The Greek Key (7 page)

'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.

'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.'