The Greek Key tac-6

by Colin Forbes

  Nick drove into a small square with a muddle of buildings on three sides. The fourth side was open to a large level area littered with stones. The Parthenon Temple, perched on the Acropolis, was an ancient silhouette against the darkening sky.

  'Monastiraki Square,' Nick announced. 'We park here and walk back to Giorgos' place. That way we surprise him. And parking is difficult.'

  'Damn near impossible,' commented Marler.

  Nick led them a short distance along a narrow street, then he turned up a wide paved alley sloping IIK. C a ramp, lined with more eating places, more bouzouki. Newman and Marler strolled behind him and suddenly he stopped, held up a hand.

  'Something is going on. Look at the crowd. We must be careful.'

  'Where does he live?' Newman asked.

  'Down that alley to the right. You see that car?'

  The police vehicle was empty, parked half on the worn stone pavement. The crowd filled the street, was stationary, was staring down the alley Nick had indicated. They joined the crowd. Newman drew back, mounted the two steps at the entrance to a restaurant to see over the heads. He sucked in his breath.

  A macabre sight. Beneath an old metal wall lantern attached to the side of the alley stood a large wine barrel. From the top projected two legs, bent at the knees. The legs were clad in black trousers, which had concertinaed, exposing tanned skin.

  'What is it?' Marler asked, perching beside Newman.

  'Look for yourself…'

  Uniformed police swirled in the narrow confines of the alley. Several formed a cordon, holding back the crowd. Two stood on either side of the barrel. As Newman and Marler watched they took hold of the legs, slowly hauled up the rest of the body. Black hair dangled from the upended head.

  Nick came close to Newman, whispered, 'I'll get in there. I know a couple of those police. Back in a minute…'

  As he shouldered his way through the crowd the two policemen laid the body on the stone cobbles carefully, face up. Nick spoke to one of the police in the cordon, was let through, walked up the alley, which was a flight of steps, stopping beside the barrel.

  'Looked a trifle queasy,' Marler remarked, and lit a cigarette. 'Did you notice?'

  'The body's hair? Lank and dripping. Some liquid dripped off the shoulders when they hauled it out.'

  'And since it is a wine barrel one might assume that's what it contains. Wine.'

  After a few minutes Nick shook hands with both policemen and pushed his way back through the crowd. He used a handkerchief to wipe sweat off his head as he stood close to them.

  'It's Giorgos. He didn't die too easily. They reckon he was grabbed, upended and lowered into that barrel. It is more than half full of wine. They drowned him in it. Held him with his legs kicking, I suppose. Held him upside down until he stopped struggling. Drowned. Then left him like that – legs crooked over the barrel's rim. Someone decided to make an example of him. To keep your mouth shut.'

  'They certainly made their point,' Marler observed coolly.

  'Let's get out of here,' said Newman.

  He felt sick as they made their way back to the car. The shops were still open, shops selling a load of junk as far as Newman could see. Wicker baskets, leather bags, sponges. The shops were crammed between the tavernas. The bouzouki music had become louder, reminded Newman of a funeral march. The crowds were denser. Suddenly the Plaka had become a nightmare.

  'Back to the hotel, Nick,' he said as they sank into the car. 'Back to civilization and peace.'

  Peace was the last thing they found when they returned to the Grande Bretagne.

  7

  Marler and Nick stood in the corridor while Newman unlocked his door and walked into the room. They followed and Newman stood stock still, his expression grim.

  Two men in civilian clothes were searching the room, checking inside drawers, examining the wardrobe. A third man, also in civilian clothes, sat smoking a cigarette. Hawk-nosed, in his thirties, dark-haired, thin and long-legged, his old friend, Chief Inspector Peter Sarris of Homicide, regarded him with no particular expression. He made no attempt to get up, to shake hands. Bad sign.

  'May I ask what the hell is going on?' Newman demanded.

  'You will all sit down in separate chairs. Not on the couch. No one will speak unless I ask him a question. This is a murder investigation. What is going on?' he continued in the same level tone. 'Surely it is obvious. Bob? We are searching your room. Before you ask, I have a warrant.'

  'Best do as His Lordship says,' Newman told his companions.

  'No need for sarcasm,' Sarris continued in perfect English.

  'I'd have thought there was every need. You expect me to like this? And tell those goons of yours I expect them to replace everything exactly as they find it.'

  'Be careful to leave everything neat – the way you find it,' Sarris said in Greek to the two searchers, then switched back to English.

  'Only you are permitted to speak, Bob. Where have you just returned from?'

  'You know the answer to that question. The Plaka.'

  'And how would I know that?' enquired Sarris.

  'Because the Volvo police car parked near the alley where Giorgos' body was found had a radio. One of the policemen was staring at me. I'm sure he recognized me. My picture has been in enough newspapers in the past. And my guess is Giorgos had something on him which showed he worked for the Grande Bretagne. One of the uniformed police radioed in to headquarters, reported to you…'

  'That's enough,' Sarris said quickly. 'I know you are a top foreign correspondent, but you'd have made a good detective.'

  '… and this is Marler, my assistant, learning his trade…' Newman was talking rapidly before he could be stopped. 'My driver Nick I have used on previous visits…'

  'I said shut up…'

  '… and this afternoon we used him to take us on a peaceful tour round Piraeus and the port of Zea…'. '.' said shut up!' Sarris, livid, was on his feet. He gave the instructions rapidly in Greek to the searchers. 'One of you take the Englishman there to his room. This Greek, Nick, is to be taken immediately to a police car and held at headquarters.' As his men moved, he stood over Newman. 'I have one more word out of you and you will find yourself inside a police cell.'

  'On what charge?' Newman enquired amiably.

  'Suspicion of accessory to a murder…'

  'Which one? Harry Masterson's?'

  Newman shot out the words as Marler and Nick were bundled out of the room. In time for both to hear what he said. Sarris waited until the door closed and then offered Newman a cigarette, took one himself and sagged back into the same chair.

  Did you have to do that?'

  'Do what? I thought you wanted information.'

  'You're a bastard.' Sarris spoke in a resigned tone. 'But a clever bastard. When you've finished your cigarette you will have to come to police headquarters.'

  'Why waste time? Let's get on with it…'

  Outside the hotel Sarris was in time to stop Nick being taken away in a police car. 'Where is your own vehicle?' he asked.

  'Parked down the hill. The silver Mercedes…'

  'You will drive it to police headquarters. One of my men will accompany you.'

  Sarris drove Newman by himself in an unmarked police car. He began chatting amiably as soon as they drew away from the kerb.

  'I have to do this, I'm afraid, Bob. How long is it since you were last here?'

  'Two, three years. I'm not sure,' Newman replied vaguely.

  'I can see you are going to be difficult to interrogate. Maybe one of your companions will be more forthcoming. You will all be interrogated separately…'

  'Bully for you…'

  'A little cooperation would help all round.'

  'Not after you searched my room without waiting for me.'

  'We have a new police headquarters. Very modern. All the latest equipment.'

  'Bully for you…'

  'It's on Alexandras Avenue. Built about a year ago.'

  'You make
it sound like the bloody Hilton.'

  'There are some similarities. Although not with the Athens Hilton. One of the places your hired snoopers visited when asking where Harry Masterson stayed.'

  'Keep talking…'

  Sarris gave up. Skilfully he drove through the night. Headlights appeared, flashed past them. They were on Alexandras now. Close to the football stadium on the opposite side a small colossus of a building faced with white marble loomed. A very modern rectangular block twelve storeys high it soared up towards the night sky above a vast entrance hall. No premium on space for government buildings in Athens, Newman thought as he followed Sarris inside.

  To the left was a reception counter. A uniformed policeman hastily donned his peaked cap. Sarris led Newman to an inner lobby with a bank of four lifts on the right-hand side. His office on the eighth floor overlooked Alexandras. Sarris used an intercom to order coffee.

  'Now,' he said, facing the seated Newman across his desk, 'may we start at the beginning?'

  'We arrived in Athens.

  4 a.m. Sarris in his crumpled shirt-sleeves was showing signs of strain. The ash tray was crammed with his cigarette stubs. Only one of them belonged to Newman.

  'So,' Sarris summed up, 'it comes to this. You came here to investigate the accidental death of Harry Masterson, sensing a story. Marler came to learn the ropes, despite his being described on his passport as an insurance executive?'

  'I told you. He's fed up with that job. He wants a more adventurous life.'

  The murdered man, Giorgos, took an interest as soon as you arrived at the Grande Bretagne. He saw the photograph you showed the receptionist. Later, he tried to get information from your driver, Nick. You thought he could be a lead. So Nick found out where he lived from reception. You went there with your two companions to question him. You were too late?'

  'End ot story.'

  'Bob, you really should have been a barrister. You so neatly make all the facts fit what I know…'

  'Presumably because they do fit.' Newman drank more coffee. His fifth cup. 'Haven't we just about covered everything – except for what happened to Harry Masterson? An accident, you said.'

  'I gave you the official explanation at the moment. He was murdered.'

  Newman, cup raised, stared at the Greek. For the first time since the interrogation had begun he was taken aback.

  'You change your mind quickly, Peter.'

  Sarris stood up, wearily stretched himself, then leaned over the desk, spread both hands flat and stared straight back. His tone changed, became grim, almost spitting out the words.

  'You think I have lost my touch? Homicide is my profession, my business. I'm supposed to be able to recognize murder when I see it. You think I park my backside here all day? Let me tell you something. I've visited Cape Sounion. No one with the savvy Masterson had staggers round above that cliff and walks over it. And I met Masterson by chance.'

  'When? Where?'

  That night at the Hilton when he pretended to be high as a kite, did his death-defying walk along the rail beyond the entrance hall. I was attending a party. When I walked into the Hilton Masterson was just beginning that charade. I watched him. I tackled him afterwards, asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. Drunk? He was more sober than I am now after all that coffee. I talked with him for maybe ten minutes. He was able, tough, alert and street-wise. And he had the women in the palm of his hand.'

  'Women? Any particular woman that night?'

  'Christina Gavalas couldn't get enough of him. More coffee? You look shaken…'

  A few minutes later. Sarris stood by the window, had opened the blinds. The first light, the false dawn, was casting a glow over the dead city. The peak of Mount Lycabettus was a massive silhouette in the distance.

  'Why?' Newman asked. 'Why the official line that it was an accident?'

  'The tourist industry is sacred to Greece, the billions of foreign currency it brings in, a commodity we're a little short of…'

  'Oh Christ! Not the Jaws syndrome again?'

  'The film about a shark off a resort island in America. The mayor didn't want to know about any sharks. Again, it might have frightened the tourists away.'

  'Ah, yes, I remember. I see what you mean. Yes, there is a similarity. Murder – especially of an Englishman -would be bad publicity. The British come here like lemmings.'

  'So you buried the case?' Newman said bitterly.

  'You will apologize for that insult.' Sarris left the window, stormed back to his desk and sat upright in his chair. 'The case is not closed for me. No mealy-mouthed politician gives orders here.. .'

  'You have your apology. Unreservedly.'

  'It is early in the morning.' Sarris made a resigned gesture. 'We are both fully stretched. But maybe now you understand why I hauled you in? Informers – more than one – had told me men were going round the hotels showing Masterson's photo, asking where he had stayed. I had one in that chair, accused him of being an accessory to murder. He told me Nick was his employer. I phone the Grande Bretagne. They tell me you are the one who hired Nick.

  Then I get another call from my men in the Plaka, investigating a particularly brutal murder – and he tells me he has recognized you. Now, do you think I do my job?'

  'OK, Peter. You move fast. I'll give you that. Ever heard of Petros Gavalas?'

  'Why?'

  'I did my homework back in London before I came out. You're not the only one who does his job properly.'

  'And you found the wolf has his lair north of Cape Sounion – where Masterson was killed?' Sarris had walked over to a filing cabinet. Unlocking it, he sifted through several files, extracted a glossy print from one, laid it on the desk before Newman. 'Petros.'

  Newman stared at the print. He had rarely seen a picture which made such impact. A head-and-shoulders photo, the subject gazing away from the camera. An aged, ageless man. Like a prophet from the Old Testament. A great crooked beak of a nose, the eyes large and glowing under thick eyebrows, the face long, terminating in a heavy jaw. A bushy moustache above a thin wide mouth, the lips clamped tight.

  'He didn't know his picture was being taken?'

  'No,' Sarris admitted. 'We used a telephoto lens from inside an unmarked police van.'

  'So he has a track record?'

  'No, he hasn't.' Sarris pulled his shirt away from under his left armpit. Despite the open windows beyond the blinds, and a fan whirling overhead, the room was like an oven. The big heat was building up.

  'Then why do you have his picture?'

  'We think he could be trouble. One day. He has many hectares on his big farm in the wilderness. He rules it like a private kingdom – fief? Is that the word? I thought so. Armed men on horses patrol this kingdom to keep out intruders. They say they carry guns for shooting vermin -birds which feed on the figs. He hates what he calls the English. Holds them responsible for the death of his son, Andreas, on Siros. An explosive situation.'

  'And his granddaughter, Christina, was with Masterson?'

  That night at the Hilton? Yes. I don't know why. Maybe she just fancied him. She is a very beautiful woman. And now, perhaps you should go home with the others.'

  Sarris took the photo, put it back in its file, relocked the cabinet. He poured more coffee from a fresh pot brought in by a girl.

  'If you believe Masterson was murdered isn't there something you can do about it?'

  'What?' Sarris spread his hands. 'I have no evidence. No one saw him at Sounion. The pathologist isn't much help.'

  'But what did he say?'

  'What I said. He has no evidence. When the coastguard cutter took his body off the rocks at the base of the Cape it was a wreck of smashed bone – smashed almost to a pulp the pathologist told me – showed me. Not a pretty sight. He only had one conclusion. The way the body hit the rocks the stomach was intact – plus its contents. No trace of alcohol. Only mineral water.'

  'Time for me to push off.' Newman stood up. 'The others are coming with me?'


  'Yes.' Sarris smiled drily. Their stories fit what you've told me. You can all go home. Maybe you and Marler should really go home – back to London?'

  'You're deporting us?' enquired Newman as he opened the door.

  'Wish I could.' Sarris grinned, slapped Newman on the shoulder. Take care of yourself. Greece could be bad for your health…'

  Nick drove his Mercedes along Alexandras as streaks of the real dawn painted the sky with vivid slashes of red and gold. Above a band of black receding night was a curve of pure cerulean, intense as a blue flame, warning that another scorching day was coming.

  Take us somewhere very quiet and lonely, Nick,' said Newman. 'Somewhere we can talk without interruption.'

  'Lycabettus,' Nick responded. 'Very high, very lonely -at this hour…'

  He swung off Alexandras. Soon they were climbing steeply up a road spiralling round the lower slopes of Mount Lycabettus. They drove higher and higher. And as they climbed, below them Athens receded, the view expanded. Newman gazed out of the window. Already the panorama was awe-inspiring. They went on climbing, Nick turning the wheel all the time, negotiating the large car round diabolical hairpin bends, blowing his horn in case a vehicle was coming down. They met no one by the time he stopped at the edge of a precipitous curve.

  'End of the road,' Nick said, alighting quickly to open the door, but Newman beat him to it, stepping out and taking a deep breath of fresh clear air. Marler stood on one side, Nick on the other.

  'How did you get on, Nick – with their questions?' Newman asked.

  'I told the truth.' Nick grinned. 'Some of it. I told them you hired me when you were last here. That explained how you knew me. I told them I drove you to Piraeus to show you the sea, that we looked at the boats at Zea and then drove back. Thank God I had the rear window repaired. It would have been difficult to explain the bullet-hole.'

  'I thought of that. Go on.'

  'I told them you gave me pictures of Masterson to find out where he'd stayed. That reference you made to him just before we left your room tipped me off I could talk about that. I told them Giorgos was taking too close an interest in our activities, that you wanted to ask him why. So I obtained his address in the Plaka from one of the assistant receptionists – by saying I owed him some money When we got there we found he was dead. I kept it simple.