Some minutes later he heard a rustling of the bushes and, opening his eyes, saw Stephanie looking down on him. She was again fully dressed. Her face looked drawn and almost ugly, as tears had caused the mascara to run down from her eyelashes on to her cheeks.
'Why . . . ?' she asked in a hoarse whisper. 'Why did you do that to me, Robbie?1
Rolling over, he got the letter from the pocket of his jacket and, without a word, threw it towards her.
Picking it up, she ran her eye swiftly over it, nodded slowly, gave a sudden sob and murmured: T see. Yes: now I understand.' Turning away she left him, and with stricken heart he listened until the sound of her footsteps had faded away in the distance.
He continued to lie there for what seemed an eternity, tortured by thoughts that went round and round: the humiliation of having been so completely fooled by her; remorse for having behaved so brutally to her; agony at the thought that those happy days he had spent with her were gone for ever; then again anger at the way she had led him to look on her as the most wonderful person in the world.
At last he dressed and, still in a daze, walked back to the hotel, to find that it was long past lunchtime. He assumed that Stephanie would be leaving as soon as she could make arrangements to do so; perhaps that afternoon, but possibly not till next morning. In the latter case she would still be there for dinner, and for them to sit down to another meal together was out of the question. He was most reluctant to see her again and he could have left a message for her, saying that he intended to dine out at one of the smaller hotels down in the village, but conscience urged him to face the unpleasant task of apologizing for the way he had treated her; so he walked along the corridor to her room.
He found the door ajar. He knocked, but there was no reply; so he went in. It was empty and the only sign that Stephanie had ever been there was some soiled face tissues on the dressing-table. Obviously she had already packed and gone. Walking over to the dressing table, he gently fingered the face tissues. A suggestion of her scent still lingered in the air, but the empty room struck him with a terrible air of finality. Tears welled up into his eyes but, with a curse, he suddenly swung about, marched out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
Going into his own room next door, he had a wash to freshen himself up. As he came out of the bathroom, his glance fell on the bedside table. Something was missing from it. Next moment, he realized what it was. He always kept his manuscript there, and it was gone. Only Stephanie could have taken it. Digging his nails into the palms of his hands, he slumped down on the bed. If anything could have added to his misery it was the loss of that bundle of papers which represented so many weeks of arduous work. She would have known that, and could have thought of no better way of revenging herself.
Yet, greatly as its loss infuriated him, it had one salutary effect. It enabled him to adjust his feelings towards her. In a way, the theft of the manuscript had evened up the score between them. It made him feel less guilty towards her, and enabled him to see her in a better perspective. He felt that he could now divorce in his mind the Stephanie in whose company he had enjoyed so much happiness from the real woman who had tricked and robbed him. Given a litle time, he would be able to remember the one with pleasure; but he would not be tormented by hopeless longings for her, because she had revealed herself as the other.
Suddenly, it occurred to him that the manuscript might not be the only thing she had taken. She might have made off with his passport and money and perhaps the car. Pulling out from under the bed the suitcase in which he kept his papers, he was relieved to find it still locked. On unlocking it, he found that his papers were intact. Leaving the room, he hurried downstairs and round to the garage, to find his fears again groundless. The Ford was out on the wash and one of the garage hands was hosing it down. He gave Robbie a friendly grin and said:
'When I got back from running your young lady into Pirgos I thought I'd better give the car a going-over.'
That solved for Robbie the question of how and where Stephanie had gone; but he thought it unlikely that Pirgos was her destination. From the little station at Olympia, the trains were slow and infrequent, and to get to Athens she would have had to change at both Tripolis and Argos. On the other hand, by going to Pirgos, she would be able to take a fast train up the coast and round the gulf of Corinth direct to the capital.
For a few moments he speculated grimly on whether, when she made her final report to Krajcir, the Czech would realize that it was his writing that had given her away. Anyhow the 'N' of the letter, who was most probably the First Secretary, Nejedly, was going to be far from pleased when he learned that she had been winkled out of her job.
As Robbie walked back into the hotel, he suddenly remembered that he had intended to go into Pirgos himself that afternoon to try and take another set of photographs. It was too late to do so now; so it would have to be the next day, unless he reverted to his original intention, put it off for two more days and lessened the risk by making his attempt on Sunday. But would that now lessen the risk? No; on the contrary, Stephanie still thought that he had meant to wait the week out, and she would certainly let them know what she believed to be his intentions. Possibly, realizing that, they would think it unlikely that he would stick to his plan; but, just in case he did, they would certainly not leave the place unguarded on Sunday, so it looked as though his chances would now be better during the siesta hours on any other day.
There was also the fact that the dispute over the submarine might just possibly lead to war. As Stephanie had been congratulated, in Krajcir's letter, on spoiling the photographs, that was a clear indication that the Czechs had something to hide. What could that something be if not a warlike preparation? Therefore, he felt more strongly than ever that his impulse first thing that morning, to get the photographs with a minimum of delay, had been a sound one.
Having decided that he would make the attempt next day, he went into the lounge and found a Greek newspaper. It was full of the Soviet-American crisis, but as yet the Russians had made no further move. Putting it down, he reverted to considering his own situation. He was in half a mind to dine down in the village, so as to escape having to give some explanation to the Jacksons of Stephanie's abrupt departure. But if he was to get those photographs, it would mean his staying in the hotel for at least another twenty-four hours. During that time he was certain to run into them; so it seemed better to face up to that rather than put himself to considerable inconvenience by taking all his main meals out.
When he met them at dinner, he announced at once that an unexpected call from Athens had necessitated his sending Stephanie off there to deal with an urgent business matter. He added that, in any case, he did not expect her back until after the week-end and that, if she proved unable to handle the affair for him, he would himself have to leave either the next night or on Saturday.
The Jacksons then insisted that he join them at their table. Much as he would have preferred to remain at his own, it was not in his nature to hurt the feelings of people who made kindly gestures towards him, and afterwards he was glad that he had accepted their invitation. Frank Jackson was a loquacious man; soignee Ursula Jackson also liked to air her views and Robbie had long been accustomed to the role of patient listener. In order to be able to make an occasional suitable comment, he had to take in what they were saying, and that kept his mind from the gloomy thoughts which would otherwise have occupied it. After dinner they continued their conversation over coffee and liqueurs in the lounge; so he went to bed much less harassed by memories, regrets and frustration than he would otherwise have been.