The Greek Key

'Your problem now,' Tweed told him. 'I had Butler and Nield on Exmoor, tailing Professor Guy Seton-Charles, An hour ago I had an emergency call from Butler. He was at London Airport. Seton-Charles suddenly took off. Left his bungalow with a case, drove a devious route to the airport…'

'Devious?'

'He took the main road to London, then cut off down a side turning. Nield followed him and Butler cruised on along the highway. Later Butler saw Seton-Charles come back down a slip road. From that point Butler and Nield leapfrogged so the target wouldn't spot them. At London Airport Nield stood behind Seton-Charles as he booked a first-class return to Athens. He's in mid-air now. British Airways flight 456, departed London 2.35 p.m., arrives at Athens 8 p.m. Both local times. Can you get to the airport and track him? Remember his description?'

'Perfectly. And I've loads of time.'

'I need to know who he contacts. Something very funny about the professor.'

'Leave it to me…'

The BA flight from London touched down at Athens Airport at 8 p.m. Newman, lounging in a seat near the exit, spotted him at once – Seton-Charles wore a lightweight linen suit crumpled from sitting inside the aircraft. The professor climbed into a taxi. Newman got inside the next taxi.

'I'm a detective,' he told the driver. 'Don't lose that taxi – and here's a thousand drachmae as a tip.'

'What has he done?' asked the Greek.

That's what I'm trying to find out…'

Settling back in his seat, Newman took off his jacket, mopped his forehead. The interior of the vehicle was like a sweat box. He recalled a headline blazoned on a newsstand. Killer Heatwave Hits Greece. And the character who wrote that one up wasn't joking, he thought.

Half an hour later, after passing between endless rows of white-walled two-storeyed houses backed by arid hillsides, they entered the city. Seton-Charles' taxi puiled up outside its destination. The occupant got out, paid off the driver and without a backward glance carried his bag inside the Hilton Hotel.

Tweed had phoned Jill Kearns at Brown's Hotel an hour before he was due to have tea with her. He had explained something urgent had come up, an emergency he had to cope with personally. Would she forgive him? Could they make a fresh date for tea in a couple of days' time?

Jill had shown no signs of resentment, said she certainly understood he had a difficult job. She would look forward even more to their being together now she would have to wait a little longer to see him. He put down the phone and looked at Monica.

'She's still keen to see me. Meantime we'll see where she goes, how she spends her time, who she meets. I fixed this up while you were out.'

'Fixed up what?'

'At this moment Paula is sitting in the lobby of Brown's. Jill can't get out of either the Albemarle Street or the Dover Street exit without Paula spotting her. When she leaves, Paula follows.'

'Paula will recognize her?'

'You've forgotten.' Tweed relaxed in his chair, pleased with the way things were developing. 'Paula,' he reminded her, 'was with me when I visited Kearns on Exmoor at his horrible old house near that bungalow estate where Seton-Charles lives. Jill sat in the room during my interview with Kearns- as did Paula. They sat within six feet of each other.'

'Is this Jill bright?'

'A very attractive blonde, in her thirties, and very bright.'

Then she may well spot Paula following her,' Monica objected.

'You think so? Before Paula left here she altered her hair style. I loaned her a pair of glasses with blank lenses. It's amazing how a pair of glasses alters a person's appearance. On top of that she left early enough to call at Simpsons in Piccadilly- to do some shopping.'

'What shopping? You can be so exasperating. You're enjoying keeping me in suspense.'

'She went to buy a white raincoat, one with a large collar which buttons up to the neck. You may have observed it is drizzling on and off. In that outfit Jill will never recognize her.'

'And what's your motive in this devious – typically devious, if I may say…'

'You just did.' Tweed grinned.

'Devious ploy I was going to say if you'd let me finish just one sentence.'

'I'm suspicious of the glamorous Jill Kearns. She may be acting on her husband's instructions. I'm giving her enough rope – two days of it – to hang herself.'

'You don't trust anyone, do you?'

'Especially not attractive blondes who flatter me, try to make out they think I'm the cat's whiskers.'

'Maybe for her you are.' Monica doodled on her notepad. 'She may be just what you need…'

She stopped speaking, feeling she'd gone too far. Tweed's wife had left him several years ago, had walked out to take up living with a Greek shipping magnate. Last heard of in Rio. Tweed showed no sign of having heard her.

'Now we're on our own, let's check the facts we have so far, what we're doing. I'm a good listener as you know.'

He relaxed in his chair, hands clasped in his lap, eyes half-shut. Monica began her survey of recent events, reciting from memory.

'Object of the exercise – to track down the killer of Harry Masterson…'

'I'm going to get that bastard,' Tweed said half to himself.

Monica paused, surprised by the vehemence of his tone, then went on. 'Harry was going on holiday, bored stiff with the idea. He sees the ad Christina Gavalas placed in The Times, signing herself Irene. Intriguing reference to the Greek Key, which is a mystery to us still. Christina tells the story of the murder of Andreas and Stephen during the war. Harry gets interested, fools her into thinking he's a detective. Together they visit Exmoor. OK so far?'

'Go on.'

'Harry visits each of the three men, one of whom the Gavalas family Is convinced is the murderer. Robson, Barrymore and Kearns. Harry is probably the shrewdest interrogator we've ever had – so maybe he spots the bad apple. He then, God save his soul, lays a trap. He tells each of the three he's flying to Greece. Which he then does with Christina. Harry is killed at Cape Sounion.'

'And,' Tweed added, 'by the time Paula and I do the same run Harry did – visit those three on Exmoor – they've all been on holiday and have simians. Which means one of them could have been to Greece while Harry was there.'

'What I just can't see is who could have tricked Harry and pushed him over that three-hundred-feet cliff.' Monica shivered. 'The big question is who could have gained Harry's trust?'

'Christina is the obvious answer. The obvious is often correct.'

'There is an alternative,' Monica mused. 'Someone else Harry had no reason to fear but who got the better of him.'

Tweed opened his eyes, 'That's a new idea you have there. Someone he met in Greece?'

'Doesn't seem likely,' Monica disagreed. 'Next thing, Newman and Marler go out to Greece, make contact with Christina, who seems to have changed sides. But that could be another ploy, this time to trap Newman. That woman worries me. I sense she's clever.'

'Not clever enough to fool Newman,' Tweed assured her.

'She may have fooled Harry. I gather she's very attractive.'

'Harry,' Tweed recalled, 'was a great one for the girls. After his wife divorced him because he wasn't home every night, Harry made hay, was a devil with women.'

'Bob Newman is single again,' Monica reminded him.

'After that brutal murder of his French wife in the Baltic.'

'No woman ever fooled Bob,' Tweed insisted. 'He might pretend to go all starry-eyed over someone like Christina – but he'd be fooling her. Go on with your summary.'

'Newman and Marler contact Christina. They hear about this old villain, Petros – obsessed with tracking down his sons' killers over forty years afterwards. An impossible mission…'

Theoretically,' Tweed interjected. 'But his son, Anton, does find his way to Exmoor – and locates all three ex-commandos. Petros must be a man with a deep peasant cunning. Obsessed, I agree. An impossible mission? Maybe not. And those three on Exmoor are scared of something. Look how Paula and I found all three were living inside fortresses. As I said to Paula, they're like men waiting for Nemesis.'