When in Greece

by Emma Lathen

  “Not exactly, no. He got Nicolls to put it in there for him.” While he was speaking, Thatcher had opened the drawer and removed the wallet. Now he flipped onto the table a single square of thick pasteboard—very thick pasteboard.

  “It’s Dr. Ziros’ calling card. Feel it Everett. With the resources of a modern pressing machine, how many thicknesses do you think could be there?”

  Dutifully Gabler picked it up and felt it. Like many such cards, it was paneled, with a relatively thin outer frame enclosing a heavy central section where the engraving appeared.

  “Good heavens! There could be a dozen layers here in the middle,” he said, rubbing the rectangle. “It would be child’s play to sandwich a strip of microfilm between two thin sheets of cardboard.”

  “And it explains a good deal about the certainty of the leftists doesn’t it?”

  “You mean it tells us why they were so sure that Nicolls was the man who had their papers? Of course! They knew because Nicolls’ card was found on Ziros’ body.”

  “Yes. If this is how Dr. Ziros customarily relayed documents he would probably arrange to meet his courier in a public place and exchange business cards with him. It would be a perfectly innocuous transaction, the kind of thing you see a dozen times a day in any continental hotel or café.”

  Gabler, slow but sure, was coming up the home stretch. “Wait a minute! If Nicolls and Dr. Ziros exchanged cards, I admit that explains the leftists’ certainty. At the same time, it explodes your theory about a courier afraid of the police who planted the incriminating documents on Nicolls.”

  Patiently Thatcher argued that that theory had been developed only to explain the behavior of the left. They now had a better rationale.

  “But John, why did Dr. Ziros give the papers to Nicolls?”

  Thatcher frowned. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know Everett. I can only guess that Nicolls quite accidentally gave the password or whatever it is that modern undergrounds use as a recognition device. Obviously Ziros didn’t know his courier by sight.”

  “Not by sight. But surely he expected a Greek, didn’t he? No one could mistake Nicolls for a Greek. Dr. Ziros must have known he was American.”

  “Why should Ziros be so fussy?” Thatcher demanded. “Neither the Army nor these leftists of yours have the slightest difficulty believing Americans are involved. And, from the way they’re acting, the American Embassy and Makris think so, too.”

  “I wish you’d stop calling them my leftists,” Everett was provoked into retorting.

  “They will always be your leftists to me,” said Thatcher straight-faced. Gabler was always reduced to petulance when events took a promising turn. Success was not the air in which he flowered. “But Everett, you’ve overlooked one difficulty, you know.”

  This was rubbing salt into the wound. No difficulty was so small as to escape Everett’s attention.

  “Possibly,” he said stiffly.

  “Nicolls’ room was searched twice. And those two searches represented a progression in outrage.”

  “Yes. The first time the room was left a mess, with curtains torn down and clothing strewn about, but there was no actual destruction or theft. The second time the room was gutted . . . oh! Yes, I see what you mean.” As Gabler plunged into the problem, he lost his sense of personal affront. “The first time someone was searching for papers. The second time, someone was looking for microfilm. When I saw Nicolls’ belongings in that villa, I simply assumed the leftists were responsible for both searches. Do you think they didn’t know about the microfilm in their first attempt?”

  “No.” Thatcher paused to organize his argument. “On their own admission, the leftists don’t seem to have gone into action until the police released Dr. Ziros’ body and they found out about Nicolls’ calling card. That didn’t occur until after the first search. Furthermore, I’d be willing to bet that Dr. Ziros was chosen for this job precisely because of his ability to reduce documents to microfilm. Can you think of anything more desirable for an underground movement than a man who has all the facilities of a modern library at his disposal? After all, we’re going to need one ourselves as soon as we get this microfilm out.”

  “The location of the microfilm is still a matter of surmise,” Gabler rejoined with professional acuteness. “How do you propose to find it?”

  Thatcher looked at the card appraisingly. “Soak it?” he suggested tentatively.

  Gabler saw objections on principle. “That seems very cavalier,” he protested. “Surely it’s more complicated than that.”

  “Be reasonable Everett. These people intended the documents to be accessible. And if we’re wrong a little water isn’t going to hurt modern film.”

  Displaying a good deal more confidence than he felt, Thatcher strode into the bathroom, plugged the washstand, and filled it with cold water. He had some dim recollection that hot water had an unfortunate effect on film emulsion. Immersing the card he reflected that this must be the only time in his life when he could have used the expert support of Professor Cardwell Carlson.

  Everett peered over his shoulder. “Nothing’s happening,” he remarked.

  “Give it time, Ev.”

  Rather than face the unspoken accusation from the rear Thatcher busied himself removing wristwatch and rolling up sleeves.

  “Still nothing!” The accusation was no longer unspoken.

  “We’ll probably have to peel it apart,” Thatcher improvised. In the event, he failed to allow enough time. Twice he removed the card and held it sideways, squinting for signs of a tell-tale crack. Twice he returned the card to its bath and resisted the temptation to add a little—just a little—hot water.

  On the third attempt the crack was there. Thatcher’s thumbnail slipped neatly into the slit. Then, with an ease that mocked earlier difficulties the two cards peeled cleanly apart. On the bottom half reposed a small strip of film. Both men let out the breaths they had been holding.

  “It was really there.” Gabler sounded surprised.

  “Certainly,” said Thatcher making hay while he could. “You really should try a little optimism every now and then.”

  Everett disregarded non-essentials. “Do you think we can read it?”

  “We can try. But everybody’s been talking about papers as if several sheets were involved. The reduction must be substantial.”

  Nevertheless they turned on the room’s brightest light bulb. As Thatcher prepared to raise the film, he cocked an eyebrow. “You know we’re reading someone else’s mail, Everett,” he said.

  Everett was beyond such bait. He cleared his throat severely. “Hand it over!” he ordered. “These people have been remarkably free with our belongings not to mention our persons. They certainly have earned no extraordinary degree of civility from me.”

  Meekly Thatcher handed over the microfilm. It was obvious that the blanket still rankled. Manhandling had roused the tiger in Everett. There was going to be no nonsense about Marquis of Queensberry rules for any Greek unfortunate enough to stray into his path.

  After a moment’s fruitless activity, Gabler threw down the film. “Tcha!” he grumbled. “All this delicacy about nothing. It’s perfectly illegible.”

  “Which brings us back to what I was saying. We need an archivist of our own.”

  “They’d have a microfilm reader at the Embassy—as well as at some of the banks,” Gabler offered. “But I suppose that’s out of the question.”

  “It certainly is! I hate to think of the storm we could brew up if these papers are as explosive as a large number of people seem to think. No, we need two things.” Thatcher held two fingers aloft for his enumeration. “We need a nice private reading of this microfilm. And we need to get Nicolls into a place of safety.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then with unusual moderation, Gabler spoke: “Don’t you think you have your priorities reversed John?” he asked quietly. “Important as these papers may be I would willingly flush them down the drain in order to assure Nicolls�
�� safety.”

  Thatcher was astonished. “Of course! I had no intention of suggesting anything else. But these papers may give us leverage. At the very least we ought to be able to persuade the left to abandon its interest in Nicolls. We can always go out to that villa and negotiate with them. But we might do better than that. We can’t tell until we’ve read this thing.” He waved the film strip under Gabler’s eyes.

  “And how do you propose to accomplish all this? If we go out and buy a microfilm reader, we may as well tell the world we have the papers.” The objection was pro forma. The word negotiation to Everett was like a trumpet call.

  Thatcher was thinking. “What about the man Ingraham we met? He does the microfilm work at the American Academy. If we approach him about a hide-out for Nicolls, we’ll have to take him into our confidence to a certain extent anyway. We may as well kill two birds with one stone.”

  Gabler didn’t like it, but even he had to admit that they would be forced to confide in someone if they were to achieve their goals. “Do you think he can he trusted to be discreet?”

  “Better than discreet. Uninterested. These classicists seem to be indifferent to political upheavals except insofar as they affect archaeological excavations. Unless our papers shed light on the new Atlantis we should be fairly safe.”

  Surprisingly this remark moved Gabler to the long view. “I suppose, to a classicist, the history of Greece is simply one political upheaval after another,” he said thoughtfully. “Probably this coup is very pedestrian compared to the troubles of Alcibiades.”

  Thatcher looked at his subordinate with alarm. The long view was all very well, but they didn’t want to let Nicolls sink into being just one more atom of humanity in the countless eons of history. “Very well then,” he said bracingly. “We’ll get in touch with Ingraham right away.” Then he glanced regretfully at the clock. It registered two-thirty a.m.

  “First thing in the morning,” he amended. Saboteurs, revolutionaries, and spies pursue their vocations largely independent of mundane considerations like the eight-hour day and the working week. Not so, the rest of the world.

  Promptly on rising Thatcher made a number of discoveries. Ingraham had no telephone listed in his name. His address remained a mystery. Dr. Jenkins and Dr. Murphy were apparently not at home. And the American Academy, resorted to in desperation, finally answered something like twenty rings in the shape of a sleepy caretaker.

  “But monsieur,” said that worthy in tones of horror, “today is Sunday!”

  Thatcher grounded the receiver savagely and reported this frustrating turn of events. “We have no alternative but to camp on the ladies’ doorstep,” he decided. “We can’t get any information on Ingraham from the Academy until tomorrow. And time is critical. We need every hour we can save.”

  Wordlessly Gabler reached for his hat and prepared to accompany his chief. He was not discouraged by the news. While ready to work a seven-day week himself, he valued an orderly world in which timetables were decently predictable, a world in which people were to be found at their desks Monday through Friday and occupied with appropriate recreation on the weekends.

  When they reached the apartment house in Kolonaki Everett said encouragingly, “Perhaps the ladies have only gone out for a short time.”

  “With our luck we’ll probably have to wait all day!” Thatcher tried, unavailingly, to gain relief for his feelings by slamming the door. A gentle pneumatic hiss was no help at all.

  Everett heroically refrained from counseling small dosages of optimism, now and then.

  The elevator operator remembered them from yesterday’s festivities and greeted them like old friends. Garrulously he made them a present of his knowledge about the ladies’ comings and goings. “But yes, yes. The American ladies were up at first dawn. They plan to go away, you understand. Dr. Murphy was out for six o’clock Mass.”

  Everett nodded approvingly. Things were as they should be. People were out on Sunday morning going to church. True he would have liked it even better if Kate Murphy had been attending eleven o’clock service at the First Congregational Church of Athens, but you can’t have everything.

  The gentlemen must dispatch themselves the elevator operator urged. The ladies were busy with their truck at the lockup garage. Even now, they would be on the very brink of departure. It was simplicity itself to find them. It was only to take the first right at the herb shop and then right again into the alley. But quickly, quickly. Haste was of the essence.

  He whisked them toward the door with the native Athenian’s inborn love of drama and the two bankers rounded the corner at a dog trot. At the mouth of the alley, they spotted their prey and paused, partly for breath and partly for sheer astonishment.

  Gone were the ladylike figures who bloomed amid linear furniture and abstract paintings. There was no sign of the svelte elegant Dr. Jenkins or the grandmotherly, untidy Dr. Murphy. Instead two disheveled street urchins swarmed over a disreputable pick-up truck.

  With legs straddled Lorna Jenkins stood atop the load in the back of the truck silhouetted against the sky. Today her thin rakish form had an air of piratical practicality. Her faded blue jeans were tucked into old, lace-up hunting boots. As she heaved sacks of plaster about shirt tails flapped in the breeze.

  On ground level Kate Murphy was more circular than ever in chinos and a pair of gaiters reminiscent of the First World War. Effortlessly she tossed picks and spades over the tail-board. Her black hair was thrust back by the gaudy scarf she had wrapped around her forehead as a sweatband. It was she who spotted the visitors and helloed a welcome.

  “Mr. Thatcher! Mr. Gabler! Over here!” She beamed at them. “Have you come to see us off?”

  Briefly Thatcher explained their errand. They were very anxious to communicate with Mr. Ingraham. Did they know where he was to be found?

  Apparently nothing could have pleased Dr. Murphy more than an opportunity to be of assistance. She rattled off Ingraham’s address and phone number.

  Thatcher’s thanks and adieux were interrupted by Lorna Jenkins. She had been silently listening to the exchange from her perch on high. Now she dropped lightly to the ground and said:

  “But you won’t be able to get him today, Mr. Thatcher. He told us he was going out with a fishing party.”

  Kate Murphy’s face fell. “So he did. And they’ll have left hours ago. But there,” she added comfortably, “you’ll only have to wait until tomorrow.”

  Thatcher could have cursed. Tomorrow was too late! They needed the microfilm to help with Nicolls’ rescue. But they could not leave Nicolls hanging, day after day. Already a night had gone by with no action on their part. God alone knew how hard Nicolls was being pressed! And they still had no plan for effecting that rescue. Bleakly, Thatcher stared ahead, searching for some inspiration. And then as he took in the scene before him it came!

  The whole dusty ensemble, truck and women, was eminently ready to sink into the background of the parched Greek countryside—Lorna Jenkins’ boots, so scuffed and scarred that the identity of the original leather was lost forever; the half-ton pick-up with rusty side-panels, so decrepit it creaked with every weight shift; tools all bearing the signs of many years’ usage. Greece, more than any other country in the world, is familiar with the sight of working archaeologists. Scarcely a road or hamlet has not seen them pass -hundreds of times, going back and forth to their scattered diggings. Cautiously Thatcher broached the scheme that the gods had suddenly vouchsafed him.

  “Are you by chance going to the north?”

  Lorna Jenkins and Kate Murphy looked first at him then at each other. “Yes we’re going north,” said Kate at last.

  “North?” Gabler saw light.

  “North,” Lorna Jenkins repeated impatiently. “The direction which is due opposite from south.”

  The cautions Gabler had been formulating died stillborn as he too looked at the little cavalcade with sudden appreciation.

  “If you can spare the time, we would
like to explain a problem of ours,” said Thatcher.

  The ladies were silent. Thatcher spoke of Nicolls and his family. The picture he conjured up of the newborn baby with the pink halo was truly touching.

  The ladies’ silence, while unbroken somehow became tinged with skepticism.

  Desperately Thatcher began to speak of the Salonika railroad station and a man’s body lying in the dust as a truck roared off into the night. Somehow, little by little, his version became less expurgated and more truthful.

  The silence became slightly more receptive.

  Thatcher shored up his crumbling morale by reminding himself that these two women were professionally adept at wrenching testimony from stones and pots over five thousand years old. A living breathing witness was necessarily a piece of cake.

  “I suppose you want us to winkle Nicolls out of Elasson for you,” Kate Murphy said before Thatcher could reach his request.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “We’re afraid that we are being followed. We would be most grateful—”

  Lorna Jenkins cut in on his expressions of gratitude. “But that isn’t all you want,” she interrupted. “You want Ingraham for something too. Let me see, what could it be?”

  Thatcher did not believe that the ladies would have any trouble remembering Ingraham’s remarks of yesterday about his work with microfilm. Bowing to the inevitable, he capitulated completely and told the whole story—disappearance, abduction, microfilm, everything.

  When the ladies were sure that they had shaken the very last bit of information out of him they paused in their relentless interrogation and eyed each other. This time the silence became positively congenial. Thatcher was not surprised when at the end of their wordless communication they suddenly smiled at him.

  “We’ll do it.” Lorna announced. “What’s more, we’ll give you a note for Carl, telling him what to do. If you meet the fishing boat at the dock, he can get it done for you tonight or at latest tomorrow morning. That way you should have your papers before we’re back.”