The Greek Key

'I think Tweed is rushing it. I like a good basis of solid research.'

'He's moving fast before Howard writes Harry's death off as an accident.'

'I suppose it could have been just that.'

'You're forgetting the cigar box he sent. He knew he was walking a tightrope.' Newman said tersely. 'That he might not be coming back.'

'Trouble is I hardly knew Harry,' Marler reflected, still keeping his voice low. The seats in front of them were unoccupied.

'But I did. And we're starting to descend. End of conversation.'

'Endstation,' Marler responded sardonically.

The big heat hit them like a heavy door as they descended the mobile staircase. Newman looked quickly round. Those bare hills loomed in close to the airport. The light was a glare. Mid-afternoon. Marler made a gesture as they walked towards the airport bus with the other passengers.

'Hardly Heathrow.'

'That has its advantages.'

But Marler had a point, he thought, as they boarded the waiting bus which would take them to the arrivals building which was smaller than any garage at London Airport. They passed the entry checks without any fuss and within minutes climbed inside a yellow taxi.

'Hotel Grande Bretagne,' Newman told the driver in English, 'and we're in a hurry.'

Marler glanced at Newman as they moved off. The driver had not understood the second instruction. That much was clear from his throwaway gesture. Marler marked up a notch in his companion's favour. Newman was concealing the fact that he spoke Greek fluently.

The Grande Bretagne is a solid-looking edifice standing on a corner of Constitution Square – Syntagma as the Greeks call it. The hotel looks as though it has stood there for generations, which it has. Inside they crossed the marble floor to reception.

'We have reservations,' Newman began. 'But first I would like a word with the chief receptionist.'

'You are talking to him, sir,' the man behind the counter informed him in perfect English.

Newman took an envelope from his breast pocket, extracted a photo of Harry Masterson, laid it on the counter.

'I'm trying to find my stepbrother, Harry Masterson. I understood he stayed here. He may have left by now.'

The receptionist stared at the photo with a blank expression. Then he seemed to seek the right words.

'This, I regret to say, looks very like a man who fell off Cape Sounion to his death recently. There were pictures in the papers. I could be wrong, but they did give the name you mentioned.'

'Can't be the same man,' Newman protested. 'He did stay here?'

'Oh, no sir. I would have remembered. In view of…'

'Partridge,' said Marler. 'Does that name ring a bell?'

'Yes, it does, sir.' The receptionist transferred his attention to Marler. 'When I was serving my apprenticeship I went to Britain to learn the language. I was at the Gleneagles Hotel in Scotland. Plenty of partridge shooting up there. Which is probably why I noted this guest's name.'

'May I ask when he was here? Old chum,' Marler said smoothly.

'Let me check.' They waited. A small man wearing the dark suit of a hotel employee was lingering close to the counter-his eyes on the photo of Masterson. Newman stared at him and he wandered away. The receptionist came back.

'I was right. Mr Samuel Partridge?'

'That's him,' said Marler. 'Nice man. Told me he'd probably stay here. Best hotel in Athens.'

'Thank you, sir. Mr Partridge stayed one week. He arrived two weeks ago and then left. For the airport, I seem to remember.' He looked back at Newman. 'But Mi Masterson, no. He did not stay with us. If you would like to register?'

'Certainly.' Newman spoke as he began filling in the form. 'That small man who was standing near the counter. Who is he?'

'Oh, one of our temporary employees.' The receptionist made a resigned gesture. 'During the summer season we have to take on temporary staff. Unfortunate, between the two of us. They do not always understand the standards we set here.' He smiled with a certain satisfaction. 'Giorgos will not be with us after September…'

After opening his case in his own room, Marler walked along the corridor to Newman's. The foreign correspondent was standing with his hands on his hips, staring out of the window at the view of the distant Parthenon perched on the Acropolis.

'One up to me, I think,' Marler said pointedly as he sat in an armchair. 'Finding that Chief Inspector Partridge has trotted out here to have a look-see.'

'I'll give you that one.' Newman sounded absorbed. 'And Nick the Greek will be here shortly. I got lucky. I had his card in my wallet, the one with his home number he gave me when I was last out here.'

'What's the betting Partridge is now strolling round the island of Siros? You seem somewhat preoccupied.'

'Didn't you spot it?' Newman asked.

'Spot what?'

'One up to me. The receptionist recognized the picture I showed him of Harry because he said he'd seen it in the papers. What I want to know is how did they get that picture? He only became newsworthy when he was a smashed-up corpse at the foot of Cape Sounion.'

Giorgos slipped out of the side entrance of the Grande Bretagne, walking through the restaurant. There was no doorman on duty at this exit.

He hurried round to the far side of Syntagma Square where a row of phone boxes stood. Going inside a booth, he dialled a number and waited, tapping thin fingers on the coin box. If he was away too long that sod of a chief receptionist was going to notice his absence from duty. He spoke in Greek when a deep-throated voice answered.

'Giorgos here. I thought you should know two Englishmen have just arrived at the hotel. They are asking questions about Masterson. They have a photograph of him.'

'Another Englishman was there snooping around only two weeks ago. That man Partridge. This is getting dangerous. You have the names of these two new men?'

'No. But I can get them from the records. But only after the chief receptionist has gone off duty.'

'Get them,' the voice rasped.

'It may be late afternoon…'

'Get them,' the voice repeated in Greek. 'Call me the moment you have the information. And anything else about these two you can find out. We may have to take drastic action.'

Giorgos was sweating as he hurried towards the restaurant entrance door. And not only with the heat – it was in the high eighties. He was worried the chief receptionist might have sent someone looking for him to carry out some task.

He slowed down as he walked across the entrance and through the doorway leading into the main hall. A tall heavily built man in his forties, clad in a clean white short-sleeved shirt and spotless denims, was approaching the counter from the main entrance. He heard quite clearly what the new arrival said in Greek.

'A Mr Newman is expecting me. He arrived during the past hour or so. Could you tell him I am here?'

'Will do, Nick. It's getting hot early this year. He's in Room.. .'

Giorgos missed hearing the room number but made a mental note of two facts. If this was one of the men he'd phoned about then he already had a name. Newman. He fiddled with a plant in a large holder, moving it a few inches. The receptionist put down the phone, said something impossible to hear, and Nick headed for the staircase.

Strolling after him, Giorgos mounted the luxuriously carpeted steps. He had earlier followed the two men after noting the floor they were making for over the lift bank, running up the staircase. He had been just in time to see Newman being shown into his room. Too far along the corridor to be sure which room. And he hadn't dared to follow Marler.

The Greek called Nick turned along a corridor, stopped at a door and knocked. The door opened and Giorgos clearly heard the voice of the man who had shown the photograph to reception welcoming him in English. He retreated back down the staircase, working out an excuse to ask the question.