Decision at Delphi Read Online Free Page A

minks she kept for horizongazing—and saw him.
    The scarf had whipped round the line on the davits of the lifeboat near him. By standing on the lower bar of the open rail, holding on to the lacings of the tarpaulin covering the lifeboat, Strang could just reach the fluttering tip of the scarf. He played it free slowly, bracing, his thighs against the upper bar of the rail, telling himself he’d look a damn fool bobbing around in the white froth of cut waves far below him. He stepped back on to the solid deck with admitted relief. The girl had vanished. A round small man in a long dark overcoat, hands in pockets, was standing at the side of the lifeboat with a look of sardonic amusement on his sallow-skinned face. Now where had this particular little goblin,with the sharp black eyes, well-oiled black hair, and thin black moustache, been hiding? Strang wondered. Probably something that crawled out from under the tarpaulin.
    The man took one small hand from his pocket and held it out for the scarf. The smile under the thin moustache grew more irritating. Strang stretched out his arm politely, and just as the man was about to grasp the scarf, he let it go. The wind was a perfect ally: it caught the transparent piece of silk and blew it high and around and over and higher and away. It ended its flight on a taut rope, high on the rigging above the swimming pool. “Too bad,” Strang said. “Now it’s your turn, I think.” He resumed his steady pace along the empty deck:
    “Private. Private,” the man said, pattering after Strang on quick, small feet. His pointed shoes were as light and thin as his high-pitched voice.
    “Who says so?”
    “Private, private,” the little man repeated. He spoke the word with excessive care, in an accent Strang couldn’t place.
    “This is getting monotonous,” Strang told him, as the magic word was repeated twice again. “Is that all the English you know? Never mind, you’ve learned it well. I’ll give you a big E for effort. Now go away. Stop dancing at my heels. Where’s your hair net?” For emotion, or the wind, was raising long strands of oiled-together hair. Strang kept his voice easy, his pace steady. He had passed three doorways to private suites of rooms, a series of real windows heavily curtained. The pattering footsteps stopped, as if reassured. Strang kept walking until he reached the short flight of stairs that led to the radio room. Now this is really private private, he told himself, but the little gate saying Vietato l’ingresso could easily be stepped over.
    Before he entered the narrow doorway leading to the radio room, Strang gave his first glance back at the little man, still watching. He looked uncertain, baffled, drooping. Either his unsuccessful struggle with the English language or his overlong coat weighed heavily on his shoulders. Strang gave him a cheerful wave and stepped out of the wind.
    The radio operator was having a cosy little chat with a Portuguese freighter. He looked more annoyed at the interruption than startled by such an abrupt entrance. “I want to send a cablegram,” the American told him. “This way?” He was already walking into the passage toward the cable room before the radio operator could answer. “Sorry,” he told his Portuguese friend, “just another passenger lost at sea.” But later, he wondered about the American with the broad smile— what had entertained him so much? He even looked out of his door, checked the locked gate, and noted that the rich woman’s chauffeur was still standing his watch on the windswept deck. So there was nothing to report. There could have been, he thought with some disappointment; for why did anyone travel with so much security unless she expected trouble?
    Strang actually did send a cable. To Lee Preston. F ORTRESS I MPREGNABLE . D RAWBRIDGE U P , P ORTCULLIS D OWN . A DVISE W E C ONCENTRATE O N G REEK T EMPLES . There’s a limit to curiosity and wasted time, he thought as he paid for the