Greeks Bearing Gifts

attracted to much older men because they’re looking for a father figure. I was attracted to her, sure, why not? She was very attractive. But the other way around? I didn’t buy that. So I searched her briefcase when she went to the ladies’ room, like you do and, to my surprise, I found something more lethal than a few critical reports about the Greek economy. I’d been around guns all my life and about the only thing I didn’t like about them was when they were hidden in a woman’s bag. Suddenly everyone in town seemed to have a gun except me. This one was a six plus one, a .25-caliber with a tip-up barrel and it was still wrapped in the original greaseproof paper, presumably to protect the lining of her bag from gun oil. They were called mouse guns because they were small and cute. At least that was always the rumor. My own feeling about this was somewhat different. Finding a woman with a Beretta 950 was like discovering that she was the cat and that maybe I was the mouse. I figured there were plenty of moths around to put holes in my clothes without finding one in my guts as well.

When she came back to the bar smelling of soap and yet more perfume I thought about mentioning the Beretta and decided not to bother. Who could blame her if she was carrying a Bismarck? By all accounts Greek men weren’t very good at taking no for an answer, so maybe she needed it to defend those magnificent breasts. I told myself everything would be fine between us just as long as I didn’t try to put my hands on those, and that her little mouse gun would certainly stop me making a fool of myself, which was probably a good thing. So I ordered another round of drinks and while I was looking at the barman I tried to twist my eyes to the farthest corners of their sockets so that I might at least look down the front of Miss Panatoniou’s cleavage, but discreetly, so she wouldn’t notice what I was up to, and shoot me simply for being the swine I undoubtedly was. In March of 1957 that was what I called my sex life.

TWENTY-EIGHT

–

On Monday, March 25, West Germany, France, Belgium, Italy, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands signed the Treaty of Rome, creating the European Economic Community. I suppose it made a welcome change from a peace treaty bringing a war to an end and maybe it would even prevent another one from happening, as Elli Panatoniou had told me it would. But only four years after the end of the Korean War and another briefer conflict more recently concluded in Egypt, I found it impossible to have much faith that the EEC heralded a new era of European peace; wars were easy to begin but, like making love, very hard to stop. The community of economic self-interest seemed almost irrelevant to what real people needed.

More important for me and Garlopis, Philipp Dietrich telephoned the MRE office in Athens, as arranged by Telesilla. While I took the call at Garlopis’s desk I watched him out of the corner of my eye flirting with her like an overweight schoolboy. I couldn’t hear what was said but the redhead was laughing and, in spite of his earlier denials, I formed the strong impression that they were a lot closer than he wanted me to believe. Not that it was any of my business. For all I cared he could have been flirting with Queen Jocasta.

“I got your telegram,” said Dietrich. “This Athenian cop, Leventis, sounds like a real pain in the ass. Are you sure you and Garlopis don’t need a lawyer?”

“No thanks, I think we’re all right for now. If we start throwing lawyers at him he’ll probably just toss us in jail and I could be stuck here for months. He’d be justified in doing it, too. Almost. Right now we’re both at liberty. At least we are as long as I play detective and help him find the killer.”

“Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know. But I can certainly persuade him I’m trying. And that’s probably good enough. He’s not a bad sort, really. From what I’ve learned since I came here, the Greeks had a pretty rough time of it during the war. He figures I owe him some personal reparation. Because I’m German, I guess.”

I thought I’d leave Alois Brunner out of our conversation; Nazi war criminals were still a very sensitive subject in Germany for the simple reason that almost everyone had known one. I’d known quite a few myself.

“What the hell happened anyway?”

“Garlopis and I went to an address where we believed the insured party was living, to tell him that we were going to disallow his claim pending further investigation. Witzel carried a gun so, under the circumstances, we were a little concerned for our safety and went in the back door, which is when and where we found his body. He’d been shot dead.”

“Jesus.”

“On our way from the house, the cops turned up and arrested us both on suspicion. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. It’s an old story and any Bavarian court of law would throw it out in five minutes. But my being German hardly helps the situation here. With the Greek love for cosmic irony they’d be delighted if they could pin this on another German.”

“I’ll bet they would. Murderous Germans are all the rage these days. You can’t go to a movie theater without seeing some sneering Nazi torturing a nice girl. Look, do whatever you think is necessary, Christof. Mr. Alzheimer is delighted with the way you’ve handled this so far.”

I didn’t doubt that for a minute; a saving of thirty-five thousand deutschmarks would have put a smile on anyone’s face, even a