by Emma Lathen
But Everett was implacable.
“First,” he said flatly, “it really is necessary for us to stop at the National Archaeological Museum.”
Dr. Murphy became the American woman incarnate. “You know,” she said, thinking deeply, “you can overdo this sightseeing!”
Thatcher did not find it strange that a large group of people were milling around the sidewalk outside the National Archaeological Museum. Nor he saw with a side glance did Bacharias. The Americans of course could be explained by the Capodistria’s ambitious claim to show the whole Mediterranean in 12 fun-filled days. But the Greeks? Fortunately nobody had time to wonder who they were or why they were there.
“Hi again!” shouted Carl, emerging from the crowd. He had calibrated the distance from stranger to friend with magnificent accuracy. “Hi, folks!”
“Every American but the American we want!” Bacharias exclaimed waspishly. “Do you see Nicolls?”
Just then the ladies, who had fallen on Ingraham made loud noises indicating pleasure.
“Did you hear that Mr. Thatcher?” Lorna asked.
“I’m afraid not Miss Jenkins,” he replied at his courtliest.
She cast him a darkling glance but said: “Carl saw your friend!”
This was enough to command instant attention. “What?” Bacharias demanded. “Where is he?”
Carl sketched abashment at becoming the cynosure of all eyes but carried on nobly. “Tall blond fellow from California? Yup he was here. Said he was getting pretty tired of sightseeing. “Where did he go?” Bacharias sounded hoarse.
Carl dug something out of a pocket on that vivid shirt.
“Yeah. This little Greek was going around passing these out . . . .”
Without apology Bacharias snatched the card from Carl’s hand.
Thatcher already knew what it said:
Costa Votsonis
Greek Handicrafts
Objets d’Art
24 Appolonas Street Athens
“Oh, doesn’t that sound interesting,” thrilled Kate.
“So this fellow said he was going to cut out of the tour. To tell you the truth he could use some new clothes. Terrible mess what he had on. Anyway said he was going to do some shopping. And we do have our free hour after this here museum.” Carl was droning on very satisfactorily.
“But why on earth have they passed Nicolls to this place?” demanded Everett at his most negative. “Why not—?”
“Who knows?” said Bacharias imperiously. “But we must go after him!”
Thatcher let himself get swept back to the Buick but judged it expedient to introduce reasonable reluctance. He said irritably: “This is a wild-goose chase it seems to me. I think we should simply go back to the hotel and wait for Nicolls to come to us.”
This was enough to remind Bacharias that his role, after all was aid and support to the Sloan not leader of a posse.
With an embarrassed laugh he replied: “Who can tell Mr. Thatcher? It may not be safe for him at the hotel. Perhaps. . . .”
“Well I think it’s just grand,” said Kate largely. “This sounds like just the sort of out-of-the-way place that tourists usually miss. . . .”
Carl who had joined forces with them chimed in. “That’s one thing you don’t get on a cruise Kate. The little out-of-the-way places.”
Whatever else Costa Votsonis might have been he was the answer to a shopper’s dream. His shop located after some difficulty in the cluttered labyrinth of the old Turkish Quarter was an uninviting doorway next to a suspiciously picturesque taverna where loud Greek folk music and tourists from Doncaster were both much in evidence.
The gentlemen of the party hesitated and looked up and down the crowded thoroughfare where no one—not even the driver of the VW—seemed to be taking the slightest notice of them. Carl went one step further displaying reluctance to entrust himself to the perils of commercial traffic in the mysterious Mediterranean.
The ladies yelped with pleasure and rushed indoors. Within shadows did not obscure a veritable cavern bursting with an Oriental profusion of goods; there were long benches heaped with cloths and bolts of sumptuous fabrics; in a corner a mountain of gleaming rugs brought color into the darkness. The walls were strewn with long leather thongs from which brass coffee pots and trays were suspended. Large baskets contained a potpourri of oddments; small dolls dressed in the fustanella of the evzone, elaborately beaded caps, replicas of the Parthenon. At the rear of the store a display case held trays of coins as well as bowls of semiprecious stones. Overall there hung a smoky pleasant hint of incense.
There was nobody in the shop.
Bacharias raised his voice. “Ho! Is anybody here?”
From somewhere behind the bead curtain that covered the inner doorway there was a tinkle followed by a gentle shuffling. An old man, his face deeply seamed, appeared.
“Say,” said Carl in a stage whisper as he readied one of his many cameras, “this sure is colorful.”
The ladies agreed, without removing themselves from the piles of colorful scarves.
Bacharias stepped forward and rattled off a fusillade of questions. The old man looked impassively at him. Then, with the malicious deliberation of extreme age he replied. At Bacharias’ staccato rejoinder he merely shrugged and turned to shuffle back to his quarters in the rear.
Bacharias could not keep his temper in check. “Old fool!” he snapped. “He’s just waiting for the owner. He’s been asleep, and he doesn’t know who has been here . . .”
At that moment a musical voice filled the room.
“Welcome to Costa’s,” it lilted. “Just look around to your heart’s content. I won’t bother you unless there’s anything—at all—that I can do to help.” As he stood framed in the small square of light in the doorway, Costa Votsonis might have been a classic statue come to life. Vibrant curls covered a well-shaped skull; his high-bridged nose and sensitive mouth duplicated the most golden Athenian youth. Dark green eyes sparkled against honey gold skin.
He neared Thatcher Gabler and Bacharias. “Unless there’s anything special I can do for you?” he said insinuatingly.
He was beautiful. He was also wearing a deceptively simple sweater designed by Pierre Cardin. With a graceful gesture he removed it from his shoulders and tossed it over a nearby chair.
“Some of our best goods,” he informed them, “are all packed up. You know we’re opening the Mykonos shop next week and things are so confused. Have you looked at these sports jackets? They’re going to be very big next season. I’ve sent twenty to New York. . . .”
Everett was genuinely bereft of speech. Bacharias, who had presumably intended to ask his questions in Greek was momentarily taken aback. Thatcher merely reflected that Makris could summon some very odd reinforcements.
“We’re not interested in sports jackets,” he said. “No?” said Costa much disappointed. Clearly he felt that they should be. “Perhaps something in our ceramics. We’ve got some absolutely charming designs.”
“. . . not at the moment,” said Thatcher, trying for a firm tone.
“We are looking for friends who came here today,” said Bacharias abruptly.
Costa simply smiled radiantly. “Sooner or later absolutely everybody comes to Costa’s,” he said without false modesty. “Our things are really authentic. None of that terribly artsy craftsy stuff that they sell up in the hotels. Lenny comes by whenever he’s over. And of course, Larry simply adores our hand-woven cloths. Do you know he’s done over his breakfast room . . .?”
Bacharias was brutal with these ingenuous confidences. “Our friend was here today. Probably within the last hour.”
“Not the tall blond American?” Costa said. “Don’t say he’s your friend!”
He appeared to find it incredible.
“Why not?” demanded Everett testily. He was rewarded with an alarming look of pure wickedness. Before things could get out of control, Thatcher took a hand.
“We’re most anxious to get in touch with him. You d
on’t happen to know where he went after he left here, do you?”
He could feel Bacharias holding his breath.
“Well I don’t know where he is now, but I do know—” He was interrupted by a sudden detonation of sound. Four men had rushed into the shop bringing with them the great hurly-burly of the streets. Of variegated sizes and shapes they had none of Costa Votsonis’ high finish. On the contrary they were clearly of the people. Earthy. Ready to break into a Greek dance, given to tears, to laughter, to smashing glasses after drinking—and it was clear that they had been doing just that.
In short they too had seen that movie.
There ensued one of those complex impromptu parties which lurks in the corners of all Greek gatherings. One of the newcomers a tall thin man, detached himself and unsteadily teetered over to find out what Lorna and Kate were studying. In minutes he had draped two yards of green linen around his shoulders and was imitating Hollywood’s version of the simple, great-souled Cretan free spirit.
“Hopa!” he sang, snapping his fingers inexpertly.
“Say isn’t this something!” Carl yelled from behind his camera delirious with delight.
The three others descended on Costa Votsonis who was sputtering with rage.
“American? Good! Good!” one bellowed in an overpowering waft of garlic-borne affection. He pounded Everett on the back.
“Friends, friends!” his companions echoed after a moment of befuddled blankness. Then they too flung themselves into demonstrations of affection. Thatcher found himself heartily embraced then flung aside. With the misguided determination of the inebriated, the newcomers converged on Bacharias.
“American good!”
“Pitssburgh!”
“Nea lorkee!”
Costa Votsonis was impotently dancing around the outskirts plucking at shirts that had not been designed by Cardin. Bacharias was forced to defend himself. Bellowing with rage he tried to detach himself from the bearish embraces of his tormentors.
“The real Greece!” breathed Lorna Jenkins.
“Sure beats Cincinnati,” Carl Ingraham agreed, clicking steadily.
When wild Greek shouts finally convinced the celebrants that Bacharias was not an American they were ludicrously chagrined.
Falling back they first looked at each other then at Costa Votsonis.
Votsonis launched into a falsetto denunciation.
Overcome by embarrassment the latecomers nodded sheepishly sent weak smiles at Bacharias then attempted apologies.
Bacharias replied with a vicious monosyllable.
Costa Votsonis was equally angered. “Barbarians vlachos! This is what I have to put up with. I build an international reputation. Nothing but the best people! And what happens!”
Whatever happened it happened in Greek.
During the bill of complaints the invading quartet inched backward. Finally with a last bedraggled salute they melted through the doorway.
With an effort Costa Votsonis recaptured his aplomb.
“My brother,” he said bitterly. “What can one do?”
Bacharias smoothing a rumpled lapel was beside himself. He could not even summon the energy to speak English. In a ferocious undertone he was blaspheming steadily.
But Costa Votsonis with a tremendous effort had pulled himself together.
“Now what was it you were saying?”
Thatcher reminded him of their quest.
“Oh yes your friend. How glad I am he wasn’t here—well, he did mention where he was going. He and his friends are expecting you.”
To save him from being throttled Thatcher asked where. It was not surprisingly an apartment in Kolonaki.
Bacharias who had abandoned the pretense of civility collided with Carl in the doorway.
“Say I hope you folks will understand but I’m going to have to leave you,” said the American.
Bacharias uttered a short ugly sentence.
Kate was standing next to Thatcher. He heard her muttered rejoinder:
“Oh yes but the one who burns in hell will be you!”
Aloud she said: “But we haven’t finished here! There are so many things to see . . .”
Thatcher took up his cue. “Mr. Bacharias and I unfortunately must hurry on to another appointment. But Mr. Gabler I’m sure is eager to continue looking at rugs.”
Without waiting for a reply Bacharias and Thatcher left for the waiting car. As they glided away from the curb they could see the ladies in vigorous conversation with Everett.
“This is madness,” said Bacharias distractedly. He looked out the rear window—looked in vain for the VW which had disappeared. Makris’ men including Costa Votsonis were nothing if not efficient. “There will be more cretins, more imbeciles at this apartment in Kolonaki! Things have been mismanaged!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Thatcher rejoined.
Bacharias took a grip on himself. “You will comprehend that I grow impatient.”
Thatcher nodded understandingly. Perhaps Bacharias if he had been in the mood for dispassionate observation might have thought too understandingly.
Once they reached Kolonaki the pace quickened again. The elevator operator at the apartment house barely gave them time to clear the door.
“I have the key,” he said mysteriously. “I am instructed to admit you.”
“There is no one there?” Bacharias asked despairingly.
“You are to wait,” the elevator operator insisted. “Then the ladies will come.”
“Ladies?” Bacharias was taken aback. Did the operator think they were someone else? Had they perhaps strayed into . . .?
But they were in the apartment now. The elevator operator ushered them in then removed himself immediately.
“Now that we are alone—” Bacharias began. He broke off and stiffened. There was a sound of movement within. “Did you hear that?”
The footsteps were growing nearer. Somewhere in the distance a window was banged shut.
The bedroom door opened and a man appeared.
Chapter 23
Tell Me Socrates
“Good Afternoon, Mr. Bacharias.” Ken Nicolls spoke quietly as he entered the room and closed the door behind him. Nevertheless the simple words conveyed the hiss of sword blades as duelists saluted each other.
“I do not understand.” Bacharias stared, openmouthed. He recovered himself and, turning to Thatcher, went on stiffly: “I was given to understand that Mr. Nicolls was in some distress.”
“We have been guilty of some deception. Mr. Nicolls rejoined us several days ago.” With difficulty Thatcher was suppressing surprise of his own. For Ken Nicolls had been miraculously restored to his pre-revolution sobriety. In every respect he was the twin of the man who had left the Hellenus project—or for that matter, the Sloan—several weeks ago.
Unknown to Thatcher Lorna and Ken had been busy in the last 24 hours. Lorna with the scholar’s eye for detail had not forgotten during her visit in Sounion to demand restoration of the wardrobe stolen from the Hotel Britannia.
As for Ken he had been goaded beyond endurance at hearing the cleaning woman refer to him as “that cinematic gentleman.” Rightly attributing this insult to his flowing golden locks Ken had cast prudence to the wind. Ready to risk death rather than dishonor he had raced down to the street and into the first barber shop. Now he stood before them in all the glory of a ruthless crew cut and conservative Wall Street tailoring.
The sight did not elicit any enthusiasm from Bacharias. With an air of injured dignity he said: “It is not wise to trifle with a representative of the Greek Government. What then, has been the meaning of this morning’s charade?”
Thatcher settled himself into an easy position. “I think the Greek Government might be astonished to learn the capacity in which you have presumed to represent it.”
Bacharias’ confidence remained unshaken.
“Mr. Thatcher, it is time that you stopped playacting with me. In part, I can understand your motives. There h
as not been entire frankness between us about the documents Mr. Nicolls has been delivering for his friends, has there? No wonder the so-famous Sloan chooses to be reticent.” Here he turned sternly to the younger man. “I have been shocked, Mr. Nicolls, deeply shocked to learn of your activities since I left you at Salonika. It is not thus that we expect visitors in Greece to conduct themselves.”
Before Ken could answer the accusation Thatcher took up the challenge.
“Left?” he queried. “Perhaps delivered would be more accurate. Let us say since you delivered Mr. Nicolls to your colleague at the newsstand in the Salonika railroad station with instructions about a certain Red Cross pin.”
If anything Bacharias was amused.
“So! That little masquerade has been penetrated has it? But surely you do not delude yourself that anyone will believe that tale. When it is revealed to the Government authorities that Mr. Nicolls has been acting as courier for subversive forces they will expect him to fabricate some defense. It is the habit of criminals caught in the act, the world over. That his tale should be so fanciful will be merely a reflection on his powers of invention.”
By now, Bacharias was openly smiling. Ken, who prided himself on being a man of peace, yearned to wipe away that smugness with his bare fist. He had to control his breathing as he said: “It may interest you to know, Mr. Bacharias, that the microfilm is no longer in my possession. Nor is there any evidence to show it ever was.”
The man from the Ministry shrugged philosophically. “That has been a possibility for weeks now. True I had high hopes this morning that no further intervention on my part would be necessary other than summoning the police at the critical moment. But let me remind you that you are still wanted for police questioning. I have been prepared for this eventuality ever since that accursed earthquake. Happily the police—as well as myself—now know that Dr. Ziros reduced his treasonable documents to microfilm. I have only to conveniently remember Mr. Nicolls’ suspicious behavior in the railroad station. The officer in charge will be most interested to hear how your Mr. Nicolls deliberately sought a seat by Dr. Ziros.”
“And will you be believed?” Thatcher asked with real interest.
