The Peter & Charlie Trilogy

by Gordon Merrick

  “It is a pleasure to see you, Mr. Yorgo,” the captain said. “You will have coffee. How do you take it?” He included Joe in the invitation menacingly, as if it were too much of a strain on his official manner to be cordial to two people at the same time.

  He barked orders for coffee and the policeman withdrew. He produced a box of cigarettes and pressed one on George. He pushed the box toward Joe as if he were offering him a dare. In civilian clothes he was a quite nondescript looking man, with unusually small neat features for a Greek, but the uniform possessed him and transformed him into a forbidding figure of authority. Even with George, his conversation had rather the air of an interrogation.

  He asked about Sarah. He asked about the children. He wanted George’s opinion of the tourist season and how it compared with the season before. George knew it was necessary to go through these formalities before it would be seemly to discuss business. Coffee arrived. More cigarettes were offered. Joe was ignored. Finally, George judged that the amenities had been sufficiently observed.

  “You know Mr. Peterson here,” he said, indicating Joe as if he had just entered the room. “He has the Gripari house.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the captain said, stiffening in his chair and frowning as he assumed his official role.

  “Mr. Peterson has just been robbed of a thousand drachmas. I suspect that I’ve been robbed of nearly sixty thousand.”

  The captain jumped as if he had been shot. “Sixty thousand drachmas! It’s not possible.”

  “In my case, I have no real facts to go on, but Mr. Peterson feels quite sure where his money went.” George told their stories, scrupulously emphasizing the fact that he might have lost his money.

  The captain threw up his hands in angry disbelief. “Ah, no, Mr. Yorgo. I do not believe you are the sort of man to lose such a sum. That would be the act of a young fool. You are known and respected. You don’t go about losing sixty thousand drachmas. No. No. No. Mr. Peterson is right. It was doubtless Costa. He is a man with a police record. We keep our eyes on him. This morning he spent almost one hundred drachmas on beer alone. Where does he get the money? Don’t worry. You must tell me everyone who was with you last night.”

  George was disinclined to tell him he was too drunk to remember. “The usual crowd,” he said. “You know, all the foreigners. My friends.”

  “I know the house owners and those who have established residence. What of the transients we are getting now? I wouldn’t trust all of them.”

  “I know very few of them. I know none of them were with us last night.” He was sure this was true. He had remembered enough of the evening to know that there were no unfamiliar faces among their party.

  “And Greeks? The local population?”

  George hesitated, studying the end of his cigarette. Facts were facts. “Costa,” he said. He heard the captain slap the desk and forced himself to look at him. The captain seemed to have grown. He loomed with authority.

  “Very well. We know you had the money in your hand at one point. We know the Lambraikis family would never keep it if you left it there. Costa knows your house well. He follows you home. He waits for the lights to go out. He runs no risk. If anybody finds him in the house, he can invent a reason for wanting to see you. It is very simple, Mr. Yorgo.” The captain snapped orders. George found the staccato handling of the language difficult to follow, but he understood that Costa was to be brought in immediately. He shifted in his seat, preparing to rise.

  “Thank you,” he said as soon as the policeman had left. “You understand that Mr. Peterson and I don’t wish to make any charges. We just want our money back.”

  “It is now in the hands of the police, Mr. Yorgo. Sixty thousand drachmas! A man can live for a year on that.”

  “Well, we might as well go along. I’ll be anxious to hear what you find out.”

  “Sit. Sit, Mr. Yorgo. You must be here to accuse him.”

  Another policeman came staggering in bearing an enormous typewriter which he placed on a small table against the wall. The captain issued another stream of orders.

  “Now please repeat what you’ve told me,” he said, scarcely altering his tone as he turned to George. “We must have your official accusation.”

  Resistance stiffened in George. It was all happening too fast. He hated the easy simplification, the condemnation without evidence, the brutal atmosphere of the proceedings. He had known he shouldn’t come to the police. He stood up. “I can’t possibly make an official accusation. You can question him. Perhaps he’ll return the money and that will finish it.”

  The captain stared up at George with outraged astonishment. “Ah, no, that will not finish it. Theft is theft, regardless of whether the money is returned. Costa is a troublemaker. Probably a Communist. I don’t know why you foreigners have made him a friend. All these loafers are Communists. Sit, Mr. Yorgo.”

  “I can’t stay now. I have people waiting for me.”

  “You do not wish to recover your money?” the captain demanded coldly.

  A direct question to which there was only one answer. He couldn’t afford niceties of sensibility. He had to get his money back. Perhaps by staying he could assure Costa of proper treatment. “All right. All right. But I can’t stay long.” He sat down. He was being trapped into something he hadn’t bargained for. Perhaps the police wouldn’t find Costa. Peter hadn’t been able to.

  “What’s going on?” Joe inquired. “What’s it all about?”

  “He wants to put it in writing,” George grumbled. He outlined once more the circumstances of Peterson’s loss, addressing the policeman’s back while he typed laboriously. When he got to his own story, the captain began to interrupt frequently, altering phrases, giving the whole story a more pointed and incriminating flavor. When George had finished, the captain added with scarcely a pause, “I accuse Constantine Petropoulos of this theft.”

  “Now just a minute,” George protested. “I’ve told you I can’t accuse anybody.”

  “You agree that it’s not like you to lose such a sum,” the captain reminded him.

  “Yes, of course.” He was glad that he had at least the decency to blush.

  “And who is the most likely thief?”

  “Nobody is likely. I can’t believe Costa’s a thief. I can only say he’s the only person I can think of who could have done it.”

  “Very well. You accuse him.”

  “I do not. I might suspect him. There’s a big difference.”

  The captain drummed his fingers angrily on the desk. “Mr. Yorgo, for the purposes of the police, there must be an accusation. Suspicion limits our action. It’s only a technicality.”

  “Mr. Peterson feels able to make an accusation. I don’t.”

  “Very well.” During this exchange the policeman had torn the sheets from his machine and placed them in front of the captain. The latter picked them up and shook them at George. “It is all here just as you said. Do you want it written all over again? For what? For a technicality. We have Mr. Peterson’s accusation.”

  “Cross out the last line.” He saw the captain’s eyes flash with exasperation as he picked up a pen and did as he was told with an angry slash. He knew that his statement was more strongly worded than he should have allowed it to be, but Joe had provided the accusation the captain had been determined to get so he hoped it was of no great importance. The fact that Joe wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t encouraged him lingered in the back of his mind as a reproach.

  The captain held out pen and document and George took them and signed. He was appalled by himself the moment he had done so. An outright betrayal, although he couldn’t quite define what or whom he was betraying. He had known that just to mention Costa’s name to the police would seriously jeopardize the Greek. His own principles? He believed that police powers should be strictly limited, but he recognized the necessity for them in an imperfect world. The conviction remained that he had done something very wrong; it might seem less wrong if he could
put a name to it. His disapproval of himself expressed itself in a generalized anger at being here, at the waste of time, at police methods everywhere. He turned to Joe. “Come on and sign this thing and let’s get out of here.”

  Peterson had time only to unwind himself from the chair when Costa was flung into the room. At least, that was the effect his entrance made. He was followed by two policemen. He had no sooner recovered his balance in front of the captain’s desk when they manhandled him some more, pushing and pulling to no particular purpose. George met his eye and he spat ceremoniously, ejecting no saliva but making the motions with his mouth. George felt something in him recoil, not with outrage but with shame for himself. He wanted to hide. A policeman struck out at Costa’s face. The captain’s harsh voice was rattling out oaths and orders. Costa had lost his swagger but not his fight; in the back of his eyes there was the murderous gleam of fear.

  George turned away, trying to disociate himself from the scene. He heard the captain shouting phrases from his statement. Costa shouted back, sounding close to tears. There was the sound of more scuffling and the thud of a blow. They were all shouting at once, their voices rising to such intensity that it had the effect of physical violence, painful and numbing. George wanted to shout them all down. The money wasn’t worth this. The man who had spat at him had been his friend. He heard Costa proclaiming his innocence, offering to give Peterson a thousand drachmas if he needed money so desperately. He heard Jeff’s name shouted and the numbing chaotic din came to an abrupt halt. George swung back to face the scene.

  Costa stood in front of the desk with a bundle of hundred-drachma notes in his outstretched hand. The captain was glaring at him, but the glare was lighted with interest. The two policemen shuffled awkwardly on each side of their prisoner.

  “Drugs, you say?” the captain said after the brief healing silence.

  Costa stuffed his money back in his pocket and shot George a sidelong glance. “His son and Dimitri at the Meltemi—I think they are partners. Dimitri supplies marijuana to the foreigners.”

  “I won’t have this,” George broke in, advancing on the group. He was glad to focus his anger outside himself, to use it to obliterate his shame. “You’re not going to drag a seventeen-year-old boy into this.”

  The captain lifted his hand without taking his eyes off Costa. “Please, Mr. Yorgo. One moment. We know something of marijuana on the island. You say Dimitri is the source?”

  “For all the foreigners. It is known to all but you.”

  “We try not to concern ourselves with the foreigners, but Dimitri is Greek. What has it to do with your stealing?”

  “I don’t steal. But perhaps Mr. Yorgo’s son has. I know he gave Dimitri money this morning. I saw him counting out many thousands of drachma notes. They hid it when they saw me.”

  The captain turned to George. “Is it normal for your son to have large amounts of money, Mr. Yorgo?”

  “Certainly not. I give him thirty drachmas a week for pocket money.”

  “Whoever deals in drugs makes much money.” The captain swung back to Costa. “Why should such a person have to steal?”

  “How do I know? I say only what I know.”

  The captain banged his fist down on the desk and raised his voice once more to a shout. “And what about Mr. Peterson? Where do you get the money you’re so willing to give Mr. Peterson?”

  “I have money. I have my boat. I work.”

  “I know all about your work. It’s terrible how hard you work. Now I’m going to give you a rest. You will spend the night here to think things over. If you have nothing new to tell me in the morning, you will be on the first boat for the jail in Piraeus. You will doubtless find old friends there. With your record, the statement I have here should guarantee you at least five years of rest. Take him away.”

  The policemen seized Costa and dragged and pushed him out of the room.

  “Jesus, this isn’t very pleasant, is it?” Joe muttered unhappily.

  The captain rose, crackling and military in his splendid uniform. He seemed refreshed by the episode and smiled broadly. “Very well, Mr. Yorgo. I think our friend may have changed his mind by morning. He will not have a peaceful night.”

  “Yes. Well, perhaps a night in jail won’t hurt him. I didn’t like his trying that idiotic story about my son.” George was unable to respond to the smile, but briefly took the hand the captain held out to him. “I must remind you I have influential friends. I don’t want Costa harmed in any way.” George saw an alteration in the captain’s expression. His eyes grew steely while his smile became more genial.

  “Very influential friends. Yes. I believe Mr. Michael Cochran has come particularly to see you. A great honor for the island. I’ve been instructed to do everything possible to make his stay pleasant. It is the first time I have received such instructions about any foreigner here, though you, too, are doubtless very influential, Mr. Yorgo.”

  Would it never end? All he needed was to have his nose rubbed in Mike’s importance. It had been stupid to give the impression that he was threatening the captain, but he refused to relinquish his point. “I’m simply pointing out that I’d feel personally responsible if Costa is mistreated in any way. You would regret it.”

  “A policeman has many regrets, but he must do his duty all the same. It is interesting what he says about this Dimitri. Already, we know Dimitri is very much too fond of boys. A harmless vice, perhaps. But drugs? It is true that your son has been friendly with him. The last thing I would want is to have to take action against an alien minor. You understand me?”

  He understood. It was his turn to be threatened. Coming from this symbol of overbearing authority it was hard to swallow. It struck at all his protective paternal instincts. “I intend to speak to him about this, but Costa’s story is ridiculous. As you said, what has peddling dope got to do with stealing? It was just a stupid attempt to divert suspicion from himself.”

  “We have our own ways of sifting true from false. We will encourage Costa to tell us more. Come by in the morning. Perhaps we will have your money for you.”

  Doors opened and closed, stairs thundered. Peterson followed him like doom. He wanted to be alone. He was filled with disgust, his pride was battered, he felt as if he were on the point of total disintegration. He didn’t know where he was going to find the strength for the necessary session with Jeff. He stopped in the street and turned to Peterson. “Did you understand all of that?” he asked.

  “Not much. But I didn’t need any Greek to see how they were treating Costa.”

  “Well, this is their country. You’ll probably get your money back. You’d better stop by here in the morning.”

  “Okay. Let’s go have a drink. I need one.”

  “I’ve got to go home. See you later.” He nodded and made off down a side street, fleeing like a criminal. He slowed down, trying to recapture his self-respect, trying to feel like the reasonable, intelligent human being he knew himself to be. He was not responsible for the police. He had taken a perfectly normal step to recover some money, yet he couldn’t suppress the feeling that it wouldn’t have happened this way once upon a time. There was a loss of resilience, of confidence, a fumbling uncertainty of touch. His drunkenness last night. His craving for a drink now. Disintegration. The word stuck in his mind, casting a new chilling light on the episode in the police station. He had bungled it from beginning to end. The words and acts of the successful become outrageous or merely foolish in the failure. Yet he wasn’t a failure; it was simply that recognition had slowly been withdrawn from him so that he felt suddenly that the personality that had been shaped by the early years of glory had become inappropriate to present circumstances. Could Mike be right? Had it been unrealistic and perverse of him to allow himself to reach a point where the loss of two thousand dollars could alter his whole life? Jeff and the bar boy. He had disapproved of the friendship, but he had lost the authority to cope with it. Here was a chance to redeem himself; at least as a fathe
r. He had to succeed with Jeff. He couldn’t afford any more losses.

  He was hurrying again, almost running, and he was panting when he entered the garden gate. He must catch Jeff before he started his evening ramble. The house steadied him. It was a refuge. It offered him its handsome assurance that his life was good. He paused, letting his eyes absorb the beauty of the courtyard, remembering the way it was when they had bought it, feeling a pride of achievement, as well as responding to the esthetic satisfaction offered by the big gnarled central olive tree and the smaller citrus trees beyond, which created a false perspective and a sense of great depth. The covered balcony they had added for additional access to the bathroom provided an asymetrical and curiously romantic note to what had been rather stark cubes. The great burst of bougainvillae filled the other wall with color. He moved slowly into the lush green shade he had built, almost as palpable as the masonry that enclosed it. His air. It smoothed from his mind the uglier aspects of the experience he had just undergone and insulated him against it. No police state entered here. He could offer Jeff the guidance and understanding he needed. He felt a sudden deep longing for Sarah. The house was so completely and essentially a joint creation, as fully shared as an act of love; she was central to his satisfaction in it. As if in answer to his thought, she appeared in the door.