“Funny guy.”
“With all due respect, ‘like who’ is your job, not mine. But Garlopis here tells me the boat—the Doris—was confiscated by the Nazis from some Jews during the war and sold to Witzel. Maybe those Jews or their relations decided if they couldn’t get their property back legally, then they would just get even. Sometimes getting even is the best kind of compensation there is. But motive isn’t something I usually bother with in my line of work. If there’s evidence of fraud I turn down the claim and take the verbal battering. It’s as simple as that. Generally speaking, I don’t have to look too hard for a reason. On the whole people much prefer their insurance company losing money to doing it themselves. My job is to try to prevent that from happening. Which is why I was about to say no to Mr. Witzel’s claim. But at this present moment I wouldn’t say no to a cigarette.”
The lieutenant thought about it for a moment and then had one of his men uncuff us, and I got my Karelias back. There’s nothing as bad as the craving you get for a cigarette because they’ve been taken away by someone in authority. Someone who smokes. I expect the Greek cop knew that. And the greater the privation that precedes their return, the better the first one tastes. The liberty cigarette. Even Garlopis agreed with this empirical observation; I could tell by the way he hoovered down his first drag. Okay, we weren’t out of the forest yet, but things were starting to relax, a little. Or at least as much as that’s even possible when there’s a dead body lying eyeless on the rug and someone has a gun on you.
“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 are. But I never counted on that when I was a cop. Not only that but it looks bad when cops don’t catch those criminals. Bad for the reputation of cops everywhere.”
“All right. Let’s work on the assumption that this killer isn’t stupid. Why do you think he shot your man in the eyes? Why would someone do something like that?”
“How should I know?”
“Humor me, please. I have my own theory on this but I’d still like to hear what even an ex-detective has to say about it.” He flicked the cigarette he was smoking out the French windows. “I am right, aren’t I? That you were once a detective?”
“Yes. All right, I was. A long time ago.”
“Where and doing what?”
“I was a Murder Commission detective in Berlin for the best part of ten years.”
“And you held what kind of rank?”
“I was a police commissar. That’s like a captain, I suppose.”
“So you were the man in charge of a murder investigation?”
“You might
think that, yes. But back in Germany there was really only one man in charge all that time. And his name was Adolf Hitler.”
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. So tell me, Commissar Ganz, why do you think Mr. Witzel was shot in the eyes?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. My own guess is it was a revenge thing, maybe. That the killer is probably a sadist who enjoys not just killing people but humiliating them, too.”
“I agree. About the sadism, I mean. I have another question. Was Witzel by any chance a German Jew?”
“No,” I said. “I’m quite certain he wasn’t.”
“May I ask how you know?”
“He’d told us he was in the German navy during the war. It’s highly unlikely he could have served if he’d been Jewish.”
“I see. Look, Herr Commissar, I think maybe we can help each other out here. My name is Lieutenant Leventis and I’ll guarantee to keep you both out of jail if you hand over your passport and agree to help me. In a purely advisory role, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Two heads are better than one. Especially a head as gray as yours, Commissar.”
“Don’t think my gray hairs make that head wise, Lieutenant. They just make me old. And tired. That’s why I’m in insurance.”
“If you say so. But make no mistake, Commissar, Greece was never a country for young men. Not like Germany. It’s old heads that have always mattered here.”
“All right. I’ll do it.” I glanced at Garlopis. “But didn’t Cerberus have three heads?”
Garlopis pulled a face and then straightened his bow tie. “You don’t expect me to help, I hope. Really, sir, I don’t think I can. Especially now, with a dead body lying at my feet. I think I told you before that I’m a coward, sir. I may have misled you there. I’m an abject coward. I’m the kind of man who gives cowards a bad name. I joined the insurance business because the debt-collection business was too hazardous. People kept on threatening to hit me, sir. But that now seems to be a very small thing, given the condition of poor Herr Witzel. And by the way, Cerberus was killed. By Hercules.”
“Only in some versions. And I can hardly help the lieutenant without your invaluable assistance, Garlopis.”
“That’s right,” said the lieutenant. “Your German is fluent, I think. And certainly more fluent than my English. So you’re in. It’s that or a drive to the Haidari Barracks, where at least one of you will feel very much at home. During the war it was the local concentration camp run by the SS and the Gestapo. We will leave you there on remand, while I look for evidence to prosecute you for Witzel’s murder.”
Garlopis chuckled nervously. “But there isn’t any.”
“True. Which means it could take a while to look for it. Perhaps several months. We still use Block Fifteen at Haidari for keeping lefty prisoners in isolation.”
“He’s right,” I said. “Better helping him on the outside than being inside.”
Garlopis winced. “It’s Scylla and Charybdis,” he said. “Choosing between two evils. Which, if you’ll forgive me, is no choice at all.”
“Good, then that’s settled,” said Lieutenant Leventis. “So. If you’ll both come with me, there are some pictures at police headquarters I’d like the commissar to take a look at.”
TWENTY-THREE
–
On the way to police headquarters we made a detour. The Athens Gendarmerie was located on Mesogeion Avenue in a pleasantly large park. Surrounded with trees and grass, it was a three-story, cream-colored building with a red pantile roof and a series of arched windows and doors that were painted, patriotically, blue and white to match the flags that hung limply on either side of the main door. Lieutenant Leventis parked his car beside a row of squat palm trees that resembled a display of giant pineapples and went inside for a moment, he said, to hand over the spent brass we’d found at the murder scene to his ballistics people. Since I was handcuffed to Garlopis in the backseat I don’t suppose he was too worried about either one of us running away; besides, Garlopis didn’t look like much of a runner.
“What is this place?” I asked after a few moments.
“This is the police Gendarmerie, which has connections to the Greek army. Leventis belongs to the City Police, which is something different. They cooperate, of course. At least, that’s the rumor. In Athens, the City Police are headquartered at the Megaron Pappoudof, immediately opposite the Grande Bretagne Hotel, on the corner of Kifisias Street and Panepistimiou. Which is where we’re headed next, I think.” He looked at his watch. “I hope this isn’t going to take long. I’m worried about the car. My cousin will be less than pleased if something happens to it.”
“I wouldn’t worry about the car. Worry about us.”
“But why? The lieutenant said we’d be all right so long as we cooperate with him. By which he means you, of course. I don’t think there’s very much help that I can provide.”
“You’re helping me to help him and that’s enough. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings with him.”
“Well, now I’m worried that you’re worried. May I ask why you’re worried?”
“Because cops will say anything to ensure someone cooperates with them, especially when there’s a murder to solve. Take it from me, you can’t trust cops any more than you can trust their clients. Even now he might be booking us a nice quiet cell in this Haidari Barracks he mentioned.”
“There are no nice cells in Haidari. It’s still the most notorious prison in all of Greece. Many heroes of the Greek resistance were tortured and killed there. And many Jews, of course. Although for them it was more of a transit camp to somewhere even more unpleasant. From Thessaloniki to Auschwitz.”
“That’s a comforting thought. Look, I hope I’m wrong. What kind of man is this lieutenant, anyway?”
“Leventis? He struck me as quite a fair man, actually. A bit better than the average police lieutenant, perhaps, so I’m not absolutely sure if he’s the type who can be bribed or not. But I’ve yet to see him write anything down, so he could still release both of us without having to explain why. For the right consideration.”
“I like the way you said ‘both of us.’ It gives me confidence in our professional association. How do you bribe a cop in Greece anyway?”
“The best way is with money, sir.”
“Is that a fact? You sound like you’ve done that kind of thing before.”
“Yes, but not for anything important, you understand. Traffic violations, mostly. And once on behalf of a cousin of mine who was accused of stealing a lady’s handbag. But this is something different. At least it feels that way. Have you got much money?”
“That depends on the cop, doesn’t it? I don’t know how it works in Greece but generally speaking we don’t bribe cops in West Germany because Germans can’t hide behind a sense of humor if it goes wrong.”
“The Greek police do not have a sense of humor, either. If they had, they would not have become policemen in the first place. But they do like money. Everyone in Greece likes money. It was the Greeks who invented the use of money, so old habits die hard. Especially for the Attica police.”
Lieutenant Leventis appeared in the doorway of the Gendarmerie and walked back toward the car. Garlopis watched him with narrowed eyes.
“Against this man being bribed is the fact that he shaved this morning. And for another, he’s wearing a clean shirt. The car we’re sitting in is a Ford Popular, which is the cheapest car in Europe. Also the watch on his wrist is just a cheap Russian model and he smokes Santé, which is a ladies’ brand of cigarette. No man in Greece smokes these unless he’s trying to save money.”
“Maybe he likes the lady on the packet.”
“No, sir. If you’ll forgive me, this is a man living within his means. Besides, he walks too quickly for a man who’d take money. Like he has a purpose. I tend to think that corruptio
n moves much more slowly in a country like this.”
“You should have been a cop yourself, Garlopis.”
“Not me, sir. As well as a coward I have always had very bad feet. You can’t become a policeman if you have bad feet. Standing around and doing nothing all day is very hard on the feet.”
The lieutenant got back into the front seat and we drove into the center of Athens; we made quick progress, too. As a way of getting around Athens I’d certainly recommend being driven by a policeman, even in a Ford Popular.
The Megaron Pappoudof faced the north side of the Greek parliament and the northeastern corner of Constitution Square and was set back from the main road, behind a tall wrought-iron railing. Overlooked by the St. Isidore Church on the highest rock in Athens, which dominates the city like a Christian riposte to the Acropolis, the four- or five-story building with its central pillared pediment was the Athenian equivalent of Munich’s Police Praesidium, or the old Alex in Berlin. Leventis parked the car around the corner, uncuffed us, and then led the way through the main gate and up the marble steps to the entrance. Inside was almost a relief from the noise and smell of buses taking Greeks home from work and we were immediately faced with a color portrait of King Paul, who was holding a pair of white gloves, just in case he was obliged to shake anyone’s hand or take a bribe. We climbed to the third floor.
Police headquarters are the same the world over: impersonal, worn, malodorous, busy—and already I felt very much at home. In spite of this, I would happily have turned around and walked over to my hotel for a bath and a drink, even if it wasn’t as good as the Grande Bretagne. The notice board in the corridor outside the lieutenant’s office was all in Greek but I knew exactly what it said because they’d had the same noticeboard at the Alex twenty years ago. Crime’s more or less the same in any language. Garlopis and I sat down in front of a cheap wooden desk under the watchful eye of another cop who was leaning against the green-painted wall smoking a cigarette, and waited while Leventis fetched some files from a battered steel cabinet. It was a large office with green linoleum, a high ceiling with a stationary fan, a glass door, a water cooler, and another portrait of the king wearing a monocle, which really did make me feel at home. Somehow, and no matter where it hails from, royalty always manages to look a bit German. I expect it’s something to do with the Prussian grenadier’s ramrod they all shove up their arses before they have their portraits done.