Authors: Kerry Greenwood
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papers. I set them on the table and pinned them under Horatio’s tail, always a useful paperweight.
I had photographs. Black and white, blown up from old ones. A clean-cut man in a uniform. Max Mertens. I always stared into the faces of known monsters, trying to find something in the shape of the face, the expression, the eyes, which told me that this was a man who had shoved the Jews of Salonika into trains and sent them off to dreadful death. Every day, for weeks, until he ran out of Jews. I had never found it in Nazis. They just looked like people. It was the most frightening thing about them. Mertens looked like a moderately well-groomed, self-important man in a uniform, and that was all you could say about him from the outside.
Then I had a photo of a ledger, which I could read because it was in German. Underlined was ‘Temple jewellery from Kal Yashan’—
Tempel schatz aus Kal Yashan
—and under that
Goldene kette mit lowenkopf aus Karamboulis, Mary, Venezian
isch
, meaning a gold chain figured with lions’ heads, Venetian, from Mary Karamboulis. Chrysoula’s mother’s dowry chain and the ephod on the same page. This must have been Mertens’ capital acquisitions journal.
Under that was another photo, a blurry face blown up from a smaller picture. It might have been Mertens. He was wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap, which one should not wear unless one is both Greek and a fisherman. He was standing on the deck of a small boat, grinning and holding up a big fish. The sign over the pier read Faneromeni in English and Greek and someone had written 1935 on the back. So Max, if this was Max, had been to Greece before the war and knew Faneromeni well. Wherever that was. I could look it up later. I had a Jet Lag guide to Greece somewhere.
Next I found a copy of a bill or account, I thought, but it was in Greek and I couldn’t read it. There followed several other accounts, and then a newspaper cutting from the
Hellenic Times
, a newspaper published in Greece for a while to educate English speakers as to events in Greece, much like the
South China Morning Post
. I had always loved it for its flexible interpretation of the language. I was rather sorry when Greece got all modern and the
Hellenic Times
started employing people who really spoke English, and even proofreaders, which much diminished its Grauniad charm. Then, of course, it went out of business. The exact date was missing but the year was 1957. There was a large black headline: ‘Startling Event in Kalamata Yesterday!’ The article went on:
In the main market of Kalamata, which is famed for its olives which everyone in the world knows are the best, Mr George Hammadis (72), well known and respected grandfather of seven and proprietor of Hammadis Fishing Tours You Will Enjoy, was making some small purchases in the market from Mrs Ariadne Loukas (71), widow, whose stall carries the best broad beans in their season from the farm of her son, Vasi (32). Imagine what was Mr Hammadis’ surprise when he saw in that market a man who he had never expected to show his guilty face in Greece again, scared as he must be of the righteous vengeance of the brave Hellenes!
Mr Hammadis was taken aback. His heart beat faster. His face went white. Mrs Loukas offered to fetch him a chair. But, old man as he was, he went straight up to the villain. ‘Thou art the man!’ he declared fearlessly, pointing the recreant out to the policeman present, who was Constable Costas
223
Elounda (31), son of Mr Petros Elounda (53) of the Post Office. The man thus denounced attempted to get away but was seized by the growing crowd, who had also recognised him as Max Mertens, Nazi administrator of Thessaloniki, thief and murderer.
Mertens protested his identity but Mr Hammadis was honest and sure. He had often seen the villain Mertens in Thessaloniki during the war, when he managed the extinction of the Hebrew Hellenes and also extorted much valuable treasure from the hapless Jews and the Greeks trying to escape Nazi butchers. Constable Costas Elounda (31) arrested the monster forthwith and sent his assistant, Probationary Constable Fillipo Pangrati (19), only son of the widow Pangrati (39) of Koroni, to the Post Office to make an urgent telephone message to the police chief in Kalamata.
Then Constable Elounda removed the rascal to the cells in the police station as the people of the market were increasing their protests. We are told that the Godless beast Mertens will be sent to Kalamata and thence to Athens for trial. Readers of the
Hellenic Times
will be informed of all new developments in this case as they happen.
Well, well. There ought to be a record of the trial of the
Godless beast Mertens, if indeed he was tried. Wasn’t 1957 a
bit late for war crimes trials? Then again, when had Mossad
kidnapped Eichmann? I found my copy of
The House on
Garibaldi Street
. 1957. Well, well, not too late at all. It was time I got dressed. With a nice walk in mind, I put
on jeans and suitable walking shoes and my favourite t-shirt.
It was emblazoned with medieval ladies on horseback and the legend said ‘Well-behaved women seldom make history’. I put on my woolly jacket and checked the pockets for emergency money and tissues.
Daniel was still typing. I had more bits of paper. Another picture. An account of an earthquake in Kalamata in 1986. Calamitous Kalamata, they called it. That whole sea is ringed with faults, but this one sounded like a particularly bad earthquake, toppling houses, felling sea-walls, killing twenty-two people and injuring hundreds.
The last bits of paper were addresses and phone numbers, written in a variety of inks and crossed out, one after another. Pages from someone’s address book, it seemed. They all related to someone called Yanni.
Just as I laid down the last piece of crumpled paper, Daniel pressed save and closed the laptop.
‘You were with the raiders who took this ephod from Barnabas, weren’t you?’ I asked. ‘That’s how you cut your hand.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was with them.’
‘And you can’t tell me who your fellow raiders were?’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘But there’s nothing to stop me guessing,’ I told him.
‘Nothing in the world,’ he responded.
I took a good look at him. He looked tired but excited. His eyes were smudged underneath but bright. He was one day unshaven, his jaw darkened. A very attractive combination.
‘I’ve read all the papers you gave me. I love that
Hellenic Times
. The style is inimitable. Was Max Mertens actually tried in Athens?’
‘He was. That’s a matter of public record. They found him guilty and sentenced him to twenty-five years in jail.’
225
‘Good for them! But, hang on, 1957, isn’t that the time of the troubles?’
‘Yes, and Max Mertens was sold back to Germany for a huge load of aid. The Germans nailed the money for Greece to the floor and wouldn’t release it until they had their Max back. Don’t hold it against them too harshly.’
‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘Putting Mertens in jail was a nice gesture, though. But what was he doing in Greece? That was bold. There was a picture in your pile that showed he had been to Greece before the war—someone was bound to recognise him.’
‘Bold. Or desperate.’
‘Why did he want to go back so badly?’
‘For that,’ said Daniel, ‘we first have to see an elderly German and then another elderly Greek. Can you cope?’
‘If you can,’ I said. ‘Though I’m not feeling very pro-German at present. Is the Greek likely to be as bad as Old Spiro?’
‘God, I hope not.’
‘This would be Yanni of the many addresses?’
‘It would.’
‘First,’ I answered, ‘I must see how poor Mr Wyatt is.’
‘He’s ruined,’ said Daniel. ‘According to you, someone in his bakery made the soul cakes.’
‘No, there’s ergot on his floor, that’s all we know,’ I said. ‘It might have come from that contaminated sack of rye mix, if that was what was wrong with it, and we don’t know that. Damn, I forgot to make a note of his phone number. But I left him mine.’
‘He’ll call if he needs you,’ said Daniel. ‘Now, what about this secret admirer of yours? What else has he sent you?’
‘Oh, this and that,’ I said coyly. To my own surprise.
I didn’t know that I did coy. ‘All perfect little things, to make me feel better. I felt sure that it was you,’ I said truthfully.
‘Why did you need to be made to feel better?’ demanded Daniel.
‘Because of Georgie, of course. And the contamination of my shop and the ruin of my life. Not important at the time, perhaps, but it upset me.’
‘Of course,’ he said, not taking offence at my tone. ‘I’m really sorry about Georgiana. I just didn’t notice.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
He slid an arm around my shoulders and I leaned into his embrace. Sweet Daniel. Now, what was my new Hebrew word?
‘
Metuka
,’ I said into his chest, ‘let’s not worry about it. Where do we find your elderly Nazi?’
‘In a nursing home,’ said Daniel with a sly grin. ‘How’s your German?’
‘Pretty average,’ I replied. My girls’ school had been good at languages and they offered outings and cultural evenings as well. Though that had introduced me to Wagner, of course. And Caspar David Friedrich.
‘Helmut wasn’t a Nazi,’ Daniel told me. ‘He was only a sailor.’
‘Oh, good. I’ll just call Meroe and see how she got on with the cops.’
‘And I’ll call up Timbo,’ said Daniel, and reached for his mobile phone.
Meroe answered the shop phone, which meant that she had not been arrested. I listened for background croaking but couldn’t hear anything except the pacific tinkle of wind chimes.
‘I told them everything,’ she said listlessly. ‘All I knew about all of it. They attended politely and made notes.
227
Belladonna liked that young woman, Helen. So they won’t misuse what I said.’
‘Earthly Delights is off the hook,’ I told her. ‘But I’m going to take the rest of the week off. I’m just out with Daniel, unless you need me?’
‘No, thank you, I am looking forward to a nice soothing day stacking boxes and selling herbs. Quarantine didn’t find anything here either. I should think not. Ergot, indeed. There are enough ordeal poisons in the world without coming to look for them in the Sibyl’s Cave.’
‘There are a lot of ordeal poisons?’
‘Certainly. Damiana, acacia bark, mandrake, morning glory seeds, any number of mushrooms taken by the acolyte in a devout spirit so he can see the ancestors. Or by the drug-crazed lunatic, of course...and that’s only what comes to mind instantly. Madness. There is a lot of it about.’
‘I know,’ I agreed wholeheartedly. ‘See you later then.’
‘Blessed part,’ she said, and hung up.
‘Madame?’ asked Daniel, holding out his elbow. ‘The gracious lady’s carriage awaits.’
I picked up my backpack, slid a hand into the crook of his arm, and we walked out together.
I wondered what our driver was going to find to eat as we moved into the polite and tree-lined suburbs. Camberwell, Caulfield, they wouldn’t be ready for Timbo. Somewhere in Kew we stopped. Expensive place. Nice rose garden. High walls. Daniel directed Timbo to open the boot, where he had previously stashed a picnic hamper, and we went up the carefully graded path into a spacious reception area more suited to a five star hotel. But there it was, the old age smell: urine and eau-de-cologne and wet washing. It was very faint, almost undetectable, but it was there.
Inadvertently, I wrinkled my nose, thus insulting the starched woman at the desk.
‘Yes?’ she asked in a voice which was designed to frighten poor people and freeze rich people. She was a thin blonde on her fiftieth botox or her first facelift.
‘We’ve come to see Mr Helmut Schwartz,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m sure that we have an appointment.’
She made a show of consulting a ledger on her desk. No newfangled computers for this refuge of the well-heeled antique. She pressed a button, a sweet chime sounded and a nurse appeared.
‘Take these...’ there was the faintest pause before she said ‘. . . visitors to Mr Schwartz, please.’ The ‘please’ was also infinitesimally delayed.
The nurse, a cheerful, strapping young woman, conducted us at a very fast walk along a corridor painted chrome green with ivory highlights. Very Martha Stewart. Before the jail sentence, of course.
‘How is Mr Schwartz,’ asked Daniel, ‘Nurse—’ he bent to read her nametag—‘Simmonds?’
‘He’s all right,’ she replied, slowing down a little. This was a relief. I was getting out of breath. ‘He’s losing his English, but his German is still pretty good and his memory otherwise is good enough. People do that, you know, shed languages in the reverse order they learned them. He doesn’t have a lot of visitors, though. His granddaughter comes in every week. Poor old buggers mostly outlive everyone they knew in the old days.’
‘I didn’t take to your boss,’ I commented. She flashed me a happy grin.
‘She’s not my boss, thank God! She’s just the receptionist, and one day someone will surgically remove it.’
‘What?’ I asked.
229
‘The broom up her arse. Here we are.’ She opened a chrome green door on my laugh. ‘Herr Schwartz?’
‘
Ja
,’ said an old voice, and we went in.
Helmut Schwartz had been a big man. He must have stood six feet tall in his prime, and he had been blond, to judge by his pale blue eyes. A fine specimen of Aryan manhood. Now he was shrunken, crumpled, very, very old. He was sitting in an easy chair, binoculars in hand and bird book in lap, looking out the window. He did not start with surprise.
‘Daniel?’ he asked. ‘
Sie Sind
Daniel?’
‘
Ja, ich bin
Daniel,’ said the love of my life, sitting down on his heels.
‘They told me you would come,’ he said, in German. ‘That you want to hear the tale of Mertens’ treasure.’
‘
Ja
,’ said Daniel.
‘Wheel me over to the table, if you would. Then you can have a chair each.
Gnädige Frau
—’ he gave me a formal little nod—‘if you would be so kind.’