'Ten minutes before we land,' said Newman and peered down out of the window of the Swissair DC9 as the plane banked and swung eastwards.
'And we've got damn all to go on,' Marler observed.
From thirty thousand feet Newman stared down as they left the sapphire blue of the Adriatic Sea behind and flew over a landscape of bleak mountains studded with maquis – scrub. Savage gulches cleft the terrain between the mountain ridges. A wilderness of rock. They were over Greece.
The air was incredibly clear, the sun shining brilliantly.
He felt he could reach down and touch the summits of the highest peaks. He looked at Marler sitting next to him, arms crossed, his face expressionless.
'If I were flying in to follow up a story I'd feel I had more than I normally had. We have to locate Christina Gavalas – the girl Harry flew to Athens with. We have copies of his photo to show round the hotels to find where he stayed. We've got Andreas Gavalas who went with the commando group forty odd years ago to check. We have the island of Siros to visit. We have Nick the Greek…'
'Who?'
'A driver who makes his living taking tourists from the Hotel Grande Bretagne on trips in his Mercedes. Nick is an old friend of mine. Very reliable, tough. He knows a lot about what goes on in this country.'
'You make it sound like a piece of cake. Anything else?'
'We have Cape Sounion to visit. I want to look at that cliff where Harry supposedly stumbled over the edge. And we have Chief Inspector Peter Sarris of Homicide in Athens. I once did him a favour – so he owes me one.'
'You know something, Newman?'
'You're going to tell me anyway.'
'I think we've got bugger all. And we should have brought someone to do the legwork.'
'If necessary, I'll do that while you prop up the bar at the Grande Bretagne,' Newman said quietly.
'I think Tweed is rushing it. I like a good basis of solid research.'
'He's moving fast before Howard writes Harry's death off as an accident.'
'I suppose it could have been just that.'
'You're forgetting the cigar box he sent. He knew he was walking a tightrope.' Newman said tersely. 'That he might not be coming back.'
'Trouble is I hardly knew Harry,' Marler reflected, still keeping his voice low. The seats in front of them were unoccupied.
'But I did. And we're starting to descend. End of conversation.'
'Endstation,' Marler responded sardonically.
The big heat hit them like a heavy door as they descended the mobile staircase. Newman looked quickly round. Those bare hills loomed in close to the airport. The light was a glare. Mid-afternoon. Marler made a gesture as they walked towards the airport bus with the other passengers.
'Hardly Heathrow.'
'That has its advantages.'
But Marler had a point, he thought, as they boarded the waiting bus which would take them to the arrivals building which was smaller than any garage at London Airport. They passed the entry checks without any fuss and within minutes climbed inside a yellow taxi.
'Hotel Grande Bretagne,' Newman told the driver in English, 'and we're in a hurry.'
Marler glanced at Newman as they moved off. The driver had not understood the second instruction. That much was clear from his throwaway gesture. Marler marked up a notch in his companion's favour. Newman was concealing the fact that he spoke Greek fluently.
The Grande Bretagne is a solid-looking edifice standing on a corner of Constitution Square – Syntagma as the Greeks call it. The hotel looks as though it has stood there for generations, which it has. Inside they crossed the marble floor to reception.
'We have reservations,' Newman began. 'But first I would like a word with the chief receptionist.'
'You are talking to him, sir,' the man behind the counter informed him in perfect English.
Newman took an envelope from his breast pocket, extracted a photo of Harry Masterson, laid it on the counter.
'I'm trying to find my stepbrother, Harry Masterson. I understood he stayed here. He may have left by now.'
The receptionist stared at the photo with a blank expression. Then he seemed to seek the right words.
'This, I regret to say, looks very like a man who fell off Cape Sounion to his death recently. There were pictures in the papers. I could be wrong, but they did give the name you mentioned.'
'Can't be the same man,' Newman protested. 'He did stay here?'
'Oh, no sir. I would have remembered. In view of…'
'Partridge,' said Marler. 'Does that name ring a bell?'
'Yes, it does, sir.' The receptionist transferred his attention to Marler. 'When I was serving my apprenticeship I went to Britain to learn the language. I was at the Gleneagles Hotel in Scotland. Plenty of partridge shooting up there. Which is probably why I noted this guest's name.'
'May I ask when he was here? Old chum,' Marler said smoothly.
'Let me check.' They waited. A small man wearing the dark suit of a hotel employee was lingering close to the counter-his eyes on the photo of Masterson. Newman stared at him and he wandered away. The receptionist came back.
'I was right. Mr Samuel Partridge?'
'That's him,' said Marler. 'Nice man. Told me he'd probably stay here. Best hotel in Athens.'
'Thank you, sir. Mr Partridge stayed one week. He arrived two weeks ago and then left. For the airport, I seem to remember.' He looked back at Newman. 'But Mi Masterson, no. He did not stay with us. If you would like to register?'
'Certainly.' Newman spoke as he began filling in the form. 'That small man who was standing near the counter. Who is he?'
'Oh, one of our temporary employees.' The receptionist made a resigned gesture. 'During the summer season we have to take on temporary staff. Unfortunate, between the two of us. They do not always understand the standards we set here.' He smiled with a certain satisfaction. 'Giorgos will not be with us after September…'
After opening his case in his own room, Marler walked along the corridor to Newman's. The foreign correspondent was standing with his hands on his hips, staring out of the window at the view of the distant Parthenon perched on the Acropolis.
'One up to me, I think,' Marler said pointedly as he sat in an armchair. 'Finding that Chief Inspector Partridge has trotted out here to have a look-see.'
'I'll give you that one.' Newman sounded absorbed. 'And Nick the Greek will be here shortly. I got lucky. I had his card in my wallet, the one with his home number he gave me when I was last out here.'
'What's the betting Partridge is now strolling round the island of Siros? You seem somewhat preoccupied.'
'Didn't you spot it?' Newman asked.
'Spot what?'
'One up to me. The receptionist recognized the picture I showed him of Harry because he said he'd seen it in the papers. What I want to know is how did they get that picture? He only became newsworthy when he was a smashed-up corpse at the foot of Cape Sounion.'
Giorgos slipped out of the side entrance of the Grande Bretagne, walking through the restaurant. There was no doorman on duty at this exit.
He hurried round to the far side of Syntagma Square where a row of phone boxes stood. Going inside a booth, he dialled a number and waited, tapping thin fingers on the coin box. If he was away too long that sod of a chief receptionist was going to notice his absence from duty. He spoke in Greek when a deep-throated voice answered.
'Giorgos here. I thought you should know two Englishmen have just arrived at the hotel. They are asking
