Greeks Bearing Gifts

TWENTY-TWO

After we’d been searched, the cops sat us on the disemboweled couch. There were three of them and it looked like they’d heard us coming over the back wall and had hidden in the kitchen until they were ready to make their move. Garlopis was already talking too much, in Greek, so I told him to shut up, in German, at least until we knew if the police were disposed to treat us as suspects or not. That’s in the Bible so it must be true: Be sensible and keep your mouth shut: Proverbs 10:19. The officer in charge was a tall man whose dark, high-cheekboned face was part boxer, part Mafia don, and part Mexican revolutionary with more than a hint of Stanley Kowalski—at least until he found a pair of thick-framed, lightly tinted glasses and put them on, at which point he stopped looking dim-witted and thuggish and started to look thoughtful and smart.

“Find anything interesting?” The Greek’s German wasn’t nearly as good as that of Garlopis, but it wasn’t bad either because it’s not the end of the world when you don’t use the best grammar. He had our wallets in his hands and so he already knew our names.

“Just the guy on the floor. And you, of course.”

“Where are you staying, Herr Ganz?”

“Me, I’m at the Mega. In Constitution Square.”

“You should have stayed at the Grande Bretagne. But I suppose either one of them would be convenient for the old Gestapo building in Merlin Street.”

I grinned, trying to enjoy his joke. “His cousin works at the Mega,” I said, looking at Garlopis. “So I guess that’s just my bad luck.”

“So what are you two doing here?”

“If I told you we were selling insurance you’d probably think I was being sarcastic and I can’t say as I would blame you very much. But that’s not so far from the truth. I’m a claims adjustor. The dead man is a German called Siegfried Witzel. He owned a boat called the Doris that was insured with my company for almost a quarter of a million drachmas. I have a business card in my wallet that will help to establish those credentials. You can telegraph my office in Munich and they’ll vouch for me and for Herr Garlopis. Witzel’s boat caught fire and sank, he made a claim, and we came here today to tell him I thought there was something fishy about it.”

“Do you always climb over the back wall to sell insurance?”

“I do when I’ve become aware that the insured party carries a gun. Frankly, I wanted to see what kind of company he was keeping before I said hello again. Especially as I was now the bearer of bad news. In view of what’s happened here I would say that my caution was well founded, wouldn’t you?”

“You speak any Greek?”

“No.”

Garlopis started talking in Greek again. The Greeks have a word for it. So the saying goes. In fact, they usually had several words for it, too many in fact, and Achilles Garlopis was no exception. The man could talk without stopping for hours, the way a Belgian could ride a bicycle. So I told him to shut up, again.

“Why do you tell him to shut up?”

“The usual reason. Because he talks too much.”

“It’s every citizen’s duty to help the police. Perhaps he’s just trying to be helpful.”

“Yes,” said Garlopis. “I am.”

“I can see how that might help you,” I told the police officer. “But I think you’re smart enough to see how that might not help us. You’re a busy man and you’ve got a murder to solve. And right now, in the absence of anyone else, you think we might be good for that.”

“I think it would be smart if you were to tell us everything you know about this man.”

“Oh, sure. Look, I know what to say. I just don’t know if I should say it. That’s just smart getting wise.”

The officer lit a cigarette and blew some of the smoke my way, which I didn’t like.

“Do you speak English?” he said. “My English is better than my German.”

“You’re doing all right so far,” I said in English. “What, were you a cop during the war?”

“Right now, I’m the one asking the questions, okay?”

“Sure. Anything you say, Captain.”

“Lieutenant. So why were you going to turn down his claim?”

“There were too many inconsistencies in his story. There was that and the gun he was carrying.”

“We didn’t find a gun. Not yet.”

“Maybe not. But he’s not wearing a shoulder holster because his wallet was so heavy. I think he was scared of someone, and it wasn’t Munich RE.”

“Like who maybe?”

“That’s obvious. Like the man who killed him, I expect.”

“Funny guy.”

“With all due respect, ‘like who’ is your job, not mine. But Garlopis here tells me the boat—the Doris—was confiscated by the Nazis from some Jews during the war and sold to Witzel. Maybe those Jews or their relations decided if they couldn’t get their property back legally, then they would just get even. Sometimes getting even is the best kind of compensation there is. But motive isn’t something I usually bother with in my line of work. If there’s evidence of fraud I turn down the claim and take the verbal battering. It’s as simple as that. Generally speaking, I don’t have to look too hard for a reason. On the whole people much prefer their insurance company losing money to doing it themselves. My job is to try to prevent that from happening. Which is why I was about to say no to Mr. Witzel’s claim. But at this present moment I wouldn’t say no to a cigarette.”

The lieutenant thought about it for a moment and then had one of his men uncuff us, and I got my Karelias back. There’s nothing as bad as the craving you get for a cigarette because they’ve been taken away by someone in authority. Someone who smokes. I expect the Greek cop knew that. And the greater the privation that precedes their return, the better the first one tastes. The liberty cigarette. Even Garlopis agreed with this empirical observation; I could tell by the way he hoovered down his first drag. Okay, we weren’t out of the forest yet, but things were starting to relax, a little. Or at least as much as that’s even possible when there’s a dead body lying eyeless on the rug and someone has a gun on you.

“Would you mind telling your men to put their guns away? I had a good wine with my lunch and I wouldn’t want to spill any of it on this floor. We’re not armed and you know who we are, so we’re not about to try to escape.”

The German-speaking policeman said something and the other two policemen holstered their weapons.

“Thank you.”

“Tell me more about his insurance claim.”

“If his boat was attacked and sunk for political reasons by Jewish activists, then this would certainly fall under the umbrella of war risk exclusions which, according to the terms of the policy, are considered fundamentally uninsurable. I think maybe he was trying to prevent us from finding that out.”

“And you’ll have lots of paperwork back at the office to substantiate this story.”

“Not just there. If you look on the table you’ll find a certified cashier’s check from my company that was a small interim payment for his loss.”

The lieutenant stepped carefully over Witzel’s body, went to the table, and looked down at the check without touching it.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to pay up.”

“On the main claim? No. I think you’ll agree there’s a hell of a difference between the amount printed on that check and a quarter of a million drachmas.”

“You know what I also think?” said the cop, turning back to look at me. “I think you’ve been around dead bodies before, Mr. Ganz.”

“After the war we just lived through, that wouldn’t be so unusual.”

“No, this was different. I was watching you both from the stairs. And listening to some things you said. Garlopis here, he behaved like a normal person. Saw the body, felt a bit queasy, and went outside to get some fresh air. But you—you were different. From what I could understand of what you said, you were looking at the body the way I do. Like a man with no eyes didn’t bother you that much. And as if you expected this crime scene to yield some answers. The way you knew about the speed with which blood dries. That kind of behavior tells me something.”

“And what does it tell you?”

“For a moment back there I thought you might be one of the answers. Now I think that maybe you are or were some kind of a cop.”

“I told you. I’m a claims adjustor for an insurance company. Which is a kind of a cop, I suppose. One that gets to go home at five o’clock, perhaps.”

“You must think I’m stupid, Mr. Ganz. And you’re a long way from home. Who the hell do you think you’re dealing with? I’ve done this job for twenty years. I can smell a cop the way an elephant can smell water. So don’t make me have to hit you to get some straight answers. If I hit you, I can promise you’ll write me a thank-you letter afterward. In Greek.”

“I’ve been hit before.”

“I can believe that. But let me tell you, I’ve slapped enough punks in my life to know the ones who’ll hit back from the ones who’ll learn to appreciate it. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Because the fact is, I don’t need to hit you. We both know I can hold you for as long as I want. I can throw you both in jail or I can take away your passport. This is Greece, not the General Assembly of the United Nations.”

“All right. I used to be a cop. So what? With all the men killed during the war a lot of German companies can’t afford to be fussy about the kind of people they take on these days. It seems to me that they’ll employ just about anyone who can get the job done. Even if that means giving a job to some retired dumb cop like me.”

“Now that I don’t believe. That you were ever a dumb cop.”

“I’m alive I guess.”

“What kind of a cop were you?”

“The honest kind. Most of the time.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like I said, Lieutenant, I stayed alive. That should tell you something.”

“Something else tells me that you know a little bit about murder.”

“All Germans know about murder. As a Greek you should know that.”

“True, but since there’s a dead German on the floor I now have the crazy idea that a German ex-cop like you could help me solve this case. Is that unreasonable?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because by not helping me, you’d be in my way. We’ve got laws against obstructing the police.”

“Name one.”

“Come on, Mr. Ganz. You’re at the scene of a murder. There’s blood on your fingers and your prints are on that spent round of ammunition you were handling earlier. You didn’t even come in through the front door. Until I find someone better than you, you’re all I’ve got. You even knew the dead man. You’re a German, like him. Your card was in the victim’s wallet. So I might even be disposed to call each of you a suspect. How does that word sound?”

“Except that you were here first.”

“Haven’t you heard of the murderer who returns to the scene of the crime?”

“Sure. I’ve heard of Father Christmas, too, but I’ve never actually seen him myself.”

“You don’t think it happens?”

“I think it helps a lot of writers get themselves out of a tight spot. But I’d have to be pretty dumb to come back here if I killed this man.”

“A lot of criminals are stupid.”

“That’s right. They are. But I never counted on that when I was a cop. Not only that but it looks bad when cops don’t catch those criminals. Bad for the reputation of cops everywhere.”

“All right. Let’s work on the assumption that this killer isn’t stupid. Why do you think he shot your man in the eyes? Why would someone do something like that?”

“How should I know?”

“Humor me, please. I have my own theory on this but I’d still like to hear what even an ex-detective has to say about it.” He flicked the cigarette he was smoking out the French windows. “I am right, aren’t I? That you were once a detective?”

“Yes. All right, I was. A long time ago.”

“Where and doing what?”

“I was a Murder Commission detective in Berlin for the best part of ten years.”

“And you held what kind of rank?”

“I was a police commissar. That’s like a captain, I suppose.”

“So you were the man in charge of a murder investigation?”

“You might think that, yes. But back in Germany there was really only one man in charge all that time. And his name was Adolf Hitler.”

“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. So tell me, Commissar Ganz, why do you think Mr. Witzel was shot in the eyes?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. My own guess is it was a revenge thing, maybe. That the killer is probably a sadist who enjoys not just killing people but humiliating them, too.”

“I agree. About the sadism, I mean. I have another question. Was Witzel by any chance a German Jew?”

“No,” I said. “I’m quite certain he wasn’t.”

“May I ask how you know?”

“He’d told us he was in the German navy during the war. It’s highly unlikely he could have served if he’d been Jewish.”

“I see. Look, Herr Commissar, I think maybe we can help each other out here. My name is Lieutenant Leventis and I’ll guarantee to keep you both out of jail if you hand over your passport and agree to help me. In a purely advisory role, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Two heads are better than one. Especially a head as gray as yours, Commissar.”

“Don’t think my gray hairs make that head wise, Lieutenant. They just make me old. And tired. That’s why I’m in insurance.”

“If you say so. But make no mistake, Commissar, Greece was never a country for young men. Not like Germany. It’s old heads that have always mattered here.”

“All right. I’ll do it.” I glanced at Garlopis. “But didn’t Cerberus have three heads?”

Garlopis pulled a face and then straightened his bow tie. “You don’t expect me to help, I hope. Really, sir, I don’t think I can. Especially now, with a dead body lying at my feet. I think I told you before that I’m a coward, sir. I may have misled you there. I’m an abject coward. I’m the kind of man who gives cowards a bad name. I joined the insurance business because the debt-collection business was too hazardous. People kept on threatening to hit me, sir. But that now seems to be a very small thing, given the condition of poor Herr Witzel. And by the way, Cerberus was killed. By Hercules.”

“Only in some versions. And I can hardly help the lieutenant without your invaluable assistance, Garlopis.”

“That’s right,” said the lieutenant. “Your German is fluent, I think. And certainly more fluent than my English. So you’re in. It’s that or a drive to the Haidari Barracks, where at least one of you will feel very much at home. During the war it was the local concentration camp run by the SS and the Gestapo. We will leave you there on remand, while I look for evidence to prosecute you for Witzel’s murder.”

Garlopis chuckled nervously. “But there isn’t any.”

“True. Which means it could take a while to look for it. Perhaps several months. We still use Block Fifteen at Haidari for keeping lefty prisoners in isolation.”

“He’s right,” I said. “Better helping him on the outside than being inside.”

Garlopis winced. “It’s Scylla and Charybdis,” he said. “Choosing between two evils. Which, if you’ll forgive me, is no choice at all.”

“Good, then that’s settled,” said Lieutenant Leventis. “So. If you’ll both come with me, there are some pictures at police headquarters I’d like the commissar to take a look at.”