“You find much of interest in our boating industry?”
“Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”
The man guffawed, mouth wide; for a moment, when I saw the gap between his front teeth, I was forcibly reminded of Alex Zenopolis. But Alex, I told myself, was a good six inches taller...
“You will be in this country for long?” the man went on after he’d had his laugh.
“I don’t know. A few more days, maybe; I don’t have any special plans.”
“Yes, of course. Our country is a land of leisure... for visitors.” His dark eyes turned stormy as he said the last couple of words, and I kept a wary eye on the pistol he still held leveled at my middle.
“What was it you wanted, exactly?” I asked, trying to sound more nervous than demanding.
He gestured with the gun hand, but it didn’t give me any ideas about trying to take him; his partner was positioned well away from him and there was no way I could take them both without adding at least another scar to my hide. Besides, there didn’t seem any reason to. Not so far.
The man with the mustache shrugged. “To find out more about you, Mr. McKee. When any foreigner, pardon me, American, comes to this country and begins making inquiries, it naturally stirs the curiosity of my government.”
“You could have found out by just asking,” I pointed out.
“Oh, perhaps. But my country... please understand, Mr. McKee, we are in a highly precarious position, beset by forces on every side which are not friendly to us. So we are forced to be suspicious of everyone, and believe me, sir, we regret it much more than you do. So we use the most direct, even crude, means to learn what we feel we must know. Do you understand?”
“Sure,” I said sourly. “And I guess you’ve found out enough, haven’t you?”
“Well... perhaps.” To show his good faith, he put his gun away in a belt holster. “There’s only one more thing.”
“Oh?” I noted that his partner still held his automatic, though it wasn’t exactly pointed at me.
“If you wouldn’t mind...” He held his hands wide, showing his good will as he moved around the bed toward me. “A small search? Of your person?”
Christ! This was all I needed, with Hugo sheathed on my left forearm. I backed up a step. “I don’t see why that’s necessary,” I said, in my best imitation of a mildly outraged American tourist. “God knows, I’m not smuggling any boats out of your country!”
“Of course not. Nevertheless.” He was still walking toward me. “It would satisfy all of us, no?”
“I don’t see why...?”
The partner had his gun up again, pointing it in my direction.
“Please, Mr. McKee,” the mart with the mustache was saying. “We do not wish to insist.”
He was stepping around the foot of the bed, arms out placatingly and looking about as friendly as a rhinoceros.
“Hold on!” I cracked.
“Yes?” Mustache stopped, but he didn’t seem to be taken aback in any sense.
“You say you’re police, or whatever. Can I have a closer look at that card you showed me?”
That stopped him. He glanced quickly at his partner, then started to move in my direction. His mistake. I took a half-step to my right, putting him between me and the one with the drawn gun. Before either of them knew what was happening, I had a grip on Mustache’s wrist, turned him and held him against my chest. He was solid and heavy, but the hold I had turned him limp.
“Mr. McKee...” he gasped.
I was glad to hear that; whatever was going on, he evidently didn’t know who I really was.
“The wallet,” I rasped in his ear.
He started to dig in his hip pocket for it. I was so intent on keeping my hold on him that I didn’t notice what the other man was doing. Not at first. Then I saw him calmly fitting a silencer to the muzzle of his pistol. Before I could react, he took careful aim and plunked two shots into the bulky chest of the man I held. I’m ashamed to say that my first reaction was relief that neither bullet went through the body and hit me.
Mustache sagged, his weight suddenly doubled, in my arms. I let him drop; obviously he was no good to me as a shield any more.
The other man waved me back. “I take him. You don’t worry... Mr. McKee.”
I didn’t like the way he grinned at me, especially when I caught a glimpse of metal teeth framed by rubbery lips. “What the hell,” I said, trying to get back into my role as businessman-tourist. It was clear he didn’t intend to shoot me.
“Fonny things happen sometimes, Mr. McKee,” he was saying as he bent over the lifeless body at my feet. Some blood was leaking out of the neat punctures in Mustache’s chest, but it was all being absorbed by the material of dark suit jacket.
“Uh-huh,” I responded, holding my left arm out a little in case I needed Hugo in a flash. It was then that I wanted Wilhelmina so badly I could taste her. “What the hell are you going to do?”
The gunman looked up, his little eyes dead as a snake’s. “You want to know, Mr. McKee?”
I didn’t say anything.
He heaved the dead man to his feet, ducked his thick body and took Mustache over his shoulder. “There is fire escape,” he announced, as though I didn’t know it, and headed toward the window overlooking the little square below. After only a moment’s pause he stepped over the sill and out on the iron grating. The body on his shoulder thumped painfully against the raised window sash, but Mustache couldn’t have minded.
The gunman paused for a second after he had his burden outside, and when he looked at me his smile was almost friendly.
“We see you again some time, eh Mr. McKee?” He patted Mustache’s body on the rump. “And next time, we don’t make stupid mistakes, eh?”
Seven
I went to the window and watched the stocky gunman clamber down the fire escape like an ape, apparently heedless of the burden he carried. If I’d had Wilhelmina... but no, I told myself, what good would that have done? The last thing I wanted to do here was attract attention to myself in any way. Especially the attention of the authorities.
And of course I knew that the two jokers who’d been searching my room had nothing to do with the Government; legitimate agents working in their own country don’t go around shooting their partners when they get in a jam.
I checked through my luggage and the rest of the room, the adjoining primitive bath. Nothing seemed to be missing, and since I was carrying nothing incriminating I wasn’t about to do too much worrying about that. Except that I had to wonder who that pair were, and why they had been here. I wished I’d had a good look at the card Mustache showed me, but it was too late for that now. And it probably didn’t make any difference. Somebody, some organization, was interested in Daniel McKee, yacht broker, and that was enough, all by itself, to make me worry. More than ever, as I undressed and got ready for bed, I missed Wilhelmina.
The rendezvous was set for the next day, and I was up early in the morning for the easy three-hour drive across the Peloponnessos. The huge, mountainous peninsula was all green and white, lush green hillsides and clusters of chalky dwellings; the road was good, and I wished I had some time to linger and be an honest-to-God tourist. But I was too impatient, too eager to reach my destination; the memory of what had happened in my room the night before wouldn’t let go, and I felt it was somehow damned important that I make contact with Christina. Then we could get, as they say, the show on the road.
Pirgos is a shabbily sparkling town, with a splendid natural harbor. Before I did anything else, I prowled the docks until I found a place where I might rent a sailboat for a week or two. Elgon Xefrates was the genial owner of the establishment, a fireplug of a little man with tombstone teeth that he showed all the time in a dazzling smile.