But the man who entered stopped in the doorway at the sight of the four of us grouped about the bar. He seemed rooted to the spot, his thick-set body framed in the dark gap like a statue in its niche. He was looking at Mayne. And Mayne had stiffened. His tall figure was tensed. It was only for a second. And during that second the atmosphere was electric. Then Mayne turned to the bar and ordered another round of drinks. The Greek closed the door and came over to the bar. Everything was suddenly normal again.
I was convinced Mayne and the Greek had recognised each other. But there was no indication of this as the Greek came over to us and introduced himself. He was stockily built with a round face and blue eyes that peered short-sightedly through thick-lensed, rimless glasses. His light brown hair was very thin on top and his neck was short, so that his head seemed to be set straight into the wide powerful shoulders.
He spoke good English in a low, rather thick voice. He had a way of thrusting his head forward when making a point, a mannerism which gave him a somewhat belligerent air.
Only once throughout the evening did anything occur to support my theory that he and Mayne had met before. We were discussing the revolt of the Greek Brigade in Egypt during the war. Keramikos was extremely well informed on the details of it. So well informed, in fact, that Joe suddenly emerged from a prolonged silence and said quietly, ‘You talk as though you organised the whole damned thing.’ I could have sworn the Greek exchanged a quick glance with Mayne. It was not a friendly glance. It was as though on that point they were on common ground.
One other thing occurred that night that seemed strange to me. Engles had wanted full information on the people staying at Col da Varda, so I decided to send him a photograph of them. After dinner, I persuaded Joe to get his Leica and take a few shots of the group at the bar. I told him I wanted the shots to prove to Engles that the hut would have more atmosphere than a hotel for the indoor scenes. Little Valdini was delighted when Joe came in with his camera and began posing immediately. But when Mayne and Keramikos saw it, they turned their backs and began talking earnestly. Joe asked them to face the camera and Mayne said over his shoulder, ‘We’re not part of your film company, you know.’
Joe grunted and took a few pictures. But only Valdini and Aldo were facing the camera. I began to ask him questions about the camera. I knew perfectly well how it worked, but I was determined to get a picture of those two. He let me handle it and I took it over to the bar under the light. The cuckoo suddenly sprang out of the clock. ‘Cuckoo! Cuckoo!’ Mayne and Keramikos looked up, startled, and I snapped them.
At the click of the camera, Mayne turned to me. ‘Did you take a photograph?’ he asked, and there was a note of anger in his voice.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Why?’
He looked at me hard. He had cold, light-coloured eyes.
‘He does not like being photographed,’ Valdini said, and there was malice in his tone.
Mayne’s eyes hardened with anger. But he said nothing to Valdini and turned back with a casual air to continue his conversation with Keramikos.
These are small things, but they stood out like wrong notes in a smoothly played piece of music. I had a strange feeling that all these people — Valdini, Keramikos and Mayne — were suppressing violent antipathy beneath a casual exterior.
Shortly after breakfast the next morning I left for Cortina. Mayne came with me. I had mentioned the auction to him the previous night and he had expressed a desire to come. As we were leaving, we passed Joe cursing a pair of skis on his feet. ‘Feel like a pair of canoes,’ he grumbled. ‘Six years since I did this. Doubt if my blood pressure will stand it. If I break my neck, I’ll sue Engles for it. But I can’t get the pictures I want otherwise.’ He had a small movie camera slung round his neck. ‘If I’m not back by tea-time, Neil, you’d better call out the bloodhounds. Where are you off to?’
When I told him, he gave me an old-fashioned look. ‘Far be it for me to come between you and what you apparently regard as amusement, old man,’ he said. ‘But Engles is expecting a script out of you. And he detests slow workers.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh, well, you know the man. But maybe he was less exacting in the Army. With a film unit, he just isn’t human. Why do you think I’m putting on these damned things?’
I thanked him, for he meant it kindly. He wasn’t to know that Engles had already got a script.
