“Is he sure about that?”
The two Greeks spoke for almost a minute, during which time they laughed several times, and then Garlopis said, “He says he believes that the minister of the interior, Takos Makris, has always done what Konstantinos Karamanlis tells him to do. And I have to say I agree with him there. Mr. Makris is married to the niece of Mr. Karamanlis, Doxoula, so it’s certain that the two men are very close. After a man like Mr. Makris gave his permission it’s certain that everyone else in the government must have sat up and paid attention.”
Idly, I opened the book on Hellenism again—C. H. Beck was one of Germany’s most prestigious publishing houses—and glanced over what had been written about Professor Buchholz in the author’s biography on the flyleaf.
And it was then I noticed what I’d been too dumb to notice before: that Professor Buchholz was the assistant director at the Glyptothek Museum, in Munich.
It was certainly a coincidence that my first job as a claims adjustor working for MRE had been to investigate a break-in at the Glyptothek, but a remarkable one? There had been a time when I had strongly believed that a good detective was merely a man who collected coincidences—a perfectly respectable activity since Pascal and Jung—with the aim of connecting one or two of them until they looked like something more meaningful and concurrent. Of course, it’s no great surprise that over a long period of time, as fortune takes its course, many coincidences should occur. But here the question was this: Did the several weeks that had elapsed since the break-in at the Glyptothek count as a long period of time and therefore enough to discount coincidence?
Or, to put this in a less mathematically naïve way, could I smell a rat?
TWENTY-ONE
–
“Given our maritime history, we Greeks are much more likely to talk about smelling fish than rats,” said Garlopis, when we’d left the museum.
“Rats, fish, what’s the difference? They both smell the same way when they’re not where they’re supposed to be.”
“But to answer your earlier question,” he continued, “I don’t happen to believe in simple coincidences very much. I have the whole of Greek tragedy there to back me up on this. What you Germans call coincidence Greeks like Sophocles tend to ascribe to the Moirai—the Three Fates. Divine weavers of a tapestry dictating the destiny of men.”
“It’s always the females that seal a man’s fate. That’s certainly been my own experience.”
We were walking back to the car which, as before, had attracted a couple of expectant beggars and, as before, I handed out a few hollow coins. If the gods were watching I hoped they would see this act of kindness and reward my charity—that a muse, or whatever Garlopis might have called it, would provide some divine inspiration as to the connection, if any, between the Glyptothek in Munich and the Glyptothek in Piraeus. Stranger things had happened in Greece, surely.
“I expect you’re right,” I said. “About the coincidence. But it’s giving me an itch that I guess I’ll have to keep on scratching for a while. Either way I’ve already decided—more or less—to delay settling Herr Witzel’s claim. There’s too much here that doesn’t bear scrutiny. At least, that’s what I’m going to tell Dumbo at head office, so later on today I’ll need to send a telegram. Not that I’m planning to tell Siegfried Witzel any of this. At least I don’t think so—not yet. And not without a bulletproof vest.”
“I’m very relieved to hear it, sir. Myself, I want to be as far away as possible from that man when he hears any bad news.”
“Having said all that, Mr. Garlopis, I do want to see his reaction when we surprise him at that address in Pritaniou. Which is where we’re going now. If you’re game, that is. Who knows? Perhaps we’ll get lucky and find the professor there, locked in the bedroom. And he can tell us what really happened to the Doris. Seriously, though, I’ve an idea that our just being there will provoke Witzel to say something out of turn or make a mistake.”
Achilles Garlopis bit his knuckle, crossed himself, and grimaced. “That’s what I’m afraid of, sir. Look here, now that you know his address, couldn’t you write to him and tell him that you’re delaying settlement? The man’s obviously dangerous.”
“What can I tell you? You might be right. You can wait outside in the car, if you like. I’ll handle it. In which case maybe I’ll tell him after all. It wouldn’t exactly be the first time I’ve been the bearer of bad news.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, aren’t you scared?”
“Since the Ivans got the bomb? All the time. But of Witzel, no. Besides, disappointing people is what I’m good at. I’ve had a lifetime of practice.”
We drove back into Athens and to the old town at the base of the Acropolis. The green Simca was there but I told Garlopis to find another street and park. He drove down a few streets and pulled up on the sidewalk behind an empty police car and opposite what he said was the old Roman marketplace, although if he’d told me it was the Parthenon, I wouldn’t have known any different. Of late I’d been neglecting my studies of late Bronze Age Hellenism.
“Why don’t you stay here and watch the car?” I told Garlopis. “Maybe some Hungarian beggars will turn up and you can shoo them away before I get back.”
“And suppose you don’t come back?”
I pointed at the empty police car. “You could tell the cops.”
“And if they leave before you return? What then? I should feel obliged to go and look for you, on my own. No, sir, I think it’s better that I accompany you now. Then I’ll know for sure that you’re all right, or that you’re not, and I won’t be presented with
