steps. He had earlier followed the two men after noting the floor they were making for over the lift bank, running up the staircase. He had been just in time to see Newman being shown into his room. Too far along the corridor to be sure which room. And he hadn't dared to follow Marler.
The Greek called Nick turned along a corridor, stopped at a door and knocked. The door opened and Giorgos clearly heard the voice of the man who had shown the photograph to reception welcoming him in English. He retreated back down the staircase, working out an excuse to ask the question.
'I think I know that man who just arrived, a friend of one of my cousins.' The chief receptionist stared at him. 'He did my cousin a good turn, if it's the same man.'
'What would the likes of you have to do with Nick? He drives a Mercedes. Rather out of your class. Don't waste my time. See that pile of luggage over there? Be ready to carry it to the cab when it arrives to take our guests to the airport . . .'
Marler stared straight into Nick's dark eyes as they shook hands. Firm grip. Hair, streaked with grey, cut short and trim. A strong face. A firm jaw. A hint of humour at the corners of the mouth. Marler was good at weighing up a man quickly. Formidable was the word which came to mind.
'Bob will do the talking,' he said and sat down.
'Take a seat,' suggested Newman. 'We're here about Harry Masterson who was killed down at Cape Sounion.'
'So, you think he was killed?' Nick sat down, crossed his powerful legs. 'The papers said it was an accident.'
'One thing while I remember, Nick. Officially I don't speak or understand any Greek on this trip. You think it was an accident?'
'I said the papers did. They think he was drunk. I saw him drunk myself.' Nick smiled drily. 'I drove a friend to the Hilton one evening, carried her bag in for her. Beyond the entrance hall is a large seating area at several levels. A crowd was gathered, watching something. Masterson had perched himself on a rail no wider than my hand, was walking along it like a tightrope walker, a champagne bottle clutched in each hand. A fifteen-feet drop below him. He walked the full length of the rail, then jumped back on to the floor next to the rail on his left. Enough people saw his performance to recall it when the news came through from Cape Sounion a few days later.'
'And he was drunk?' Newman pressed, hardly able to believe it.
'No.' Nick smiled drily again.
'But you said he was.'
'I know enough about drink - and drunks - to recognize the real thing, and when someone is acting being drunk. Masterson was acting. Don't ask me why.'
'He was staying at the Hilton?'
'No idea.'
'And you think his death was an accident?'
'No. I watched his act at the Hilton closely. He was nimble as a goat. A big man but quick on his feet, reflexes as fast as mine. That type doesn't go stumbling over a cliff.'
Newman opened a briefcase, took out a cardboard-backed envelope, extracted three photos of Masterson. He held them while he asked the question.
'I need to know where he stayed. Do you know two men you can trust - really trust?'
'To do what, Mr Newman?'
'Take these photos round hotels in Athens and find out where he stayed. He might have used another name.'
'Yes. They use his name? No? Of course some will recognize him from the pictures in me papers. Nick . was looking at a print Newman had handed him. 'I could do some of the checking myself - divide up the search. It would be quicker.'
'One thing puzzles me.' Newman handed three prints to Nick. 'I really need to find out how his picture got into the press. Doesn't make sense. No one was interested until he became very dead.'
'Yes they were.' Nick clapped his hands together. 'I've just remembered. It happened when Masterson performed his crazy walk with the champagne bottles at the Hilton.'
'What did?'
They have a creep of a photographer who works the hotel restaurant at night. He was hanging around in the lobby while Masterson did his
The Greek called Nick turned along a corridor, stopped at a door and knocked. The door opened and Giorgos clearly heard the voice of the man who had shown the photograph to reception welcoming him in English. He retreated back down the staircase, working out an excuse to ask the question.
'I think I know that man who just arrived, a friend of one of my cousins.' The chief receptionist stared at him. 'He did my cousin a good turn, if it's the same man.'
'What would the likes of you have to do with Nick? He drives a Mercedes. Rather out of your class. Don't waste my time. See that pile of luggage over there? Be ready to carry it to the cab when it arrives to take our guests to the airport . . .'
Marler stared straight into Nick's dark eyes as they shook hands. Firm grip. Hair, streaked with grey, cut short and trim. A strong face. A firm jaw. A hint of humour at the corners of the mouth. Marler was good at weighing up a man quickly. Formidable was the word which came to mind.
'Bob will do the talking,' he said and sat down.
'Take a seat,' suggested Newman. 'We're here about Harry Masterson who was killed down at Cape Sounion.'
'So, you think he was killed?' Nick sat down, crossed his powerful legs. 'The papers said it was an accident.'
'One thing while I remember, Nick. Officially I don't speak or understand any Greek on this trip. You think it was an accident?'
'I said the papers did. They think he was drunk. I saw him drunk myself.' Nick smiled drily. 'I drove a friend to the Hilton one evening, carried her bag in for her. Beyond the entrance hall is a large seating area at several levels. A crowd was gathered, watching something. Masterson had perched himself on a rail no wider than my hand, was walking along it like a tightrope walker, a champagne bottle clutched in each hand. A fifteen-feet drop below him. He walked the full length of the rail, then jumped back on to the floor next to the rail on his left. Enough people saw his performance to recall it when the news came through from Cape Sounion a few days later.'
'And he was drunk?' Newman pressed, hardly able to believe it.
'No.' Nick smiled drily again.
'But you said he was.'
'I know enough about drink - and drunks - to recognize the real thing, and when someone is acting being drunk. Masterson was acting. Don't ask me why.'
'He was staying at the Hilton?'
'No idea.'
'And you think his death was an accident?'
'No. I watched his act at the Hilton closely. He was nimble as a goat. A big man but quick on his feet, reflexes as fast as mine. That type doesn't go stumbling over a cliff.'
Newman opened a briefcase, took out a cardboard-backed envelope, extracted three photos of Masterson. He held them while he asked the question.
'I need to know where he stayed. Do you know two men you can trust - really trust?'
'To do what, Mr Newman?'
'Take these photos round hotels in Athens and find out where he stayed. He might have used another name.'
'Yes. They use his name? No? Of course some will recognize him from the pictures in me papers. Nick . was looking at a print Newman had handed him. 'I could do some of the checking myself - divide up the search. It would be quicker.'
'One thing puzzles me.' Newman handed three prints to Nick. 'I really need to find out how his picture got into the press. Doesn't make sense. No one was interested until he became very dead.'
'Yes they were.' Nick clapped his hands together. 'I've just remembered. It happened when Masterson performed his crazy walk with the champagne bottles at the Hilton.'
'What did?'
They have a creep of a photographer who works the hotel restaurant at night. He was hanging around in the lobby while Masterson did his
Similar Books
