The Frenchman’s eyes followed Neil’s to the black box. ‘I have a mule I hired in Karyes.’
Neil nodded. Van Loon sat with his square hands hanging between his knees. Neil felt it was time to go. He was draining down his brandy, when Martel said, ‘Did you have any trouble coming to Athos?’
‘Trouble?’
‘Yes — trouble with the police. Were you stopped at all?’
‘Only by the official who checked our visas. We didn’t see any police.’
‘Which way did you come?’
‘Through Ierrissou — over the Xerxes Canal.’
Martel nodded slowly, as though to himself: ‘So you didn’t come by boat to Daphne?’ He stood up and emptied his glass: ‘Well, Messieurs, it’s getting late. I have to be up early tomorrow.’ His stiff grey face stretched into a smile.
At the door, Neil turned: ‘Monsieur Martel, do you mind if I look at that gold coin you lost last night?’
The Frenchman stared at him for a moment: ‘Certainly.’ He stepped over the other bed, opened the pigskin bag and drew out a slim leather case like a jewel box. Inside, set in a cushion of black velvet, lay about two dozen coins. Most of them were small and misshapen, black or yellowish brown, almost bald with age. Martel lifted one out that was larger than the rest, about the size of a florin, bearing the stamp of a heavy Roman profile.
‘Voilà!’ He placed the coin on Neil’s palm. Neil knew by the weight that it was gold; he turned it over and saw a series of almost illegible numerals.
‘Those are what makes it valuable,’ said Martel, ‘special numbering for money in circulation outside Rome. This coin was used to pay off Brutus’ troops in Egypt. The date shows that it must have been minted after his murder in Alexandria.’
Neil saw a loving passion in the grey eyes, as the man laid the coin back in its velvet bed. ‘It is safe there,’ he said, snapping the case shut, ‘I carry it about with me as a talisman. When I have problems, I keep it in my hand. It has always brought me luck.’
Neil smiled, wondering what problems M. Martel had had last night as he paced the gallery at Zographou at half past two in the morning. ‘Goodnight, Monsieur Martel.’
‘Goodnight,’ said the Frenchman, ‘and please excuse my behaviour earlier this evening. I have been under some strain lately.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Neil, smiling.
He and Van Loon went along the passage to their room. As the door closed, Van Loon said, ‘He is a pretty odd fellow that, huh?’
‘A mad professor,’ said Neil.
‘Not so mad. He is frightened.’
Neil laughed: ‘What would he be frightened of here? You’ve been drinking too much.’
‘I don’t know what he is frightened of,’ said Van Loon solemnly, ‘but he is frightened of something.’
‘You go to bed,’ said Neil.
CHAPTER 3
It was not until several days later that they again heard of M. Martel. They had come down off the mountain and arrived in Karyes, the administrative centre of the peninsula. It is no more than a couple of wooden streets, a church, a police station manned by a posse of men lent from the mainland, and a café where the monks come to play dominoes and read the newspapers.
They reached the town in mid-morning after six hours’ march from the last monastery, walking down the Street of the Holy Ghost, where travellers are forbidden to smoke, wear a hat or ride a donkey: and entered the café, sweating and in need of a drink. The only person inside was a young gendarme in a grubby uniform who sat alone over an empty glass of ouzo. He came over and joined them, leaning across the table and whispering in English, ‘You have cigarettes please?’
Neil offered him a packet of Patras filter-tips. The boy helped himself to five, lit one and stowed the rest away inside his tunic, then sat down and ordered three ouzos. ‘Here no cigarettes,’ he said, ‘I come from Salonika. I come here first with cigarettes, guitar, radio, everything. But the monks take them away. It is like prison here.’
The ouzos came and the boy swallowed his in one gulp.
‘There can’t be much work for you,’ said Neil. ‘Why do they have police here?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps there is sometimes trouble.’
‘Has there ever been trouble?’
‘No.’ The boy looked into his glass and thought for a moment; ‘Not trouble. But sometimes perhaps funny things happen. Yesterday a big boat come in the night — it come to Daphne and a man get on it. We hear this from the monks.’
‘Is that bad?’ said Neil.
‘Not good. Everybody who come to Athos must be controlled. This man come down from the mountain with much luggage — big boxes and things, and get on the boat and goes. The police know nothing.’
‘Did anyone see this man?’
The boy looked at his empty glass and called the waiter. ‘He had white hair — that is all I know.’ He ordered three more ouzos.
Neil glanced at Van Loon, who grinned ‘The old Frenchman, huh?’
‘You know this man?’ the boy asked.
‘I think so,’ said Neil, ‘we met him in the monasteries. Is it a serious matter?’
‘The police make a report. They tell Salonika.’ The boy shrugged: ‘Perhaps it is serious. I don’t care. I hate this place.’
They finished their ouzos and got up to leave. The boy wanted to go on talking, offering to pay for all the drinks, but they told him they had to be down in Daphne to take the afternoon boat to Athens. He waved goodbye, looking small and miserable, sitting there in the morning sun in his hot uniform, starting on his fourth glass of ouzo.
