Free Levkas Man by Hammond; Innes

favourite phrase of his I remembered. About the only thing we had in common was the hastiness of temper that led to violence.
    I was at Borg’s shop just before ten with my suitcase packed. He was standing by the Buddha, waiting for me, and I could see he was relieved. ‘You’re all ready. Good. I have ordered a taxi.’ He pulled an envelope out of the pocket of his loose-fitting tweed jacket. ‘That is your air ticket, also sterling for Malta and some drachmas—you will need that in the islands.’ He handed it to me, smiling. ‘You see, I am trusting you.’
    â€˜You’ve no option,’ I said, and the friendliness went out of his eyes. He stood there, waiting, knowing I had a reason for saying that. ‘Have you got a big chart? I asked. ‘One that includes the whole of Greece?’
    He took me through into his office and produced the Eastern Mediterranean sheet. It was folded in four, and as he opened it out, the creases showed that it had been much used. Black hairs gleamed on the back of his hand and his signet ring flashed in the sunlight from the window as he traced the line from Malta to Crete. ‘About five hundred miles,’ he said. ‘And Heraklion is a port of entry. You can get your Greek transit papers there.’
    â€˜Is it a power boat?’ I asked.
    â€˜Sail and power. It’s an old boat, but she has a new engine.’
    â€˜Say four days.’ My eyes were searching the long, south-thrusting peninsula of the Greek mainland. ‘Another two, perhaps three days to Samos. And you don’t need me there until early May. That’s more than a month.’
    â€˜A month is not too long for the authorities to get used to your presence. What are you getting at?’
    I had found what I wanted and I straightened up. ‘No objection if I take a more northerly route, have you? We’ve plenty of time.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜The Ionian Sea—I’ve always wanted to have a look at the west coast of Greece.’
    He knew it wasn’t the real reason, and for a moment I thought he was going to be difficult. I put the envelope with the ticket and the money down on the desk. He looked at it and then at me. ‘How long will it take you?’
    â€˜A week,’ I said. ‘Not more.’
    He hesitated. Finally he nodded. ‘Ja. Well … okay.’
    We talked over the details then, and when the taxi came he took me out to it himself.
    â€˜And when I’ve completed delivery?’ I asked.
    â€˜Then we have another little talk, oh?’
    Just over an hour later I was in the air.

Two
    MAN THE SEEKER
    1
    It was dark when I arrived in Malta, the air soft and smelling of the sea. The airport taxi took me to the Phoenicia Hotel and from there I got a bus to the yacht marina at Ta’ Xbiex. The waterfront was crowded with boats, a forest of spars standing against the night sky, and it took me some time to locate Coromandel . She was lying on the Manoel Island side between a chromium-plated gin palace and a big Italian ocean-racer. She appeared to be a conversion from some sort of fishing boat; and sandwiched between those two gleaming monsters, stern-on to the quay like all the rest, she looked her age. A light showed in the wheelhouse for’ard and my hail was answered immediately by a short, ruddy-faced man with greying hair. He was dressed in blue jeans and an old blue jersey and he came aft wiping his hands on a piece of cotton waste.
    â€˜Mr Van der Voort?’ A wooden board served as a gangplank and he put his foot on it to hold it steady as I went on board. ‘Sorry not to meet you.’ He took my case. ‘Is this all your gear?’ He seemed pleased when I said it was.
    The decks were badly worn, the bulwarks shabby, and there was paint flaking from the lockers aft. But the deckhouse itself gleamed with new varnish. ‘We slapped a second coat on this afternoon, so mind out.’