The Other Side of Midnight (41 page)

“And what were the circumstances?”

“First of all he said there must not be any publicity, and secondly he said that his wife refused to give him a divorce.”

“In other words he had asked his wife for a divorce and she had refused?”

“That is what he told me.”

“And you explained to him that you couldn’t help him? That unless his wife was willing to give him a divorce, it would be difficult or impossible for him to obtain one, and that there very well might be publicity?”

“That is correct.”

“So, short of taking desperate measures, there was nothing the defendant could—”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

“Your witness.”

Napoleon Chotas lifted himself out of his chair with a sigh and slowly walked over to the witness. Peter Demonides was not worried. Minos was a lawyer and too experienced to be deceived by Chotas’ forensic bag of tricks.

“You’re an attorney, Mr. Minos.”

“I am.”

“And an excellent one, I’m sure. I’m surprised that our professional paths have not crossed sooner. The firm I’m with deals in many branches of law. Perhaps you’ve run across one of my partners in some corporate litigation?”

“No. I don’t do corporate work.”

“I beg your pardon. Perhaps in some tax case, then?”

“I am not a tax lawyer.”

“Oh.” Chotas was beginning to look puzzled and ill-at-ease, as though he was making a fool of himself. “Securities?”

“No.” Minos was beginning to enjoy the lawyer’s humiliation. His face took on a smug look and Peter Demonides began to worry. How many times had he seen that look on the faces of witnesses that Napoleon Chotas was preparing for the slaughter?

Chotas was scratching his head in bafflement. “I give up,” he said ingenuously. “What kind of law do you specialize in?”

“Divorce cases.” The answer was a barbed shaft, perfectly delivered.

A rueful look appeared on Chotas’ face and he shook his head. “I should have known my good friend Mr. Demonides would have an expert up here.”

“Thank you, sir.” Alexis Minos made no attempt to conceal his smugness now. Not every witness got a
chance to score off Chotas and in Minos’ mind he was already embellishing the story to tell at the club that evening.

“I’ve never even handled a divorce case,” Chotas was confiding in an embarrassed voice, “so I’ll have to defer to your expertise.”

The old lawyer was caving in completely. It would make an even better story than Minos had anticipated.

“I’ll bet you keep very busy,” Chotas said.

“I have as many cases as I can handle.”

“As many as you can handle!” There was open admiration in Napoleon Chotas’ voice.

“Sometimes more.”

Peter Demonides looked down at the floor, unable to watch what was happening.

Chotas’ voice took on an awed tone. “I don’t want to pry into your personal business, Mr. Minos, but as a matter of professional curiosity, how many clients would you say walk through your door in a year?”

“Well, that’s pretty difficult to say.”

“Come on now, Mr. Minos. Don’t be modest. Make a guess.”

“Oh, I suppose two hundred. That’s an approximation, you understand.”

“Two hundred divorces a year! The paper work alone must be staggering.”

“Well, there aren’t actually two hundred divorces.”

Chotas rubbed his chin, perplexed. “What?”

“They’re not
all
divorces.”

A puzzled look came over Chotas’ face. “Didn’t you say that you only handled divorce cases?”

“Yes, but—” Minos’ voice wavered.

“But what?” Chotas asked in bewilderment.

“Well, what I mean is, they don’t all get divorced.”

“But isn’t that why they come to see you?”

“Yes, but some of them—well—change their minds for one reason or another.”

Chotas nodded in sudden understanding. “Ah! You mean there’s a reconciliation or something of the sort?”

“Exactly,” Minos said.

“So that what you’re saying is that—what?—ten percent don’t bother to go through with the divorce action?”

Minos shifted in his chair uneasily. “The percentage is a bit higher.”

“How much higher? Fifteen percent? Twenty?”

“Closer to forty.”

Napoleon Chotas stared at him in amazement. “Mr. Minos, are you telling us that almost half the people who come to see you decide not to get a divorce?”

“Yes.”

Tiny beads of sweat were popping out on Minos’ forehead. He turned to look at Peter Demonides, but Demonides was studiously concentrating on a crack in the floor.

“Well, I’m sure it’s not a lack of confidence in your ability,” said Chotas.

“Certainly not,” Minos said defensively. “They very often come to me on a stupid impulse. A husband or wife will have a fight and feel they hate each other and think they want a divorce, but when you come right down to it, in most cases they change their minds.”

He stopped abruptly as he realized the full import of his words.

“Thank you,” Chotas said gently. “You’ve been most helpful.”

Peter Demonides was examining the witness.

“Your name, please?”

“Kasta. Irene Kasta.”

“Miss or Mrs.?”

“Mrs. I’m a widow.”

“What is your occupation, Mrs. Kasta?”

“I’m a housekeeper.”

“Where do you work?”

“For a rich family in Rafina.”

“That’s a village near the sea, is it not? A hundred kilometers north of Athens?”

“Yes.”

“Would you please take a look at the two defendants seated at the table? Have you ever seen them before?”

“Sure. Lots of times.”

“Would you tell us under what circumstances?”

“They live in the house next to the villa where I work. I seen them on the beach a lot. They was naked.”

There was a gasp from the spectators and then a quick buzz of conversation. Peter Demonides glanced over at Chotas to see if he was going to object, but the old lawyer sat at the table, a dreamy smile on his face. The smile made Demonides more nervous than ever. He turned back to the witness.

“You are certain that these are the two people you saw? You are under oath, you know.”

“Them’s the two, all right.”

“When they were together on the beach, did they seem friendly?”

“Well, they didn’t act like brother and sister.”

A laugh from the spectators.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kasta.” Demonides turned to Chotas. “Your witness.”

Napoleon Chotas nodded amiably and rose and ambled over to the formidable-looking woman in the witness box.

“How long have you worked at this villa, Mrs. Kasta?”

“Seven years.”

“Seven years! You must be very good at your job.”

“You bet I am.”

“Perhaps you could recommend a good housekeeper for me. I’ve been thinking about buying a place on the beach at Rafina. My problem is, I need privacy so I can work. As I remember those villas, they’re all bunched together.”

“Oh, no, sir. Each villa is separated by a big wall.”

“Oh, good. And they’re not crowded next to one another?”

“No, sir, not at all. Those villas are at least a hundred yards away from each other. I know one that’s up for sale. You’d have all the privacy you need and I can recommend my sister to do the housekeeping for you. She’s good and she’s tidy and she cooks a bit.”

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Kasta, that sounds wonderful. Perhaps I could call her this afternoon.”

“She does a bit of day work. She’ll be home at six.”

“What time is it now?”

“I don’t carry a watch.”

“Ah. There’s a large clock on the wall over there. What does it say?”

“Well, it’s hard to make out. It’s clear across the room.”

“How far away would you say that clock was?”

“About—er—fifty feet.”

“Twenty-three feet, Mrs. Kasta. No more questions.”

It was the fifth day of the trial. Doctor Israel Katz’s missing leg was paining him again. While he was performing an operation, he could stand on his artificial leg for hours on end, and it never bothered him. But sitting here without the intense concentration to divert his attention, the nerve ends kept sending memory messages to a limb that was no longer there. Katz shifted restlessly in his seat, trying to ease the pressure on his hip. He had tried to see Noelle every day since he had arrived in Athens but with no success. He had spoken to Napoleon Chotas, and the lawyer had explained that Noelle was too upset to see old friends and that it would be best to wait until the trial was over. Israel Katz had asked him to tell Noelle that he was here to help her in every way he could, but he could not be certain that she ever received the message. He had sat in court day after day, hoping Noelle would look his way, but she never even glanced at the spectators.

Israel Katz owed his life to her, and he felt frustrated because there was no way he could help repay that debt. He had no idea how the trial was going or
whether Noelle would be convicted or acquitted. Chotas was good. If any man in the world could free Noelle it was he. Yet somehow Israel Katz was filled with unease. The trial was far from over. There could still be some surprises ahead.

A witness for the prosecution was being sworn in.

“Your name?”

“Christian Barbet.”

“You are a French national, Mr. Barbet?”

“Yes.”

“And where is your residence?”

“In Paris.”

“Would you tell the Court your occupation?”

“I am the owner of a private detective agency.”

“And where is that agency located?”

“The main office is in Paris.”

“What kind of cases do you handle?”

“Many kinds…commercial pilfering, missing persons, surveillance for jealous husbands or wives…”

“Monsieur Barbet, would you be good enough to look around this courtroom and tell us whether anyone in this room has ever been a client of yours?”

A long, slow look around the room. “Yes, sir.”

“Would you tell the Court who this person is, please?”

“The lady sitting over there. Miss Noelle Page.”

A murmur of interest from the spectators.

“Are you telling us that Miss Page hired you to do some detective work for her?”

“I am, monsieur.”

“And would you tell us exactly what that work consisted of?”

“Yes, sir. She was interested in a man named Larry Douglas. She wanted me to find out everything I could about him.”

“That is the same Larry Douglas who is on trial in this courtroom?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Miss Page paid you for this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you please look at these exhibits in my hand. Are these the records of the payments that were made to you?”

“That is correct.”

“Tell us, Monsieur Barbet, how did you go about obtaining this information on Mr. Douglas?”

“It was very difficult, monsieur. You see I was in France, and Mr. Douglas was in England and later the United States, and with France occupied by the Germans—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, with France occupied—”

“Just a moment. I want to be sure that I understand what you are saying, Monsieur Barbet. We have been told by Miss Page’s attorney that she and Larry Douglas met a few short months ago and fell madly in love. Now you are telling this Court that their love affair started—how long ago?”

“At least six years ago.”

Pandemonium.

Demonides flashed Chotas a triumphant look. “Your witness.”

Napoleon Chotas rubbed his eyes, rose from the long table at which he was sitting and walked over to the witness box.

“I won’t detain you long, Mr. Barbet. I know you must be anxious to get back to your family in France.”

“You may take your time, monsieur.” Smugly.

“Thank you. Forgive me for being personal, but that’s certainly a fine-looking suit you’re wearing, Mr. Barbet.”

“Thank you, monsieur.”

“Made in Paris, was it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It fits beautifully. I don’t seem to have any luck with my suits. Have you ever tried the English tailors? They’re supposed to be excellent, also.”

“No, monsieur.”

“I’m sure you’ve been to England many times?”

“Well—no.”

“Never?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever been to the United States of America?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever visited the South Pacific?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you must truly be a fantastic detective, Mr. Barbet. My hat is off to you. These reports of yours cover the activities of Larry Douglas in England and the United States and the South Pacific—and yet you tell us that you have never even been to any of these places. I can only assume that you are psychic.”

“Permit me to correct you, monsieur. It was not necessary for me to have been in any of those places. I employ what we call correspondent agencies in England and in America.”

“Ah, forgive my stupidity. Of course! So it was actually
those
people who covered the activities of Mr. Douglas?”

“Exactement.”

“And so the fact is that you yourself have no personal knowledge of Larry Douglas’ movements.”

“Well…no, sir.”

“So in reality all your information is secondhand.”

“I suppose…in a sense, yes.”

Chotas turned to the judges. “I move to strike the entire testimony of this witness, Your Honors, on the grounds that it is hearsay.”

Peter Demonides leaped to his feet. “Objection, Your Honors! Noelle Page hired Mr. Barbet to get information on Larry Douglas. That is not hearsay—”

“My learned colleague has submitted the records as
evidence,” Chotas said gently. “I am perfectly willing to accept it—if he wishes to bring the men here who actually conducted the surveillance of Mr. Douglas. Otherwise I must ask the Court to assume that there was no such surveillance and ask that the testimony of this witness be held inadmissible.”

The President of the Court turned to Demonides. “Are you prepared to bring your witnesses here?” he asked.

“That’s impossible,” Peter Demonides spluttered. “Mr. Chotas knows that it would take weeks to locate them!”

The President turned to Chotas. “Motion granted.”