by Emma Lathen
“Hmm,” said Everett, preparing a scathing indictment of the military mentality which has been famed through history for unerringly training artillery, and indeed long bows, on its own men.
“Go on!” said Thatcher. Nicolls’ words were encouraging a train of thought he had begun to follow during the afternoon’s interminable—and useless—meeting.
“Then when I set off cross-country I was trying to avoid officials. I guess you know about my zig-zagging . . .”
“In broad outline,” said Thatcher. “Sometime you must tell me why you got so involved with Quakers but go on.”
Nicolls frowned in thought. “Well pretty soon it developed that somebody was after me sure enough. But it wasn’t the Army. Or any police officials. At least there certainly wasn’t a general alarm out for me. Heck I got a lift from one bunch of soldiers.”
Everett, foregoing his customary displeasure at profanity in the presence of ladies, leaned forward and presented a brief description of his own treatment at the hands of Dr. Ziros’ leftist associates.
“So you see, Nicolls, the Government is not the only group eager to get their hands on that microfilm. The left is just as anxious. Good heavens they kidnapped me. They ransacked your hotel room and stole all your belongings.”
Nicolls groaned and looked down at Elasson’s idea of sartorial splendor.
“Obviously the left is desperate to get that list of arms dumps. And God knows what they’re planning to do with tons of ammunition.”
Pugnaciously Kate Murphy declared that whoever Elias Ziros had been associated with it was not a bunch of irresponsible terrorists.
“And remember,” said Thatcher. “Somebody else searched Ken’s room as well, Everett.”
Eager to defend his interpretation, Nicolls said: “That’s it. This gang of thugs was openly going from town to town. They had a car and could move freely. They asked questions and used the phone. I don’t know what’s been happening down here, but I can tell you that up at Hellenus—and all over the north—anybody who isn’t enthusiastic about the colonels is lying low.”
Again Kate Murphy waded in. “If they’re not lying low they’re in prison.”
Thatcher began to feel he was getting her measure. First, a passion for digging up primitive sites under conditions of extreme difficulty; then a robust disapproval of injustice, violence, cruelty, and pain. Dr. Jenkins, cooler and more objective, had a tenacity of mind and purpose that recalled the various high-minded New England ladies of Thatcher’s youth, including his own grandmother and even a bit of his second daughter, Elizabeth.
“Oh, there’s no doubt that this bunch is thoroughly second-rate,” Lorna said. “But the question is if it wasn’t the Army or the left tracking you down Ken, who was it?”
“If we knew the answer to that,” said Thatcher slowly, “we might know exactly why Dr. Ziros gave that microfilm to him.”
He looked at Ken’s startled expression. “Oh, hasn’t that occurred to you? That you were set up—by force or forces unknown?”
“You mean by Dr. Ziros?” Ken virtually stuttered.
Dr. Murphy took the point instantly. “More likely,” she said, “he was a patsy too!”
Thatcher felt enormously cheered. “Here’s a pretty mess,” Thatcher said. “A strange government, revolutionary threats, unknown enemies gunning for Nicolls, dangerous microfilm . . .”
“And,” said Everett portentously, “some very dubious allies.”
Kate Murphy projected indignation. “Well, I like that. Lorna, did you hear the man?”
While Everett floundered in a morass of explanations and apologies and young Nicolls sank into a stupor, Thatcher thought hard. On the plus side the Sloan’s human bodies were warm and accounted for. This being so he could consider with equanimity the very considerable minuses.
A nasty Greek political cauldron was boiling and perhaps boiling over. Willy nilly the Sloan had been thrust into a precarious situation. And, with all the experience behind him, Thatcher did not believe that this was sheer fluke. No, he would be willing to bet that there was reason, however perverted, behind it. More to the point he was willing to bet that that reason had dollar-and-cents dimensions. He woke to find Dr. Murphy regarding him with indulgent outrage, hands on hips.
“I said,” she repeated, “don’t worry about your young man. We’ll take good care of him. And Mr. Thatcher . . .”
“Dr. Murphy?”
“Remember, you have friends here if you need us. You’d better give me that microfilm. I have a feeling it will be safer here.”
Obediently, Thatcher handed over the guide book. Dr. Murphy, completely serious now, formidably intelligent, with great strength of character and a commanding presence, although she just came up to his shoulder, turned and slipped it into a book case that was full to overflowing. “There, now. Between Milonas and Finley. Don’t forget. Now, just one more thing Mr. Thatcher. I don’t know much about banks and big business and I don’t want to. But I know about people.” She looked at him severely. “Young men should be kept very close to home.”
Thatcher glanced over to Everett, taking elaborate farewells of Dr. Jenkins who, despite her attire, managed to look indefinably regal.
“And old men Dr. Murphy?” he inquired politely.
“Old men?” She gave a rich chortle. “Oh nothing much can hurt them—short of a shotgun!”
The Sloan had indeed acquired redoubtable allies.
“Remarkable woman,” said Everett sleepily as they neared the Britannia once again.
Although Thatcher agreed sincerely Everett felt that his enthusiasm was insufficient. “Dr. Jenkins and Dr. Murphy too, of course, have done very valuable work. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the finds at Philogrylla. Well, they’ve unearthed tablets . . .”
A wave of archaeological lore broke over Thatcher, reinforcing his already high opinion of Dr. Jenkins. In a very short time she had added fourth-century vases to dogs, sundried figs, and the few other items Everett considered worthy of men whose great concerns centered on Rails and Industrials. Gabler was, in fact, in the midst of an extended disquisition when he broke off sharply. Gone, in a second, was the extracurricular Everett Gabler. In his place was the man the Sloan knew very well.
“What’s he doing here?” The voice was all suspicion. Lycurgos Diamantis beaming with pleasure was registering a late-night arrival at the desk.
The slight figure turned as they approached. “Ah, Mr. Thatcher. What a happy coincidence. Just the man I have come to see!”
Diamantis was dizzy with joy. Two hotel guests, meeting here, who wanted to meet here.
“Mr. Makris,” said Thatcher pleasantly. “I didn’t know we could expect you in Athens.”
For the first time, an unguarded expression crossed that impassive, almost Oriental face. “I didn’t know it myself,” said Paul Makris. He paused for effect. “But I think the time has come for us to talk.”
“Certainly,” said Thatcher with unruffled courtesy. “I am at your disposal.”
Makris looked at a wrist watch, made a vexed noise, and said: “It is too late now and I have some calls to make. Perhaps if you are free for breakfast tomorrow?”
The appointment was arranged, then Everett Gabler and Thatcher watched Makris stride away.
“A very, very nice man,” chirped Mr. Diamantis.
“And,” as Thatcher said later to Everett, “a worried and irritated man.”
Gabler expected the worst.
“What do you think he wants to talk to you about John?”
Thatcher was feeling better and better. “Oh, any number of things Everett. But I think I’ll just wait and see.”
Chapter 18
The Square of the Hypotenuse
John Thatcher enjoyed a good night’s sleep, untroubled by curiosity about Paul Makris and the Athenian din penetrating the Hotel Britannia. These undisturbed slumbers were testimony to his revived sense of well-being. True the Sloan was not yet out of the
woods but Ken Nicolls was safe.
As for charges of arms running, well just let those bloody colonels try, Thatcher had thought defiantly as he penned a night cable to Miss Corsa. His expression distressed Diamantis.
“Yes, yes,” he said nervously. “We send it on the instant . . .”
The message was not calculated to enlighten him:
TRINKAMS CHESTNUTS EXFIRE STOP SUGGEST LIGHTS BROOKHEIGHTS WINDOWS STOP RETURNS UPCOMING
With Olympian benevolence, Thatcher contemplated Charlie’s relief when he learned that he did not have to shoulder Ken Nicolls’ domestic responsibilities; then Thatcher considered the other deeper emotions at the brownstone on Brooklyn Heights once it was known that husband and father would be restored. Then he retired, virtuously conscious that the humanitarian had triumphed over the banker.
But this, as Miss Corsa could have told him with a wealth of supporting detail was self-deception. As kindhearted as the next man, John Putnam Thatcher was understandably pleased that young Nicolls was alive and destined to return to Brooklyn Heights, if the Greek Army could be circumvented. Yet, as Miss Corsa had occasion to know, relief from anxiety rarely left Thatcher exhilarated.
Normally his high spirits required more positive support. It was not Nicolls’ deliverance alone which had put Thatcher into fine fettle but something else. He was beginning, insensibly, to discern purpose behind the shadows of current reality; the mad charade was beginning to hint at method, of a sort. Then too, the tide of misfortune had definitely ebbed. The last twenty-four hours had turned up lucky hits, for Thatcher, the Sloan and Nicolls.
The ladies alone, Thatcher thought sleepily just before he dropped off. They were a stroke of luck. And when luck turns.... Like Napoleon, Thatcher wanted his generals, captains, and NCO to be lucky too.
Thatcher was a hunch player as Miss Corsa knew. And it had come to him in the last hours: The timing’s about right! Something’s going to break!
Morning was a rebuke to Thatcher’s wellspring of optimism. Nor did Everett help. He materialized, leading a beslippered cleaning woman, before Thatcher had finished knotting his tie. “But Everett we’re breakfasting with Makris. Thatcher protested mildly as the old woman deposited a tray with coffee, fruit, and slices of bread on the dresser, bobbed gratefully when Everett produced a tip, and then ducked out into the corridor.
“Lorna says that she finds Greece a tremendously comfortable country to live in because you can arrange things the way you want,” said Everett, making New York sound like one of the less emancipated portions of the Bible Belt. “Before I turned in last night, I ordered breakfast. We’re not seeing Makris for a half hour. And the longer I stay in this country, the more I feel that if we take care of our digestions, the rest will take care of itself.”
Everett deftly spread honey on a slice of bread. Thatcher accepted a tiny cup of coffee and reflected that Dr. Jenkins was effecting as great a revolution as Colonel Patakos. But it was speedily borne in on him that Everett remained at heart a Wall Street professional. Despite qualms, disclaimers, demurs, small habits, and favorite techniques he too in the last analysis, relied on a sense of smell.
“. . . was worried last night, don’t you agree?”
With an effort Thatcher recalled his attention. “Makris? Yes, there’s no doubt about it. He wasn’t himself.” Everett smiled grimly and, heedless of the delicate stomach of which the entire Sloan stood in awe, munched energetically.
“Now John, just remember what we decided yesterday. If it isn’t the government tracking Nicolls down and it isn’t the left—then it has to be some other group. Now before I went to bed last night”—Thatcher, who had suspended all thought on nearing his bed was reminded that many of his subordinates were better men than he. “I realized that Makris might well represent that third force!”
Thatcher had seen this coming some time ago. He did not evince shock and Everett, pouring more coffee, continued: “It sounds insane I grant you. But think, John! Naturally, we’ve concentrated on getting Nicolls back—that’s only right and proper. But he’s safe now and, if we have to, we can smuggle him out as a rolled-up rug!” Momentarily, Everett looked like a rum-runner. Then: “But we’ve got to get to the bottom of this whole situation and John it must involve Hellenus. Let’s not forget it. I was opposed to Hellenus from the beginning, but now it’s a multi-million dollar investment. There’s got to be an explanation for all of this—and where it’s a matter of dollars and cents—well, I personally am not surprised to see Makris’ fine Italian hand.”
Thatcher knew it was folly to dismiss Everett’s interpretation and useless to reproach his metaphors. “I’ll go along with the possibility that there may be a dollars-and-cents reason for everything that’s been going on,” he said slowly. “But Everett just stop to think about the rest of it. There’s been a cold-blooded killing. There’s been a ludicrous—but dead serious—chase through Salonika. The Army has been co-opted. For all we know, local assassins have been hired. Now Everett, in all seriousness—does this sound like Makris to you?”
Thatcher had scored a point. On Wall Street, Everett probably was a leading supporter of the “Balkan” reading of Paul Makris. But here to do him justice, he adapted to reality. When abduction, chase, murder, and arms dumps became something more than idle words, Everett revised his thinking.
“No,” he said regretfully. “Now that you put it that way, it doesn’t sound like Makris. He’d cut our throats if he could but in a perfectly legal fashion.”
With Everett this was a matter of the propriety expected from occupants of high-rental floors at Rockefeller Center. With Thatcher it was something else. He felt, without, he hoped, having succumbed to propaganda, that Makris was efficient. Had he been the enemy Nicolls would not be alive to tell his tale.
“Come on, Ev,” he said rising. “We’re going to be late.”
“Be careful!” said Everett Gabler.
Thatcher fully intended to be. Paul Makris, awaiting them in the large nearly empty dining-room. He gave no evidence of having slept well. Dismissing a waiter he rose to greet his guests with a constraint suggesting pressures and passions behind his mask.
“Ah Mr. Thatcher and Mr. Gabler. Shall we order?” His comments to the unfortunate staff sounded like a whipsaw. Fortunately before Everett was seized with a paroxysm of renewed distrust, Makris got down to cases.
“I think this is the time for a little frankness, Mr. Thatcher.”
“And the place?” Thatcher asked bluntly. Indirection and eastern subtlety in Manhattan and blunt forthrightness in Athens? He wouldn’t put it past Makris.
“Greece, Greece, Greece!” said Makris in a breathy explosion, half-amused, half-exasperated. “As you know, I do considerable business here in Greece. I started in a small way and now I am a partner with the Sloan in the biggest development Greece has ever seen.”
Thatcher waited.
“Then too I myself am Greek,” said Makris. “So I understand.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Thatcher when the silence became mildly embarrassing.
Makris shot him an ambiguous look. “The thing to remember is that Greece is a very poor country. Hellenus may help economic development in the north, but otherwise prospects are always very hard. Greeks have learned to scramble for work, for money, for a chance to get ahead . . .”
Thatcher could scarcely believe that Makris had arranged this early morning meeting to deliver an elementary lecture. Everett stirring restively was heroically refraining from an acid reminder that the Sloan was well equipped with economic surveys of Greece which left no doubt that Greece was as Makris said, very poor.
Makris evaded their eyes. “So I was not surprised six months ago, when I was approached—oh, quite informally you understand. By one of my wife’s cousins as a matter of fact. He pointed out that there would be more money for me if the Sloan were forced out of Hellenus. It would be better for Greece if American institutions were kept out . . .”
�
�Do you mean to sit there and say you were being asked to . . .” Words failed Everett.
“To double cross the Sloan,” said Makris. “To make difficulties. To drive you out. So that I—and these unknown allies of mine—we could control Hellenus on our own. I would make the money—and Greece would not have American banks meddling. This kind of suggestion is not—er—unknown in this part of the world.”
Thatcher appreciated Makris’ reluctance to tell this tale. “Come on Everett. It’s not unknown in New York either.” This was no time for Everett’s views on commercial integrity in theory and practice. Thatcher returned to Makris. “You turned down your wife’s cousin you were going to say.”
“I did,” said Makris. “He is an agreeable nullity you understand. He knows everybody in Athens and Paris, and runs messages from one place to another. Whoever used him chose well—I doubt if Myrto realized what he was saying. He just repeated his lesson—like a parrot. But I was emphatic—I was not interested.”
“I am happy to hear it,” said Thatcher dryly.
Makris raised an eyebrow. “This is not to say that I have not made little mistakes. On the contrary—I have made some serious mistakes. And now I wish to apologize for them.”
What was up?
“I hope,” said Paul Makris, “that this is not boring you.”
“Far from it!” said Thatcher.
“I put this overture from my mind,” said Paul Makris. “We continued the negotiations about Hellenus in good faith assuming that Myrto had been representing some Greek businessmen. Then, when there was the military takeover, then, I began to think again.”
“But the colonels aren’t anti-American whatever else you may say against them,” Everett protested.
Makris indicated agreement. “No what I meant was that I remembered this nonsense of Myrto’s about taking over Hellenus. That sounded—confused to me. But things continued smoothly for a while. Then your Mr. Nicolls disappeared. And I made a serious mistake . . .”