Passage by Night - Jack Higgins [50]
Manning paused to light a cigarette. When he looked up, she turned slowly and stared at him, never more lovely, the strange light playing across her face. She whispered his name once and stumbled towards him and they came together naturally and easily at the water's edge. Her hands pulled his head down as her mouth sought his and he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the beach. When he laid her down in the hollow between two rocks, her face was wet with tears.
As they went through the palm trees and down through the gardens into town, they walked hand in hand. Her dress was stained with salt water and badly crumpled. She paused to examine herself in the light from a window.
'I'll have to change as soon as we get back. I don't want to shock my father in his old age.'
She smiled delightfully and Manning was filled with a sudden rush of tenderness. 'Any regrets?'
She shook her head gravely. 'What about you?'
He smiled and reached out to touch her face. 'What do you think?'
They took a shortcut through the gardens at the back of one of the hotels. He could hear the splash of water from a fountain hidden amongst the bushes and the air was heavy with the scent of night, filling him with an aching longing for something that was always out there beyond the darkness, never close enough to touch.
He paused to light a cigarette and she turned, her face revealed for a few seconds only as the match flared. She gazed at him steadily, her eyes reflecting the light so that it was impossible to see beneath the surface. When he spoke, he realized that out of some strange instinct she had sensed his mood.
She placed a hand on his arm, holding him for a moment. 'What happened back there - it didn't mean a thing. As far as I'm concerned, you're as free as you ever were.'
'I know, Anna. I know.'
He had the feeling she expected more, but there was nothing he could think of. At least nothing that would have reassured her. They continued their way in silence.
The Caravel was a blaze of lights, the sound of voices and carefree laughter echoing through the night, mingling with the gay, pulsating rhythm of the goombay.
They paused at the bottom of the steps leading up to the entrance. 'I'll only be a couple of minutes,' he said. 'I want a word with Morrison.'
In the strange distorted light thrown out by the Chinese lanterns that swung from the branches of the sea-almond trees, it was impossible to analyse her expression and yet he knew that, in some strange way, she had stepped firmly away from him.
'I'll go on ahead,' she said. 'We won't have much time to get ready.'
He tried to think of something to say, but nothing would come to mind. What did she want with him, this dark, lovely girl? What had happened had been in another time, another place. Better to leave it like that.
'I'll see you down there then,' he said and she turned and merged with the darkness.
He paused at the reception desk for some cigarettes and noticed that Morrison's key still hung on the board. He went upstairs, a slight frown on his face, wondering what the hell the American was playing at.
He was still frowning when he went into his room and turned on the light. There was no sign of Orlov. The coverlets on the bed and been pulled neatly into place and the French windows stood open to the night.
He went back downstairs and paused at the reception desk again. 'The gentleman who was sharing my room? Have you seen him this evening?'
'He went out about a half hour ago, sir.'
Manning frowned, a tiny flicker of alarm moving inside him. 'Was he on his own?'
The clerk shook his head. 'Oh, no, sir. He was with Mr Morrison, the American gentleman staying in 105.'
Manning turned away, relief surging through him and went into the bar. He lit a cigarette and ordered a barcardi. As the barman brought it,