Athens from all over the world. Skouri himself had been interviewed six times—each time
in a different language. His answers had been translated into German, English, Japanese,
French, Italian and Russian. He had just begun to enjoy his new celebrity when the
Commissioner had called to inform him that he felt it was unwise for the Chief of Police
to comment publicly on a murder trial that had not yet taken place. Skouri was sure that
the Commissioner’s real motivation was jealousy, but he had prudently decided not to
press the issue and had refused all further interviews. However, the Commissioner
certainly could not complain if he, Skouri, happened to be at the airport at the center of
activity while the newsreel cameras were photographing the arriving celebrities.
As the car sped down Sygrou Avenue and swung left at the sea toward Phaleron,
Skouri felt a tightening in his stomach. They were now only five minutes from the airport.
He mentally checked over the list of celebrities who would be arriving in Athens before
nightfall.
Armand Gautier was suffering from airsickness. He had a deep-seated fear of flying
that stemmed from an excessive love of himself and his life and that, combined with the
turbulence usually found off the coast of Greece in summer, had made him violently
nauseous. He was a tall, ascetically thin man with scholarly features, a high forehead and a
perpetually sardonic mouth. At twenty-two Gautier had helped create La Nouvelle Vague
in France’s struggling movie industry and in the years that followed had gone on to even
bigger triumphs in the theater. Now acknowledged as one of the world’s greatest directors,
Gautier lived his role to the hilt. Until the last twenty minutes it had been a most pleasant
flight. The stewardesses recognizing him had catered to his needs and had let him know
they were available for other activities. Several passengers had come up to him during the
flight to say how much they admired his films and plays, but he was most interested in the
pretty English University student who was attending St. Anne’s at Oxford. She was
writing a thesis on the theater for her master’s and had chosen Armand Gautier as her
subject. Their conversation had gone well until the girl had brought up the name of Noelle
Page.
“You used to be her director, didn’t you?” she said. “I hope I can get into her trial. It’s
going to be a circus.”
Gautier found himself gripping the sides of his seat, and the strength of his reaction
surprised him. Even after all these years the memory of Noelle evoked a pain in him that
was as sharp as ever. No one had ever touched him as she had, and no one ever would
again. Since Gautier had read of Noelle’s arrest three months earlier, he had been able to
think of nothing else. He had cabled her and written her, offering to do whatever he could
to help, but he had never received a reply. He had had no intention of attending her trial,
but he knew he could not stay away. He told himself that it was because he wanted to see
whether she had changed since they had lived together. And yet he admitted to himself
there was another reason. The theatrical part of him had to be there to view the drama, to
watch Noelle’s face as the judge told her whether she was to live or die.
The metallic voice of the pilot came over the intercom to announce that they would