Friday
Crete
Two days later Patrick flew to Heraklion.
He had spent some time with the Athens police on Thursday. They had a strong lead to the identity of Kamal; according to the London information, it seemed as if the grave had been found by chance. The men were really involved with arms smuggling; they brought shipments from various sources and hid them in a cave on Mikronisos before sending them on to their ultimate destination. Once a small bomb had gone off by accident, exposing the side of a stone coffin and incidentally killing one of the gang, whose body had now been found on the island.
Kamal, who was pretending to be interested in the project of building a hotel on the island in order to roam freely over it, had realised the value of the unexpected find. Help from Crete had been recruited; one of Kamal’s accomplices had once worked as an unskilled labourer on an official dig there and knew of a woman who had helped with more expert work and some vase repairs. Her son had been traced and persuaded to join them, bringing her too. He had been in prison already for fraud and was easy to enlist. All this Arthur Winterton had revealed before he died, hoping for clemency if he told what he knew. But Yannis had feared the advent of an inquisitive godfather from England who might ask too many questions and who knew about the ancient remains. The car of the friend he was to travel with had been wrecked in an effort to keep him away when he wrote to say he was coming; then the man himself had died.
‘My God,’ cried Patrick, when this was disclosed. ‘They smashed up my car to stop us?’
‘To delay you. They were getting out of the antiques business,’ said the Greek police officer. ‘They’d come to the end of one grave and they didn’t know there might be others. The arms business was more in their line, but our officials were thinking it was time plans for the hotel took more definite shape. It looked as if questions would soon be asked, and Kamal meant to operate from some other base. Scotland Yard has found two of the minor members of the organisation. Arthur Winterton committed suicide. When the police let him go on bail he was afraid that the gang would kill him because he had told so much; he knew they were merciless. He had not expected to be released like that. Dermott Murcott surprised them in the cave, cleaning up the last of their finds. He had to be silenced. They knocked him out and then took him back up the cliff and threw him over so that he would be found some distance away.’
‘I see,’ said Patrick. He could not get over the wanton destruction of his car. What a nerve!
‘Your friends in London will tell you, when you see them. The good Inspector Smithers.’ The Greek officer smiled. ‘We are very grateful to you, Dr Grant. We will trace the men, I hope. We do not want another illegal arms business operating from our soil. I hope you will have no trouble replacing your car.’
‘Oh – the insurance will pay, I suppose.’ By the time he got home they might have made up their minds about the amount due. He would have to decide what sort of car to get; not another Rover, he thought: something a little more sporty, perhaps.
He parted cordially from the policemen, who would now never need the cigarette-stub so carefully preserved. Then, with Ursula, he went to see Vera Hastings. They told her most of the story, but not the terrible revenge which George would exact. Vera was left assuming that Inspector Manolakis would wind the affair up in a few days; she promised to keep her own counsel meanwhile. Manolakis would, eventually, discover what happened, Patrick was sure.
The Loukases had checked out from the Hilton that morning; Mrs Loukas had not seemed well; she complained of a severe headache and thirst, Patrick was told when he telephoned the hotel to ask about them.
In the evening, he had dined at Tourcolimanos with Ursula and Nikos; he would see them again on his way home to England and they would make the promised return visit to Mycenae.
And now he was back in Crete. He had hired a car at the airport, and he drove straight to Ai Saranda. The old men he had met before were at the kafenion, and welcomed him as a friend but they were still evasive. Ilena was back in the village, they said, and sent him to see her, with an interpreter.
She was very tense and her manner was reserved, but she was shocked and distressed to hear of Alec’s death. She had been away from Crete on a long visit but was back now for good and glad to be home. Yannis was not with her; she did not know where he was exactly, she thought it might be Beirut. But he was a good son and would see her provided for. Patrick wondered how Yannis had managed to persuade her to go to Mikronisos; he must have spun her some tale and convinced her that he was turning over a new leaf. Once on the island, she would have found it impossible to get away.
He did not press her, nor did he offer to visit her again before leaving Crete. He would protect her better by keeping away.
It seemed very peaceful in Challika when he returned there. The Psyche was moored at her usual berth and Spiro was swabbing her deck. Patrick wondered how Yannis had managed to involve Spiro in his nefarious doings. Perhaps Spiro had simply been trying to make enough money to marry Sophia, but poor Jill had been duped. He evidently hoped to bluff it out; if Yannis stayed free he would probably get away with it.
He would have to decide where to stay. On the whole it might be prudent not to risk the temptations of Mano- lakis’s sister. While he thought about it, he parked close to the Hermes, where he had stayed before, and walked over to the pillbox on the headland. There, as Ursula had said, was scratched on the stones, inside, the sentence which meant ‘The German woman Elise has—’ and then ended, incomplete. Patrick ran his fingers over the Greek script. He was thus engaged when he heard a footfall and turned to see Dimitris Manolakis standing beside him.
‘But how?’ Patrick asked.
‘We’ll never know,’ said Manolakis. ‘Perhaps she saw him coming up the cliff – they may have met by chance. Perhaps she had agreed to meet him here.’
So Manolakis knew Felix had arrived by boat. How much did he know about the Psyche and her journeys? He must have learned the whole story of Mikronisos by this time. What about poor little Sophia from the shop?
‘She struck him, perhaps. She knew, perhaps, just where to hit. When he fell later, it would seem like a bruise from the rocks.’ The policeman spoke slowly, as if thinking aloud. ‘She was a strong woman, a former nurse, trained to lift people. He was not a big man. She injected him with insulin when he was already unconscious. Then, when it was night, she pulled him to the edge of the cliff and, pooh, he is gone.’ Manolakis made an expressive gesture with his thin, well-shaped hands.
‘Something like that, I suppose,’ said Patrick. ‘You’d read this, hadn’t you, before you came over to Athens?’ He pointed to the remark scratched on the wall. Felix must have come round for a few minutes, long enough to pick up a small stone and scrape this attempt to leave a message.
‘I know all what is written here,’ said Manolakis gravely. ‘I know what is new, and what is not.’ He paused. ‘We have found a small valitsa – valise – in the sea. A big stone was inside, to make it stay hidden.’
Patrick was silent.
‘You are clever,’ he said at last. ‘Poli kala.’
Manolakis beamed.
‘You stay with us now, while you finish your holiday,’ he said. ‘Please. We like very much. We teach you Greek.’ he added.
Why not, after all? Manolakis might be hurt if he refused. And besides, there was the sister.