen
  was lit just enough to let one see what one was eating. The leather backs
  on the chairs, padded and buttoned, were comfortable. This, decided
  Craig, was the kind of place people could talk. He waited expectantly,
  but Partridge again was in no hurry. He seemed contented with
  lighthearted quips through the main course, but Craig had the feeling
  that he was paying as little attention to the general gossip as he was
  to the excellent lamb chops and asparagus on his plate. Behind his
 124       HELEN MACINNES

 easy words was a thoughtfulness. He had been Me this ever since he had come
 down from his room at the SaintHonor6 and joined Craig with a nod and a
 searching glance. Those ten minutes upstairs had produced something more
 than a clean shirt, a fresh tie, and neatly brushed hair. And what's wrong
 now? Craig wondered. "You know," he said as the coffee was served, "I hope
 that route we took along the Rue Saint-Honor6 to get here wasn't symbolic.
 In the days of the Terror, it was the main drag for the tumbrils on their
 way to the guillotine." He dropped his light tone, let some of his rising
 annoyance show. "Whose neck is going to get chopped this time?" he demanded.
 What had happened to that trust Partridge had seemed to feel in him earlier
 this evening? If any reproof is in order here, thought Craig, ifs mine to
 give, not to take.
  "You* can begin with my neck," Partridge said evenly. "You've got a few
  cutting remarks to make, I bet."
  "And you'd win it. Sure, the murderer has been caught, but what about the
  man who gave him orders to murder? Yes, Berg. I saw him yesterday. He
  walked right past me. And I had no number to phone, nobody to warn. I got
  back to the Saint-Honor6, practically exploding with the news, and I
  couldn't even talk to you."
  "That was just as well," Partridge said very quietly. "There was one of
  Berg's agents watching you, at that very minute. They've been tailing you
  ever since last Thursday morning. But so have we. Now, go on: you've got
  every right to complain. You've had it rough, and we didn't seem to be
  doing much, did we? It was a difficult situation, and you handled it well.
  I'll say that for you."
  Craig could only stare. Grouches were not so easily registered when you
  were told they were thoroughly justified, even expected. Compliments added,
  too. "What's this about having me followed?"
  "Protection. Just in case a car knocked you down and its passengers wanted
  to take you to the hospital. Or in case a man grasped your wrist, told you
  he had instructions to bring you to see Detectives Galland and Tillier and,
  when the needle in your wrist made you black out, helped you most kindly
  into a waiting car. Little things like that. Troublesome. So some
  self-effacing Frenchmen have been keeping an eye on you, ready to rush to
  the rescue. Now, now, don't look so startled. We think that phase is all
  over. In fact, this
           THE DouBLE IMAGE      125

 afternoon we were quite sure that Berg had no more interest in you. But
 one thing does puzzle me-2'
  "I haven't finished," Craig cut in. "You mean you knew about my second
  meeting with Berg?"
 "We had reports on it."
 "And you didn't follow him?"
 "Lees say we weren't geared for that."
  '7ell me one thing." Craig leaned forward on his elbows. His eyes were
  cold and skeptical. "Do you want to catch Berg?"
  Partridge looked at the tightly pressed lips, the hard-set jaw. Craig
  could be a tough customer if he chose. "Yes. We'll catch him, and a lot
  more besides."
  "Well what's being done about it? Don't you think you owe me a holding
  explanation at least? In return for handling certain difficult
  situations? rd like a little more than some sugar-coated approvall Sweet
  suffering----~'
  "Take it easy, pal. We are allowed to have some serious after-dinner
  conversation in a public restaurant, but not to frighten the waiters out
  of their shirt fronts."
 "Sorry." But there was no retreat in the quieted voice.
  "You know, I agree with every word you say. Only, I do see things from
  a different angle, from a different set of facts."
 "Of course," said Craig, coldly.
  "I was prepared to give you one or two of them. rd want to know them, if
  I were you. But----"
 "That's right. There's always a but."
 "You could clear it away."
 "ITS
  Partridge's light tone changed to sudden attack. "This afternoon you
  talked with a man at the Caf6 de la Paix. VVhy1?29
 "Why? For Christ's sake--I just went Craig
 stopped shorL "How did you know about that? Oh, I see.
 One of those self-effacing Frenchmen, again?"
  Partridge relaxed a little. Craig hadn't denied it, and that at least was
  a good start on this difficult topic. "You really had us all puzzled, and
  in our job it isn't really pleasant to be puzzled about friends. You see,
  one of our agents snapped a picture of that table just as a flower vendor
  ran some interference for him. It made a nice diversion."
 126      HELEN MACINNES

  "He took a photograph?" Craig hadn't seen even a Minox camera around.
  "How?"
 "He lit a cigarette."
  "I didn't even notice anyone doing that," Craig admitted ruefully.
 "Good. You weren't meant to."
  "Have you been photographing me all over Paris?" Craig was sharp-voiced
  again.
  "Only when you met someone. You don't know how useful it has been to a
  friend of mine at the Vxet6 who collects photographs and drawings for his
  file on subversives. In fact, he has the best file on Communists, French
  or otherwise, who have been active in France. You've added two to his
  collection in the last few days. And perhaps you could even help with
  some added information about a third-the man at the table. Yes, he's on
  file, too. He worked in Paris four years ago, then went back to Moscow.
  Now, judging from the photograph, he's returned to France. What's the
  name he is using, nowadays?"
  Craig could only sit staring at the quiet face opposite him. "Communists
  ... I begin to see why you're so damned slow to take an interest in Berg.
  A Nazi isn't worth bothering about when a Communist can be caught," he
  said bitterly. "Is that it?"
 Partridge only shook his head.
 IT17hat are you trying to tell me?" Craig demanded.
  "I've already told you. I said we would catch Berg-and a lot more
  besides."
  There was a pause. "A Nazi working with Communists?" Craig's disbelief
  was clear.
  "You're getting close. I knew you would, once you started using your
  brain instead of your emotions. Actually, Berg never was a Nazi, except
  for show. And he did it very well, according to reports. He was said to
  be such a virulent Nazi that he embarrassed some neutralists, 1943
  brand-P6tainists-who met him in Berlin; and they did not embarrass
  easily."
  "I'm so damned stupid," Craig said softly. Berg's agents had been
  following him, accosting him, hadn't they? Beres agents were being
  photographed for the Communist Me at the Siftret& Therefore Berg had to
  be a Communist or else the Sfiret6 was completely crazy. His face
  tightened. "Is the man at the Caf6 de la Paix another of Beres?"
           THE DouELE IMAGE      127

  "We don't know that. We only know that he is a trained GRU agent, holding
  the rank of colonel. That's big stuff, let me tell you. What is he
  pretending to be?"
  "What's Veronica getting into?" Craig asked, lost in his own worries. "Good
  God, whaes she getting into?"
 "Veronica?" Partridge was remarkably still.
  "Yes, the girl I was with-Veronica Clark. The darkhaired one----7'
  "I haven't seen the photograph, just heard about it," Partridge told him.
  "There was a fair-haired girl at the table, too. Who was she?"
  "Maritta Maas, a friend of Veronica's. They're art students. Look, Jim----"
  Craig discovered he was almost desperate"Veronica's in the clear. She can't
  be----"
 'T*7ho was the man?" Partridge's quite voice insisted.
  "Uncle Peter. Maritta's Uncle Peter. I didn't wait for an introduction. The
  only reason I was at that table, frankly, was to finish my invitation to
  dinner. I was asking Veronica---~'
  "Peter . . ." Partridge took a deep breath. "So he was looking her over,"
  he said softly.
  Craig's face hardened. "You know, I believe you are crazy. You and your
  friend at the Sfirct6 with his little catalogue of faces. He thinks a man
  at the table looks something like a man in his ffiesl Is he positive? Why,
  he didn't even know the name of the man at the table, did he? Just a
  likeness, that's all. You're pouring an awful lot of heavy concrete on top
  of clay. I saw Maritta-a pretty little nitwit, gay, charming. The man was
  her uncle, too. I tell you----~'
 'Tvrhich uncle? The one who has the house on Mykonos?"
 Craig froze.
  "And let me be still crazier. Maritta has invited Veronica Clark to visit
  her on Mykonos?"
 Craig could only stare, and nod.
  "Then here's the craziest news of all. Dear, gay and charming Maritta knows
  very well what her uncle is. She doesn't know his real name, of course, she
  doesn!t know who he is; but she knows what he is.,,
 "Veronica?" Craig asked slowly.
 "She knows nothing at all."
 "Why did they invite her?"
  "Not out of the kindness of their hearts," Partridge told him. "How well do
  you know the girl? And that's not a casual question. Tell me the details."
 128      HELEN MACINNES
  Craig, unwilling but troubled enough to take a hint, did just that.
  "So you know her only casually," Partridge said when Craig had ended the
  brief story of their two meetings. "At least," he corrected himself,
  "that's how it would appear to most people." If I hadn't been watching
  Craig's face for the last ten minutes, I'd have called it casual, myself.
  "You know that they must have questioned her about you. I wish I could have
  seen Peter's face when she told him your name."
  "How would he recognize it?" asked Craig, and brought Partridge up sharply.
  "You called yourself stupid," Partridge said, covering up his mistake, "but
  I think you're too, damned quick. Let's call it a crazy guess."
  "I'm getting a little leery of that adjective," Craig admitted with a wry
  grin. But he wasn't going to be sidetracked. He came back to his question
  about Uncle Peter. "How would he-"
  "Now the problem is this," Partridge ran on. "Will they believe you are
  just a casual acquaintance of Veronica's? Or will they think you're
  possibly a dangerous character after all-one of our agents, perhaps, using
  Veronica to trap them? No, I don't think they will. . . . You didn't
  exactly force yourself on them; you paid little attention to them. Good.
  They'll possibly still want her out there on Mykonos-she's perfect for
  them, from what you tell me. Why, even you accepted Maritta because
  Veronica was her friend'. Yes, perfect. So-~'
  "You aren't letting Veronica go to Mykonos?" Craig interrupted. "You
  can't."
 "I can. And must. What else?"
 "Warn her."
 "Row?"
  Craig finished his last glass of wine. It tasted as bitter as his thoughts.
  "I can see no way," he admitted. Expect a girl to listen to a stranger,
  like Partridge, telling her he was saving her from Maritta? Or to listen to
  me? "She'd think we were---~' he half smiled, in spite of his
  worry---~'crazy.%f
  "You just can't warn people by telling them a little," Partridge agreed. As
  I've found out, he thought. What would Rosie have done? he wondered. Told
  Craig as much? Yet compared to what Rosie and he knew, Craig had been told
  very littl%
           THE DouBLE ImAoE      129

 "IT go to Mykonos," Craig decided. "I'll be there, at least.,, "To keep
 an eye on her or for your own peace of mind?" "A little of each."
 Partridge laughed. Then shook his head, and fell silent
 "What's the joker
 "Me, you, and me again."
 "Don't you want me to go to Mykonos?"
  Partridge took a very long and deep breath. This evening, on his
  roundabout journey back from Mimi's shop, he had racked his brains for
  a reasonable approach to Craig on the !ubject of Mykonos; he had thought
  of every possible objection that might be made-this isn't my business,
  rve a book to write, I've got just so much time and money, I hadn't
  planned on Mykonos, why the hell do you have to drag me into this, why
  the hell can't you take peaceful coexistence at its face value and stop
  rocking the boat, a plague on both your houses, there's not much
  difference between You and Them, so why expect me to get excited? (It
  wasn!t that the amateurs were so much a responsibility, as he had said
  to Rosie, but that they were such damned wearisome arguers with
  prejudgments popping up all over the place like the dragon's teeth in
  Colchis.) And suddenly, determinedly, no argument brooked, Craig had
  said, "I'll go to Mykonos." Partridge studied the tablecloth.
 "Because," finished Craig, "I'm going in any case."
  "Well-P Partridge hesitated, made a good effort at being uncertain.
  "I have a perfectly good excuse. Old trade-routes Craig. You see, the
  island of Delos can only be reached from, Mykonos, unless you have a
  private yacht and can cruise around in your own good time. Delos is a
  collection of ruins now; no one lives there. But once it was pretty
  important in the struggle for power between Persians and Greeks, Asia
  Minor and Rome. It was a control point for a lot of trade, believe me.
  So, I've added Delos to my list. And I'll have to stay in Mykonos.
  Simple."
 "There's only one way you could do this with safety."
 "How's that?"
  "Let us supply some people to keep a close eye on you. There will be
  several Americans, perhaps a couple of French, and-of course-Greeks. It's
  their country, afterall."
  "Are you recruiting mer And,into what branch of Intelfigence? Craig
  wondered. The FBI have liaison agents abroad,
 130       HELEN MACINNES
 co-operating with foreign police and security departments. But this
 operation sounds more to me like something involving either G2 or the CIA.
 Or perhaps there is some new outfit I haven't even heard of. Still,
 Partridge is Rosie's man -there is no doubt about that. And there is no
 doubt, too, that Rosie is completely authentic and reliable or else I
 wouldn't have been commended to his charge by my most discreet and
 knowledgeable brother-in4aw. "Are you?" Craig repeated, restraining his
 amusement as he watched Partridge's blank face.
  "Good heavens, no. Although, of course, as well as keepmg an eye on
  Veronica, and giving yourself some peace of mind, and studying trade
  routes, you perhaps possibly just could-do something for Uncle Sam? In the
  odd free moments, of course."
  "Is that irony, sarcasm, or just smooth operation? All right. What can I do
  for you?"
  "You are one of the few people in this world who could recognize Heinrich
  Berg."
  Craig's joking stopped. "Will he be thereT' he asked, his eyes narrowing.
  "Perhaps. You'd know, anyway, wouldn't you? Certainly, his associates will
  be there. Maritta, for one."
  "So," Craig said slowly, the light dawning at last at the end of the long
  dark tunnel, "Uncle Peter knows Berg, and that's how he heard my name
  before Veronica ever mentioned it to him. You could have told me. Why
  didn't you?"
  "Everything in its place and proper time," Partridge said gently.
  Craig smiled and wondered how much else he might have to learn in its
  proper place and time. "You'll keep me informed, won't you?" he asked, his
  smile broadening into a grin. "When it is suitable, of course."
  "Of course," Partridge assured him, wide-eyed, innocent. "When do you leave
  Paris?"
 "Any day. I thought I'd go to Italy first."
  "Then avoid Milan. In fact, you could postpone Italy altogether-meanwhile.
  Try Athens. Stay at the Grande Bretagne; then we know where to reach you
  easily. By the beginning of May, be in Mykonos. Plan on two weeks there.
  We'll book your hotels, and leave the reservations in your name at the
  American Express in Athens. We'll pay for them."
           THE DouBLE IMAGE     131

  "No need," Craig interjected sharply. When had Partridge thought out all
  this flow of instructions?
  I bet there is, too, decided Partridge. "We'll book, anyway. Have to know
  where all our friends and helpers are in place, you know. There's some
  planning to do, so well call this a day, shall we? I'll see you tomorrow
  evening. In the bar, as usual. And you can tell me how Veronica couldn't
  lunch with you." He smiled briefly at Craig's disbelief. "Just another of
  those crazy notions, of course, but don't count on being allowed to meet
  her. That is, if her invitation to Mykonos is still valid."
 "And if they have canceled her invitation-then what?"
 '6 Then you can't go, either."
 "I still could use the Delos excuse."
  Partridge studied Craig: a reliable face, bright intelligence in the eyes
  and brow, strength in the mouth, a firm jaw line; a body kept in good
  condition, no flabbiness there, either. Partridge shook his head
  regretfully. "If they are so suspicious of you that they cancel her visit,
  then you're not going."
 "If I'm willing to risk
  Partridge shook his head again. It was quite final. "Sorry," he said. And
  he meant it. His hand went up to summon the waiter and pay the bill.
  "Okay?" he asked as he prepared to rise. He had a hard evening ahead of
  him.
  "Think I've got it all straight And if Veronica doesn't go, then I forget
  everything."
  "Exactly." As Partridge led the way to the door, he turned his head to say
  very quietly, a smile in his usually serious eyes, "And I hope you don't
  talk in your sleep."
 intu
 Craig returned to the hotel alone. Partridge had pointed him in the
 direction of the Avenue de l'Op6ra, from where he could easily strike
 toward home by well-known, welllighted routes. Partridge, himself, had
 vanished into a dark street of closed butcher shops. It was scarcely nine
 o'clock. Early for Craig to go up to his room, but he was tired of the
 cosy little bar downstairs, of the same old faces and the same light
 chitchat around him. Besides, he had quite a number of thoughts to set in
 order. The place for that was upstairs in his dull bedroom, with no one
 else's clinking glass or braying laughter to catch his attention. He was
 far from antisocial-his life was one long struggle to get his work done
 in spite of friends and the new Italian movie around the comer-but there
 were times when people blotted out thought. Perhaps that was what was so
 beguiling about them: a kind of sweet forgetting about the realities, a
 reassurance of freedom from anxiety as long as they all gathered together
 and joked their troubles away.
  He picked up his key and a letter from Sue at the porter's desk. There
  was also a verbal message from the punctilious porter, himself, delivered
  with his usual lugubriousness. There had been a telephone call for Craig,
  a lady's voice, no name. That was all. "When?" asked Craig. "Five minutes
  ago," the porter said and, his duty done, turned to sorting out keys for
  the pigeonholes behind his desk.
  It couldn't have been Veronica, Craig decided, as he
 crossed the worn carpet and entered the gilded cage of the
 elevator. He hadn't had time to give her his address. So who
 was it? It didn't matter much, if no name had been left. He
 forgot about it as soon as he opened Sue's letter and was
 caught up in her effervescent style. Cheerful as usual, of
                132
            Tim DouBLE ImAoE     133
 course, hiding disquiet behind natural optimism. George was going to be in
 Washington for some time. News of his arrest in Moscow had been leaked,
 somehow, and had even reached a newspaper column, which made a new post
 abroad difficult-what foreign government wanted some?ne who had been
 publicly labeled as a spy to be stationed in its capital? Once a charge like
 that appeared in print, it became awkward to handle and difficult to ignore.
 It didn!t matter if-in George's words-it was a god-damned lie. The He was
 read, while the denial was ignored. "So," wrote Sue, "that's how a careless
 journalist can ruin the entire career of someone who has done more for his
 country than ever he has done with his little typewriter." However (the word
 was heavily underlined, as if to cheer herself up), this otherwise quiet
 stay in Washington might be the chance to start raising a family. She had
 had two miscarriages in Moscow, but the doctor now said she was absolutely
 fine, and so wasn't that wonderful? There had been some talk of poor
 Professor Sussman's suicide, too, even on the ffight over the Atlantic. Such
 a small world, wasn!t it, with so many unexpected people knowing everyone
 else? Father seemed much better and would visit them in June, when they
 hoped to have some air conditioning installed in their new Georgetown
 apartment. Take care and good luck.
  I'll need both, he thought, as he dropped the letter on top of his dresser.
  As he took off his jacket and tie, and undid the top button of his shirt,
  he was wondering how, exactly, George's story had "been leaked." Purposely,
  of course. Sue's phrase told him that. But by whom? He could guess the
  reason behind the planted rumor; George's career was being spiked. How many
  other Georges were there, anyway, saying nothing, swallowing their
  disappointments, covering up the wounds they had received in the hidden
  war? And Sue-strange how people could keep silent about their personal
  tragedies. Two miscarriages . . . Good God, he thought, and I used to tease
  her about the time she was taking to produce a nephew for Christmas. Yes,
  people were surprising in the way they could disguise their feelings; or
  their thoughts; or even their actions. Never, in fact, underestimate
  anybody. A historian shouldn't need to be reminded of that. He had three
  thousand years of human examples, taking his choice from any century, which
  could amazeor shock. Nothing that actually happened could be called
 134     HELIEN MACINNES

 unbelievable nonsense, no matter how fantastic it appeared. I ought to have
 remembered that, he told himself, when I listened to Sussman.
  And if Sussman had not died, would he have listened to Rosie, to Partridge?
  Craig pulled the one chair closer to a small table, sat down, propped up
  his legs, began to go over in his mind all the facts, the hints, the
  suggestions that Partridge had given him. Heinrich Berg was not so
  astonishing once you thought about him in cold blood: a hidden Communist
  who openly joined the Nazi party. There had been at least one other man
  like Berg; now let's see, what was that guy's nameRichard Sorge? Sorge; the
  German-born Soviet spy who had been a trusted Nazi in the German Embassy in
  Tokyo during the Second World War. He had let Moscow know about Pearl
  Harbor in advance, too. Yes, that was something that needed remembering. .
  . .
  There had been other men like Berg in those recent years, all shaping
  history in their own way. History wasn't just a record of wars and peace
  conferences; history was a long and bitter story of intrigue and grab, of
  hidden movements and determined leaders, of men who knew what they wanted
  manipulating men who hadn't one idea that anything was at stake: the
  innocent and the ignorant being used according to someone else's plan. But
  every now and again, the plan would fail. Because people could be
  surprising, too, in their resistance--once they knew what was actually
  happening. Once they knew. But before they knew? Then we have men like
  Partridge, he thought, or else we could lose.
  And why did Partridge trust me? After all, I could be another Sorge,
  another Berg, waiting for my chance to infiltrate. How is he sure that I'm
  not a Soviet agent? We have our share of them in America. The British and
  Swedish and French varieties have been grabbing the headlines recently, but
  we've got them, too. And I could be one of them A sleeper, they'd call me
  in the trade. Partridge isn't trusting me for my honest gray eyes; or the
  books I'm planning to write; or the friends I have chosen. He isn't judging
  me on these things, not by a long, long mile. They could be part of the
  myth I was busy creating for myself. Then why?
  It could be-yes, it could be that he knows a little of my life, enough of
  it to give him a measuring gauge. The
           THE DouBLE ImAGE      135
 army must have done some work on putting my history together when I was
 cleared for codes in Korea. But there was college after that, graduate work,
 teaching. . . . Yet there haven't been any unexplained gaps in that span of
 my life which could have been used for indoctrination or training. No
 unaccountable visits to strange places, no disappearances from public view
 for a few weeks each year. No peculiar hiatus there, or a jump here; no
 special introductions into sensitive jobs, no help from outside sources.
 Whatever I've attempted, I've done on my own steam; there have been a few
 almost-suocesses, a lot of failures, but they are all my own.
  Now a man like Berg cannot function alone. He gets a lot of assistance on
  his way up: the right recommendation to slip him into certain jobs, the
  right changes and promotions made with quiethelp, always moving him closer
  to the center of power or-just as important for his purposes-to the centers
  of influence. And those who help the Bergs. in this world to infiltrate
  have helped others like him, too. That's their purpose, their justification
  for existing. Yes, if I were in Partridges field, I'd be interested in
  recommendations. Because anyone can make a mistake in recommending a man
  for a job, but no one can go on making recommendations that somehow always
  turn out to be against his own country's interests. Unless he is, of
  course, just that-against -his own country's interests. If challenged, he
  will give that selfjustification routine-who is to judge his country's
  interests? Meaning himself and his friends, no doubt There are some who
  just can't resist playing God. And if you argue back that a country is a
  collection of people, not just him and his group, you'd be told that things
  weren't quite so simple as that. Simple? Ies the majority that still counts
  if a country is free to decide its own interests. It may be a bad decider
  at times, slow and uncertain and blundering, but it does the deciding. It
  is in control. And that is the first of all 'its interests. None higher ...
  Attack that, and you attack all of us. Including me. Simple? So are bread
  and water, rain and sun. The basics come first, then the elaborations.
  Anyway, theres the reason that I met Jim Partridge halfway tonight. And
  perhaps his reason for trusting me is just as simple and basic: he has to.
  Of course, Partridge's trust wasn't excessive. I already knew about Berg-as
  the Nazi, at least; I knew there was an

            I
 136       HELEN MACINNES
 organization behind him, and a hell of a time some of them gave me. I knew
 Veronica was going to Mykonos before he did--correction: before he told me
 about it. And I might as well admit that the idea of drifting into Mykonos,
 one pleasant morning in May, was already circling around the back of my
 mind. (les no farther away from Athens than East Hampton or Stonington from
 New York-perhaps less; weekend distance, easily. I've even traveled more
 than that for a weekend of skiing.) So Partridge only entrusted me with a
 little more than I already knew, perhaps to keep me from guessing wildly and
 blundering into the kind of situation where even professionals fear to
 tread. Certainly theres a lot more to this picture than I am allowed to see.
 I may be told more when I reach Athens, more again on Mykonos. That depends
 on how I perform, I expea Or, more likely, on what Jim Partridge needs of
 me. I have few illusions about Partridge, just as he has none about me.
  Craig rose, found his map of Greece and the Aegean, spread it out on the
  table. In spite of his determination to look at this assignment coldly, as
  a student of history-in-themaking, his mind was alert and excited, his
  blood pressure rising. By God, he thought, I could enjoy this line of work.
  Then he laughed at himself.

  There was a gentle rap on his door. Craig glanced at his watch; it was
  almost midnight. "What is it?" he called, but there was no answer, just
  another gentle rap. So he pushed aside the table, crossed the room in five
  steps, wondering why the porter's desk hadn't telephoned the message
  instead of sending it upstairs at this hour. He had the tip ready in his
  hand as he opened the door. Maritta Maas smiled at him.
  "May 12" she asked, already inside the room, leaving a drift of perfume as
  she passed by. "Hotel corridors are so depressing. Don't you agree?" She
  turned to look at him, her head tilted just a little, her green eyes
  dancing with amusement.
  He closed the door, smiling back. "I'm sure I'd agree with anything you
  said."
 "That's very gallant."
 "I can do better when I'm less surprised."
 "I love to give surprises."
 "Just like Santa Claus," he said, helping her off with her
           THE DouBLE ImAGF      137

 white silk coat. That was what she wanted, seemingly. The black dress was
 short, slender, sleeveless, low-necked.
  "Oh2" She was puzzled for an instant. Then she laughed. "I hope I'm
  prettier than he is."
 "I think you have the edge."
  Again she frowned. "You know, if you speak that way you will have to
  translate for me. Why don't Americans speak Engiishr,
  "Because they aren't English, I suppose. But they usually speak American
  fairly well. Have this chair. It's more comfortable than it looks.
  Cigarette?" He was recovering himself. "Or would you like to go down to the
  bar and have a drink there?"
 "It is much too crowded. I want to talk to you. Seriously."
 "That's going to be difficult."
  She had looked around the room before she sat down, noticing the
  half-packed suitcase, the travel folders scattered over the bed, the
  guidebook to Greece and the map on the small table. Her glance swept back
  to him. "Why?"
  "Look at you," he suggested. She might start by pulling the tight skirt
  down over her knees, unpointing her slender shoes, uncrossing the elegantly
  posed legs, if she wanted any serious talk.
 "Do you say such things to Ronnie, too?"
  "No," he said frankly. And how cosy we are with Veronica's name, so natural
  and easy and amiablel Just a sweet old dependable, that was friend Maritta.
  "Then am I being Battered or insulted?" She laughed to take any offense
  away from her words.
  Playful, he thought. That's the word for Maritta. As playful as a
  green-eyed panther, He stared at her-the passing thought was so exactly
  right.
  "No, no, no," she said, misreading the stare. "I am flattered. I cannot
  imagine you insulting anybody."
 "T'hen let's begin all over again."
  "And we should introduce ourselves properly. Maritta Genevi6ve Maas."
 "John Craig."
 "That's all?"
 4GAll.tv
  "You disappeared so quickly today, without waiting for any introductions-"
  Her voice trailed away, her hands gestured in regret.
 138       HELEN MACINNES

  "I only came to apologize for keeping Veronica late, and after that-well,
  I didn't want to intrude."
 "You are so politel"
  "Americans have occasional attacks of politeness," he -admitted, and had
  her laughing again. Did she really think that was funny, or was she trying
  some flattery, too?
  Suddenly she was serious. "I'm a little-troubled. What did you think of
  Ronnie, todayT'
 "A charming girl.99
 "No, no-I mean, did you see much difference in her?"
 "Difference from whatr'
 "From the time you used to know her. In America."
  "I didn't know her in America. I don't really know her at all."
 "But you asked her to dinner-like an old friend."
  "On the contrary. I asked her to dinner to get to know her better."
  Maritta was completely and delightfully embarrassed. "Oh, I am sorry!
  Ronnie spoke so much of you this evening that I thought you were old, old
  friends."
  Somehow he was reminded of the question-and-answer game played by Jordan
  last Saturday. He might as well hurry the process along, give her all the
  information she was looking for. Veronica must have talked very little, if
  at all, about him; that was clear. "I wish we were. Actually, that's been
  one of the disappointments in Paris-no friends of any description. Funny,
  isn't it? I'm on the point of leaving, and so I meet someone I like. Two
  people, in fact: both girls, both pretty." He looked at Maritta with frank
  admiration, and won what could have been a real smile. "That's the way it
  goes, I suppose," he added regretfully.
  "But how awful-to have walked around Paris all alonel No one to talk to ...
  That couldn't have been very enjoyable. it
  "No. But very educational. Oh, there was an old lady who was looking for
  the right Mitro, and a student who wanted a scholarship, and an American
  who spoke to me at the bar downstairs, and Jules the bartender, and a man
  in a bookshop, and a--2'
  "Next time you visit Paris, you must let us know when you are coming. Will
  you?"
 "Will W' he asked, and laughed.
           THE DouBLE IMAGE      139

  She was very amused about something. "My uncle-I suppose Ronnie told you
  all about him?"
  "No. We had scarcely time to talk about families. She just mentioned that
  an uncle had lent you a house for the summer, and she was going to spend a
  few weeks with you. Nice deal, if you can get it." Then he looked as if a
  new idea had just dawned. "Didn't she like your uncle? Is that what's
  bothering you about Veronica?"
  "No, no, no," she said quickly, "I was only thinking that my uncle would be
  very shocked if he heard that Ronnie had-what do you say?-picked you up. It
  really is a joke, you know. She is supposed to chaperone me on Mykonos."
  "I couldn't imagine you needing that," he said with a wide grin. "And
  anyway, it wasn't so much a matter of anyone being picked up. It was a very
  wet night, about a week ago. I had a taxi, she hadn't. It was a case either
  of giving her first rights on the cab, or of keeping my suit dry. I did
  both: I gave her a lift for the few blocks she had to go. Thank you and
  good night. That was all."
  "And you didn't ask her to dinner? What were you thinking of, John?" Her
  eyes were wide, teasing.
  "Yes," he admitted, "I slipped up there. I might have found Paris less
  educational. Do you know how many museums you have? Forty-nine. And how
  many----~'
 "Are you never seriousT'
  "As rarely as possible. But I'll make an effort. You were troubled, you
  said?"
  "I suppose you intend to see her againT' Maritta's eyes flickered toward
  the map of the Aegean and then met his.
  "I hope I'll see both of you. I have to visit Delos, so I'll be dropping in
  at Mykonos some time or other." He let her eyes hold his. And he could
  sense that it had been the right thing to say. Not just to speak casually
  of Mykonos, but to include Maritta in his hopes. She liked to play, this
  girl, and she would never play second lead to any other girl. In some ways,
  she reminded him of a few he had known back in New York.
  "Then I should warn you. Be careful with Ronnie. I mean ---she takes things
  so seriously, so intensely. She is just coming out of a very bad time as it
  is. I think she is still in love with him. An American. Did she tell you?"
 He shook his head.
 "He is one of those expatriate poets. They've been living
 140       HELEN MACINNES
 together for almost a year. He exists on the small checks he gets from
 home each month. He believes in his genius. Ronnie believes in him. But
 he left her-just like thad He walked out of their studio one day. She
 hasn't seen him since. That was two weeks ago. Ronnie took a room at the
 Beauharnais, gave up her studio, couldn't bear it any longer. You see? Any
 other girl would have known this would happen. Any other girl would have
 left him months ago. But Ronnie-" She sighed. "I think she shouldn't take
 life so seriously, not for a long, long time. Do you see?"
  He saw very clearly. Half-truth, half-fiction, beautifully blended.
  Veronica, if he came to Mykonos, was to be untouchable. Why? Making sure
  that she would be isolated from someone who might ask questions? Making
  sure that she could be properly controlled by Maritta-a very skillful,
  gentle surveillance? They were taking no chances with him, even if he
  seemed innocent enough. "Yes," he said at last, "I see."
 "And you agree?"
 He hadn't much other choice. "You could be right"
 "I am rightl"
 "Just an Americanism," he said with a smile.
 "You've no idea how upset she has been."
  "It was a nice idea to ask her to Mykonos. That should help to take her
  mind off Paris. But are you going to warn off all the men who look at
  Veronica? You'll be kept busy."
  "Of course not. I shan't have to warn them, unless they are very
  attractive and unmarried-like you. There are not so many of them." She
  was amused at the expression on his face. "I've embarrassed you?"
 "I'd imagine that there would be quite a crowd of-"
  "Oh yes, there will be men on Mykonos, but only the kind one takes
  lightly. They come, they go. Ships passing in the night. You are that,
  too, in a sense. Except Ronnie likes you. And she is so vulnerable at
  present. You know ......
 "I don't."
 "It is a matter of-rebound. Isn't that what you call it?"
  "She isn't in any danger of falling in love with me," he said, his
  embarrassment growing. "She doesn't know me, to begin with."
  "Do you think that matters to a woman?" She watched him, half smiling,
  her lips softening. "It wouldn't matter to
           THE DouBLE ImArm      141
 me." There was a little silence. "Of course, if you were really serious
 about her, I shouldn't worry."
  "Didn't I tell you I was serious as rarely as possible?" he asked jokingly.
  That passed her scrutiny. He could feel her relax. The softness in her lips
  spread to her eyes. "Do I see you at all on Mykonos?"
  That pleased her. She rose, laughing. "Why not? We can't have you wandering
  around 0 alone again."
 "Oh, I'll have several friends there," he said easily.
 "Really?"
  "Of course. It isn't only painters and poets who visit Mykonos."
 "Oh-historians2"
  She really had done her homework, he thought "I'll be spending most of my
  time on Delos, anyway."
  "But there's no village, no hotel, on Delos. Just a small tourist pavilion
  with a few beds for-well, emergencies. Youll have to sleep on Mykonos."
  He nodded, watching her. "That's right. III sleep on Mykonos," he said
  softly. He had actually managed to embarrass her, but she enjoyed it too.
  She laughed again, turned away, walked slowly over to the dresser. She
  straightened his comb and brushes, fiddled with a pair of cuff links,
  picked up a small plastic jar of hair cream. "Men are so businesslike," she
  said. "So simple, the way they travel." She opened the jar and pretended to
  smell the cream. "Nice and uncomplicated," she told him She replaced the
  jar neatly, examined a small leather box in which he kept studs and
  collar-stays. "This is from Florence, isn't it?" she asked casually,
  opening it, too.
  "By way of Madison Avenue." He came forward. What the devil was she doing,
  pretending to play like this with all these small possessions? O~ was it
  the letter from Sue, lying openly beside his hairbrush, that interested
  her?
  She put down the leather box, seemed to notice the time on his small
  traveling clock. She tamed to him, held out both her hands in farewell. "I
  must go. Yes, I must. I leave tomorrow. That's why I came to see you now,
  even if it is late. What else could I do? The dinner party went on and on
  and on."
  He kept hold of her hands. "How was it? Plenty of ad. vice?"
 "A complete bore. My uncle had two of his friends from
 142       HELEN MACINNES
 Mykonos to meet me-they have a house there, too. And they want to
 entertain Ronnie and me, introduce us around. You know. . . ."
 'Mat might not be so bad."
  "But they are so dulll I prefer to choose my own friends, don't you?"
 "Much more satisfactory."
  "Of course, an uncle who is one's only remaining relative must worry, I
  suppose," she said with a sigh.
  Craig said with a broad smile as he looked at the clock, "How could he
  ever worry about you, Maritta?"
  But irony was lost on her. Or she had finished with the topic of uncle.
  She said, "You are telephoning Ronnie tomorrow morning, aren't you?"
 "I said I would."
  "She won't be able to lunch with you." Maritta's voice was low, hesitant,
  and just the right amount sad. "Blame me. I asked her to attend to some
  business I hadn't time to finish."
 "Well, I suppose ifs kinder to let her do the refusing."
  "But she will be free for dinner," Maritta said, watching him now with
  eyes wide and hesitant, as if she were letting him make the decision.
  He couldn't feel one tremble in her cool hands, couldn't see one
  flickering evasion in her pleading green eyes. He waited for a few
  seconds, just to keep her impatience simmering behind that beautifully
  controlled face. "You don7t want me to ask her to dinner?"
  Her hands had tightened, her eyes blinked. "I thought we agreed-P
  "I'll probably be on my way to Greece by dinnertime," he told her. He
  released her hands and turned to pick up her coat from the bed.
  "You are annoyed with me, and I didn't want that. Please, John-I would
  never have asked you except that I didn!t want to see Ronnie have her
  hopes all built up again and then find them come crashing down; you know
  what I mean."
  "I know." And if he hadn't known so much, he would have believed the
  soft, anxious, urgent voice, and that pathetic look of the good friend
  who was doing everything for the best.
 "I've embarrassed you again."
 "Because I couldn't care less." Not about what you think
           THE DouBLE IMAGE      143
 or you want, my sweet-faced liar, he thought. Get her out of here, he told
 himself, or you might describe her in a five-letter word to her face. He
 held out her coat, and she slipped her soft white arms into the sleeves,
 turning her head to look up at him. "I'll see you on Mykonos," he said,
 "Unless your uncle flays me alive for having you up in my room at one in the
 morning. How did you find me, anyway?"
  "Oh, Ronnie told us," she said most innocently. "She even telephoned you
  just before dinner to see if you would join us. Didn't you get the
  message?"
 "Someone called, I heard. No name left, though."
  "How typicall" She shook her head. "But you know, it was Ronnie's call that
  decided me she really was rushing much too quickly- Sorry. I promise never
  to mention the subject again.$*
  He opened the door, glanced into the deserted corridor with only its lonely
  pairs of dusty shoes waiting patiently outside each bedroom.
 "Expecting anyoneT'she asked.
 "Your uncle and his posse of vigilantes."
  "I beg your pardon?" Then she shrugged her shoulders, looked amused. "Oh,
  reallyl You Americansl ... And where are you going?"
 "To see you into the elevator."
  This startled her into a laugh. Perhaps the well-dressed spy was not
  accustomed to being shown out at such an hour by her unsuspecting quarry.
  "But there is no need----7' she began, and jumped as a sudden, sleepy
  protest came from the room they were passing: "Knock it off I Go to bedl"
  A tired groan followed, then a resigned sigh.
  "Another American," she said in a stage whisper, and clamped her hands to
  her lips to stifle an outburst of real laughter. For a moment, Craig had a
  glimpse of a different Maritta, someone she could have been if she hadn!t
  chosen another r6le for herself, someone young-hearted and merry, trying to
  smother a second attack of giggles as the signal for the elevator sounded
  with extra loudness through the silence of the hotel. Then, as the creaking
  cage began its slow and dignified ascent, she became the Maritta he knew.
  "Go back to your room. Pleasel" she whispered quickly, and gestured with
  her hand. He nodded understandingly, retreated, obligingly. Who was be to
  compromise the good name of such a charming lady? He wondered whom she was
  supposed to be visiting.
 144       HELEN MACINNES
 Someone who belonged to the elderly female shoes he had almost stepped upon?
  He was at his door, waving a good early morning to her, as the elevator
  reached his floor. She stepped inside quickly, not looking back, doing
  nothing to attract the attendant's notice to Craig's closing door. What, he
  thought, not even a blown kiss? I bet she would do that really elegantly.
  He closed the door, waited until the last whirr of the elevator had ground
  into silence, then opened his d0j)r one small crack. The voice that had
  advised them to knock it off and go to bed was Jim Partridge's. Craig was
  sure of that. But Partridge's door remained closed. All right, Craig
  thought, I can take a hint. He shut his door carefully, soundlessly, but
  left it unlocked. Why else would Partridge let him know he was on the same
  floor unless he planned to pay a visit?

  By two o'clock, Craig decided that he had been too bright in his quick
  ideas. There was no sign of Partridge. So he went to bed. Not to sleep.
  This was not a night for the quiet, untroubled mind that would allow him to
  slip over the edge of consciousness and fall into soft oblivion. He lay
  staring at the darkened ceiling, the reading light at his bedside still
  turned on, the book in his hand dropped to his side. He was going over and
  over in his restless mind the myth that Maritta Maas had created. My God,
  he thought, if Jim Partridge hadn't warned me about her, I might have
  believed -1 would probably have believed her. Yes, I could have believed
  it. I would scarcely have noticed the lie that undermined everything she
  said: Veronica could not have telephoned me or mentioned my hotel to
  anyone, for she did not know my address. I would scarcely have noticed that
  unobtrusive lie, simply because I wasn't being given much time for any real
  thought-just emotions. And I would have cut off the small warning signal at
  the back of my brain, the way we all do when we don't expect, far less
  suspect. Thafs how the confidence game was worked, was it? To the outside
  observer, removed and uncommitted, blessed with hindsight, he would have
  seemed more than naive if he had believed Marittals story. But involved as
  he had been, with all the little hints and honest-eyed explanations and the
  seemingly logical sequiturs-oh no, that was another proposition. Without
  Partridge, he would have been properly taken. Let's face it, men were
  Battered even if embarrassed by the idea that a girl
           THE DounLE ImAGE      145
 like Veronica might be falling hard for them. Vanity, vanity, and all is
 flattery. Then he stopped thinking of himself, and began worrying about
 Veronica. He felt a surge of both pity and fear. Veronica was headed for
 tragedy. "I'll be damned," he said softly, "ff I let that happen."

  At four o'clock, his door opened and Partridge came in. Craig, almost
  asleep, stared at him dizzily, then raised himself quickly. Partridge
  gestured for silence, cutting off Craig's "Tlank God you came" before it
  was uttered. He seemed normal, unconcerned, in spite of all the caution he
  was using. He had a quick nod of approval for the tightly drawn curtains
  and the meager light, perhaps, too, for the unlocked door which had let him
  enter so quietly. He pocketed a key which he hadn7t needed to use as he
  bolted the door carefully behind him. Then, firom, the other pocket of his
  dressing gown, he pulled out a small box of some kind, set it carefully on
  the small table, and touched a switch. Nothing happened as far as Craig
  could hear or see, but Partridge was obviously pleased with it. Only then
  did he come forward to join Craig, who was sitting on the edge of the bed.
  "Who was she?" he asked, his voice held as low as possible.
 'Mariita Maas."
  , I nearly walked in, you know. I wanted to see you when I came back to the
  hotel, and got as far as your door. I heard voices. So I retreated. But boy
  oh boy, that was nearly a blooper."
 "Would she have known you?"
  Partridge shook his head. "It's better if she doesn't see me until
  Mykonos." If at all, he thought.
 "So you'll be there." And thank heaven for that.
  "Eventually." The visit to Rhodes and a talk with O'Malley came first. Some
  quiet, ff reluctant, permission had come from Washington, but it was
  obvious that this was the type of operation which might need emergency,
  on-the-spot decisions; regular channels would only delay critical action,
  conventional controls could mean defeat. Christopher Holland, who
  considered red tape as only something to be cut, had thought Partridge's
  idea good. The rest would be up to O'Malley.
 He's looking haggard, Craig thought. "When will--"
 "What did she want?" Partridge asked crisply.
 146       HELEN MACINNES

  Craig poured it out. One thing about a sleepless nightit let him have the
  sequences of Maritta's talk quite clear in his mind. He included her
  movements over by his dresser, her tender curiosity about his small
  possessions. (That had struck him as odd. If he had wanted to learn about
  a man, he would have looked at the books propped up against the mirror.)
  Partridge heard him without interruption, and then sat in silence when
  he had ended.
  Craig said, "The only bit of real truth in all that was the fact that
  Veronica was in love and got ditched. The rest is invention or
  manipulation of the facts." He paused, but Partridge still frowned down
  at the rug as if its faded arabesques fascinated him. Craig tried again.
  "Can't we give Veronica some protection?"
  Partridge nodded. "We can try. There's a girl I know who might strike up
  a friendship with her on Mykonos. That would be the best angle, I think.
  We musn't lose contact with her. But we can't warn her, either; weve
  already discussed all that. It still stands."
 "I'm keeping an eye on her," Craig said grimly.
  "Don't stir up Maritta's jealousy," Partridge warned him. "There's
  something personal there, too, not just her job--~'
  "She'd be that way with any man. She may not want him, but no one near
  her is going to get him."
  Partridge rose and crossed over to the dresser. He examined everything
  there, quickly, methodically, even running his fingers around the
  protruding edge of the wooden top. "Just seeing if she left any presents
  for you such as some gadget to bug this room. Did you express your
  opinion about her, for instance, when you came back in here?" The
  question was offhand, slightly joking, but Partridge was waiting for the
  answer.
  "By transference. I needed a drink and got my flask and dropped a
  tumbler-it broke over there by the bathroom door. So I cursed it heavily
  for the full minute it took me to get the pieces gathered together."
  Craig's voice was still grim, as if he couldn't relax even over a comic
  incident.
  Partridge glanced at Sue's letter as he turned away. Whatever he had been
  able to read, as Maritta must have seen it, gave him no cause for alarm.
  He studied Craig's tense face. This won't do, he thought. Nonchalantly,
  he said, "I guess she was really making a little test to see if you were
  a
           THE DovBLP, ImAGE     147
 courier of some kind. Her friends go in for false lids on jars and boxes,
 hollow cuff links, all that stuff. They're Re the inquisitive carpenter
 who unscrewed his navel and his bottom fell off." He searched in his
 breast pocket and said, "In fact, here's one example I brought along for
 you tonight. The police found it on the man charged with Sussman's murder.
 It proves he had more connection with Soviet espionage than a criminal
 usually has." He held out a tie clip. "Go on, open it. I filled it to let
 you see the kind of thing you might expect to find inside."
  Craig took the tie clip. It was thicker than most, but of the usual
  length and decoration. He examined it, felt he was now wrestling with a
  Chinese puzzle, pressed and pulled and cajoled the small strip of
  imitation gold without any effecL He could see no join, no seam in the
  heavy bar of the clip.
  "This way," Partridge said, taking it from him, sliding the top aparL In
  the lower section, there nestled a small strip of microfilm protected by
  an equally small strip of tissue paper. "When that's developed, you could
  fill twenty full-sized sheets of typing paper-perhaps even more--with the
  information it holds. Some of their couriers, the smart dressers, object
  to wearing a clip as bulky as this. They prefer cuff links. Their women
  use the lids of compacts, metal frames of handbags, lipsticks, watches
  with the works removed. . . . And then there are the flashlight
  batteries, hollowed out; and the special spaces inside tubes of artists'
  colors; toothpaste ditto. Et cetera, et cetera . . . You name them, we've
  found them. So have the British, the French, the Italians, and all the
  rest of our allies. You think I'm exaggerating? Inventing? Next time you
  visit Washington, I'll ask my friend at FBI headquarters to show you some
  of the Soviet gadgets they've discovered right in the old U.S.A. Ifs
  quite a collection, believe me. And then we meet some jovial type at
  dinner who tens us that we have a fixation about Soviet espionage, and
  coulcWt we just forget the whole thing, relax the way he does, live and
  let live?" Partridge's quiet voice broke into a brief but genuine laugh.
  Craig said nothing. But he really concentrated on the tie clip this time,
  his lips tight. He succeeded in opening it. He grinned as he handed the
  two pieces back to Partridge.
  "You fix it," Partridge told him "Their cuff links work on the same idea.
  Ingenious bastards, aren't they?"
 148      HELEN MACINNES
  "One thing's certain," Craig said, completing the small operation
  successfully. "fhey don1 trust the mail, these boys."
  That's better, thought Partridge, watching Craig's face, listening to the
  tone of his voice. "Another thing's certain," he said as he pocketed the
  tie clip. "ney've given you just about enough basic training for my taste.
  I want you to pack and leave. Oh yes, telephone Veronica, but be damned
  casual. Play it Maritta's way and keep the Clark girl safe. Yes, safe." He
  paused to let that sink in. "And a lot more will stay safe, too. We are in
  too good a position to throw the game away now. I don't think they have any
  real suspicions about what we actually know. Sure they were suspicious of
  you, but they're suspicious of everyone, including each other. They don't
  know, for instance, that we have been playing along with them to give them
  confidence, or that we have been reacting to every move they are taking.
  Oh, well-perhaps not every move; that's a counterespionage dream, too good
  to be true. Stiff, we are in there guessing, with some very solid facts to
  back up the possibilities. So when you get to Mykonos, play it very cool
  with Veronica. You are bound to see her-it's a small place. But let us do
  the worrying about her. Okay?"
 "Will you have timeT'Craig asked wryly.
  "We'll have to make the time." Then Partridges voice became brisk. "In
  Athens, we are going to play it very loose indeed. We won't make any effort
  to get in touch with you unless there is some real emergency."
  "Meaning I'm back on their dang er list again?" Craig was grinning.
  "But," said Partridge as if he hadn't heard that suggestion, "if a
  Frenchman makes friends with you, don't resist. His name is Yves Duclos. He
  will keep you in touch with me. It's safer that way. Maritta's bosses don't
  expect the French to be co-operating with us. Let's surprise them about
  that, shall we?"
 "It's good to hear we can surprise them sometimes."
  Partridge smiled, at that. "You saw Duclos with me last Monday evening, in
  the bar downstairs."
  "I remember. That's when I came in, raging quietly. There was a redhead
  with you, too, wasn't there?"
 "Can you describe Duclos for me?"
 "Black hair, bright blue eyes, good healthy color in his
           THE DouBLE ImAGE      149
 cheeks. I couldn't see his height, of course. He looked tall, sitting down."
  "Just medium height when he stands-five feet eight. Around one hundred and
  sixty-five pounds. Think you can recognize him easily?"
  "I think so. Of course, I didn't really look at him too hard."
  "He's a Breton. And he always wears a gold signet ring with an odd twisted
  design. If you ask him, he will tell you it's fourteenth century from
  Rennes. Got that?"
 Craig nodded.
  Partridge was frowning at the rug again, hesitating. "Yes," he said at
  last, "I'd better pass on the warning. One of the men you met at your
  sister's party is working with Maritta. He collects information; she passes
  it on. We expect him to appear on Mykonos."
  "What?" Craig asked sharply. He lost his breath, regained it. "What?'s
  Partridge nodded. That was as far as he would go. He was tempted, just a
  little, to add that the man could be one of two. But what was the point?
  Craig wouldn't have been made any the wiser by an exact name. No use
  loading him with extra information that would only be dangerous for him to
  carry around. Two men . . . Is one being used, like Veronica Clark, to
  cover up the man we want? Partridge suddenly wondered. They are both
  traveling in the same direction-the Aegean area. Both have good contacts,
  friends in sensitive jobs who'd trust them; both would make useful enemy
  agents. Both, again, have spent some time in Russia; both could have been
  recruited there; both have been living normal lives since they came to
  Paris.
  Craig was stiff recovering from the shock. He asked slowly, "But you don't
  know his name?"
  "Not yet," Partridge said. Robert Maybrick Bradley, with a security job, no
  less, in NATO ... Edward Maclennan Wilshot, who has written many articles
  on NATO and its problems ... Wilshot gets a free-lance assignment from a
  French magazine, not always friendly to NATO, to cover the eastern
  Mediterranean on the day that Bradley claims the leave that is due him.
  That's the latest report from Rosie on the subject. But who is being used
  to cover for whom? That's a new angle. Better get Rosie on to it right
  away. Unless he has thought about it, of course ... No, this is possibly my
  own
 150      HELEN MACINNES

 idea, thanks to Veronica Clark. It could, it just could solve the problem of
 two men with similar journeys at the same time near the same target area.
 "It's been a bit of a puzzle." he admitted. "Sorry I'm so vague. But after
 Maritta's performance tonight, I think you needed the warning, such as it
 is. It would be easy to assume that everyone at your sister's party was just
 as trustworthy as old Rosie."
 "How is he?"
  "Still worrying about his weight. Played bowls, last night. Golfing on
  Saturday." Partridge picked up the small box from the table, went over to
  the door, gave an easy salute andafter a careful look into the
  corridor-slipped outside.
  See you on Mykonos, Craig thought, and went to bed. Strangely enough, this
  time he slept.

  He awoke at ten on a bright cool morning, and before he shaved or ordered
  breakfast he called Veronica.
  "There's this matter of lunch," he began. "When can I pick you up?"
  She seemed rather taken aback by this brusque approach. "I'm terribly
  sorry. I can't manage lunch today. I've got some business to-P
 "T'hat's too bad."
  "I should be free by four o'clock," she said shyly, "but I suppose you have
  plans of your own for the afternoon."
 "As a matter of fact, I have. I'm just about to leave Paris."
 "I'm really awfully sorry that I disappointed---"
  "Don't give it a thought. That's the way things go. . . . Well, I suppose
  this is good-bye."
 "Ohl" Then she rallied. "Have a very good trip."
 "The same to you."
  "Good-bye," she said, quietly and gently and-he hoped -a little sadly.
  He replaced the receiver, sat staring at it for a full minute. Then he
  rose, thinking now of Maritta, and his eyes weren't so pleasant to see.
 lilt

 Yves Duclos arrived at the Athens airport early on Sunday afternoon. He had
 taken his journey from Paris in easy stages: Thursday had seen him in Milan
 for a quiet talk with Italian Intelligence; Friday, he had been in Florence
 to meet some furniture designers; Saturday, he had spent in Rome purely for
 pleasure. . . . altogether, it had been an excellent trip without any alarms
 or tensions. And the four days ahead of him in Athens should be fairly easy,
 too. It was always the same-after a week of work and urgency, of meetings
 and plans and problems and decisions, he was now in the waiting period. But
 it was not often that the waiting could be done in a place as beautiful as
 Athens.
  The ffight had brought him right over the city, with the Acropolis in full
  view beneath him. Like most of his fellow passengers, he was still
  vibrating from that spectacular approach: a precipice rising out of city
  roofs, golden-white columns growing out of rocky crags, and-within secondsa
  landing by a bay of blue rippling water. Not so far out there, south and
  eastward, lay Mykonos. . . . But that, he thought as he walked briskly into
  the low-roofed hall where the Customs officers waited, would come later. He
  had four days, meanwhile, to enjoy Athens. He might manage a visit to
  Delphi, too; it was the French archaeologists, after all, who had dug the
  place out of its rubble and put the pieces together. His first visit to
  Greece certainly ought to include Delphi. "Nothing to declare," he told the
  Greek who had checked his two cases. Nothing except good intentions and
  high expectations.
  Duclos picked up his luggage and started toward the wall of glass windows
  which lay at the end of the small Customs Hall, separating it from a
  corridor packed with waiting people. Across the corridor, he could see more
  windows and 151
 152      HELEN MACINNES

 wide-open doors with the bright sunshine pouring in from a wide square or
 plaza. No doubt the buses and taxis were out there. In half an hour, he
 would be reaching Athens itself.
  From the crowd of people pressed close to the corridor's glass windows,
  a pleasant voice said, "Monsieur Duclos?" It was a small, light-boned man
  in a pale gray suit, his bat in his hand, a smile on his face, his dark
  eyes questio i g politely. He was middle-aged, sallow in complexion, dark
  in hair and mustache. Greek, decided Duclos, as he listened to the
  halting French, bravely tried. "Monsieur Duclosl At your service. I am
  from the office of Colonel Zafiris." He showed a small identification
  card, tactfully, briefly. "There is one of your countrymen who has been
  waiting to meet you. He came yesterday from Paris, from Inspector Gal-
  land. There is some new development about a prisoner of the inspector's
  which could be of importance-but here be is, himself." He pointed to a
  younger man, about the same height and weight as Duclos, fair-haired,
  blue-eyed, who waited with hands plunged in the pockets of his light
  coat, a cigarette between his lips, a bored expression on his handsome
  face. "I am Tillier," the Frenchman said, coming to life as he looked at
  Duclos. "I did not have the pleasure of meeting you on your visit to
  Galland last Tuesday morning. I only saw you very briefly as you left.
  Yes, the murderer of Professor Sussman has talked a little since you
  interviewed him. But we shall leave that to discuss in your hotel. We
  could not find where you are staying, so we had to meet you here. Let me
  help you." He made a gesture toward one of Duclos' suitcases.
  "I can manage, thank you," Ducles said. He went through the nearest door
  and found himself on the crowded sidewalk filled with noise and bustle
  and bright sunshine. Tillier was the detective who had been assisting
  Galland in the Sussman case, that he knew. And this man-possibly a Norman
  by coloring and accent-was definitely French. What was more, if Sussman's
  murderer had given any information at all, then that could be of great
  importance. It might mean a change, perhaps subtle, perhaps bold, in the
  plan that Duclos and Partridge had agreed upon for Mykonos. Colonel
  Zafiris was Greek Counterintelligence, that Duclos also knew. Yet why
  this tie-in between Greek Intelligence and Paris police? Unless the Mxet6
  itself had telescoped action, decided that the
           THE DouBLP- ImAGE     153

 Greeks should learn along with Duclos whatever Galland had discovered.
 Certainly there wasn't much time now for lastminute conferences. And yet,
 and yet- Duclos looked around at the family groups, at the mixture of rich
 and poor, of nationalities, happy faces, worried faces, no one giving one
 good English goddamn about anyone else except his own problems. He looked
 at Tillier, who was standing beside him, and tried to measure him The face
 was vaguely familiar: he could have seen it last Tuesday as he left
 Galland's office. Yes, he had seen it. Last Tuesday? He said, "There's too
 much crowd here. Better if we separate. I'll go by bus. You can follow me
 in your car. You'll find me at the King George Hotel. I'll expect you at
 five o'clock. Does that suit you?" By then he thought, Ill have checked
 with Zafiris as well as Paris.
  "Of course. My only worry is that I must return to Paris this evening."
  The little Greek said, "But Colonel Zafiris has sent his car to save
  timel It is over therel" He pointed to a space filled with cars and
  waiting taxis. A small car, dark brownishgreen in color, was already
  making a wide turn to reach them. Its driver was in khaki uniform.
  This may be the way things are done in Greece, thought Duclos, but I
  don't want any part of it. It is too official. He smiled genially as he
  moved off. "See you at the hotel," he said quietly.
  "Fine," Tillier said. "If you prefer it that way ---- ~' He
 sbrugged, walking beside Duclos. "Just one thing," he added,
 "have you got a room definitely at the King George? That's
 where I am and it's crowded. If you can't get in there, where
 can we meet you?" He halted as he stepped in front of Du
 clos, blocking his way. "Or perhaps you'd leave word at the
 desk for me where you've found a room? I must make to
 night's flight back to Paris. I'm a day late as it is."
  It was reasonable. It was time-consuming, just enough moments spent to
  let the official-looking car drive right up to the curb where they stood.
  "Oh, why not take this and save all trouble?" Tillier asked now, as the
  Greek opened the car door. He reached for the nearer suitcase most
  helpfully.
  "No need," began Duclos, ready to crash through the crowd pressing around
  them-there was a terrace, a restaurant, just beyond the thick stream of
  people. But Tillier's hand switched from the suitcase to the wrist that
  held it.
 154       HELEN MACINNES

 Duclos felt a sharp and painful bite as a needle pressed deep into his
 flesh. His voice came in a desperate gasp. "Help me, help, in the name of
 God, help---~' But the foreigners' faces only stared blankly, briefly, as
 his words trailed into a drunken blur. His eyes, turned toward two children
 and their grandmother who had halted near him, closed. His legs buckled as
 his head dropped on his breast and Tillier's arms pushed him into the car.
  Tillier propped up Duclos against the seat, held his weight in position
  with his own body. "Quickl" he told the Greek, who was handing in the
  suitcases.
  "Not too quickly," the Greek said softly, slipping into the seat, closing
  the door.
  The small boy tugged at the black skirt of his grandmother. "Was that man
  sick?" he asked.
  "What man?" She pulled the skirt free from his hand, took a larger grip on
  the paper parcel she carried. "Stop looking at strangers," she said, her
  voice harsh with her own worries, "and watch out for your mother. She said
  she would meet us here. Where is she? Keep hold of your sister, nowl"
  The small boy did as he was told. He only let his eyes wander once back to
  the car but it was already moving away. It went so quietly, so smoothly.
  Not like his uncles truck an the farm.
  The car left the low cluster of airport buildings, continued its steady
  pace down toward the highway. It swept slowly past flower beds and
  fluttering flags, past tourist police and flocks of airline hostesses; past
  people arriving, departing, enjoying a Sunday outing; past parked cars and
  waiting buses, until it reached the main road that skirted the bay of blue
  water. It turned left and gathered speed at last. It was traveling away
  from Athens.
  The man who had called himself Tillier took a deep breath, pushed Duclos
  farther into the corner. "Soon now -just past the fish restaurant and the
  filling station. We'll change cars there," he told the driver, "and you can
  get rid of that uniform." He removed his revolver from his pocket as he
  pulled his coat off and dropped it at his feet. "Don't forget the
  suitcases," he warned the Greek. "I need them."
  The Greek nodded, glanced at his watch. "Four and a half minutes from here
  to there, all told," he said with considerable satisfaction. He looked at
  Duclos. "How long will he sleepr
            THE DouBLE ImAaE     155
 "Until we reach Cape Sunion."
  "I would not advise taking the new shore road-too crowded on Sunday. Better
  strike inland a little--come round by Lfivrion----!'
  "I know, I know," the Frenchman said impatiently. He sat forward, watching
  the stream of cars on the road ahead, all out on their Sunday picnics.
  "There's the restaurand Get ready-" He tapped the driver on the shoulder.
  "Nowl"

  Duclos came out of his stupor as they skirted the mining
 town of LAvrion. He had enough returning sense to keep
 slumped in his comer, changing neither balance nor posi
 tion. He listened to the Greek and Frenchman arguing, a
 faint jangle ' of phrases at first, then words becoming clearer
 as his own mind began working. All he could see through the
 carefully opened slits of his eyes was a desolate hillside,
 a few rows of workmen's houses, low and strung out over
 grassless earth. Where was this? Greece? The hideous smell,
 constant, persistent, made him think of Hades. But it wasn't
 sulphur-was it manganese, lead?
  "Those filthy slag heapsl" the Frenchman said, and reached angrily past
  Duclos to shut the window. Duclos jolted forward, but was caught and held,
  and propped back into his comer. He had had time, though, to see the
  hilltops on his right where chimney stacks were perched.
  "You should smell them during the week," the Greek was saying, "when the
  smoke belches out. That's why they're built up there, to keep people from
  being poisoned. They say they get lead and silver out of that slag. It's a
  French company that started working the mines-they take the Profits and
  leave us with the stink."
  "You know everything. Could you stop that yapping just for the last ten
  minutesT' the Frenchman asked sharply.
  The driver laughed softly, taking no sides. He was a man who enjoyed other
  peoples bickering.
  A happy trio, thought Duclos, and wondered if there could be any dividend
  for him in that. He felt sick and tired, perhaps with the drug that had
  been pumped into him, perhaps with his own stupidity; he had expected
  nothing and that was the greatest of all stupidities. Now, he lay seemingly
  helpless in his corner while he let his brain start functioning again.
  The rows of houses were gone, replaced by moorland. No sign of people here.
  The ground was too open to risk any-
   156       HELEN MACINNES

 thing. Ahead of him he saw the beginning of trees. Perhaps there he could
 quickly get the door unlocked and jump and run for shelter. But the hope
 was too optimistic. He still felt weak; the Frenchman was holding a
 revolver on his lap; and when they reached the trees they were thin,
 giving way to more moorland. Then more trees, thicker trees, came into
 sight. Snatch the revolver first, he told himself, before you open the
 door.
  The Greek was pointing to a large villa, boarded and shuttered,
  explaining that it was the first of many country places along this road
  where the rich from Athens came for the summer and shot doves in August.
  "He should have been a schoolmaster, this one," the Frenchman was telling
  the driver when Duclos reached for the revolver. But his body was slower
  than he had thought. It was only a vague, uncoordinated movement that
  came from his arm. The Frenchman cursed and hit him a crashing blow over
  the head with the revolver butt.
 "You!ve killed himl" the Greek said in alarm.
 "Not him. Bretons' heads are made of teak."
  "The orders were not to injure him, to keep him well until--P
 "He'll be well enough to answer our questions."
  "He may take a little persuasion," the Greek said, with a spreading
  smile. "I remember in 'forty-five---~'
  "Keep your eyes openl" the Frenchman told the driver. "Just as you catch
  first sight of the pillars at Cape Sunion, there's a big house and two
  cottages on your left toward the sea. Stop at the second cottage. Got
  itT' He looked at the Greek beside him, wondering why he had to have this
  kind of guy along. Always talking of the civil war, he must have been
  only a kid of eighteen when he left villages in flames and snatched the
  children and carved up the men with his knife. You'd have thought he
  might have forgotten those things in those years in Bulgaria, but no~
  here he was back, looking like a bank clerk but still nursing his dreams
  of glory. "Keep your mouth shut when the boss arrives. Weve changed our
  methods, didn't you know?"
  "We nearly won," the Greek protested angrily. "We were closer to winning
  than you ever were."
  "And what happened to your leaders? Heads cut off by the peasants and
  displayed in the market placel Signs still painted on the barns all over
  Thessaly calling us murdererst
            T~n Doui3LE IMAGE    157

 You 'nearly won' brilliantly." And that will shut up this know-all for the
 next hour at least, the Frenchman thought. I'm in charge here and he'd
 better understand that. If it had not been for me, who could have identified
 Duclos at the airport so quickly, so quietly?
  "There's the sea," the driver said. And far off, there was a glimpse of a
  ruined Greek temple on its high headland in stark silhouette against the
  western sun. Mission accomplished, the Frenchman thought with considerable
  satisfaction. We got him here, and there's no escape for him now.

  It was dusk when Duclos regained consciousness. The room was square and
  small, half filled by the low wooden platform on which he had been thrown.
  The was were of rough stone, once whitewashed, now gray-streaked in the
  fading light. There was a small window high above his head, unglassed,
  barred. The one low, narrow door looked solid and heavy. He put his feet on
  the hard-packed earth floor, carefully, testing his balance. He could
  stand. And walk. He made his way slowly across to the door. Yes, it was as
  strong as it had looked. And he could hear nothing through it.
  Yet the room was not quiet. Through the window came the distant fall and
  surge of the sea. The air smelled clean, and it felt cool, almost cold. He
  crossed the room again and stood on the low platform-a communal bed, he
  guessed, there would be space for four rough mattresses on it-and reached
  for the bars. He could grasp their lower edge. Painfully, he pulled himself
  up to let his chin reach the stone sill, held on with his arm muscles
  tearing, and looked out. A bare, rocky field sloping downward to cliffs,
  beyond that a flat stretch of dark gray water reaching to dark gray sky. No
  houses, no lights; nothing except the steady beat of waves. He dropped back
  onto the wooden bed, his arms trembling with the strain. He was still weak,
  much weaker than he had thought.
  He sat on the bed, his back propped up against the heavy stone wall, and
  considered his position. They had taken away his tie, his belt, his shoes.
  They had taken his jacket and emptied his trouser pockets. They had taken
  his watch and his ring. From the papers in his passport-wallet, they would
  know tb at he had reservations for the Grande Bretagne. What would they
  do-have someone placed there to watch
 158       HELEN MAcINNEs
 for any person asking about Yves Duclos, for anyone leavinj a message for
 him? They wouldn!t get much, that way. Mimi was staying at the Hilton and
 wasn!t even going to get in touch with him until they sailed on the same
 boat for Mykonos on Thursday. Four days away... Then he froze: his ticket
 for the steamer, his cabin reservation, would be left for him at his hotel.
 It had been necessary to book ahead to get a cabin and have Mimi in the one
 next door.
  But how in the first place had they known where to pick him up? An
  informant? Or had they followed him to Rome, and, learning his destination
  there, jumped ahead of him to Athens? But why wait until then? They could
  have made an attempt on him in Milan or Florence or Rome itself. Perhaps
  they wanted to make sure he was heading for Greece before they moved. Yes,
  that could be it. Greece was the danger signal to them. But that could also
  show, perhaps, that they did not know too much about his mission or else
  they would never have waited to act until today. And so they want me for
  information, he thought somberly. That!8 why I'm still alive. Information
  to fill in the gaps in their suspicions. And I could give them a lot... He
  had no illusions about human capacity to withstand physical persuasion. In
  the last extreme they'd use torture, that unpleasant word which so many
  pleasant people discarded as fantastic nonsense.
  I'll have to play this carefully, he thought. When they question me
  reasonably, I'll have to be ready with answers that will give them no lead
  to Mykonos and the rest of us there. But when that type of questioning is
  over, then- He felt inside the waistband of his trousers, and pulled off
  one of the suspender Z"Uttons. He cracked it open with his fingers, and
  took out a small flat pellet wrapped in its Olin salivaproof coating. He
  clicked the two pieces of button together again, and threw it under the
  bed. The pellet, he placed in the breast pocket of his shirt. At the first
  sound of the door opening, he'd transfer it to his mouth. It could lie
  quite unobtrusively, he had heard, against his cheek. He would have to
  trust the waterproof coating-better that than finding his arms held or his
  hands tied when he needed that capsule. If he needed it, he added with a
  determined attempt at optimism.
  It was dark now, and the wind must have risen, for the surge of sea had a
  heavier rhythm. Cold, too, in here. And
            11-m Doui3LE IMAGE   159

 he was thirsty. Not hungry-some of the awakening nausea still clung to his
 throat. He tried to forget his thirst by thinking about the Frenchman who
 had used the name of Tillier. That was the man who had placed him, he was
 convinced. What could the Frenchman know, and how much? He had seen that
 face, briefly, and only once. Where? Not on his visit to police
 headquarters, of that he was sure now. Not on Tuesday morning, then, but
 very close to that time. Tuesday afternoon had been the meeting at Mimi's,
 with Rosie and Jim Partridge. No, later than that, but still around
 Tuesday.... The evening, the late evening-at the club called Le Happening?
 Stagehands, waiters, doorman . . . and the man who had come from the rear
 of the building, when the narcotics raid started-a janitor of some kind,
 fairhaired, wearing torn overalls over a dirty undershirt. Yes, that was
 the man. He had mixed into the crowd of employees being gathered together
 backstage. I was just leaving, Duclos remembered. If he had quick-enough
 eyes to note my face and a good-enough memory to report it once the raid
 was over and he was freed, then one thing is sure--he was no ordinary
 janitor.
  My God, be thought, how could one small thing like that trip me up? There
  must have been something else to add to it. Where did I make another
  mistake? Or was it chance?
  He had plenty of time to try to think his way through that puzzle. For
  most of the night in the cold black room he sat hunched over his
  thoughts. Now and again he would break away from them, rise, walk around,
  bend and stretch to get the chill out of his bones. Twice he lifted
  himself up to window level, but there was nothing to see; no lights, not
  even a night animal. He couldn't even guess where he was.
  He must have dozed off. He awoke in bright daylight to find that a hunk
  of brown bread and a paper cup of coffee had been left on the floor just
  inside the door. It was the closing of the door that had wakened him. He
  ate some of the bread-it tasted sour-and drank the lukewarm coffee, heavy
  with its fine grounds. Still, it was liquid of a kind. His thirst was
  half quenched. But in five minutes he slumped into sleep. The drug lasted
  twenty-hour hours. When he awoke, he saw the same bright sunshine coming
  through the small barred window. At first, he thought he had been asleep
  for an hour or so, perhaps less, and that it was still Monday
 160       HELEN MACINNES

 morning. Then he had his doubts; he had slept too deeply. He felt too
 exhausted.
  Outside, there was nothing but the lonely field, a few sea gulls wheeling
  with their harsh cries over the edge of the land, and far offshore two
  ships and a fishing boat. They disappeared out of his view as he clung
  to the strong bars, and then there was nothing on the shimmering blue
  water. Greece could be as lonely as Brittany, he thought, as he lowered
  himself back onto the wooden bed. Lonelier, he added grimly. There was
  no escape from this room His one chance might come when they took him out
  for questioning, or when that door was opened again. He sat down facing
  it, to wait and get some strength back into his body.
  In the late afternoon, when the sun had left the room. but still struck
  sidewise across the field and the sea, the door opened just enough to let
  food and drink be set on the floor. Duclos jumped for the handle, tried
  to force the door farther open but it was chained from the outside. He
  heard the Greek call out a warning, "Andr6l Andril" The Frenchman
  answered angrily as he rushed to help puff the door shut. So they were
  both on guard, still bickering with each other, and the Frenchman was
  called Andr6. That was all he had achieved, Duclos thought, that and the
  spilling of the coffe%
  The dark liquid lay thick and puddled at his feet. He knelt, dipped a
  finger in the mudlike grounds and tasted gingerly. Yes, something had
  been added to the coffee, something to scatter his brains still more.
  There was a lump of goat cheese on the bread, this time. It smelled so
  sour that it could disguise anything, so he threw it out the window. The
  bread -was it also doctored? They might leave one thing uncontaminated,
  just to entice him to trust everything. But hungry as he was, he didn't
  risk it. He threw the bread out, too, and ended all temptation. The only
  weapon he had was his brains. He had better keep them working.
  He had guessed right about the prepared supper, for when the sun had set
  and the dusk was darkening into night they came to get him. As the door
  was unlocked and the chain rattled, he had time to slip the pellet
  carefully into the side of his mouth between the cheek and the lower gum.
  It was comfortable enough, hardly noticeable even to him. The Greek came
  into the room, nodded as if he had expected to find Duclos inert and
  helpless, pulled the Frenchman to his feet. This is how I will play it,
  Duclos thought. He staggered, let himself be supported unresisting to the
  door.
            Dm DouBLE ImAc;E     161
  He entered another room only slightly bigger than his own. It was lit by
  candles on the table; shadows were deep in its comers, its two small
  windows were covered with heavy sacks, its massive front door was probably
  locked and certainly bolted. The Greek thrust him into the one chair at the
  table and then went to wait under a window. Andr6 was standing just behind
  the chair. A third man was seated in the darkest comer, not the man who had
  driven the car, someone more important, someone before whom both the Greek
  and Andr6 kept silent.
  The voice from the corner was speaking French, quite accurately, almost
  fluently. The underlying accent hinted at German, with a strange overtone
  of Russian. He wasn't a Frenchman, certainly. Or English. Or Italian or
  Spanish or Scandinavian. German mostly; Russian inflections added. Duclos
  felt his pulse quicken, but he stared dully at the table in front of him as
  if he were half drugged, wholly stupefied. "Monsieur Duclos," the voice was
  saying, 'let us not waste time. We know a great deal. We only want a small
  explanation from you. Why are you in Greece?"
 "I am on holiday," Duclos said slowly, thickly.
 "You can do better than that. Why are you in Greece?"
  "On holiday. Some business, too." He was pausing between the phrases, just
  enough to give the impression of exhaustion, of scattered wits.
 "What business?"
  "Designs-I am interested in design. Greek revival-nineteenth century."
 "Why did you visit Galland?"
 "Burglary, burglary in my studio."
  "Nonsensel Why did you visit Galland? We know you interviewed a man,
  accused of murder, in Galland's private office. Why?"
  "Burglar. No murder, just burglary." Stick with that, Duclos told himself.
  You were called to the police station to identify a possible thief,
  arrested on another charge. You don't know the other charge. You only know
  there was a burglary in your studio. You had wakened to see the man escape;
  not the man at the police station; no identification made. Stick with that
  . . .
  "Why did you visit that man?" the voice went on. And on. Duclos gave the
  same answers, again, and again, and again.
  Suddenly a power flashlight switched on. The Greek directed its strong
  flood into Duclos' face. He closed his
 162       HELEN MACINNES

 eyes. "Open them!" Andr6 said at his elbow, and struck him smartly on the
 side of the head. Just as quickly, he coiled a rope around Duclos, tying his
 arms to his sides and his back against the wooden chair, and knotted it
 securely.
 "Why were you at Le HappeningT' the voice asked now.
 DucIos blinked in the strong light. "I go often."
 "You were there when it was raided."
 "I didn't know----"
  "You spoke to the coatroom attendant. You spoke with her twice. You asked
  her about two men, didn't you? Didn't you?,$
  Duclos shook his head, tried to get his eyes out of the light, as he
  thought around this question.
 "You are saying no?"
 "The light-it hurts my eyes." He shook his head again.
 "Closerl" Andr6 told the Greet The beam came nearer.
 "What two men?" the quiet voice went on.
 "Friends-I was looking for my friends."
  "Stop lyingl We have a record of everything the attendant said over her
  counter that night. We were suspicious of her, with good reason. We know
  what you said. Tell us, now, in your own words."
  Duclos thought, nothing I said could have identified those two men as
  having any connection with Comrade Peter. Nothing I said to the attendant
  gave that away. Only two men,
  two men, that was all I asked about I hoped to meet
 them at the club. They never came. I asked if they had come
 earlier, and left."
  "Your studio lies next to the building where Frank Rosenfeld lives. Does he
  visit you each week?"
  Duclos looked stupidly at the dark comer. "Closer!" Andr6 said to the
  Greek. He twisted Duclos' face to meet the savage beam of light. The power
  lamp now rested on the table.
  "Frank Rosenfeld," the voice said. "We know he is an American agent. We
  know that. We know everything. Give up and save yourself. He has saved
  himself. He isn't here. You are. Why should you suffer for an American?
  Give up." The light was switched off, and Duclos almost groaned with the
  relief of darkness. "It would be pleasant to give up, wouldn't it? Tell me
  how he came to see you over the roof, down the ladder into your studio.
  That's how he came. There
            THE DouELE ImAGE     163
 is a ladder, there. The door to the roof opens easily. That's how he came.
 Tell us about him."
  Duclos said, "The burglar came that way. He used the ladder. He came over
  the roof."
 The light switched on, came still nearer, burning.
 "It is Rosenfeld who sends you to Mykonos. Why?"
  Duclos shook his head. "Rosenfeld? I have no client called Rosenfeld.
  Rosenblum, yes. Rosenblum But he didn't send me to Greece."
 "Why are you going to Mykonos?"
  Duclos was sagging under the heat of the lamp. "To Mykonos, and Rhodes,
  and the islands--Syros and Tinos, and Lindos on Rhodes and Delos near
  Mykonos, and----~" He let his voice trail away.
 "I could make him talk," the Greek said. "I could-21
  "No," the voice said, "not yet. He is stubborn, but he will be more
  helpful when he knows how hopeless it all is. It amuses me to ask him
  questions and to hear his quick
  99
 lies.
  And that, thought Duclos, is a lie in itself. They have only been trying
  to connect my visit at the club, the police station, the ladder, the
  roof, Rosie next door, the reservation for Mykonos. They sense something,
  know nothing. Stay stupid and ignorant, Duclos; it may be hopeless for
  you but not for your friends. They don't even know your connection with
  the Suret6, or they would not try to make you confess you were an
  American agent. He said, "You're crazy men, all crazy. Why are you doing
  this to me? Why? I step off a plane and you-"
 "Why did you visit Milan?"
  So there was that, too, was there? Duclos sighed. "Business there. And
  business in Florence."
 "Business in Milan with Italian Intelligence?"
  Duclos stared, groaned as his eyeballs seemed to be singed with fire.
  ""th an art dealer."
 "In Milan you met an Italian agent."
 "An art dealer," Duclos repeated.
  "An agent of the Italian government," the quiet voice insisted.
  "Rosenfeld sent you."
  Duclos shook his head. "An art dealer," he kept on. "He comes to Paris-he
  sees me. I go to Milan-1 see him. A friend. Art dealer." He closed his
  eyes. Andr6 opened them
 164       HELEN MACINNES

 with a dash of hot wax from the candle he had shaken over Duclos' face.
  "You can't be so tired as that," the voice said from, the comer. "I have
  only begun my questions. They will last until dawn, until noon, until
  tomorrow evening if necessary." There was a pause. The light was switched
  off. "Why not tell me what you know, in your own words? It would be so
  easy to talk with me. I know a great deal about you. I know too much
  about you. Tell me about your friends. Why should you face this
  unpleasantness for them? You are alone. They did not protect you. They
  left you. You are alone. Helpless. And hopeless. That need not be. Isn't
  it silly to argue with me like this? There is so little difference
  between us-no difference at all. We both want the same things in life,
  don't we? Peace. Peace, and pleasures, and peace. But the Americans have
  not let you see that. They would have you destroy me, wouldn't they? They
  have betrayed you and attacked us. Why don't we make friends? We could
  work together. And have peace. There is no difference to divide us,
  except the lies that the Americans have told you. Listen to me. And talk
  with me. Meet me halfway. Talk. That's all. And I shall tell Andr6 to
  loosen the rope and make Demetrios remove the lamp. I don't want to use
  such things. Believe me. . . ."
  Again there was silence. The rope was loosened a little, not enough to
  free him, just enough to relieve the pain in his arms. By the soft
  candlelight, he saw the gleam of a revolver in Andr6s hand. Someone
  forgot to tell him there was no difference between us, Duclos thought and
  half smiled in spite of his real exhaustion. He was faking nothing now,
  except stupefied ignorance.
  "Begin at the beginning, tell me everything. You will be glad you did
  this, tomorrow."
  Tomorrow, even if I talked, I would be dead, thought Duclos as he looked
  at the knife that the Greek had whipped out when the rope had been
  slackened. Demetrios might be the type of barbarian who enjoyed using a
  knife. He would be efficient with an ax, too. Cold metal, that was
  Demetrios.
  "Tell me about your friends. First, the ones in Paris. When did you meet
  Rosenfeld?"
  I have said all I dare say, Duclos thought now. Any more talk, any
  elaborations, and I will be tripped up. He knows no more than he did when
  he started his persuasion. Perhaps less. I have given him explanations
  that he had not expected,
            T~m DouBLE ImAGE     165
 and he is stuck with them. He cannot move forward, find firmer footing,
 unless I provide the steps. So I stay silent, now. I'm weak with lack of
 food and water, weak with the drugs they managed to put into my body, weaker
 perhaps than I realize. By dawn, or noon tomorrow, I would even begin to
 forget the things I did tell them, change them a little, become confused. So
 now I don't talk at all, not at all. There is no choice really, beween life
 and death; he would never have spoken the names of Andr6 and Demetrios if he
 meant to let me leave here alive. Duclos looked at Andr6's revolver, at the
 Greek knife. Ill choose Amdr6, he thought. And above all, I must choose the
 right moment
  "When did you meet him first?" the casual voice asked as if this were a
  harmless conversation about a common friend.
  Duclos was thinking, I must choose carefully and well. They must not learn
  that death comes from a small pellet broken between my teeth. How could a
  man on holiday, a man interested in antique design, possess such a thing as
  the pellet? If they learn about that, they learn that their suspicions are
  right. It would be stupid to give them that consolation. But how do I
  choose the right moment? Even make it a last attempt to escape? Would there
  be any chance of success? With luck, wild luck? He knew better. Only in the
  storybooks and adventure films did you have Duclos, with one bound, going
  free.
 'I)o I amuse your, the voice asked quickly.
  Duclos allowed himself one last sentence. "You have kidnapped the wrong
  man-I have no money for any ransom."
  "Duclos, we know who you are. Stop this I We know. Now, in your own
  words-m"
  Duclos shook his head slowly. The rope would soon be tightened again, the
  squat power lamp with its beam directed at his eyes would be turned on.
  Questions and questions, hour after hour. No food, no drink, no rest, no
  sleep. I am to fear Andr6 and Demetrios, the hidden threats of violence. I
  am to trust the quiet voice of the unseen man, his offers of help, his
  touches of sympathy, his suggestions which will seem more reasonable as I
  grow weaker, tireder. And after that, if I haven't broken, then the real
  work on me will start. But I will not die as a whimpering animal, he told
  himself in rising anger. I am a man.
  He lunged forward at the table, the rope around his body running loose, and
  managed to tilt it. The two candles
 166       HELEN MACINNES

 toppled and rolled, the lamp slid onto the floor with a crash. Behind him,
 Andr6 caught a loop of the rope~ pulled him back, raised the butt of the
 revolver. Duclos bit down hard on the pellet between his teeth as Andr6
 struck. He let himself fall sideways, taking the chair with him. The gutter-
 ing candles dripped their smoking wax on the floor beside him, flickered
 faintly. The room darkened. The shouts, commands, confusion were moving
 farther and farther away, a blur of sound fading softly into nothing.
 Nothin&
  The Greek found the lamp and switched it on. Andr6 picked up the candles,
  placed them back on the table, tried to light them. But the wicks were
  smothered in wax. "Get fresh candles," he told Demetrios, "then give me a
  hand with him." He looked at Duclos lying half tied to the chair on the
  dark floor.
 "Is he fakingT' the voice from the comer asked.
  "No. He's out all right." Andr6 pulled the loosened rope as tight as it
  would go and tied the ends into a firm knot at the back of the chair. "He's
  out for a good ten minutes." He stood back, waiting for Demetrios, and lit
  a cigarette.
  Insarov rose, came out of the black shadows. "HessecureT'
 "Like a trussed chicken."
  "Then we'll get some air." Amd talk. A little talk is certainly needed. I
  begin to think that the alarm flashed through Peter in Paris brought me
  here on a futile mission. Unnecessary exposure is always disastrous. "Tell
  the Greek to call out if Duclos makes one sound, one small move. We'll be
  near at hand." He lit a cigarette as Andrt unlocked and unbolted the heavy
  door, then stepped out into the cold darkness. The man on guard by the
  stone wall swung round with his shotgun held at the ready. "Check with my
  driver," Insarov told him, and sent the man stumbling along the rough path
  toward the road, past the second of the two small stone houses tightly
  shuttered, closed, empty. He disappeared into the mass of wild bushes and
  scrub trees near the sheltered spot, off the road, where Insarov had left
  his car. Insarov shook his head at the man's clum in s. Too eager. Fortu-
  nately, this whole area was deserted during the week at this time of year.
  Still- He half turned to look at Andr6, who had approached silently enough
  to please him. "Keep that cigarette shaded," he said sharply. "Did it take
  So long to make the Greek understand my orders?"
           THE DouBLE ImArm     167
  "Oh, well-you know the Greeks." AndrS was always a little nervous with
  Insarov. In Paris he had only seen him vaguely. fleetingly, either when
  he passed through the back corridbr of Le Happening or when Andr6 had
  been called in to the dressing room for instructions from Peter. He had
  never expected to see him here, hadn't even known he was in Athens.
  Athens? No. The car had been driven only an hour, so the driver had let
  slip to Demetrios-those Greeks, always imagining that you couldn't
  understand their languagel
 "You don't like them?"
  "They think they are the only people with brains and courage.
  Insarov smiled acidly. "And do you think your Frenchman has brains and
  courage? Or is he just stupid and innocentT'
  Andr6 stared in surprise. "But he listened to me at the airport-he went
  along with me, then. That's some kind of proof, isn't it? He can't be
  what he pretends he is." And I saw him at the club, Andr6 thought
  indignantly, I saw him wandering round the back of the stage, talking
  with the coatroom woman, and we know now what she was. Comrade Peter took
  me seriously enough, trusted me....
  "Did he really go along with you at the airport? He might only have been
  humoring you to gain time to call a policeman. He directed you to a wrong
  hotel, didn't he? That proves he wasn't believing what you said. Did he
  make any reference to ZafirisT'
 "No."
 "'He made no remark we could use against himT'
  AndrS thought back to the airport meeting. Apart from refusals to be
  helped with his luggage, and an attempt to leave, Duolos had made only
  one blunder. "He said it would be better to travel separately to Athens,
  better to meet at the King George. That implied something, didn't it?"
 "That implies he was trying to get rid of you."
 "T'hen who is he?"
 "Perhaps working for Interpol-narcotics."
 "But the connection with Rosenfeld-"
  "There is no actual connection we have been able to discover. I was only
  trying to see if there might be one."
  "And I believed----o' Andr46 began in amazement, and then laughed softly.
  Insarov wasn't even flattered. He looked at the Frenchman contemptuously.
  Did he really think this was a proper inter-
   168       HELEN MACINNES

 rogation? "If you had questioned the coatroom attendant thoroughly, for
 several days, we might have had one piece of information to rely on. Or if
 you had fully investigated the report you had from your Paris sources about
 Duclos' visit to the police station, you could have given me more facts
 about any supposed burglary. We've been working only on coincidences."
  "There was so little time. We gathered what we could." And it had been
  gathered well. Until this minute he had thought of it as a triumph that
  would leave even a Russian speechless. The risks had been incredible.
  Nervously, he smoothed his well-brushed hair; and as he felt its new coarse
  texture, he saw himself on Sunday night, walking into the Grande Bretagne
  with Duclos' luggage and passport, hair dyed dark brown, cheeks pinked up
  like a damned woman, wearing DucIos! jacket and hat and his watch and his
  ring, scrawling a signature at the reservation desk, asking for his mail;
  going up to the right room, staying there thirty-six hours, keeping out of
  sight, waiting for telephone calls. "Well, we did pick up his tickets for
  Mykonos," Andr6 said, still angry.
  "That boat also stops at Syros and Tinos. And goes on to Rhodes. You heard
  him."
 "You don't thin he is important to us?"
  "I would need two weeks of preparation, at least; another two weeks for
  questioning; perhaps four weeks of letting him wait mi solitary
  confinement; more questioning. And only after all that, we might begin to
  know, not guess, his importance."
 "Why go on, now? Why not turn him over to Demetrios?"
  "Torture can be a great stupidity. If used too early, it is a
  self-defeating process. A weak man will agree to any story to please the
  torturer. I do not want agreement. I want the truth. Who is Duclos? Where
  is he going? Why? Once we learn all that, we can see what further questions
  must be asked. Then, and only then, has Demetrios something to work on. is
 "But do you expect him to answer your questions----~
  "I never expect I listen. And in his evasions, he will answer more than my
  questions." Insarov smiled, watching Andr6, who was another type who
  thought that only he had brains and courage. "Clever men can never resist
  talking even to show they can outwit you. In another hour of questioning he
  will begin to think he has beaten me. The hour
           T~HE DouBLE IMAGE     169

 after that, all I do is to pick his story to pieces. He will be goaded to
 talk more, change his story, forget what he said hours before. And then, we
 have him."
  "So you do think he is important?" Andr6 insisted, and some of his pride
  surged back. He had caught Duclos. Of course there were others, too, who
  had helped. But he had started the chase, he had followed it through.
  "I hear our heavy-footed friend returning," Insarov answered, as the man
  came plodding back through the dark bushes. "Better tell him that silence
  can be of more importance than speed," he said acidly. "Better still, send
  him back to Bulgaria. He won't always find a place as desolate as this." He
  turned away before the man started reporting that all was well, no one was
  on the road, there had been no traffic for the last three hours.
  Andr6 caught up with Insarov at the door. Insarov was looking down toward
  the sea, a molten mass of metal under the night sky. His mood had changed
  again. "It should be an interesting week," he said softly, his eyes still
  watching the Aegean. Then, as Andr-6 swung the door open for him, he strode
  into the room, smiling and confident, and made for his comer. "Get him upl"
  He pointed to Duclos, tied to the fallen chair.
  Demetrios had been sitting on the comer of the table. He reported, with his
  thin smile. "Never made one sound. He's still out."
 "Then throw a bucket of water over him."
  Andr6 had secured the door. He looked puzzled, and crossed so quickly to
  the fallen chair that Insarov came forward, too. "I didn't hit him as hard
  as all that," Andr,6 said. "He ought to be-~'
  Insarov pushed both men aside and knelt by the chair. "He's dead," he said
  very quietly. And stood up, looking at Andr6.
  "But I didn't-" Andr6 protested. He turned on Demetrios. "What did you do
  to himT1
  "Nothing. Nothingl You hit him once too often. I told you you7d kill him."
  Insarov walked to the door. "You know what to do about the body. Follow my
  instructions exactly. No deviations from my orders. Not this time." He
  looked at Andr6. "When you finish here, drive back to the Grande Bretagne,
  stay in your room, collect all mail and messages for Duclos. That's
  impor-
   170      HELEN MACINNES

 tant. On Thursday morning, pay the bill, take his luggage, and get on board
 the ship for Mykonos. You will get off before you reach Mykonos, at Syros,
 wearing your own clothes, leaving his luggage and passport in his cabin.
 Hire a fishing boat, make your way to Athens. Then to Paris. Report to
 Peter, there."
  Back to Paris? Andrd stared in disbelief. He doesn't trust me to go on with
  the job. He's disciplining me. Even those detailed instructions are a proof
  of distrust, of censure.
 "Have you got that?"
 "Yes. I understand, Comrade Colonel."
  "Your trouble is," Insarov said coldly, "that you have been seeing too many
  American movies. In future, use your brains; not your gun." He left.
  Andr6 avoided the Greek's mocking smile. He looked down at the white face
  of Duclos, the fixed stare of the blue eyes. Even in death, losing their
  brightness, they seemed to be laughing at him.
  "Too bad," Demetrios said, and sheathed his knife regretfully. His smile
  broadened. "So our methods have changed? You think you can hit a man and as
  long as he doesn't die, you are his kind friend? You treat this kind of
  vermin as if he were,a naughty child. The Russian uses drugs and lies, you
  use your fists, and you both think you're subtle." Demetrios laughed openly
  and patted the knife inside his jacket with his long slender fingers. "Here
  is sublety. Here is something that can ask questions all night long, and
  get the answers." Demetrios pushed at the body with his foot. "He knew
  that. And you will know it, too, Frenchman, if ever you are tied to a
  chair."
  Duclos had known that? Andr6 stared at the Greek's mocking eyes, bent down
  beside the body, looked at its lips, sniffed like a dog. Demetrios watched
  him, and went into a fit of laughter. Those simple-minded foreigners,
  thinking they knew everything ... Instead of treating him like a servant,
  talking together where he couldn't hear them, they ought to have tested the
  dead man's mouth. In the first few minutes they might have smelled the
  truth. But now the slight, bitter scent was gone.
  "There's nothing there," Andr6 said angrily, getting to his feet. All he
  had done was to make a fool of himself for the Greek.
 "How could there be? It was you who insisted on search-           THE DouiBLP, ImAGi3   171

 ing him when we brought him here. You wouldn't let anything slip past you.
 Of course not---?'
  "He was of no importance anyway," Andr4 said, tightfaced.
  "That's what I thought all along," Demetrios said softly. So why report his
  suspicion and take Comrade Andr,6 off the hook? "What was at stake?"
 "Nothing."
 "Nothing? A wasted weekend for nothingr'
 "Nothing for you to worry about," Andr6 said coldly.
  Then I worry about nothing, thought Demetrios, and smiled again.
  "Untie the body, get the Bulgarian in here to help you carry it to the
  fishing boat before daylight, drop it well out to sea near Syros-"
  "And not before Thursday," Demetrios cut in. "I know, I know." He took out
  his knife, slashed the ropes lightly and deftly. "See how fast and easy it
  would have been," he said, looking up at Andr6 for some small tribute to
  his dexterity. But the Frenchman had left. "Come on, come on," he told the
  Bulgarian, who was hesitating at the door. "We haven't much time."
 :'They left in a hurry. Anything wrong?"
  'Everything according to plan," Demetrios assured him, and laughed
  contemptuously. He was beginning to feel very, very good, indeed.
  Quickly-and it was a pleasure to speak in Greek again-he rattled off the
  orders for the disposal of the body.
 "But aren't you coming?"
  "You can manage it. The fishermen will help you. I'm no sailor." No garbage
  remover, either.
 :'They've had their instructions?"
  'And their money. Remember one thing-not before Thursday."
  The Bulgarian hoisted Duclos over his broad back. "I'll remember," he
  promised. "So their scythe struck a stone?" he asked with a grin as he
  shifted the body's weight more evenly. "I wondered why they went off so
  quickly."
  Yes, thought Demetrios, leaving us to clean up here. Now if the Russian had
  been really comradely, he could have taken the body in his fast car back to
  Vouliagmeni, from where he could easily reach the yacht his driver had
  mentioned-there were several anchorages all along that coast. But no. Swift
 172      HELEN MACINNES

 in, swift out, that was the Russian. Dropping a body from his yacht at sea
 would be too much of a danger for him. Too much for Comrade Andr,6, too.
 Couldn't he have waited, at least, until Demetrios was ready to leave and
 give him a lift back to Athens? Oh no, no, no . . . "If you don't move off
 quickly," he told the Bulgarian, "you'll have more problems than a body
 over your shoulder."
  "See you in Athens, comrade," the Bulgarian said cheerfully and left.
  It may be back to Sofia for both of us, Demetrios thought as he picked
  up the lamp to take with him. The rest of the mess could stay as it was.
  If the rich had so many houses that they didn't need them except for a
  couple of months each summer, they deserved thieves to break in and leave
  a place filthy. He wasn't going to risk staying here any longer than he
  had to. He looked around the desolate room, remembering the voices. A
  wasted effort.
  He pinched out the candies. Blue eyes brought a curse, the old wives
  said. He spat solemnly on the threshold, and closed the door.
 IeI2                             -1

 Thursday was going to be a pleasant day, early-morning sun and blue sky
 promising good sailing to Mykonos. It was also a pleasant end to a very
 pleasant week in Athens. John Craig had his last cup of coffee out on his
 small balcony, watching the white-skirted Evzones. on guard at the Parlia-
 ment sentry boxes across the square. He was packed, ready to leave, He
 felt healthy and rested. There had been enough exercise in the constant
 walking through the Plaka or over the Acropolis or up to the American
 School to keep him happy. His one dislike of most cities was the way they
 forced you to take a bus or a subway, feel heavy with food and soft with
 unused muscles. But here, over the low-storied houses, the sun could bathe
 a street and fill it with light and entice you to walk. He had developed
 his first tan of the season, even if he had worked each morning in the
 Schoors library on the days he had actually spent in Athens. His own
 private conscience was at rest; no guilt about lazing around, or about the
 nights off with his friends from the School. As for his public
 conscience-play it loose, Partridge had said. There had been no alarms,
 no threats, no tensions. He had had a very pleasant week, indeed.
  Time to go. If Paul and Pam Mortimer were coming to see him off-though
  he doubted it-they might be waiting downstairs even now. He had his last
  look at the streets surrounding the square--people, people, exploding
  everywhere. If we all keep crowding to the cities, he thought as he re-
  membered the long stretches of lonely empty country, the villages left
  to sleep away the twentieth century that he had seen in the Peloponnese,
  perhaps that will be the real time bomb we ought to be worried about.
  Everyone wants the bright lights and running water, hot and cold.
  Everyone
                173
 174       HELEN MACINNES

 wants the theaters and caf6s and the girls in high heels, the museums and
 concerts, the newspapers fresh off the press. That is one thing that Athens
 shares with New York (and Moscow, Rome, Paris and London, too); just name
 the big cities of the world and you see the same wenlike growththe more and,
 if not the merrier, certainly the busier. It makes politicians' eyes bulge
 in delight as they count heads and think of next election's votes. It keeps
 a business
 beaming as he hears the music of ringing cash registers. Big" ger and better
 . . . But what does a historian think of? Or, rather, what does he try not
 to think of? One of the main reasons for the fall of the Roman Empire.
 People. Just people, bless their happy hearts and their congregating feet.
  Indeed time to go. A balcony does funny things to a an. Either he wants to
  make speeches, have every face upturned, shouts from every throat to prove
  how right, how gloriously right, he is; or he looks down over the black
  dots of heads carried along on the two little matchstick legs, and he
  thinks where do all the people come from? Where are they going? How many
  more can crowd onto a city sidewalk before the imbalance sets off the
  population bomb?
  I've been too deep in history for this last week, he thought with a smile
  at himself as he telephoned the desk to get his bill ready. (Yes, he was
  checking out. On his way, right now.) I've been seeing too many remains of
  past glories; I can't even look at a row of overpowering columns in a
  ruined temple without thinking of the men who built them and walked there.
  And of their great-great and not so great grandsons who let them be
  destroyed. Let them be destroyed? What else, when you counted the years of
  acquiescence and drift before the actual destruction began? Yes, you looked
  at the temples, at the nobility of man's taste, and you remembered the art
  and the law and the philosophy and the knowledge that had gone with them;
  and then you thought, unhappily, angrily, why did those men let all that
  pass out of their hands into alien control? They had something worth
  keeping and they let it slip away. At what point could they have saved it?
  The point just before they started to be afraid of dying? Better barbarians
  than death-had that been their comfort? And the beginning of their end?
  Not such pleasing thoughts on a pleasant morning . . . but as he stepped
  out of the elevator into the enormous lobby
           THE DOU13LE IMAGE     175

 with its bustle of people intent on enjoying themselves, he slipped into a
 cheerier mood. He couldn't see any sign of the Mortimers, but the
 international circus was in full swing in ten different languages with ten
 different ways of,dressing, from tight trousers to flowing robes. There were
 loose groups of straying Americans (pity their poor guides), tight families
 of French, pairs of English, solitary Arabs, explorers from Africa, Hindu
 saris in flocks, quiet clusters of thin diplomats, a solidity of foreign
 generals with high-peaked caps over brown faces and pigeon chests weighed
 down by medals (could one man's lifetime win so many victories?); and of
 course the ordinary men like Craig, in tweed jackets bulging with passports
 and tickets, who were wondering whether they'd make that boat or plane if
 the three lines at the accountants' desk didn't move along more quickly.
  The Frenchman in front of Craig finished checking his bill, item by item,
  paid in hard cash, and waited impatiently for his change. His hands were
  outstretched on the counter, squarely keeping his place. His fingers
  tapped, as if each second of waiting was added annoyance. He wore a very
  handsome signet ring of gold with a strange design. Craig noticed that
  first. Then he noticed the man's black hair. And his height was about five
  feet eight, his weight not far from one hundred and sixty-five pounds.
  Duclos.
  So he has been staying here, thought Craig, and is now checking out.
  Strange that I haven't seen him around, in the restaurant or lobby or bar.
  Still, the Grande Bretagne in its recently expanded state was a lot of
  space, and people had to search for each other at the crowded hours. Duclos
  was counting his change-he must have a rigorous expense account, to be so
  exact-as he turned away from the desk. The first move comes from him, Craig
  reminded himself, tactfully avoided looking at Duclos, and stepped forward
  to say to the hotel clerk, "John Craig, Room 308. To logariasmo, parakalo."
  That always raised a smile on both sides: the clerk's, because he liked the
  compliment of a foreigner trying to speak his language; Craig's, because he
  enjoyed having to ask for his logarithm-it would have to be the Greeks
  who'd call your bill just that. Anyway, he had spoken his name clearly
  enough, and if Duclos ignored this chance meeting then Craig could stop
  worrying about what might have been going on during this last week of sheer
  enjoyment. In the early mornings after the late nights on the town, Craig
 176      HELP-N MAcINNEs

 had even begun to wonder, as he went to bed, if all the tensions and hidden
 dangers of his week in Paris hadn't been -well, not exactly unreal; Sussman
 was dead, wasn't he?perhaps, just a little, exaggerated. Yet Partridge was
 not exactly an exaggerating type. He wasn't the kind of man who scratched
 his hand and yelled that his arm was wounded. He didn't ham things up.
 Neither did Rosie. Offhand jokers, that was what they seemed in retrospect.
 Craig waited now for Duclos to drop some money on the floor so that he could
 help pick it up, pass the time of day as a kind of introduction to a further
 meeting on the boat to Mykonos. It certainly looked as if Duclos must be
 taking the same little inter-island ship that Craig was booked for.
  But either Craig's idea about how to make a subtle contact in a big hotel
  lobby was too corny or Duclos had no need to speak to him. For the
  Frenchman moved away from the line at the accountants' desk, not even
  glancing in Craig's direction. Everything must be normal, Craig thought as
  he paid his logarithm; no alarms or special messages, no advice or counsel
  to be heeded. So relax, Craig, and laugh at yourself a little. You'd have
  thought you were a prize retriever, the way your instincts pointed at that
  ring the minute you saw it.
  As he turned away from the desk, he saw Duclos' trim figure walking briskly
  toward the entrance. He followed leisurely, saying good-bye with the right
  tips for the pecking order in their brass-buttoned jackets, and left the
  indirect lighting of the lobby for the brilliant, cutting light of Athens'
  skies. He stood on the steps, waiting, getting his eyesight back into focus
  after the sun's bright glare. His suitcases were in charge of a bellhop,
  one of several with many suitcases. Adonis, the porter-in-charge, was
  gesturing up taxis as firmly as any New York cop directing traffic. But
  there was a small crowd of travelers down there on the sidewalk, so. he
  might as well enjoy the scene until his turn came. Duclos was less patient,
  which surprised him-the Frenchman was even trying to thwart Adonis and take
  the nearest cab as his. And now, too, he could see Duclos' face. It was
  about twenty feet away, as against ten feet in the SaintHonor6 bar, but it
  added to his surprise. Hair and coloring were the same; but surely the jaw
  line had retreated. Or was he seeing it from another perspective, looking
  down the slope of sidewalk instead of from across a level room? He
           Tim Doui3LP- IMAGE    177

 lit a cigarette as Duclos, politely but definitely put in place, cabless,
 paced up and down, drifting nearer.
  Craig glanced casually back at the man. It was either the same gray tweed
  jacket that Duclos had worn that Monday evening or something very close
  to its color and cut. But the profile wasn't quite the same. Near enough,
  but not exam Damn it all, thought Craig, if there's one small pride I
  enjoy, it's my memory for faces; I remember them better than I do names.
  At that moment, Duclos, halting by the steps, looked in his direction,
  and he could see the man's eyes. They were blue, certainly; but even
  under the bright sky that intensified all blue eyes, they hadn't the
  remarkably clear color that Craig recalled. Duclos turned at the steps
  and paced downhill toward the diminishing queue.
  Craig drew a deep slow breath, his first in the last ten seconds. His
  cigarette was out. He threw it away. And what do we do now? He looked
  quickly at the people standing near him outside the entrance to the
  hotel, and wondered if they had noted his brief confusion. He thought
  not. He felt a mask settle over his face automatically, a kind of in-
  stinctive self-protection. Then a vintage Chrysler came moving slowly up
  the street and, as it approached him, an arm waved wildly and he heard
  Pam Mortimer's voice calling. Paul was driving. And was that Clothilde
  and Bannerman in the back seat? So these crazy characters actually have
  come to see me off, he thought, and ran down the steps toward them.
  "Hil" Pam said, talking across her husband, "where's your luggage, we've
  come to take you to, the pier, didn't you expect usT'
  "Any promise given at one in the morning in a bouzoukia joint is not
  meant to be held against you," Craig said, but he was delighted.
  "Tim roused us out of bed. Said you ought to have someone to wave atl"
  "Let me get my luggage away from Adonis, and I'll be with YOU. it
  "And in a hurry," said Paul. "I'll have to keep the car running." He was
  holding it expertly with the clutch on the incline of the street. "The
  traffic cops around here would have New Yorkers screaming."
  "I'll get out," said Clothilde, and she did, "and I'll put one foot on
  the sidewalk and another in the car and that should
 178       HELEN MACINNES
 establish our claim to this patch of pavement for at least two minutes." She
 was also pleased, thought Craig smiling, to show her early-tanned legs and
 her black patent sandals. She noticed his glance, for she laughed and told
 him, "All dressed up to wave good-bye. Hurree, hurree . . ."
  He turned and headed down the street for the luggage. Duclos was getting
  into a cab now, suitcases and all. Duclos? Very close, but not Duclos,
  Craig decided. And what do I do? Just travel with my amiable maniacs down
  to the Piraeus and get onto the boat there as if nothing had happened? He
  felt the same frustrated anger that had attacked him in Paris, on the
  evening he had seen Heinrich Berg for the second time without being able to
  do anything about it Unless, of course, he thought hopefully as he tipped
  everyone in sight (it always felt like that, anyway), there was someone
  around keeping an eye on thee and me, someone who really knew Duclos; and
  could spot the difference. One of the bellhops was now hurrying up to the
  car with his two bags. Craig, still stumbling over his problem, followed
  more slowly. He found it was hard to smile and make the necessary jokes as
  he climbed in beside Clothilde and Bannerman.
  Clothi[de said, "Don't look so worried, John, you really were very quick.
  Besides, Paul enjoys holding a car on a hill-it reminds him of San
  Francisco."
  "And that reminds me of something else again," Paul said, now quite
  serious. "Did you hear that Sussman was dead?"
  "Yes. The Paris papers said suicide." There had been no public mention, as
  far as Craig had seen, of the arrest for murder.
  G'Thafs too bad. They tried to entice him to Stanford, but Berkeley got him
  first. Wonder who'll succeed him there?" Paul talked on for a bit about
  university gossip, about visiting archaeologists, about the new discoveries
  in Crete.
  "Oh, Paul," said his wife, flinching nervously as they skimmed past
  lumbering cement trucks on the Piraeus highway, "please don't talk while
  you drive--it always makes you forget to look at the speedometer."
  Mortimer laughed and slackened speed slightly. The old car handled well,
  could pass anything on the road, and that was all he cared about.
  "put him in Crete," Pam went on, her tone kept light to show she intended
  no public snub, "and he's the most can-
             THE DouDLE ImArm     179
 tious archaeologist, everything dug up with a teaspoon. Put him behind a
 wheel, and hes a fiend."
 "Have I ever had one accident?" Paul asked.
  "Let's not break that record on the day you're shipping John out to
  Mykonos." The car slowed still more, and everyone stopped sitting so
  tensely. Wives, thought Craig, were really useful at times.
  Clothilde said, "We're all going to come and visit you for a weekend,
  John. At least, I'm trying to round up a group of us. Well hire a calique
  and come sailing in like a bird on the wing." There was still much of the
  wandering minstrel in Clothilde, even if she had been spending the last
  five years of her life putting fragments of ancient vases together. She
  was the kind of woman, Craig thought, who'd always be split right down
  the middle between her intellect and her emotions. A pretty girl with
  brains had a hard life, almost as hard as a historian being caught up in
  power politics. But a girl could always solve that split by getting
  married and forgetting that her brains and training were the equal of any
  man's. Of course, only a man would think of that. It was his world, all
  right, and it was a neat solution for him, too, to see the pretty invader
  repulsed from serious competition and invited to join his bed and board
  instead. Yes, thought Craig, men had it every which way. He smiled and
  shook his head.
  Clothilde said quickly, "You don't like a calque, John? But it's
  wonderful, so--so----~'
  "Watch out, Craig," said Bannerman, speaking at last, "or she'll have you
  bobbing around the Mediterranean in one of those walnut shells following
  the course of Odysseus or some damn Homeric hero." .
  "Now you enjoyed it," Clothilde told Bannerman, "you know you did. Look
  at the photographs you took, and the article you wrote for Horizon--2'
  "Which got turned down. I guess it made them as seasick as I was."
  "Then you can use it for a chapter in your new book." And thinking of
  books in progress, she looked at Craig, was about to say something and
  then didn't. Everyone who was writing a book had his hours of gloom, she
  thought.
 "Yes?" he asked her.
  "Don't fret," she said understandingly. "On Mykonos, you'R have the most
  wonderful sense of peace. You'll be
 180       HELEN MACINNES

 able to write there-I couldn't imagine anything more soothing.19
  Craig gave her soft brown eyes a special smile of thanks, patted her
  knee, and then looked quickly at Bannerman in case he had overstepped.
  It was possibly Clothilde who kept Tim Bannerman hovering around Athens.
  He was one of those humorous types, dark-haired, dark-eyed, fairly tall,
  with good shoulders and a well-disciplined waist, that seemed to get
  along with women and men for very different reasons. He fitted into a
  variety of circles, too, American and Greek, everything from scholars and
  journalists to poets and peasants. Bannerman didn't lift an eyebrow, one
  of his favorite comments; he was looking at Craig blankly, as if his mind
  were very far away from the back seat of this car. "As long as the sea
  stays nice and flat, I won't worry about anything," Craig told Clothilde.
  "Hey, Pam, what do you think the prospects are today?"
  That set the women talking, with interjections from Paul to keep them
  right: anyone who lived in Greece always seemed to become a specialist
  on winds and weather. So in a general sweep of conversation, with Craig's
  relapse into silence nicely covered, they arrived in the busy streets of
  Piraeus. Paul threaded his way through them skillfully to reach the broad
  confusion of the water front. Everyone was now giving directions, except
  Craig. The inter-island boats were that way, not over here, this was
  where the liners docked and there the freighters; aim left now, go beyond
  the wharves6 those ones--see?
  "I know the way,." said Paul and made a wrong turning. "I swear they keep
  moving these crazy wharves around," he said, as he got back onto the
  right rouM
  It would have been easier on the nerves, Craig thought as they avoided
  loaded carts rushing in all directions, to have taken a taxL but not so
  good for the liver. They bumped their way over the rough pavement,
  skidded on some inset rail lines, swerved around a pyramid of baskets
  almost twenty feet high, and saw three small ships in various stages of
  loading at a long quay. "I knew they were around here somewhere," Paul
  said, chose the ship where the most frenetic efforts were being made, and
  eased the car as near as possible to the mixture of objects and people
  spread around the dock in utmost confusion. There were wardrobes and
  bedsteads, sacks of sugar, crates of oranges, goats and
           Tim DouBLE ImArm      181
 chickens, ancient trunks roped 'round, battered cases and brown-paper
 packages, women in shapeless cotton dresses and draggled cardigans, women in
 smart suits with high heels and swollen hair styles, men in rough caps and
 widelapeled jackets that never matched the trousers, pale students with
 bulging rucksacks and thin beards, red-faced young soldiers on leave, men in
 snap-brims and natty double-breasters, children bundled tightly in heavy
 clothing for the big ocean journey.
  "Oh dear," Pam said as she stepped out and looked at the smallest of the
  ships, "I hope you have an outside cabin, John. Here, better take these
  Dramamine. I brought them just in case." And wouldn't you know it, she
  thought, the new boat for the Mykonos-Rhodes run had to be laid off today.
  Poor John ...
 Craig burst out laughing in spite of his worry.
  Bannerman grinned. "I'd take them if I were you." He added quietly, "And
  that's the first laugh yo&ve given today. Feeling okay?"
  "Sure. Just wondering how we're all going to get packed in. We're sailing
  in ten minutes."
  "T'he farther east from Gibraltar, the longer the minute." Paul said, and
  became very businesslike. "First thing is to find a steward and get him to,
  take your cases down to your cabin. That makes sure of your space, too.
  Then you can wander around and join the fun. Like some help with the
  languageT'
  "You take charge," Craig said with relief. The only English being spoken
  around him was by two American middle-aged women with sensible shoes and
  guidebooks. Everything else was in a torrent of Greek, except for a trickle
  here and there of French. Even the laughter, harsh and strong, sounded
  foreign.
  "You couldn't have pleased Paul more," Pam said, watching her husband
  walking over to the gangway. "He adores being dernotic in Greek. Come on,
  let's investigate the baskets. Whoever piled them so high and so neatly?"
  Clothilde was already halfway to the pyramid. That kind of mystery
  delighted her. It was obviously done by a nimble-handed gnome in a state of
  weightlessness, she called back over her shoulder.
  "I'll see about the luggage, first," said Craig, and began hauling his bags
  out of the trunk. Bannerman helped, politely,
 182       HELEN MACINNES

 not too energetically. He was looking at Craig with some deepening
 speculation all his own. Just then, a taxi drew up and the imitation Duclos
 stepped out. Craig saw him, froze for a moment, reached back into the car
 for his raincoat. "That's everything, I think." His words felt as tight as
 his face. He avoided glancing in the man's direction.
  Bannerman said, "Hey, you dropped somethingl" He bent quickly and picked it
  up, pressed it securely into Craig's hand. "I've been wondering how to get
  it there for the last five minutes," he admitted with a short laugh. Craig
  glanced at the coin in his palm: it was a nickel, all right. Bannerman was
  saying quietly, "I know, I know. Contact only in an emergency. My feeling
  is you've got one on your hands. What's been troubling you?"
  "Duclos." The Frenchman was now carrying his suitcases on board. His head
  was bent, eyes on the steep gangway. He looked to neither right nor left.
  He was a man who didn't want to be noticed.
  "Didn't he make contact with you at the Grande Bretagne?"
 Craig shook his head. "Do you know him?"
  "By description and photograph. He is just getting on board, now."
 "Not Duclos. That's someone else."
 Bannerman actually stared. "Are you sure?"
 "Almost sure. Enough to worry about it."
  "Look-why don't you join Paul? Stick close to him. I have a couple of Greek
  friends I'd better talk with. Yes, they're going to Mykonos, too.
  Perhaps----" he paused again, and smiled---~'yes, we'll let the Greeks
  handle this little business. They're very resourceful." He stepped away,
  seemingly to avoid a cart being pushed along, piled high with mattresses.
  Craig lit a cigarette, threw his coat over his shoulder, picked up his two
  bags, and set out for Paul and the steward he had collected. "Now," said
  Paul, once the formalities of documents and tip were over, "we can stroll
  around and watch what's going on. Wouldn't miss this for anything. It's a
  slice of real life."
  "How long do we have?" Craig's eyes were looking around the dock. Bannerman
  had disappeared. Or was hidden by the crowd. There was no sign of the man
  who was pretending to be Duclos-he must have settled in his cabin. He
  cer-
             THE DouBLE IMAGE      183

 tainly wasn't among those who hung over the ship's rail and yelled last
 messages down to the people on the dock. No transatlantic sailing had more
 enthusiasm.
  "Oh, about fifteen minutes-yes, when they are really good and ready to
  sail, theyll whisk all this stuff off the dock. You'll be amazed how
  quickly they'll do it. Now, where are Pam and Clothilde? And where's
  Bannerman?"

  Fifteen minutes turned to twenty. "Where's Bannerman?" Paul was still
  asking.
  "He met that architect friend of his-" Pam said. "What's his name? Elias
  something or other. Look, there they are!"
  Bannerman was coming forward with a small dark-haired man, dressed neatly
  in gray, who carried a suitcase. They were talking casually, cheerfully, in
  English. "Elias is also going to Mykonos," Bannerman announced as he
  completed the introductions. "He's studying the ground for a new hotel."
  Craig shook hands and felt he was being quietly studied, too. But
  pleasantly. Elias had an easy smile, brightly intelligent brown eyes, a
  thin dark mustache stretched over sensuous red lips, and gleaming white
  teeth. Shirt, suit and tie were restrained and elegant. A successful young
  man, you'd say, and a happy one. No worries, no strain on that thin,
  handsome face. "I think we go on the boat," Elias said. "It is time."
  "Wish I were coming with you," Bannerman said, enthusiasm for travel
  apparently breaking loose. "What do you say, Clothilde, shall we go?"
  Clothilde looked willing. She always was. But Pam said quickly, "Timmy,
  don't be silly. She hasn't even a coat to keep her warm."
  "Well, don't be surprised if you see me tomorrow or the next day,"
  Bannerman told Elias and Craig, stiff keeping a joke in his voice. "Better
  get on board, now."
  "Can't imagine why they are so late," said Paul. The cargo, both things and
  people, was mostly loaded. He looked up at the crowded railings of the ship
  and saw a redhead. "Now isn't that something? Was that what caught your
  eye, Bannerman?"
  Craig looked up, too, and recognized the girl. He was sure of her: she had
  sat at the same table in the Saint-Honor6 bar with Partridge and Duclos.
  She wasn't laughin& today.
 184       HELEN MACINNES

 She was grave-faced as her eyes searched the dock. Pam was saying, "French.
 You always can tell." And Clothilde, studying the simple gray wool dress and
 the high-brushed hair, said nothing at all.
  "On boardl" Bannerman said briskly, ending Craig's good-byes and thanks,
  pushing him firmly toward the gangway. Elias was already stepping onto the
  deck. What's the big hurry? Craig wondered, but he smiled all around and
  waved as he followed the Greek. And just as he reached the deck and was
  searching for a free space at the rails, he began to understand. Two
  olive-green cars, neat and businesslike, were drawing up quietly on the
  dock. Three men, neat and businesslike, too, moved with precision and speed
  toward the ship. They boarded her easily, with no questions. The purser was
  there to welcome them, as serious and silent as they were. They disappeared
  down the narrow staircase into the section where the first-class cabins
  lay. Few people noticed; most were still concentrating on calling last-
  minute messages to their friends on the pier. The crew were standing by the
  fines, ready to cast off. The narrow planks aft were already being removed.
  Only the first-class gangway still waited.
  Four minutes passed by Craig's count. It was now twelvefifteen. On shore,
  Bannerman was pointing out something interesting at the ship's stern to
  Clothilde and Pam Mortimer while Paul stayed by his car, looking at his
  watch, no doubt wondering about that one o'clock lunch party he was
  scheduled to give for two visiting scholars. Beside Craig two men who had
  been talking quietly together in an incomprehensible language-they were
  northerners, definitely, judging from their heavy blunt features, white
  faces, fairish hair: Balts or Poles, perhaps Czechs?-feU totally silent The
  bogus Duclos and the three imperturbable Greeks were leaving the ship in
  close formation, complete with his luggage.
  Before their tight group had even reached the dock, one of the men near
  Craig went into action. He headed for the gangway, got one foot on it,
  began explaining in a mixture of inadequate Greek and useless French that
  he had left a suitcase behind-he must get it-it was impossible to sail
  without it. He ended the argument abruptly by pulling free from a
  restraining hand, made a dangerous dash down the half-free gangway, jumped
  onto firm ground. He stood there only for a few seconds as he recovered
  breath and dignity,
            T!iiE DouBLE ImAGE   185
 then stalked off in high dudgeon. To the nearest telephone? His report would
 be a shocker, Craig thought, watching the dwindling figure of the hurrying
 man, watching the two official cars speed away with their prisoner. Now
 there's a slice of real life for Paul to observe. . . . But Paul had barely
 noticed, if at all. And the others? They were gathered around Paul, laughing
 at one of Bannerman's quips as he pointed to the ship, arms circling high,
 Clothilde's long green scarf fluttering.
  That reminded Craig to start waving, too. Paul, still glancing at his
  watch, was ready to drive off. Bannerman gave one last salute as he stcpped
  into the car. Craig returned it, with a broad grin. Bannerman certainly had
  the most resourceful of Greek friends.
  As they sailed out of the enormous port, siren-blasting their way between
  fishing boats, freighters flying every imaginable flag, two destroyers
  making for the naval dockyards on the opposite shore, an Italian liner, a
  Greek cruise ship, launches, more fishing boats, Elias halted nonchalantly
  beside Craig. "Ifs going to be quite a pleasant trip," he said, smiling
  brightly.
  "Slow in starting. What was all that commotion on the dock?"
  661he purser tells me there was a smuggler on board. Narcotics."
 :'Really?-
  'Yes. A Frenchman named Duclos, the purser said. One of the detectives told
  him the man had been chased all across Europe." Elias shook his head over
  such an extraordinary world. "I think I will make a constitutional before
  lunch. Would you care to join me?"
  "I had better get below and check on my suitcases. See you later."
  They went their separate ways. At the railing, the lighthaired man gripped
  the rails and stared straight ahead. Strange, thought Craig in amusement,
  to show so little concem for the traveling companion who was left behind,
  to stand so tensely when Duclos, was named as a wanted man. His amusement
  ended when he thought of Duclos-surely that was really taking a lot of
  liberty with a name, to tie it up with narcotics, even in rumor. Why? And
  where was the real Duclos, anyway?
 He went down the narrow companionway to the next
 186      HELEN MAcINNEs
 deck. Here were about twenty cabins along ii narrow passage. The first one
 was empty, its door swinging to the rhythm of the boat. They were coming
 into more open sea, now. The next one had its door open, too. There was a
 woman inside-the French girl with the superlative figure in the simple gray
 dress. She was standing, holding onto the narrow bunk, her head bent She
 raised her face as she heard his footsteps halt. She had been crying.
 "Can I help?" he asked awkwardly.
  She shook her head, picked up her coat and bag from the bunk, brushed past
  him, her face now calm, determined. Head erect, she climbed the steps,
  vanished out of sight.
 1313

 They came to Mykonos in a blaze of pink and vermilion sky, with feathered
 sweeps of cirrus clouds so high that they had already shaded into gray,
 leaving the last golden glow to the threatening mass of cumulus on the
 north horizon. The island was a spreading slope of hard rock molded into
 small hills, barely green, its contours carved so near the bone that the
 occasional farm scattered over the rising land must have its richest
 harvest in stones. Down below was a curve of bay, with the little town at
 one side--flat-roofed houses of brilliant white, their square outlines
 broken by blue- or red-domed churches, clustering in a tight mass at the
 water's edgo---and there the long jetty formed a breakwater to harbor
 small craft, fishing boats, masted caliques. Across the bay, at the other
 tip of its crescent, there was a mooring quay in the shelter of a rocky
 headland for a few yachts. Anything larger had to anchor outside.
  Craig stood on the rising and falling ship with the rest of the
  passengers who were going ashore, looking over the rail at the motorboats
  and light launches coming out from the shelter of the breakwater, dipping
  and rolling as they met the heavy waves of the rising sea. There was a
  marked si. lence around him, ship friendships forgotten, the rough
  squalls that had sent them all retreating to their cabins or huddling in
  joint misery in the bar now merely minor interludes. A loose gangway had
  been rigged against the side of the ship. "You just grip, hard, and don't
  look down," one of the American women began telling her companion. "I re-
  member arriving here from Rhode& at one in the morning during a real
  storm---~' Yes, thought Craig, that kind of traveler was always
  remembering, and bringing less comfort than she intended. He waved down
  to the upturned brown
                187
 188       HELEN MACINNES
 faces, far below, of the thin agile Greeks who were maneuvering their small
 boats near the bottom step of the gangway, calculating pitch and toss with
 expectant grins. Now, there are people who are really enjoying themselves.
 If that fat lady falls into the water, they'll have the best laugh of the
 week.
  The French redhead was a practical woman Craig noted. She had tied her head
  securely in a large scarf, bundled herself against wind and spray in a
  tightly belted coat, put her high-heeled shoes into her pockets, and was
  leading the way down the swaying stairs in her nylons as if she had been
  doing this every morning for setting-up exercises. He followed her,
  carrying the fat lady's handbag, with Elias steadily coaxing them onward
  from the rear. The operation, from something a little tricky and outside of
  most experience, turned into a comedy routine. Craig, safe in the steadily
  swaying launch, waited for it to be filled-to the gunwales, naturally;
  Greeks never did things by half-and found he was watching the slow
  procession downward with a relaxed smile. It was all a matter of
  perspective. From here, the gangway looked solid, the ship enormous, and
  only the hesitant feet were dangerous. The Greeks laughed, pushed, pulled,
  and yelled encouragements. The confusion was complete and yet under
  control.
  "I think," said the French girl, as she put on her shoes and stood up
  beside him, "that the worst is yet to come." She looked at the darkening
  stretch of open sea between them and the breakwater. "You are John Craig?
  Yes, Jim told me. . . . I am Marie Aubernon. Mimi for short. I am staying
  at the Leto, around the bay. And you?"
  "At the Triton-it's in the town itself." Could she hear that, he wondered,
  with all those shouts around us?
  She nodded, looked away, studied the little boat alongside that was being
  loaded with luggage. "Yves Duclos was to have introduced us," she said very
  quietly. "But--2' She shrugged her shoulders, her face impassive, only her
  eyes troubled. "What happened to him?"
 "I don't know."
  She bent her head, tightened the belt of her coat. "We'll meet on shore,"
  she said, moving away to the shelter of the small cabin.
  The boat was packed, at last, and started its homeward voyage. Mimi had
  been right about the stretch of rough sea,
           T~m DouBLP, ImAGE     189

 but once they were inside the breakwater the violence of wave and wind
 abruptly ended. Dusk had fallen and the lights of the front-street caf6s
 welcomed the passengers as they began their long walk up the jetty.
 "Tomorrow night," Elias said cheerfully at Craig's elbow, "we'll be sitting
 at one of those tables, watching the new arrivals. We'll meet, of course.
 Everyone meets in Mykonos."
  "Any sign of the man whose friend left him in such a hurry?" Craig asked
  quietly.
 :'Got off the boat at Syros, more than three hours ago."
 'Good. That's one less to worry about."
  Elias only smiled. He increased his pace, drew well ahead, and was lost
  among the straggle of arrivals.
  Craig followed the porter who had picked up his bags and taken the lead. As
  they reached the front street, he pulled off his raincoat-it was now too
  warm, away from the sea wind-and began to relax completely. Everyone meets
  on Mykonos, Elias had said. At this hour, certainly, it looked as if the
  entire population of three thousand-odd had flocked to the water front for
  the main event of the day. The broad street ran level with the shore, was
  in fact part of it. On one side were beached rowboats and fishing nets, on
  the other arcades and caf6 tables. Brown faces everywhere, bare arms, bare
  legs, sun-bleached hair, and curious eyes. Ahead of him, Craig saw Mimi
  with her coat and scarf over her arm. Judging from the prolonged,
  swivel-headed stares that followed her slow, even stride, Mimi was going to
  be quite a success on Mykonos.
  Purposely, he had avoided returning the cool appraisal from the caf6
  tables. This was a night to slip into Mykonos quietly, not a time to be
  noticeably curious. Besides, he preferred watching Mimi and- her triumphal
  progress: her skirt was just tight enough to give it full advantage. Then
  he heard his name clearly called, and was forced to look to his right. It
  was Maritta Maas, waving gaily. Beside her was Veronica Clark. He ignored
  the two handsome long-haired types in mock fishermen's jerseys and tight
  red pants who sat with them. Nor did he stop. He called back laughingly,
  pointed to the porter waiting now at the corner of a small street, waved,
  and went on his way. He was glad to get out of sight, worrying now whether
  he had sounded natural enough, whether he had hurried too much, whether he
  had succeeded in seeming just a casual kind of character; and he couldn't
 190       HELEN MACINNES
 even remember what he had called to them, not exactlybut thank heavens
 they had found it funny. At least, he had left Veronica laughing.
  You'll have to get used to this, he told himself as he followed the
  porter along the narrow twisting street, so narrow that he could touch
  the whitewashed walls of the houses on either side. And all the little
  wandering streets were the same, their paving stones whitewashed to match
  the houses with their balconies and narrow stone staircases that led to
  the upper floors. You'll have to get used to coming around a corner and
  meeting Veronica face to face. You won't even see her until she's twenty
  feet away from you. And the hell of it is, your heart will leap every
  time you catch sight of her, just as it did back there.
  In a few minutes, they had walked through five of those quiet
  criss-crossing streets, the porter always a little ahead, for there was
  no room for two to walk abreast in comfort unless closely arm in arm. A
  town with possibilities, thought Craig. No worry about getting lost,
  either. You only had to head toward the sea breeze and you'd be back at
  the bay. The street-lighting system was simple, too: single bulbs in
  brackets attached to house walls; not too many, just enough to show the
  way through the white maze. By moonlight, street lights wouldn't even be
  necessary.
  The porter halted and looked back, a sign perhaps that they had reached
  the hotel. It was at the end of this fifth small street, on the edge of
  what seemed to be a wider stretch of flagstones. In fact it was a square,
  a miniature one, with a very small church and a couple of dark spiky
  trees, -cypress? cedar? something like that-and two other narrow streets
  leading out of it.
  "Me Triton?" Craig asked. The place looked like any of the larger houses
  around the square.
  His guide nodded, spread a white smile over his wrinkled brown face, and
  pointed to the stone staircase that hugged the side wall. Craig climbed
  up its steps, narrow and high, avoiding the pots of flowers on each
  tread, and stood on the entrance balcony under a pergola of vine leaves.
  From here, he could see part of the street along which he had come, half
  of the ghostlike square, and about ten yards into the streets on its
  other side. Where was everyone? Down at the bay, or eating supper, or
  already in bed? Suddenly, he heard footsteps; two men walking into the
  square, crossing it. One
           THE DOUBLE IMAGE      191

 was speaking in German, a quiet continuous stream of words. He was small and
 fat, wearing shorts and a bulky sweater. The other, tall and powerfully
 built, dressed in white trousers and dark blue blazer with a scarf folded at
 his neck, looked up instinctively at the open belfry of the church as if
 something there had caught his eye--a gentle swing of the bell's tongue,
 perhaps, or the stirring of a bird. It was Heinrich Berg.
  Craig moved against the wall, out of the lighted threshold, stood
  motionless. But Berg had heard Craig's brief, careful step. Quickly, his
  eyes glanced up at the hotel balcony and saw the Greek porter standing in
  the doorway. His friend was pointing at the vine on the pergola-it seemed,
  for a moment, to Craig that the finger was aimed straight at himand then
  burst into explanation. In the autumn, that vine was covered with huge
  clusters of grapes, unbelievable, most useful as well as decorative, the
  wine in Mykonos was quite passable. . . . The footsteps passed on, the
  voice died into a murmur, a door somewhere around the corner-in the square,
  perhaps, or in one of the small streets leading off from that
  corner--closed heavily, and there was silence again.
  The porter was gesticulating politely. Enter, he was saying, and welcome,
  and there are the bags which I have carried with the greatest care and
  brought safely to your destination. Craig couldn't understand a word of the
  dialect, but he offered the man his choice of money from a handful of coins
  in his band. It was a system that worked well. The man clattered down the
  steps happily, with more good wishes for a long and healthful stay, and
  Craig stepped into the small low-ceilinged room that had been turned into
  a reception lobby. There was a gray-haired woman, brisk and formidable,
  waiting behind a desk; a smiling but silent young man in a very correct
  dark suit, who came hurrying at the clang of Madame's bell; two young
  maids, with shining cheeks and nervous giggles, to seize the luggage and
  bear it away down a small dark corridor. Reservation, passport . . . It was
  the usual routine. Madame made it protocol. He floundered through a Greek
  phrase, trying to ease the extreme formality, and was corrected firmly. So
  he fell silent.
  She studied him as he signed the register. "You admired our view," she told
  him severely in halting but determined English, which might be another way
  of reminding him that
 M        HELEN MACINNES
 he had kept her waiting for at least five minutes before deigfting to put a
 foot across her threshold. Or was she curious about what he had seen out
 there? She was frowning heavily, gathering strength for another attack on
 the English language. "It is beautiful?"
  "Beautiful," he assured her. "The flowers are beautiful also," he added
  most politely. Now can I leave? he wondered.
  She bowed in agreement rather than dismissal. Her voice became less harsh,
  although it would never be called mellifluous. "Herr Ludwig admires the
  vine. He always admires the vine."
  Craig decided not to leave, not quite so hurriedly at least. "Herr Ludwig?"
 "You hear his words tonight? He admires very much."
  "Perhaps Herr Ludwig would like to have a few bottles of its wine." But he
  had gone too quickly for her, there, so he slowed down and said, "Herr
  Ludwig also admires the wine."
  There was a bright gleam of laughter in her sharp brown eyes. "For three
  years, he admires. He does not get."
  "Poor Herr Ludwig," he said, and friend of Heinrich Berg at that. But. this
  wasn't the time for any direct questions; better to follow the silent man
  who was waiting for him at the door. Ludwig was a three-year-old
  institution here, at least; and Heinrich Berg was visiting him, judging by
  the guided tour he had been given through the square.
  "Dinner is nine o'clock," Madame called after him. He bowed again, smiled
  amiably, but his thoughts on Berg were now passing into light shock.
  Berg-here, on Mykonos? It was Berg, all right. Ile black hair was the same,
  although the gray at the temples hadn't been noticeable-either it was a
  trick of the lighting in the square or it had been darkened. And the
  handsome face was Berg's, too. So was its calm, almost benign look. Even
  when he had glanced upward, alert, watchful, Berg had not dropped that
  expression. By God, thought Craig, I'd like to be around when he loses that
  mask.
 When did he get here anyway?

  The yacht Stefanie had arrived with the sunset at Mykonos and moored under
  the headland on the quiet end of the bay. She was one of the newer craft
  that were being built to capture the tourist trade, a hundred and fifty
  tons of compact
           TFm DouBLE ImAGF,     193
 pleasure for five passengers and three crew--one to steer and chart, one
 to fuss around, one to cook and clean up. She had two 120 h.p. diesels
 capable of driving her along at twelve knots, and two masts mostly for
 decoration or romantic moods, although-when necessary-they could be rigged
 for silent approaches and departures. They were rigged now, as if the
 Stefanie was just a pleasure schooner with no real power within her neat
 white hull.
  'Ihe Stefanie was slightly different in other ways from the usual yachts
  hired to sail through the Aegean. The crew had been replaced by three
  excellent sailors who were not Greek. This had happened when the yacht
  had began its present charter, in Corfu, an Ionian island just a short
  haul from the Albanian coast. There was rather an original turn in the
  chartering, too. Anattractive woman of fifty, no less, with a French
  passport in the name of Jeanne Saverne, a slight hint of German in her
  accent, residence in Milan, had paid a handsome fee to have the Stefanie
  delivered to her at Corfu. Not to her, exactly. To some friends who would
  use the yacht until she was able, later in May, to enjoy the Greek
  Islands herself. (Bless all insurance companies, Jim Partridge had
  thought, when he came across this piece of information in the careful
  records of the agent who was responsible for the Stefanie's safe
  handling. The insurance agent had only made one mistake: he had assumed,
  since the yacht had been sent especially to Corfu, that the "Greek
  Islands" would be those in the Ionian Sea. But after a quick call at
  Brindist the Stefanie had quietly abandoned the Ionian and headed for the
  waters around Athens. Which was, after all, halfway to the Aegean.)
  It was such a neat operation, beautifully calculated, simple and innocent
  in appearance and yet--once questions started being asked-as complicated
  and peculiar as an artichoke being peeled leaf by leaf, that Partridge
  and his friends would have felt considerable satisfaction if they had
  seen the small red boat that drifted gently over the bay when the
  Stefanie sailed into the harbor. And they deserved some congratulations.
  Partridge had raised the first questions. (If Insarov is renting a house
  on Mykonos, what will he need for transportation-sornething safe,
  discreet, nonremarkable? The usual Greek yacht? What yachts have been
  chartered this season? Where? By whom?) His friends went out searching
  for the answers. Within one week they had
 194       HELEN MACINNES

 peeled the artichoke nicely. The four previous months helped, too, of
 course. Four months of facts dredged up, examined, correlated,
 remembered---even such small details as the various names used by Heinrich
 Berg's mistress of twenty-five years ago. Jeanne Saverne, there it was, the
 name she adopted along with a new identity when she had slipped into France
 after the war; the name she was still using in Milan, where she had been
 living for the last few months, quietly, discreetly, with no overt political
 connections whatsoever but enough spending money to charter a yacht. So
 Partridge had hired a fishing boat. Or, rather, he had suggested his idea to
 Elias (in charge of the Greek end of this counteroperation), who had the
 right contacts on Mykonos. And there, floating around so innocently, were
 the small red boat and a couple of thin-faced Greeks with dark eyes and
 black mustaches, caps tilted over their tanned foreheads, patched trousers
 and work-stained jerseys. It had been very simple, indeed, once the Stefanie
 had been noted in Phaleron Bay last Tuesday, to track her by each port of
 call, arrival and departure, as she sailed nearer and nearer Mykonos.
  "Here she comes," said one of the fishermen, and rearranged the fish they
  hadn't caught in the bottom of their boat. "She made good time from Paros.
  I can count three passengers." Taking it easy, they were, lounging on deck
  chairs, looking back at the sunset.
  "Three," agreed the man at the oars. He dipped them slowly, gently. "Shall
  we draw closer?"
 "We're near enough. They are using binoculars."
  "Admiring the town across the bay?" The rower had that Greek sardonic smile
  on his intelligent face.
  "But of course. Just normal tourists . . ." The fish-arranger looked over
  the side of the small boat and studied the water. "Better ease us in toward
  the shore, near the Leto. That's a good halfway point between the town and
  them." And the road to town passed that way, too, if anyone should set off
  from the Stefanie on foot. Most people would use the dinghies from their
  yachts to ferry them across the bay; but these strangers might plan the
  opposite-the road at this time of day was deserted. "They've timed their
  arrival well. There's the mail boat from Athens, standing in." Everyone
  would be gathering on the front street to watch the new arrivals. Dusk
  would soon be here, too. "Start rowing. Stand
           MaE DouBLE ImAGE      195
 up and face the way you're going. I'll keep watch on the yacht now." He
 began playing around with the folded net coiled in the prow of the boat,
 his back to the land, as if he were trying to straighten some tangle. The
 yacht was moored by one rope only. She had dropped anchor, too, to prevent
 swinging. She was secure, yet not so tied up that departure would be
 complicated.
  "There's a storm coming up." Even inside the bay, there was a difference
  in the bobbing waves, still small but now sharply chopped, with even a
  few miniature whitecaps beginning to show. "I'm going closer to the
  shore."
  "Don't get me out of sight of the yacht, that's all. Take it easy, easy.
  Not too fast. That's fine. You look like a real Mykoniot.11
  I wish I felt like one, the other thought, as the strain on his thighs
  and shoulders increased. This wasn't as easy as it looked. Next time, he
  told himself, I'll let someone else do the rowing. I can't even look
  around and see what's happening. "What's going on?"
 "Nothing."
  That was always the way . . . nothing, and waiting, and nothing, watching
  and waiting, nothing.
 "Two men leaving the yacht, taking the path to the road."
 'qben what?"
  "They've turned right. Tbey're walking briskly. Very clever. It's dusk,
  but the street lights aren't yet switched on. They could reach town
  before that happens." There was a long pause. "Yes, they are coming
  around the bay. Get to the shore.
  They were pulling their boat up over the narrow stretch of beach when the
  two yachtsmen came walking past, only separated from the fishermen by the
  low stone wall that edged the deserted road. In the fading light, the two
  strangers looked very similar, both in clothes and in height. They walked
  straight on, in silence, barely glancing at one fisherman now unloading
  his catch while the other balanced the oars over his shoulders, and
  didn't slacken pace until they reached the part of the road where it
  turned away from the shore as it reached the outskirts of the town, to
  swing around some buildings at the water's edge. And there an odd thing
  happened. A third man had been waiting for them near the buildings, a
  small, fat man in shorts with a bulky sweater pulled over a flowered
  shirt. He shook hands
 196      HELEN MACINNES
 solemnly with one of the men and fell into step beside him, while the other
 simply turned on his heel and retraced his steps at the same brisk pace. He
 passed the two fishermen on their way into town and gave them a sharp
 glance. But they were too busy discussing the possible price they could ask
 for their catch at the Triton to pay him any attention.
  They had other reasons, too: the man hurrying back to the yacht anchorage
  was obviously of less importance; he had only been escorting his companion
  safely to the meeting place. "Protection?" murmured one of the fishermen.
  "Or is it to confuse anyone who might be watching the Stefanie? And who is
  the fat friend who is now doing convoy duty?"
  The other fisherman shook his head. "We're in trouble," he said worriedly,
  looking for a place to ditch the oars and the fish. For the two men ahead
  of them had disappeared down the narrow lane, just beyond the group of
  buildings, which would lead them into the big main square which lay at this
  end of the town. "They're not going to parade along the front street, you
  may be sure of that. They'll use the square to branch off on a road right
  around the back of the town."
  He increased his pace as he spoke, but even so, when they reached the wide,
  deserted square, all they saw of the stranger from the yacht and his solid
  guide was their backs as they vanished up one of the small streets on its
  other side. "You follow, if you can. Don't let them get suspicious, though.
  A safe distance, these were the instructions." He took the fish from his
  companion's hand and watched him hurry across the square. Here's a town, he
  thought angrily as he looked down the full stretch of the front street with
  its caf6 lights welcoming the procession of travelers from the Athens boat,
  here's a town where you can walk its length or breadth in five minutes, and
  where you lose a man in three seconds flat. The dusk was deepening, more
  lights were coming on, here by the water front. He watched a red-haired
  beauty, following her porter and luggage, strolling toward him; French, he
  guessed by her clothes, and probably going to the Leto--she was entering
  the dark lane now to reach the shore road around the bay. That's right, he
  told himself bitterly, you know everything except where that man from the
  yacht was going.
  There were several small pieces of comfort, though. The man had been seen.
  The man had been followed into town, and not to one of the houses scattered
  on the hills around
           T)Hz DouBLE ImAGi3    197
 the town. The man would never have put a foot off his yacht, never even have
 anchored, if he had any suspicion at all. The maifs friend could be
 identified with a little work and care; he was either a tourist or a foreign
 resident-certainly not a self-respecting Mykoniot in that ridiculous
 clothing. So these were the crumbs of comfort. Now we shall wait on that
 road around the bay, and wait, and wait, until the man returns to the
 Stefanie. A clever man, certainly. Who is he?
  The lights went on in the little streets and lanes. Perhaps in time to let
  us catch up with him after all? Always keeping, of course, at a safe
  distance; these were the American instructions. The fisherman laughed
  silently. Whoever gave these directions had never seen Mykonos.
 1414

 Dinner at nine meant nine-thirty. It ended almost at eleven. This was due
 partly to the amount of food divided into many courses, and partly to the
 valiant attempts of the young smiling fishergirls, decked up in spotless
 aprons, to serve from the left and pour from the right and remember all
 the funny ways of foreigners. It was a generous and comic meal, actually
 the best of combinations. Nor did Craig have to do much talking. The other
 guests were either French or English, and both groups showed something of
 the new nationalism in Europe by disliking to speak in anything but their
 own language.
  When he stood once more in his small, low-ceilinged room that overlooked
  the little square, his plans for the rest of the evening-to wander around
  the town for an hour, find his bearings-were. now quite discouraged.
  Everyone here was already in bed, it seemed; Mykonos had closed down for
  the night. There wasn't a movement or sound from the lanes around the
  church square; windows were shuttered, lights were out. This was a place
  of sea air and heavy slumber, and probably of early rising. He might as
  well call it a day, catch up on his own sleep (twenty-four hours short
  after his week of tavernas in Athens) and face Mykonos tomorrow. There
  were also two immediate problems: how to be able to avoid Veronica Clark
  nonchalantly; bow to avoid Heinrich Berg completely. He could solve them
  for tonight, at least, by going to bed.
  He had been right about sea air and heavy sleep, but he didn't get down
  to breakfast until almost ten. The rest of the guests in this rambling
  hotel (three houses joined together by Madame's will power and run on her
  indomitable energy, with scurrying maids dropping spoons or unrestrained
  giggles as light relief to complete obedience) had already left for
  bathing beaches or high-minded excursions to Delos. He had 198
           THE DouBLE ImAGn      199

 the small enclosed garden all to himself. It was really only an
 alcove-formed by the jut of the hotel's second house into the church
 square, shut off from the two sides of public view by a thick high wall,
 whitewashed like the flagstones and every other stretch of stone in sight.
 It contained three tables, seven pots of flowers (the softer side of
 Madame the Terrible), vines growing around the second-floor windows
 overhead (they might even bloom as hibiscus once summer was here), and
 three oleander bushes to break the hard line of the eight-foot wall.
 Everything, except the rampant vines, was miniature in scale. It was
 therefore also excessively private. It was a comer of complete peace-the
 good-natured shrieks from the kitchen were a long way off-and, what seemed
 even more important, of reasonable security. No one from the outside, not
 even the houses around the square, could look into this patch of garden.
 Comrade Berg, if he were studying his neighbors this fine blue-skied
 morning, would need something stronger than binoculars to pierce the
 Triton's high, thick wall.
  Madame came to supervise for a few minutes. He admired everything, he
  assured her. Yes, he was most comfortable, the coffee was excellent. He
  would sit a little longer, look at some guidebooks, study some maps, and
  might he have another cup of coffee?
  And after that? he wondered. Out. Out to meet Veronica with Maritta
  smiling in the background? As for Berg-well, it was more than possible
  that he would not do much walking through Mykonos by this excessively
  clear and bright daylight. Yes, morning, and breakfast, changed one's
  perspective on problems, thought Craig.
  "May I have some coffee, too, Madame lphigenia?" an American voice asked
  from the dining room's doorway, and Jim Partridge stepped out onto the
  terrace. He was tanned and smiling, a little leaner, a little more gaunt
  under the cheekbones, He was dressed, like Craig, in a dark cotton shirt
  and gray slacks. He was adding a few phrases in atrocious Greek to please
  Madame and send her beaming toward the kitchen; perhaps to help Craig,
  too. For there had been a moment of blank astonishment, and then-as
  Madame's attention was diverted-time for recovery. "Do you mind if I join
  you?" Partridge asked in a normal tone of voice. He glanced around the
  enclosed terrace. "It would be difficult to sit in lonely state in a
  place this size."
 200       HELEN MACINNES

  "There are some guests at this hotel who could manage it very weIL" Craig
  said with a grin, remembering last night's deep freeze. "Delighted. Sit
  down. My name's Craig."
 "I'm Partridge."
  They shook hands solemnly and sat dewn, and looked at each other. "Tbank
  God you're here," Craig said in a low voice. He glanced briefly at the
  hotel's two second-floor windows that overlooked the terrace.
 "Anyone up there?"
 "Just a couple of maids. And the silent young man."
  "Tben we'll talk about the weather and skin-diving until coffee arrives."
  Partridge tilted his chair comfortably, lit a cigarette, stretched his
  shoulders. "Tbat was quite a storm last night. I was on one of those
  cruise ships-five glorious days on five famous islands; you know the
  routine-and bucked a north wind all the way from Crete to here. So when
  I stepped on land this morning, I decided I'd stay awhile and let the
  cruise do without me."
  Now, come on, thought Craig as he listened with a broadening smile.
  Partridge on a cruise-that would be the dayl Still, it all sounded
  authentic, and just the usual routine of new arrivals: my storm was
  bigger than yours. He will end by persuading me he has done nothing but
  pleasure-hop all around these islands since I last saw him in Paris.
  The coffee arrived with one of Madame's laughing handmaidens, and they
  could drop the light chitchat. Upstairs, the beds had been made, the
  rooms tidied, and there was no more rustling at the windows, no more
  whispered comments on the two men sitting so lazily in the garden. The
  silent young man had left for some errands in town; Madame's instructions
  to him floated out in all their detail, and would keep him busy for a
  full hour. "A grand old girl," Partridge said softly.
 "Carved in granite. The Mount Rushmore type."
  "And a heart of-well, let's say solid silver. You can trust her."
 "She knows whatT'
  "Nothing at 0. But Elias-you came over on the boat with him yesterday,
  didn't you?-well, he's the nephew of her sister's husband. That makes him
  family."
 "Very special?"
  "Special enough on these islands. His friends are her friends. He brought
  me here, this morning."
 "Didn't she,expect him to stay, too?"
           THE DouBLE ImAGia     201
  "And occupy a room that earns five dollars a day? Elias has tact. That is
  why she think so highly of him."
  "Well, that's nice to know. What about the silent young man? Last night he
  stared too much, for my comfort."
  "Probably he was just admiring the cut of your jacket. I bet he intends to
  have his next suit built exactly like that." As Craig relaxed and laughed,
  Partridge added, "Tourists are just like lions in cages-a kind of zoo for
  the local inhabitants. Don't let a few stares worry you. If a Greek looks
  at you at all he is paying you a compliment. How about the windows
  upstairs? Are we still being complimented?"
 6'Thefre empty. Is
  "All right, then. Let's talk. But keep your voice down as low as possible.
  Tell me all about the Duclos incident. Where did you first spot him?"
  Craig gave the brief account as crisply as he could. "Have they found the
  real DuclosT' he asked. Partridge shook his had. "What happened to him?"
  "He arrived at the Athens airport last Sunday. That, we do know. Later, a
  stolen car was found abandoned a few miles away, along with a stolen
  uniform." He paused. Then he added grimly, "Me man who impersonated Duclos
  may have been one of the kidnappers. The Greek police win get more out of
  him yet. They know how to handle that type, but it takes time. So far, he
  is saying nothing at an, not even with Duclos' ring and passport
  confronting him. Once a an starts inventing a story, it's easy enough to
  let his own quick wits trap him. It's a kind of mental jujitsu. You lead
  him on, let him think he is superior mentally to you. And then he outwits
  himself." Partridge had lost his taste for coffee; he pushed his cup away,
  stubbed out his cigarette. "So if ever you find yourself questioned, throw
  away your pride and play stupid. Name, rank and serial number-the last two
  being as misleading as possible. Thaes the safe way, perhaps not for you,
  but certainly for your friends."
  "Did Duclos play it safe, like that?" Not for himself, but for Mimi and
  Partridge and all the rest. For me, too, Craig suddenly realized.
  "If he had a chance to give a false rank and serial number, hed keep them
  simple. And stay with them."
  If he had a chance . "I suppose everyone breaks under torture.19
 Partridge nodded. "Either that," he said at last, "or he
 202       HELEN MACINNES

 killed himself to prevent it. He would size up his captors, know how far
 they'd go. He was a very levelheaded man, and a brave one."
 "You think he is dead?"
 "I think so." There was emphasis on the pronoun.
 "The others don't?"
  "Division of opinion. The usual flap. Suggestions that we even get the
  Greek police to move in on Maritta Maas right now, while the French pick up
  Uncle Peter back in Paris. Better those two than nothing at all, that's the
  feeling. And that's why I'm here, actually. I wanted to see for myself if
  there were any storm signals around you. If there are, then I'm wrong about
  Duclos and he did talk. In which case, I'd better get you out of here as
  quickly as possible."
  "I think you are right about Duclos," Craig said very quietly. "For two
  reasons. The first one is the minor oneme. Remember what I told you about
  the man with the high cheekbones and blunt nose who left the boat hurriedly
  at the Piraeus dock? Well, he had a friend with him on board. At first I
  thought the two of them might have been tailing me. But the one who sailed
  didn't come to Mykonos. He got off at Syros. Now, if Duclos had given my
  name to his-his examiners, would that man have got off at Syros? Paid no
  attention to me? He didn't even know who I was. He was on that boat, I now
  think, simply to keep an eye on the fake Duclos. They knew it was a tricky
  business, that impersonation, and if anything went wrong they wanted to
  learn who had recognized the fake. That could be the reason why they were
  sailing with him." He paused. Partridge was looking at him with an odd
  expression in his light gray eyes. ,Could beT' Craig asked, wondering if he
  had been too blatantly stupid.
  "Could very well be," Partridge murmured. "And if that's your minor reason,
  I'd like to hear what you think is more important."
 "Heinrich Berg is here."
  Partridge was really startled, and didn't even hide it. "Here --on
  Mykonos?"
  "I saw him last night," Craig began, and gave a quick account of the whole
  incident, from his view of the square to Herr Ludwig's taste for wine. "Do
  you think Berg would have appeared on Mykonos if Duclos had told him we
  were all
           THE DouBLE ImAGE      203
 gathering here?" he ended. "So that's the second reason why I think you're
 right. Duclos didn't talk."
  Partridge sat very still. "Then," he said, "we now have three people who
  can actually identify Insar--can identify Berg, right on this very
  island. You, and two of Elias' agents who were pretending to be fishermen
  yesterday when a yacht came into the harbor. They saw one of its
  passengers being met by a small stout man in shorts, a flowered shirt,
  and a large sweater." Wouldn't you know it, he thought, two rather minor
  agents and a complete amateur? "Three who can identify," he repeated, a
  smile beginning to break. "We're really getting ahead in this game,
  aren't we?" His smile faded and he was back to some anxious thinking
  again.
  "I can manage to dodge Berg," Craig said, misreading the frown on
  Partridge's face. "He won't risk walking about in daylight; you notice
  he came into town in the dusk, when the streets were mostly empty. So if
  I avoid the small square, show no interest in the Ludwig house, arouse
  no suspicion that I know he is here, I can wander around the rest of
  Mykonos quite normally. Of course, there is just one thing. He may not
  be in Ludwig's house. He may be right back on the yacht. In that case,
  A keep away from that side of the bay. Okayr'
  "The yacht sailed at six this morning. But he wasn't on board."
  "And that worries you?" Craig asked, watching Partridge's tense eyes.
  "Now that I know that it's Berg himself who is in Mykonos-yes." Partridge
  hesitated, then added, "I'll have to leave, right away. As soon as I can
  get transportation out."
  And here I'm stuck again, just guessing, just wondering what the whole
  thing is the hell about. Craig said, "I wish I didn't feel I were
  punching my way into a sack of cotton wool." He tried his coffee, but it
  was cold. Madame would be shocked at such waste, such casual treatment
  of her time and coffee beans. He picked up both their cups, rose, and
  emptied them into a pot of flowers.
  Partridge had been studying him as if he were deciding something.
  Suddenly, he made up his mind. "What worries me is simply this.
  Everything is moving far too quickly. I've miscalculated. I thought from
  the information we had that there was a week ahead of us, at least a few
  more days, to get everything set up here, and wait. But if Insarov has
  al-
   204       HELEN MACINNES
 ready arrived-yes, Insarov is the name that Berg has used for nineteen
 years-then he mu t expect the information from our base near Smyrna to be
 delivered very, very soon."
 Craig stared at him. "So that's your real problem," he said
 slowly. Heinrich Berg and Sussman's murder had led all
 the way to Smyrna . . . . .. How soon?" he asked bluntly.
 "Perhaps even now-by radio transmission?"
  Partridge shook his head. "He'll use the Stefanie-the yacht that brought
  him here. It has twin diesels. Say around twelve knots. We're about
  eighty miles at most from that part of the Turkish coast. The Stefanie
  could make it in six to eight hours of straight sailing."
 "Then she could be back here tonight."
  "No, she'll wait for darkness off the Turkish coast before she can risk
  her pickup. And she will need darkness here, again, to deliver it. If she
  can't reach Mykonos before dawn, and I doubt that, then shell have to
  wait and sail. in at sunset tomorrow. Yes, sunset tomorrow is the more
  likely

 hour.99
  "That seems a pretty complicated maneuver for a Soviet agent to deliver
  a strip of microfilm."
  "Not just microfilm. It has to be something more than that. Two houses
  and a yacht are hardly necessary for passing information, disguised in
  a lipstick or cuff link, over a caf46 table on the water front. No, this
  information is more important than any microfilmed report could be.
  That's how we reason it."
  Craig thought that over. What would be the most important kind of
  information that could be discovered? It would have to be as full as
  possible, quantity as well as quality, rich in details, completely
  authentic. And that, he thought with a shake of his head and a wry smile,
  would be any foreign agent's dream. To get all that and get it quicklynot
  just in one stolen document here, a report there, and weeks of fitting
  all the fragments of information together "So they are going to abduct
  an expert are they?" asked quietly. He had startled Partridge, but it
  wasn't such a brash assumption. It had happened before, or almost. The
  American expert on electronics whom he had met at the Meurice
  party-Antonini, wasn't W-had nearly been kidnapped right into a hospital
  bed in Moscow.
 "That's what they think," Partridge said, recovering.
 "Then you'd better guard your expert."
           THis DouBLE ImAGE    205

  "We have. For the last ten days we have been doing our best to steer
  their attention onto the wrong man. Let's hope we have succeeded."
 "And all this is going on at the base near Smyrna?"
 Partridge nodded.
  Craig whistled softly. "Not something to do with electronics again?" He
  had meant it as light relief, but Partridge's narrowed eyes looked at him
  sharply. "I did meet Antonini," Craig reminded him.
  Partridge relaxed. "Youre too damn quick," he said. And you're forcing
  my hand, he thought. One could tell a stupid man very little, and not
  worry about his safety. But one couldn't stop an intelligent man from
  thinking his way through a puzzle. The trouble was, even a man with
  bright brains could go off on a tangent if he weren't given some basic
  facts. Tangents could be dangerous. "You were right," he said, weighing
  his words. "It's that old devil electronics again. The Communists never
  give up, do they? It's obvious that our real expert would be invaluable
  to them. As well as the recent alterations he has been making in their
  wiring system at our H.Q., he also remembers the alterations he made in
  our Moscow Embassy. You see----P he was about to explain carefully.
  "Yes, I remember thinking in Paris--on my first night there, at my
  sister's party-just how important it would be for the Russians to know
  which of their listening gadgets were still functioning reliably." He
  looked at Partridges blank face. Possibly he wasn't accustomed to being
  interrupted. "Sorry," Craig said. "Perhaps I'm jumping off on the wrong
  foot."
  A smile flickered at the back of Partridge's eyes. "You've saved me a lot
  of time," he said blandly. "Any further ideas?"
  "Just one question. Back in Paris, you told me an Ameri. can was bringing
  information to Maritta. Is he involved in this?" Craig's voice was a
  mixture of distaste and doubt. The man was a traitor, but would he aid
  and abet a political ab. duction that could only mean torture and
  eventual murder?
 "He could very well be."
 "You aren't sure?"
  "You can't be sure of anything, not at this stage. But I do know one
  thing. He couldn't refuse, or else he'd be ditched. He's ambitious as
  well as dedicated. That type can persuade
 206       HELEN MACINNES
 himself into accepting any order. He may not enjoy this extension of his
 duties. But he is being tested by this additional assignment, and he knows
 that."
 "You mean they chose him just to test him?"
  "If you work for men Me Insarov, there's always a test of complete
  obedience. But also-he happens to be one man who could entice our expert,
  or his stand-in, on board the Stefanie. You see, he is a friend of both
  of them."
  Craig drew a deep, slow breath. His lips tightened. "Who is he?"
  "If we knew that, it would simplify everything. We still only know him
  as Alex." Partridge hesitated briefly. Better warn him, he decided.
  Something may go wrong. Alex may slip through our fingers, turn up here.
  "We do know one thing about him. Alex is one of two men. He could be
  either Bradley or Wilshot."
 "Then both Bradley and Wilshot are in the Smyrna area?"
  Partridge nodded. "One of them is being used, obviously, to cover the
  other. A very clever and cautious man is Alex. He will go far, if he
  succeeds in this assignment."
  If he succeeds ... "You are putting your substitute expert in a pretty
  nasty position," Craig said frankly, and didn't disguise his aversion.
  He didn't like the idea one bit. Was Partridge only one of those damned
  calculating machines after all?
  "Not if he follows instructions. We don't intend to have him abducted.
  We only want him to discover who Alex is. Whoever invites him for a quick
  and pleasant trip on the Stefanie-that's the American we're looking for.
  We'll have Alex quietly arrested, right then and there, in Smyrna. And
  we'll pick up the rest of his friends, simultaneously, here and in Athens
  and in Milan and in Paris. That's how weve planned it."
 "And if it doesn't work that way9'
  Well board the Stefanie the minute she docks in Mykonos," Partridge said
  grimly. His worry was deep and real.
 "Why not before then?"
  "At sea, they might have time to send a radio warning to Insarov when
  they saw us approaching. They could even kill our agent, and dump him
  overboard. But-" Partridge took a deep breath-----"we woWt haveany of
  those problems if he follows instructions."
           Tim DOUBLE ImArm      207

  That's the second time Partridge had said that. He's worried about it,
  really worried, thought Craig. "Is your man one of these heroic types who
  thinks he can solve everything by himself?"
 Partridge shook his head.
 "Perhaps you haven't told him enough."
 Partridge raised an eyebrow.
  "Then, he might not realize how important your instructions were. Knowledge
  is sobering. A kind of restraint on bright impulses."
  "You make me relieved that I've told you too much," Partridge said dryly.
  "Much safer," Craig assured him. Although, he thought with amusement, he
  didn't go as far as telling me the name of either the real or substitute
  expert. There's a lot he hasn't told me, probably never will. All he has
  done, really, is to give me full warning on what's at stake. "Much safer
  for everyone. I'll keep my head down, well down."
 "And if they were to start questioning you?"
  "You thought about that before you even started talking with me. When they
  are on the point of hooking the really big fish, you know they aren't going
  to waste time or run any unnecessary risks with a minnow."
  "I wouldn't rate you quite as small as a minnow," Partridge said with a
  smile.
  "It's how they rate me that's important. And to them I'm just an annoying
  coincidence, perhaps not even that." Craig paused. "What do you want me to
  do?"
 "As little as possible."
  "I ought to make some contact with Maritta, find out quietly when she is
  expecting new guests. That's what you brought me here for, wasn't it? To
  identify this Alex if he slips through to Mykonos in spite of your plan.
  You knowI have a feeling that he has become just as important to you as
  Berg."
 "He is as important, now, as Berg was twenty years ago."
 "You think he could become another Insarov?lt
  Partridge nodded. "And for that reason, he is one of our main targets in
  this counteroperation. Because, in terms of the future, we're responsible.
  When we deal with men like Alex, we are really like doctors practicing
  preventive medicine. In twenty years, even less, Alex could become the most
  dangerous man in America." Alex, tested by this assigninent,
 208       HELEN MACINNES

 adopted by Insarov as his bright young man, trained and guided, pushed and
 helped . . . "He is trusted now, by a lot of reliable people. He has their
 confidence. He could infiltrate higher and higher. He could go very far,
 indeed."
 Craig said nothing.
  Partridge, looking at his watch, had his own grirn thoughts. How did he get
  back to Smyrna? There was no ship arriving here until the evening, and it
  was traveling in the wrong direction. So, now that he had given Craig an
  over-all warning, he had better start sending a message to Smyrna. Relay it
  through Athens, utmost urgency. Tell them to double the watch on O'Malley.
  Even more important, make sure he follows his instructions to the very last
  letter-and no more.
  For that was the real joker in the pack, thought Partridge. O'Malley and
  Duclos were friends. At least, they met in Berlin two years ago, and liked
  each other. And O'Malley has heard about Duclos by this time. He might just
  have one of those wild attacks of stubborn Australian courage' decide to go
  all the way with Alex in order to make sure of leading us to Insarov.
  Because he doesn't know we've found Insarov, that we've got him if only we
  keep our heads and don't spread that piece of news around. But how do I get
  this information through to O'Malley without warning Insarov? For he has
  his ear close to the ground, that's certain. How else could he have heard,
  except through some leak in security, that our chief expert's part of the
  job in Smyrna was just about ending? He must have several agents around;
  Alex, alone, couldn't find that out. Let's hope to God that Insarov hasn't
  discovered the real expert is Val Sutherland. Let's hope Insarov isn't
  having a very big laugh right now, over O'Malley.
  "You look," said Craig, "like a man on a high wire working without safety
  nets."
  "That's how I feel," agreed Partridge, and tried to smile. No, he couldn't
  risk getting news through to Smyrna that Insarov was actually here. All he
  could do was to wam O'Malley to stick with his instructions, to do no more
  than that on any account. If only he could have seen O'Malley, spoken with
  him- He looked at his watch again. "Involved, isn't it, getting in and out
  of this island?"
 "Hire a submarine," said Craig with a wide smile.
  "'Damned if I wouldn't-if there wasn't so much daylight around. That sea
  out *there seems lonely until you start
           THE DouBLE ImAGE      209
 counting the fishing boats or the calques. And there's one thing about
 sailors, they have long eyesight. No, I think I had best start sending
 messages to Aunt Matilda in Athens." He rose, and then stopped as if a new
 idea had struck him. He considered it for a full half-minute. "Look, if
 Madame Iphigenia. wonders why I don't turn up for dinner this evening,
 tell her I went over to Delos this afternoon and probably am staying at
 the tourist pavilion over there for the night. Will you?"
  Craig nodded. Had Partridge really thought of a way to get back to
  Smyrna? But why the rush? "Half a secondl" he said, reaching for the map
  in his guidebook. "Just where," he asked very quietly, "is Maritta's
  house?"
 Partridge hesitated.
 "I'll do nothing rash," Craig said irritably.
  "It stands by itself on the hillside above the bay. Here, in this
  direction." Partridge pointed to the map. "Don't mark it. Memorize. But
  thaVs not much of a map, is it? I can get you a better one. I'll leave
  it in one of your suitcases. Or are they locked?"
 "No."
  Partridge seemed amused by that. He was about to add something more, but
  decided footsteps were marching through the dining room. He only said,
  "Give me five minutes. Then look. And lock." He signaled good-bye, and
  left, almost bumping into Madame at the dining-room door. "Just leaving,"
  he told her cheerfully. "Your nephew is going to take me out to Megali
  Ammos for a swim."
  "Such a nice man," Madame Iphigenia told Craig, looking at Partridge's
  retreating back. "So gentle. So well behaved." She looked now, severely,
  at the tray of dirty breakfast dishes.
  Craig repressed a smile, gathered his map and books as Madame picked up
  the tray to remove such an eyesore from her garden. He rose to open the
  dining-room door still more for Madame's wide-spread elbows.
  "You swim also?" she asked. "Our visitors admire our beaches."
  "I think IT walk around the town and admire the windmills."
  That mollified her slightly. He wasn't just someone who sat around a
  garden all day, dirtying dishes. "There is much to do in Mykonos," she
  assured him, and hurried on.
 210       HELEN MACINNES
  "Let me help," he suggested, but she resisted. So he crossed the dining
  room and opened that door for her, too. It led into a winding corridor
  which made communication with the kitchen, a full-throated shout away,
  a fine example of modem labor-saving ingenuity.
 "You admire this house?" she asked.
  "Very much." Sharp eyes, had Madame Tphigenia. He had been looking for
  any outside doors-surely a wandering place like this must have more than
  one entrance. "I'm interested in architecture," he added to excuse his
  curiosity. That was true enough, anyway.
  "Americans admire old houses?" she asked now, in obvious unbelief.
  "Why, yes." Where had Madame got her ideas about Americans?
  Madame stared, shouted toward the kitchen, brought a maid running along
  the corridor, delivered over the tray with a burst of instructions, and
  then looked at Craig. "Comel" she told him, and led the way.
  It was a quick and complete tour through corridors, under arches that
  supported ceilings, up and down narrow staircases, past corners of rooms
  jutting at odd angles. It left Craig a little dazed, almost breathless.
  But he did discover he had been right in his guess. There were three
  separate exits to the hotel, one of them on the church square. That was
  the one to be avoided.
  Before he set out for his stroll through the town, he went up to his
  room. Partridge had already been there. In the smaller bag, under his
  camera, there was a neat pistol. ]Loaded. There was also the promised
  map, binoculars, and a pocketknife which, startlingly, turned into a
  switchblade. He decided to carry it. And the map. He put the binoculars
  into his camera case and decided to carry that, too. He buried the pistol
  inside a pair of socks, replaced them in the bag. He locked it securely,
  shoved it on the top shelf of the wardrobe.
  Two weeks ago, he thought, I'd have been laughing fit to crack my ribs,
  making bright remarks about what the best-dressed agent is wearing this
  season; yesterday, I might have produced a grin, felt a touch of
  embarrassment when I next met Partridge. But today? Well, I've learned
  about Duclos; about a lot of things. The more you know, the less
           THE DouBLE IMArm      211

 you scoff.... If I came to Europe to fill in some gaps in my education,
 I've certainly succeeded.
  He picked up his sunglasses-he'd need them for that strong light and
  those brilliant walls-combed his hair roughly to give him the right
  tourist look. From a distance, he wouldn't appear much like the man in
  the neatly tailored jacket, correct collar and tie, who had stepped on
  shore last night. He slung the camera case over his shoulder, checked map
  and knife in his pocket, and left. Much to do on Mykonos, Madame had
  said. She could be right, but not in the way she meant it.
 1515

 In half an hour, Craig had walked through and around the town. It was a
 place of patterns, imposed, interposed. Cubes, arches, horizontals of steps,
 vertical balustrades, curves of domed churches, cylindrical windmills each
 with twelve triangular sails in clocklike precision. Bright sunlight cast
 black sharp-edged shadow. Houses, stairways, pavement were a blazing white.
 Color was left to the domes, to the fishing boats drawn up along the front
 street, to the potted flowers on the stone staircases, to the twisted dark
 green trees with their sculptural trunks, to the carved doors, to the insi6
 shutters of the windows that stared out in bare rectangles from their
 whitewashed walls. People had their patterns, too: slender girls, stout
 women, headcloths and cotton dresses gathered around the wells; thin boys on
 small mules; men in caps, with creased brown faces and dark mustaches, some
 working in bare feet with trousers rolled up modestly only to mid-leg,
 others already gathered around their own tables at their special caf6s; and
 the tourists-those who kept themselves covered like the Mykoniots, those who
 bared thigh and arm as much as possible-wandering aimlessly.
  But among all those faces, all those walkers and talkers, there was no one
  he recognized. And then, just as he was looking at some of the arts and
  crafts in a shop window on one of the narrow streets, Mimi came strolling
  along in green trousers and a white silk shirt patterned to match.
  "I followed you for three streets," she said in triumph. Her face was pale,
  there were deep shadows under her dark gray eyes as she lifted her
  sunglasses to look at him more clearly, but her voice sounded normal and
  she was even producing a small smile. A girl who hadn't slept much, he
  decided, but who was determined to face the day.
                212
           THE DouBLE ImAGia     213
  "I never even saw you;' he admitted, annoyed with himself.
 "You weren't meant to."
 "'Not even in those tight pants?"
  "That makes it a greater triumph." She looked down at her thighs. 'Too
  tight?"
 "Not on you, Mimi."
  "Now look at that darling little horrible skirt in the window, and we
  shall pretend to be discussing its hideous stripes."
 "A skirt? I thought it was a tent"
  "Keep looking at the window as we talk. Your friend is in that little
  shop just three houses away. She is alone."
 Veronica? "Thank you for the warning."
  "But it isn!t a warning. I want to meet her. Shall we go and look at its
  window?"
 "Look, Mimi-I don!t think this is a good idee
  "It is. I want to make friends with her as quickly as possible." She
  smiled again. "I bumped into her once, this morning, but she did not stay
  to talk. Is she shy or proud? Or frightened?"
  "Is something wrongT' he asked sharply. Mimi started walking toward the
  other shop. He had to follow her, even if he didn't want to go near the
  place, to get her answer. "Look, I don't think we should go in there."
 "Why not? The sooner I meet her the better."
  "Don't girls ever talk to each other quite naturallyT' he asked in
  exasperation.
 "If she sees we are friends, she will trust me much more."
 "You know, Mimi, this is not an easy situation."
 "I know. Jim told me all about it."
 "He did, did he?"
 "He also told me to take care of Veronim"
  Craig halted at the shop window, looked at a death mask of Agamemnon,
  several models of windmills, fishermen's striped shirts that owed more
  to the Riviera than the Mykonos harbor, guidebooks, glossy oils of
  storm-lashed rocks, replicas of the Parthenon, hand-loomed cloth that was
  at least authentic. Was Mimrs interest in Veronica only a short cut to
  Maritta Maas? The French were chiefly interested in her, he remembered.
  Mimi was watching him with a small sad smile, as if she guessed his
  doubts. "I won!t draw her into danger, Johnr
 214       HELEN MACINNES

 she said very softly. "Let me worry about her. Meanwhile. You can't."
 "All right," he said, and stood aside to let her enter.
  Mimi was saying over her shoulder, her voice now bright and clear, "You
  know, these materials are really beautiful. Magnificent texture-and look
  at this designl" She pointed to the hand-loomed cloth displayed against
  the walls of the small room and took off her sunglasses to study its
  patterns and colors.
  But he was looking at Veronica, barely six feet away from him. She
  glanced up from some notes she had been making at a table where the
  shopkeeper had cleared a space for her. Beside her was a slightly
  battered book, almost like a ledger, with handwritten paragraphs in Greek
  and French and English. As he came up to her, he caught a glimpse of one
  heading: Room for rent. She closed the ledger quickly, dropped her pencil
  and notebook into a large straw bag, and faced him--confused and startled
  and yet, he felt, delighted. She wore a simple dress of blue linen, the
  color of the sky over Mykonos. Her arms and legs were bare and tanned;
  her dark hair was brushed smooth, falling to one side of her forehead;
  her lips, parted in that wonderfully real and spontaneous smile, were
  colored a soft but glowing pink. Then, as he stood there, looking at her,
  saying nothing, the welcome in her face died away, first in the blue
  eyes, then in the lips. The smile became a formality, her face guarded.
  "Hello," he said casually, "I thought you'd have been swimming this
  morning. Or painting. How's the work going?"
  "roo many distractions, I'm afraid." She gathered up her bag from the
  table, seemed to be leaving. Yet she hesitated. Something is wrong, he
  thought; Mimi was right. Something Is troubling Veronica. But what?
  Craig looked at Mimi, who had wandered back to him. "Here's someone else
  from Paris. Mamselle Marie Aubernon -Miss Veronica Clark."
  "From Monterey, actually," Veronica said as she shook hands with Mimi.
  Large blue eyes met large gray eyes. They seemed to like what they saw,
  or felt. "I'm only on a prolonged visit to Paris. I'm studying art
  there."
  "But so did 11 And then I stayed on. I came from the Auvergne originally.
  Do you know it?"
 "No, but I've always wanted to visit it."
 "Mountains and mists. And rain."
           Tim DouBLE ImAm       215
 "And folk songs."
  "You like music, too? But of course,-----~' Mimi addressed Craig, "Now,
  don't laugh at me-1 often do my best work with a stack of records playing
  beside me."
  'Terhaps that's what you need," he told Veronica, "to get inspiration
  started." Well, he thought thankfully, the two of them seem to have hit
  it off. Mimi's warmth was real enough when she let it rise above that
  cool, detached exterior. It was time for him to move on. The small room
  was becoming crowded with the three new customers who were strolling in.
  Two were English, a quiet couple. The third was by himself, middle-aged,
  broad in face and shoulders, dressed in shorts and a striped shirt
  hanging loosely over his solid waistline, still wearing his sunglasses
  so that Craig couldn't be sure of the direction of his eyes. I saw that
  man, Craig remembered, strolling up and down outside this shop, as if he
  were waiting for someone. And as that thought struck him, Craig noticed
  how still Veronica was standing, her eyes on the man's back.
  Automatically, he asked, "Where is Maritta?"
  "Somewhere in town, seeing friends. I-I had some shopping to do."
  Veronica glanced again at the stranger, who was interested now in model
  windmills.
  "So have L" Mimi said quickly. "But I'm completely bewildered. The shops
  are so---so separated. Some don't even look like shopsl I need sun-tan
  lotion, film for my camera. And can you tell me where these materials are
  woven? You see, that's my business now-I'm a decorator, and fabrics are
  my special thing. Do you know where the looms are? On this island
  itself?"
 "Right in town."
 "You know the street? Would you show me?"
 "Of course. When would you like to---~"
  "Now. Why not? Or have you some engagement for lunch?"
 Veronica shook her head.
  "Then will you lunch with me? Unless, of course, Mr. Craig--"
  Craig smiled for Mimi. I could wring your pretty little neck, most
  lovingly, right here and now. "I've had enough shopping for one day," he
  told them. "See you around." He paid the smiling woman, who kept shop
  with such hopeful patience, for the half-dozen postcards he had picked
  up; someone ought to buy something, he had thought, as the
 216       HELEN MACINNES

 English couple left without finding anything they wanted and the man in
 the striped shirt still poked and touched and handled and wasted time.
 Craig moved to the door. Then well see whether that man is interested in
 me, he thought; or is this Maritta's idea of how to keep watch on Veronica
 when she strays alone into town? He stepped into the narrow street, put
 on his sunglasses, began walking slowly toward the bay. But he hadn't
 drawn off the man in the striped shirt. The man was still staying near
 Veronica.
  It was just after noon. At once, the streets were deserted, all work
  stopped, everyone indoors. Only a few bemused visitors still wandered
  around, trying for camera angles in the white silence. Now's the time,
  thought Craig, and left the big square at the end of the, front street,
  choosing the steep road which would lead him up onto the hillside. Above
  the town there were groupings of houses and dovecotes, small white cubes
  set down on harsh gray earth, with long walls of rough gray stones
  forming terraces to hold whatever soil there was from slipping into the
  bay. He sat down with his back to one of those walls in order to get off
  the sky linethe hillside was as bare as that. There must be other ways
  to Maritta's house. Certainly, he couldn't dare approach it in daylight.
  Still, this was the time to get his bearings. And admire the view. It was
  magnificent: deep blue sea, other islands, high blue sky, white clouds.
  He had only walked for ten minutes, but he was far enough up on the hill
  to see all the houses, sparsely scattered, that stretched along its wide
  flank. Some of the houses followed the curve of Mykonos! small bay;
  others climbed high above it. He got out Partridge's map and compared it
  with his own. Just there, Partridge had pointed. That was the area high
  above the north end of the bay where the yachts sheltered. He could see
  five or six houses in that direction, spread over the steep slopes of
  barren ground. But which house? Partridge had been deliberately vague,
  just to keep him out of trouble, no doubt. Partridge's map was good, well
  detailed. But houses were only indicated by dots, and the house which
  Maritta's dear kind Uncle Peter had rented could be one of five, at
  least.
  He took out the binoculars and brought them all up amazingly close. Too
  close. What he could be doing to someone, someone could be doing to him.
  So he swung around in the other direction, facing southward-more bare
  hills and
            THE DouBLE ImAGE     217
 the road leading to the beaches; and then he looked directly ahead of him,
 over the town, westward. But he was still keeping the pattern of the view to
 the north end of the bay in his inind- There were two houses, well separated
 from each and any other, that had paths leading down to the road around the
 bay. For that reason alone they were his likeliest candidates. One of them
 had some kind of small building on its far side-perhaps a cottage or one of
 the ubiquitous dovecotes. Otherwise, from this distance, they were much the
 same. They even had brave attempts at gardens-he had seen rounded tops of
 trees inside their white walls. By contrast, the rest of the houses above
 the bay stood bare, open. If I were someone like dear Uncle Peter, he
 thought, what would I rent? Protecting walls, shading trees, and a road
 however rough and rugged right down toward the yacht anchorage. He put away
 the glasses and his maps; lit a cigarette, lounged against the gray buttress
 at his back, and watched the drifting clouds sending their shadows chasing
 over sea and islands. Then he rose, dusted off his trousers and shirt,
 walked down to the town. The small excursion had taken only half an hour
 altogether. A wasted half hour? No, he decided. He hadn't found what he
 wanted, but he had learned that by night he could easily find his way on
 those ribbon paths that followed the stone terraces right across the length
 of hillside. And he had seen a view.
  He found a quiet taverna on the shady side of the big square where a few of
  the local men, regulars obviously, were grouped around a couple of tables.
  They looked at him gravely, accepted him with a nod when he made his good
  day with "Kali mera sas," and returned to their discussion. The talk was
  always in a low steady murmur, he noticed, just as the drink before them
  was always a glass of water with an occasional small cup of coffee. There
  were a couple of fishermen, some men from the harbor, a carpenter, a few
  old men, and possibly the driver of the taxi that stood on the other side
  of the square beside three small carriages with bonneted horses. Or mules.
  The ears twitching through the holes in their straw hats looked very
  pronounced, even from this distance. It was a peaceful scene: sunlight
  viewed from shadow, men's voices harshly droning, horses dozing, a taxi
  waiting for an afternoon hire to the beach; and dominating it all, from the
  center of the deserted square, was
 218       HELEN MACINNES

 the bust of a strong-faced woman who stared defiantly out to sea, much in
 the way she must have rallied the fishermen of Mykonos, back in 1822, to
 sail out and fight the Turks. Craig settled in his comer, behind the screen
 of talking men, and looked out to sea, too. From here, he had a view not
 only of the front street right down to the breakwater, but of the several
 exits from this square. Opposite him, toward the shore, was the beginning of
 the road that led away from the town around the rest of the bay. That was
 the way that Veroqica must take to meet the path up to the house on the
 hill. That was the way that Mimi would follow to reach her hotel.
  He ordered lunch from a small boy in a large apron-rice and chopped veal
  wrapped inside vine leaves, served cold -and ate it slowly, studied his
  map, kept an eye ready for any movement along the front street or into the
  square, and finished a glass of resinated wine, amber in color, revolting
  at first but at least liquid and cool. If you drank it long enough, he
  thought, you'd probably begin to think this was the way wine should taste.
  Like those inland ranchers in Argentina who imported fish for Fridays from
  the coast, and before refrigeration was in use came to believe that bad
  fish was a delicacy. Like the grouse-eaters, too, in London, who had
  accustomed themselves to high game because once there was no other way to
  eat it.
 There was still no sign of Mimi.
  He made his half-cup of coffee last almost as long as the natives could.
  They were drifting away now. Only four men still sat around. And no sign of
  Mimi. I've guessed wrong, he thought. She must have cut lunch in town and
  gone back to her hotel. But if that had happened in the thirty minutes he
  had taken to explore the hillside up above the square, then it looked as if
  Veronica and she hadn't got on so well together after all. Which meant, in
  turn, that Veronica was still more isolated than ever. Damn it, he thought,
  his worry now churning into anger, I'll have to think of some plan of my
  own. If Mimi has failed, I'll have to take some action. And what is
  Partridge going to say to that? Do as little as possible, that was his firm
  advice this morning. But since then, there has been a slight change in the
  situation here. If Veronica is searching for a room in town, what's the
  reason behind it?
 Calm down, calm down, he told himself irritably. Give
            T~HE DouBLE IMAGE    219

 Mimi another half hour. Once you've talked with her, you'll have something
 to go on. Then you can start thinking about some plan of action-if that's
 necessary. You know the dangers; you know what's at stake.... He reached for
 a cigarette, lit it slowly, stared gloomily at the empty square.
  Suddenly, he was aware of someone standing in the shadowed doorway beside
  him. He turned his head sharply, saw Elias. And how long has he been there?
  Craig wondered, both startled and annoyed. ,
  Elias was surveying the peaceful harbor, as if he had just enjoyed a
  lengthy meal indoors and was speculating on how to spend the rest of a
  sleepy afternoon. But unless he had been sitting behind the stone arch that
  held up the small dining room's ceiling, or had been in the kitchen itself,
  Craig was positive that Elias had not been there when he had taken this
  outside table. Elias was speaking to the four men-friendly, desultory talk
  that lasted a few minutes. This politeness over, Elias looked at Craig,
  nodded. "Did you have a pleasant walk?" He pulled a chair up to Craig's
  table, sat down and accepted a cigarette. "Very quiet," he went on,
  glancing around the square.
  "Too quiet," Craig said, recovering his breath. Who told him I went for a
  walk, this morning? The same person who told him I was here?
  Elias was now studying Craig. "Was it wise to climb up the hillsider' he
  asked gently, but there was sharp reproof in his eyes.
  "Just normal tourist behavior," Craig tried. "Wanted to photograph the
  dovecotes and windmills."
  "You were not using a camera," Elias said, looking pointedly at its case.
  He added magnanimously, if coldly, "You were very careful, that I must
  say."
 "Keeping an eye on me?" Craig asked with a grin.
  "I'm in charge of you. For the time being." Elias was not smiling.
 "Oh?" Craig glanced across at the other men.
  "They don't understand English. Besides, they saw us arriving from Athens
  last night on the same ship. It is natural that we talk for a little."
  "Were you telling me that Partridge has leftT' Craig asked very quietly. So
  he did find a way off the island, and more quickly than I expected.
  "Almost," Elias said. Even if his friends at the other table did not speak
  English, he seemed a little shocked by
 220      HELIEN MACINNES
the direct question. "And you-how do you like MykonosT' "I'd like to be able
 to rent a house here some day." If he doesn't like it straight, I'll give
 it to him sideways, thought Craig. And I'm not going to waste time either.
 Once he finishes that cigarette, hell rise, talk to the others and then
 drift off. "I saw two, with a fine view, up above the north end of the
 bay. They had trees, looked cool." He watched the small smile spreading
 under Elias' dark mustache. "Are they ever offered for rent?" -
 "One was rented this summer."
 660hTl
 "But very expensive, I hear."
 "Well, you always have to pay for privacy."
  Elias was studying him, head slightly held to one side, fine dark eyes
  gleaming in amusement. He only nodded.
  "Which one?" Craig insisted. "Oh, of course I shan't do anything about
  it, this year. But some time in the future-~'
  "I wouldn't recommend it unless you like the sound of doves. of
 So, thought Craig, the house had a dovecote. "Noisy?"
  "In the early morning-impossible. Unless you like to be wakened with the
  dawn, of course." He turned his head to see what had so quickly caught
  the American's attention. Down along the water front there was a group
  of visitors easily remarked by their fancy dress. The two young menthe
  bearded one was an English novelist, he had heard; the other, with the
  long shock of hair, was a French painterwore yellow and red linen shorts,
  respectively. The three young women wore blue, green, and flaming pink:
  the American girl, Mimi, and Maritta Maas, in that order. At least the
  American girl had the taste to wear a dress in public. Oh, well, bright
  colors made one's - job easier. Elias rose, paused with a frown as he
  noticed the baffied look on Craig's face. Trust Maritta, Craig was
  thinking as he stared at the blonde girl in the pink trousers, trust her
  to complicate his simple plan. How did he manage to talk to Mimi, now?
  How long, in any case, had she managed to be alone with Veronica before
  Maritta had joined them? Long enough to get any information about what
  was going on, up in that house on the hill? Something was wrong,
  somewhere. He usually could shake off his premonitions, but this one had
  stuck with him ever since the meeting with Veronica. It was raising its
  nagging little voice again, even as he watched the
            THE DOUBLE IMAGE     221
 group sauntering nearer and nearer, listened to the talk and laughter
 beginning to invade the square.
  Elias shrugged, sat down beside the other men, and observed as they did,
  with a mixture of amusement and irritation, the strange behavior patterns
  of those foreigners: the women wore trousers, the men wore little-boy
  clothes. If they came here saying that fife was absurd, it was because
  they made It so. The only one he would worry about was the woman called
  Maas, but at present she seemed positively harmless in her gaiety and
  charm. She was giving the little boys some last-minute instructions as
  they halted to say good-bye. "Not a minute later than five o'clock," she
  called over her shoulder as she walked on toward the taxL "We mustn't
  miss the sunsetl" She halted to wait for the American girl in the blue
  dress whose hand was still held by the bearded Englishman. Ali, thought
  Elias, I can guess what is troubling Craig. He glanced at Craig's table,
  and was confounded.
  For Craig had seized the chance when Maritta's back was turned to rise
  and wave to Mimi. The quick movement caught her eye. She stared across
  the wide square at the taverna. then wallked slowly on. Craig stepped
  into the safety of the room behind him, called for his bilL
  Most unorthodox, Elias thought, but even if crude it had produced the
  required result. Maritta Maas was now on her way to the taxi, looking
  over at the taverna, only seeing the group of five men around a table.
  The taxi driver was on his feet, pulling on his jacket, shouting that he
  was comm& Mimi was searching her handbag, exclaiming in dismay. She had
  left something-her sun-tan lotion-where? Had it fallen out in the caf6,
  or in a shop? The American girl was tying to remember.
  Maritta Maas cut the discussion short. There was no time to go back to
  search, she was late, she had so much to do, there was only one taxi let
  she couldn't risk losing it, and where was the other tam anyway? (Ali,
  thought Elms, she would notice that; she would ask that question.) But
  the driver's answer was accepted. It had taken a sick man over to the
  monastery at Tourliani. It wouldn't be back for another hour, perhaps two
  Mimi was insisting she had to have that lotion; she was starting to burn
  with the sun and sea air. There was no female argument against that, it
  seemed. Mimi set off toward a small street, Maritta calling directions
  to the neared shop. And the American girl, who had been watching
 222       HELEN MACINNES
 the battle of wills in silence, said very sharply, "Oh, stop being such
 an idiot, Maritta; she won7t get lost. Why are you bossing everyone around
 nowadays?" That subdued Maritta completely. She got into the waiting car
 with only a small laugh of protest They drove off.
  Yes, thought Elias as he glanced with unexpected approval at Craig
  standing within the shadows of the doorway, the unorthodox man er had
  been very effective. But that was the way... Sometimes you planned
  carefully, found nothing. Sometimes you acted on impulse, discovered
  much. Ile small scene in the square had revealed enough to rouse his
  curiosity. The Maas woman wanted everyone under her eye, her control. The
  Maas woman was in a very great hurry. The Maas women was under
  considerable tension. Now, why? On a placid day like this, with no action
  yet expected, with only patient waiting ahead of them all, why should a
  well-trained agent like Maritta Maas have such seemingly small and stupid
  anxieties?
  Quickly Elias spoke to one of the fishermen sitting beside him and sent
  him walking after Mimi. Then he rose, too, and joined Craig. "There's a
  lavatory near the -kitchen, beside the back entrance. IT meet you on the
  lane outside. In two minutes." He smiled and added, "That was
  interesting, wasn7t itr' His good humor was completely restored.
  Most interesting, Craig thought. Veronica is on the point of complete
  revolt. But why? He nodded and moved to the upholding arch which framed,
  inside the alcove it formed at the back of the room, shelves of bottles
  in neat rows. There was a counter, with glasses, in front of them; and
  the small boy watching water boil on a small stove to one side. This was
  the kitchen, Craig decided and pointed to the only door he saw. "To
  meros?" he asked and headed through. He found himself on a narrow street,
  an outhouse door built under the usual flight of stone stairs to the
  second floor. He slowed his pace ' put on his sunglasses against the
  white glare, lit a cigarette, consulted his guidebook, stepped aside for
  a girl riding sidesaddle on a small mule, nodded to two old men holding
  up the side of a house, and put in the required, two minutes without much
  trouble. "Just across the next street," Elias said behind him, and fell
  into step.
 "Mimirt
 "I have arranged it.
 That was all. But the tone was almicable, a return to yester-           THia DouBLE ImArm     223
 day's pleasant interchanges on the journey here. He has decided to forget
 my climb onto the hillside, Craig thought, and smiled. Greeks, he was
 discovering, might tolerate fools, but not gladly. And yet who had been
 foolish? he couldift help wondering. Elias probably knew every inch of
 that hillside for a three-mile stretch on either side of the town. But had
 he forgotten how it might feel to be a stranger, dumped down in the middle
 of strange terrain, strange voices? Or does he think my job is over, now
 that I've placed Berg right here an Mykonos? In that case, he'll have to
 do some rethinking. I am in, for the duration. Whatever is going to
 happen, I'm staying in.
 Mimi was sitting with her back to the window in the barely furnished room,
 watching the door as if she weren't quite sure whom to expect. The fisherman
 was standing near her, studying her with interest, from her slenderly
 tapered trouser legs to the hand she kept hidden inside her large bag. When
 she saw Elias and Craig, she relaxed. The hand slipped out of the bag, and
 she laughed for the fisherman, who was just about to leave. He grinned back,
 saluted her, and, with a few remarks for Elias, left.
  "Dic language difficulty was extreme," Mimi said. "I was beginning to
  wonder if I had made a mistake."
 "But surely he gave the password," Elias said.
  Mimi nodded. "I was beginning to wonder if I had mistaken that, too. Pear
  tree. That is a very strange password."
 "All the better," Elias said.
  "Who chose it?" Craig asked, beginning to smile. "Partridger
  Mimi shook her head. "He doesn't like it, either. No, he said some-joker in
  Paris chose it Operation Pear Tree."
  "'An American joker, at that." I can hear Rosie's voice, thought Craig, and
  smiled widely.
  "A password may seem foolish, " Elias said severely, "but in this operation
  with so many foreigners working together, there are times when we must know
  quickly who is to be trusted. Such as that moment," he added for Mimi's
  benefit, "after you left the square." He went over to the window, stood
  carefully at its side, looked out. "Beginl" his back seemed to say to
  Craig.
Craig glanced at the view outside as he pulled a chair over
to Mimi. He could see clear across the small bay to the
yacht anchorage under its sheltering headland. This room
 or, rather, this office, for there was nothing here but ae
of chairs, a wooden table and a telephon&-must lie right
                                224
           THE DouBL-E ImAoR     225
 over one of the arcades along the front street. At least he knew where he
 was. In his quick journey here, Elias had really bewildered him. A very
 cautious man, Elias. Craig sat down, and asked bluntly, "What's worrying
 Veronica?"
  Elias stirred restlessly, frowned at the harbor. Surely it wasn't some
  personal matter that had brought Craig hurrying here? Sometimes Americans
  were really-then he was listening intently as Mimi began to talk. For her
  voice was urgent, serious.
  "For the first few days after Veronica and Maritta got here, everything
  was normal. Very pleasant. Just the two girls alone in the house, and two
  servants."
  Elias broke in, still watching the harbor. "They were brought especially
  from Paris, two weeks ago, well in advance. Does Miss Clark realize
  that?"
  "No. She said they were the disagreeable type-nothing but glum silence.
  She was astonished that there were any servants at all just for Maritta
  and herself. But extra guests have appeared. Two men. One came three
  nights ago. The other came the following night. Friends of Uncle Peter.
  Maritta said it was most annoying, but what could she dotell them to go
  away? Everyone wants a free bed on Mykonos. That is the trouble with
  renting a house."
  "Plausible," agreed Craig. "But haven't they started arriving a little
  early?" He looked over at Elias.
  Eliae lips tightened. Yes, it was early; too early. But something else
  annoyed him. "We have had expert observation on that house for almost a
  week. Two days ago, when extra food was ordered for this weekend, we
  checked. We had reports that friends of Miss Clark were expected for a
  short vacation.19
  "Friends of Veronica?" Craig exchanged a glance with MimL
  "Jrhat is what the delivery men were told. So far, these visitors have
  not been seen. No one knows that they have arrived." He looked at Mimi
  almost angrily.
  Mimi shrugged her shoulders as much as to say, "Well, it isnt my fault."
  'Men she smiled gently. "They don't come Into town. They seem to stay
  around the garden, in the shade of the trees or on the porch, which is
  well covered. And there is a wall around that garden. I know. I've tried
  to see inside, too, from a back window of my hotel. Quite useless.w
 226       HELEN MACINNES

  Elias was still brooding bitterly about the unseen arrival of the two men.
  "They must have come from the north, from another part of the island. They
  did not arrive by Mykonos itself."
  Craig nodded. Silent sympathy, not criticism, was what was needed at this
  point. Besides, remembering the map he had been studying, there were plenty
  of coves and inlets around the island's broken coast line. The small bay
  that formed the harbor of the town itself was really only part of a large
  desolate bay that stretched north far beyond the headland sheltering the
  yacht anchorage. That's one route, he thougK noticing Elias' face, that
  will. be watched with extra care from here in.
  Elias' anger was suppressed. But his voice was still acid with annoyance.
  "Miss Clark does not seem to be so stupid as the Maas woman judged. Yet did
  she not find it very strange that the two visitors made no effort to go
  outT,
  "Yes. But Maritta said one has been ill, and the other did not care for too
  much sun."
 'Vhat do they talk about? What language do they use?"
  "French, mostly, although they speak it with a foreign accent. But Veronica
  does not meet them much. Maritta has been taking her to lunch and dinner in
  town. In fact, Maritta always seemed to be with her in those last two days.
  This has irritated Veronica. Then last night, she was awakened by the
  doves. Something had disturbed them. She could see no one from her window,
  but she was sure she heard voices from the direction of the dovecote. She
  tried to warn Maritta, only-she could not leave her room. Its door was
  locked. And that made her angry, my friends."
  "And that was why she decided to find a place in town," Craig said
  thoughtfully. He was pleased, too; Veronica was not the simple little fool
  that Maritta had taken her for. Thank God for that. The perpetual innocent
  was a compulsive loser. "Wen, good for herl If she can get away with it,"
  he added more soberly.
  "She will never be allowed to leave," Elias cut in, "not at this critical
  stage of their Plans."
  "Did she tell Maritta at breakfast that she was going to look for a roomV
  Craig asked quickly.
  "Yes. Maritta just laughed ' rushed off to an appointment in town, said
  they could talk about that later. Veronica went for a walk in the garden to
  try to Oink what she should do:
           Tim DouBLE ImAGE      227
 wait to discuss it with Maritta or go straight into town herself? And
 then, as she passed the dovecote, she noticed a great silence. And no
 movement. The doves had been taken away. She tried to go in, but one of
 the servants stopped her, said the doves were diseased and had to be
 removed." Mimi paused, watching Craig's face. Even Elias had turned around
 to stare at her. "Somehow, that troubled her." And I've troubled you, too,
 she thought, looking with surprise at the men's faces.
  Craig was remembering the usual shape of a Mykonos dovecote: a square,
  squat tower with decorative ventilations on top and solid blank walls
  beneath. "Are they preparing to house a prisoner?" he asked softly. Elias
  only shrugged, pursed his lips. He turned back, grave-faced, to look out
  of the window. Craig said to Mimi, "So Veronica came right into town? And
  found that she wasn't alone, even then. That man in the striped shirt was
  keeping an eye on her, wasn!t he?"
  "Yes. She became really frightened then. But he did it so openly and
  seemed so ordinary that by the time we went to the caf6 on the quai for
  lunch, she could even laugh at him. He didn't stay. He went to report,
  no doubt." Mimi was smiling. "Because, before we had finished lunch,
  Maritta arrived with Tony and Michel."
 "The Beard and Flowing Locks?"
  Mimi didn't quite follow, but she caught Craig's sharp tone. "But they
  are such nice boys," she murmured. "Really very sweet."
 Boys . . . "They are older than you are, baby."
  "They are children," she said gently. "Maritta is using them -as she has
  used Veronica. That is all."
 "Have you anything on them?" he called over to Elias.
  Elias shook his head. He stood very still, and then pointed to the sky.
  "There it goesl" he said softly.
  Both Mimi and Craig rose to look. There were shouts from the street
  below. The fishermen, spreading russet nets to dry in the sun, were
  watching, too. "That's a very small plane," Craig began, and then
  stopped. Where could any aircraft land on this rocky island? "It's a
  helicopterl" he said, watching the nose-tipping black dot as it circled
  widely toward the northwest as if it were headed for Athens. "When did
  it get here? I heard nothing."
 "It came in by the south," Elias said smoothly. "It landed
 228       HELEN MACINNES

 about fifteen minutes ago near the monastery of Tourliani in the center of
 the island to pick up a man who is very sick-he needs an immediate
 operation. It took off for Athens at once. As you see." He turned away from
 the window. He said to Mimi, "I had some questions about the Maas woman, but
 I think you have already answered them. Except one: why was she in such
 haste to get back to her house? Why couldn't she wait five minutes, ten
 minutes, and give you a lift to your hotel? It is on her way."
  "Mat," Mimi said firmly, "is my last piece of news. Are there any other
  questions before it? John-----P For Craig was still watching the vanishing
  dot. He came away from the window, sat down again. Plenty of questions, he
  was thinking as he looked at Elias. Why Tourliani? He remembered his
  guidebook's photograph; a very small village, a few houses around a long,
  wide, and open square-good landing ground, certainly, and ten miles from
  nowhere. And once that helicopter is out of any telescope's sight, will it
  stop heading northwest and swing east? "You boys really amuse me," he told
  Elias with a wide grin. So Partridge was on his way to Smyrna.
 "Boys?" picked up Mimi. "I thought you didn't like---"
  "Boys in red and yellow shorts with shirts open to their navels. Okay,
  okay. They're sweet, bare feet and all." Then he relented: Mimi's English
  was almost perfect, but her sense of joshing was still undeveloped. He
  became serious again. "Did Veronica read her declaration of independence to
  Maritta over your lunch table? Did she say she was absolutely decided about
  finding a room of her own?"
  "She tried. But Maritta's technique was brilliant. She was full of
  understanding. She started telling me, and Tony and Michel, what a
  miserable place her uncle's house had become with his friends-they were so
  dull and stupid. She said no wonder poor Veronica wanted to leave. She
  wanted to move out, too. Why, she couldn't give any more amusing parties,
  couldn't feel free to enjoy herselfl She had become a housekeeper, worrying
  about their food and drinks and what they liked and did not like. She was
  going to ask them to leave. She had been cabling her Uncle Peter that
  morning, begging him to stop giving out invitations, she hadn't come to
  Mykonos as a housekeeper."
 "You used that word twice. Did she?"
 "She used it several times. She was implanting her reason,
           Tim DouBLE ImAoE      229
 you see, for being in such a hurry to return to the house." Mimi smiled for
 Elias. "There is your answer," she told him. "She was rushing home to
 arrange a very special dinner for them~ tonight, in order to put them in a
 good mood When she asked them to leave tomorrow."
  "Po, po, pot" Elias said. "Did she expect anyone to believe that? She will
  have to find a better excuse to cover ,her real business. She spent much
  time, this morning, in the house of Mr. Gerhard Ludwig."
  "It was only half of her excuse," Mimi said. "Ibe other half made it very
  plausible, indeed."
 "And what was the rest of her excuse?"
  "She is giving a party--on the island of Delos. Yes, she has already
  reserved the rooms at the tourist pavilion there -it is a simple place, so
  she will take food and extra blankets, and she is hiring a boat to take us
  across. All we have to worry about is our coats and toothbrushes. She is
  arranging everything. We sail at five o'clock." Mimi laughed softly. "And
  it is a heavenly idea. She made it so--so-inspired. She woke this morning,
  remembered it was May Day-a time for parties---saw the sea was calm,
  thought of Delos, imagined how peaceful it would be at night when all the
  tourists had gone, how wonderful the ruined temples would look under
  moonlight." Mimi looked at Elias with amused eyes. "Oh no, everyone
  believed she had much to arrange for us before five o'clock, except me, and
  I had to pretend to believe her more than anyone."
  "Surely Veronica didn't forget all her fearsCraig
 began.
  .I accepted for us both, before she could make any objections," said Mimi
  calmly. "And kicked her leg gently under the table."
 "Is this wiser'
 "I think it is very wise to follow Maritta's wishes."
 Elias nodded. "So there are five of you going."
  "Eight-that fills the little pavilion, doesn't it? There will be two of
  Tony's friends, whom Veronica likes. And you."
  "Me?" Craig was incredulous. "Ibit's the last thing that Maritta wants. She
  has done everything to keep me from talking to Veronica. No, Mimi, she
  isn't going to risk any confidences between Veronica and me."
 "She is going to call your hotel and invite you herself."
 "She doesn't know my hotel."
 230      HELEN MACINNES

  "How many are there in Mykonos? Five, six at the most She can try them all
  in a few minutes."
  Craig looked quickly at Elias. "She will, too," he said grimly. "Better
  give Madame lphigenia instructions how to deal with that call."
  "Yda are not going?" Elias asked as he moved slowly to the telephone on the
  table. He stood frowning at it, not touching it.
  Mimi had risen and was on her way to the door. She had given all her news;
  it was time to leave. She halted, looking at Craig in wonder. "John-surely
  you can't refuse a, night on Delosl Think---~'
  "Irve thought of it," he said bitterly. Marble shimmering in the moonlight,
  a mile of ancient columns and temples, a silver sea around them. "An island
  all to ourselves. I can even set it to music."
  Mimi shrugged. "I think it!s wise to follow Maritta79 wishes," she said
  again. "She does nothing without a purpose. Well-make up your mind. I'm
  leaving. The same way as I came In?" she asked Elias.
 "Do you remember it?"
 "I hope so. I spent a lot of energy memorizing i .
  "And my congratulations," Elias said unexpectedly. "You have been most
  helpful."
  "My thanks, too," Craig said, and gave her a warm smile. "You!d terrify
  Maritta if she know how much you learned from Veronica in a couple of
  hours. That was one thing she never intended to happen."
  Mimi laughed, delighted with both their words and that idea. "Oh, I knew
  how to steer the conversation, that was all. And Veronica needed to talk.
  But I would have learned much less, I think, if it had not been for you."
  Her dark gray eyes looked at Craig, and turned most serious. "I did tell
  one fib. I said I had known your sister when she lived in Paris, was
  devoted to her, so I felt I knew you well, too. And I thought you were
  someone Veronica could trust~ quite apart from being two Americans in a
  foreign land. Then she said that she had wanted to speak to you, this
  morning, but-just couldn't; you might be embarrassed, you weren't really
  interested in her or her troubles. 'Tell me what they are,' I said. 'I'll
  talk with John Craig. He is a very casual type. But he will listen, I'm
  sure.' And that decided her. You had helped her once before, she said."
  MimPs eyes
           Tim DouBLE ImAoB      231
 were studying him thoughtfully. "Whatever you did, then, certainly had
 results this morning." She opened the door carefully, glanced out into the
 empty corridor. "All peacefut" she said softly. "How very nice She closed
 the door soundlessly behind her.
  Elias was looking at the telephone again. "Do I call my aunt and tell her
  that you were only staying at the Triton for one night until you found a
  room to rent? That is quite usual, you know. Most people rent rooms; much
  cheaper. And there are so many hundreds of them, here on Mykonos, that even
  Maas might take a week to find you." He paused, then added casually, as if
  he had only just thought of it "Of course, you could accept her
  invitation-meanwhile."
 "Is that what you want me to do?" Craig asked bluntly.
  "I am not in charge of you." Elias was slightly amused. "Certainly not for
  the last ten minutes or so." He glanced at his watch.
  "But who else? Partridge is halfway to Smyrna." Craig was unexpectedly
  depressed about that fact. It left him feeling isolated, uncertain. 'Tv%o
  is the new man in charge here?"
  'In charge of the AmericansT' Elias' emphasis was polite but decided. "Why
  not Bannerman? I think our friend is now walking toward the Triton Hotel.
  He should have arrived in the taxi that returned from Tourliani some ten
  minutes ago.90
  "He stepped out of the helicopter as Partridge stepped on?" Craig found the
  vision amused him, even lightened part of his depression.
  Elias nodded. His fingers touched the telephone. "Do I call the Triton and
  block that invitation?"
 "I'll take your advice and keep Maritta happy."
 "That is always the clever thing to do."
 "Meanwhile," added Craig.

  He had left Elias and taken a circuitous route back to the hotel. He needed
  the walk, he needed a fifteen-minute delay before he met Tim Bannerman.
  There were a number of things he had to sort out in his mind. Craig always
  found that his brain worked best if he brought himself right up, against
  his problems, examined their variables, and then established the precedence
  of their importance. Nice comforting pro;rastinations, a general
  wait-and-see feeling, were not for him. on the one hand but on the other
  hand-no
 232       HELEN MACINNES

 thank you. He liked to catch the facts by the scruff of their necks, pull
 them face up and have a good look at them, however unpleasant. And if he
 couldift catch them all-for he was the amateur wading in very deep waters-he
 could at least see their shape if he thought hard enough about what he had
 actually glimpsed.
 SO...
  The Smyrna area was Partridges first concern. He had only visited Mykonos
  to make sure that the situation had not been endangered by any information
  that might have been tortured out of Duclos. Even Insarov's arrival here
  had not shifted Partridges concem Rather, it had intensified it. It was
  clear warning that the climax was approaching. Hence the haste in which
  Partridge had returned to Smyrna. For that was where he intended this whole
  counteroperation to be completed successfully. It was in Smyrna that the
  dangerous r&e, played by one of his agents, could be safely ended along
  with the career of an American called Alm From Smyrna, too, would come the
  instructions to pick up Insarov and all his friends.
  The Mykonos area was therefore of secondary importance, so far. It was only
  a kind of safety net, carefully rigged to save Partridges agent and catch
  Alex if the plans at Smyrna swung out of control.
  But that was all from Partridge's point of view, thought Craig. From
  Insarov's? In his calculations, Mykonos was to be the successful climax of
  all this operation. He had geared everything to that. Therefore, any
  instructions followed by Maritta Maas were geared to that, too. Therefore,
  even such a small thing as this invitation to Delos was to be examined from
  every side. Nothing that Maritta was told to do could be considered as whim
  or charming fancy.
  Maritta and this bright idea for a party . . . What had she said back in
  his hotel room in Paris about Delos? Yes, in Paris Maritta had already
  known about the small tourist pavilion on Delos. 'For emergencies, she had
  said. Emergencies. Were the emergencies on Delos tonight-or here on
  Mykonos? Certainly, Maritta had made sure her uncle's friends would have
  the house on the hillside, emptied dovecote and all, very much to
  themselves. She had also made sure that Veronica and the people she liked,
  the people to whom she might have talked, were all safely off this island.
  Tonight. And if these inferences seemed a little farfetched,
            Tim DouBLn ImAaE     233
 he had only to remind, himself that nothing Maritta did could be considered
 whim or fancy.
  Yet, one thing puzzled him. He was remembering Paris again; this time
  Partridge talking to him about the man at his sister's party-the man called
  Alex-who was coming to Mykonos, where he would hand over to Maritta, the
  information he had collected. (But now it seemed that the information to be
  delivered was the source itself-an abducted expert.) Maritta, and Alex had
  worked together before. Therefore they could identify each other quickly,
  and Alex!s delivery would be safely made with neither doubt nor delay. But
  that meant Maritta had to be here when Alex arrived. She, alone, was Alex's
  contact. In that case, she would never have arranged to go to Delos if the
  Stefanie were expected tonight. Craig, he told himself sadly, you just got
  carried away in your deductions: a bell of a historian youll mak&
  And then his thoughts leaped. If Alex was sailing on the Stefanie, why
  should he need anyone to identify him? Or why should he have to come here,
  at all, if the Stefanie brought in its prize? His job was over in Smyrna
  when he enticed that man aboard. Or wasiet it?
  Craig smothered his rising excitement. Once more, he went over the facts he
  knew about Alex, few as they were. Yes, Alex was a courier, passing on
  information to a safe contact whom he definitely knew. Now what was it
  Partridge had said in the Triton's little garden? Something-oh dammit, it
  was a phrase, a simple but revealing phrase. About Alex and his duties. No,
  it had slipped to the back of Craig's mind, was hovering there,
  tantalizing, elusive. Relax; don't strain it, he told himself. If the
  phrase was important, it would turn up in its own good time.
  He headed for the little street where the Triton stood. There were a lot of
  people around now. Shops had opened again. Trade was brisk. Life was
  normal. "I tell you," one white-haired Englishwoman was saying to her
  exhausted friend, as Craig stood aside to let them pass, "there are three
  hundred and sixty-five churches, and we've only found two hundredand
  ninety-three."

  Madame lphigenia was at her post in the Triton's small lobby. "There was a
  telephone call," she Announced. "A woman's voice."
 234       HELEN MACINNES

 "Did she leave any number?"
  "She refused to give it," Madame lphigenia said with annoyance.
 Then that was Maritta. "She will call again. IT be in my
   to
 room.
  "We change your room." Madame bad dropped her voice~ to a conspiratorial
  whisper. "My nephew Elias advises that. It has not such a pleasant view,
  but no one knows you are now there except myself and one maid. My nephew
  also advises you leave most of your luggage in your old room. Come. I
  show you."
 "Just let me get my toothbrush."
 "It is already provided."
 "Well, just let me get my camera. Right?"
  So they made the quick and familiar journey, and he managed to get
  Partridge's automatic safely into his pocket in a matter of seconds while
  Madame Iphigenia played watchdog at the door. He changed into a fresh
  shirt, picked up his raincoat and a sweater for tonight's journey. It
  would be a cool trip across the strait to Delos. He almost forgot razor
  and toothbrush. A man spending a night on Delos would certainly take
  these. Now let anyone check on this place, he thought, as he slipped them
  into his coat pocket.
  "You remember this way?" Madame whispered as she led him along a twisting
  corridor. Indeed, he did. That morning, it had been part of their tour
  of inspection. The rooms were unused in this wing of the house, under
  change and construction for the summer season. "I am sorry," she said
  with real anguish as she showed him into his new quarters, still smelling
  of paint. "'Ibe workmen will not be back until Monday. No one comes up
  here. It is all right?"
  "It's very much all right. lbank you for helping me. What did Elias
  expect?" A secret search, or some unexpected visit?
  She hesitated. "I do not know what this trouble is. I do know my nephew."
  And with that, she left him. As she disappeared around a corner, he heard
  a distant voice calling her back to the front desk. He dumped his coat,
  camera and sweater, and after a last glance at the makeshift arrangements
  he made his way down by the back stairs to the. enclosed garden. It would
  be better that he be found easily when that telephone call came for hinL
  nere was also the matter of Bannerman-
              THE DouBLE IwAm      235
  The telephone call came first. "I thought I wastet going to find you~'
  Maritta began.
 "And I've been looking for you all day."
 "Have you heard about my party on Delos?"
 "Are you turning archaeologist?"
 "No, no. It's a moonlight party. Tonight Will you come?"
 "Yes. But how? Do we swim?"
  "Five o'clock at the harbor. Bring a coat. And a bright smile."
 "When do we get backT'
  "Oh, well stay overnight. There are eight of us. Veronica included. rm glad
  you accepted before you heard she was coming."
  "Theres only one thing. I'm expecting some of my friends from Athens to
  arrive tomorrow evening."
  "Oh, we'll be back before that. I've arranged for our boat to pick us up at
  three tomorrow. It's only an hour's journey from Delos."
 "Weather permitting."
  "We are in luck, I think. Ile water has scarcely one ripple. At five
  o'clock, then?"
 "At five. Coat, smile and camera."
  "Tomorrow morning you can take some heavenly piotures by the dawn's early
  light." She laughed, rang off.
  He replaced the receiver, stood frowning down at it. He had managed that
  all right, but he felt no sense of achievement. Without Partridge's
  warnings, he thought, where would I have been with a girl like that? Neatly
  wrapped up in a package labeled Fool. I wouldn't have been the first, and
  certainly not the last. And she could fool me yet, he thought somberly.
  Madame lphigenia cleared her throat tactfully. He swung out of his
  thoughts, looked up and saw Bannerman, as natty a tourist as ever dawdled
  along the caf6s on the water front. Faded red shorts and a pink linen
  shirt, no lesa. Behind him, the silent young assistant manager was abso-
  lutely slain with admiration.
  "Hello, Johnl" Bannerman said. "Told you I'd join you for some bouzoukid.
  Found any places, yet where they haven't heard of 'Never on Sunday'?"
  So we continue Athens, thought Craig, and gave a smile of relief. "How's
  Clothilde? And the Mortimers? Still in Athens?"
 236      HELEN MACINNES

  "They'll be here this weekend. Clothilde really means to arrive in a
  ca7ique. She always seems to find one that hauls coal. So I backed out
  of that. What about a drink?"
  "Fine. I'm on my way to Delos at five, so well have one for the road."
  "Any room for me on that trip?" Bannerman asked with a grin as he
  clattered downstairs to the dining room and bar.
 "Not unless you like sleeping on the cold hard ground."
  The silent young man was on their heels, ready to see that they were
  served, no doubt. He took their order, relayed it to the kitchen, busied
  himself in the dining room as they went into the small garden. "Hell,"
  Bannerman said softly. But he didn't have to worry long about continuing
  their light conversation, for Madame's stern voice sent her assistant
  back upstairs to take charge of the desk, and they were free to talk.
  "Partridge thought he was just curious," Craig said quietly as the young
  man left the dining room with a last backward glance.
  "Well, people are innocent until they give cause for suspicion. Can't go
  around thinking everyone is part of a nasty plot," Bannerman said
  lightly. "But that little guy isn't local. Elias has been checking. He
  came in as a replacement only three days ago-from Athens. Highly
  recommended. Madame kbigenia is about to blow a fuse. She's kept him so
  busy running errands all day that he's worn out. Didn't even have the
  energy, or time, to check on your luggage." Bannerman's broad smile was
  reassuring. "They've planted an eye in every hotel, of course, just in
  case someone recognizablelike Rosie--suddenly turned up as Mr. Smith."
  He studied Craig7s face. "Nothing to worry about. Elias has good eyes of
  his own."
  Madame Iphigenia was making sure of that. She had instaffed herself in
  the dining room and was checking linen and silver.
  Both houses are being watched?" Craig was still uneasy. There had been
  a slip-up three nights ago, when Maritta?s guests began arriving. But
  that, of course, had been before Elias had appeared.
  "Closely. He has men on the square next door as well as up on the
  hillside, too. Believe me-~'
  "I do." Craig had to smile. Now he could see why Elias had taken such a
  dim view of his own stroll up there today.
           THE DouBLz ImAou      237

  "He has a man up on the headland above the yacht anchorage, just to see
  whaiVs sailing in from the north. He has a man in touch with the harbor
  master who checks every vessel in and out. He has even made sure that the.
  launch taking you to Delos is manned by the usual local men. You can leave
  all the details dealing with geography to Ella& He knows how."
  "And WhaVs your job?" Craig asked, some of his anxiety leaving himL
  "Looking after me?"
  "And myself, and a couple of other Americans who are wandering around
  looking like poet and painter. Also, we are keeping our own lines of
  communication open. Co-operation doesnt go as far as letting the other
  fellow handle your own particular business." Bannerman grinned cheerfully.
  "The EnaUsh have sent at least one man here, too. They have a certain
  interest." He sounded vague about that. "Men the French-well, theyll be
  breathing hard on Elias! neck:'
  "I take it, when you didn't mention him, that there is no word of Duciosr,
  "None," Bannerman watched Craig's face. Quietly, he added, "Thats the
  second good man the French have lost In this operation. The fast was in
  Paris on the morning you arrived there-they killed him to protect Alex, we
  thinkYes, you could say that the French are hopping mad. They won't let one
  escape, you can be sure of that. So ease up~"
  Alex-P began Craig, and stopped. Suddenly the lost phrase had decided to
  stop playing coy and came right to the front Of Craig's mind. "Extension
  of his duties," Partridgehad said, talking of Alex and the attempt at
  abductiOn. Yesi an extension of his duties . . . And there was something
  else too: Alex's special mission had been an "additional assignmenV'
  "Come on now. Share that one," Bannerman said with amusement
  "Haven't thought it out yet" Craig admitted. "It may mean
 nothing. Hes a ' careful, supercautious man, isn't he?"
 "Alex? As cagey as they come."
  In that case, would he arrive here on the Stefanie? Craigs mind Was racing
  now. "Suppose he had his usual job to do, as well. Wouldwt that explain why
  he had to come to Mykonos at all? Otherwise-why should he endanger himself
  by appearing here? The additional assignment-PI Craig
 238       HELEN MACINNES
 paused to make sure that Bannerman had caught his meaning----~'was completed
 when he trapped our experL Or a reasonable facsimile thereof."
 "Go on."
  "He would probably balk at traveling in the same yacht as the man he helped
  to capture, wouldn't he? He might be the type who would complete his
  special assignment, and then want to forget he had anything to do with it.
  The supercautious wash their hands of everything as quickly as possible."
  "Ibey do." A small smile glimmered at the back of Bannerman's intelligent
  eyes. "And I'm not stealing any of your thunder if I tell you we had some
  similar thoughts. Why else did we want you on Mykonos? But there's one
  thingwe don't intend to let that son of a bitch get out of Turkey. That's
  why Partridge is there." He looked At his watch. "Hes there, all right."
 Craig was silent.
  "Now what?" Bannerman asked sharply. "Do you agred with Elias?"
  "Elias? I wouldn't know. I keep trying to guess what Eflaa is thinkin and
  come up with the wrong answers."
  "You froze when I mentioned Partridge and Smyrna. Why?" As Craig still
  hesitated, Bannerman added with one of his old friendly smiles, "I really
  want to hear what you think, John. Come on, givel"
  "Well----~' He decided to risk it. "I feel that the kidnapping may be
  completed. Partridge could have reached Smyrna too late to prevent it." He
  hesitated, but Bannerman was listening seriously, waiting for Craig's
  reasons, face and eyes now intent. Craig said, "There has been too much
  happening under the surface today, too many preparations right here on
  Mykonos. That house on the hill is ready and waiting. Maritta spent the
  morning at the Gerhard Ludwig place in town-so Elias' men reported. She
  wouldn't go there except under orders, and they wouldn't be given her
  unless something important had developed. So important that it was time to
  give her final and detailed instructions? Thefre SO confident of success
  that they may actually know they have succeeded." He hesitated, decided be
  had said more than enough. "And that-for what it's worth-ia how I see iL I
  hope, I'm wrong."
 "Ehas didet discuss this with you?"
            THE DouBLE ImAGE     239
 "No."
  "Two separate opinions," Bannerman said slowly, thoughtfully. And from
  two very different points of view. Both added up to the same thing.
  Mimi's report on the Clark girl had turned out to be a depth charge. "If
  Elias and you are right, we have real trouble ahead." But he did not
  sound overpessimistic at the prospect. Perhaps he enjoyed the idea that,
  instead of being assigned to a place of secondary importance, he had
  stepped right into the critical area. He tried to check his rising
  excitement. "If you are right," he repeated. "Poor old Partridge," he
  added with some real sympathy, "he will be even madder than the French."
  Strange how things break, he thought; Partridge has worked for four solid
  months, day and night, on the Berg-Insarov puzzle. "fbis is really his
  show, you know. We wouldn't be here, any of us, if he hadn't seen one
  small glimmer of light in a purposely Ihick fog."
  "Operation Pear Tree," Craig said. He was feeling slightly better now
  that Elias was expecting anything to happen, any time. At least, he
  thought, we won't come in for A landing with the wheels up.
 66 Did he tell you?" Bannerman asked in surprise.
  "No. Mimi dropped the word. It's puzzling our allies, I think."
  "Then it should puzzle the opposition still more. I don't expect many of
  them know 'The Twelve Days of Christmas.' Do you remember the tune? Good.
  When you've got something to tell me, or vice versa, and theres a crowd
  around or somethin& whistle a few bars, will you? Keep it just for
  emergencies." He rose, clapped Craig on the shoulder. "I may come to wave
  you off to Delos. We'll see. . . ." He raised his voice to normal as he
  reached the dining room. "I'll wire Clothilde in Athens and tell her that
  the Triton is keeping a couple of rooms for her and the Mortimers."
  "When do they get here?" Craig called back. "I was thinkIng they'd arrive
  tomorrow evening."
  "Sunday. Perhaps even Monday. They may find themselves unloading coal or
  sugar all around the Aegean. Clothilde has a special knack of picking the
  slowest calque." Bannerman, taking the steps two at a time, clattered his
  way up into the lobby. Madame lphigenia had reached it just ahead of him:
  she knew when to take her cue. The very correct and silent young man was
  at the desk. He was a
 240       HELEN MACINNM
 little flustered, as if he had just made it there before Madame had
 started up the staircase. "I have a wire to send to Athens," Bannerman
 confided earnestly. "How do I go about it?" There wasn't even a small
 smile showing on his fam
  "Markos will translate it for you and send it," Madame said, staring
  fixedly at her assistant. She looked exactly like that statue on the
  main square, as if she were facing the Turkish fleet, her chin out,
  jaw set, eyes steeled, and a twothousand-year-old Greek curse right
  there on her lips.

 f
 1717

 It was almost five o'clock, and the strong western sun shone straight into
 the harbor of Mykonos. Even as Craig walked along the water front,
 raincoat over his shoulder, sweater and camera case in one hand, he could
 easily distinguish the launch Maritta had hired from the other boats
 moored all along the wharf. It was the one with the crowd of people around
 it. Either the party had grown or the send-off was to be an event. Strange
 how the news had spread-there must be at least thirty of Mykonos' younger
 set grouped together on the breakwater. Or quay. Or jetty. Or mole. Or
 wharf. He never could make up his mind what to call it It served all these
 purposes. it was a bulwark of heavy stones rising less than five feet
 above sea level, with a flat top of cement, twelve feet or so wide, on
 which crates and sacks and men and mules could all find space. On its left
 was the open sea, if not wine-colored in the evening glow then certainly
 dark blue tinged with copper, and a protecting waist-high wall to
 discourage the spray. On its right was the still water of the harbor, and
 an array of small craft roped to their moorings on the wharf.
  He passed two calques            still unloading crates of fruit
 and boxes of soft drinks, several fishing boats now being
 scoured clean, rowing boats, another calque, and reached
 the crowd-a merry one, as he had guessed by the drift of
 voices over the calm water. French, English, American. No
 wonder the German, Swedish and Dutch tourists had looked
 a little sourly at the breakwater from their caf6 tables
 under the arcades. It was a fine evening for a sail across
 a few miles of rippling sea to Delos. And this was a won
 derful idea for a party, he thought as his eyes looked over
 the bronzed faces and bright clothes for someone he could
 recognize; if only, he added to that, Maritta had not been
 instructed to invent it. For a moment he envied all these
                241
 242       HELEN MACINNES
 innocents, hooting and hollering around, who took it at face value.
  And there was Veronica. With Tony and Michel in attendance. They were
  grouped in front of the launch. He hoped she wasn't looking so relaxed and
  happy because of them. They couldn't be as witty as all that, dammit, he
  thought as he heard her laugh.
  "Yes, shes beautiful," Mimi's voice said at his elbow. She pulled him
  gently over to the sea wall, with a smile of apology to three girls with
  swinging hair and pink-white lips who were just about to surround him.
  "They want to go, too," she murmured. "You looked a very pleasing prospeqt"
  She Ieaned against the wall, stared out to the open sea, and pointed to a
  far-off island. "Maritta is not coming," /she said softly.
 He studied the island.
  Ivrhe blankets and food arrived with one of the servants in charge. Don't
  look around, Johnl He's standing over at the other side of the mole. The
  calque is just behind him."
  "Checking us on board?" he forced a smile, tried to look as if they were
  talking about something pleasant. He swung himself up to sit on the wall,
  which let him have a quick glance at the man standing by the edge of the
  quay. Thin expressionless face, watchful eyes. From where he stood, he
  could keep easy count of everyone who stepped on board the launch. "What
  excuse did Maritta send? I bet it was a beauty."
  Mimi nodded. "Better get the details from Veronica. We've been talking long
  enough together. I'll start making the rounds--just the girl who wants to
  meet everyone. One thing: I told her I had let you know about her problems.
  I said you would help her. I had to, Johnl Why else did I listen to her
  this morning if I was not going to tell you? That was my story, rememberl"
  She looked toward the north and pointed again. "Lookl Fishing boatsl Where
  did they come fromr' She was including two young Frenchmen in her question.
  Craig jumped down and left them speculating about their cameras. The
  tantalizations of photography (it sounded all right in French) were the
  perfect pictures always presented when the light was too yellow, the sun
  too glaring and direct.
  Craig moved through the crowd, and then halted, avoiding the intereste(t
  glance of one of the girls with the pink-white
           THE DouBLE ImAcm      243
 Bps so very pale against her tanned skin. He stood for an agonizing
 minute, looking toward the north headland, staring at the three red
 fishing boats and the cabin cruiser that was following them in to the
 smooth waters of the harbor. Then his mind began to work. He calculated
 quickly and waited. His timing must be exact. The cruiser was drawing
 toward the yacht anchorage. The three boats were gliding around to find
 a space somewhere along the quay, their sails now Rapping idly. Okay, he
 told himself, okay. He walked straight over to Veronica.
  "Hellol" he said with a wide smile. "And when do we shove off?" He gave
  Tony and Michel a friendly nod.
  "Five Oclock always means five-thirty in this part of the world," Michel
  announced. "That is one of its charm&"
  "We seem to have some extra company," Craig said, looking at two men with
  sleeping bags and a girl carrying a blanket.
  "Why, Ws Josiet" Michel exclaimed, and turned to welcome her.
  Craig looked at Veronica. "Whafs this I hear about Maritta?"
  Tony said, "One of those impossible guests fell down some stairs and
  broke his leg. Maritta is staying with him until the doctor arrives.
  Really bad luck."
 "Yes. Pity he didn't break his neck."
  Tony laughed before he looked shocked. Then laughed again.
  "Don't you think someone should start loading people onto the boat? It
  would be a pity to miss the sunset on Delos."
 "But they all want to come," Tony said in mock despair.
  "Then let them. They can sail over there and back, anym way. The launch
  will hold about thirty, tightly packed. In this sea there's no danger."
  The launch was an odd contraption, definitely one of those mad Greek
  inventions, with a flat-topped hatch rising out of the deck and taking
  up most of it. On either side of this protuberance there were long
  shelves, acting as benches, facing out to sea, backed by ropes for the
  seated to grasp. The railing in front of their legs was another lightly
  strung rope. The captain and his mate were aft, along with a high smell
  of kerosene. Their smiles were cheerful.
 "It can take forty, even in a storm," Tony told him, in
 244       HELEN MACINNES

 the tone of an old-timer. "Never lost a passenger yet. It bobs like a
 cork, even up the highest wave."
  "That must be fun," Craig observed and half turned from Tony, edging him
  out. "And when did the broken leg take place?"
  Veronica!s smile widened as Tony drifted away to start organizing. "He
  will never manage it under twenty minutes," she warned Craig.
  '7hat!s a pity. I was counting on ten." He was watching the three fishing
  boats. Soon they would be very close, blotting this part of the quay from
  any watcher on the hillside. If Maritta or her friends had a telescope
  trained on the launch, their view was about to be ruined. Perhaps per-
  manently., The three boats, barely fifteen feet long, had stopped moving.
  It looked as if they were waiting for the launch to leave and give them
  space to tie up. There was a good deal of raucous shouting, anyway,
  between its captain and the fishermen.
  Veronica studied his face. She said, "It really was an accident. I saw
  it. But his leg isn!t broken. Only a twisted ankle, I think- He
  complained a lot, though."
 "And it happened just before you left?"
 "Why, yes."
  "Veronica," he asked quickly, "will you help me?" He looked deep into her
  blue eyes. "I mean that. Will youT'
  "Of course," she said slowly, trying to hide her growing astonishment.
  But I thought I was the one who needed help. Is he in some kind of
  trouble, too? "What's wrong?"
  "Trust me. Pleasel And cover up for me, will you? Im not going to Delos."
 Ile soft smile was wiped off her face.
  "No, no," he said urgently, "keep smiling as we talk Please. The monster
  is watching us."
  Her eyes flickered over toward the man Maritta had sent. He was staring
  at her, in that grim and sullen way which she disliked so much. She
  forced a smile as she looked back at Craig. "I won't notice your absence
  until we reach Delos. And then IM laugh it off. Is that what you want?"
  "Yes. Say that I probably stayed behind to keep Maritta company, cheer
  her up."
  She dropped her eyes. She was half believing that herself. Her smile
  vanished.
 He grasped her hands. "Pleasel" he said again.
           THE DouBLE ImAoE      245
 She nodded.
  His grip on her hands tightened. "That's my girl," he said softly as he
  released her. She looked at him, wide-eyed. If the monster hadn't been
  watching them, he would have kissed her, right there and then. Instead,
  he backed away, seemingly still continuing their conversation. "I'll give
  Tony a hand," he called to her. "It's time we were leaving. Save a seat
  for met" He kept on backing to the edge of the quay, then turned very
  quickly as he reached the haggard-faced man, bumping heavily into him,
  saying "Sorryl" as his hands went out as if to save the man from toppling
  back into the water. He seemed to lose his own balance. His shoulder
  crashed against the swaying figure. The man fell, too astonished to
  shout, and landed with a splash between the launch's stern and the high
  prow of the caIque.
  There were screams, yells, and a rush of excitement. "Throw a life
  preserver!" Craig told Tony. "I'll get a small boat to pick him up." He
  left, making his way through the jam of people. The shouts had given way
  to laughter, loud advice, raucous comment. There was a mixed stream of
  Mykoniots and visitors beginning to run up the quay. Craig bundled his
  coat tightly around the camera case, looked for the likeliest small boy.
  He found one, trying to edge his way into the steadily growing crowd.
  Craig caught his arm gently, smiled, bent down to reach the right eye
  level, held out thirty drachmas (a round dollar in any man's money) and
  offered the bundle. "Triton," he said, pointing to the bundle, then back
  over his shoulder in the direction of the town. "Triton?" The boy nodded.
  He was about eleven or twelve years old, large brown eyes in a thin
  intelligent face. Craig tapped the bundle again. "Triton. Madame
  Iphigenia.11 No, that was the wrong word. "Kiria Iphigenia. Triton."
  I know, I know, the boy's eyes seemed to say impatiently. He took the
  thirty drachmas, tucked the bundle under his arm, looked in the direction
  of the excitement around the launch. A cheer was being raised.
  "It's all over," Craig said. "Get going, busterl" He gestured down the
  jetty, quietly, urgently. "Me boy folded the bill safely into his pocket.
  He tapped his narrow chest. "Petros," he told Craig solemnly. Craig shook
  hands formally. That seemed to seal the bargain.
 246       HELEN MACINNES

  "Triton. Kiria lphigenia," the boy assured him, as if he were addressing a
  very small child.
  Craig nodded, put a finger briefly up to his lips. Let's hope, he thought,
  that the gesture translates itself properly into Greek.
  It must have. The boy's eyes opened wide, bright with a new excitement. He
  grinned widely, tapped the side of his nose, pushed his way through the
  fringes of the crowd, headed for town.
  Craig straightened his legs, pulling on his sweater. It was too hot for
  this time of evening, but its dark blue color disguised the striped shirt
  he had worn for the trip to Delos. Now all he had to do was to find a
  straggle of tourists. He chose a clump of people, fishermen and visitors
  combined, and filtered into its center. The trek along the breakwater
  became short and simple. Alone, he would have felt every step under
  sharp-eyed scrutiny from either the frontstreet arcades or the house on the
  hillside. He kept his head down, his hands in his pockets, and stayed with
  the crowd.
  Far behind him, now, he heard the launch let off a high tenor blast. He
  didn't look around, kept on walking, and was still in the shelter of the
  group as he reached real land. He passed three fishermen leaning against
  the wall of a chapel as he made the sharp left turn into the front street.
  He was almost certain that the youngest was the man Elias had sent chasing
  after Mimi, today, but he had only time for one quick glance and one
  returned, stare. He walked on nonchalantly, chose the first caf6 he saw,
  and slipped out of the cluster of tourists to find a small table at the
  very back of its deep awning. The trouble was that those Greeks, to foreign
  eyes, seemed very much alike, with their grave faces and dark hair and
  heavy mustaches. The fishermen had noticed him certainly. If he was Elias'
  man, then all Craig had to do was to sit here and get some thoughts back
  into order. Also, he'd like to watch a little.
  He edged his chair around just enough to let him have clear sight past the
  screen of men at the front-row tables. Now he had a good but protected view
  of the long.breakwater. To his surprise and pleasure, the launch had
  already moved away from its moorings. Quick work after all, he thought
  gratefully. Tony must have got them all on board in record time once the
  man was pulled out of the harbor. There was a small close group on the deck
  of the calque,
           Tim DouBLE ImAGn      247
 as if that was where he had been deposited. No doubt they were getting him
 to cough up a surfeit of water, and telling him never to stand again at
 the edge of a wharf crowded with young maniacs. Certainly there was no
 sight of the man on the jetty itself. It was rapidly emptying, returning
 to its usual placid routine.
  Craig watched the launch move into the harbor, sweep around widely to
  port, pass the end of the breakwater and out to sea. It gave three short
  and cheerful blasts of farewell. In a similar mood, he ordered ouzo and
  coffee. Well, there I go, he thought, bound for Delos. Not even the
  waterlogged man in the dark suit, now climbing onto the jetty from the
  deck of the calique, would guess otherwise.

  It was forty minutes later, almost six &clock, before Bannerman strolled
  in. He looked around the few tables that were occupied-this was a
  fisherman's haunt; later in the evening it would be crowded with them-and
  said, "You've got good taste in caf6s." He sat down facing Craig, his
  back turned to the street.
  "It was the first place I could duck into and stay out of sight. 99
  "Sorry I missed the fun on the dock. But there was an emergency. I came
  here as soon as possible."
  Judging from Bannerman's face, his news was bad. Craig said, 'Vell I'm
  glad our communications system is working, anyway. That was Elias' man
  I saw?"
 Bannerman nodded. "What made you bug out?"
 "Because Maritta did."
  "Ohl" said Bannerman, a new light dawning. Quickly he asked, "And they
  think you've left?"
  "I tried raising a little fuss, enough to cover my retreat back into
  town, I hope."
  "I heard about that." Bannerman almost smiled. "Veronica Clark was a
  great help, too. Got them on board and the launch moving before anyone
  could count who was sailing. What did you tell her?"
 Craig was still staring. Veronica had done that?
 "What did you tell her to get her co-operation?"
  "Nothing. Just that I wasn't going. Just that I needed her to cover for
  me. That's all."
  "She certainly did." Bannerman sounded relieved. I'Didn% waste a second.
  Good girl. If I felt in a better mood, rd be
 248      HELEN MACINNES

 laughing out loud." He leaned both elbows on the table, cupped his chin
 in his hands so that his lips were guarded. "Bad news from Smyrna. You and
 Elias guessed right."
  Craig bent his head over his cup of coffee, studying the heavy mass of
  thick muddy grounds. "They got our man?"
 "This morning."
  This morning, thought Craig in dismay. If only I had known where to
  report, last night, that Heinrich Berg was walking through Mykonos-if
  only I had tried to get hold of Elias-if only I had telephoned Bannerman
  in Athens. There would have been time to warn Smyrna, to have all
  precautions doubled. But I didn't think, I didn't know what was at stake.
  There I was, imagining that I was becoming ridiculous, taking too many
  precautions, having too many suspicions. And the truth was I didn't have
  enough. He remembered Rosie telling him that the smallest things could
  be of the greatest importance. . . . Do we always have to remember, too
  late? he wondered. "If only," he said, 961 had got in touch with you last
  night."
 "You didn't know---" began Bannerman.
  "I didn't have to know. I ought to have reported one small fact, and lot
  others do the evaluating."
  "Look-it's over. Over, and nothing can change it. Stop those 'if only's.'
  Don't you think we each carry a pack of them around on our breaking
  backs?"
  "Okay." Craig drew a deep breath. "So they got him this morning.99
  "And the news wasn't known until late this afternoon. They used timing
  as part of their plan. les always a winner."
 "Who was he?"
  "A volunteer. Only three people know his name, and I'm not one of them.
  There was a fourth, but he's dead." Bannerman's lips tightened as he
  thought of Duclos. Yes, only three now: Rosie, the Englishman Christopher
  Holland, and Partridge. "The fewer the better, of course. Or else Insarov
  might have learned he was abducting someone who didn't know one thing
  about microphones and similar gadgets."
 'Then he won't get much out of your man."
  "Nothing that is of any use to him. I suppose we could say that's one
  success we had," Bannerman said gloomily.
 And a grim one, thought Craig. "What nowT'
           THE Douimz ImAoH     249
 V-
  Bannerman dropped his hands, looked casually over his shoulder, glanced
  at the breakwater, surveyed the water front. "Id like you to keep out of
  sight, until iirs worth while showing yourself. Never spoil a surprise."
  Only the front-row tables had their groups of men so far, all friends,
  all knowing each other. That was a safeguard in itself. No unaccountable
  fisherman, no inquisitive tourist, "We're out of the main drag here. We
  might as well relax and have some coffee."
  "We could move inside--ies empty. Or is that more noticeable than sitting
  here like two normal people?"
  Bannerman nodded. "Besides, I want you to keep your eyes on the
  breakwater. III watch the street. I don't think pretty little Maritta
  stayed home from Delos just to play pinochle with her abominable house
  guests. What excuse did she give?" He signed to the waiter for coffee and
  angled his chair to look along the water front.
  Craig told him and raised the first smile of the evening. "Maritta as
  Florence Nightingale," Bannerman said. "So far, there have been no
  reports that any doctor was sent for. But you didn't expect that, did
  you?" He shook his head. "What will she think up nextr'
  "That's what Im waiting to see. If she weren't so dangerous, she'd be my
  choice for Comedy Queen."
  The coffee came, and Bannerman began giving the rest of his news. "The
  yacht Stetanle never entered Turkish waters," he said quietly, his left
  hand holding a cigarette close to his Ups. "Nor did she visit Chios,
  which is the Greek island nearest Smyrna-there's even a small ferryboat
  that runs between Chios and Smyrna. So Chios seemed the logical place,
  but it wasn't planned that way. Instead, she docked at the island of
  Samos, farther to the south.-
  "That's the closest Greek island to the Turkish coast. Ies less than two
  miles across the strait, there."
 "You know your geography."
  Craig smlle4i "Blame it on history. The ruins of Ephesus are near that
  strait."
  "Yes," said Bannerman very softly, "and Ephesus is just about My miles
  south from Smyrna. . . . Get it?"
  So that was the route of operation: Smyrna, to Ephesus, to the coast, to
  Samos. And the Stetanie. "Alex made up a party for Ephesus," Craig said
  thoughtfully. Clever bastard . . . It was a popular trip; anyone visiting
  Smyrna usually
 250      HELEN MAcINNEs
 made it He had been warned, back in New York, that if he ever went there
 he could expect busloads of tourists from the cruise ships docking at
 Smyrna. A man could easily go unnoticed in a polyglot crowd surrounded by
 miles of rains. Ephesus was big. And yet- "Surely," Craig added irritably,
 "Our man was being guarded?"
  Bannerman nodded. "There was one of our agents with him
  constantly-pretended he was some kind of assistant and close friend. We
  couldn't have a phalanx of guards around the pseudo expert; that would
  have looked too obvious, as if we were expecting trouble. We had plenty
  of checks on his -movements around Smyrna, though. He had his
  instructions to stay there. He should never have accepted the idea for
  a jaunt to Ephesus-I don't know what got into him." Bannerman sighed
  deeply, frowning. "Seven people made up that party. Two cars. That was
  the way the kidnapping was worked."
  "How?" pressed Craig. He could scarcely believe that two trained and
  experienced men could have been so easily trapped.
  "The group scattered, spent a couple of hours wandering around Ephesus.
  They planned to meet at the cars at a fixed time-they were returning to
  Smyrna for lunch. But one of the cars drove off just ahead of the other.
  Those who gathered at the second car found they were two short -the
  expert, and his assistant-but assumed they had got tired waiting and
  taken the first car."
  "And those in the first car took it for granted that the two men were
  returning in the second car?"
        it
 "So they say.
  "But if they reached Smyrna by one o'clock or so, Why didn't Partridge
  get the news here before he left? Someone must have been dragging his
  feet."
  Bannerman shook his head. "The first car decided to make a detour, visit
  a nomad encampment." He looked at Craig. "Ever seen one? The Turks keep
  them well outside their towns. Black leather tents, beehive shape.
  Camels. Slit-eyed people. Straight Genghis Khan. sounds good, doesn't it?
  Good enough to keep that first car from returning to Smyrna until almost
  five o'clock this afternoon. Some detour."
  And only then would the disappearance have been discovered. Clever Alm
  "BY that time, the Stetank had left Samos?"
            Tim DouBLE ImAGE     251
 "She left at three."
  "Which means she could arrive here any time tonight," Craig said softly.
 Bannerman said nothing. He was a worried man.
  "At least," Craig added, "you!ve got Alex. He's stuck in Smyrna until
  everyone is questioned, and he won!t have much choice in his answers,
  either. Which car was he in? The first, I bet."
 Then was a strange expression on Bannerman's face.
  "Don!t tell me that both Wilshot and Bradley went on that trip to
  Ephesusl"
  Bannerman glanced up quickly. "Who gave you the narnes?- he asked
  sharply. -Partridge?"
 "As a kind of afterthought this morning."
  "Just as well." Bannerman said, alarm giving way to relief Now he could
  talk more freely If Craig knew as much as this. he could help. Every
  ounce of assistance was needed. "The situation Is becoming high
  emergency," he admitted.
 "Alex-"
 "He backed out of the trip to Ephesus early this mornlng~"
 "Both Bradley and Wilshot backed out?"
  "Both. They had a chance of a free ride on a plane to Rhodes today. They
  took it. Begged off Ephesus."
 "They seem to be pretty close friends."
  "They've become quite good friends in this last week. They reached Rhodes
  around nine this morning. We checked. They left before ten eclock,
  hitching another ride-this time on one of those twin-diesel yachts that
  would give them a cruise through the Aegean en route to Athens. Bradley's
  leave is just about up; he is heading back to Paris. We know that
  WilshoCs articles on the Turks? new attitude toward America, because of
  this damned Cyprus trouble, are completed. Everyone knows that, too. So
  everything seems perfectly regular. Even the hitchhiking. Anyone who
  visits this Part of the world is always on the lookout for a free ride
  s~ he can see as much as possible. Just tell him he can sail with you
  here, or there, and his eyes start glinting. Have you noticed?"
  Craig nodded. He was still thinking of Alex. Careful and cautious,
  Partridge had called him. "Who actually arranged that trip to Epbesusr,
  "It was dreamed up, yesterday evening, at a cocktail party in Smyrna
  given by Bradley and Wilshot. It seemed one
 252      HELEN MACINNES

 of those spontaneous-combustion ideas that come with the fourth Martini."
 "Who first suggested it?"
  "That's being investigated right now, you can bet all your travelees
  checks. But does anyone remember exactly who said what and how and when
  at a cocktail party?" Banner. Man smiled sourly. "Yes, even that was
  calculated."
  They were silent for a full minute. Then Craig said, still puzzled, "That
  agent of youm-the one who was keeping an eye on your expert-did he sell
  out, you think?"
 "No. Not he. I've worked with him."
 "But how----P
  Mey'd deal with him first. Probably he is lying behind some ruined
  temple, his skull smashed in with a chunk of marble," He fell silent
  again, his face cold and expressionless. "Ibree men dead, one captured
  for interrogation. The cost comes high." He looked at Craig. "It may come
  higher. You could bow out now and no one would blame you."
 "Mere's a matter of identifying Alex."
  "Yes, I admit Id like your help with that. I know both Wilshot and
  Bradley from their photographs. Never met them. And theres two of them"
 "They'll come ashore together?"
  "Tbafs my guess. Alex will make sure of a cover to the very end. Theyll
  separate, of course, when Alex is really getting down to business."
 "I'll take one, you take the other. How's that?"
 There was a broad smile on Bannerman7s face. "PerfecL"
 "Men do you expect them?"
  Any time, frankly.-
  "And meanwhile, I just keep looking across the harbor?" Craig asked, and
  did. "So far, no twin-diesel job is anywhere on the horizon. TherVs that
  cabin cruiser over at the anchorage, of course. It's scarcely powerful
  enough, though, to get from Rhodes to here by five o'clock."
  'Me harbor master reports it came from Delos. Before that, Tinos. Wrong
  direction for Rhodes, anyway. It plans to spend the weekend at Mykonos.
  Two men and a woman. That's the crew."
 "'Two men?" Craig was still hanging on to his doubts.
  'Look-" Bannerman raised an eyebrow. "Elias phoned Delos, and that cabin
  cruiser was there."
 And did a more powerful boat, arriving from Rhode-%
            T)Hz DouBLE ImAoi3   253
 touch in at Delos just before the cabin cruiser left? Craig looked at
 Bannerman, one of the nicest guys he had met in a long, long time, and
 wished Partridge were here. "I believe you. It was there all right. But
 damned if I wouldn't find some excuse for a visit over to that anchorage
 except that---.?' He shrugged in a good imitation of Elias.
 Bannerman noticed, and smiled. "Except what?" he asked.
  "Both Bradley and Wilshot would spot me and wonder why I was snooping
  around."
  Bannerman's amusement doubled. That was the way with those amateurs, he
  thought, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Let them have one or two small
  triumphs and they start teaching everyone his business. "I have a very good
  reason for not snooping around, too. I've got to stay here. Period. A
  matter of keeping in touch with the big outside world. We don't work that
  through the Greeks or anyone else. Stop raising your blood pressure." And
  then he relented. "Elias made an excuse to have their passports checked:
  not one name we knew."
 "And,their faces matched the photographs?"
  "Exactly. Elias' man even went into the cabin and glanced at one of the
  men, who was taking a nap. Okay bud? And yes," Bannerman added
  emphatically, "it was all handled tactfully, sort of offhand style, to
  raise no suspicions that they were being checked. Does that answer all
  objectionsr
 "Meanwhile," said Craig with a grin.
  At least he can take a reprimand well enough, Bannerman thought. "Now this
  is what we do. When that twindiesel job arrives from Rhodes, I'm going to
  be heading around to that anchorage. Alex has never seen me. I'll make
  sure-without going through the passport routine-who is on board. That gives
  us the warning, right? After that, we wait until they move ashore. I don't
  think Alex will go up to the house on the hill to see Maritta, not right
  away."
  Not ever, thought Craig. Alex, cautious and careful, wouldn't be seen near
  that house. "Do you really think he nodght go thereT, he asked very
  carefully. No criticism, Tim; no criticism implied at all.
  "When it's dark, perhaps. Maritta has got rid of Veronica for the night.
  The house will be safe enough, even for Alex."
  Now thairs what Bannerman would do, or I would do, if we were in Alex's
  shoes. But will Alex? ... Craig frowned, looked at.the placid harbor.
  Outside the breakwater, the sun-
   254       HELEN MACINNES

 set was starting. And not a sign of a ship coming from any direction.
 "Maritta may have been making the house safe for the Stefanie's arrival."
  "It needs darkness to unload its cargo," Bannerman said abruptly. "And
  it isn't taking the direct route to Mykonos from Samos. Tbat, we do-know.
  They'll make very sure that all is well before they touch land."
 I Craig agreed with that. In the art of caution, Insarov could give Alex
 some twenty years.
  "And it won't arrive while Alex is here. He will make sure of that."
 Craig could agree with that, too.
  "He is due first. He has to be. If be is Bradley, he has got to be back
  at his desk in Paris by Monday morning. If he is Wilshot, he has a final
  interview with Grivas near Athens on Sunday. Neither can hang around here
  too long."
 -Craig nodded again.
  "We can only make some educated guesses about what Alex will do once he
  sails in here. We just have to be ready for anything. You stay and watch
  the town while I'm around near the anchorage. Amy suggestions?"
  "I'd like to know how the hell I get in touch with you if necessary when
  you're on the other side of the harbor. It's a damned loud whistle from
  here to there."
  "Relax, relax . . . That's all set up. Why do you think I've been waiting
  here?" Bannerman glanced at. his watch. "They should be passing any
  minute now."
  "I hope they speak English. I know about four phrases in Greek: good day,
  thank you, please, where is the toilet?"
  Bannerman grinned. "They know more Greek than that. I'll leave one of
  them with You and take the other with me. Adam is the name of the guy who
  will keep fairly close to you. Only get in touch----." He broke off. "See
  those two characters ambling down the street. The fair-haired guy with
  the sunburn is Adam: green sweater, medium height, round face-got him?
  The stocky dark-haired chap is Bill. Okay?"
  The two Americans, hands in pockets, strolled slowly past the caf6.
  "Consider yourselves introduced," said Bannerman. "Now I can leave you.
  Only get in touch with Adam if You really need a contact."
 "VAAstle a bar or two?"
 -yes. Our little theme song-9t Bannerman was in good
           THE DouBLE ImAGE      255
 humor again. He rose. "Ill be with Elias for the next half hour or so-just
 checking." He sighed, but not too deeply. "17his is the stage that kills me.
 All these damned decisions . . ."
 "And I stay here?"
  'TV1y not? You can admire the sunset and keep your eye on that streeV' He
  gave an easy wave, and left.
  In spite of the low, carefree voice, there had been an edge of urgency in
  that last instruction. Keep your eye on the street. . . . Whom did
  Bannerman expect to come walking down there-Maritta?
  If so, Alex won't be far behind. Maritta's actions are tied to his arrival.
  Of that, I'm convinced. Or at least, that's what I think. 11ink? Or feel?
  Or am I wandering in outer space? I could be wrong, there's always that
  doubt He looked across the harbor at the anchorage-two placid boats lying
  close together, painted ships on a painted bay-all peace, all innocence. I
  could be wrong, he thought again, the doubt growing. All right, all right,
  he told himself irritably, lefs watch this blasted street
 iflin

 The street was busy now, so busy that it was baffling. Faces and voices
 and footsteps; and no one recognizable. The caf6s, too, were filling up
 with people who had come out to admire the sunset. Even this one, where
 Craig sat patiently (obedient but bored, he thought wryly), was showing
 life. Some of the more artistic visitors were wandering in with their
 girls. "This is really authenticl" one said in delight as her friends
 pulled two tables together and corralled every available chair. The
 fishermen paid little notice, but their talk paused heavily and
 philosophic gloom masked their faces as they stared out at the calm
 harbor, only seeing another refuge invaded and about to be permanently
 occupied. Craig's lifeline, Adam, arrived, too, bringing three friends to
 sit only a couple of tables away. Craig felt cheerier, ordered coffee and
 Another ouzo to keep the waiter happy, and returned his full attention to
 the street.
  Then he heard the steady grumble of an outboard motor, and looked quickly
  at the quiet waters of the harbor. A small boat was halfway across from
  the yacht anchorage, moving smoothly in toward the breakwater. Where had
  it come from? The sloop or the cabin cruiser? It was edging its way past
  the fishing boat& and caliques, coming as far inshore as possible. There
  was a man and some luggage in the prow; a woman at the tiller. Craig
  looked quickly around the tables, but the men there didn't seem to find
  it strange. They were more concerned with watching to see if the woman
  would make a mistake in steering, for, once she had nosed the boat into
  an opening between two fishing boats and brought it neatly against the
  jetty, they lost interest and found something else to talk about.
  Craig looked along the           street. No one was hurrying to
 meet the man on the jetty, now standing there with his two
 suitcases at his feet, watching the boat reverse safely. The
                256
            THs DouBLE ImAoia    257
 woman waved; the engine roared for the first minute and then settled into
 its steady beat The boat headed right back to the yacht. anchorage.
  Craig glanced at Adam!s table. Tbe conversation there was hilarious, but
  Adam had noticed, too, in between laughs. Ihe man was picking up his
  suitcases, walking smartly to the head of the quay. He stopped to speak
  with a group of fishermen beside the small chapel there, but seemingly
  found no helpful answers. Next, he spoke to an old man, was directed on
  to another group. Someone gave him the information he was seeking. It
  was, apparently, a place to leave his two suitcases: a cart, standing by
  itself at the end of the quay with a few bundles already waiting for
  shipment out on the next boat. It was a slightly offhand baggage room,
  but the stranger accepted it after a little hesitation. Tben, with his
  suitcases deposited neatly, the man headed for the front street. He was
  walking at a medium pace, obviously interested in everything he saw,
  someone who was putting in time before he caught the evening boat. No one
  was paying him the least attention. His actions explained themselves. He
  had arrived too early, which-in any MykoniWa opinion-was wiser than
  appearing at the last -minute and expecting miracles. Such things
  happened constantly; foreigners neither understood boat schedules nor
  made allowances for weather.
  The stranger had plenty of time. He stopped to look at the painted
  fishing boats drawn up on the beach, at the nets spread over the short
  stretch of sand and pebbles. An Englishman, Craig guessed. He was wearing
  a faded blue blazer, loosely cut dark gray flannels bagging a little from
  travel. He took out a pipe and pouch, began the ritual of filling and
  lighting as he crossed the street toward the first caf6. Now Craig could
  see a thin tanned face above a nonchalant collar and tightly knotted tie.
  Striped, of course. He was almost a professional Englishman, from
  well-brushed hair down to solid shoes. As he reached the front-row
  tables, he glanced at his watch, decided to have a drink. He entered
  casually, eyes searching for an agreeable spot.
  Craig's spine stiffened. He sat staring. My God, he thought, I didn't
  find Bradley; he found mel For at the mowent of sure recognition,
  Bradley's eyes had swept-along the back row of tables and seen Craig. He
  stopped, looked again,
 258        HELEN MWINNES

 hesitated. Then, hand outstretched, he came forward. "Craig, isn't it? Why,
 this is a delightful surprisel"
  "Bradleyl" Craig's voice was astounded enough to carry across several
  tables. "Sorry. I didn't recognize you at first." Which was true.
  "I didn't know you were here," said Bradley, completely at ease again. "And
  how is your charming sister?"
  "Sue and George are both fine. They're in Washington now. Sit down, why
  not? Have a drink."
  "If there Is anything drinkable." Bradley smiled, hesitated again, then sat
  down. He looked around, adjusted the knot of his tie, puffed at his cuffs.
  "I feel rather overdressed. But rm in transit. Returning to the big city
  tonight-catching the boat for Athens when it does come in. Thought Id come
  over and have a look at Mykonos and something to cat before we sail. That's
  around ten, isn't it?"
  "Give or take an hour. But I expect it will be fairly punctual tonight. The
  weather is good. Yoirre in IucL What will you have?"
  "Nothing at present, thank you. I have to meet a friend for a last drink
  together. Remember Wilshot?"
  Craig reflected a little. "Wasn't he at the Meurice party, too? Yes, I
  remember him vaguely. We didn!t talk."
  "We came up from Rhodes, today. One of his friends offered us a lift-if
  that's the right word. Nautical terms are out of my line. Anyway, it gave
  us a last chance to see some of the islands. Otherwise, I think it was a
  mistake. Wilshot was seasick from start to finish. He is looking for a room
  now, at a hotel. Says he is going to spend tonight on terra firma, and look
  up some old friends. Ex1raordinary chap. He seems to have friends
  everywhere."
 "Too bad you can't stay longer, yourself."
  "Yes; it looks a quaint little place. Definitely informal." He looked
  around again, studying the people at the table& "And hoves your book coming
  alongr
  "By fits and starts-the way most work gets done out here. 1711 be spending
  some time on Delos. And then 12 push on."
  "You know, I was thinking of you last week. When I was in Troy."
 "How was it?" Craig asked with real interest.
  Bradley plunged into a quick account, mostly on the peculimdes of getting
  there, of traveling through the naval
           THE DouBLn ImAoE      259
 and military zones that fringed both sides of the Dardanelles. "Then I drove
 on down to Smyrna. Fantastic journey on incredible roads, camels around
 every comer. Don't * s Bursa, by the way, when you go to Troy. les the old
 Turkish capital-before they took Constantinople. The Green Mosque there is
 quite remarkable. Well----~' he looked around again- "it seems as if I'll
 have to search elsewhere for Wilshot. Say, why don't we all have dinner
 later tonight?"
 *Td like that. But I'm waiting for a girl."
  Bradley looked at the three coffee cups and two ouzo glasses. "You!ve had
  quite a wait, I see."
  "No one is very punctual around here. And it's just possible that rm at the
  wrong caf6. I haven't really got accustomed to Mykonos yet-only arrived
  here last night." He glanced at his watch. "After seven," he said in amaze-
  ment.
  Bradley rose. "If you see Wilshot, tell him Im around, will you? Ill have
  a quick look at the town and then find a likely place to eat along here
  somewhere." He looked vaguely at the water front. He smiled and added, "I
  was told that the best way to catch the boat is to sit at a caf6 until you
  see it approach."
  That saves a lot of fussing and fuming," Craig agreed. "Well--4 wont say
  good-bye. We'll probably keep bumping into each other for the rest of the
  evening. Everyone does In Mykonos." Adam had already risen, along with two
  of his friends (Greek, they were), and was leading the way out into the
  street, talking over his shoulder to them about Kazantzalds. The third (a
  Frenchman, Craig had decided) still sat at their Uttered table, looking at
  t e English girls across the
                   h
 caf6 with a lazy interest which might win him a very successful evening
 indeed.,
  "if your girl doesn!t appear, join us for dinner," Bradley said. He nodded
  pleasantly and walked off.
  Magnificent sunset, thought Craig, and studied it for the next two minutes.
  Anything to keep him from his impulse to look after Bradley. Or after the
  two Greeks who were tagging along at a respectable distance. Adam had left
  in the other direction. Do I wait for Bannerman, wondered Craig, or do
  I.follow my own impulses and leave this damned table and go looking for
  mpAtta? For the truth is that well never know who Alex is until we see him
  with her. Bradley or Wilshot? 0 0 ; He had thought Partridge and all his
  boys -a little slow
 260      HELEN MACINNES

 at deciding. And yet, he found he wouldn't make up his mind, either. You
 couldn't pin treason lightly on any
 And this double play, carefully calculated, was as baffling as Alex had
 intended it Friendly innocent or confidence trickster, which was Bradley?
 No, Craig thought, the only sure way of knowing will be when Maritta makes
 contact with Alex.
  Bannerman arrived to find Craig paying the bill. "Going some place?" he
  asked with a grin.
 "You know damned well where rm going."
  Bannerman looked around, chocked on the nearest tables, seemed reassured,
  sat down beside Craig, and dropped his voice to a low murmur. "Take it
  easy. Maritta only left the house on the hill five minutes ago. She is
  walking in. That means we have at least fifteen minutes more before she
  reaches town. What did you make of Bradley?"
 Craig shook his head. "He says Wilshot is in town."
  At the Triton. "Right next door to Herr Gerhard Ludwigr The odds were
  increasing on Wilshot.
 "He says he was advised to go there."
 "Advised or instructed?"
  "You really are getting the hang of this," Bannerman said in great good
  humor.
  "rin getting holes in the seat of my pants from so much damned sitting."
  "And what had you in mind? Take a stroll and walk right up to Erica and
  her dear Alex?"
 "Erica?"
 "Her play name."
  "M stick with Maritta." He still couldril get accustomed to Insarov,
  still called him Berg as often as not And the man was Berg. Maritta was
  Maritta. The rest was smoke screen.
  "Safer for you," Bannerman agreed. Names had a habit of slipping out
  sometimes, as he had just proven to himself. "It you insist on talking
  with her. But why? And have you a real excuse? You'll need it, or youll
  be blown sky-high. And perhaps us along with you."
  Craig shook his head. "Let's leave here, and r1l tell you what I have in
  mind. It could work." Dusk was just about to cast its first thin ved over
  the sky. Soon the gray hour would come, the caf6 lights would go on. He
  rose and made his way out Bannerman had to rise and follow. Craig
           Tim DouBLia ImAoz     261
 turned to his left, avoiding the front street, talking casually about
 Fellini and De Sica, as if Italian fdms had been their discussion.
 Bannerman noted all that and approved. They took the first whitewashed
 lane away from the water front, then cut along to their left again on the
 next narrow street, circling around to reach its other end. The
 crisscrossing streets had their evening quota of women standing at their
 doorways, of old men here and there watching with interest. Everyone else
 had left for a stroll along the water front.
  Craig had begun speaking very quietly from the minute they had branched
  up into the alley, walking closely in between its tight walls. "I won7t
  press my luck. I'll disengage if I see it's near breaking point. Contact
  has to be made between Maritta and Alex if there is any exchange of
  information between them at all. Right? This isn't the kind of place
  where you can drop something for another agent to pick up casually--too
  many people, too many kids around who could pick it up first. How much
  chance would one of those trick pencil stubs have, for instance, if a
  small boy saw it? Mykoniots don't waste one inch of string. Right?"
 Bannerman nodded.
  "So it has to be direct contact for safety. From one hand to another, or
  at least within sight of each other. Could be?"
  Bannerman nodded. It was an odd feeling to hear Craig arguing everything
  out for himself, reaching conclusions that had been made days ago in
  Athens.
  "So you need someone to get as close to them as possible, And that's me."
 "Is it?99
  "Have you got anyone who could walk right up to them and join them? With
  a perfectly good excuse? If Alex is Wilshot, IT tell him that Bradley has
  been looking for him all over the place. If Alex is Bradley, I'll take
  him up on his dinner invitation. How's that?"
 6wrempting.09
  "Youll have your men all around, anyway. If I get the deep-freeze
  treatment and have to bow out, nothing is lost.
  "I like it. Especially the bit where you make them break their rules.
  Theyll learn each other's real names from you." He laughed softly.
 "'Illey don't know----" began Craig in astonishment.
  "Neither name, nor occupation. Safeguard." Bannerman laughed again.
  "These are real conspirators, you know. Not
 262       HELEN MAcINNEs
 counterespionage agents. There's a difference; in purpose and methods. They
 are the masters of the double image." Then Bannerman shook his head
 regretfully as he came back to Craig's idea. "I like it, but rm not going to
 let you do it. You've forgotten two things: yourself, and what could come
 afterward."
  "But I'm leaving that to you," Craig said with a smile. "You!ve got your
  alternative plans all made for dealing with Alex, haven't you? How many?"
  he asked jokingly. "A, B, C and D?"
 Bannerman looked at him impassively.
  "But how are you going to deal with Maritta? If you have Elias pick her up,
  take her out of circulation-well, that could cause a five-alarm fire. And
  yet, yowd like to keep her from handing that information from Alex over
  to-well, who's your guess?"
  Bannerman's eyebrow lifted. "Is this what I get for leaving you alone with
  a sunset?"
  "Inspiring," Craig admitted with a grin. "Come on, you old bouzoukia
  expert, whafs there to lose if I play it very, very cool?"
  "And where do you propose to start this operation? You can't be in two
  places -at once-and there are two men."
  "I'll compromise. III stay near Maritta. And leave the hard work to all you
  boys."
  "Ibere aren't so many of us now," Bannerman said very quietly indeed.
  "Elias is putting every man available, once darkness sets in, up on the
  hills as lookouts around the nearest bays and coves. We figure the Stefanie
  will drop off her cargo in a quiet spot and cruise peacefully at sea until
  morning. Then she makes a nice innocent approach to Mykonos."
 "So that leaves--~'
  "Adam and myself. Bill has gone with the Greeks into the hills-liaison
  between them and us." Bannerman barely paused as he gave a passing thought
  to two other Americans, cosily installed this morning with complete
  transmitting and receiving facilities. He wondered briefly if any further
  news had come in from Smyrna, or-just as important now-if the wave length
  for local communication between here and the hills was working out all
  right. "Then there is an English. man, but he is over on Delos, tonight."
  Craig looked swiftly at Bannerman, who didn't elaborate but went on
  smoothly, "And there's MimL at Delos; which leaves one Frenchman
           THE DouBLE ImAGE      263
 here. Ws a good man. But the French are so damned eager to get Maritta that
 they may act if they think she is slipping away from them. From their point
 of view, they are within their rights. But from ours-well, all we'd got out
 of it would be Alex."
  "And another man dead," said Craig, thinking of the Stefanid's prisoner.
  And Heinrich Berg free. "Iben you need me, whether you like it or not. So
  let's get moving." He halted at the next comer. "This street takes me back
  to the water front. I know, because this is the way I arrived yesterday~
  evening." The dusk was thickening now. The white houses were luminous
  ghosts. Soon the lights, here too, would be switched on. "I think I even
  know her favorite caf6I saw her there, last night, just around this time."
  He started down toward the front street.
  Bannerman came with him. "Why not?" Bannerman said to Craig's unasked
  question. "We were seen constantly in Athens together." And then, as they
  were almost at the water front, he asked, "What makes you think shell meet
  Alex at a caf6? Why not in one of those quiet streets we've just been
  passingr' He had his own answer but he was curious to find out if Craig did
  have a reason. That was importaut-no adequate reply, or a wrong one, and
  he'd stop Craig even now.
  "He's a complete stranger to Mykonos. So was I last night. And I couldn't
  have been sure of meeting anyone in the dark, at the right time, on the
  right street. The water front was the only place I could have reached with
  any certainty."
  "Good enough," Bannerman said quietly, and walked on. lo~at's more, this
  isn't the place of big hotels and public
  bies. Strangers are noticed here if they are in places where they,doet
  belong. And any walk up to a lonely mill, or onto the hillside, could be
  noted, too: this is the time of day when women have stopped work to look
  out of their doorways. So the safest place is the most normal place-the
  water front, where all visitors congregate. That raises no speculations.
  Right? Or wrong?"
  It was right as far as Mykonos went. Bannerman nodded, glanced at his
  watch. increased his pace. "Let's cross the front street, walk on the
  beach, look at a fishing boat or two. Adam Is waiting at the square; he
  will follow her in once she passes through it. If you are right, she should
  be swinging along lu a few-" He did not even have to finish his sen-
   264       HEi N MAcINNEs

 tence. He grasped Craig's arm, pulled him behind a stone staircase as
 Maritta Mass strolled along the water front barely thirty feet away.
  "Quick reflexes," Craig said, looking with respect at Bannerman.
  "And damned poor timing." Bannerman drew a deep breath, and gestured to
  Craig to resume walking. "We could have run smack into her. She must be
  pretty confident to come so quickly into town. All the better," he added
  with a broad smile. "She'll really be set back a mile when she sees you.
  Now, look, I agree to your plan, with one addition. Me."
  "Were going in together?" I might have guessed that was why he listened,
  Craig thought wryly. He's using me to get close to Alex. "I introduce you
  all around?"
  "lbaiVs the idea. I'll stick with Alex. You hold onto Maritta. Spend the
  evening with her if necessary. Keep her from delivering that information
  anywhere, until Adam and his French friend think up a way of getting it
  from her. Of course, there is another way--" He looked at Craig, reflec-
  tively.
  "No thanks," Craig said sharply. "I don't tangle with any girl unless I
  like her. Just keep my love life out of this, will yourt
  "Only a mild suggestion." They had reached the front street. Bannerman
  grasped Craig's arm again. "Gently does it." Adam was walking past the
  entrance of their lane. He noticed them, a right, but didn't stop.
  Something more interesting seemed to lie ahead of him. "Give him a
  minute," Bannerman said, and paused to fight a cigarette. "Let them all
  get into place. Then we walk in."
 'I don't think It will be as easy as that."
  "Nothing ever is. But rm counting on you to startle Maritta. Set her off
  balance. lbat's when mistakes are made~"
 "Alex will keep his head---~'
  "Let him. We've got him whatever happens. False passport, the use of,
  however temporary. Mias will hold him on that."
  They turned the comer carefully. Maritta had halted in front of her usual
  caf6. She was standing, her back tamed to them, looking out to sea. The
  small. launch she had hired for her party was returning from Delos,
  easing its way around the breakwater to come into the shelter of the
  harbor.
           THE DouBLz ImAoE     265

  Again, Bannerman had to light his cigarette. They stood for anodier full
  minute behind a pillar of the nearest colonnade, There was no sign of Adam;
  he made good use of every available shadow, seemingly. Craig wondered if
  Maritta, had not her own watchers posted along this water front And inside
  the caf6?
  "Take it easy," said Bannerman softly, and kept talking. "You know, that
  was a clever dodge with the fake passportO He passed over his own mistake
  in letting it work; he ought to have gone over to the anchorage himself,
  just to make sure who had arrived. "Ifindsight is easy," was all he said.
  "Ies clear now that the man sleeping below was the non-Alex. The real Alex
  handled the passport identification on deck while his stupefied friend
  didift even know what was going on."
  "Which makes his record just about perfect for the whole trip."
  wMey slipped something into his cocktail. Elias! man thought he was drunL"
  Bannerman grinned cheerfully. "So keep your glass in your hand, tonight.
  Useful tip when drinking with Alex"
  At this moment, Craig was wondering if he would even meet Alex Maritta
  might be merely taking an evening stroll. ThaiVs the way she looked from
  here. Casual, untroubled, innocent. Abruptly, she swung around toward the
  caf6. Hair slightly ruffled from the sea breeze, hands deep in the pockets
  of her belted fleece coat-a pale green that came to life as she stepped
  into the circle of light-she walked slowly through the rows of outside
  tables. She smiled to one group of acquaintances, waved to another, managed
  somehow to be drawn into neither. She paused at the wide entrance to the
  room hesitated whether shed go inside or sit under the colonnades at her
  usual table. She decided that. it was perhaps turning chillier than she had
  expected and stepped over the threshold.
  "Damn," said Bannerman softly. "It would have been so easy to watch her H
  she had sat outside."
  "Too easy. Come on, let's go." She could be meeting Alex, right now.
  thought Craig worriedly.
  "ThereN Adam," Bannerman said as they approached the caff. Adam had decided
  on an inside table, too, tonight The Frenchman with the bedroom eyes was
  drifting in, looking around with his usual lazy appraisal even if he had
  man-
   266      HELEN MACIM-MS

 aged to bring along two of the English girls with him. 'Technique,"
 Bannerman said with admiration. "If he has to leave them quickly, two are
 company and they won!t feel so lonely." He raised his voice as they
 reached the first row of tables. "The trouble about these Karag6z plays
 is that you never can find them. You hear plenty about them----"
  Craig had paused, almost imperceptibly, as he noticed the lonely American
  seated at one table, a man in his thirties, well-dressed in a light tweed
  jacket, who was watching the people stroll by. He glanced at Craig but
  didn't recognize him In the broken light. It was Ed Wilshot
  Craig walked on, saying, "Mey are pure folk art, of course, as raw as it
  can come. You may be able to find them in the smaller places-perhaps
  they'd have to be toned down for Athens."
  "Until the avant-garde discovers them," Bannerman said, looking at Ed
  Wilshot as he passed. His face was impassive. "And that will really muck
  them up." Better keep Maritta in view, he decided.
  They halted at the doorway, accustoming their eyes to the bright lights
  inside. Craig was saying, "What do you think, Tim? Outside or in here?"
  "Chilly out there. It looks as if there's going to be a change In
  weather. Let's find a table inside." They entered casually.
 It was a square room, with the usual massive arch framing the shelves
 of'bottles on its back wall. The twenty ta.W4 plastic-topped, had clusters
 of rush-bottomed chairs. It was simple., clean and fairly crowded. Adam was
 seated near the door. talking with two local men. The Frenchman and his two
 excellent excuses were at a table against one wall. And Mxdtta was there. By
 herself. She was staring at Craig unbelhMney.
  He pretended to catch sight of her then, and waved as he started toward
  her. His hand almost froze in mid-air. At the next table to Maritta!s,
  tucked into a comer behind the arch, reading a paper while he enjoyed a
  lonely ap&itif, was Robert Bradley.
  "Heyl" Craig said to Bannerman, who seemed to be heading for the opposite
  wall, -rm going in this direction." He nodded with a grin toward Maritta.
  She had recovered enough to smile back. She was even primping, getting
  ready to welcome him; she had taken out her compact and lipstick from her
  deep pocket, and was studying the need for repairs in a small mirror.
  Bannerman was looking at her, too, a bright smile spreading over his
  handsome dark face. "Ibafs an ideal"
 "I didnt ask you," Craig said, leading the way.
  "rm still accepting," Bannerman told him, following him with a laugh.
  It sounded natural enough. As natural as the sudden falling of the
  lipstick, which landed with a light clatter near Robert Bradley's feet. He
  bent to pick it up, rose to return it into MarittaN cupped hand, smiled
  politely at her thanks, and &at down again, adjusting his tie as he picked
  up his newspaper.
  Bannerman's trained eye was admiring. That was one of the neatest exchanges
  he had seen in a long time---a double 267
 268       HELEN MACINNES

 exchange. First, Bradley had substituted a fake lipstick for Maritta's;
 secondly, as he had placed it in her palm, he had found something there
 to pick up. Bradley hadn't enjoyed receiving in addition to giving. For
 a moment, his face was tight, the nostrils slightly dilated. The hand that
 had made the exchange was now slipping casually into his pocket. Then he
 was adjusting his tie again. Bradley really was a coolBradley? Alex. We've
 got Alex, Bannerman thought, and gave Maritta his very best smile.
  She was a cool operator, too. She had taken off the cap of the lipstick
  she had received from Bradley, to show it was apparently authentic.
  Quickly, she colored her lips, closed the lipstick and dropped both it
  and her compact back into her coats deep pocket. She tilted her head and
  looked at Craig.
  Craig was concentrating on Maritta, not even noticing Bradley. That
  lipstick is a stronger pink than she usually wears, he noted as he
  grinned like a happy idiot. "Ive been searching for you everywhere, just
  about giving up hope. What took you so long to get into town?"
  This approach startled her again. "Why-P She looked at him blankly,
  recovered. "And how did you get here from Dplos? Swim?" There was
  challenge in her voice and eyes.
  "But I didn't gol You didn't expect me to, did you, when you never turned
  up?" Craig looked incredulous. "Didn7t you know I'd get your message?"
  The brilliant green eyes flickered nervously at Bradley's back. "But I
  didn't send any---"
  "Maritta," Craig said gently, "don't tell me you didn't want to see me.
  Without benefit of the usual rabble." He looked with a grin at Bannerman.
  Bannerman said, putting out his hand, "Ms oaf doesn't seem to want to
  introduce me. So I'll do it myself. Tim Bannerinan."
  She,shook hands, smiled, but only said, "Why don't you sit down, Mr.
  Bannerman?"
  No name given, Craig noted. And just what had been exchanged between
  Maritta and Bradley? The lipstick, probably; and anything else? It had
  been too quick for him. But Bannerman was in such good spirits that he
  must have noticed something important. Craig looked at Bradley's back,
  and decided to make this a really merry party. "Hello, Brad. leyl" he
  said. "I thought I saw Ed Wilshot hanging around
            TEm DouBLz ImAou     269
outside. But come and meet the prettiest girl on Mykonos." Bradley had turned
 around, resigned. He mustered a correct smile. He rose again, the always
 perfect gentle
  "Mr. Robert Bradley, Miss Maritta Maas----~' Craig clapped BannermaiA
  back-j'and Mr. Timothy Bannerman the Fourth." Craig pulled around an
  extra chair. Just the life of the party, he told himself; but he was, in
  fact, enjoying him.wlf immensely. "Join us, Bradley. It must be gloomy
  waiting for a boat all by yourself. Have you had dinner yet? Well, join
  us again. I wish you!d take Bannerman off my hands, though. Maritta and
  I were planning to---"
  "We were notl" Maritta said sharply, and looked at Bradley.
  $dSorry, sorry," Craig said very quietly, "I didn't know we had to keep
  it a secret." Then he smiled brightly all around and signaled to the
  waiter. The mention of Wilshot!s name-, he noticed, was keeping Bradley
  nicely in place: it might be difficult to explain to Wilshot why he had
  been given wrong directions where to sit. At any rate, Bradley wasn!t
  leaving to meet his friend outside. Or perhaps he was more interested in
  Maritta!s connection with Craig. The more she protested, the more coldly
  he looked at her. Do these people have to make reports on each other?
  Craig wondered. Maritta was certainly ill. at ease. She had even
  forgotten to challenge him with shouldering her servant off the dock.
  But once the drinks arrived, and Bradley's attention was held by
  Bannerman!s easy flow of talk, she made an effort and recovered herself.
  And she didn!t disappoint Craig. "What was that story I heard she asked
  coldly, "about a man falling into the water?"
  "He did. It was some idiot who was standing on the edge of the quay.
  There was a jam of people. What did he expect, anyway?"
 "And you stumbled against him?"
  "Look, Maritta, he tried to pull me in," Craig said with a hint of
  protest in his voice. "I nearly took a high dive, my. self."
  She studied him. "So you didn't go to Delos.... Veronica will be quite
  upset."
  "No one is going to miss me one bit. There was a mob scene on that jetty.
  Everything just got out of hand. Not my idea of a romantic picnic.
  Besides, I told you I had lost in.
 270       HELEN MAclm-ms

 terest. Can't you get it through your pretty blond head that I only accepted
 the invitation because of you?"
 "I thought your chief interest was in old ruins."
  "In daylight. By myself. When I can keep my mind on my work." He glanced at
  the other two men. Bannerman was at his best in this kind of confrontation;
  he was talking amusingly, constantly, holding Bradley's attention in spite
  of his wary coldness. It was thawing a little, as if Bradley had completed
  the job of sizing Bannerman up and had decided that he would prefer to talk
  with him rather than seem to have any contact with Maritta. He ignored her
  completely, a man who had no interest in her whatsoever. And for once
  Maritta did not seem to mind such neglect. Craig said very quietly,
  "Maritta-what about having dinner with me?"
  "rm sorry. I have to get back to the house. I only slipped away for an hour
  to--to get some medicine in town. I had nothing stronger than aspirin."
  "Oh, yes, I forgot. Tony or Veronica, or someone, told me your guest broke
  his leg. Is it serious?"
  She hadn't been listening. A new idea had entered that quick little mind.
  She smiled brightly. "You know, John, I might stay and have dinner with
  you. The house is really so unbearable-like a hospital. Why do men with a
  small hurt always think they are dying? It's nothing serious, really. And
  I couldn't find anything stronger than aspirin in town, anyway."
 "Then that's fine. Let's start moving out."
  "Where shall we have dinner? The best food is at either the Leto or the
  Triton. The Triton is nearer. Why don't we go thereT'
  And since when did a slender figure think about the importance of good
  food? The Triton-with three exits, one of them right next door to the
  Ludwig house. It would be a simple way, with a few more excuses like
  washing her hands, tidying up, to make sure of delivering that lipstick.
  Craig smiled. "Mat's an idea." He glanced at Bannerman, wondering if he had
  heard. Craig did some quick calculations of his own. He rose, helping her
  pull the coat around her shoulders-she had kept it with her, all this time,
  instead of throwing it over a spare chair. "Good-bye," he said to Bradley.
  "Have a good trip."
 "Give my best to Sue and George."
 Craig's eyes noticed the small addition to Bradley's dress:
            Tim DouBLE ImAoE     271
 the striped tie was now held by a clip of gold. He wasn!t wearing any tie
 clip when I first met him today, Craig thought rm sure he wasn't, I'm
 positive. "Ill do that,7 he said, shaking hands.
  Bradley's bow to Maritta was no more than politeness demanded. That might
  even be relief in his eyes, as if he were glad to be rid of her. She was
  equally distant. Her smile for Bannerman was enchanting.
  Craig caught her arm and started leading her toward the bar at the back of
  the roonL
 "Why-P she asked, baiting, looking at him
 "Pve got to call the Triton and arrange for a table for two.
 And why don't you call home and tell them you won7t be
 back until ---- P he smiled down at her----~'Well, let's say mid
 nighL Then they wont start worrying about YOU."
 "Afidnight?"
  "Unless you could manage to spend the night in town." He held her eyes with
  his.
  "Just a minute, my friend, not so fastl" Bannerman was beside. them, his
  voice clear and carrying. "Where do I join you later in the eveningT'
  you don't~l Craig said with a grin, "you old----~' he dropped his voice as
  if his description of Bannerman wasn't for any lady's ears-i'de clip."
  Bannerman heard it, barely, but enough. He laughed. "okay, okay." To
  Maritta he said, "What about going swimming tomorrow? I'll meet you at the
  taxi stand at eleven."
  "We,ll see about that," Craig said, took Maritta!s arm and led her to the
  telephone that sat Proudly at the end of the bar.
 "What did you call him?" she wanted to know, smiling-
 "Oh, just a term of endearment among sailors."
  She didn't know her Dr. johnson, but she got the idea. "I think hes
  charming,- she said. She was so much back to normal, so much enjoying
  herself, that she did not even notice Adam was strolling to the door or
  that the Frenchman was leaving his two pretty girls- Bannerman had rejoined
  Bradley with a joking remark, while Bradley ordered something to eat with
  a look of distaste for the limited menu. Maritta glanced back at their
  table. "And I think that Other man is horrid. He never even spoke to me. I
  dont think he really likes women, do you? Perhaps you ought to wam Your
  nice friand. How long have you known Mr Bannermanr'
 272      HELEN MACINNES
  "Long enough not to trust him near you. He has been visiting Athens for
  several months-he's a writer. Now, ladies first." He handed her the
  telephone. "Make it nice and vague. I don't want your friends chasing
  into the Triton with a shotgun. Tell them they haven't a thing to worry
  about. You are spending the night with a friend. Rightr
  She smiled. "Perhaps," she said. And then as she waited for an answer to
  her call, she laughed softly and said, "Perhaps that would be wise."
  She did keep it vague. She did not mention the Triton. She did not even
  mention John Craig. No worry, she told them, everything was splendid;
  everything was well. They asked her one question. Her answer was a
  decided "Yesl" A touch of triumph was in it, too. She ended quickly, "III
  manage. Don't worry. I won't be late."
  She replaced the receiver. "I have to be back by ten tomorrow," she said,
  not blinking one eyelash, to explain that last quick sentence. "Now it's
  your tum---w" She followed the direction of his eyes. Sauntering into the
  caf6 were Tony and MimL "What----" She hurried toward them. "What on
  earth happenedr,
  "We came back with the launch," Mimi said. "Oh, ho* nice and warm it is
  in herel"
  Tony was looking around in his vague English way, nodding to various
  groups, noticing Bannerman and Bradley. "Everything went wrong," he told
  Maritta. "They swarmed ashore on Delos, all having the time of their
  little lives. We kept the launch waiting, tried to coax them back on
  board. They wouldn't go. It was, I suppose, absolutely hilarious. I'll
  see the joke tomorrow."
 "How many stayed?"
 "Hundreds."
  Mimi laughed and said, "I counted eighteen. Theyll freeze to death."
  "Unless they bundle," Craig said with a grin. No one got the joke.
  "There would have been no beds left for us," Mimi said, shaking her head.
  'vrbey ran faster than we did."
  "Yes," said Tony to Craig, "we were pr8perly up a pear tree. So Veronica
  and Mimi and I decided we'd--2'
 "Veronica?" Maritta's voice was sharp. "Where is she?"
  "Oh, we left her looking for the man who drives the taxL I told her it
  was, no use. Either he's in bed or he is at the fishermeles, pub down the
  street dancing a mad bouzoukia."
            Tim DouBLz ImAoE     273

 'Is she going to the house?" Maritta was tense.
  "I should think that was the idea. She said she was going to pack."
 But Maritta was already halfway to the door.
  "I couldn't stop Veronica from coming back," Mimi said very quietly as
  she and Craig followed. "I did not want to, of course. Tony and I were
  glad of the excuse. I think we are needed here tonight."
 "When did she decide?"
  "Just as we reached Delos. She did not speak all the way across. All at
  once, she made up her mind-like thati" Mimi snapped her fingers. "And
  then Tony managed to start everyone landing. He would make a very good
  agent provocateur." She laughed for Tony, slid her arm through Craig's.
  "Now It is our turn, I think," she said as they all came out into the
  colonnade.
  Maritta was standing in the middle of the street, looking toward the main
  square where the two taxis were parked during the day. "I caet see her,"
  she called over her shoulder to Craig. She was frightened, really
  frightened. "And there is no taxi~"
  "Iben she is walking," Craig said more calmly than he felt "'Forget it,
  Maritta. Let's have dinner."
  "But she can't g&--~' Maritta bit the phrase short. She was close to
  complete panic.
 "We can easily catch up with her, if that is what you want."
  Maritta made an effort and tried to look normal. "It makes everything so
  awkward. Don!t you see, I can't possibly stay in town if she is alone at
  the house? It wouldn't beconvenable." She looked up at him so
  disappointedly. "It just ruins everything, doesn't it?" She set off at
  a very brisk pace.
  Craig called after her, "Mimi says she is packing and coming back into
  town--so why bother?"
  Maritta pretended she hadn7t heard. Her pace increased. Just ahead of
  her, Adam and the Frenchman were sitting on the low wall that edged the
  beach near the square.
  "Marittal Wait for mel" Craig shouted. But she hurried on. Adam and his
  friend now saw her direction. They slipped off the wall, began walking
  ahead of her. It looked as if she were following them.
  "Oh, let her ber Tony said loudly. He had a tight grip on CraWs am
  "Remarkable thingl" he said very quietly. "Why
 274       HELEN MACINNES

 doesn't she want anyone near that house at such an early hour?"
  Mimi was watching the two men walking ahead of Maritta. They were
  reaching the narrow lane that disappeared around some buildings at the
  water's edge. They entered it, vanished from sight. Maritta would have
  to take that way, too. It was the quick route to the bay road. "Time for
  me to leave," she said quietly. "IT be needed, I think." 7here was a
  strange small smile on her lips. "Where did she put the information she
  received? In her pocketT' Then she looked at Craig's face. "Don't worry,"
  she said. "She will be luckier than Duclos.- She left them, walking
  swiftly, her graceful stride surviving even the broken paving stones. She
  waved bacL "See you tomorrow," she called over her shoulder.
  "I wonder if Tim needs any help," Tony said, and looked toward the caf6.
  He saw Elias and another Greek sitting quietly mi the shadows outside.
  "No, I think not"
  Craig was still watching Maritta as she reached that dark lane. She was
  almost running, now. Running right into it, he thought.
  "She'll be all right," Tony murmured. "Just an informal arrest. A quiet
  detention, until it's safe to make it known." His grip on Craig's arm
  slackened as he drew him casually toward the deeply shadowed beach.
  "rm not worrying about her," Craig said grimly. Maritta and Alex-the hell
  with them. "It's Veronica."
  "Yes," the Englishman agreed. "I think Ill pass the word. You'd better
  wait here for Bannerman." He glanced at the American% face, and then
  looked back at the colonnadp-~ "Do nothing rash."
 "Nothing you wouldn!t do."
  "I don't like the sound of that one bit," Tony said with a smile.
  "Meanwhile, theres a chap over at the darkest table -by the edge of the
  colonnade. He's the one who was trailing Veronica this morning."
 "Striped shirt?" Craig resisted glancing around.
  Tony nodded. "He has been trying to make up his mind whether he ought to
  keep an eye on Maritta, or whether he should phone in his report. I know
  the feeling well. . . . The telephone wins, I hope. . . . Good. He
  doesn't think Maritts, is in any trouble. She probably gave him no signal
  of distress. So a report is sufficient unto the evil thereof. I
           THE DouBLE ImAaE      275

 don't imagine we want even that, do we? Shall I deal with him? Or you?"
 "I think your touch is more inspired."
  "Thank you," Tony said gravely, and moved with unconcerned nonchalance
  toward the man who had left his table and was heading, cautiously but
  definitely, for the caf6 entrance. The man halted, stood aside. Bradley and
  Bannerman were coming out. Bannerman was still talking his head off;
  Bradley was looking peeved, as if he had just about reached saturation
  point. But he kept his polite mask in place.
  "No trouble at all," Bannerman was saying. "You'll need an extra hand with
  your luggage, and we may have to hurry. I think I see her lights nowl" He
  pointed out beyond the breakwater. "These mail boats slip in so quickly.
  And they don't always wait. She's early tonight. Must have been good
  weather all the way. Come on, let's nin. No one will hold it against US."
  Bradley and Bannerman started at a very quick pace down the water front.
  Elias and his man rose and followed at a half-run, passed them, drew ahead.
  They, too, were apparently worried about catching that boat. Other
  prospective passengers were rising from their caf6 tables; some even began
  to run. The power of suggestion, thought Craig, fighting a cigarette to
  give him time to think. Think of a plan of his own No use waiting for
  Bannerman. Once Tony could pass
  'the news about the house on the hill, Bannerman's- hands would be even
  faller than they were now. Craig watched th~ distant figure of his friend
  running close beside Bradley. And suddenly, an extraordinary thing
  happened.
  Perhaps it was one of the paving stones with its raised edge that had
  caused it, perhaps the patched shadows on the street were to blame. Bradley
  stumbled, pitched forward. Bannerman was helping him up, dusting him off.
  Then they were hurrying again down the street.
  From the colonnade, came Tony's voice calling out loudly for help. "I
  say--someone-quickl This man seems iul"
  Craig's eyes glanced over at the caf6. Tony was looking in bewilderment at
  the stout figure he had propped into the nearest chair. Three people went
  forward. "Is he drunkr, someone asked.
  "I don't know. He collapsed practically on top of me," Tony said. "Most
  peculiar, really." He stepped back, let the waiter and some fishermen take
  over. There was a good deal of growing excitement, various suggestions, and
  then a simple solution
 276       HELEN MACINNES
 arrived at The inert body was carried indoors and the prob. lem deposited
 on the poor woman who ran the place.
  Tony came back to where Craig was standing at the edge of the beach. "He
  will live," he said. "But he won!t wake up for -another six hours. Just
  in time to be arrested along with the rest of his friends. He was, you
  might say, a standing duct"
 "You play rough."
  "Only when rm very hard pressed," Tony said in his gendest voice. "And
  we don't have much time, you know." He looked across the dark w4ters of
  the harbor to the break. water. Under its meager lights, the small crowd
  of travelers were carrying their luggage up to the motorboats that would
  take them to the ship waiting out at sea. "Good-bye Alex," he murmured.
 "rhey'll let him get on board?"
  "Of course; he must be seen to be leaving safely. But on board-well, I
  suppose Elias has some way of having him detained in a cabin."
  A matter of false passport, thought Craig. "Look, when Bannerman gets
  back, tell him I'ni-P
  "You wait and tell him yourself. Why did he go down to the pier, anyway?
  Elias and his man were there."
 "Ibey didn't know about a tie clip."
  "Oh?" Then Tony laughed. "So that's why old Tim clicked his heels
  together? That stumble, you know."
  Yes, thought Craig, understanding it now, a fall and a brush-down from
  helping hands was a very quiet way of losing a tie clip. "Once Alex
  stopped being hurried, he would notice it."
  "roo late, too late." Tony started to stroll down the street. "I had
  better meet Bannerman. Comingr'
 "No, rm, going."
  "I think you should wait," Tony said. He halted, frowning slightly.
  'Tell him not to worry. rm using the direct method." Craig moved off.
  Time to go. Maritta would have made her quiet exit. Alex had made his.
  Nothing would be endangered at this moment. "I'll be there in fifteen
  minutes," he said as Tony came after him. "I'll have Veronica back here
  in another twenty."
  IlUngs are moving very rapidly," Tony said, his voice no longer vague and
  drifting. "You heard Maritta."
           MEm DouBm ImAm      1 277
  "I know. That's why we can't wait." Craig walked off rapidly toward the
  square. Tony watched him go. As soon as he was out of sight hed probably
  start running. I would, thought Tony. And if I hadn't to stay here and
  pass the word that the volcano is about to go up, I'd be on his heels.
  He waited patiently, smoking, wandering around the fishing boats on the
  dark beach, until he saw first Bannerman and then Elias returning in the
  very best of spirits. He crossed the street slowly, hands in pockets.
  "Now hear this," Tony add, very quietly, as he joined them.
 Craig followed the shore road, curving around the semi. circle of the
 small bay, until it almost reached the yacht anchorage. Just before that
 point, marked by a sparse grouping of meager trees, there was a rough
 track branching to his right up the hilly fields. This should bring him
 fairly close to the house he had marked on his walk that morning: the one
 with the dovecote., Elias had said. The track, trail, or fourdi-class road
 should lead to the house itself.
  He glanced back as he started the winding climb. All was peace. 1he town
  clustering at the other end of the bay was a spreading galaxy of lights
  surrounded by darkness: a string of naked bulbs along the breakwater;
  another on the road he had traveled around the bar, a bright glimmer from
  the hotel and houses spaced along the shore; riding lights on the cabin
  cruiser and sloop, seemingly asleep at their anchorage; and, far out
  beyond the breakwater, the brilliance of the interIsland boat, lit from
  stem to stem, like a beacon of welcome on the black water. Above him was
  the vast stretch of inkblue sky over sea, some stars appearing gradually,
  the waning moon now five nights into its last quarter, softly silvered
  clouds blowing gently in from the north.
  Ime breeze touched his cheek, cooled his brow. Down on the road, he had
  run as lightly, as silently as possible whenever the patches of shadows
  had been deep enough. Now, on the open hillside, he climbed at a steady
  pace. If he was being watched, he wanted to give no impression of
  abnormal haste.
 NormaL That was to be his password.
  And he was being watched. From behind him, down at the
 small cluster of stunted trees that marked the cutoff, came
 the soft cooing of a dove. it was so natural that he almost
 believed it, except that another dove sounded immediately,
 plaintively, from one of the long retaining walls that
                278
            Tim DouBLE ImAGn     279
 stretched along the dark hillside back toward Mykonos. He didn't alter his
 pace or turn his head. But the careful warnings changed the house just
 above him, sheltering quietly behind its high white walls, from a place
 of comfortable innocence to something more formidable. The downstairs
 windows were shuttered, giving only a few streaks of light. Upstairs,
 everything was in darkness except for one window that lay at the extreme
 end of the house. Veronica!s, possibly. Certainly it overlooked the
 opposite side of the rough garden from where the dovecote stood.
  The front gate was unlocked. The garden was a mass of shadows. He slowed
  his pace, marking the path that branched left to. the dovecote, the
  clusters of bushes, the grouping of small trees, as he followed the paved
  walk to the house. There was a porch in front, covered with climbing
  vines, and then the door.
  His mouth went dry. Name, rank and serial number. Or name, purpose of
  visit, reason for making it'. And that's all, he reminded himself as he
  reached the three steps to the porch, Keep it simple: thats what
  Partridge advised you. And check your arsenal. The automatic was deep in
  his right-hand pocket; the knife in his left. He knocked on the door.
  Come on, come on, he thought irritably: you know someone is here;' don't
  tell me you haven!t radio contact between your man on the hillside and
  this house. The door opened.
 "Is Miss Clark readyT' Craig asked, clearly but pleasantly.
  The man who had opened the door, a dark silhouette against the light from
  the hall behind him, stood in stolid sfience, unmovint. Then, "Come in,"
  he said, drawing aside.
  "That's all right. I don't want to trouble you. I can wait for Miss Clark
  out here on the porch."
  "No trouble," the man insisted. He spoke English well. I-fis first
  hesitation had not been caused by any language difficulties; perhaps he
  had been puzzled by Craig's direct approach or by his total lack of
  interest in gaining entry to the house. He had had his orders, for he now
  led the way direedy toward a well-lighted room on the left side of the
  high-ceilinged hall. There was another room, opposite, and the clatter
  of plates being cleared. Dinner was already over. Early for Mykonos,
  thought Craig, glancing at the narrow staircase that began outside the
  dining-room door and mounted deeply to a wooden gallery under a curved
  =L
 280       HELEN MACINNES
 Veronica, he was asking her silently, didn't you hear my voice? I spoke
 loudly enough.
  "Go in," said the man- who was dressed like a servant in a black alpaca
  jacket and narrow bow tie and yet seemed very much his own master. He
  nodded to the arched doorway of the sitting room, and Craig walked in. He
  halted, looking around, ready for anything; and tried to hide his sudden
  wan of foolishness. He had interrupted a bridge game. No more than that.
  The whole setup couldn't have been more suburban. Three men and a woman at
  a green card table in a large and handsome roon36 shutters cosily closed,
  a coffee tray in front of a large fireplace, couches covered with roses,
  pink silk shades on a dozen fussy lamps, too many pictures, too much
  bric-&-brac.
  The woman.rose and came forward to welcome him. She was a faded beauty but
  still strong and graceful in body. She had a charming smile, as soft as the
  low-necked lace blouse she wore with her long silk skirt. "Do come in," she
  said in pleasantly accented English. She was, possibly, French.
  "I don't want to disturb you." Craig was keeping near the door, hanging on
  to his smile, which he hoped didn!t seem as unnatural as it felt "rve come
  to help Veronica back to town with her overnight case. Has she finished
  packing?"
 "How very thoughtful of you, Mr-7"
 "Craig. John Craig."
  "You are not disturbing us in the slightest We were only cutting for deal."
  The three men murmured their agreement but did not rise. Two were
  quiet-faced unknowns; but the third man, who now turned to look over his
  shoulder and nod across the room in greeting, froze Crafes spine. He was
  Heinrich Berg. Insarov.
  "Do sit down, Mr. Craig," the woman was saying in her best hostess style.
  She had a delicately studied way of pointing, with her palm held upward,
  fingers relaxed.
  No. t1hank you. I can't stay long. The party is just about to begin in
  town. Would you tell Veronica I'm here?"
  "A party?" asked Berg, rising drifting slowly over to where Craig stood.
  His voice was politely interested, quiet and even to match the look in his
  eyes.
  Craig was forced to look back at him. "lea to replace the one that fell
  flat on Delos."
 "And Marittar'
            T)Fm DouBLE ImAon    281
 "She is staying in town overnight, too."
  "Why didn't she eome here for Miss Clarkr, The blue eyes were
  disingenuous.
  He is measuring me, Craig thought. He is wondering if my smile is as
  stupid as I hope it looks: he is like a wrestler, circling around, arms
  lax, muscles loose. Ali right, 12 be the fatuous American. "No taxis,"
  he replied, and laughed.
 They all sniffed, as if they knew Maritta.
  "Jeanne," said Berg, "why don't you go upstairs and tell Miss Clark that
  her friend is hereT'
  She nodded and went into the hall. If, thought Craig, I were to see her
  in a heavy sweater, yachting style, I might even identify her as the
  woman who brought Bradley so expertly across the harbor this evening.
  Berg was saying, "Miss Clark is a charming girl. But she worries us. Why
  does she want to leave this house? We think it is rather comfortable."
  He smiled sadly back at his friends around the table, who nodded and
  agreed with equally desolated smiles. "In fact, Mr. Craig-Craig?"
 "Craig."
  'We were a little hurL After all, Maritta has been very Idnd, everyone
  has tried to make Miss Clark feel at home. Now why should she want to
  leave? Do you know?"
 Craig shook his head. "But I'd make one guess."
  "Ohr The blue eyes were blandly innocent, but the scarred eyebrow was
  more noticeable.
 "Transportation."
 "I beg your pardonr
  "If you were twenty-five, and a girl, and with an your friends living
  right in Mykonos, would you enjoy walking back and forth three times a
  day?"
  Berg stared at him. And then was amused. His silent friends were amused,
  too. "I suppose this house might seem inconvenient if one did not enjoy
  walking," he agreed. "And Americans do not walk very much, do theyr' He
  turned toward a servant who was carrying in a silver tray with bottle,
  snifters, and cigars. "Ali, here is the brandy. Win you join us, Mr.
  Craig? You know, I keep feeling we have met. Some place. Where?"
  Craig looked thoughtful, polite. Then he smiled and shook his head. "I
  think," he said, moving toward the hall, "I hear Veronica now." He
  ignored the servant with the tray, al-
   282       HELEN MAcINNPs

 though it was hard to be oblivious of someone be had shouldered off the
 jetty into the harbor only four hours ago. The man's cold look pierced his
 shoulders. And I bet that quick whisper to Berg has nothing to do with the
 selection of a cigar, Craig thought. Now what happens? We were so close
 to leaving, so damned close. He smiled up the staircase and said, "Hello,
 therel Everyone is gathering at Tony's place. The fun starts any minute.
 Come on, Veronica, well have to hurry." He took her small night case. Her
 face was too pale, he noted; her eyes were frightened, her smile taut. She
 took his outstretched hand. Her fingers were ice cold, their clutch
 desperate. "We'll get the rest of your things tomorrow, when we find a
 taxL There wasn't one in sight tonight. Well have to walk. Sorry." He
 looked down at her shoes and saw with relief that they were flat-heeled.
 "But theres some moonlight, so a walk has its compensations," he went on,
 still speaking rapidly, still trying to get her back to normal. Thank God
 she hadn't blurted out some innocent question about what was he doing here
 or how had he known she was leaving. "Maritta is sorry the Delos picnic
 turned into such a rabble. We'll have a better party right in town. You
 know, you should wear blue more often; it suits YOIL "
  She laughed at that. And the tight grip of his hand as he steadied her
  down the last few stairs was reassuring. "My trouble is I can't resist
  wearing it," she could joke back, and faced the men in the room with
  growing confidence. "Goodbye," she said, stiff trying to keep her voice
  normal, walking on to the front door. "Good-bye," she repeated to the
  woman, who followed them across the hall.
  Will we really be allowed to leave? Craig wondered. His back was turned
  to the two servants, now; his hands were fully occupied with Veronica and
  her small case. But the door was opened and he was thanking the faded
  glamour girl and calling good night in general over his shoulder. The
  door closed behind them. We made it, he thought, we made it.
  He took a deep breath as they left the porch. He kept their pace normal,
  although his first inclination was to run. "Talk normally," he whispered.
  "About anything. Laugh, too, if you can.- He shifted his grip from her
  hand to her arm, drawing her closer to him, We made it, he thought again,
  as they
 reached the gate. But why? His story had just --ato
            Tim DouRLr_ ImAGn    283
 pass, but then that blasted servant appeared to have a close look at him;
 and there had been some trouble with Veronica, too. She had been both seared
 and angry, almost reaching the -fine Celtic pitch of being fighting mad.
 Yes, there had been bad trouble upstairs. So why had they been allowed to
 walk out like this, as if nothing was at stake?
  The answer came to him as he closed the gate behind them. A. dove cooed
  twice, and then twice more, from the hillside shadows; a dove answered
  gently from the road below. So we didn't make it, he thought. They only
  wanted us clear of the house, far enough away to cause it no trouble. He
  pulled Veronica quickly in front of him, his own back against the wall near
  the gate. "Just for a minute," he told her. "Put your arms around my waist.
  Make it look good. Someone is watching us from the trees down by the road.
  ThaiVs the way. Just give me a chance to see where well move nexL"
  'llen there is danger," she said softly. She put her hands lightly around
  him, leaned her cheek against his breast.
  "Yes." He looked over her head, down the rough track to the main road. His
  eyes picked out the scraps of possible cover: an outcrop of rock, a few
  bushes, another of those long retaining walls that terraced the hillside,
  the thin group of trees at the sharp turn into the road. Not much. Not much
  at all.
  "In a way, rm glad," Veronica was saying. "I thought 1, was going just a
  little crazy. They locked my door, you know. If you hadn't come, I'd have
  been kept there all night. Ile woman pretended it had only stuck when she
  came to tell me you were downstairs. But it was locked all right." But why?
  But why? . . . She said nothing more, waited, feeling the strong steady
  heartbeat against her cheek.
  He said at last, "They expect us to head for town. So we take the opposite
  direction. Well go halfway down this trail, Walking normally. We reach the
  bushes, dump your case, keep low, and ran like bell along the shelter of
  the stone Wall that leads north beyond the headland. Tbere's another bay
  there, a big one--~- He tried to remember the details of his map. '7here's
  a road edging it, too, part of the way at least-~"
  'I know the bay-it's just a continuation of this small one --or is it the
  other way around? I went exploring for a place to swim there."
 284      HELEN MACINNES

 "What's it like?" he asked quickly.
  "Cliffs, eaves, coves with little beaches. Stony hillside, a few
  scattered houses mostly closed until summer. Lonely."
  "Good. Let's head that way. Find a nice comfortable wall. And sit it out
  until dawn comes up." He felt the fleece of her blue coat, warm and soft
  to his touch; she wouldn't freeze, thank heaven for that.
  "Won't they stiff be searching for us then?" And why, she wondered again,
  why? ...
  "I don't think so." We may not even have to wait until dawn, he was
  thii~king. If Maritta's panic had any meaning, the end of all waiting
  should be nearer than that. He remembered, too, the feeling of calm
  expectancy in the house on the hill: dinner over, everything cleared for
  action, nothing to do but play bridge until the Stefanie unloaded her
  cargo; and the dovecote, empty, ready for its prisoner. "Zero hour is too
  close." He turned her head gently to look downhill. "See where we are
  going. The bushes-the wall-and then straight north. Got it2"
 "Yes."
  "Once we leave this trail, move quietly. Keep your head well down. If I
  drop on my face, you fall flat, too. All right-here goesl" They left the
  garden wall and started down the rough path. He walked slowly, his arm
  around her waist. He looked at her. She had lost her fear; her eyes were
  wide, her face alert, but the strain bad gone. "No questionsr' he asked
  softly.
 "Later," she said, and smiled.
  She really believes I can get her out of this, he thought, and felt
  strangely more confident. Later . . . A very encouraging word, tonight.
  It implied a future.

  From behind the shelter of the thin trees at the fork in the road, a man
  in rough clothes, as dark as the shadows around him, watched the couple
  leave the wall. They had stopped their I.ove-making at last, and were now
  walking slowly down toward the main road. "TheyT be here in five minutes
  at this rate," he told the man who had slipped down through the flelds
  to join him. "What instructions? Hit and hold?"
  "Eliminate. Both could be dangerous. They are on their way back to town."
 "Dangerous?" They look harmless enough to me,' he
           Tim DouBLB ImAoB      285

 thought. Still, that wasn't for him to decide.
  "We can take no chances with them-not at this hour. Now, let's see--Ahe
  path is' too open. We'll wait for them as they turn this comer to reach the
  harbor road." For a brief instant, he looked up the hillside. The couple,
 linked, were almost halfway down the trail. "Get in position. Les we how the
 shadows lie." He led the way, carefully from tree to tree, over the rough
 ground. There was not much cover to work on. But he had begun their retreat
 just in time: the couple were still far enough away not to be warned by any
 movement. "We'll have to stand down there," he decided as the trees ended
 and the ground fell away steeply in a bank of bare rock to reach the road.
 "As near the comer as possible. Then they won!t notice us until they come
 around the turn."
  They won't notice anything. They d"t even see you come down off the hill.11
  "I didn't intend them to see me," the other answered curtly. He slipped
  down onto the road. "Quietf" he warned, as his companion's heel scraped
  against the rock. "No firing, rememberl A shot from here could be heard
  clear =oss the harbor."
  "I know, I know. Hit hard. And then?" There was no shelter here at all. The
  first man looked worriedly along the road to town that stretched around the
  harbor. No one there, Gott sei Dank, everyone indoors, eating.
  "Hit very hard. Then we carry them. To the cliff over there. And drop them.
  A romantic walk--dangerous by night. What better?"
 "It!s a fifteen-minute haul up that headland."
  "And five minutes back. That leaves us plenty of time to get into position
  again."
 . "It won't be so easy," said the man in the rough clothes. He disliked
 wearing them as much as taking orders from this jumped-up Czech colonel.
  "You take the girl, then." The other was contemptuous. These were the
  orders from the house. No suspicions of any kind to be directed toward it."
 And that was that. "Zu Befehl."
 "Quiett They should soon be here."
 "Pity that we had to lose sight of them."
  "If we could we theni, they could see us. Keep silentl Listant"
 286       HELEN MAcINNEs

  A minute passed. Almost two. The man who had been giving the orders
  cursed under his breath. He moved back from the comer-he dared not risk
  looking around it-and scrambled quietly up the rock face of the bank, his
  big and powerful body moving lightly, cautiously. He advanced carefully
  through the trees, stood very still. He cursed.aloud. The other came
  after him. "But where are they?" he asked, his eyes searching the empty
  trail up to the house,
  "They have taken a short cut over the fields back to town. But i1Vs too
  rough for the girl. Ibey'll have to get down to the main road by the path
  behind that large hotel. Comel"
 "But we can!t get them ther&---?'
  "We can get them before they reach it" Quickly, he turned and jumped down
  the bank, started running lightly along the road in the direction of
  town. In two minutes, even less, he could branch up one of those
  straggling mule paths before he was near the hotel. He could intercept
  them there, near the little graveyard!s wall. "We'll get them," he told
  the other, who was loping swiftly by his side. He believed it.

  "Someone," Craig had said softly to Veronica as they came down the rough
  path from the house, "has just snaked down that hillside on our left.
  Keep looking at me. 11aes the way." So there would be two men down by the
  comer of the road, two sweet-cooing doves. "You're doing fine," he told
  her, and shifted his arrn from her waist to let him clasp her hand. They
  were halfway to the road, almost at the clump of bushes he had chosen for
  their turnoff point. He could feel Veronices. hand tighten in his, making
  sure of her grip as she prepared to run. They kept the same steady pace,
  slow, nonchalant, for those last twenty yards.
  Abruptly he pulled her off the path, dropping her case among the bushes,
  raced for the long stone wall and its dark band of heavy shadow.
  Shoulders bent, heads down, they kept on going. The earth under their
  feet was soft and loose, easier than he had judged. Ihen the field ended,
  and the rougher ground began. He pulled her down into the shadow of the
  wall. He put a finger gently to her lips. Together, unmoving, they sat
  with legs pulled up under, them, well within the sheltering band of
  blackness.
  Now it was the time to wait. They had only been running for a full
  minute, not much more. They were still too near the path for safety, yet
  the ground had become too difficult,
           THE DouBLE ImAcm      287
 too deceiving, to take at such a speed. Better to stake everything on
 remaining hidden from eyes that start scanning the open hillside, he
 thought~ than on placing distance between the waiting men and us. So we
 wait; and we'll soon know if we managed to baffle them. They had to take
 cover from us down on the road. I saw a movement in the trees, and then
 nothing. How much time win they give us to appear around that comer? And
 when we don't? Well, we2 wait. And see.
  He placed an arm around Veronica's shoulder and drew her close to him. They
  sat very stilL keeping their silence. His eyes were fixed on the little
  group of trees down by the main road. Strange thing, this rising moonlight.
  It both hid and revealed unexpectedly. From a distance, roughness and
  smoothness could hardly be accurately judged; a dark shadow could be a hole
  or a sharp-edged rocL But there was one real piece of luck for them: the
  bay of Mykonos faced westward. So these long, retaining walls over the
  hillside all faced west, too. At this time of night, with the moon coming
  up behind them, the shadows were just right; a few hours later, the moon
  would be overhead, and these shadows would be gone. Luck? Heinrich Berg
  would share the same luck, but he would be contemptuous of that word. Why
  else had he chosen such and such a time, and such and such a place, U he
  did not make use of all the help both time and place could give him? Berg,
  or Insarov---there he sits peacefully In his quiet house, thought Craig, a
  man who likes his comfort and a game of cards with amiable friends. He has
  planned every move his agents make, every action. He has planned for
  months. And when someone unforeseen, like Sussman or Duclos, threatens the
  perfection of those plan26 ,he is dealt with quickly, summarily, without
  benefit of hesitation.
  Craig glanced at Veronica. She was watching him. Her blue eyes would be
  large with questions, if he could only see them clearly. He tightened his
  grip on her shoulders reassuringly, and looked back at the trees. Were we
  about to be dealt with in just that way? he wondered. As Suss
 was? And Duclos? He wouldn't like to put that question to the test. Evasive
 action along this hillside seemed a more comfortable answer, even if the
 earth was cold and the stone wall hard. His back stiffened as he heard a
 distant voice. From the trees. A short phrase. Perhaps some kind of oath?
 288        HELEN MACINNW
 He hadn!t caught the language-perhaps it was one he couldn't understand.
 He thought he heard a scramble of feet over rocks. But he could see
 nothing. He took a deep breath. Waited. And then signed to Veronica that
 they were moving on, over the rough flank of hill stretching northward.
 Itt's get as far away from that house as possible, he was thinking; as,far
 away from that road into town, too.
  He helped her rise, pushed her head down with a grin to remind her to
  keep as low as possible, and took the lead. They moved with caution. The
  need was for quietness, not haste.
  Following the wall, the terraced fields falling away on their left, they
  passed the small headland and could see the beginning curve of the large
  bay. A deserted coast it seemed, with neither village nor hamlet in
  sight; rough and dangerous, perhaps, with cloud shadows chasing over a
  gun-metal sea and the far-off islands. Bare, bleak, empty.
  "We've come far enough," he said, looking back. The house on the hill was
  no longer visible. Carefully, he selected an outcrop of rock just ahead
  of them that looked as ff it might give better protection than any wall.
  "Down there," he told her, pointing. It would give them a good view of
  the narrow road (his map had been right) that followed the shore. At
  least, he thought thankfully, when the time comes to get back to Mykonos
  we can walk on a strip of hard-packed earth instead of scrambling over
  a hillside from shadow to shadow. As they drew nearer the outcrop of
  rock, it looked better and better. Its bulge and jut would shelter them
  completely from the house they had left behind them and from the rising
  moon.
  He led her, quietly, around the prow of weathered rock, steadying her
  over the rough fragments underfoot. Then, suddenly, he heard a rustle.
  He turned to see two black shadows break off from the darkness of the
  Wall of stone, reached for his knife, snapped it open. A strong hand
  gripped his wrist, a hard body turned his weight and threw him. He tried
  to twist free, to strike out. A knee pressed firmly down on his chest,
  a tight grasp was on his throat. He looked up and saw Partridge.
 Warikly, Craig and Partridge stared at each other.
  'Vell," said Partridge softly, rising and letting Craig breathe again, "You
  do get around, don't you?"
  "And where the bell did you come from?" Craig asked angrily, picking up the
  knife that had been smashed out of his grip. He rubbed his wrist, easing
  its numbness, and looked for Veronica. She had stopped struggling in the
  firm hold of a small, lean character who had caught her from behind, around
  waist and shoulders. Like Partridge, he was dressed in black, an invisible
  shadow once he drew back against the sheltering strata of rock. There-was
  a third man, also dark-clothed, crouching over a radio set. He was now
  canceling the alarm he had sent out about the two prowlers who had come
  down the hillside.
  At least, thought Craig, his anger beginning to subside into annoyance with
  himself at the way he had been so neatly ambushed, at least we seem to have
  got organized around here. And he felt better. "Are you all right?" he
  asked Veronica as they followed Partridge into the shelter of the
  outcropping rock. She took a deep breath and nodded.
  "I took your advice," Partridge was saying, "and hired a submarine." He
  grinned and pointed to, the bay beneath thenx "Landed half an hour ago by
  way of a small rubber boat. Chris knows all about such gadgets." He nodded
  to the man who had held Veronica so effectively. "Colonel Holland, to be
  precise."
  "Takes me back twenty years," Chris said, sucking the heel of his hand.
  "Used to pop in and out of Crete like that, right under the Nazis' guns."
  He spoke nostalgically, with a definite English accent. "No strain." He
  looked at his hand, still slightly bleeding, and then at Veronica. "And
  what on earth is a girl doing here?" he asked very quietly.
                289
 290       HELEN MACINNES

  "I haven't the faintest idea," Veronica said with a touch of sharpness. "I
  just go where John pulls me."
  Craig said quickly, "Veronica was being held at the house. I had to get her
  out before the balloon went up. lbey're expecting the Stefanie any minute
  now. So-well, I got her out. Our road back to town was blocked by two men.
  I thought it wiser to get as far away as possible from thern. This seemed
  the safest direction."
  Partridge and Holland had exchanged a long glance. Partridge asked, "And
  how did you get her out of that house?"
 "No trouble, there. We walked out. Politely." Explain."
 Craig explained. 9'Okay?" he asked worriedly as he ended.
  Partridge looked at him blankly, checked a laugh. Okay? It could have been
  very far from that. Amateurs walked in where professionals would hesitate;
  and walked out, too. Politely. This one had also produced useful
  verification of a puzzled report: it had actually been Insarov himself who
  walked quite openly over the hillside to that house at dusk this evening.
  But if Craig had been held and questioned, it there had been time for
  Insarov to go to work on him? Partridge repressed his anger. "Okay," he
  said quietly. He looked at Veronica. "How much does she know about all
  this?"
 "Nothing."
  Holland looked disbelieving. He cleared his throat. His comment was quite
  clear.
  "Nothing," Veronica said sharply. "I warn you I have a lot of questions.
  But I'll ask them when I feel sure I'll get some honest answers. In this
  last week, Ive become very tired of lies." She drew the collar of her coat
  more closely around her neck, chose the flattest stone, and sat down.
  Chris Holland watched her thoughtfully. This was not the time for light
  relief and pretty females. She was a complete nuisance on this hillside,
  but she knew it. He relaxed visibly. "Discreet," he admitted in frank
  surprise. She stared out at the dark fields falling away beneath them. He
  added, "You bite very nicely, too." She had to smile, then, and he could
  turn back to Partridge and Craig.
  Partridge had been doing some very quick explaining: Elias had left Mykonos
  and circled widely over the hillside to join some of his men stationed
  along this bay, While Bannerman had been instructed to stay in Mykonos in
  charge
            THE DouBLE ImAaE     291
 of radio contacts. (Partridge did not specify, but Craig made his own
 guesses. There had to be direct links with the various groups on the hill as
 well as lines of communication with Athens, Smyrna, if not Paris.) But when
 it came to a report on the enemy operations, Partridge was more expansive,
 The Stefanie, lights out, had anchored briefly off a lonely stretch of shore
 farther north. She had unloaded two men and a large sack into a small boat,
 and then slipped out to sea under sail, lights beginning to show as land was
 left behind, a pretty picture of happy innocence. The small boat had brought
 its cargo safely into a cove where a man, a boy and a mule were waiting.
 "They have loaded the mule and left the cove. They're coming down that
 road," Partridge said, pointing toward the shoreline. "The boy and man are
 with the mule; the two men from the ship are following close behind.
 According to our reports, we'll sight them in ten minutes or so."
  "There's the Stefanie," Chris murmured, looking at the lights of a yacht
  some distance out at sea. "She has made a little detour, bless her sweet
  heart. I suppose she'll dock at Mykonos just as O'Malley is being brought
  to the house. Nice diversion." He noticed Craig's head turn at the mention
  of O'Malley. "That's why I'm here, if you wondered. O'Malley happens to be
  a special-friend of mine."
 . "I had been wondering," Craig admitted frankly. It had been easy to place
 the Greeks" interest in this operation, easy to understand the French
 participation. So O'Malley was a British agent, was he? "I've also been
 wondering why the hell you don't have that mule train intercepted right now.
 Unless, of course, you fellows like to do things the hard way.99
  "We would also like to catch the man behind it all," Partridge said dryly.
  "Before we make one move to find out what's in that sack,-we had better be
  sure that we've picked up any of Insarov's men who may be stationed around
  this bay. Otherwise, there could be some warning signal, and Insarov would
  be gone. He's an expert in flight and concealment. He has had nineteen
  years of practice."
  Craig looked down over the bleak flank of hillside, its shadows darkening
  as the clouds rolled in from the sea. "Who is picking up Insarov's. men?
  The Greeks?" And one bell of a job that would be.
 Partridge nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. He was
 292       HELEN MACINNES
 no longer interested in the Stefanie. "They watched them take position an
 hour ago. It won't be too difficult."
  "Not if Elias' men can move in as you did." Craig was 90 smarting from the
  way Partridge had pinned him down so easily. Dammit, he thought, I was
  supposed to know somo. thing about hand-to-hand combat at one time in my
  life.
  "They're the experts," was all that Partridge said. "Chris, what about
  getting closer to the road?" He looked up at the sky. "Now's the time. In
  ten minutes, that cloud patch will have passed over."
  "T'he nearer we get, the better I'll Me it," Chris said grimly. Partridge
  moved. quietly toward the man who was concentrating on the radio. There was
  a low mumble of voices--no doubt, thought Craig, the change in position was
  being given out, perhaps some new reports from Elias added to complete the
  picture-and then Partridge slid back to him.
  "All set," Partridge said, trying to hide his growing excitement "Elias is
  giving Insarov's men time to report that all is well as the mule enters the
  homestretch. Then he closes in. From their flank and rear. We intercept,
  down by that biggest group of rocks near the road. There's a mule path that
  branches up this hill from there, Elias tells meThat's the quickest way to
  the house. It's his bet that they'll take it. Ready?"
  Chris nodded. He signed to the radioman to come along. "Always make sure of
  your communications," he told Craig. "Comingrl he added in his offhand way.
  "We could use you$ if you felt like it."
  That was obvious, thought Craig; there were a man and a boy with the mule,
  as well as the two men who had brought UMalley ashore. He looked at
  Veronica.
  she had read his thoughts. "I'm all right, she said miserably, and tried to
  smile. "I'd only get in the way down there.- And it's no use trying to
  explain that I grew UP fighting and wrestling with five brothers, she
  thought unhappily. "If I need you, I'll pretend I'm a dove." She smothered
  a small lauglL
  "Come on,'~ Partridge said to Craig, deciding for him. "sheswell hidden
  here." The deep blue of her coat melted into the night. "Just stay exactly
  where you are ", he told her.
  "I woWt even breathe," she assured him, and huddled. still more against the
  rock.
  C,od in heavenp, Chris said softly, staring down at the
           THE DouBLE ImAGE      293
 white ribbon of road. Craig looked, too. The mule and a cluster of dark
 shadows had just appeared in view. They were still about two hundred yards
 away, he calculated, little black shapes slowly moving, steadily drawing
 nearer. Over the mules back was a shapeless burden. It was one thing to
 talk of "cargo" and a sack being brought ashore; it was quite another to
 see it. Could O'Malley be alive? Craig looked at Chris, but the Englishman
 had already left, taking the most direct route to the road. Partridge had
 slipped away, too; so had the radio expert. Craig glanced around at
 Veronica.
 She was watching the road. "What's the mule carrying?"
 "A man."
  She drew a sharp, quick breath. "Gol Please go," she told him. He moved
  off swiftly, making for the nearest stone wall, taking cover in every
  patch of available shadow. He is as good as they are at this, she thought
  with a touch of defensive pride; and they were very good indeed. She
  couldn't actually, be sure that she was seeing them, now: movements here
  and there, eyes; but what or who was moving, no. She thought she saw one
  black shadow reach the cluster of rocks by the road~ and possibly a
  second. She stopped searching for them, and looked along the road,
  watchiag the mule and its sagging load.
  I asked my first question, she thought, and perhaps I shan't need to ask
  any more. That answer was enough. She felt chilled to her spine, and it
  wasn't the night air that made her shudder.
 2222 - -- -
 Craig reached the boulders by the road. From above, they
 had looked fairly protective; down here, they seemed dan
 gerously few, none higher than a man's shoulder. Still, this
 was the only real cover for a silent ambush. The drifting
 clouds had swept over and away, just as Partridge had
 predicted, and the moon was beginning to swim clear of
 their last seaweed-like strands. Soon, the road would be
 brightly fit until the next cluster of clouds came blowing
 across the land. But if the strengthening light made Craig
 uneasy, how much more would the men on the road feel
 exposed? They were about a hundred yards away from where
 Partridge and Chris waited beside him-the radioman had
 chosen a niche between two boulders, where he w - as already
 in contact with Elias and pleased with what he heard for
 his thin dark face split into a reassuring grin as Craig
 glanced at him curiously. And they were hurrying. Or try
 ing to hurry. A mule took its own good time. Obviously,
 they were hoping to reach the path that Elias had mentioned
 before the moon was cleared of cloud and the road became
 too uncomfortable. it was possible, thought Craig, that their
 nerves were in a worse state than his.
  How was Veronica? He looked over his shoulder, up toward where he had
  left her. He could see nothing except the deep band of heavy shadow under
  the long ledge of rock. He could stop worrying about her. It was the
  safest spot on all that bleak slope of hillside.
  And where was Elias? Partridge had been talking in a whisper with the
  Greek at the radio. Now he edged back to Craig, noticed his eyes
  searching the hillside to the out of the road--to the west there was only
  a strip of land edging the restless sea-and nodded reassuringly. "They're
  out there," he whispered, just as Craig saw some shadows moving down the
  terraced fields from the north. "They've 294
           THE DouBLE IMAGE      295
 got their end well under control." He was silent for a long moment, perhaps
 thinking that his end had better be under control, too. One mistake, and the
 whole effort could be ruined. "The idea is this: as the mule reaches the
 boulders, Chris and I slip around them to get the two men at the rear. You
 step out in front of the mule and stop the other
 The Greek will deal with the boy. He says Arnericans are too trusting, that
 you might hesitate, think he is only a kid of sixteen, and then we'd be in
 trouble. That boy could make a quick run for it. Any warning at this stage
 could cripple the whole operation."
  "I get it. No Bring. How do I stop the man? Wave this around?" Craig drew
  the automatic from his pocket. It was a neat little weapon, more for close
  defense than any real attack. If his visit to Insarov had gone wrong, he
  could have found it very useful. Here, with open ground around and a chance
  to dodge and run, he doubted if any man was going to find it intimidating.
  Partridge pulled a revolver and a silencer from a pocket, fitted them
  together, handed the complete weapon over, and took the automatic in
  exchange. "They'll be heavily armed. Our best plan is complete surprise.
  Don't let them have a chance to reach for a knife or a gun. All set?
  Rememberfast and silent, don't give him time to yen a warning. A shout
  could carry back to the headland." And there were two men near there, Craig
  remembered, guarding the approach to the house itself. Were they still
  searching for Veronica and him, or had they reported failure?
  "All set," he told Partridge quietly, listening now to the plodding hoofs
  of the mule, the shuffle of quiet footsteps. Partridge and the grimly
  silent Chris moved past him, slowly, step by step around the boulders.
  Craig edged the other way, joining the Greek almost at the side of the
  road.
  They crouched low, shoulders pressed against a curve of rock. Five seconds
  to wait, perhaps less ... Craig counted them off. At two seconds to go, he
  heard the crack of a stick against the Bank of. the mule, saw its head
  jerking sharply, its pace quickened for an instant. Then it slowed back to
  its own rhythm, almost stopped. The boy was at its side, tightening a
  loosened rope around the shapeless sack. The man had his stick raised for
  another encouraging blow. Suddenly dW stood still, looked back as they
  heard the sound of
 296       HELEN MACINNES

 scuffling. The boy was reaching for his knife as Craig and the Greek moved
 in.
  The man was quick, quicker than the boy. He whirled around on Craig, his
  stick aiming for the wrist that'held the revolver, and then-as Craig
  side-stepped that blow-hit backhand at Craig's throat. Craig dodged, came
  in to strike down the stick with the butt of his revolver, struck again
  at the maWs mouth opening in a shout The man staggered, turned, tried to
  ran. Craig struck for the third time, at the base of his neck. IU man
  fell, lay motionless.
  Partridge, a little out of breath, came to stand beside Craig, made a
  quick check. "Well," he said with cold satisfaction, "you didn't do him
  one bit of good, did you?" Then he went over to the mule, where Chris and
  the Greek were already starting to unknot the ropes.
  Craig was still looking down at the man near his feet. I got mad, he
  thought, I got really mad there. He looked at the other two men and the
  boy, who were also stretched out on the road, and then at the obscene
  sack now being lowered gently from the mules back. He took a deep breath.
  I guess we all did, he thought as he went over to help.
  They carried the sack to the shelter of the boulders. In the moonlight,
  O-Malley's face looked like death itself.
  AlIver' Partridge asked.
  Chris, listening for a heartbeat didn!t answer. Then he nodded. "Barely.
  Heavily drugged." He searched in one of his pockets, found small wire
  cutters, started snipping the cruel strands that bound O'Malley's wrists
  and ankles. He took to his jacket, covered O'Malley's thin shirt. "Wheres
  Elias?" he asked irritably. 'Ve'll need help."
  "The vanguarws arriving," Partridge reassured him. Craig counted four
  men, then a fifth, coming down to the road. They were coming fast,
  caution discarded for the present in the mounting sense of triumph. But
  everyone seemed to know- what to do They worked quickly and silently The
  unconscious men were dragged to the side of the road, their jackets and
  rough sweaters removed, their mouths gagged with tape, their hands and
  feet tied. Two of the Greeks were improvising a sling to carry O'Malley
  down to the beach. "A boat Will pick him up there," Partridge told C;ral&
  "Don't worry, weve got it all planned ouL We hope. So far, it has workaV
  He pointed to the mule, then to the sack, now beinS
            Tim DouBLE ImA(m     297
 partly 111led with stones and spare clothing. "Thafs how we get close to
 Insarm"
  "You are going to walk in?" The idea was so simple that it staggered
  Craig.
  "Right Into the dovecote. Four men, a mule, and a sack. Thairs how we get
  Insarov to open that big front door. Like to make one of the four? I'm
  serious. You know the way. You've seen the layout."
 Craig glanced up the hill.
  "Shell be all right," Partridge said, following his glance. "Elias is
  sending a couple of men to get her back into town. They'll soon be
  joining her. Sorry I can't spare any from here,"
 "Do they speak English?"
 "That's the problem," Partridge admitted.
  "rhen IT cut up the hill and tell her to exped friends. 12 join you on
  the mule path. Just point it out, will you?"
  Partridge didn't look too pleased, but he pointed it ouL "Thaes the one.
  And take care. We've a long way to go yet." He handed Craig a cap and a
  jacket. "Youll need these to make you look authentic."
  The cap was too big, the jacket too small, but possibly that was very
  authentic. Craig stuck the revolver securely in his belt, and started
  looking for patches of shadow on the hillside again. Thank God, the
  clouds were thickening once more. Behind him, the consant surge of sea
  seemed louder, more insistent. The wind from the north had freshened.
  There was a salt smell to the air. He hoped that the boat picking up
  O'Malley would get him safe to harbor before any squall started. Poor
  bastard, Craig thought, he didn't even know he was with friends agam.
  Halfway up the hill, with only about fifty yards to go before he reached
  the rock strata where Veronica sheltered, he stopped in the shadow of a
  rough stone wall. And looked back. If he hadn't known about the activity
  and bustle down on the road behind those boulders, he would never have
  guessed just what was going on. He would have sensed something was
  happening, certainly. But what, exactly? it was difflcult to judge. What
  had Veronica made of all this? She couldn't have had as clear a view as
  he had expected. He could Inngme the questions piling up inside that
  beauti-
   298       HELEN MACINNES

 fully shaped head with its smooth dark hair. Blue eyes and a perfect
 proffie. Would he ever be given a chance to sit down opposite her at a
 harmless caf6 table, and adinire? Like a normal human being?
  He had his breath back now after that wild crouching sprint up the
  hillside. He puRed himself up over the edge of the retaining wall, rolled
  over onto the next terraced field. He was thinking that some farmer was
  going to explode tomorrow when he saw his spring planting of barley. And
  at that moment, he heard a dove. It sounded again. lit's one of them, he
  thought at first, Battening himself on the green shoots, motionless. Then
  he remembered. It's Veronica warning us. Veronica ...
  Veronica had been watching the road so intensely that she had not even
  noticed the man who had come over the hillside from the direction of the
  house. It was when he stopped abruptly, his feet scraping over a rough
  fragment of stone, that she knew he was there. And very near. She could
  hear his heavy breathing, as if he had been hurrying, before she caught
  sight of the crouching man. He was trying to find a place where he could
  see what was actually happening down on the road. He still wasn't sure.
  He half rose from his kneeling position, staring down at the boulders.
  So he has just got here, she thought thankfully, once her flist attack
  of fright and panic subsided; and there isn't so much to see down there
  at all, now. Five minutes earlier, and he would really have known what
  to worry about. He is so busy watching the road that he hasn't noticed
  John-I know it must be John who started up the hill toward me. But he
  will see him as soon as John leaves that wall. Oh stay there, stay there,
  forget about me, don't comel But he Will come-oh, let me think, let me
  think....
  The stranger's breathing was normal now. He moved a step forward, and she
  could mark his profile quite clearly. He hadn't noticed her, possibly
  couldn't see her as long as she kept quite still within the rock's deep
  shadows. That was all she had to do. Keep still, stay safe. But solutions
  were never as simple as that. There was John, just about to come over
  that wall any time now. There were the men, three of them, following a
  loaded mule as it started forward. There were other figures, too, down
  there, melting away like silent gbost& They had only been visible
  briefly, but that instant
            Tfm DouDLE Immiz      299
 had been enough. She knew it, even before she glanced quickly back at the
 man.
  He stood absolutely stiff, completely astonished, unbelievIng, staring
  down at the road. Then he swung the strap of his radio free from his
  shoulder with savage haste, and, as he pulled out its aerial, stepped
  toward the shelter of the rocL
  She came out of her feeling of helplessness. She called; called again.
  John had heard her at least. She saw him drop to the ground as her hand
  searched for one of the heavier stones at her feet. She turned to face
  the man.
  He couldn't see her clearly, even at this short distance. But he hadn!t
  yet made his radio warning. "Boris?" he asked, took a step forward, then
  halted abruptly. His free hand reached into his jackeL Veronica rose and
  threw the stone.
  It caught him sharply on his forehead, and he stumbled onto his knees,
  head sagging. His hand was still Inside his jacket but the other arm had
  let the radio sup from its grasp. It lay beside him, its strap loose over
  his wrist. She reached for it, wrenched it free, hurled it aside. It
  didn't go far enough, not as far as she had hoped. "Ohl" she said in de-
  spair, and started toward it.
  The man staggered erect, puffed his hand from his jacket and aimed. And
  in that split second between taking aim and pulling the trigger, a quick
  movement downhill caught his eye. He glanced instinctively to his left
  even as he fired. Veronica felt the breeze of the bullet kiss her cheek,
  heard the soft sigh of the revolver. She did not risk his aim being
  spoiled a second time, but dropped flat on her face. She heard another
  shot fired, again with that gentle sigh. Miis time it was the man who
  fell, and moaned quietly, and then lay still.
  "Veronical" It was John kneeling beside her, touching her gently, almost
  fearfully.
  She tried to rise, to be practical, to be nonchalant, and only half
  succeeded. "He didn!t have time to send out a warnIng." Her voice broke;
  she bit her lip.
 "Veronica----w"
  ITm all right. You spoiled his aim." She tried to laugh and failed in
  that, completely.
  Craig lifted her and carried her out of the deep shadow to a softer patch
  of earth where he could see her more clearly. Again he knelt beside her.
  No, she hadn't been wounded.
 300      HELEN MACINNES
 Bruised and shaken; but no bullet graze, no rock splinters. She was all
 right.
  She lay back, looking at the sky. It had never looked so beautiful.
  I'm alive, she was thinking, I'm alive .... His went around her,
  drawing her up to hun. She met his kiss with hers.
 The ambush at the road had taken seven minutes by Partridges watch. Seven
 minute's of delay; that was how Insarov would see it. He must have chocked
 with each of his outposts as the mule had come on its hour-long journey,
 making Rue of the time for each stage. And now there were seven minutes to
 be accounted for. "Keep your eyes open," Partridge told Chris Holland
 needlessly. "We may expect one of Insarov's men appearing on that hillside
 above us, just to make sure everything is all right."
  Holland's high spirits had returned: his fears were oven UMalley was alive
  and safe. "Ease up, old boy. All he will see is one mule, gaunt and
  revolting; three men prodd6g the poor beast along, giving a convincing
  imitation of real fishermen; and a very silent package being brought safely
  to the house. A little late, it's true, but you know what mules am The
  worst part of this whole operation was getting that bloody animal to start
  up again. Thank God we had out Greek friend with us." He pinned widely. "A
  Greek-speaking mule. That's all I needed to send me to bed laughinV'
  'Vhat did you expect it to speakrI Partridge was trying to take Holland's
  advice, but he was still on edge. Sure, everything was going well, but it
  was just at a time like this that something went wrong. It always did.
  "YoWre a real worrier," Chris Holland told him cheei, fully. -,Craig knows
  how to handle, himself. He will dodge any of Insarovs scouts and join Us
  exactly where You told him to meet us. Where was it, anyway?"
  "Before the path branches down to the main, road agafiL I thought wed
  better start up the trail to the house in fun strength."
  Nice clusters of clouds." Chris looked approvingly at the veiled moon, and
  then at the rising terraces of bleak land, ridged with walls. "Sure we
  didn't land on the dark side Of 301
 302       HELEN MACINNES

 the moon?" But for all his light talk, he had his gun out first as the
 Greek spoke a low warning and nodded to the path just ahead of them.
  "It's Craig," Partridge said with a surge of relief. Perhaps I do worry
  too much, he conceded to himself. Or perhaps when I've put in another ten
  years on operations like this one, I'll be as cool as Holland. Or perhaps
  IM worry even more. Anyway, he thought, looking at Craig, so far so good.
  So far ...
  Craig had left the shelter of the low wall where he had been lying, and
  was taking his place in the procession. "Thought I had missed you. I had
  to wait until the two Greeks arrived."
  "Didn't they arrive just when we got the mule going?" Partridge asked
  sharply. There had been movement up there by the rock strata. Too much
  damned movement, he had thought at the time.
  "No. That was one of Insarov's men. He tried to send a message, but
  Veronica delayed him. And I got close enough to have a shot at him.
  Cancel that one."
 "Pretty good shooting," Chris said.
  "Not so good. I aimed for his knees and caught his chest." He paused. "He
  shot at Veronica."
 "She's all right?" Partridge asked.
 "Fine."
 "But how did she delay---~"
  "Post-mortems later," Chris said, dropping his voice from Its low tone
  into a whisper. "From now on, let our Greek friend do the talking." They
  had passed the small neck of headland and were almost back on the main
  road to Mykonos. In a few minutes they'd reach the sparse group of trees
  and the track that branched up to the house.
  Partridge nodded, looked curiously at Craig, and wondered.
  At the trees, the Greek urged the mule uphill with a couple of shoves and
  a flow of demotic oaths. Craig, the collar of his borrowed jacket turned
  up, the cap well down on his head, his face tilted as if he were watching
  the sack on the mule's back, must have passed unrecognized. He breathed
  more easily as he heard the cooing of a dove behind him, and then the
  answering call from the same old wall on the hillside. The rest of Elias'
  men, now surrounding the house, would find these two easy to pick up. The
  same thought must
            TAE DouBLE ImAcs     303
 have struck the Greek, for he slowly nodded in solemn agreement as he made
 way for Craig to take the lead.
  They came to the small clump of bushes where Veronica!s case had been
  dropped, and then-as the mule decided to snatch a bite of spring
  leaves-were halted, millin around (the Greek cursing the mules ancestry,
  blessing its lack of progeny, in a sibilant whisper), pulling and pushing
  and hauling.
  Okay, okay, thought Partridge, anyone watching would think he now
  understood the delay of seven minutes.
  Look out for that damned sack, thought Holland, and lunged at the rope as
  it began to slip.
  That lousy mule, thought Craig, he'll nose right into Veronica!s case and
  come up with it between those long yellow teeth.
  The Greek's thoughts were totally unprintable even in the twentieth
  century. He vented them all in a kick where it would do the most good. The
  mule set off at a run uphill, one wisp of branch dangling from its mouth.
  "Come on, Carmen," Craig said between his teeth as he caught up with it and
  grasped its rope halter. It quieted unexpectedly. The entry through the
  gate in the white wall was sedate, circumspect. Sweat could now break out
  on four brows.
  Firmly, Craig turned the mules head toward the path on his lefL It was
  quite dark here, with bushes and shrubs growing wild. He didn't look toward
  the placid house, shuttered and quiet, not even when the front door swung
  open and a strearn of light fell across the porch. A tempting target~ he
  thought, but he did as he had been told and kept on going at the same
  steady pace toward the dovecote. Ihe mule was amiable enough now, as it
  drew the dangling branch into its mouth inch by inch, chewing noisily. The
  Greek brushed lightly past him in the shadows, heading for the dovecotes
  door, a knife in his hand. Craig felt for his revolver. So did Partridge
  and Holland, close on his heels. The door of the dovecote was open. A small
  light burned inside.
  The Greek stopped at the side of the door, motioned to the mule to hurry.
  Which it did not. He followed it into the stone-walled room. Someone spoke.
  The Greek replied. Then he must have struck, for something fell. The Greek
  was back at the door, beckoning them in.
 "You know this characterr' Partridge whispered.
 304        HieLEN MAcINm

  Craig looked at the man on the floor beside a rough wooden table. He
  nodded. It was the man he had shouldered into the harbor. "One of the
  servants."
  Holland had lifted the candle from the table and was also studying him,
  eyes narrowed, recalling a photograph in a secret file. Servant? Assistant
  chief of the sepret police in Khrushchev's brutal cleanup of the Ukraine in
  Yorty-eight; promoted to full charge in the Hungarian investigations, pos-
  sibly responsible for the betrayal and disappearance of General Maleter.
  The Hungarian Freedom Fighters would say a clean knifing had been too good
  for him. A nice little nest weve uncovered here, thought Holland, and
  exchanged Stances with Partridge as he replaced the candle.
  The Greek whispered a warning from the door. Partridge and Craig hauled the
  body to the side of the room, while Holland pulled the sack free from the
  mule's back and threw it on top of the dead man. That, he thought
  grim4aced, could have been O'Malley lying there.
  Craig stood by one side of the mule, drawn against a wall, and kept his
  back turned to the doorway. Recognition was his chief danger, meanwhile.
  Partridge sat on the edge of the table, Chris stood in front of the sack;
  each had one hand nonchalantly on his hip, the other behind his back. The
  Greek loitered near the door, shoulders slump4 hands in the pockets of his
  ragged trousers.
  Two men entered. Craig glanced briefly from under the peak of his cloth
  cap, saw one of the house guests and the other servant. Insarov was still
  taking his time, was he? Craig bent to rub the Bank of' the mule, and it
  kicked out gratefully.
  The servant spoke sharply to him in a language he didnt understand. He
  nodded, keeping his head turned away, and tightened his hold on the mule.
  "Get it out of herel" the man repeated, now in German, then in French. He
  looked more closely at Craig, took a step forward. His back was turned to
  Partridge, giving a perfect target for the revolver butt that smashed down
  on his skull. Holland and the Greek moved simultaneously on the other man.
  11e surprise was complete and effective. He went down like a wall of loose
  bricks.
  "Never," said Chris Holland softly, as they used the ropes from the sack,
  along with belts and ties, to truss the two men as helpless as chickens for
  roasting, "did I think I'd bless that mule." He removed their weapons: an
  automatic and a
            TEm DouBLE ImAoE     305
 revolver apiece, large caliber, fully loaded. Pessimists, he thought.
  "We were obviously supposed to get it out of here," Partridge said, back to
  worrying. "But where?" Well keep this element of surprise, he thought, if
  we don't step away from the pattern of their arrangements. "Did you notice
  any stable?"
  Craig shook his head. "Let it chew its head off in the garden," he
  suggested, crossing quickly to the door as lookout. The Greek was more
  expert than he was at tying the unloosenable knot.
  "And have Elias, when he arrives, think someone is waiting in ambush for
  him?" Partridge asked testily. No, it was too tricky having a mule
  blundering around the strange shapes and shadows of this garden. Dangerous,
  too, to keep it in hem It was restless, perhaps it had smeMed the blood on
  the floor; if it started kicking, in one of its sudden frenzies, all bell
  would sound broken loose. liVs always the way, he thought bitterly: at a
  time like this, we've got a mule on our hands.
  Craig could see the upper side windows of the house, shuttered and dark. No
  gleam of light, either, from the direction of the porch. 'They've closed
  the front door again," he reported. Dismay gave way to irritation, to real
  anxiety. It would have been better after all, he was thinking, if we had
  rushed the house when the door was IIrst opened. A very solid door, he
  remembered; it would take a battering ram to force it open once it was
  locked and bolted.
  The problem is not insoluble," said the Greek quietly in excellent English
  and a highly educated voice. 'We'll get the door open when we want ft." He
  came over to stand beside Craig, smiled enigmatically, and looked not at
  the house but in the direction of the hillside to the north. He made a
  polite gesture for silence and settled to wait.
  Wait for what? Craig wondered. He had his answer when a small blue Bare, a
  safe distance away, shot up over the fields.
  Partridge took a deep breath of relief: Elias was in Position, Insarov's
  men had been neutralized, time to move in. At last, he thought, at last....
  He beckoned to Chris, who had been spending those three last agonizing
  minutes in examining ft contents of a large wooden box in the far corner of
  ft dovecote.
 Chris came forward, saym& "All their usual parapher- 306       HELEN MACINNES

 nalia. Iborough questioners, those boys. Ibey'd make the Inquisition look
 like a Sunday-school picnic. Come on." He took Craig's arm and led him out
 onto the path. The Greek was ahead of them, dropping from his normal walk
 into a shambling slouch.
 Craig looked around for Partridge.
  "Hes tying that damned mule to a tree," Chris whispered, and shook his
  head. Insarov would simply have put a silenced buffet into it
  The Greek was almost at the beginning of the path to the front door. He
  halted, drawing close to a tree, looking back Chris halted, too kept
  Craig with him. Partridge joined them, running silently. Partridge
  whispered to Craig, "You lead. Get us to that porch under the best cover
  you can. Okay?"
  Craig nodded and started quickly up through the garden, desperately
  remembering the trees and clumps of bushes he had noted earlier tonight.
  The Greek was hurrying up the longer path to the house, quite openly, a
  messenger with urgent news.
  Craig reached the side of the porch, hoisted himself over its wooden
  railing. Partridge and Holland followed silently. The Greek was almost
  at the steps. Someone had been watching the front path, for the door of
  the house opened. At the first gleam of light over the threshold,
  Partridge and Holland flattened themselves against the house wall. Craig
  was not quick enough. He stood motionless against one of the wooden
  uprights on the porch, and hoped its mass of encircling vine disguised
  his outline. He need not have worried. The Greek's wild string of
  sentences was holding all attention.
  "What is he sayingr' the woman's voice asked inside the hall.
  The Greek came up the steps, speaking more slowly. "Dead," he kept
  repeating, "the man is dead." He gestured back in the direction of the
  dovecote.
  "Deadr a man's voice asked. The door opened more widely. He shouted back
  over his shoulder, "The American agent is deadl"
  "Achtung~-~ That was Insarov's voice, clear, decisive, quick.
  But the warning was too late. Partridge and the Greek lunged together,
  caught the man as he reached into his
            Tim DouBLE ImAon     307
 pocket, knocked him senseless. Holland had blocked the door, kept the
 woman from closing it The front gate burst open; Elias and two men came
 running at full speed toward the house. The woman screamed. Holland and
 Partridge stepped into the hall.
  As simple as that? thought. Craig, and followed them The woman had
  stopped screaming. She had backed away to the staircase but someone
  grasped her wrist and pulled her into the main room. Insarov was in
  there.
  As simple as that, thought Craig. If he had had his way, he would have
  forced the house some fifteen minutes ago; and he would have failed.
  There would have been five men facing them and no help from Elias
  possible. A little waithig was a necessary thing, it seemed. He glanced
  at his watch as he nodded to Elias. Fifteen minutes, all told, since they
  bad first turned inside that front gate with a temperamental mule. Barely
  two hours since he had stood on this very spot and looked up that
  staircase, worrying about Veronica. The life and education of John Craig,
  he told himself wryly, and moved toward the room. At the door he hesi-
  tated, and let Elias join Partridge and Holland insidc He stood with some
  other men, a tight group of watchful face% but made sure he could see
  Insarov. This was the Moment he had promised himself: the dropping of the
  mask, the abandonment of that bland, benign look on the face of Heinrich
  Berg.
  But the mask was still in place. If there had been alarm, or fear, it was
  under control. Berg--or Insarov-was standing at the fireplace, facing
  Partridge and Holland and Elias as the master of this house. Not even as
  he watched the handcuffs, which a Greek detective was clamping around the
  woman's wrists, did his expression change. Nor did Partridges words make
  any impact as he pointed to the woman and said, "fbe French want her.
  Jeanne Saverne. Take her down to the house where they are holding
  Maritta, Maas. Also the man at the front door. He is using a French
  pass-
  
  "And I think," said Holland, watching the unemotional face staring so
  calinly at him, "you could put out the message to Athens for relay to
  Paris: Pear Tree is In full barvest. Then," he was smiling at the certain
  embarrassment on Partridges face, but stiff watching Insarov, "Uncle
  Peter cii be picked up."
 308        HELEN MACINNW
  "And well let Smyrna know," Partridge took over, watching Insarov, "that
  O'Malley is well, and in good hand . Hi is regaining consciousness in a
  nice soft bed. Also, we have caught Alex. His name is Robert Maybrick
  Bradley. W62 pass that news to Paris, too. Our agent there would be very
  interested in tracing his contacts at NATO."
  "And I &hall advise Athens~" Elias said, joining in, watching Insarov,
  "to inform the Communist agent whom we arrested yesterday morning as he
  attempted to take a ship firom the Piraeus that he might as well tell
  everything about the kidnapping and murder of Yves Duclos. Because the
  man responsible for Duclos! death has now been arrested." He nodded to
  one of his men. 'rake him," he said, pointing to Insarov.
  Insarov's cold glance lingered on them one by one: Elias, Holland,
  Partridge. I shall remember you, he seemed to be saying. He did not
  bother to glance at the four other men crowded near the door. They were
  the subordinate,% only worth thinking about if he were to try to break
  out of this room. The time was not right for that. They were all too
  excited, too ready to fire their revolvers. It would be madness to reach
  for his. There was a suspicion of a smile on his Ups, but the scarred
  eyebrow was markedly noticeable~ "A mistake," he said ominously, watching
  Partridge. "Put away those silly pistols. What a ridiculous figure you
  cutl" Then he looked at Holland. "A man of your age, and of some ex-
  perience no doubt, ought to know better than to come in here like an
  American gangster." And now it was Elias on whom the sharp blue eyes
  rested. "There will be repercussions. Very grave repercussions, indeed.
  You will be reduced to peddling fruit on the streets of Athens." He waved
  a hand, dismi sing them all, and turned his back to look at the picture
  over the fireplace.
  Elias said, "You are under arrest, Igor Insarov." He nodded to two of his
  men. "Search him."
  Insarov tried to pull his arras away from thew grip, thenas they swung
  him around to face Elias again--dropped all resistance. He even smiled.
  "Another mistake~ Insarov left half an hour ago You will find him on the
  Stefanie, now out at sea. If you can find the Stefanie."
  "Dear dear dear me," Holland murmured. "We did make a mistake. We forgot
  to tell him that the Stefanie and the
            Tnz DouBm ImAoia     309
 cabin cruiser, and even that harmless sloop, were all boarded with little
 resistance, just ten minutes ago."
 "Search him," repeated Elias.
  'Take your hands off mel Diplomatic immunityl" Quickly, he repeated it
  in Greek.
 The two detectives froze, looked at Elias.
  Partridge shook his head. "Ah, that old story. Is it the best you can do,
  Insarov?"
 "Search him," said Elias.
  "My name is Pavel Ulinov, I am a citizen of the U.S.S.R. I am a special
  adviser to our Economic Trade Mission visiting Milan in connection with
  a projected contract for the sac of petroleum. I have the standing of
  assistant to the third secretary at our Embassy in Rome. I have full dip-
  lomatic immunity."
  "He sounds almost convincing." Partridge was more interested in the
  revolver, the flat silver case with two bogus cork-tipped cigarettes
  inserted among the regular ones, the metal lighter, the heavy fountain
  pen, which were being taken from Insarov's well-out blue blazer and
  crisply pressed gray trousers.
  "He's a bloody arsenal," Holland was saying, examining the cyanide-gas
  pen very gingerly, and then the one-bullet lighter, and the poison
  cork-tips, before he laid them all out in a neat tow on the card table.
  "I'd give this chap a body search. He's a really comic character. If he
  thought our pistols were stupid, God knows what he has taped under his
  armpit. You amuse me, Insarov."
  There was the first sign of anger on Insarov's face. "MY name is Pavel
  Ulinov. I have diplomatic immunity," he repeated, his voice harsh with
  controlled rage. "You will regret---~"
  "And now you are beginning to disappoint me," Partridge said. "You should
  know better than to try that gag on us. Diplomatic immunity does not
  extend to officials who opernte outside the jurisdiction which grants
  that immunity. So cut out the double talk."
 "I demand----~'
  "You demand nothing. Since when did the Soviet Union give diplomatic
  protection to a Nazi war criminalr'
 There was complete silence.
  ,M you insist on claiming the protection of the Soviet UnW Partridge went
  on, "we shall give the full details of
 310      HELEN MACINNES

 your Nazi career to the newspapers. In fact, there is it journalist on
 Mykonos, right now, who might think this was the biggest story of his
 career. Ed Wilshot."
  "I believe you know his name at least," Holland said. His voice was
  becoming more and more gentle. He had been examining InsaroVs revolver with
  respecL "Special job," he told Elias, "no expense spared." He laid it back
  in place on the card table to take the cuff links from one of Elias' men.
  "Really, my dear fellow, you fascinate me," he said to Insarov, as he found
  a hinge in one of the cuff links and sniffed at the powder inside. "You
  have a Borgia complex a mile wide."
 I "And once the Wilshot story was spread all over the front pages of the
 world," Partridge said with a grin, "what government, however much it has
 owed you, would even admit it knew you? No, you would be branded traitor at
 once, Insarov. Or should I say, Heinrich Berg?"
  "I have never been a traitor. Heinrich Berg means nothing. To me, to
  anyone." The voice was tight, clipped; the words were spoken with dignity.
 . "Heinrich Berg is of no importance?" Holland asked too gently.
  "None." The clever eyes were measuring the watching faces again, trying to
  gauge what they actually knew.
  "Not even to the Israeli Vengeance Squad?" asked Holland, leaving the card
  table, sitting on the arm of a chair. "You know," he said almost
  conversationally to Partridge and Elias, "we might possibly make a
  telephone call right now to their man in Athens. That could be the quickest
  solution. It would spare the courts at Frankfurt a lot of trouble and
  expense."
  The clever eyes flickered. The lips tightened. "I have been a trusted
  Communist agent for twenty-seven years. I saved many lives in the
  concentration camps--P
  "Communists' lives. What about the others you sent to their deaths? Or
  don't they count?"
  "There is no proof, no evidence, that such things happened. I did not look
  at a man's politics--r
  "You didn't?" Partridge asked softly. "Professor Sussman thought otherwise.
  That was why you had him murder4 wasn't it?"
  Berg looked at Partridge in bland astonishment. "Sussman? And who is he? I
  never knew anyone called Sussman.
           Tim DouBLE ImAaE     311
 Your charges are a mockery, based on completely false assumptions. You
 have turned your opinions into facts. No court of law would listen to
 them, not even a Western court ready to believe any Bes----P'
  Partridge signaled to Craig. "Would you step over here for a minute?" To
  the others beside Craig, be said, "Wait outside on the porch." Elias made
  certain of that by adding a quick phrase in Greek.
  "Sure," said Craig, and left the doorway and came forward. 'Mat's
  Heinrich Berg. Sussman knew him. And he knew Sussman." He looked at Berg.
  "Mt is not an opinion," he told him. 'Mat's solid fact."
  Berg stared at Craig. The mask of confidence slipped. For at least ten
  seconds, he stared at Craig, desperately searching for an evasion,
  another plausible defense, a subterfuge. His lips tightened, his eyes
  narrowed, his voice rose. "And you are prepared to stand in court and
  swear to it? You are prepared to face the retribution of my comrades? You
  think I am the only one who pretended to serve the Nazis for the sake of
  a greater---~' He had revealed too much. He caught his breath, forced
  back his anger. His voice almost returned to normal. "I say Sussman was
  lying. You say he is dead. I know nothing of that, either." His eyes
  looked vaguely around the room, noticed that the hall had indeed been
  cleared. The policemen beside him, now that they had searched him, were
  no longer holding him by force. They were waiting for further
  instructions, trying not to look bafRed---as they must be,-by the flood
  of foreign words they didn't understand. The older American was
  consulting quietly with the Greek; the Englishman was studying the
  ceiling with folded arms and bored insolence. Berg looked at Craig, the
  one man who was still watching him intently, and measured the distance
  to the card table as he pulled down the disarranged sleeve of his jacket.
  "My one mistake," he said, half to himself. The mask was back in place.
  "Is that how you like to imagine yourself?" He smiled tolerantly. Craig
  was empty-handed, his revolver stuck back in his belt.
  "You made several," Craig said, trying to control his temper.
  "Indeed? Name them." Berg took a few nonchalant steps away from the
  fireplace, clearing his path to the card table, and hatted to face his
  accuser. 'Me policemen had followed, but his, arms were still free, "Name
  them," he repeated, al-
   312       HELEN MACINNES

 most conversationally, and could feel the policemen's suspicion subsiding at
 his quiet voice.
 "Duclos."
 "Duclos? And who was he?"
  A man to whom I owe my life, thought Craig. He said nothing.
  "Do go on, Mr. Craig. You interest me." The voice was friendly, the eyes
  aloof. He was thinking in quick complete jumps: the revolver, first-it's at
  the edge of the table; then Craig as a shield; then out of this room, into
  the hall; a farewell bullet for my one mistake; the door under the stair-
  case-they haven't found it, there has been no alarm, Jeanne did not have
  time to use it-yes, surprise is the most powerful weapon of all. He glanced
  again at the Englishman's folded arms. Too casual . . . So not that way,
  Insarov told himself, and checked his move to the card table.
  "Disappointing?" he asked the Englishman, and turned his back on the table.
  "You can remove that tempting revolver. I am not one of your wild Americans
  who shoots his Way free. Why should I? I am innocent of all your charges."
  He addressed himself to Elias. "If you persist in this folly of having me
  arrested, I demand you take me at once to Athens where I can meet
  representatives of my government and prove my innocence. I am not, I repeat
  I am not InSarOV. I am only here in this house as a guest. My real mistake,
  W. Craig-P he studied the younger American with cold eyes"was to trust
  Insarov when I accepted his invitation to dinner and a game of cards.
  And---P' he turned on Partridge now"if I Bad to protect my host-a foolish
  story about his escape on the slefanie, I admit-it was only because he went
  to the dovecote and I thought I could give him a chance to escape. Or did
  you kill him? No doubt. Washington Won't care for that, will they? They
  have this strange idea that a captured man will talk, give them information
  in exchange for a cigarette and a few kind words. I do know one thing about
  Insarov. He would not have been what you call a-a singing canary."
  "So Insarov is dead, is he?" Holland asked softly. "And you only carry that
  little arsenal around with You for fun?"
  "My life has been threatened twice in the last ten (ISYL I am only
  protecting myseZ"
 "Of course."
 ,-Judgmg from your performance tonight, my precautions
           THE DouBLE ImAGi3     313
 were thoroughly justified," Insarov flashed back. There, he thought, I've
 silenced the Englishman7s sneering laugh. In better humor, he added
 calmly, "I know nothing of Sussman or Ducloa. Ile men you have already
 arrested for their murders will not involve me in any confession you force
 out of them. You have no evidence against me at all."
  "I have a list," Partridge said very quietly, "of three hundred and four
  men condemned to torture and death in a Nazi extermination camp. They
  were selected by Heinrich Berg."
 "Fascists. Who weeps for them"
 "Fascists?" Partrides anger came to the surface. "They
 never were fascists. Neverl They were future leaders of a
 democratic Europe, men whWd oppose any totalitarian --- r
  "Berg was acting under orders, nskmg his life to defeat the Nazis. He
  will take his chances in a fair trial. World opinion will not judge him
  as you have done."
  "World opinion? Or do you mean arranged demonstrations, carefully rigged
  picketing?"
  Holland add, "I can see the placards right now. SAvR Ebmwca BERol Bmto
  WAs OuR ALLY, HAvE Wi& FoitooTTEN? BERa, Sx; YAmmE, Nm" He paused, added,
  "You know, Insarov, you have almost talked me into a telephone call to
  my Israeli Mends."
  "And tell them-if they abduct or kill m&--they will lose three of their
  leaderal Two can play at their gamel"
 "Got him out of here," Partridge said tensely.
  Insarov started walking slowly to the door of his own accord. "I know,"
  he sympathized, "you must feel completely frustrated. Such a brilliant
  operation to end with the capture of the wrong man. What will Washington
  say?" He turned to the two Greeks, who were taking their place on either
  side of him. "Coming?" he asked genially. He was passing Craig now,
  Ignoring him completely. "Are these really necessary?" he was saying to
  one of the Greeks, who had produced handcuffL "I assure you I am more
  eager to get safely to Athens than even you are:' He halted as if to let
  the handcuffs be snapped over his freely extended wrists. He brought his
  hands up In a violent blow against one Greers throat and the other's jaw,
  lunged for Crai& caught him from behind with a tightly hooked left arm,
  reached with his right hand to pun Craig's revolver free from his belt,
  jabbed it against CraWs spine. "Don% shood" he warned. "Or Mr. Craig will
  regret IV He moved the revolver to the nape of Craig!s neck.
 314       HELEN MACINNES

 He felt Craig's resistance ebb. "That's wise. Now we back out Into the
 hall. Steady pace." He unlocked his
 &Tipped Craig's left shoulder, began his retreat to the door with Craig
 shielding him perfectly.
  Craig took the first few steps back-ward, forced his body to relax.
  Desperately, he looked at Holland's watching eyes. One more step ... He
  swung fast to the left, pivoting on the hall of his foot, dropping his
  weight to the floor. Christopher Holland fired from under the cover of
  his folded arm.
  "My one worry was that I'd get you, too," Holland said to Craig as he
  walked over to look down at Heinrich Berg. He helped Craig to his feet.
  He waved aside Craig's word of thanks. "Just concentrate on getting your
  breath back again."
  Craig looked down, too, and regretted the movement. He must have jerked
  his neck when he had made that quick lunge away from Berg. Partridge was
  saying nothing as he joined them.
  Craig rubbed the nape of his neck, had three questions at least on the
  tip of his tongue, decided this wasn't the time. Then Elias asked one of
  them. "But where was he going?" He crossed quickly to the door, staring
  into the hall as if he could find his answer there. He waved impatiently
  to the two other Greeks to follow-one was still nursing his jaw as they
  clattered after him to the rear of the house.
  Partridge came out of his thoughts, glanced quickly at the door. Bill and
  two of his friends had run in from the garden and were standing there,
  revolvers ready. "Ali over," he told them. "Bill, give Bannerman the
  signal to start sending. He knows what. And you can add the news: the big
  boy is dead. Details will follow." Once Bill and the Greeks had left, he
  added quietly, "I suggest that we keep Craig's name out of our reports
  about tonight. Much safer for him. No one heard him identify Berg, except
  us and the two detectives. Elias assures me they don't understand
  English."
 "Much safer," Holland agreed.
  Craig looked at them both. That answered another of his questions. "He
  actually has friends who'd-"
  "You heard him, John," Partridge said. "That threat against you wasn't
  part of his bluster."
 "Ex-Nazis who are Communis--" Craig began.
  "Take our word for it," Holland said grimly. ',Mey exisL" He glanced at
  Partridge. lightened his voice. "Stop worrying
            THE DouBLE ImAaB     315
 about Washington. Tell them that if a dead man gives no information, he
 also commits no more murders. Frankly, I wouldn't have laid one shilling
 on his staying in jail. He would have weaseled his way out, or his friends
 would have Pried him loose-probabLy Just as well he forced the solu,tim-He
 was a--~"
 I Elias entered alone. "Yes, he could have managed itl He could have
 escaped." His face was tight with anger. "There was a door under the
 staircase; it has been blocked for four years, but no longer. It was made
 ready for use."
 "Leading where?" Partridge asked sharnly.
  "Into a clurap of bushes, planted there when the door was scaled up. The
  garden wall is only a few yards away at that point"
  "Irs still a ten-foot waIV Surely any ladder must have been discovered
  when the grounds were searched just after entry-, not every man had
  crowded mto the hall.
  There was a gardener's barrow filled with hard-Packed earth against the
  wall."
  wrhat would give him one step. He'd need at least two others."
  "He had them. There were two wooden Pegs, Painted white, driven into the
  wall, one above the other. All he had to do was reach the top, roll over,
  drop down onto the hillside Elsa looked bitterly down at the body of
  Berg-Insarov. "Mis was the only solution, my friends." He glanced up at
  Craig, added somberly, "You were almost a dead man:'
 Which answers my third question, Craig thought.
  Partridge rested his hand on Craig's shoulder. 'Me Greeks always have a
  phrase ready. All I do is tell you to get back to your hotel. There's no
  need for you to hang around here." He grinned and added, "Look out for
  the traffic, win your
  III do that." Craig glanced at IDerg: for the last time and left.
  He came slowly out onto the porch. There were several men there, two of
  them bandaged, talking quietly, keeping guard over three firmly tied
  prisoners and a body in a sack. The woman called Saverne had already been
  taken away. The moon was high now, and in the cool night air there was
  the faint fragrance of a flowering vine. Craig took off his cap and
  tossed it away. There was a sympathetic laugh from the men around him;
  they were tired, they were hungry, they were Othy, but soon they, too,
  would be throwing off their
 316       HELEN MACINNES
 rough clothes. He dropped his borrowed jacket over the mules back, down by
 the gate. Someone had set it free, shooed it home, but it had just remained
 standing there, dozing in the moonlight.
  Ihat was the last picture he had of the house on the hill; a mule nosing in
  to a white wall, a torn gray jacket warming its sprung back, its ears
  twitching spasmodically as it dreamed of a life where there were bushes in
  abundance and no more burdens to be carried. V#Nch reminded him. He stopped
  at the bushes and found Veronica's case.
  Ihe doves had been silenced, he noted grimly as he -rounded the comer with
  its sparse trees and took the rnain road for Mykonos. The little bay seemed
  placid, sheltered frorn the rough sea by the long breakwater. The lights
  around the harbor were bright and welcoming. It was twentyfive minutes to
  twelve. In the big hotel, people had just finished dinner.

 I
                                   711*

 2424

 Craig was exhausted, but he never walked a quicker mile than the one that
 brought hun around the bay into town. He came down the narrow ill-lit lane
 almost at a run, into the wide empty square with its Heroine of the Turkish
 Repulsion gazing out to sea from her central pedestal. Tony was lounging
 against her, hands in pockets, still dressed for the aborted picnic on
 Delos.
  "Welcome back," he said, drifting over the square to join Craig. "Did you
  have enough exercise for one night?"
 "Just about."
  "We've heard the news. Don!t: rupture yourself trying to tell me all about
  it." He grinned widely. "If I sound slightly miffed, I am. And Tim
  Bannerman, in his. own phrase, is fit to be tied. We missed out on this
  show completely.$9
  "You had your share," Craig said. "You were promoted, I guess."
  "Kicked upstairs to communications. I did get a little breath of salt air
  for a while-brought O'Malley back in a howling squall, and frankly, I was
  sicker than he was."
 "Where is Bannerman now?"
  "Still talking with Paris and points west. He's on the upper floor of that
  windmill just above the breakwater with a couple of other hard-working
  types. Don!t tell him I know." He stopped, listening, his head cocked to
  one side. From a caf6 along the water front came the music of a mandolin,
  a guitar and a zither. They were playing, in the strange halftone scale of
  Greek folk songs, a brave attempt at "The Twelve Days of Christmas."
 Craig halted, rnaldng sure; and mustered a smile.
  Much too good a tune to let die away unsung." Tony addressed the distant
  caf6 impatiently in his low voice, "Come on, boys, come on. You finished
  the introduction six bars 317
 318       HELEN MACINNES

 ago. Must do better than that for the party tomorrow night. That's the
 wayl" Men's voices had begun to sing. In Greek. "I've only had time to get
 them as far as the sixth night," Tony said, "but well manage the rest
 tomorrow. Catchy little thing, isn't it?" He smiled delightedly as Craig
 began to laugh.
  "Old Partridge is going to be fit to be tied, too," Craig pre. dicted,
  recovering himself. But he felt better, much. better, for that fit of
  laugher.
  "See you tomorrow," Tony said vaguely, leaving Craig to cut up the little
  streets toward the Triton. He wandered down the front street toward the
  music, joining with the hoarse Greek voices in his flat tenor.

        "The sixth day of Christmas
         My true love sent to me
         Six geese a-laying,
        Five gold rings,
         Four colly birds,
        Three French hens,
         Two turtledoves, and
        A partridge in a pear tree."

  Craig's pace quickened. He was still relaxed, still humming in rhythm to
  the flowing, ebbing tune drifting over the town from the water front.
  Tomorrow everyone would be singing it; by next week everyone would be
  dancing to it. Old Rosie, back in Paris, would never guess the influence
  of his brain child on the cultural patterns of an Aegean island. Craig
  began to laugh again, and then sobered up. He had come into the little
  square with its church and 'ghostlike houses. Other ghosts were wandering
  around there, too. He could see Berg stopping beside the church, looking
  at its small belfry; suddenly swinging around to look up at the hotel's
  high entrance under the heavy vine. Even now, thought Craig, I can feel
  the chill in my blood as I drew back, stood motionless, against that
  wall. The man is dead, lying in a room of rose-patterned chintz and pink
  lamp shades. If he were alive? I wouldn't climb these steps so
  confidently.
  He reached the entrance under the vine. Madame Iphigenia, a shawl around
  her shoulders, was there to greet him. "She is, well," she whispered.
  "She would not eat until you came. I have kept food in the kitchen for
  you both. Hot food.
                                    

           THE DouBLE ImAGE      319
 You wash and change. In your old room. They entered. They searched. What a
 messl We have cleaned it all. It is comfortable again." She fell silent,
 looking at him, taking the small suitcase from his hand, shook her head.
 "But it is good, now?"
  "Very good." Ilen he smiled, and said, "Madame lphigenia, I admire you very
  much."
  He ducked under the low lintel of the door and entered the small lobby. One
  light burned there, casting a soft shadow. Veronica was sitting in a
  high-backed armchair. She had bathed, and washed her hair-it fell loose and
  clean over her face. She was asleep, huddled into a thick dressing gown
  that was twice her size.
  He put his hands on the arms of the chair, bent down, kissed her gently.
  She was awake at once, looking up at him with those wonderful eyes.
  "I didn!t mean to do that," he said softly. He kissed her gently again.
 "All right?" she asked, still anxious. "Everything is---r
 "All right," he told her quietly.
  She looked at him. She smiled. "That will be my only question," she
  promised him.
  "We'll have plenty of other things to talk about." He kissed her once more.
  "Plenty."