Decision at Delphi by Helen Macinnes

Author:Helen Macinnes [MacInnes, Helen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781781161609
Publisher: Titan
Published: 2012-07-14T16:00:00+00:00

17

Strang’s first instinct was to struggle, free himself, hit out, run. But as he looked at the grave faces of the two compact men and saw the dark mistrust in their quick, observant eyes, he hesitated. They were neither Boris nor Andreas. And if they had been guarding Madame Duval, they wouldn’t be holding him by the wrists. By this time, he ought to have been cracked over his skull with that handy-looking revolver which the smaller of the men had produced in a businesslike way. “And who are you?” the small man asked now. The tone was inimical, but the man was curious, at least.

That decided Strang. Thugs did not ask questions. These men might not be dressed in police uniform, but they had the confidence of those who acted on the side of the law. He identified himself quickly. “Do you speak English?” he added urgently. He had a feeling that his Greek might not be adequate enough for this kind of situation.

The small man nodded. He glanced at the front door, where two other men were entering, and nodded again, this time approvingly. “Search him,” he said to his companion.

“Did a girl come this way in the last ten or fifteen minutes?” Strang asked, ignoring the adept hands that slapped his pockets and found them flat enough.

“A girl?” The man’s sharp eyes were wary but not astonished. He was a neat little man with neat expressions; dark of hair, eyes, moustache, and suit; as sparing of movement as he was with words.

“I sent a message—” Strang paused. He glanced across the hall at Christophorou’s door, and wondered for a split second if Christophorou had returned home and could hear them. He dropped his voice almost to a whisper. “Then she must have gone out through the back gate.” The searching hands were at his waist, at his ribs. He resisted the impulse to tell their owner that he never did believe in shoulder holsters. The searcher found his wallet and was studying his driver’s licence. He seemed satisfied, for he slipped the wallet back in place.

“The gate?” the small man asked, too carefully.

“There is a gate from the yard at the back of the house.” And I don’t carry a knife strapped to my leg, either, he refrained from telling the man with the practised hand, who was insisting on completing his search. The man—even if he didn’t speak English could certainly understand it, for his hand froze on Strang’s ankle—looked up quickly.

The other man let go of Strang’s wrist. He gestured down the staircase to the corridor. “Show me this gate,” he said. “You first!”

Strang started down the stairs, trying to rub some of the paralysis out of his wrist. There was no use losing his temper; he was at this moment, quite frankly, a nuisance of an amateur who was complicating a professional man’s difficult job. He said, “The girl ran away. I came down from the top floor to see if I could find any—”

“Sh!” the man silenced him abruptly.

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