The Greek Key (27 page)

Greece looking over our shoulders. When we get back to Athens
I
want a quiet talk with Christina on her own, I'm sure she has more information.'

'Why not me? I've known the girl a bit longer ...'

'Oh, yes!' Newman's tone was ironical. 'You got to know her so well she pasted you one.'

'It was the only way I could hope to get her to talk ...'

'It was the only way you thought you could get her to talk - and she didn't.'

'It's just possible you could be right,' Marler admitted reluctantly. He felt his face. 'She's a beauty bat she packs a rare punch . . .'

'Which you richly deserved. Let's get over to the car.'

'May I enquire what is the next object of the exercise with her?'

'Christina met Harry Masterson in London, probably pointed him to Exmoor and those three ex-commandos, Why? Only she can tell me. So, old boy,' Newman went on, mimicking Marler, 'I'd appreciate it if from now on you leave the beauty to me. And on the way back we'd better assume those two thugs may be waiting to ambush us.'

They arranged the seating to anticipate the worst. Marler, loaded rifle across his lap, sat in front next to Nick. In the rear they placed Newman, Christina - sitting in the middle - and Spyros occupied the other corner. The hunchback was apologetic as Nick drove away from the plateau, heading for the far side of the mountain.

'I was not a great help to you, Mr Newman. The priest told you everything.'

'Everything? Are you sure about that? Who took away Andreas' body? And what is the Greek Key?'

'Don't ask me that.' The hunchback shuddered, clasped his veined hands tightly. 'I know nothing about such things.'

'But I do.' Christina pressed her shoulder against Newman, turned and gazed at him. 'Maybe later, when we are alone, the two of us should talk.'

'I'd welcome that.' Newman stared back at her. 'You speak very good English.'

'That was my mother's doing. I was lucky enough to be well-educated. And sometimes I think that is why my cousins - and Petros - hate me. They are still men of the soil. They think like peasants, behave like them. My mother was left money by a distant relative. She banked it secretly. Petros was furious. One night she packed me off to Zurich. To a school. I found I was good at languages. As well as Greek I speak German and English. I took a law degree. Then I made a mistake.'

'Which was?'

'I came back for my mother's funeral. Petros insisted I must pay my respects by staying in Devil's Valley for a time. Like a fool I agreed. Time went by. They all made me think their way. Now I have had enough of them for two lifetimes. We will talk later.'

Spyros had produced something from under his floppy jacket. Newman heard a strange sound, glanced across Christina. Spyros was clicking a length of black worry beads. His expression was anxious. Newman looked out of the window. The view was spectacular: a vast panorama stretching all the way down across the island to the sickle-shaped harbour.

There was tension inside the car. As they approached each bend Marler leaned forward, gripping his rifle, alert for any sign of the Gavalas brothers. He had warned Nick to be ready for an emergency stop at any second. Nick kept wiping a hand dry, then grasping the wheel tightly, staring ahead while he crawled round the bends.

The worry beads stopped clicking. Newman remained quite still. Spyros leaned forward, staring in his direction. Newman went on gazing out of the window as the car continued its steep and tortuous descent. Now he could pick out individual boats berthed in Siros harbour.

'My cousin, Sarantis, is an archaeologist,' Spyros began. 'Is that the right word?'

'He goes on excavations - digging up ancient sites. A lot of them round the Plaka district in Athens,' Newman encouraged him.

'That is so. But Sarantis likes places where there are few of his kind. Like Cape Sounion. The Temple of Poseidon.'

'Sensible chap.' Newman forced himself to stay relaxed. 'So what about Sarantis?'

'He is very old. Like me. But he has a wonderful memory for faces. He was near Cape Sounion when the Englishman, Masterson, was thrown from the cliff not many weeks past.'

'He saw it happen?'

'No. But he did see the two men who went to the temple shortly before the killing.'

Two
men? You are sure? You did say he was very old,' Newman reminded him gently.

'Eighty years. He recognized Masterson from the pictures later in the papers - the man thrown from the cliff, he said.'

'And the second man,' Newman probed. 'He could describe him? How does he know Masterson was thrown off- if he didn't see it happen?'

'I think he did, but he felt it was dangerous to admit that. He has a good memory for faces,' Spyros repeated, in the manner of the old.

'He described this second man to you?' Newman enquired.

'No. But you could ask him. He would tell you. He likes the English. Treat him gently, please. He is frightened by what he saw at Cape Sounion.'

'You have his address in Athens?'

'Athens? He lives here on Siros. In a house near the top of the port. We could see him before you take the ferry back to Athens.'

'Let's do that,' Newman agreed. 'Maybe we've stumbled on just what we've been seeking. By pure chance - coming to Siros. I have experienced that when I was a foreign correspondent,' he told Marler, who was watching him in the rear-view mirror. 'A stroke of luck when you least expect it. And it opens up a whole new picture - maybe leading all the way back to Exmoor.'

'Sounds just a shade too easy to me,' Marler commented, switching his gaze to the view beyond the windscreen.

Approaching the outskirts of the port, Nick spoke in Greek to Spyros who gabbled vehemently in reply. Newman was watching the view out of his window, apparently taking no interest in the conversation, his expression blank as he absorbed every word of what was being said. Spyros was having second thoughts about mentioning Sarantis; Nick was reassuring him.

Driving down a narrow paved street, closed in again by the glaring white walls of the stone houses, Nick swung off the street up a curving walled ramp. The house was isolated from the town, grey shutters masked the windows, the brilliant red front door was closed. Marler leapt out of the car, gripping his rifle, and poked his head in the rear window to speak to Spyros.

'Is there a rear way out of this place?' he asked urgently.

Newman noticed he had released the safety catch on his rifle. He was tense, quick-moving. Spyros looked up at him and gestured.

'Round the other side. There is a terrace leading to a door. A flight of steps runs down into the street.'

'What's the matter?' asked Newman as he also left the Mercedes holding his own rifle.

'Something not quite right here,' Marler said tersely.

'What makes you think that?'

'Sixth sense.' Marler spoke to Spyros again. 'This Sarantis. Does he live alone? Any wife, servants?'

'No. By himself. A woman comes in each day . . .'

'Will she be here now?'

Marler was firing the questions. Frequently he glanced at the closed shutters. He frowned as he glanced up at the flat roof. 'Any way to get up there?' he demanded before Spyros answered his first question. Nick, who had switched off the engine, had caught the atmosphere, stood near the front of the car, his right hand under his loose jacket, close to the revolver.

'The woman comes only in the mornings,' Spyros replied. 'And round that corner there is a flight of steps leading to the roof . . .'

'I'll take the roof,' Marler snapped. 'Bob, you take the rear door. Nick, wait by the front door here . . .'

'You wait in the car with Spyros,' Newman warned Christina and ran after Marler.

'The front door is ajar,' Newman warned Nick. 'Synchronize our watches. OK? Eighty seconds from now we both go in. Caution is the word . . .'

Newman ran round the side of the house. Marler was taking the steps to the roof two at a time. The terrace widened overlooking the deserted street. Siesta time. Probably all day. The heat burned his back. The grey shutters were closed over the windows at the back. Newman arrived at a door painted a bright blue.

This door was half-open. Somewhere out of sight further down the street a car started up, sped away. Could mean nothing. He checked his watch. Thirty seconds to go. He stood to one side of the doorway, listening. The sound of the car departing had vanished. A heavy heat-laden silence descended on the terrace. No sound of movement inside the single-storey house. He had the feeling the place was empty. So why were both doors open?

Ten seconds. He took a firm grasp on his rifle, held it at waist level. Raising his right foot he kicked the door wide open, darted inside, pressed his body against a wall.

A drop of at least twenty degrees. Positively cool compared with outside. He was inside a large L-shaped living room. A lot of soft furnishing: armchairs, couches. An arched fireplace took up most of the opposite wall. His eyes swivelled, getting accustomed to the dim light. A desk pushed up against the right-hand wall. Its surface littered with papers. He could hear Nick prowling round out of sight. His eyes were fixed on the desk area.

A chair was overturned. The body of an old man lay sprawled on the tiled floor. He lay very still on his back, his eyes staring at the roughcast ceiling. His right hand stretched out, clawed except for the index finger pointing towards Newman as though in a gesture of protest. Nick appeared, gun in hand, followed by Marler who moved with the silence of a cat.

'Anyone in the place?' Newman asked. Both shook their heads. 'Get Spyros. Warn him. I think we're too late . . .'

'Dead as a dodo,' Marler pronounced in a neutral tone.

He was crouched over the body, had checked the neck pulse. He remained crouched on his haunches, his forehead wrinkled as he looked round. Newman was standing gazing down at the old man. He pointed to a scrape mark on the tiles close to the desk.

'Difficult to say what happened,' he commented. 'That looks like the scrape of his shoe. He could have stood up, slipped, cracked the back of his skull. No, I don't think so. Look at his wrist. It's been broken . . .'

'Which could have happened when he slipped. This floor is very highly polished. Makes for accidents.'

'And he broke his arm as well?' queried Newman.

He could now see the arm was turned at an unnatural angle - it was fractured close to the elbow. He looked up as Spyros entered, followed by Nick and Christina. Spyros walked slowly to the body and his voice quavered.

'Is he . . .'

'I'm afraid so,' Newman told him. 'He is dead. Who is it?'

'My old friend, Sarantis . . . my oldest friend . . .'

Tears ran down his weathered cheeks. Christina wrapped an arm round his shoulders, hugged him. Taking out a handkerchief she wiped his face, whispering to him in Greek. She led him to one of the couches where he sagged, then looked up at her.

'You are very kind - all of you,' he said in English. 'I will be all right now.'

'I'll take up guard on the roof,' Marler said crisply. 'Keep a lookout. I don't think we should linger here very long.'

Then he was gone. Christina disappeared briefly, returned with a glass of water. Spyros accepted it gratefully, gulped down the contents. Christina, her expression grim, walked over and stared at the body. Her voice was harsh.

'Another killing?' she demanded. 'They tried to make him talk?'

'Who?' Newman enquired, propping his rifle more securely inside an armchair.

'Dimitrios and Constantine, of course.'

'Why 'of course'?'

'Because of this.' Stooping, she pulled out a handkerchief from under the body. It was brightly coloured with a diamond-shaped design. On a cream area it was discoloured with something dark reddish which looked like dried blood to Newman. 'Dimitrios has a handkerchief like this,' she said coldly. 'The rotten swine.'

'Is that the only handkerchief of that kind in Greece?' Newman asked.

'Well, no. You can buy them in the shops in Athens ...'

Then you can't be sure. Give it to me. Nothing must be disturbed.'

Newman tucked the handkerchief back under the body in the same position she had dragged it from. He checked his watch. Spyros sat very still, staring at Sarantis as though wishing to imprint on his mind this last memory of his friend. A great mistake, Newman thought: and made by so many people.