Greeks Bearing Gifts

TWENTY-EIGHT

On Monday, March 25, West Germany, France, Belgium, Italy, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands signed the Treaty of Rome, creating the European Economic Community. I suppose it made a welcome change from a peace treaty bringing a war to an end and maybe it would even prevent another one from happening, as Elli Panatoniou had told me it would. But only four years after the end of the Korean War and another briefer conflict more recently concluded in Egypt, I found it impossible to have much faith that the EEC heralded a new era of European peace; wars were easy to begin but, like making love, very hard to stop. The community of economic self-interest seemed almost irrelevant to what real people needed.

More important for me and Garlopis, Philipp Dietrich telephoned the MRE office in Athens, as arranged by Telesilla. While I took the call at Garlopis’s desk I watched him out of the corner of my eye flirting with her like an overweight schoolboy. I couldn’t hear what was said but the redhead was laughing and, in spite of his earlier denials, I formed the strong impression that they were a lot closer than he wanted me to believe. Not that it was any of my business. For all I cared he could have been flirting with Queen Jocasta.

“I got your telegram,” said Dietrich. “This Athenian cop, Leventis, sounds like a real pain in the ass. Are you sure you and Garlopis don’t need a lawyer?”

“No thanks, I think we’re all right for now. If we start throwing lawyers at him he’ll probably just toss us in jail and I could be stuck here for months. He’d be justified in doing it, too. Almost. Right now we’re both at liberty. At least we are as long as I play detective and help him find the killer.”

“Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know. But I can certainly persuade him I’m trying. And that’s probably good enough. He’s not a bad sort, really. From what I’ve learned since I came here, the Greeks had a pretty rough time of it during the war. He figures I owe him some personal reparation. Because I’m German, I guess.”

I thought I’d leave Alois Brunner out of our conversation; Nazi war criminals were still a very sensitive subject in Germany for the simple reason that almost everyone had known one. I’d known quite a few myself.

“What the hell happened anyway?”

“Garlopis and I went to an address where we believed the insured party was living, to tell him that we were going to disallow his claim pending further investigation. Witzel carried a gun so, under the circumstances, we were a little concerned for our safety and went in the back door, which is when and where we found his body. He’d been shot dead.”

“Jesus.”

“On our way from the house, the cops turned up and arrested us both on suspicion. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. It’s an old story and any Bavarian court of law would throw it out in five minutes. But my being German hardly helps the situation here. With the Greek love for cosmic irony they’d be delighted if they could pin this on another German.”

“I’ll bet they would. Murderous Germans are all the rage these days. You can’t go to a movie theater without seeing some sneering Nazi torturing a nice girl. Look, do whatever you think is necessary, Christof. Mr. Alzheimer is delighted with the way you’ve handled this so far.”

I didn’t doubt that for a minute; a saving of thirty-five thousand deutschmarks would have put a smile on anyone’s face, even a sneering Nazi’s.

“We’re just sorry that this has been more difficult for you than we thought it would be. That it’s landed you in trouble with the police.”

“Don’t worry about me, boss. I can handle a certain amount of trouble with the police. That’s one of the only advantages of being a German. We’re used to cops throwing their weight around.”

“All the same, if you change your mind about that lawyer, I’m told by our legal department that you should contact Latsoudis & Arvaniti, in Piraeus. They’re a good firm. We’ve used them before.”

I picked up a pen and wrote the name down, just in case. Then I wrote down Buchholz’s name and underlined it, willing Dietrich to get to the point. I also wrote out the name of Walther Neff, to prompt me, courteously, to ask a little later on, how my sick colleague at MRE was doing.

“I’ve got a feeling you’ll need them anyway on account of what I’ve found out here in Munich,” added Dietrich. “I don’t think it will help.”

“You spoke to Professor Buchholz?”

“I did.”

“And what did he say?”

“Not much. Nothing I could understand, anyway, on account of the fact that he had a massive stroke before Christmas and it has left him paralyzed down one side of his body. He can hardly speak. He’s in Schwabing Hospital right now and is not expected to recover much.”

I drew a small rectangle around Buchholz’s name. It was a rectangle that was shaped like a coffin, a toe-pincher like the ones they’d shipped to the Western front in their hundreds before an advance on the enemy trenches, to encourage the men’s morale.

“But that’s not all,” continued Dietrich. “I also went to the Glyptothek Museum, where he was assistant director, and they told me they have absolutely no knowledge of any expedition to Greece. None. Nor of any deal done with this museum in Piraeus. Frankly, it’s impossible to see how Buchholz could arrange a taxi home, let alone a boat charter for Witzel and the Doris. I also spoke to his wife and she showed me his passport. The professor hasn’t been out of Germany in over a year. The last Greek stamp on his passport was in June 1951. Either Siegfried Witzel was lying about him or someone has been impersonating Buchholz. He’s a goddamned vegetable.”

“So maybe that’s why someone picked him off the stall.”

“How do you mean?”

“You remember that break-in at the museum?”

“I remember. Yes.”

“The cops never found out who was responsible. Kids, they thought. But at the time I had my doubts about that.”

“Are you saying these two cases are connected?”

“They were kids who broke into the assistant director’s desk and left the cash box alone. Which is a kite that simply doesn’t fly. I’m thinking that it was maybe his office stationery someone was after. Business cards, headed notepaper. That and a few small pieces of marble that no one could be bothered to claim for.”

“For what purpose?”

“Perhaps this person wanted to persuade the authorities here in Greece that they were mounting a proper expedition to recover bigger, more valuable historical artifacts. Some official German paperwork and a few bits of bronze and marble might have helped that story stay afloat. And I think your first guess was probably accurate. Either there’s been a local invasion of the body snatchers or someone has been impersonating Professor Buchholz. The question is, who? If I can find that out, then maybe the Greek police will let me come home. Look, sir, see what else you can dig up on Siegfried Witzel. War record. Wives. This underwater movie he made. Anything at all.”

“All right.”

“By the way, how’s Neff?”

“That’s the damnedest thing. He discharged himself from hospital and has since disappeared. The police are looking for him, but so far without result.”

“That is strange.”

“Even stranger than you imagine. His wife reckons a cop from the Praesidium came to visit him at home the day before he suffered his heart attack, only they don’t seem to know anything about it.”

I hadn’t ever met Walther Neff, but his sudden disappearance made me uneasy, as if somehow it might be connected with what had happened in Athens.

“As a matter of interest, which hospital was he in?”

“The Schwabing. Same as Buchholz.”

“What does his wife have to say about it?”

“Not much. She seems as puzzled as the rest of us. Listen, take care of yourself. And let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

I started to say something else only there was a click and Dietrich had disappeared. But that wasn’t strange at all.