The Greek Key tac-6

by Colin Forbes

  'Like something out of the Ideal Homes Exhibition they hold at the annual Olympia exhibition in London,' Paula remarked. 'As I said before, they don't look real.'

  'And Kearns, who lives on their doorsteps, doesn't seem to know a thing about them. Hard to swallow.'

  'Makes sense to me. You said it yourself. He's a self-contained type…'

  'I also said he was a good actor. What's the matter?'

  They had left the bungalow estate behind, the road was now level, winding across the moor, open to it on either side. No hedges. In the moonlight on both sides smooth dark slopes swept up to high ridges silhouetted against the night sky. Paula had stiffened, was staring up to her left.

  'There's that ghostly horseman again!'

  'Where?' Tweed reduced speed to peer up the slope where transparent veils of pale mist rolled slowly over the moor, assuming strange shapes, Tweed was sceptical. One patch of mist looked like a centaur, then dissolved. 'I don't see any horseman…'

  'Up there on that dip in the ridge, for God's sake. And he's got his rifle again. He's aiming it…'

  Everything happened at once. A Cortina came up behind them and overtook, slowing as it pulled in ahead of the Mercedes. 'Pete is still with us,' Tweed remarked. 'I still can't see…'

  He broke off in mid-sentence. Paula was not given to seeing phantoms as he'd imagined. Perched in a fold between two ridge crests a man on a horse stood still as a statue, rifle raised. Tweed rammed his foot down on the accelerator, turning out to pass the Cortina which had stopped. There was a sharp crack! At the same time the sound of splintering glass. Paula jerked her head round.

  'Both rear side windows are crazed…'

  'Bullet,' Tweed said tersely.

  He pulled up at a point where two copses of trees shielded the road on either side, forming a shield. In the rear-view mirror he saw Pete Nield crouched behind the parked Cortina, both hands raised, aiming up the slope. The hard detonation of three shots fired in rapid succession echoed through the night. Nield stood up, climbed back behind the wheel, drove forward and stopped alongside the Mercedes. Tweed lowered his window full depth.

  'He tried to kill you this time,' Nield remarked. 'How the hell did he make it all the way down here from the Doone Valley?'

  'Did you get him?' Tweed asked calmly. Beside him Paula gripped both hands tightly to stop shuddering.

  'No. The range of fire was too far for a handgun. Frightened him off before he could try again. Saw him vanish over a cleft in the hills. You didn't answer my question. How could he make it here from the Doone Valley?'

  'He'd have to know the country well, have ridden over Exmoor a lot.' Tweed splayed his hands on the wheel. Paula was amazed by his reaction: he was cool as a cucumber. She was still shaking. 'Also there's a moon up,' Tweed went on. 'An experienced rider could have come across country direct while we drove in a half circle slowly.'

  'So it could have been either Barrymore or Robson?' Paula suggested. 'Kearns told us they all rode…'

  'Or even Kearns himself. Time to get back for a late dinner to Dunster.' He glanced at her as he released the hand-brake. 'Don't forget – Kearns is closest and the horse I saw in his table was still saddled up. But the attempt on my life proves that we came to the right place.'

  13

  The horseman appeared in the middle of the road as they came close to Dunster along a quiet hedge-lined country lane.

  He sat motionless on his horse, one hand held up, the other holding the reins. Tweed saw him clearly in his headlights. He turned them from dipped to undipped and the twin glare showed up the waiting man starkly. He lowered his raised hand to shield his eyes.

  Pete Nield's Cortina, close behind the Mercedes now, overtook Tweed's car. Nield drove with one hand on the wheel, his other slipping the. 38 Smith amp; Wesson from his hip holster. Stopping the Cortina, he jumped out of the seat, lifted both hands, gripping the gun, aiming point-blank.

  'Don't shoot!'

  Tweed had stopped his own vehicle, dived out and ran forward. He stood beside Nield, studying the horseman who remained as still as a bronze statue. Tweed blinked, wondering if his eyes were playing him tricks. Then he spoke briefly to Nield before walking forward.

  'You won't need the gun. Incredible. I know who this is…'

  Standing by the flank of the horse, he extended a hand upwards. The horseman reached down to shake the hand. Both men stared at each other. The horseman was stockily built, in his sixties, sported a brown moustache which matched his thick hair.

  'Chief Inspector Sam Partridge,' Tweed said.

  'Ex-Chief Inspector. Now retired. You gave me quite a chase over the moors. Where are you staying?'

  'Luttrell Arms, Dunster…'

  'Like me. It's the only decent hostelry for miles. I'll join you there for dinner, if I may. And they know me simply as Mr Partridge. It's only about a mile now. Why don't you drive on and I'll follow?'

  'We'll wait for you in the bar,' replied Tweed and went back to his car, waving to Nield to take the wheel of his own vehicle.

  'What was all that about?' Paula asked as the horseman turned and began trotting towards Dunster. 'And who is that man? He tried to kill you.'

  'There was more than one horseman out on the moor today.' Tweed sat behind the wheel, watching Partridge's retreating figure.

  'More than one?'

  'The man who tried to kill me and that chap. Ex-Chief Inspector Sam Partridge of Homicide. I knew him at the Yard when I served my stint before joining the Service.'

  'I don't understand this too well.'

  'Neither do I. The long arm of coincidence is stretching itself to breaking point. There has to be some logic in this business somewhere. Partridge called at the Ministry of Defence after Harry Masterson – talked with Brigadier Willie Davies, the chap I went to see.'

  'I still don't see…'

  'When Partridge called at the MOD he told Davies he was still investigating a murder committed over forty years ago. In Cairo. A man called lonides.'

  'In Cairo? But Gavalas was murdered on the island of Siros.'

  'Exactly. Odd, isn't it? Two different murders nearly half a century ago. I'm looking into one, Partridge is investigating another. He's staying at The Luttrell Arms.' He switched on the ignition. 'We're meeting Partridge when we get back to the hotel. Should be an interesting conversation, wouldn't you say?'

  They sat at a quiet corner table at the far end of the dining room at The Luttrell Arms. Tweed had requested somewhere they could talk on their own. The manager in his dark jacket and trousers had escorted them and whispered to Tweed after pulling out Paula's chair.

  'This is the table those three local gentlemen sit at when they meet here every Saturday night.'

  'Which three gentlemen?' Paula asked when the manager had gone.

  'Barrymore, Robson, Kearns…'

  Tweed looked across the table at Partridge who sat opposite to him. Paula sat next to Tweed and faced Nield, sitting alongside Partridge. She studied the ex-Scotland Yard man. Beneath his thatch of thick brown hair his face was weatherbeaten, had the ruddy glow of a man who spends a lot of time out of doors. His grey eyes had a steady gaze, his nose was short, almost pugnacious, but his manner and way of talking were gentle. The pursed lips and the strong jaw gave him an obstinate look. Not a man who gives up easily, she decided.

  'The three men who are my suspects,' Partridge commented.

  'Suspected of what?' Tweed enquired, glancing up from the menu. He noticed Partridge hesitate, glance at Paula and Nield. 'My companions are both fully trustworthy,' he assured him.

  'Of the murder of a Greek called Ionides back in 1944 in Cairo.'

  'That's a long time ago,' Paula remarked.

  'I was hardly out of my teens in those days. For some reason I never understood they attached me to the SIB – Special Investigation Branch,' he explained to Paula. 'Military equivalent to Scotland Yard. I had a fool for a superior – a Captain Humble. Funny name for him – he was anything b
ut humble. Knew it all, so he thought. Knew damn-all from what I could see. He'd been with the police in Manchester before joining the Army…'

  He paused as the waitress came to take their orders. Paula was studying him again. He wore a hacking jacket, old grey slacks, and by his side on the banquette rested a much-worn check cap. A perfect outfit for merging into the Exmoor landscape. Tweed sipped water and then encouraged Partridge to continue before he could ask what Tweed was doing on Exmoor.

  'Tell me a bit more about the murder of this Greek, Ionides, I think you called him.'

  'Which wasn't his real name. I'll come to that later.' Partridge rested his elbows on the table and began to talk animatedly. Almost like a man possessed, Tweed noted.

  'It was a horrific murder. Took place late one evening after dark in a weird building called the Antikhana. Near the Nile and backing on to a native quarter. lonides had escaped from German-occupied Greece and was officially working on propaganda fed back into his country. A British sergeant who was billeted on the roof found the body. Bloocl all over the walls, the furniture, the floor. He had been CUE to pieces with a knife. Head almost severed from the body.' Partridge looked at Paula. 'Sorry, don't want to spoil your meal.'

  'I have a strong stomach. Do go on.'

  'Humble was in charge of the case. Came up with nothing. No one in the building at the time of the murder, apparently. Only one entrance – and a Sudanese receptionist guarded that. Main entrance doors kept locked at night after six. Murder took place somewhere between eight and ten according to the pathologist. So theoretically the murder couldn't have been committed.'

  'The windows?' Tweed suggested. 'The murderer could have got out by one of them?'

  'Impossible. Bars on all the windows. Security was tight. The case has remained unsolved to this day.'

  'So what are you doing prowling round Exmoor?'

  Partridge waited while drinks and starters were served. He rapped on the table with his left-hand knuckles, a quiet tattoo. He ignored his soup, started talking again as soon as they were alone again.

  'It's a bit complex. Three commandos were based officially inside that building. Two days before the second murder they'd returned from an abortive raid on an island called Siros.'

  'Just a moment, Sam,' Tweed interjected, 'you're losing me. You said 'the second murder' and 'abortive raid…' What was the first murder?'

  'The two questions are linked. The raid was abortive because attached to the three-man commando unit was a Greek called Gavalas carrying a fortune in diamonds to hand over to the Resistance on Siros. They were desperately short of funds. On Siros Gavalas was murdered -knifed in the back. The diamonds he was carrying had gone. So, the mission was abortive. Two days later the three commandos were back in Cairo – before the murder of lonides. You see where I'm leading?'

  'Never like to assume anything, Sam. You must remember that from our days at the Yard.'

  'Humble made a routine investigation of the murder of Ionides and then dropped the case. Something else came up. I was fascinated by the whole thing. The sheer brutality of the killing at the Antikhana. I kept on digging in my spare time. Ever since I've been convinced one of the three commandos was the killer of both men. On Siros, Gavalas. In Cairo, Ionides. The three men were Barrymore, Robson and Kearns.'

  Tweed drank the rest of his soup while he thought. Nield, who was keeping quiet, had devoured his shrimp cocktail. Partridge was sipping his soup. Paula watched him as she went on eating her pate. There were only three other couples eating late dinner.

  'Sam,' Tweed began, 'you've spent your life as a detective. So far I haven't heard you produce a shred of evidence to back up this bizarre theory.'

  'I told you I went on digging. I bluffed my way into Grey Pillars – as they called GHQ. 5 checked certain confidential records through a contact there. I found that Stephen lonides – remember I said earlier it wasn't his correct name – was, in fact, Stephen Gavalas. Brother of Andreas Gavalas.'

  14

  Three people sat in what was known as the Garden Room – Tweed's bedroom with the door at the far end leading into the hotel's garden. It was elevated one storey above street level and at ten in the evening the curtain was closed over the locked door.

  Paula sat in an armchair, her legs crossed, balancing a cup of coffee on her knee. On a couch Nield relaxed, nursing a glass of cognac. Only Tweed sat upright in a hard-backed chair. It helped his concentration.

  'I think I'll pop off to bed, get an early night after all that riding,' Partridge had said as they left the dining room.

  'So apparently there were two horsemen riding the moor while we were driving round,' Nield observed. 'Partridge was one, and the other is Mr X.'

  'I was pretty mad when Partridge said he was the horseman behind Quarme Manor,' Paula reflected. 'Pointing that rifle at you – even if it was unloaded.'

  'He used the telescopic sight to find out who I was,' Tweed reminded her. 'Must have had the shock of his life when he saw it was me.'

  'But the other horseman near Reams' place tried to kill you,' Nield pointed out. 'It's Mr X we want to track down.'

  'That story about the Gavalas family still carrying on a vendetta worries me,' Tweed said. 'And I don't like the sound of the grandfather, Petros, who – according to Partridge – rules the family with a rod of iron. Sounds like a real ruffian.'

  'Would anyone still carry on a vendetta after all these years?' Paula objected.

  'The Greeks have a strong family sense. And an equally strong sense of family honour,' Tweed told her. 'According to Partridge two sons of old Petros were murdered. He could still be looking for the killers – or killer. Newman and Marler, who know Greece well, could fill us in on that angle best. Maybe when they return they'll have news.'

  'But there is still no news from Athens?' Paula enquired.

  'Nothing. I called Monica at Park Crescent while you were tarting yourself up in your room.'

  'Tarting?' Paula grinned mischievously. 'Well at least he does notice when I freshen myself up.' Her expression turned serious. 'None of what we've learned gives us any data on poor Harry Masterson…'

  She broke off as someone knocked tentatively on the door. Nield was on his feet in seconds, gun in hand. 'I'll check that.'

  Tweed was also on his feet. 'Crouch behind the bed,' he ordered Paula. Switching off the main light, leaving the room dimly illuminated by table lamps, he moved his chair against the wall and sat down again. Nield approached the door silent as a cat. He stood against the wall to one side, grasped the key in the lock, turned it with great care, took hold of the handle with his left hand, threw it open.

  A startled Partridge, still dressed, stood in the doorway. He glanced to his left as Nield slid the gun out of sight. Tweed asked him to come in and Nield closed and relocked the door.

  'Very wise,' Partridge commented. 'And sorry to bother you at this hour. But I found things whirling round in my mind, facts I hadn't told you. A man called Harry Master-son was murdered while I was paying a visit to Greece…'

  'What about this Harry Masterson?' Tweed asked after room service had delivered coffee. It was going to be a long night.

  'I couldn't find out anything about his background – but I did discover he was squiring Christina Gavalas – that is Petros' granddaughter. Apparently they flew to Athens together. So I began to poke around.'

  'Why? If you didn't know this Masterson?'

  'Because where he went over the cliff- at a place called Cape Sounion – is close to the entrance to what the locals call Devil's Valley. That's where Petros Gavalas has his farm and his headquarters. It's hidden away in the hills near an abandoned silver mine.'

  'Rather a flimsy connection,' Tweed probed.

  'You think so? Masterson was with Christina Gavalas -and Cape Sounion was the location of his murder.'

  'How do you know Masterson was murdered? Evidence, Sam – have you evidence? Something about the state of the body?'

  'No. Just found by a
coastguard cutter on the lookout for drug traffickers as it rounded Cape Sounion. Master-son's body was lying on some rocks. He'd plunged down two or three hundred feet.'

  'I'm still waiting to hear some evidence,' Tweed insisted.

  'Some years ago at a crime seminar in Athens I met a Captain Sarris of Athens Homicide. I visited him on this latest trip. He told me in confidence they couldn't prove anything, but Sarris was convinced it was murder.'

  'Why?'

  'He'd observed Masterson somewhere. Said he simply wasn't the sort of man to stumble over the edge of a cliff. Do you mind if I light my pipe? After all, you'll be sleeping here…'

  'Light up! You think better when you're smoking, Sam. I can open the door to the garden later. Anything else?'

  'Yes. There's a Greek called Anton riding around on Exmoor – Anton Gavalas, son of Petros. By his second wife. There was a rumour he slipped ashore off a boat from Portugal at Watchet.'

  Tweed leaned forward. 'How do you know about this Anton?'

  'Sarris told me just before I left to fly home. They keep an eye on the Gavalas family. I visited the harbourmaster down at Watchet. He told me ships do arrive from Portugal delivering cork. They take back wastepaper for recycling – there's a paper mill at Watchet. Then I ran into a roadblock.'

  'What kind of a roadblock?'

  The harbourmaster. Got pretty indignant when I suggested maybe someone had slipped ashore without his knowledge. Pointed out his office overlooks the harbour.'

  'You still think he came ashore illegally?'

  'I phoned Jim Corcoran, Security Chief at London Airport. He checked all the passenger manifests – I'd hinted it might have something to do with drugs. No Anton Gavalas showed up. Maybe he flew in via somewhere like Manchester. Doubtful.'