As they say in France, there weren't trente-six ways to get off the airfield – only one path presented itself, so we followed that. Bearing left, we suddenly walked out of the trees and got our first view of the island. And stopped in our tracks. There are things better seen from the ground than from the air, especially manmade ones. This was no exception. At the end of a windswept expanse of laval rock and scrub grass, on a low cliff over the sea, stood ... an edifice.

It looked, this house, like something that had, like the island itself, been thrust out of some hot recess of the primal sea to arrive in a kind of violent perfection in a most fitting and natural setting; the house on the island, the island on the sea. There to cool and become habitable.

Even Mueller was speechless. He couldn't get it together enough to grunt either a herrlich or a wunderbar.

"Shall we see if Zeus is home?" I said, after a moment of silence.

How do you know the age of a seashell washed up on the beach? Rough and smooth, whole and fragmented, mother-of-pearl and accretions, the seashell lies in our palm, a hieroglyph. So it was with this house; expanses of glass through which the blue sea and white cumulus clouds seemed to drift, the ancient Hellenistic columns, the white, gleaming, freshly quarried marble. Greek god or sea spider? What lived in this shell?

The path leading to the house was lined with Doric columns. I noticed that two of these, opposite each other, wore electronic sensing devices. As we passed dutifully between them, the figure of a woman appeared on the marble terrace up ahead. While obviously aware of our approach, she didn't look at us. Wearing a long, pale dress which fluttered in the wind, she stood looking out over the sea. As we came nearer I saw her touch the blond hair twined around her head as if afraid the breeze would muss it. We were hardly ten feet away when finally she turned and gave us a soft, welcoming smile.

"Please come in," she said. "You are very welcome. I am Mrs. Koundiotes." Without waiting for us to introduce ourselves, she turned and started walking into a garden that seemed to be part of the house.

"Were you expecting us?" I asked.

"I think my husband received a telex."

She had a rich, sensuous voice and an accent that could have been Greek or Slavic. Her skin was very pale but with a translucent pinkness that indicated health, not illness. She looked more like a vestal virgin than the wife of a Greek shipping tycoon.

It wasn't clear at what precise moment we entered the house. Following Mrs. Koundiotes we sometimes found ourselves in gardens with roofs over them and sometimes passed through rooms of upholstered furniture open to the sky. Walls of marble, and glass separated the spaces, but it was hard to tell whether they were internal or external walls. Fountains were everywhere.

"As we are about to eat lunch, perhaps you would care to wash up now."

It was a good idea. Surrounded with all this beauty and luxury I was beginning to think I wasn't exactly groomed for the occasion. She then showed each of us to a different room. Going through the door I found a large bathroom giving on to a small, walled garden. The room was built entirely of rose-colored marble with a large sunken marble tub in the center. As I was looking into the tub it started filling rapidly with water. I stuck in a finger. Perfect bath temperature. A hint? I smelled my armpits. Yes, maybe a hint. Or just perfect cordiality.

Glancing around I made sure there were towels available – there were, about a dozen bath size – then stripped and jumped in. Large bars of olive green soap, looking handmade and feeling full of real olive oil, filled the soap dishes. Probably it was a bath à deux or even à trois. In any case, there was enough room for a small child to do some practice swimming. The water – I tasted it because I was curious – had a faintly brackish taste. Most likely de-salinated sea water. The island probably had no fresh water of its own.

As I was drying off there was a knock on the door. "Do you have everything you need?" It was my hostess' voice.

"I think so."

"Good. We'll be having cocktails on the terrace. When you're done, just ring that little bell near the door and someone will come to show you the way."

By the time I reached the terrace a few minutes later, my friend Mueller, looking a little flushed, was being served a second whiskey and soda. From his quickness I figured he hadn't taken a bath, either because none had been offered or because, like many Germans, he bathed as seldom as possible. Or maybe he'd passed the armpit test.

As I approached the group sitting there, a short, plump Greek-looking individual rose to his feet and came to shake my hand. "Mr. Tschetter, I am Koundiotes. Welcome, welcome. Only a short while ago I received telexes saying to expect you and Mr. Mueller."

"Telexes?" I repeated in surprise.

"One from Othe, where you passed a night, or rather from near Othe, and one from Naples Airport. The latter included a query about landing conditions here, but I'm afraid I have never seen a Helio Courier and didn't know how to advise them. I hope you had no trouble."

"None at all. You have a fine strip."

"Please. What will you drink? You can have anything that comes in bottles."

"What have you got that's soft?"

"No, no. No soft drinks. You will not be flying anymore today. You are our guests. In fact, your arrival here has been observed by one member of my family who has taken a sudden overwhelming interest in airplanes and aviators. You will meet her later. She has begged me – commanded me – to offer you all our hospitality."

I had to laugh at the exaggerations. "In that case, a Scotch on the rocks would look good."

Before he could turn to tell him, the impeccable servant behind the bar was already pouring the drink. Seeing this, Koundiotes hesitated, looking slightly abashed. "Sometimes I wonder whether I'm needed here at all," he confided, chuckling.

For the next fifteen or twenty minutes the four of us engaged in light chit-chat. The Greek seemed to be learning about wrenches and pliers from his German guest, and I was filling in our gorgeous hostess on what it was like to fly a light aircraft. Given the circumstances of our visit, it was unreal, to say the least. Did Koundiotes know why we were here – that we were seeking two women and hoped to find at least one in his house? If so, he showed no sign of it, talking and chatting amiably as if we were friends dropping by for a meal.

Shortly before lunch was served, a young man and woman joined us. Without rising, our host introduced them. "I'd like you to meet my son, Orestes, and my daughter, Orena. They are of my first wife." He turned to his daughter who had flung herself down on the arm of his chair. Leaning on his shoulder she looked around at the rest of us with hostile eyes. "How is your mother feeling? Will she join us at the table?" he asked her.

"No."

"She is not feeling or she will not join us?"

"Oh, Papa," said the girl without taking her eyes off us. Only once did I see her glance in the direction of her father's new wife, who was about her age, nineteen. As for Orestes, he hardly took his eyes off his stepmother, who fastened her own gaze at the tip of her husband's shoe. I had the feeling it was interesting around here at bedtime.

Another figure appeared in the doorway, and I saw the German turn sharply, apparently expecting to see his wife. But it was only the servant announcing lunch. As we started toward the dining room, I thought I'd ask Orestes whether there were any other guests on the island.

"Oh, yes. There's Libby and her daughter and a few others. But mostly they prefer to eat in their own rooms or pavilions. If people live long enough together on an island they begin to get sick of looking at each other."

"Is one guest a young German woman called Mrs. Mueller?"

"Heidi? Yeah, she's here. She caught the flu in France. She's up now but still eats in her room."

"Mr. Mueller is her husband. He's come to take her home."

"No kidding. Did anyone tell Heidi he's here?" He called to his father. "Dad, does Heidi know her husband's here?"

Koundiotes paused. "So that is the purpose of your visit. I was wondering but didn't want to ask. No, I think she doesn't know, but I'll send her word right now."

"No, no," said Mueller. "After lunch will be fine. Don't bother."

Probably assuming Mueller had his reasons for not wanting his wife to join us, he let himself be persuaded. But before we sat down, the Greek led us out onto another small terrace off the dining room to show us that view. I took the opportunity to ask Orestes about the other woman on my list. "And Heidi's friend, Louise. Is she still here?"

"She left a few days ago in Juliette Tango."

"Any idea where to?"

He shook his head. "You'd better ask the pilot."

"Wouldn't your father know?"

"Probably not. He doesn't try to keep track of people."

Having done pretty well with the son, I thought I'd try to get a little information out of the daughter and made an effort to sit next to her at the table. But as soon as she saw me closing in she tossed her head and went around the table to sit near her brother.

"You mustn't mind my daughter," Koundiotes said. "She's at that age where she's not interested in men, only in business."

"Oh, Papa," cried the girl. And to show that he was wrong, she walked around the table and plunked herself down in the chair next to mine. "Pliz be my guest," she grimaced through clenched teeth, then burst out giggling.

"I guess it's not easy to be the daughter of a man like your father," I commented amiably to put her at ease.

Shaking her head, she wrinkled her nose and looked carefully over the table. Suddenly her face brightened. "Pass the olives, pliz," she demanded breathlessly.

With lunch there was a choice of wine or champagne or both. I'm one of those people who prefer red wine with everything, so I drank red through the fish course as well as with the steak. Nobody seemed to notice. Or else they were being polite, which is also possible, hospitality being a way of life in Greece.

During the meal I heard a chopper, so I wasn't surprised when after lunch Ari appeared to accompany me to the plane to get Mueller's and my gear. I tried to talk to him but he seemed to understand about as much English as I did Greek.

The room I was given turned out to be attached to the pink bathroom, so it was like history repeating itself, only this time no water came up in the tub when I made a precautionary fly-by. I guessed my armpits weren't sending out the right signals. After all the wine I'd drunk I felt like taking a pee and wondered whether seeing me coming the toilet would flush itself in sheer anticipation. But nothing untoward happened, and I relieved myself and went in to take a nap, which was apparently what everyone else was doing.

I'd been dozing about an hour when a movement awakened me. Opening my eyes I found Orena curled up on the bed beside me. "Good God. How long have you been here?"

She glanced at the large man's watch on her wrist. "About ten minutes. Papa says he'd like to see you."

"Now?"

She stretched lazily, looking at her watch again. "No, you've got about six hours. He never gets downstairs before nine or nine thirty. He works in his office. And then he's got that new mistress."

"I thought it was his wife."

"His wife? Of course not. My mother is his wife. You can't have two."

"She introduced herself as Mrs. Koundiotes."

"She deludes herself. Anyway, she’s too young for him. She's just a year older than me. She’d be okay for Orestes except for her pelvis."

"What's wrong with her pelvis?"

"Papa says it's not the kind you need for bearing children. He says you'd have to dismantle the pelvis to get the baby out."

"I’m sure her pelvis has other virtues."

"I'm sure," said Orena and laughed a little wildly.

It seemed like a good moment to bring this charming tête-à-tête to an end. Even if I could have gotten it on for her – which I suspected eventually I might – I wasn't sure I wanted to deflower the daughter of our cordial host. I'm not exactly Sir Galahad the Chaste, but you have to draw the line somewhere. Naked between the sheets – silk ones – with my clothes across the room, I figured I'd have to persuade her to leave rather than show her to the door.

"Why don't you go pour me a Scotch," I said. "I'll join you in a few minutes."

She seemed not to hear. Instead, she clambered across my supine form and reached for the photo of Jeanne on the night table. For a long moment she examined the photo.

"She was my wife," I told her.

"Divorced?"

"Not exactly."

She put the picture back on the table and withdrew with painful digs of the elbows back to her side of the bed. "Small world."

"Why?" I grunted, protecting my groin with both hands.

"She was here the other day."

Her words sent heat coursing through me. I tried to speak but had to force the words out. "But ... she's dead."

Orena looked at me in amazement. A flush spread over her face. "Ulp, sorry," she said. "I'll go pour your drink." Bouncing up from the bed she started toward the door.

"But you said you saw her here."

She turned and looked at me curiously, resentfully. "Not if she's dead, I didn't. It must have been someone else."

I knew she was terribly embarrassed by her faux pas, but I had to ask her to come back and look at the photograph again. "It looks like the person who was here," she told me, "but the picture's very blurred. I was mistaken."

"Are you sure?"

"If you say she's dead..."

"But if I said she wasn't. Could that be the woman you saw?"

"Maybe, but I only saw her a second. She was in Juliette Tango when it picked up this French woman who was a guest here last week. She only got out for a few minutes to stretch her legs and go to the bathroom."

"Did you notice anything special about her?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Anything. What was she wearing?"

"A skirt. A sweater. I don't really remember. She wore a cap."

'Then you couldn't see if she had bobbed hair like in this picture."

"No."

"Then what makes you think there's a resemblance?"

Orena looked again at the photograph. "The smile. That beautiful smile. At one point her dress blew way up because the chopper blades were still turning. Ali hadn't…"

"Ali?"

"One of our pilots."

"His name is Ali? Not Ari or Aristophanes?"

She laughed. "He's not even Greek. I don't know what he is, but I guess he could be Muslim with a name like that."

"How long has he worked for your father?"

"A year or two. He comes and goes with Juliette Tango, the helicopter. Does various jobs. He arrived back here today after the... after the..."

"After the what?"

"Have you heard what happened at Othe?"

"No, what?"

"I think you should ask Papa. I really shouldn't say anything."

"I was at Othe yesterday morning."

"Was everything normal?"

"I suppose so. Would I have noticed if it wasn’t?"

She laughed, getting up and crossing to the door. "Oh, I think so," she said. "You'd have noticed something. I'll get that Scotch ready." And she disappeared.

When I got to the bar a few minutes later I found Orena had left the Scotch bottle, ice, and soda on a tray for me, but wasn't there herself. More than a drink, I wanted very much to talk to that young lady again. When she didn't turn up in ten minutes, I decided to take a walk before dark.

It took me a few minutes to find the way out of the house, but soon I was climbing down a stone stairway cut into the side of the cliff. Below was a small beach and a house. Arriving at the beach I heard an English woman’s voice inside the house calling, "Anna, is that a man? Ask him what he wants."

A girl's head appeared above the porch railing, then a long, slender body about fourteen years old.

"I'm a man," I told her candidly.

"What do you want?" she asked huskily, smiling.

"Nothing."

The girl turned. "He doesn't want anything," she shouted into the house.

"What's that?" came the voice from inside.

"He doesn't want anything," repeated Anna, louder.

"Nonsense. Everybody wants something. Why shouldn't he?"

"Well then come ask him yourself."

"I'll do just that, thank you."

"Mother will be right out," she told me. Laying her cheek against a wooden support, she watched me dreamily.

A moment later a woman came out the front door. She was of medium height with brown hair parted on the side, a large bosom, and thin legs. She peered at me nearsightedly across the twenty or so feet separating us.

"I'm Brian Tschetter, a guest here," I told her, to allay any fears. "Just out for a stroll."

"Ah, I see. Tell me, is there anything two poor shipwrecked women can do for you?"

I came a few steps nearer. I'd liked her immensely on first sight. "Are you shipwrecked?"

"Do you see that stone out there?" She pointed to a jagged hunk of rock sticking out of the water a few hundred feet offshore.

"Yes."

"Well, that’s the one. Do you see something sticking out of the water just left of it?"

It took me a few seconds to identify a stick protruding from the sea. "Yes, but on the right."

"That’s correct. Well, that's the mast."

"Did it happen during a storm?"

"Broad daylight, calm seas. My husband was steering, though the boat didn't belong to us, thank heaven. To two of his clients. Serves them right for letting him have a go, says I. It could only happen to English people. They have such poor luck these days."

"Are you and your husband English?"

"He's white Rhodesian. The worst. Next to black Rhodesians, of course. Anna and I have taken up French residence. Now, what will you have to drink? We only have cognac."

By this time I was seated on their porch. "Cognac will be fine."

"With ice and water?"

"Is that the way you drink it?"

"It's the only sensible way. We have no affectations around here."

Recalling I'd drunk red wine with the fish, I figured I could take ice in my cognac if that was the local custom. "Fine with me."

"Anna dear, please bring the cognac and the glasses and the ice and the canned water."

The girl slithered off the railing and disappeared into the house, casting a lingering look back at me. "Does she know Orena?" I asked.

"They're thick as thieves, those two. Spend the entire day making up their faces and changing clothes. But tell me, Mr. Tschetter…"

"Chet," I interjected.

"Chet. What brings you to Io Sirena?"

"My airplane."

"Was that you I saw today just before lunch? I said to Anna, "That's what we need to get us off this effing island."

"Are you stuck here or something?"

"Marooned is the word. We've been marooned here for over a fortnight already. We’ve almost put down roots."

"But what about the helicopter? Can't you fly out in that?"

She gave a thin, high shriek. "A helicopter! Me in a helicopter? Not very likely. I wouldn't go up in one of those for all the tea in Fortnam and Mason's."

"What about taking a boat?"

"Never again. Do you see that rock? And mind you, it was a perfectly clear day with hardly a breeze. No." She sighed. "Anna and I are going to cling to this island ... thank you, dear, now fetch the opener like a good little pou ... until we can cling no longer.'

"If you want, I'd be happy to fly you and Anna out."

"That’s very kind of you, Mr. Tschetter, but nothing, nothing in the world, would get me up in an airplane. I'd have to be drugged."

"I think we should drug her," said Anna, taking the opener from her pocket and holding it up in front of her mother's face. "I'm tired of this place."

"Mind your tongue, Anna. We'll be here until your dear father devises some way to remove us which doesn’t involve flying or taking a boat. Or swimming, for that matter."

"She's slightly dotty," confided the girl, tapping her forehead meaningfully.

"Anna, don't you have homework to do?"

"Of course not. There's no school here."

"Then go look at the chicken."

"The chicken's fine. I just looked at it.

"Mr. Tschetter ... "

"Call me Chet, I reminded her.

"And I'm Libby. Tell me, Chet, have you come here on holiday?"

"Not exactly. And you? What do you do with yourself all day?"

"Visit the digs."

"The digs? Archaeological digs?"

"That’s the kind."

"Do you ... dig?"

"Not a chance. I supervise while the others work. They've found quite a few pieces. It’s really most interesting."

"Do you catalogue what they find?"

"Heavens no. I’m no archaeo-thing-a-ma-bob. I can just manage to count them if they line them up in a short row. On the other hand, I’m quite useful keeping them from getting broken once they’re out."

"Since coming here, have you seen much of our host? Enough to form an opinion?"

"You mean Mr. Koundiotes. Top class. Really top class. He couldn’t have been kinder to Anna and me. Is he here now?"

"Yes."

"I think he comes rarely to Io Sirena. His wife lives here and his daughter, but his son and he come and go. He has two demoiselles who accompany him in shifts, and then there are always guests. Anna keeps me informed on what goes on at the house. She's a perfect spy."

"Then maybe she can help me." I turned to the girl who was sitting with her feet drawn up beside her, her prematurely mature legs very visible. "Last week a helicopter arrived to pick up a Frenchwoman guest called Louise. Did you see it arrive?"

"Yes."

"Did you see a woman get out of it?"

"You mean Jeanne?"

I could feel the blood leave my face. I stared at the girl. My voice came out hardly a whisper. "Was her name Jeanne?"

"That's what Louise called her."

"You heard it? The name Jeanne?"

"There was a terrible wind from the propeller. The woman who got out was wanting a loo. Louise called Jeanne, Jeanne, go behind the bushes." I think they were in a hurry because it was going to be night soon and they had to get to Athens. Is something wrong?"

I'd risen from my chair and turned my back so that they wouldn't see my face. Jeanne was alive? That scene in the morgue – could it have been faked? Perhaps she hadn't been dead. But why had she done it? Why?

Hardly pausing to bid Libby and Anna goodbye, I started up the cliffside steps toward the house. My brain was on fire. Jeanne, alive. She had been here on this very island. But what was the reason behind all this secrecy? Why her faked death? Obviously she was involved in something dangerous, perhaps something illicit. Drugs? I couldn't believe it. She must be the victim of some gang.

Good Lord, I thought, could they have tricked her into white slavery? Anna said Jeanne and Louise were leaving for Athens, but had they then gone farther East? Terry had given me charts all the way to the Middle East. Had she suspected something like this? Had she sent me to find Louise and Heidi before it was too late, before they disappeared into some eastern brothel? If Ali was mixed up in this, then I wouldn't be able to get anything out of him. But perhaps Heidi could tell me something. I had to find her and talk to her.

Entering the bar I saw Mueller on one of the stools conversing with Orena. Putting on as natural an air as I could manage, I joined them. "Hey," I said to Orena, "you ran out on me."

Still unable to look me in the eye, she mumbled some excuse. I turned to Mueller. "Have you seen your wife?"

"I have the word of Mr. Koundiotes that my wife will see me tomorrow afternoon," replied the German. "Tonight she will be making up her alibi and tomorrow morning she will be washing her hair. Fortunately I am very much in love with Heidi or I assure you I wouldn't come here on my knees to bring her home with me."

"On your knees?"

"My wife must be treated with great care. At the least excuse she will gulp down sleeping pills or throw herself across a train track. She is an emotional child, full of whims."

"Then tomorrow you'll be wanting me to fly you both to Athens to catch a plane back to, Germany."

"We will see. We will see. I have a little business to do in the Middle East. Possibly you will allow my wife and me to accompany you to Beirut since your own business seems to be taking you there."

"That's news to me."

"Oh." The German smiled. "I forgot to mention it. I. had a call a short while ago from Mrs. Rolland. She has learned that the lady you are seeking is in Beirut."

I could feel my face drain of blood again. Did he mean Jeanne? "The lady I'm seeking?" I asked him carefully.

"Louise."

"Oh, yes. Of course." Thoughts of my wife being alive had erased everything else from my mind, even the job I was being paid to do. The thought that Louise had gone to Beirut, and Jeanne probably with her, wasn't reassuring. White slave traffickers are often Lebanese; women encounter them on the left bank in Paris. This had sometimes happened to Jeanne, and she'd told me about it. I wished I could talk to Terry Roland myself and learn whether my fears were justified.

"Where was Terry Rolland calling from?" I asked. "Othe?"

"Ah, no. I forgot to mention that to you also. Othe burned down last night.

"Burned down!"

"That's what I meant before," Orena said.

"Mrs. Rolland said something about an explosion. Vandals, I suppose."

"Vandals? With explosives?"

"Possibly they were terrorists," shrugged the German. "There was a great deal of explosive used. The cook was killed, but Mrs. Rolland happened to be outside at the time and wasn't touched."

"Christ."

This assignment, which had started off as something out of the ordinary – not just a simple divorce or default of payment case – was developing into something even stranger. I was beginning to realize that I hadn't been picked for this job just because Terry had happened to see an article about me and my plane in the Trib. She'd picked me because Jeanne was involved in some way. But on which side? Was Jeanne the victim or, just as awful, the perpetrator?

Because otherwise, why choose me? Not just because I had a plane and could land on Io Sirena. Any other detective could have hired a helicopter or even taken a boat. If Terry'd been in a hurry, as she said, to get the matter settled, then maybe it was more convenient this way. But still it didn't make sense.

Dark-haired Orena, dressed this evening in flowing black silk pants and shirt, her throat shimmering with natural pearls, had been listening to our conversation. "Papa learned about the explosion last night," she told us with a toss of her head.

"How?"

"I don't know," she admitted. Apparently embarrassed by her lack of information, she turned and started sliding ashtrays around on the slick surface of the bar.

The golden atomic clock on the wall had just flashed 2100 hours when Koundiotes entered the room. Dressed in dark trousers and a striped silk smoking jacket, he looked brisk, happy, and elegant, a man in control of his destiny. Just behind him came his son, taller and handsomer, but walking with a slouch like an accountant, his face sallow and sunken with the problems of youth.

The five of us were joined for dinner by Koundiotes' wife, the mother of Orena and Orestes. She was a short, broad woman of about forty with a round, flat face. Unable or unwilling to speak English, she said only a minimum in Greek, giving cursory orders to her children and servants and never changing her stern, fierce expression.

Koundiotes, a model of courtesy and attention, scolded the children and servants for any imagined oversight or carelessness toward her. For this reason the dinner was a strain on everyone, and I for one breathed a sigh of relief when, dessert over, Mrs. Koundiotes stood up and took her leave.

Telling Orena and Orestes to accompany their German guest to the bar, Koundiotes drew me aside to a small, denlike room where, by pulling closed the drapes, he blotted out the black rectangle of night.

"You have heard about Othe?" he asked me, pouring us each a cognac.

"Mueller told me. Apparently Terry Rolland told him. I'm awfully sorry."

Koundiotes shrugged. "Obviously it represents a loss, more for France than for myself. France has lost an architectural treasure and one of her best cooks. I was insured. On the other hand, I never knew what to do with the place. I bought it – how do you say? – on impulse. A French friend had died and his widow was wanting to sell the house very quickly for whatever price. I bought it partly out of desire to help, partly because it is ... was ... a beautiful house. I thought I should own some property in France in case the political situation in my country ever got out of hand. So I bought it. In fact, my wife wanted very much that I buy it. But we had only been there two or three times. As soon as we owned it she lost interest in going there."

"How did you meet Terry Rolland?" I asked him.

"Meet? That isn't quite the word. One doesn't 'meet' help. She answered an ad I'd placed in a newspaper. It isn't easy finding servants who will stay in a place like Othe. Both she and the cook received generous salaries."

"Would you refer to Terry as a 'servant'?" I looked at him in surprise.

"Well, then, call her a housekeeper if you wish. She still polishes the silver and changes the sheets."

My surprise turned to amazement. "Is that her job?

"What did you think?"

"Well, she ... she wasn't, uh, dressed like a house-keeper."

"Then I suppose she had found some of my wife's clothes. My wife left some things at the house because we would go there in the Bell with the children, and there wasn't much luggage room. In any case, what difference does it make now? No more clothes. No more house. At least someone was able to use them. I'm just glad she got out alive."

I sipped my cognac. Whatever Libby's opinion, it still tasted better without ice. "This Frenchwoman, Louise, and Heidi," I said, "they were at Othe, too, weren’t they?"

"Possibly. But you know, we have so many guests that I really don't keep track. My wife sees to that sort of thing. Yes, I think Louise and Heidi were at Othe. Yes, they must have been, because Ali picked them up and brought them here."

"But are they friends of yours?"

"I really haven't the slightest idea. Friends of friends of friends. I have no time to make friends of my own, so I welcome those who come for any reason. Without them an island can be a lonely place. Does it matter?"

"No, certainly not. And Jeanne?" I tried to keep any trace of emotion out of my voice as I mentioned the name.

"Who?"

"Jeanne. I think she's a friend of Louise and Heidi."

He shook his head. "Perhaps she has been here. As I say, I'm seldom here myself and so many come and go." He smiled suddenly. "Have you met this funny woman called Libby and her daughter?"

"Yes. I met them on the beach."

"A most extraordinary person. Fate brought her to my shores. I think she will live on Io Sirena forever. She refuses to set foot in either a helicopter or boat." He laughed delightedly. "There's room for them here, of course, but what will she do with herself, poor woman, for the next thirty or forty years? And this is no place for a young girl. She should be in school."

"The daughter suggested I drug her mother and fly her out."

Koundiotes nodded. "That's one solution. Perhaps just Dramamine. She's very nervous. Any calmant would probably work. Though I must say, I like having her here. I'm hoping she will join us in a little fun."

"Fun?"

"Yes. Tomorrow we are having a sort of hunt. It depends upon the weather as to which it will be, inside or outside."

"A hunt? Does the island have game?"

"The best kind. Haven't you noticed? The island is full of women."

"You go after them with guns?"

He laughed delightedly. "Not with guns, no. We have other things that shoot, no? No?"

"I've never tried for range," I warned him.

Throwing back his head, he chuckled. "It will really be a very tame affair," he promised me. "We Greeks enjoy ourselves when there is only a minimum of physical exertion. The quarry must be willing to be caught, for we are not monsters. The hunt is mostly in the head and the imagination, not in the legs."

"Then where's the game found?"

"That I will tell each one tomorrow. There must be no mixups. To each his own. I have my own. You saw her last night. What do you think?"

"Beautiful."

"Yes, very special. Tomorrow is my birthday. That is why I am here now on Io Sirena. Then after the hunt my wife will join us at supper."

"I may be gone by that time."

The Greek looked genuinely disappointed. "Are you flying away? No, no. Stay on here a while. Stay another month. I will be going off the day after tomorrow and then no men will be left on the island. That Englishwoman would certainly welcome your presence. As for my daughter, Orena, the moment she saw you land she ran to me begging me to offer you all our hospitality.''

"I'm not on Io Sirena to amuse the ladies," I reminded him.

"No, you have brought that German to see his wife. That is a very odd situation. I do not even know who this girl is. I've only seen her for a few minutes. She has been ill and remains in her room."

"Her husband thinks she's here having an affair. The result of a Monopoly game on a rainy afternoon."

"A Monopoly game?"

"Doesn't that mean anything to you? I thought you were one of the players."

"Me? I haven't played Monopoly since the children were small."

"There wasn't a game last week at Othe?"

"Perhaps. I have not been at Othe for at least two months. Who has been telling you these things? Anyway, this German can eliminate me from his list of her possible lovers. And I think he need not worry that it is my son. Then it leaves only some cooks and servants. They are of a very low class, and I think really not, if you know what I mean."

"I'm sure Mueller doesn't suspect you or your family or staff. But maybe someone else was on the island, or still is. If he came in your helicopter, Ali might know."

"Plural. Helicopters. We are a two-copter family."

"I've only seen one."

"They come and go on their various duties. The callsign on mine is Bravo Romeo. The one my wife uses is Juliette Tango. When I need one I whistle and it comes flying to me."

"Not bad."

"Bravo Romeo is having an overhaul and inspection, unless it is already done. Juliette Tango is here, I believe. I think I heard her arrive during lunch."

"You don't keep very close tabs on their whereabouts?"

"Mr. Tschetter, when you have a four-member family with only two helicopters it is impossible to keep track. My wife and daughter may wish to go shopping in Rome. My son might have an amorous rendezvous on Crete. I only insist that when I need transportation one airworthy helicopter and one healthy, sober pilot be available. It is not much to ask, no?"

"No," I agreed sympathetically. "It’s not much to ask at all."

It was after midnight when I returned to my room. I was hoping the bathtub would do its act. I'm not a bathing fetishist, but I suspected that if I were to accept Koundiotes' invitation and remain another month on Io Sirena, I'd become one.

As I entered my room I could see from the company sitting there that all ablutions were postponed.

"Good evening." The accent was pure German.

She was young and blond, willowy and distraught. The ravages of flu still showed in her beautiful but puffy face. "Good evening," I replied. "You're Heidi, I presume."

She ignored my words, searching my face with her eyes, restless, seeming about to rise, then settling deeper into her chair. "You're the pilot of the plane that landed here today?"

"That's affirmative."

"I want you to fly me to Athens tonight. I'll pay you."

"Tonight? With the amount of booze I've drunk this evening?"

"I'll take the chance."

"You will, but what about me? Besides," I lied, "my plane isn't equipped for night flying. I'm not even sure I'd be able to find it down there on the strip."

"I have a flashlight."

"Fine. Maybe you have runway lights, too. Anyway, what's so important it can't wait until morning?"

She didn't answer, just looked at me with an expression of disappointment and frustration.

"Besides," I said, "you promised Koundiotes you'd see your husband tomorrow afternoon. I know he's looking forward to it."

Her face reddened slightly and I thought for a moment tears were coming. "He would have to come here," she said. "I don't want to see him. He doesn't understand."

Talking of her husband, her face took on a sort of glow. If it had been any other man but Mueller, I'd have said she loved him. Well, who can tell. Maybe lovely young things do sometimes get daughter-father complexes about fat old men like Mueller. "He thinks you're having an affair here."

"I guessed that," she replied softly. "But it's not true. It's not." This time the tears really did fill her eyes. Somehow she controlled them. "Please, take me away so that I don't have to see him. It would only complicate things."

"You really love him."

She didn't reply. She didn't have to. The tears spilled over, writing "love" all the way down her face.

If I hadn't been drinking, if it hadn't been nearly one in the morning, if I'd had any idea about Greek night-flying regulations, and if I hadn't wanted to learn a few things from this young woman myself, I probably would have gone straight to the Helio and flown her to Athens. If I'd known then what I was to learn later, I'd have done it anyhow, drinks, hour, rules be damned.

"Do you know someone called Jeanne?" I asked suddenly, watching her face. I'm sure my words had an impact, but she rolled with it smoothly.

"Jeanne who?" she asked lightly, not looking at my face.

"Jeanne Tschetter."

Her eyes worked their way slowly away from the floor, up my trousers and at last met mine. Her expression was absolutely bland. "No."

"I'm her husband."

"Is that right? Well, it seems like the world is full of husbands looking for their wives."

"I didn’t say I was looking for her. I asked if you knew her."

"And I said no. And it's no." She got up out of the chair and smiled amicably at me. "Well, Mr. Tschetter, is that a date?"

"Is what a date?"

"You'll fly me to Athens in the morning? Early?"

"I didn’t say that. As far as I know both of us have appointments on Io Sirena tomorrow afternoon. If there's a seat available when I fly out of here, you can have it. You can go all the way to Beirut with me if you want, provided your husband comes along. How would you like to visit Beirut? I hear your friend is there."

"What friend?" she asked breathlessly.

"Louise."

She was silent. I watched her face but she wasn’t giving anything away. After a moment she seemed to pull herself together. "Well, Mr. Tschetter, thank you very much for your help. I'm sorry I bothered you." She started toward the door.

"Heidi," I said, following her, "talk to your husband tomorrow. Don't go off and do something rash that you’ll regret. I have a feeling you're getting into something that’s way over your head. If you love him, go home with him before it's too late."

She paused with one hand on the doorknob and looked at me, a long, sad look. Then, without a word, she went out. I was never to see her alive again.