Free Decision at Delphi by Helen MacInnes Page A

the flies come into the room, and then noticed his sketches.
    “I work at night, too.”
    “Ah—you are a painter?”
    He had given up arguing about that He nodded.
    “I shall send the lamps to you.”
    “Thank you.”
    She pushed the maid out of the door and followed. She stopped to say, “It would be pleasanter to work on the terrace.”
    He looked hard at the door she had closed, and repeated to himself, “I do like women, I do like women,” until his temper cooled, and he could resume his thin-line architectural drawing of a Doric temple.
    The rest of the day was peaceful, except that, when he returned from an early dinner rather more quickly than might be expected and entered the long corridor that led to his room, he saw the solemn-faced maid locking a door some distance away. It could be his door. He was still too far away to be sure. The girl saw him, stopped, and—to his surprise—hurried toward him. But the boot boy, in white shirt sleeves, black waistcoat, and green apron, had entered the corridor just behind Strang, and the maid halted abruptly. She said, “The two lamps are in your room. Buona notte, signore.”
    “Thank you. Good night.”
    She turned and walked quickly away to the other end of the corridor. Very obliging, Strang thought, to come out of her way to tell me what will be obvious as soon as I open the door. He reached it and began the usual battle of the strange lock. The boot boy passed him quickly, giving him a polite good night, and hurried to overtake the maid. “You are late going off duty,” Strang heard him say. “You are late coming on,” she replied. Their voices faded as Strang entered his room and closed the door.
    The two lamps had been installed, all right. But he shook his head at their size: long on charm, short on strength. Travel had its delights, but at this moment he would have given a lot for a simple hundred-watt bulb, and a screen for the window.
    Then he saw that someone had been looking at the work he had left on the desk. The top drawing, in a set of three, had been shifted askew. He swore, and studied the heavy sheet of paper for any ruinous thumbmarks. But the drawing and those beneath it were as clean as he had left them. He relaxed. Yet, instinctively, he went over to his luggage and examined each case. All were locked. He took the trouble, though, to open them and check. Nothing was out of order. He became half annoyed, half amused by his suspicions. Everyone loved to look at pictures: the maid had just the same curiosity as all therest of us. He remembered the small boys who had materialised out of nowhere on a lonely hillside, did not even try to cadge a cigarette for at least five minutes while they grouped round his elbow and chattered in Sicilian dialect; the black-haired, black-moustached labourers who had stopped heaving a pick-axe to become equally energetic art critics; the peasants who pulled their long-suffering donkeys to a halt while they sat silently watching a fellow artist from their bright, hand-painted carts.
    Suddenly, he saw that Steve’s bundle of photographs had been moved from the dressing table. For a moment, he really panicked. Then he caught sight of them, neatly arranged, of all places, on his chair behind the desk. Neatly arranged, yes. But the first one was missing. His lips closed in a grim line as he hoped someone’s love of pictures hadn’t tempted her to take a pretty pin-up for her room. He began checking the photographs, and relaxed when he found the missing one in third place. On top of it was a sealed, unaddressed envelope.
    He counted the photographs to make sure they were all there, placed them back on the dresser, and then, baffled and bewildered, ripped the envelope open. The page of narrow pointed writing was signed, simply, “Aleco.” Aleco. What Aleco? The letter began quite abruptly. “My thanks for your invitation to dinner in Athens, which I accept with pleasure.” (Alexander Christophorou, he thought,