The Devil Takes Half

by Leta Serafim

  Chapter 5

  No one envies the dead.

  —Greek proverb

  A fisherman named Costas Stamnas was about to push his rowboat into the sea when he heard the car. It was after midnight and the small cove was dark, the cliffs behind him hidden in the shadows. Few people used the cove. It was hard to navigate a boat around the rocks, the jagged knuckles of basalt that protruded from the water like the bones of a vast decaying animal. Veins of iron ore crisscrossed the rocks, staining them where the water touched and leaving dark, bloody puddles on the sand below. The only sign of life was a stunted olive tree, growing out of the cliff. It creaked in the wind, its twisted roots clawing at the pebbly earth like arthritic fingers.

  Costas had planned on spending the night fishing. He’d shine his lantern on the water and the fish, thinking it was daybreak, would rise to the surface. He loved to work then, to cast his net and watch the fish dart back and forth in the silvery light.

  A car turned onto the road that led down to the cove. Its lights off, it slowly moved across the packed sand to the water’s edge. Costas wondered who it was. The cove was small and isolated, and as far as he knew, only he and a few other fishermen anchored their boats there. It was convenient for him. His farm was the only one in the area and his acreage extended to the cliff’s edge. Wary, he left his boat and crouched down behind an outcropping of rock. He’d found syringes here and was sure the cove was being used as a drop off point for hashish and heroin smuggled in from Turkey. The car stopped. Costas could hear the radio playing, but the music was too faint to tell if the station was Greek or Turkish.

  After a few moments a man got out of the car and walked along the beach, checking out the cove. He paused when he reached Costas’ boat and ran his hand along the length of it to see if it was wet. Satisfied, he returned to the car and turned it around. He had a small boat hitched to a trailer in the back. It was a Zodiac from the looks of it, a small inflatable one. It had no registration numbers on the side, no name painted on the back or across the bow.

  The man unhitched the boat and pushed it out into the water, then returned to the car. He removed a large plastic bag from the back and carefully set it down on the sand. It must be heavy, Costas thought, judging by the way he carries it. Not hashish. Something else. The man unloaded two more bags, then moved to stow them onboard. He dropped one of them and it opened, its contents slipping out onto the beach. Cursing, the man scooped up the soggy material and stuffed it back in the bag. He threw it into the Zodiac, stepped aboard, and fired up the engine.

  He steered the Zodiac in the direction of the breakwater. It rode low in the water and left a sizeable wake, white in the moonlight. The boat moved quickly beyond the breakwater and out into the open sea.

  As soon as the boat was gone, Costas crept forward, curious to see what the man had dropped out of the bag, hoping for something he could sell. He thought the man had been transporting guns, given his furtive manner and the heaviness, the bulky shape of the bags. He could see the outline of the boat on the sand and something dark at the edge of the water. It was a smaller plastic bag. Drawing closer, he tugged the bag loose from the sand. It was half buried. The boat must have run over it when the man pushed it into the water. He gasped when the plastic unrolled and he saw what was inside. He heard the Zodiac start up again in the distance and hurried back to his hiding place in the rocks.

  When the boat reached the beach, the man jumped out and pulled it ashore, then maneuvered it onto the trailer attached to his car and made ready to leave. He paused for a moment, spying the trail of footprints Costas had left. He opened the trunk of his car and pulled out a pair of binoculars and a gun. His binoculars were bigger than any Costas had ever seen, with a headband and green lenses, and his gun looked like something out of the movies, the kind that spat fire and split people in two. The man fitted the binoculars over his head and began scanning the cliffs and surrounding rocks. Costas stayed very still.

  The man stood there a long time, watching the cliffs through his headpiece. Suddenly Costas heard another boat churning in the waters off the cove. It looked to be a fishing boat, a local one. Putting down his binoculars, the man watched the boat for moment. It was turning in toward the beach. This decided the man, who threw the binoculars and gun in the backseat of his car and drove away quickly, the Zodiac swaying from side to side as he sped up the hill.

  Costas stayed where he was, thinking the road home was too dangerous, that the man might be waiting up there to ambush him. Maybe he’d be lucky and the man hadn’t seen his name stenciled on the side of his boat. He’d wake his wife. “Calliope,” he’d say. “Gather up the children. Chios is too dangerous. We are taking the first plane to Athens.” His wife, a quarrelsome woman, would protest, but even she would grow silent when he told her of the events of the night, how he’d seen a smuggler and stepped on a human leg.

  “Worse than an animal he was,” he’d tell her. “He would have shot me with no more feeling than a shark tearing up a fish.”

  * * *

  Patronas studied the ground under the bright crime lights. He’d once seen a hawk swoop down on a flock of chickens at his father’s farm. The ground beneath his feet reminded him of that. Blood, ground up earth, and a shoe, a leather moccasin, on its side at the waterline, the waves rolling it over and over.

  It had been 3 a.m. when the duty officer, Evangelos Demos, had summoned him here. A fisherman, Thanos Solomos, had been returning from a night of fishing and beached his boat next to a rowboat, only to stumble across something soft there on the beach. A very shaken Costas Stamnas had emerged from his hiding place a few minutes later and embraced him and together they’d called the police.

  A half hour later Patronas had arrived at the crime scene with three other men. He’d cordoned off the area and set up the portable electric lights. The coroner was there now, rolling the leg in plastic. They’d found a hand, too, a little farther down, closer to the water. There’d been traces of polish on the nails of both. Until now there’d been no need for body bags on Chios, and they’d been forced to improvise. What was left of Eleni Argentis was now being wrapped and sealed in saran wrap, and it was proving to be a slow, tedious process.

  The two fishermen, Thanos Solomos and Costas Stamnas, were still there, huddled together with blankets thrown over their shoulders.

  “I was worried even before I found it,” Costas Stamnas was saying. “No one ever uses this cove and last night there was a man here. He drove in late with his lights off and unloaded an inflatable boat, a Zodiac it looked like. After he left, I could see there was something dark on the sand, a real thin trail of it. Sometimes happens when you fish, a little drizzle of blood on the ground like that. I saw something buried in the sand and I went to pull it out ….” He started to gag and covered his mouth with his hand.

  “Go on,” Patronas prodded, his voice gentle. He saw how frightened the man was.

  “I thought at first maybe someone’s boat had overturned and a propeller had … that the leg had washed in from the sea. But it was too neat, the bone …. Propellers, they’re messy, they rip you up, the wounds are all jagged-like, and sharks are rare in these waters. It couldn’t have been a shark.” He was trembling all over. “Whose leg do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know.” Patronas motioned for his men to wall off the entire cove with crime scene tape. “Did you get a good look at the man in the Zodiac? Could you describe him for us?”

  The fisherman shook his head. “It was too dark.”

  “If you saw him again, would you recognize him? Was he one of us?” he asked, meaning Greek.

  “I don’t know, Chief Officer. I swear. He was dressed all in black and had something over his head. A drakos, he was. A monster. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Chapter 6

  Outside a doll. Inside the plague.

  —Greek proverb

  Children were selling pottery along the road on the way to Campos. A farmer threshing whea
t in his stone aloni waved to Patronas, the chaff making a golden cloud in the air around him. Patronas wondered how much longer the man would continue to do it that way, using a donkey and a millstone, how much longer the Greece of his youth could withstand the pressures of the modern age.

  The Citroen, an elderly 2CV, protested as Patronas turned onto the cobbled road. He’d heard from Tembelos that there was a cartoon in which a Citroen such as his transforms itself into a giant robot and performs a dance routine. Personally, he’d settle for a little more horsepower. The Germans called the Citroen 2CV Ente or duck, and he’d always wondered if it might do better in water. It was virtually powerless on dry land.

  He wanted to speak to Titina Argentis, Eleni Argentis’ stepmother, before she learned of the discovery at the beach, to gauge her reaction. She lived in Campos, a verdant, well-watered valley behind the airport. The Genovese had used the area as a summer resort during the Middle Ages and their decaying villas still dotted the landscape. A few had been restored by wealthy ship owners but most remained abandoned, their grounds overtaken by vines, their windowless structures in ruins. Open to the sky, the old houses had a stark grandeur, their crumbling limestone walls blending into the landscape.

  The restoration of the Argentis estate had taken four years, and the family had been widely criticized for its extravagance. An iron gate decorated with bronze griffins marked the entrance. The gate stood open and Patronas drove his Citroen in and parked. Gaslight lanterns on gilded poles lined the driveway, and he could hear water splashing somewhere.

  A maid answered the door. Standing beyond her was a man of about thirty.

  “I’m here about Eleni Argentis,” Patronas said, introducing himself. “Chief Officer of the Chios Police.”

  “Mother,” the man called over his shoulder. “Some policeman is here about Eleni.”

  Stifling a yawn, he led Patronas through the house. Although it was early afternoon, his unshaven face was still puffy with sleep. He had a heavy gold chain around his neck, but unlike the one Petros Athanassiou wore, there was no cross attached. It was purely ornamental, an indication of wealth rather than a declaration of faith. His face was handsome, yet it had an unfinished quality about it, a lack of sharpness in the nose and chin, softness like a baby’s. Patronas recognized the type. Many of the Greek ship owners had sons like this, sons who went from youth to old age without ever achieving manhood. He had a glass in his hand, and Patronas could already smell liquor on his breath.

  In contrast, his mother, Titina Argentis, was meticulously dressed, her black hair pinned back severely and held in place with a small bow at the nape of her neck. A gold coin belt accentuated her thinness. Her sandals were equally fancy with little heels and more gold coins along the instep. She looked a little like the Duchess of Windsor, Patronas thought, with her dark hair and narrow face. She had the same cold and precise elegance.

  He introduced himself again. “Is there someplace we could talk?”

  The house was expensively furnished, every surface covered with silver knickknacks and photographs of Titina, some with her son, but most of her alone, posing on ski slopes or on a beach somewhere. None of Eleni that he could see.

  Titina Argentis opened a set of French doors and stepped out onto the terrace. An old Genovese water wheel, carved out of white marble, dominated the grounds, water cascading from it into the swimming pool at its base. Beyond the pool, the land dropped away, planted with thick groves of lemon and orange trees. A high stone wall enclosed the entire estate, made of the same gold and red limestone as the house. Patronas had the sense he was in a place apart, a place out of time.

  Titina Argentis sat down and motioned for him to do the same. “May I get you something? A lemonade, perhaps? Coffee?”

  “No, nothing, thank you.”

  “But it’s such a hot day. You must take something. How about an orange juice?”

  “Very well then.”

  She turned to her son. “Antonis, would you like one?”

  “I’m all set.” He held up his glass. “I’ve got water.”

  “Chief Officer, have you met my son, Antonis?” She said his name as if it meant something.

  Antonis gave Patronas a lopsided grin. He had a wonderful smile, his teeth even and white, and when he smiled he radiated warmth and a kind of boyish sweetness. Patronas was sure he knew all too well the power of that smile and used it to get what he wanted from others. This one, he has even the milk of the birds. He was nursing whatever it was in his glass. Not water. Vodka or gin.

  The next ten minutes were spent listening to Kyria Argentis instruct the maid on the best way to prepare Patronas’ single glass of orange juice. All quite unnecessary, Patronas concluded after he’d tasted it. It was nothing special. His wife bought the same brand. It came in cartons at the supermarket.

  He set his glass down, took a deep breath, and described the findings at Profitis Ilias. “The priest told me you were up there the day Eleni went missing.”

  Titina Argentis signaled to the maid to put a coaster under Patronas’ glass. “Yes, I dropped off a package for her.” No worry in her voice, no concern for her missing stepdaughter. From an onyx box on the table, she removed a thin cigarette and lit it with a lighter.

  “Where was the package from?”

  “England, I think. Antonis, do you remember?” Her voice was overly formal, stiff, as if she’d had elocution lessons.

  Her son shook his head. In spite of the talk of blood and death, no worry here either.

  “Did you see Eleni that day? Talk to her?”

  “No. She wasn’t there. I left the package on the table at the dig site and walked back to my car.”

  “Did you see her assistant, Petros Athanassiou?”

  “No. No one.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. I saw the priest briefly when I first arrived. He was the only one.”

  “How did you and your stepdaughter get along?”

  She concentrated on her cigarette, turning the Dunhill lighter over and over in her hand. “Eleni and I didn’t see each other much after her father died. Circumstances kept us apart. I am only here on Chios two months of the year, Chief Officer. Antonis and I spend the winter season in London.”

  “Did Eleni stay here while you were away?”

  “In this house? No. She slept in the guest house or up at Profitis Ilias, that place where she worked.” Titina Argentis conveyed a great deal in the way she said ‘worked,’ as if whatever Eleni had been doing was unseemly, beneath the dignity of her and her son and those people with whom she spent those winter months in London. And the chief officer was sure this attitude applied to all forms of employment, that ‘work’ was somehow demeaning, that she considered the collection of a wage in any form to be embarrassing, even tawdry.

  “Antonis, how did you get along with your sister?”

  “She’s not his sister,” Titina Argentis interrupted. “They were siblings by marriage only.”

  Her hostility surprised him. Patronas turned back to Antonis Argentis. “So you didn’t see her?”

  Again, his mother answered for him. “Neither of us saw Eleni very much. I tried. You can ask Antonis. I invited her to join us in London countless times. But she always refused. ‘Work,’ she told me. ‘I have to work.’ ”

  * * *

  The guesthouse where Eleni Argentis had lived was located at the back of the estate. Antonis unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  “Whole place is hers. I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

  Patronas walked quickly through the house, opening and closing doors, trying to get a sense of who Eleni Argentis was. He doubted her death was a crime of passion, but who could say at this point? She’d been a beautiful woman and rich besides. The possibilities were endless. Perhaps she’d been arguing with a lover and Petros had intervened.

  There was only one bed in the house with a simple white quilt draped across it. Above it hung an icon of the Virgin fr
amed in gold. No other decoration. It was a severe space, monastic. The clothes in the closet were neatly arranged, jeans mostly and an assortment of cotton shirts. A laptop was sitting on the table in the kitchen across from a massive antique china closet that housed dishes and table linens. Patronas removed the dishes and began tapping on the wood in the back. He could tell from the design that the chest was from the last century, maybe even earlier. Occasionally these old pieces held secret compartments that had been used to hide Greek books during the time of the Ottomans. Eleni Argentis’ held a packet of letters. He opened one. Written in English, the scrawl masculine and nearly illegible.

  The chief officer called Papa Michalis on his cellphone. “I’m at Eleni’s house and I found some letters, written in English. Do you know who she was involved with?”

  “There was someone at one time. I asked her about it once and she said, ‘I’m done with all that.’ When I asked her what she meant, she went and got a journal off the shelf and read a passage to me. It was black leather and looked expensive. Sometimes she wrote wrote poetry, she said. It was after dinner and she’d had a lot of wine. I don’t remember the passage exactly. It wasn’t a poem, something about how ‘waiting defined women, waiting for love, waiting for life.’ ”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I am a man of the cloth, Chief Officer. What do I know of women?”

  After Patronas found the letters, he went through the house again, emptying out the pockets of Eleni’s clothes, checking the undersides of the tables and chairs. The kitchen held nothing. He carefully inspected the lone suitcase he found in the back of the closet. After he finished, he searched the shelf for the notebook of poetry the priest had mentioned. He also gathered up Colette’s autobiography, a textbook on abnormal psychology, and the laptop computer. He stuffed everything in the suitcase and carried it out of the house.