“We’re just sorry that this has been more difficult for you than we thought it would be. That it’s landed you in trouble with the police.”
“Don’t worry about me, boss. I can handle a certain amount of trouble with the police. That’s one of the only advantages of being a German. We’re used to cops throwing their weight around.”
“All the same, if you change your mind about that lawyer, I’m told by our legal department that you should contact Latsoudis & Arvaniti, in Piraeus. They’re a good firm. We’ve used them before.”
I picked up a pen and wrote the name down, just in case. Then I wrote down Buchholz’s name and underlined it, willing Dietrich to get to the point. I also wrote out the name of Walther Neff, to prompt me, courteously, to ask a little later on, how my sick colleague at MRE was doing.
“I’ve got a feeling you’ll need them anyway on account of what I’ve found out here in Munich,” added Dietrich. “I don’t think it will help.”
“You spoke to Professor Buchholz?”
“I did.”
“And what did he say?”
“Not much. Nothing I could understand, anyway, on account of the fact that he had a massive stroke before Christmas and it has left him paralyzed down one side of his body. He can hardly speak. He’s in Schwabing Hospital right now and is not expected to recover much.”
I drew a small rectangle around Buchholz’s name. It was a rectangle that was shaped like a coffin, a toe-pincher like the ones they’d shipped to the Western front in their hundreds before an advance on the enemy trenches, to encourage the men’s morale.
“But that’s not all,” continued Dietrich. “I also went to the Glyptothek Museum, where he was assistant director, and they told me they have absolutely no knowledge of any expedition to Greece. None. Nor of any deal done with this museum in Piraeus. Frankly, it’s impossible to see how Buchholz could arrange a taxi home, let alone a boat charter for Witzel and the Doris. I also spoke to his wife and she showed me his passport. The professor hasn’t been out of Germany in over a year. The last Greek stamp on his passport was in June 1951. Either Siegfried Witzel was lying about him or someone has been impersonating Buchholz. He’s a goddamned vegetable.”
“So maybe that’s why someone picked him off the stall.”
“How do you mean?”
“You remember that break-in at the museum?”
“I remember. Yes.”
“The cops never found out who was responsible. Kids, they thought. But at the time I had my doubts about that.”
“Are you saying these two cases are connected?”
“They were kids who broke into the assistant director’s desk and left the cash box alone. Which is a kite that simply doesn’t fly. I’m thinking that it was maybe his office stationery someone was after. Business cards, headed notepaper. That and a few small pieces of marble that no one could be bothered to claim for.”
“For what purpose?”
“Perhaps this person wanted to persuade the authorities here in Greece that they were mounting a proper expedition to recover bigger, more valuable historical artifacts. Some official German paperwork and a few bits of bronze and marble might have helped that story stay afloat. And I think your first guess was probably accurate. Either there’s been a local invasion of the body snatchers or someone has been impersonating Professor Buchholz. The question is, who? If I can find that out, then maybe the Greek police will let me come home. Look, sir, see what else you can dig up on Siegfried Witzel. War record. Wives. This underwater movie he made. Anything at all.”
“All right.”
“By the way, how’s Neff?”
“That’s the damnedest thing. He discharged himself from hospital and has since disappeared. The police are looking for him, but so far without result.”
“That is strange.”
“Even stranger than you imagine. His wife reckons a cop from the Praesidium came to visit him at home the day before he suffered his heart attack, only they don’t seem to know anything about it.”
I hadn’t ever met Walther Neff, but his sudden disappearance made me uneasy, as if somehow it might be connected with what had happened in Athens.
“As a matter of interest, which hospital was he in?”
“The Schwabing. Same as Buchholz.”
“What does his wife have to say about it?”
“Not much. She seems as puzzled as the rest of us. Listen, take care of yourself. And let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
I started to say something else only there was a click and Dietrich had disappeared. But that wasn’t strange at all.
TWENTY-NINE
–
“Did you know Walther Neff well?”
“He came to Greece on a number of occasions, sir,” said Garlopis.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I knew him well enough. Better than he was aware of, perhaps.”
“What was your opinion of him?”
Garlopis looked awkward. He opened his desk drawer and closed it again, for no apparent reason. It was the morning after my conversation with Dietrich and I was in the MRE office with Garlopis.
“You can speak freely. I’ve hardly ever met the man, so I don’t care if your opinion is good or bad. I just want to know what it is.”
“I don’t think he liked Greeks very much. Or anyone else for that matter. Anyone else who wasn’t German.”
“You mean he was still a bit of a Nazi.”
“I think that about covers it, sir. Once or twice he made a casual remark about the Jews and how they’d brought their own misfortunes on themselves. And once he came across an old copy of Time magazine that had a picture of David Ben-Gurion on the cover, and his face was a study of loathing. I’d never seen hate that was so visceral. But why do you ask?”
“He’s disappeared from the hospital in Munich. Checked himself out and then just walked into the darkness, so to speak. The cops are looking for him. But—well, I don’t think they’ll find him. I’m afraid this sort
