It was saleable enough, Lovelace knew. He was often getting letters from Mount Street house agents asking him to allow them to offer it and holding out the prospect of interested parties who would be pleased to enter into negotiations. The place and contents, which included a few good pictures and a fairly valuable library, would bring him enough to turn his eight hundred and fifty a year income into the best part of three thousand a year. That would make life a far more pleasant affair and enable him to spend a good portion of his time at the more expensive places where most of his friends congregated when they were abroad, or to keep his end up among them in London if he wished, instead of being forced to trek from one remote portion of the globe to another by the cheapest means of travel because living was reasonable and the places of some interest when he got there.
Yet he could never bring himself to sign the letter that would place Fronds on the market. He knew that he would never make enough money himself to live there again. Long ago he had come to accept the fact that he was not the type of man who makes money and that he lacked all aptitude for business. But he had various fairly wealthy aunts and cousins who might possibly remember him substantially in their wills, although he had no real reason to expect it, and if that did happen he knew that he would never be able to forgive himself if he had parted with Fronds. Besides, he had always felt that one day he might marry and have a son. How that would improve the situation, he did not see, unless his wife happened to be an heiress. Still, as long as a son remained even a remote possibility he did not feel that it would be fair to the boy to rob him of the chance of living in the old place which had been the home of his forefathers for so many centuries, if times were better then.
With these well worn thoughts passing vaguely through his mind he dropped off to sleep again; but not for long. At half past seven Christopher roused him out once more; this time to say that Valerie was downstairs and anxious to talk to him.
Grumbling, but resigned now to the fact that further sleep was impossible, Lovelace tumbled out of bed, wrestled with the indifferent plumbing which had been installed two generations before in the small Greek hotel, and made his way down to the lounge a little after eight.
Valerie was seated in a basket chair under an old fig tree that grew in the centre of the courtyard. Her face was pale and her big eyes unnaturally sunken in the hollows beneath her level brows.
`Sorry to get you up so early,' she apologised at once, `but I simply couldn't sleep.'
Lovelace was feeling better now he was bathed, shaved and dressed. He looked at her with grave concern. `Don't worry about me, please. What about some breakfast? I'll bet you haven't had any yet.'
She shook her head. `Thanks. I've had some coffee, but I couldn't eat a thing.'
'That's nonsense,' he said firmly. `You don't go on a starvation diet when you're in the middle of one of your flying stunts, do you? You know how vital it is to keep up your strength.'
`You're right,' she admitted with a wan little smile. 'It's a bit unfair that I'm not supposed to have nerves like any ordinary woman but I've got myself to blame for that. I'll do what I can with some rolls and butter and some fruit while you're feeding, if you like.'
`Good, come on then.'
Christopher laid a hand on his arm as he was about to move in the direction of the little dining room. 'If you must eat, why not do it at the airport restaurant while they're getting Valerie's plane ready?'
They both looked at him in surprise as he hurried on: 'I didn't sleep much last night, either, so I had a chance to think the whole thing out. I've behaved abominably in dragging the two of you into this. I suppose I've become obsessed by it in a way, otherwise I'd have realised before the danger you were running on
my account. It's a bit late to apologise for that now, but I meant what I said last night about going on with it, and before I take the next step I want both of you to be safely out of Athens. That's what I came to tell you, Lovelace, when I roused you out early this morning.'
Lovelace hesitated a moment. It struck him as grimly humorous that after Valerie had persuaded him, the night before, to give his further assistance by stressing Christopher's absolute dependence on their help in carrying out the task to which his mystic idealism impelled him, they should now find a new and determined Christopher who told them politely but firmly that he meant to complete his mission on his own.
`I see,' he said slowly. `Well, I'm all for Valerie clearing out. Have been from the beginning, as you know, but I don't feel at all happy at the idea of leaving you myself.'
Christopher shrugged impatiently. `This isn't your show any longer. I mean, you've done all you promised in providing me with a perfect opportunity more as you fixed things so that I could have got away safely afterwards, and I'm very grateful to you. But I mucked it and Zarrif’s leaving Athens at midday. There's no time now to prepare another fool proof chance and I naturally don't expect you to risk your life in the attempt I've decided to make on him before he gets away.'
'Now look here!' Lovelace pushed him back into his chair and sat down himself. `Let's hear what you intend to do before we go any further.'
Christopher bent forward and spoke in a low voice although the courtyard was deserted. 'Zarrif’s going to Addis Ababa, isn't he, although we haven't the faintest idea which route he means to take. It's only the 13th today so that gives him eighteen days for his journey as he's not due there till the 1st of May. He probably intends to transact all sorts of other business on the way out, but where, we haven't the faintest notion. Once he's left Athens in his plane we're stuck. It's clear therefore that I've got to get him before he starts within the next five hours. We know already that it's impossible for me to get into his house and, seeing the sort of bird
he is, he'll probably drive to the airport in a bulletproof car, so it's not much good my standing at the gate to have a pot at him. I'd only get shot myself to no purpose by one of his gunmen. But he's got to leave his car to walk over to his plane, hasn't he? Well, that's my opportunity and I mean to take it.'
`But, Christopher!' Valerie gasped. `That's suicide! Even if you succeeded his bodyguard would shoot you down.'
Lovelace looked thoughtful. `Your reasoning's sound enough about the odds against your ever being able to trace him once he's left Athens, and about the airport being the only place that gives you any hope of doing the job here, but as Valerie says, there's not a chance in a million of your getting away afterwards.'
Christopher stood up again. `I know, but I've brought that on myself. It's the price I've to pay for acting like a squeamish fool when the going was good. I think I'd best say good bye to you both now. You'll read about what happens in the papers, I expect.'
`Sit down, you young idiot,' Lovelace snapped. `It's revolting to see you dramatize yourself like this.' He had caught Valerie's glance beseeching him to prevent the insane plan and went on more quietly.
`How can you talk so glibly of us reading about your being riddled with bullets? We both know you're doing the heroic thing sacrificing yourself for an ideal and all that. But is it necessary? Can't we think of another way?'