Greeks Bearing Gifts

TWENTY-THREE

On the way to police headquarters we made a detour. The Athens Gendarmerie was located on Mesogeion Avenue in a pleasantly large park. Surrounded with trees and grass, it was a three-story, cream-colored building with a red pantile roof and a series of arched windows and doors that were painted, patriotically, blue and white to match the flags that hung limply on either side of the main door. Lieutenant Leventis parked his car beside a row of squat palm trees that resembled a display of giant pineapples and went inside for a moment, he said, to hand over the spent brass we’d found at the murder scene to his ballistics people. Since I was handcuffed to Garlopis in the backseat I don’t suppose he was too worried about either one of us running away; besides, Garlopis didn’t look like much of a runner.

“What is this place?” I asked after a few moments.

“This is the police Gendarmerie, which has connections to the Greek army. Leventis belongs to the City Police, which is something different. They cooperate, of course. At least, that’s the rumor. In Athens, the City Police are headquartered at the Megaron Pappoudof, immediately opposite the Grande Bretagne Hotel, on the corner of Kifisias Street and Panepistimiou. Which is where we’re headed next, I think.” He looked at his watch. “I hope this isn’t going to take long. I’m worried about the car. My cousin will be less than pleased if something happens to it.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the car. Worry about us.”

“But why? The lieutenant said we’d be all right so long as we cooperate with him. By which he means you, of course. I don’t think there’s very much help that I can provide.”

“You’re helping me to help him and that’s enough. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings with him.”

“Well, now I’m worried that you’re worried. May I ask why you’re worried?”

“Because cops will say anything to ensure someone cooperates with them, especially when there’s a murder to solve. Take it from me, you can’t trust cops any more than you can trust their clients. Even now he might be booking us a nice quiet cell in this Haidari Barracks he mentioned.”

“There are no nice cells in Haidari. It’s still the most notorious prison in all of Greece. Many heroes of the Greek resistance were tortured and killed there. And many Jews, of course. Although for them it was more of a transit camp to somewhere even more unpleasant. From Thessaloniki to Auschwitz.”

“That’s a comforting thought. Look, I hope I’m wrong. What kind of man is this lieutenant, anyway?”

“Leventis? He struck me as quite a fair man, actually. A bit better than the average police lieutenant, perhaps, so I’m not absolutely sure if he’s the type who can be bribed or not. But I’ve yet to see him write anything down, so he could still release both of us without having to explain why. For the right consideration.”

“I like the way you said ‘both of us.’ It gives me confidence in our professional association. How do you bribe a cop in Greece anyway?”

“The best way is with money, sir.”

“Is that a fact? You sound like you’ve done that kind of thing before.”

“Yes, but not for anything important, you understand. Traffic violations, mostly. And once on behalf of a cousin of mine who was accused of stealing a lady’s handbag. But this is something different. At least it feels that way. Have you got much money?”

“That depends on the cop, doesn’t it? I don’t know how it works in Greece but generally speaking we don’t bribe cops in West Germany because Germans can’t hide behind a sense of humor if it goes wrong.”

“The Greek police do not have a sense of humor, either. If they had, they would not have become policemen in the first place. But they do like money. Everyone in Greece likes money. It was the Greeks who invented the use of money, so old habits die hard. Especially for the Attica police.”

Lieutenant Leventis appeared in the doorway of the Gendarmerie and walked back toward the car. Garlopis watched him with narrowed eyes.

“Against this man being bribed is the fact that he shaved this morning. And for another, he’s wearing a clean shirt. The car we’re sitting in is a Ford Popular, which is the cheapest car in Europe. Also the watch on his wrist is just a cheap Russian model and he smokes Santé, which is a ladies’ brand of cigarette. No man in Greece smokes these unless he’s trying to save money.”

“Maybe he likes the lady on the packet.”

“No, sir. If you’ll forgive me, this is a man living within his means. Besides, he walks too quickly for a man who’d take money. Like he has a purpose. I tend to think that corruption moves much more slowly in a country like this.”

“You should have been a cop yourself, Garlopis.”

“Not me, sir. As well as a coward I have always had very bad feet. You can’t become a policeman if you have bad feet. Standing around and doing nothing all day is very hard on the feet.”

The lieutenant got back into the front seat and we drove into the center of Athens; we made quick progress, too. As a way of getting around Athens I’d certainly recommend being driven by a policeman, even in a Ford Popular.

The Megaron Pappoudof faced the north side of the Greek parliament and the northeastern corner of Constitution Square and was set back from the main road, behind a tall wrought-iron railing. Overlooked by the St. Isidore Church on the highest rock in Athens, which dominates the city like a Christian riposte to the Acropolis, the four- or five-story building with its central pillared pediment was the Athenian equivalent of Munich’s Police Praesidium, or the old Alex in Berlin. Leventis parked the car around the corner, uncuffed us, and then led the way through the main gate and up the marble steps to the entrance. Inside was almost a relief from the noise and smell of buses taking Greeks home from work and we were immediately faced with a color portrait of King Paul, who was holding a pair of white gloves, just in case he was obliged to shake anyone’s hand or take a bribe. We climbed to the third floor.

Police headquarters are the same the world over: impersonal, worn, malodorous, busy—and already I felt very much at home. In spite of this, I would happily have turned around and walked over to my hotel for a bath and a drink, even if it wasn’t as good as the Grande Bretagne. The notice board in the corridor outside the lieutenant’s office was all in Greek but I knew exactly what it said because they’d had the same noticeboard at the Alex twenty years ago. Crime’s more or less the same in any language. Garlopis and I sat down in front of a cheap wooden desk under the watchful eye of another cop who was leaning against the green-painted wall smoking a cigarette, and waited while Leventis fetched some files from a battered steel cabinet. It was a large office with green linoleum, a high ceiling with a stationary fan, a glass door, a water cooler, and another portrait of the king wearing a monocle, which really did make me feel at home. Somehow, and no matter where it hails from, royalty always manages to look a bit German. I expect it’s something to do with the Prussian grenadier’s ramrod they all shove up their arses before they have their portraits done.

“Do you like Greece, Herr Ganz?” said Leventis as he riffled through his case files.

“It seems very nice to me.”

“Our women?”

“Those I’ve seen seem very nice, too.”

“How about our wine?” he murmured.

“I like it. At least I do when I manage to get over the taste of the stuff. It tastes more like tree sap than actual wine. Still, the effect seems to be much the same and after the first bottle you hardly notice the difference.”

Garlopis smiled. “That’s very good,” he said. “Most amusing.”

I didn’t think Leventis was really listening, but I carried on anyway: “They say the Romans used to make wine in the same way. That would certainly explain the decline and fall of the Roman Empire.”

He didn’t answer and, after a while, I said, “You know why we were at the house in Pritaniou. Why were you there, Lieutenant?”

“This morning one of the neighbors reported hearing the sound of an argument, followed by two shots. A patrol car found the body and then summoned me. The witness, who was cleaning the Glebe Holy Sepulchre Church opposite number 11, claims she saw two men leaving the house just before midday but couldn’t describe them in any useful way.”

“Any idea yet who owns that house?”

“The neighbor thinks that Witzel might have been living there without the owner’s knowledge. Squatting. It may even be that the owner has died. We’re investigating.”

Leventis came back to his desk and sat down, smiling, but this time there was no cruelty in his smile, which made a nice change; only he wasn’t yet through with threatening us.

“All of what I’m about to tell you now is confidential,” he said. “I should hate to read about any of this in a newspaper. If I did I should certainly assume that one of you was responsible and have you both sent to Haidari Barracks. My captain—Captain Kokkinos, would insist on it.”

“We won’t breathe a word of what you tell us, Lieutenant. Will we, Herr Ganz? You have our word. And let me just add that we’re very happy to cooperate with you and Captain Kokkinos in any way you see fit.”

Leventis ignored him as he would probably have ignored a mosquito, or the relentless sound of Greek traffic.

“If,” persisted Garlopis, “earlier on I gave you the impression that I was less than happy to help I should like to correct that now. We’ll do anything we can to make sure that this murderer is caught, and soon. Anything. Including, might I add, paying a small fine or compensation for the illegal entry we made at the house in Pritaniou. In cash, of course. And whatever amount you think is appropriate. You yourself might give it to the owner when eventually he is found.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Leventis. He knew perfectly well what was being suggested but, generously, he chose to ignore that, too. “Now then, to business. About a week ago, a lawyer was found murdered. In the suburb of Glyfada. His name was Dr. Samuel Frizis.”

“I think maybe I read about that in The Athens News,” I said.

“Yes,” said Leventis. “But the paper didn’t publish any specific details. We’ve been keeping those back deliberately. You see, Dr. Frizis was shot through both eyes, just like your friend Siegfried Witzel.”

“I wish you’d stop calling him our friend. Neither of us liked him, did we, Garlopis?”

“Indeed no. He was a most disagreeable fellow. Very bad-tempered. We were both afraid he might shoot one of us. Ironic when you think about it. Given what happened. But life’s like that sometimes, isn’t it?”

Leventis handed me a sheaf of color photographs from the file. They showed a man lying dead on a plush-looking couch. There were several autopsy shots, which made for unpleasant viewing. All the blood in his head had drained away from his blackened eyes onto one shoulder of his tweed suit, while the other shoulder was quite unspoiled. On the marble table in front of the sofa was a little bronze statue of the goddess Diana holding a spear. It almost looked as if she might have inflicted the damage to the dead lawyer’s eyes. Cruelly, I offered one of the photographs to Garlopis, who shook his head and then looked away uncomfortably.

“The killer used a rimless, tapered, 9-mill round just like the one that you found on the floor at the house in Pritaniou Street. My guess is that the ballistics people back at the Gendarmerie will find they were fired from the same gun. Most likely a Luger pistol, they tell me. We’ve been through Frizis’s client list and appointment book and found nothing of any interest. So this new murder is a break for us, since it’s very likely these two murders are connected. Although I really don’t have any idea how.

“Back at the house in the old town you suggested that Witzel was possibly killed by Jews, in revenge for the confiscation of their property by the Nazis. But I must tell you that I think it’s unlikely that Dr. Frizis was murdered by Jews, not least because he himself was a Jew. And until Witzel was killed we had even considered the possibility that Dr. Frizis might have been murdered because he was a Jew. I am sorry to tell you that this is becoming quite an anti-Semitic country. Anyway, Siegfried Witzel’s murder also puts paid to that particular theory.”

“What kind of a lawyer was he anyway?” I asked.

“He must have been a good one if he could afford to live in Glyfada,” said Garlopis. “That’s the most expensive part of town. Everyone in Athens aspires to living in Glyfada.”

“He may have been a good lawyer,” said Leventis, “but he wasn’t particularly honest.”

“You won’t hear me arguing that one down,” I said. “No good lawyer is particularly honest, in my experience. But dispensing with a lawyer is usually more straightforward. Withholding payment will do the job most effectively.”

Leventis took off his glasses and raised a finger. “Fortunately, I have another theory. It’s about who killed him, if not why he was killed. It’s a little bit far-fetched, perhaps, but, well, see what you think, Commissar. But first I need to tell you a story.”