“Would you mind telling your men to put their guns away? I had a good wine with my lunch and I wouldn’t want to spill any of it on this floor. We’re not armed and you know who we are, so we’re not about to try to escape.”
The German-speaking policeman said something and the other two policemen holstered their weapons.
“Thank you.”
“Tell me more about his insurance claim.”
“If his boat was attacked and sunk for political reasons by Jewish activists, then this would certainly fall under the umbrella of war risk exclusions which, according to the terms of the policy, are considered fundamentally uninsurable. I think maybe he was trying to prevent us from finding that out.”
“And you’ll have lots of paperwork back at the office to substantiate this story.”
“Not just there. If you look on the table you’ll find a certified cashier’s check from my company that was a small interim payment for his loss.”
The lieutenant stepped carefully over Witzel’s body, went to the table, and looked down at the check without touching it.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to pay up.”
“On the main claim? No. I think you’ll agree there’s a hell of a difference between the amount printed on that check and a quarter of a million drachmas.”
“You know what I also think?” said the cop, turning back to look at me. “I think you’ve been around dead bodies before, Mr. Ganz.”
“After the war we just lived through, that wouldn’t be so unusual.”
“No, this was different. I was watching you both from the stairs. And listening to some things you said. Garlopis here, he behaved like a normal person. Saw the body, felt a bit queasy, and went outside to get some fresh air. But you—you were different. From what I could understand of what you said, you were looking at the body the way I do. Like a man with no eyes didn’t bother you that much. And as if you expected this crime scene to yield some answers. The way you knew about the speed with which blood dries. That kind of behavior tells me something.”
“And what does it tell you?”
“For a moment back there I thought you might be one of the answers. Now I think that maybe you are or were some kind of a cop.”
“I told you. I’m a claims adjustor for an insurance company. Which is a kind of a cop, I suppose. One that gets to go home at five o’clock, perhaps.”
“You must think I’m stupid, Mr. Ganz. And you’re a long way from home. Who the hell do you think you’re dealing with? I’ve done this job for twenty years. I can smell a cop the way an elephant can smell water. So don’t make me have to hit you to get some straight answers. If I hit you, I can promise you’ll write me a thank-you letter afterward. In Greek.”
“I’ve been hit before.”
“I can believe that. But let me tell you, I’ve slapped enough punks in my life to know the ones who’ll hit back from the ones who’ll learn to appreciate it. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Because the fact is, I don’t need to hit you. We both know I can hold you for as long as I want. I can throw you both in jail or I can take away your passport. This is Greece, not the General Assembly of the United Nations.”
“All right. I used to be a cop. So what? With all the men killed during the war a lot of German companies can’t afford to be fussy about the kind of people they take on these days. It seems to me that they’ll employ just about anyone who can get the job done. Even if that means giving a job to some retired dumb cop like me.”
“Now that I don’t believe. That you were ever a dumb cop.”
“I’m alive I guess.”
“What kind of a cop were you?”
“The honest kind. Most of the time.”
“What does that mean?”
“Like I said, Lieutenant, I stayed alive. That should tell you something.”
“Something else tells me that you know a little bit about murder.”
“All Germans know about murder. As a Greek you should know that.”
“True, but since there’s a dead German on the floor I now have the crazy idea that a German ex-cop like you could help me solve this case. Is that unreasonable?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because by not helping me, you’d be in my way. We’ve got laws against obstructing the police.”
“Name one.”
“Come on, Mr. Ganz. You’re at the scene of a murder. There’s blood on your fingers and your prints are on that spent round of ammunition you were handling earlier. You didn’t even come in through the front door. Until I find someone better than you, you’re all I’ve got. You even knew the dead man. You’re a German, like him. Your card was in the victim’s wallet. So I might even be disposed to call each of you a suspect. How does that word sound?”
“Except that you were here first.”
“Haven’t you heard of the murderer who returns to the scene of the crime?”
“Sure. I’ve heard of Father Christmas, too, but I’ve never actually seen him myself.”
“You don’t think it happens?”
“I think it helps a lot of writers get themselves out of a tight spot. But I’d have to be pretty dumb to come back here if I killed this man.”
“A lot of criminals are stupid.”
“That’s right. They
