When in Greece

by Emma Lathen

  The students spoke English and were interested in conditions up north. Ken relaxed and took part in a general discussion of earthquake casualties. He himself was waiting for transport he explained. The students were obliging. He could wait in their lounge if he liked. Nothing could have been better. They had risen and were just leaving when one of the students brought the conversation closer to home.

  “Incidentally you haven’t seen an American called Nicolls, have you? He’s not a relief worker, he’s some sort of businessman.”

  Ken was thankful that he had just passed into the shadow of the street. His face could not be seen. “No,” he said, striving to be casual. “I haven’t seen any businessman.”

  “I suppose not.” The student sounded regretful. “Somebody should warn him. There’s a car load of tough types looking for him. They were going round the city this morning. I heard them at the bus station.”

  The other student chimed in. “They were even asking at the hospital this afternoon.”

  The silence was too prolonged to be casual. Could they possibly know who he was? Ken took a deep breath. “It sounds serious. Were they official these toughs?”

  The first student snorted. “Official! Who knows what an official is these days?”

  The second student broke in on these incautious utterances. “It does not matter. But it is political that is certain. Being an American you might come across this Nicolls. We thought you might pass him a word of warning.”

  “American? Oh, no,” said Ken instantly. “I’m Canadian.”

  “Canadian?” The student was incredulous. Ken reached for corroborative detail.

  “I’m with Jamison’s bunch. Red Cross.”

  “Jamison? Oh, of course, they are way up north, aren’t they? I—”

  He was interrupted brusquely.

  “Jamison? Good heavens! What are you doing, sitting around here? You must have got the time wrong. Come on!”

  After that, events moved rapidly. His new friends grabbed him by either elbow and set out at a dead run for the hospital yard. Before he knew what was happening, they were shouting excitedly at a large high-axled truck just pulling out into the street.

  The truck braked to a halt, everybody screamed at each other, and willing hands were extended over the tailboard. With people in front of him pulling and people in back of him hoisting, Ken tumbled into the cavernous interior. The driver engaged his clutch, the students called good-bye, and once again Ken had started on the long haul to the north.

  Elasson lies 37 miles north of Larissa. During those miles Ken had ample time for thought, most of it unpleasant. First there was this continual regression northwards, farther and farther from his goal. Second, and a good deal more disturbing, was the news of the medical students. A carload of unidentified toughs combing a city for him? Why?

  Ken had seen a good deal of Greece since his arrest. And he was at the moment not hungry, exhausted, or shocked. For the first time he was perilously close to being furious. He had seen truckloads of Greek soldiers moving into the disaster area. He had heard the political news being discussed by Greek-speaking Americans and English-speaking Greeks.

  In the last week, two events had shaken Greece, a coup d’état and an earthquake. The military junta was working hard to achieve international recognition and pacify the country. Under these conditions it was inconceivable that an American, picked up because of a casual contact in a railroad station should be the subject of an intensive and unrelenting manhunt. Ken had expected trouble at check points, yes. No doubt there were long lists of people due for arrest if they tried to board a plane from Salonika to Athens. It would be no trouble to add his name to such a list. But he wasn’t important enough to justify the man-power being used. And he could tell why it was being used, too. Somebody was determined to bottle him up in Larissa and prevent his entry into Athens. There was virtually no other route to the south, short of traversing the entire country to the west coast.

  And now he came to the most bewildering feature of the situation. Six men had been arrested. One had been shot and five had escaped. Yet the carload of toughs was searching for only one man, Ken Nicolls. The students would surely have mentioned other subjects of inquiry. This would have been understandable on the assumption that the other four had been recaptured. But Ken had seen the Greek interpreter with his own eyes. He knew to a certainty that the little Greek was still in the friendly shelter of the Quakers at the very moment questions were being asked in downtown Larissa.

  Ken shook his head wearily. A short 24 hours ago he would not have believed that he could look forward to capture by the Greek Army. But he liked the sound of the Army better than the sound of unidentified hooligans. Then that car at the hospital! Somebody realized a missing American could disappear most effectively in the midst of Americans. It was a matter of time before that car would be making a circuit of relief stations. Right now a Red Cross camp was the worst possible place for him.

  He reverted to his original idea. Local buses, surrounded by local people, and if possible wearing local clothes was the safest way to Athens. That was his kind of travel. He looked around; his companions were all asleep. He could leave the truck as unceremoniously as he had entered.

  All he knew about Elasson was what he had gathered from the road signs. That told him it was big enough to have a bus service and that they would soon be there. Moving slowly and silently he made his way to the tailboard without disturbing the occupants and watched the road unfold under the early morning sun. He was not going to repeat his mistake of Larissa. No city streets for him until eight o’clock in the morning. Then he could go about his business of finding new clothes and learning timetables.

  Accordingly he waited until they had passed through Elasson proper. He was afraid to wait too long knowing that the driver would pick up speed once on the open road. It was on the outskirts therefore, when the truck slowed for a turn, Ken let himself fall lightly to the ground near some bushes where he immediately took shelter.

  The whole movement was so quick that it was unlikely the driver could have seen him in a rearview mirror. The sound of gears shifting upward and the lumbering progress of the truck testified to his success. Ken paused to survey his surroundings.

  Not surprisingly the most significant object in sight was a mountain range to the north. Ken was in the foothills of Mount Olympus. Other than that there was nothing noteworthy. The houses were not agricultural, these were townspeople who lived here. But their houses sprawled over grounds which measured several acres and the landscaping fervor of American suburbs had not invaded the area. There was a satisfying amount of rough land in its natural state.

  Ken, choosing a comfortable spot, which was not overlooked from any house, settled himself. He intended to review the situation; instead he dozed off. He was awakened by the general bustle in the neighborhood to find a satisfactory amount of movement. Children were going to school, housewives were going to market, and men were going to business. He walked along the road to the town center, secure in the conviction that only his clothes made him an object for comment. Once he had a nondescript suit and a rough shave he would be indistinguishable in a crowd. Ken quickened his pace. Clothes first, then the shave.

  There was no difficulty in finding people who spoke English. The difficulty lay in making them believe that an American college boy wanted to buy a second-hand Greek suit. Even the proprietress of the shop, to which he was at length directed, shared the general skepticism. She persisted that he really wanted Greek folk costume. It took time and effort to resist her attempts to turn him into a Green folk dancer.

  Ken finally extracted what he wanted, a faded grey suit which was exactly what he had in mind. His self-congratulations came to an abrupt end when he reached into his hip pocket.

  He had lost his wallet.

  Chapter 8

  Still Unravish’d

  Everett Gabler was the Sloan’s oldest trust officer, its most conservative, and most cantankero
us. Any departure from normalcy roused in him foreboding, suspicion, and concern for his digestive well-being. It might have been expected, therefore, that arriving at the Hotel Britannia amidst the furor created by the violation of Ken Nicolls’ room would have plunged him into the blackest gloom.

  Quite the contrary. Never at a loss for objects of censure, Gabler now experienced an embarrassment of riches. From the outset, he had foreseen disaster in the Hellenus project. And what did his first six hours in Athens prove? The Greek Government which had put the whole deal together was plainly incompetent, as witness the fact that most members of that government were now languishing in prison. Ken Nicolls had proved unworthy of his trust, as witness the fact that he had abandoned his post and become involved in a police investigation. The American Embassy in Athens was derelict in not producing Nicolls—or his remains—on demand. Everything was deplorable, utterly deplorable. Everett Gabler was suffering from the giddy exaltation of a confirmed gambler with a nine-race winning streak. It was too good to be true.

  On his first afternoon in Athens he was content to terrorize everyone within reach and accept, relatively mildly the fact that the Greek police were not going to be available until the morrow. Retiring to the arms of a chastened Hotel Britannia he passed the evening familiarizing himself with every scrap of paper which could in any way affect the Sloan’s interest in Hellenus. Then after a revivifying night’s sleep, he arose and came bouncing along to the Embassy, the light of battle gleaming in his eye.

  He had the immeasurable advantage of starting fresh on the problem of Ken Nicolls. With a successful negotiation in Istanbul behind him, an abundant supply of first-class yoghurt around him, and unlimited opportunity to find fault in store, he was in top form.

  Happily he acknowledged Bill Riemer’s introductions with the murderous satisfaction of a world champion greeting second-rate challengers.

  And a sorry lot they were. Riemer, himself, was no credit to his country. The exigencies of Foreign Service being what they are he was immaculately shaved, laundered, and pressed. Unfortunately the splendor of the packaging merely emphasized the deficiencies of the product. It was now over a week since the coup d’état. Riemer had not had a night’s sleep or a sit-down meal in that period. Three days ago he had merely looked gaunt and hollow-eyed. Now he seemed to be in the throes of a fatal disease. He was husbanding his remaining energy to achieve two goals. One, the Greek police officer was not to be publicly embarrassed. Two certain disturbing information was to be conveyed to the representative of the Sloan.

  Police Captain Philopoulos, although in better physical condition was in yet worse plight. Whenever a coup d’état or revolution succeeds, the police of the country are left in an anomalous position. They try to maintain ordinary standards of law and order, going about their business of writing parking tickets and apprehending burglars with one hand as it were, while the other hand remains motionless in the face of far graver breaches of decorum. No policeman has ever given a parking ticket to a tank—successfully. The Greek police were no exception to this rule.

  The file which Captain Philopoulos had opened on the case of Dr. Elias Ziros recited the bare official facts: namely, that, at 8.55 on the night of April 23, a baggage porter had notified the police that a body had been found in the rear yard of the Salonika railway station.

  The file was scrupulously silent on other details: namely, that at 8.20 a contingent of the Greek Army had rampaged through the station making arrests with abandon, that the principals had withdrawn to the rear yard, and that shortly thereafter an army truck had roared off into the night leaving behind a bullet-ridden corpse. Under the circumstances the Greek police did not feel they could do themselves justice in investigating the death of Dr. Ziros. Naturally Captain Philopoulos had no intention of discussing these unofficial details with his present companions. However, he realized that several thousand people in Salonika had witnessed the Army’s descent on the railroad station and had since been talking of little else. It was to be hoped that the Americans were still ignorant of these unpalatable facts. It was certain that the fourth man present in the room was not.

  Bacharias was also in an unenviable position. His Minister, mindful of the junta’s emphasis on continuing American investment, had instructed him to cooperate to the hilt with the American Embassy and the Sloan in their search for Nicolls.

  “But,” his minister had said with awful emphasis, “without in any way prejudicing our cordial relations with the police. I know, my dear Bacharias, I do not have to remind you of the respect we all owe to the leaders of the Greek Army.”

  His Minister, being no fool, had then waved him out of the office without enlarging on these instructions. In other words Bacharias was to support the dignity of the new Greek Government, protect the police from awkwardness, and satisfy the Americans. And if anything went wrong, it would all be his fault.

  If his Minister was so eager for American investment, Bacharias could only wish he would do some of the dirty work himself. Quite apart from the fact that no amount of cooperation was likely to recommend a country where bankers disappeared into thin air.

  It was with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, therefore, that he opened the proceedings. “Captain Philopoulos is familiar with the search for Mr. Nicolls,” he announced stiffly. “He has kindly agreed to give us what little information he has.”

  Philopoulos eyed his would-be protector with misgivings. When the sacrificial-goat aspect of his assignment had startled him into protest, he had been advised that he could look for support to the man from the Ministry. He was not impressed by what he now saw, but then policemen rarely are. Manfully taking the bull by the horns he plunged into the heart of the controversy.

  “At the request of Mr. Riemer, we have succeeded in tracing Mr. Nicolls’ movements down to the evening of April 23,” he began.

  Gabler pounced instantly. “It is now the morning of April 28.”

  Riemer suppressed a groan but Captain Philopoulos nodded. He was not himself unmindful of the gap. Stolidly he forged ahead. “Mr. Nicolls left the Hellenus site with Mr. Bacharias. Together they went to the railroad station in Salonika where, I understand, Mr. Nicolls intended to take the night express to Athens.”

  “That is true,” Bacharias corroborated. “I left him in the main waiting room.”

  “Conditions at the railroad station were very confused,” said the police captain with a wholesale avoidance of thin ice. “I do not know whether you realize, Mr. Gabler, that all travel to Athens had been halted during April 21 and 22. This train was the first available means of transport in almost three days. Conditions were not normal.”

  “I am to blame,” Bacharias reproached himself. “Never should I have left him alone.”

  Gabler turned from one to the other in high irritation. “I do not understand,” he said severely. “That the station should be unusually crowded is comprehensible. But that scarcely suggests that it was a dangerous locale in which to leave an adult man who contemplated nothing more hazardous than a railroad trip.”

  “Mr. Bacharias is too harsh with himself. Of course he could not have anticipated any danger,” said the Captain promptly, storing up grace in heaven. He had a feeling he was going to need Bacharias any minute. “Unfortunately we now know that, long before the Athens Express finally arrived, at least one murder was committed in the immediate vicinity.”

  Gabler in Istanbul had never learned the specifics of the police inquiries about Nicolls. “A murder? In the station?” He was scandalized. His tone made it clear what he thought of a country where that went on. God knew, the American railroads were unsatisfactory, but they had not yet sunk to this level.

  “No! Not in the station!” The Captain’s outrage equaled Gabler’s. At least, he thought to himself, the Army still had enough decency to retire to the baggage yard when it wished to stage a massacre. “The body was found outside, in a yard directly adjacent to the station.”

  “But Mr. Bacharia
s left Nicolls inside the station.” Gabler put his finger unerringly on the weak spot. “How can this murder be connected with him?”

  Philopoulos explained about the discovery of Ken’s visiting card on the corpse. He had rehearsed a little speech for the occasion, and every sonorous phrase in his vocabulary was pulled out to magnify the event into a personal connection between the two men. Things would be so much easier if this American could be led to believe that young Mr. Nicolls had become involved in some personal imbroglio of a Greek friend.

  Unfortunately quite plausible swindlers had been trying to lead Everett to believe things for years. With each suave sentence, the myopic little eyes behind the rimless glasses grew harder. Everett found it difficult enough to believe the evidence of his senses. Flight of fancy never had any appeal for him. He waited impatiently for the Captain to finish.

  “One does not offer professional cards to friends,” he explained waspishly. “One offers them to strangers. It is perfectly clear what happened. Dr. Ziros and Mr. Nicolls met inside the station, where they fell into conversation and exchanged cards. Then Dr. Ziros went outside, where he unfortunately met his end. That has nothing to do with Nicolls. And,” he concluded with a return to the pedagogic manner, “one does not leave a railroad station when one is in momentary expectation of a train.”

  “Normally, no,” Captain Philopoulos said distantly. After all, he saved his conscience, no one could regard a military raid as normal.

  Gabler misinterpreted the Captain’s reservations. “Do you mean you suspect Mr. Nicolls of participation in this murder?” he demanded.

  “Not at all,” Philopoulos replied.

  Gabler narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and the Captain produced further particulars. “Mr. Nicolls’ movements in the station have been traced in some detail. Mr. Bacharias, a porter, and a policeman all report that he was carrying a small suitcase.”