Shot on Location (19 page)

MIKOS PALLAS, DAPPER in English tweeds and with a pale cashmere topcoat thrown over his arm, advanced towards the gate, where the flight to Istanbul was being loaded, ticket and passport in hand. Humming a ditty he had heard in a Piraeus cabaret, he felt greatly pleased with himself. His brief stay in Athens had been profitable and that was what the game was all about. Life was travel, nothing more. Some men wandered through it like sleepwalkers, with no attainable goals; but Mikos Pallas never failed to make a profit wherever he went, whether it be in merchandise, services or merely establishing contacts for future exploitation. It was by chance that he had become curious about the unmarked truck and the unusually industrious young men unloading what turned out to be the time bomb that later destroyed the structure on which they pretended to work; but it was by experience, and an uncanny confidence in his own intuition, that he had photographed them and thus been of service to the security police. This was the finest kind of profit. Winds of change were blowing and new alliances must be made. The Americans had such a descriptive phrase for such an occupation: fence mending.

As the loud speaker began to announce the impending arrival of the Olympia flight from Corfu, he stepped before the ticket inspector. Only then did he notice a security police officer at his side. Unsuspecting, Pallas offered his ticket with a warm smile.

“Passport, please,” requested the ticket taker.

Pallas relinquished the passport. The inspector examined it and handed it to the security officer.

“Mikos Pallas?” asked the officer.

“Everything is in order,” Pallas answered.

“I’m afraid not. I must ask you to come with me.”

“Come with you? Why? This is preposterous. I have an appointment tomorrow morning with a very high official in Istanbul—”

“I have my orders,” said the officer.

Forced out of line, Pallas continued to protest. The official was adamant. Mikos Pallas was wanted at the police headquarters for questioning, concerning a theft of one million Deutschmarks from an Athens brokerage.

“But this is outrageous!” he fumed. “I was the one who put the police on to the anarchist who took the money! Get Captain Koumaris on the telephone at once! He knows of what service I have been!”

“That is impossible,” the officer said. “He was murdered yesterday.”

“Murdered—”

“And none of the money has been recovered.”

“What has that to do with me?”

“I can’t say, Mr. Pallas. It is Lieutenant Zervios to whom you must explain. Following Stephanos Brisos to Kastoria might have been a trap.”

“Brisos? Who is Brisos? I know nothing!”

“If you know nothing,” the officer said politely, “I am sure Zervios will apologize for any inconvenience that may come to you.”

Pallas trembled imperceptibly under his impeccable tweeds. Policemen were the same everywhere. When one of them was killed, the others were out for blood. But not, surely, the blood of Mikos Pallas! The fear came in a chill wave and then passed. It was nothing. He had money in his wallet and good connections. True, there was some shady business in the past—dealings with the Germans in the occupation—that had led to his migration to South Africa, but then, the Germans were not so hated any more in military circles. Following the security officer to his car, Pallas tried to place Zervios. No matter. He would be ambitious. All men are ambitious for something. All men have a price. As Pallas entered the official car, the plane from Corfu came out of the black sky and began its descent to the lighted runway. Longingly, Mikos Pallas watched the silver bird.

When Brad emerged from the airport, he walked briskly towards the taxi rank and then stopped, as his name was called sharply:

“Mr. Smith!”

He turned about and saw David Draper hurrying towards him. Hatless, coat tails flying, Draper seemed unduly excited.

“I missed you at the gate,” he panted. “Don’t bother with a cab. I have a car.”

“How did you know I would be here?” Brad asked.

“Rhona—Mrs. Avery became disturbed when you didn’t return. Peter said you had gone to Corfu. I called the Corfu airport half an hour ago and learned you were on this flight.”

“Did Mrs. Avery send you to pick me up?”

“No. Not exactly. I got restless just sitting about the apartment. This way. I’m parked over here.”

Draper took Brad’s arm and steered him towards the parking area.

“Just sitting about?” Brad echoed. “I’d think you would be busy with those press conferences of yours, after Avery’s body was returned.”

They reached the car—a small convertible with the top down. Draper got in behind the wheel and waited until Brad was seated, before starting the motor.

“Actually,” he said, “the excitement’s pretty well over, as far as the reporters are concerned. You understand. Yesterday’s headlines have to make way for something new.”

“How’s Rhona?”

“Bearing up well. She seemed to sense that Harry wouldn’t be found alive. Woman’s intuition, I suppose. Why did you go to Corfu?”

“Curiosity,” Brad said.

The car was under way now, moving towards Athens on that long dark highway. Once free of the airport, Draper bore down on the accelerator.

“Curiosity about what?”

“George Ankouris,” Brad said. “How did Avery happen to hire his plane? Was he recommended?”

“I don’t know. I think he’d used the charter service before. I’ve only been with Avery about eight months. Why is the pilot so important?”

“Because he was the only other person in that plane, and it still takes two to tango.”

“I suppose you know what that means.”

“I do now that I’ve been to Corfu.”

“Why don’t you just stop trying, Mr. Smith,” Draper said.

“Trying what?”

“Trying to get a piece of Avery’s fortune. I know why you came to Athens. That dear-old-friend routine may impress an emotionally vulnerable woman, but I’m the one who’s read those demanding letters of yours for the past six months. You don’t have a leg to stand on and you know it. I advise you to go home.”

“I got a better offer from Lange,” Brad said. “He gave the same advice, with a guarantee of ten thousand dollars and a one way plane ticket.”

“You should have taken it. I’m not so generous.”

“What’s your offer?”

Draper didn’t answer for several minutes. He was driving hard. He didn’t slacken speed until the little convertible passed the fringes of the city and began to move through the late hour traffic.

“The streets of Athens can be dangerous at night,” he said, “especially to a man on foot. An American in particular. Funny how so many foreigners have the idea that all Americans are rich. We have holdups and muggings here, as well as in New York.”

“Are you worried?” Brad asked.

“Not for myself. I just wouldn’t want something to happen to a fellow American.”

“If that’s a threat, it’s a pretty weak one,” Brad said.

“Let’s find out.”

Without warning, Draper swung out of the traffic lane and stopped at the kerb. He reached across Brad and opened the door.

“Get out,” he said.

“Here?”

“Right here.”

“But I have to see Mrs. Avery tonight. You could at least take me to a taxi rank.”

“That would be cheating. All you have to do, Smith, is get from here to the Hilton without mishap. That should be easy for such an experienced world traveller.”

It was an infantile action from an infantile mind. Brad remembered Harry’s disdainful reference to Draper and the word seemed to fit.

“Aren’t you curious about what I learned in Corfu?” he asked.

“You learned nothing in Corfu. There’s nothing to learn. Go home, Smith.”

“Go to hell,” Brad said, and got out of the car. He watched Draper pull back into the street and drive on. As the twin red circles of the tail lights diminished in the distance, Brad adjusted the camera straps and started walking. He had no idea where he had been dropped in relation to the Hilton, but he decided to continue in the direction the convertible had taken, until he could find a taxi. There was little traffic on the street and none on the pavement, but recalling Draper’s warning, he hugged the kerb and walked briskly to burn off his anger. He reached the first intersection. Seeing no traffic, he started to cross the street. Suddenly he was caught in the glare of headlights speeding towards him. He broke into a run and made it to the opposite pavement inches ahead of the racing convertible.

“Go home, Smith!” Draper yelled, as the car roared past.

If the name of the game was confusion, Draper was way ahead. Brad moved away from the kerb and continued walking. At the next intersection the street reached a small open square with narrow side streets setting off at angles, like the spokes of a wheel. To his left stood an old Byzantine church—straight ahead across the square he could see a small pavement cafe, dimly lit, with the outside tables now deserted. A car was parked on the nearest street, blocking the view beyond. The other streets were clear. He decided to cross the square, rather than skirt it, in order to save time. He was halfway across the street when he heard the motor start. This time Draper didn’t bother to turn on the lights. The convertible shot out from the kerb just behind the car and hurled towards him. Brad stumbled and fell forward, catching himself on the far kerb and rolling to safety as the little car raced by. He crawled to his feet and saw that Draper was now circling the square, to catch him on the other side. There was no place to hide; no kiosk or convenient monument. There were low shrubs and some sparse flower beds. Running forward across the square in the attempt to beat Draper’s circling manoeuvre, he dropped to one knee and picked up a rock from the border of one bed. Still running, he reached the street as the little car bore down on him. He stopped in the middle of the street and hurled the rock at the windshield and then lunged forward to the pavement beyond, with the music of shattering glass behind him. He threw himself round, to see what he’d done. The rock had hit the windscreen, blinding Draper with a curtain of opaque glass. The car swerved, leaped the kerb and ploughed through a row of tables outside the café, before it came to a crunching halt against the building. As the horn began to wail through the night streets, Brad broke into a run. Angry voices were shouting; in the distance he could hear the klaxon of an approaching police car. Draper would have to get out of this mess himself. Brad was in no mood for more games.

It was ten minutes before he found a taxi to take him to the Hilton Hotel. Without further incident, he completed the journey. Once inside, he demanded to see the night manager and withdrew the envelope containing Rhona’s bracelet from the safe. He then took the elevator directly to Avery’s suite. Rhona hadn’t lied. The guards were no longer in the hall. He pounded on the door until he heard her call out:

“Who is it?”

“Brad Smith,” he said. “I’ve got to see you.”

The door opened immediately. She was alone. Wearing a black street dress, the symbol of widowhood, she welcomed him without tears.

“Oh, Brad! Where have you been? I was so worried.”

“About me?” Brad asked.

“Of course. I expected you sooner.”

“Didn’t Lange tell you I went to Corfu?”

She closed the door behind him and bolted it with the safety lock.

“Yes, but he didn’t say why.”

“Where is he?”

“Out somewhere arranging things. Harry’s transfer. We’re having him flown back to California for interment.”

“Where’s Dr. Johnson?”

“With Peter, I think. Brad, you said on the telephone last night that you had all Harry’s things.”

“That’s right, I did.” Brad unwound the straps of the cameras from his neck and tossed them on the divan. She waited. He reached into his coat pocket and took out Harry’s wallet. “There’s a couple of hundred dollars missing,” he said. “Harry wouldn’t mind. It went for a good cause.” He tossed the wallet on the divan. She still waited.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” he asked.

“Of course.” She backed to the bar and picked up a glass. “Scotch, isn’t it? I’m afraid there’s no ice.”

“I don’t mind. I drink it neat.”

She poured about two ounces of Scotch into the glass, but didn’t offer it to him. “Are those all the things you found?” she asked.

Brad took out Harry’s watch, held it up before her and tossed it down on the divan. She still waited. He took out the case containing Harry’s sunglasses, let her get a good look at it and tossed it down on the divan. She waited. He took out a diamond bracelet and placed it on the bar.

“But that’s not—I gave that to you, Brad.”

“Not this one. This is the one I found in George Ankouri’s apartment.” Brad took the glass of scotch from her hand before it spilled on Mr. Hilton’s carpet.

“Oh—” she said. “Oh, that’s where it went!”

She was acting. She hadn’t acted in a long time, and the improvisation was unconvincing.

“I thought it was stolen. I must have dropped it—”

“On George’s bed—the way you dropped this one on mine?”

Brad took out the other bracelet and placed it beside the twin, and then drank all of his whisky, without taking his eyes from her pretty face.

“You make it sound terrible,” she said.

“It was terrible,” Brad answered. “You should have been with me when Harry died. You should have seen his convulsions when I gave him the hypodermic shot he begged for. I thought it was a pain killer.”

“
You
gave him—”

“I killed him, Rhona. He was dying anyway, but I killed him. I don’t like being used that way. You should have told me it was the syringe you wanted back before anyone else could get to it. Then I would have known what it contained was lethal.”

“Oh, no, Brad. I didn’t—”

“Oh, yes, Rhona, you did. It had to be you because there was no one else who knew about Harry’s shots, except Dr. Johnson, and he wasn’t concerned about the syringe. We’re alone now. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Where is it? Where is the syringe?”

“You’re evading the issue. If you do that, I’ll have to use my imagination and it could be even worse than the truth. I can start with two facts: you gave George Ankouris a bracelet worth five thousand dollars, and you must have promised him more, just as you promised me more, because he told his girl he was going to buy a plane that costs almost twenty-five thousand. He was to make one more flight with Harry, he told her. Just one. He couldn’t have been sure of that unless he knew Harry wasn’t coming back alive. Now I know that Harry had a bad heart because Johnson told me so. The wrong injection could kill him and nobody would be the wiser. What did you use—insulin?”