The Greek Key

'I think I know that man who just arrived, a friend of one of my cousins.' The chief receptionist stared at him. 'He did my cousin a good turn, if it's the same man.'

'What would the likes of you have to do with Nick? He drives a Mercedes. Rather out of your class. Don't waste my time. See that pile of luggage over there? Be ready to carry it to the cab when it arrives to take our guests to the airport…'

Marler stared straight into Nick's dark eyes as they shook hands. Firm grip. Hair, streaked with grey, cut short and trim. A strong face. A firm jaw. A hint of humour at the corners of the mouth. Marler was good at weighing up a man quickly. Formidable was the word which came to mind.

'Bob will do the talking,' he said and sat down.

'Take a seat,' suggested Newman. 'We're here about Harry Masterson who was killed down at Cape Sounion.'

'So, you think he was killed?' Nick sat down, crossed his powerful legs. 'The papers said it was an accident.'

'One thing while I remember, Nick. Officially I don't speak or understand any Greek on this trip. You think it was an accident?'

'I said the papers did. They think he was drunk. I saw him drunk myself.' Nick smiled drily. 'I drove a friend to the Hilton one evening, carried her bag in for her. Beyond the entrance hall is a large seating area at several levels. A crowd was gathered, watching something. Masterson had perched himself on a rail no wider than my hand, was walking along it like a tightrope walker, a champagne bottle clutched in each hand. A fifteen-feet drop below him. He walked the full length of the rail, then jumped back on to the floor next to the rail on his left. Enough people saw his performance to recall it when the news came through from Cape Sounion a few days later.'

'And he was drunk?' Newman pressed, hardly able to believe it.

'No.' Nick smiled drily again.

'But you said he was.'

'I know enough about drink – and drunks – to recognize the real thing, and when someone is acting being drunk. Masterson was acting. Don't ask me why.'

'He was staying at the Hilton?'

'No idea.'

'And you think his death was an accident?'

'No. I watched his act at the Hilton closely. He was nimble as a goat. A big man but quick on his feet, reflexes as fast as mine. That type doesn't go stumbling over a cliff.'

Newman opened a briefcase, took out a cardboard-backed envelope, extracted three photos of Masterson. He held them while he asked the question.

'I need to know where he stayed. Do you know two men you can trust – really trust?'

'To do what, Mr Newman?'

'Take these photos round hotels in Athens and find out where he stayed. He might have used another name.'

'Yes. They use his name? No? Of course some will recognize him from the pictures in me papers. Nick. was looking at a print Newman had handed him. 'I could do some of the checking myself – divide up the search. It would be quicker.'

'One thing puzzles me.' Newman handed three prints to Nick. 'I really need to find out how his picture got into the press. Doesn't make sense. No one was interested until he became very dead.'

'Yes they were.' Nick clapped his hands together. 'I've just remembered. It happened when Masterson performed his crazy walk with the champagne bottles at the Hilton.'

'What did?'

They have a creep of a photographer who works the hotel restaurant at night. He was hanging around in the lobby while Masterson did his walk. And he had his camera equipment with him.'

'So what happened?'

'It could have caused a disaster, but Masterson had strong nerves. This stupid photographer took a picture of him with a flashbulb. Masterson wobbled, then recovered his balance and went on. There was a gasp from the people watching.'

'Stupid, as you say.'

'But that is probably where the newspapers got the picture from,' Nick continued. 'All these photographers are after extra income. He took the picture when Masterson was grinning at the crowd – and the picture in the papers was like that. Mind you,' he added grimly, 'that was the only picture he was allowed to take.'

'Somebody stopped him?'

'Yes. Several people protested. The receptionist rushed over and gave the photographer hell. Anything else I can do to help?'

'Drive us to the port of Zea, then on to Cape Sounion.'

'You have the time?' Nick asked. 'Two hours there and back. And it would be best to wait a couple of hours. The traffic.'

'A couple of hours from now then. You still have the Merc?'

'A new one. Parked outside. I'd better go check the meter.'

'Two more things, Nick. Does the name Ionides mean anything?'

'Hardly. It's a common name. I know two. Both shopkeepers. And the other thing?'

'Christina Gavalas,' Marler interjected. 'Does that name mean anything to you?'

'You are joking?' Nick was amused. Marler's expression remained blank. 'You both know Greece. Surely you have heard of Petros Gavalas?'

'You mean the legendary Resistance leader during World War Two?' Newman asked. 'I didn't make the connection.'

'Christina is his granddaughter. She hates him. The Gavalas family is a strange story. Maybe I wait until we drive to Zea and tell you then. If she is concerned in any of this you have big trouble on your hands, my friends.'

5

Leaving the room, closing the door, Nick glanced along the corridor to his right, away from the exit. A small man wearing the black clothes of one of the hotel staff stood making a fuss about closing a window.

Nick looked away quickly, made his way downstairs and out of the hotel to where his Mercedes was parked in the blazing sun. He used a finger to loosen his collar. The heal seemed even worse. Dry and like a burning glass as the sun shone out of a sky as blue as the Mediterranean.

He was polishing the bodywork, which already gleamed like glass, when the small man in black jacket and trousers strolled out of the restaurant exit and round the corner. He was smoking a cigarette as he stood admiring the Mercedes.

'That is a real car. You are taking one of the customers for a drive?'

'Who knows when business will turn up?' Nick stopped polishing and stood facing the little man, the same man who had sneaked up behind him when he first arrived and asked reception to inform Newman he had arrived. Dark eyes too close together between a thin ferret of a nose. A smear of a black moustache above full lecherous lips.

'What is your name – and why aren't you on duty inside the hotel?' Nick demanded.

'I am Giorgos. I am entitled to an afternoon break. You think it is a pleasure working in this heat?'

'Get yourself another job if you are not happy. They pay you, don't they? Now, move away from my car. I am busy even if you can fritter away the day.'

Nick turned his back on the little man, polishing the car as he watched Giorgos walking back up the hill towards the restaurant entrance. In the wing mirror he saw Giorgos pause at the corner, take out a notebook from his pocket and scribble in it before he disappeared. He had recorded the registration number of the Mercedes.

To conceal his action half an hour later, Giorgos waited behind a corner before joining a crowd of pedestrians walking over a street crossing. Nick was still working on his car.

Giorgos made his way along the top side of the square facing the pink-washed building which had once been the Royal Palace. Now it was the Parliament since Greece had become a republic.

In the centre of Constitution Square is a park filled with a variety of trees and shrubs. Tall railings fence off the park from the pavement beyond. Walking rapidly in the opposite direction from the one he had previously taken, Giorgos slipped inside a phone booth. Again he dialled the same number. Again he had to wait for it to be answered.

He glanced at his watch. His off-duty period was almost over. At least the chief receptionist had gone home, the bullying bastard. The same heavy-timbred voice came on the line.