Shot on Location

by Nielsen, Helen

  “The jacket’s still here,” she reported, “but he’s emptied the pockets. A strange friend, that one.”

  Rising from the bed, his head still filled with thoughts of the dead man, Parker said: “I’ll have to report this death.”

  “Of course. You take the jacket with you. Avery’s name is on the label. I’ll drive you back to Kastoria, but I’ll have to let you out before we reach the police station. Personal reasons, you understand.”

  “I think I do.”

  “Good. Pull the blanket over Avery’s head. If the monks come in, they will understand that he’s dead and leave him alone. They’re very superstitious. Let’s get started.”

  Parker did what had to be done and followed the woman back to the van. She was speaking earnestly in Greek, to a black-frocked man, when he crawled into the van. Moments later, she climbed in behind the wheel and started up the motor. On the way back to town, she told him more about her meeting with the American, who claimed to represent Mrs. Avery. Within a block of the police station she parked the van.

  “I want nothing more to do with this,” she said, “but if you see or hear of a young man from Athens, Stephanos Brisos, you might get word to me. Your woman will know how. Brisos was taken by the state police, an hour or so ago.”

  “Here—in Kastoria?”

  “The octopus has long arms. Keep your ears open, doctor.”

  Her voice accented the title. Parker, stepping out on the kerb, looked back in protest, but the old van, lights off, was already pulling away. He walked the rest of the way to the police station. A resident alien, he had been there before and knew the way. It was late for Kastoria—almost ten o’clock when he entered the building—but inside a small furore was under way. Local police stood by in mute wonder, as the two officers from Athens, obvious by their uniforms and authority, excitedly discussed a Fiat saloon car, which, Parker gathered, having acquired some knowledge of the native tongue, had been brought in to the police garage, from a place off the highway where it had been abandoned earlier in the day. The shorter of the men held a man’s raincoat and a shaving kit. He looked inside the coat.

  “English,” he said. “It’s the American’s. He claimed to be living in London before he came here. This is all you found in the car, Zervios?”

  “Absolutely all,” Zervios answered.

  “You see, I told you they wouldn’t leave the money behind. Brisos doesn’t have it. The truck driver doesn’t have it. That leaves only one man. What do you think, Mr. McKeough?”

  Parker hadn’t seen the American as he entered. He was an American, of course. Nobody else could look quite so cocky, in the presence of a Greek officer.

  “Over-simplification,” McKeough answered. “If Brisos had the stolen money with him, what was to stop him from passing it on to a specified recipient before you picked him up?”

  “Because the meeting place was the taverna!” Koumaris screamed. “We knew that. We waited for him to come.”

  “There could have been another meeting place.”

  “I think not! I think you are protecting your countryman, Mr. McKeough. Commendable as that may be, he is in very grave trouble, if we catch him with the Deutschmarks—Wait a minute. Who are you, there?”

  Koumaris had been speaking English since he addressed McKeough. Now he had noticed the newcomer standing in the doorway with a leather jacket in his hand. English, obviously. The pale blond hair, ruffled by the night wind, the blue eyes and the bland expression. A very casual Englishman, wearing a brown cardigan-sweater with suède patches on the elbows and lighter brown corduroys, that were rolled up at the ankles to reveal almost half of the calf and the thick soled walking shoes on his feet.

  “Who? Who?” he repeated impatiently. “What do you want?”

  Parker came forward and tossed the jacket on a table, in front of the captain.

  “The label inside,” he said.

  Koumaris handed the raincoat and shaving kit to his assistant and picked up the jacket. He looked inside and read the label.

  “Harry Avery,” he said.

  “What’s that?” McKeough bellowed. “Let me see that!”

  “Where did you get it?” Koumaris demanded.

  “In a small hut, at the monastery outside town,” Parker said. “Avery’s there, too. Dead.”

  They forgot about the Fiat then, and about Brisos, the money and Brad Smith. Koumaris sensed that this was something big—bigger by far than anything he had hoped for. Finding Harry Avery would take the edge off the chagrin over the bombing and the robbery. Finding Harry Avery, dead or alive, would mean headlines all over the world. An ambitious man needs to have his name known. The questions began. Parker knew better than to tell Koumaris anything about the woman. He said that it was one of the monks who had fetched him to treat the sick man, and then told the rest of the story much as it had happened. He saw the man called McKeough break away and go to find a telephone while he was talking and then, when it was all told, the captain ordered an ambulance to be brought around and demanded an escort to the monastery.

  “You—Englishman—you will come with me. You’re sure there’s no chance that he’s alive? He might have been in a coma when you saw him.”

  Parker shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “He’s quite dead.”

  “But you say he was alive when the monks found him. What caused his death?”

  “I had no time to perform an autopsy,” Parker answered. “My guess is that it was internal injuries and exhaustion. He’s been lost in the mountains for four days. His upper arm’s broken—God only knows what else.”

  McKeough had returned to the room. “Any wounds?” he asked. “I mean, like gunshots?”

  The question was surprising. Parker hesitated. “I think not,” he said. “I didn’t make an examination, but there would have been more blood. Unless the arm—”

  “Forget it,” McKeough said. “He’s dead. That’s enough for now. I’ve called Brooks Martins, Captain. He knew Avery. He can make positive identification. We’ll wait for him.”

  It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of fact. Captain Koumaris might not like it, but he could live with it. They hadn’t long to wait. The ambulance had just arrived when the grey Ferrari pulled up to the kerb in front of the building, and Brooks Martins climbed out. He sprinted into the station and found McKeough, with the leather bush jacket in his hand. He didn’t bother to look at the label.

  “Yes, that’s Harry Avery’s,” he said. “He was wearing it the last time I saw him at Corfu.”

  But a jacket wasn’t identification. They still had to make the drive back to the monastery. Nobody noticed Pattison Blair, when she entered the station, the car keys dangling from her hand, until Martins turned around and addressed her.

  “I’m going to ask you to wait here, Miss Blair,” he said. “I’m going to ask you nicely and if you refuse I’m going to make it an official order. Wait here or go back to the hotel.”

  She saw the jacket in McKeough’s hand. She reached out and touched it, gently, and drew her hand away. McKeough tossed the jacket on the table, next to the raincoat, and the men started moving towards the door. It was then that she saw Parker. She stared at him, incredulously.

  “Leslie—” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  For a few seconds there was no one between them. They stood inches apart, with a garish ceiling light removing any chance of mis-identification. Parker said nothing.

  “Are you coming?” Koumaris shouted from the doorway.

  “Yes,” Parker said. “Immediately.”

  He turned and ran out into the street.

  It was a very small police station—old and ugly. It was a yellowed cube of light in the black pocket of night, and when everyone had gone off in the ambulance, and in Koumaris’ black Mercedes, the cube seemed empty. Pattison Blair sat down on a straight-backed chair, and stared at the bush jacket on the table. Once she touched the bloodstained sleeve and a local officer, fiercely
moustached but with mellow eyes, scooped it up, along with the things that had been found in the Fiat, and went into another room. Pattison Blair shivered and pulled up the collar of her car coat. But the chill was inside her and the coat couldn’t warm that. She took a silver cigarette case from her purse and opened it. There was still one policeman in the room, but he made no move to light the cigarette. She found her lighter and lit it herself. She smoked in silence, sitting as motionless as if she were posing for a portrait. She was halfway through a second cigarette, when the street door opened and four men and a woman burst into the room.

  All but the woman were armed. Taller than the tallest man, the woman, who wore a patch over her eye, took command.

  “Be quiet!” she said in English. “You won’t be hurt.”

  The men sprang forward. Silently (there was no time for Pattison to cry out) one man clubbed the remaining policeman with his rifle butt. A second, armed with a sub-machine gun, pushed open the door to the inner office and mouthed a rough command in Greek. The officers inside—two in number—came out meekly, with hands held high above their heads. Another rough command brought a jangling ring of keys from the inner office. Still moving silently, the conscious officers herded before them, three of the invaders moved up the stairway and disappeared from view. The fourth, an automatic pistol in his hand, stood guard at the street door.

  The tall woman watched Pattison Blair’s cigarette burn to ash and drop from her fingers. There was a sound of scuffling from above. A blow. A heavy body fell.

  “Elias!” she called. “Is he there?”

  Something that sounded like a curse was called down from above. Another blow—another body fell. Then, carrying the unconscious Stephanos between them, the first two men descended the stairs, followed closely by the man with the machine gun. Pattison watched in horror as they dragged their bloody cargo to the door.

  “My God! His feet!” she cried.

  His feet had split the seams of his walking boots and left a bloody trail across the floor. She caught only a glimpse of his mutilated face, before they disappeared into the outside darkness. The man with the machine gun tossed the key ring on the floor and nodded to the woman.

  “It is finished,” the woman said. “Forget what you have seen.”

  As swiftly as they had come, they were gone.

  Pattison felt sick. She tried to rise on rubber legs and fell against the table. Choking back hysteria, she regained control and waited until certain they were gone. When she was able, she staggered outside. The street was empty now. She ran to the Ferrari and collapsed behind the steering wheel. She dug the keys out of her purse and somehow found the ignition. The motor roared alive. She began to drive, hoping that her shocked senses would take her back to the hotel.

  Chapter Twelve

  WHEN BRAD LEFT the monastery, he found his way back to the crossroads and took the path upward into the hills. If the monks had found Avery in the mountains, that must be the way to the ruins, where he had cached his gear. The sound of a motor was close, as Brad left the crossroads. From a shelter of scrub growth he saw the van return and enter the monastery walls. He had no time to waste. There was enough moonlight to see him up safely. He climbed the ever-narrowing path, for at least half a mile, before pausing to look down. The lights of the monastery were visible. He still carried the binoculars about his neck. Dropping the rifle and knapsack to the ground, he focused the glasses and studied the cluster of buildings below, until he found the one where the van was parked. As he watched, two figures emerged from the hut and hurried towards the car. Seconds later, the headlamps came on and the small vehicle began its journey back to Kastoria. They would be going to report Harry Avery’s death to a waiting world, he assumed. Tired as he was, the monastery was too close for comfort. If the woman had told anyone of his presence in the hut, a search would be made for him. Lowering the glasses, he picked up the rifle and knapsack again and resumed his climb.

  The night was getting colder. As long as he climbed, his body was kept warm by exertion but the time came, at last, when he had to stop. He was tired and the moon was going down. Soon he would have no light for finding a shelter from the wind. He found a small stream and doused his face with water. The coldness revived his senses. Nearby, a rocky crag formed a shallow cave. Shelter for the night. Crouching, he could get his long body inside and out of the weather. He checked the rifle to make sure it was loaded. This was mountain country now and he had no idea what kind of wild life might be encountered. He propped the gun against the wall of the cave and checked the contents of the knapsack. It would be better, he decided, to put Avery’s personal effects in his pockets: the wallet, the glass case, the keys—. He hesitated over the hypodermic case, still fighting off a sense of guilt. Avery would have died anyway, surely. And Avery had begged for the shot. No time for second thoughts now, in any event. With all the hardware out of the knapsack it would make a fair cushion for his head.

  “Sleeping on a fortune,” he mused aloud. “You never had it so good, old man.”

  Still, he could have used the raincoat for a blanket. It was colder in the mountains than it had been last night in Athens, and he hadn’t the willing warmth of Rhona Brent to keep him warm. That was the kicker. That was the puzzling thought he lived with, through one cigarette for a nightcap. When it was finished he surrendered his body to fatigue and was instantly asleep.

  Three pairs of headlights raked the road leading to the old monastery. Zervios drove the black Mercedes with McKeough sitting silently at his side. Captain Koumaris, who managed somehow to seem to sit at attention, was in the back seat with Parker and Brooks Martins. Directly behind them was a car, carrying two members of the local police, followed by an ambulance. There were no sirens for the dead. Another vehicle followed the cortège with no lights showing. Popenko’s driver was expert at this sort of manoeuvre.

  Parker directed them to the hut where the lantern was still burning on the hook over the rude bed. He led them in through the kitchen to the small bedroom and drew back the blanket that covered the body. Koumaris stepped aside and let Martins make the identification.

  “Yes, that’s Avery,” he said.

  “Then your search is over, Mr. Martins,” Koumaris said.

  It was more a challenge than a statement. His eyes were measuring Martins’ face for reaction. There was more to Harry Avery’s ill-fated expedition than searching for locales, and Koumaris knew it. Martins was too big a gun for his government to turn on so simple a project as finding a missing national, no matter how wealthy he might be.

  Martins met the challenge blandly.

  “I suppose it is,” he said. “There will be an autopsy, of course?”

  “We aren’t barbarians, Mr. Martins. There will be an autopsy. What do you think, Parker?”

  “I’m not qualified,” Parker answered.

  “To make the autopsy—no. To think—yes.”

  “Then I would suppose it was internal injuries and exhaustion, as I think I said earlier.”

  “Who brought you here to look at the injured man?” Martins asked.

  They were all playing games. “One of the monks,” Parker said.

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t know. He wore a cloak and hood.”

  “But spoke English?”

  “I don’t remember. Perhaps not. My—my wife spoke with him. She’s Greek.”

  “I see. Still, the monk knew to come to you. Why was that? Why not go into Kastoria for a doctor?”

  “I suppose because the man seemed very ill and my house was closer. I’ve done some little work with the peasants. A man was injured in an accident with a wagon. I helped. The people knew that. It’s the sort of thing that gets around.”

  “Yes, it is. I hope you don’t make too much of a practice of helping people who have been hurt, Mr. Parker. The police here tell me that you are an alien—an English citizen. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.”

  Parker was perspiring a little
, in spite of the chill in the room. He pawed in the pocket of his cardigan and brought out a straight stemmed pipe. “I—I th-think you had better get the body moved before it’s too stiff,” he said.

  “That is called rigor mortis, isn’t it?” Koumaris asked.

  “I suppose it is.”

  “A medical term?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  Parker had managed to fill his pipe from a small leather pouch. When he fingered his pockets for a match, it was Martins who came to his aid with a lighter.

  “The man’s right,” he said. “You can’t ask questions of a corpse. The ambulance is waiting. Just a minute—”

  McKeough had started to pull the blanket up over the body again. Brooks Martins stepped forward and touched the unbandaged arm. “Harry Avery always wore a wrist watch—a very expensive, precision watch. It’s gone.”

  “If the monks took it they’ll never tell,” Koumaris said. “These ignorant monks hate authority. Still, I will have them questioned. Zervios—”

  Martins was no longer interested in Koumaris. He nodded to McKeough and the two of them stepped out into the kitchen.

  “Who is this Parker?” he asked.

  “You know as much about him as I do. He walked into the police station and made his report, a few minutes before I called you.”

  “See if you can talk to him—privately. Someone else may have been here when he arrived.”

  “Smith?”

  “I don’t know. I looked at the jacket. The pockets were empty. Avery must have had something—a wallet, passport. I think he wore glasses at times. Yes, prescription-lens sunglasses. They may be here. I’ll talk to the monks myself, if I can find one. They seemed to have vanished.”

  “Because of the law, I suppose. Koumaris is right. They may not all be ignorant, but they do hate being invaded this way. And how are you going to talk to them without an interpreter?”

  “I speak the language, McKeough. Didn’t you know? Why do you think I was sent to this area—to please the N.A.A.C.P.?”