Breakfast struck at half past eight.
'What the hell am I doing up at this time?' Ken asked sourly. 'I must have gone to bed sober or something.'
'Happens to everybody sooner or later.' I stabbed my poached egg with a fork, but it didn't mind. 'How's the neck?'
'Stiff. Does anything show?'
'No.' He had his old brownish Paisley-pattern silk scarf folded as a high choker; the same scarf I remembered him wearing… well, two years ago, and it didn't look as if it had been washed since. Funny how a man can change his shirt and underclothes as often as he can afford it, and still wrap his neck in a piece of silk that's been used to plug an oil leak.
He grunted: 'What's the weather?'
From habit, I'd already rung the airport. 'Clear today but there's a low south-west of here. We could get a front through tomorrow.'
'Umm.' He mixed more instant coffee. 'What odds that we get Inspector Lazaros in here before lunch?'
'No bet. I suppose we say we spent the evening boozing?' r As long as they don't test our blood-alcohol level. What I've got in mine wouldn't keep a flea's mind off his mortgage.' He looked at his watch. 'I wish they'd hurry up and find him. Once we're told he's dead, there's a few questions we can ask.'
So right then we got Lazaros, well up on schedule but only by missing out on sleep. If he'd looked tired last night, this morning he looked exhumed. His face was fat and thin in the wrong places, his eyes were puffy red slits and his suit drooped like stale lettuce.
'You look like it was a night to remember or perhaps forget," I said cheerfully. 'Coffee?'
'No, thank you. I have had more coffee last night than…' his voice died off, he dragged out a cigarette and lit it with hands that shuddered from sheer tiredness.
'You had a night out with Papa?' Ken suggested.
Lazaroslooked at him. 'No. He was murdered."
Ken said: 'Christ!… ohno' and I said something but not quite as ring-of-truth.
Ken asked: 'You found him at his house?'
'No. He was in his car, on the short road from Kyrenia to here. A United Nations patrol found him after midnight, and I was called out just when I had got home to bed.'
'How was he killed?' I asked. Wehad to remember to get told these things.
Lazarosswung his thin bleary glance at me. 'He was shot. Twice, with two different guns. Probably to make the impression it was done by bandits – or the Turks. But one shot was already after he was dead.'
'Two guns,' I said, just to make it quite sure.
'Yes, so two men. One in the car with Papadimitriou – he would not have gone up there until he was compelled – and one driving the other car to take the murderer back."
Ken said softly: 'How very logical.' And it was. So now we'd got them chasing two men instead of one.
I said: 'We were over that way last night. In Kapotas's car.'
Lazaros's eyes got almost open. 'What time? Why?'
'Oh, half past ten, maybe.' Deliberately late. 'We were sort of drinking around and thought Kyrenia-'
'Shit! ' His eyes were definitely open by now, but no prettier for it. 'You went to warn Papadimitriou I was coming. You knew you could take the short-'
'There's the telephone,' Ken said. 'If we really wanted to warn him.'
Lazarosblinked and got a better idea. 'Or maybe you were the two men.'
After a while I said: 'It works, you know. We could just get over the hill and grab Papa, in the time.'
Ken's bony face wrinkled in disgust. 'And then stand there blasting away with two guns, waking up every sheep and United Nations patrol in the hills? Give me a jack handle and I'd beat his head in as quiet as a lullaby.'
'Oh, I like that,' I said. 'But I insist on doing something more creative with the body. Drive his car back down and dump it outeast of Kyrenia, way off our route.'
'But that's quite beautiful," Ken said. 'It's a pleasure to do murder with you.'
Lazarossaid: 'Now just shut up and-'
'But why,' I asked, 'do you insist on a jack handle?'
'I'm not insisting at all,' Ken said reassuringly. 'Spanner, tyre lever – one has to keep an open mind, don't you agree? I'd say half the world's troubles-'
'Be quiet! 'Lazaros shouted.
'-come from not keeping an open mind.'
Lazarosreached under his jacket and took out an automatic and pointed it between us. 'You are arrested.'
Ken said: 'Browning 9-rml. Double-action, so he might get it to go off.'
Lazarosstretched and slapped the gun down on Ken's hand. Or tried. Ken's hands shifted like a card sharp's, Lazaros jerked back, the gun twizzled loose on the table.
Ken's expression was plain disgust. 'Tough Paphos Gate copper. Just preserving that station's reputation, I suppose. Better keep the gun.' He pushed it across and Lazaros caught it before it hit the floor.
Then straightened up slowly. In the silence we heard the phone ring in the lobby.
In a carefully controlled voice: 'You are still under arrest.'
I asked: 'Are we allowed the traditional phone call? '
'To who?'
'I was thinking the superintendent at Kyrenia who's in charge of the case.'
Ken said, almost to himself: 'Of course. It's Kyrenia's murder. And murder's a Super's job. I wonder how he likes his witnesses? – just lightly antagonised or given the full Paphos Gate treatment?'
The chambermaid – Papa's 'niece' – came in and told Ken the phone was for him. He stood up. 'Do I get an armed escort?'
'Take it,'Lazaros said impatiently, holding the gun out of sight. Ken and the girl went out; Lazaros sat down again.
'Have you told her yet?' I asked.
He shook his head. 'It is not my case.' He sighed and put the Browning back under his jacket. 'Did you see his car – the Volkswagen – on the road?'
'Not to notice.' Who remembers a car he saw five minutes ago, let alone ten hours? 'But on the way over, we didn't pass, anybody coming from Kyrenia.'
It was a small crumb of evidence, but he licked it up gratefully.
I went on: 'Why was Papa killed? Robbery?'
"They think not.'
'Had anybody busted into his house?'
He looked at me sharply. 'I do not think so. I went in with the Kyrenia police later and…' he shrugged. 'His mother is away, we think.' He leant his elbows on the table and rubbed his palms into his eyes, 'forget about being arrested. I will tell Kyrenia what you said and where you are. And then I will sleep.'
Ken came back looking thoughtful – no, disbelieving.
'Bad news?' I asked.
'No-o. Good, I think.' He shook his head slowly. "The Israeli Embassy – they've cancelled my deportation.'
Half an hour later we were sitting in a small, cool, sparsely-furnishedcafé down Ledra Street sipping gritty-sweet Turkish coffee and me sounding like an elderly uncle.
'You're just the bloody bird dog,' I told him. 'Now the Professor's dead, they think you could be the only one to sniff out the sword. So they let you back in, you find it, then clang! The dog never gets the bird; he ends up back in the kennel eating tinned rabbit.'
'They don't know there's a sword.'
They know there's a something. They know the Prof's reputation as a grave-robber – and maybe they overheard a hint in jail. They could know about our runaround the last few days. Enough other people seem to.'
He nodded calmly. 'I think you're right.'
'That's good.' I finished my coffee except for the sludge at the bottom. 'So now let's forget about the sword, concentrate on keeping our noses clean here and get back to England, home and booty.'
'But that's no reason not to go on to Jerusalem,' Ken added.
I slapped my cup down with a clang that made the tubby proprietor look at me wide-eyed. 'Now look, Ken: if you go back there you'll confirm everything they believe – that there's something hidden and you know where. They'll be sleeping in your pockets.'
'Maybe, maybe not.' True; how well a surveillance works depends on how experienced your target is. And Ken was.
'All right, so you find Gadulla and say: "Here, Oswarthy foreigner, hand over King Richard's sword." What does he do? D'you think he's even got the thing?'
'It doesn't seem too likely,' Ken admitted. 'I mean Bruno trusting anyone that much. More like, the letter told him how to find it-'
Tine. So whoever's got the letter doesn't need to go near Gadulla. He goes direct for the hiding-place.'
"The letter can't be everything,' Ken persisted. 'It can't have been complete, somehow. That's why he was torturing Papa, why he was snooping back at the house.'
There was something in that, but: 'That still doesn't help you. And, incidentally, Lazarosdidn't say anything about the torture, so we don't know. Remember that.'
'Ah. That's the hold-out, is it?' Every fancy murder case brings in false confessions from nitwits, so they always conceal one piece of evidence, something only the real murderer would know, to use as a cross-check.
He finished his own coffee and looked at his watch. 'Gadulla's still the only lead we've got.'
'For God's sake, leave the damn sword alone. Tell Mitzi about Gadulla and then leave it lay – you can't afford to go to Israel, anyway. We've got a business to start up again.'
He smiled wryly. 'The same one?'
'I don't know…' I stared at the tabletop. 'We're sort of running out of time on that, I think. But now – we know a lot more about air cargo generally; we can cost a job properly. We don't have to go for the big margins and risks.'
He shrugged. 'If you say so. You're the boss on the business side.'
'Oh hell, Ken-'
'No, you always were. I'm a better pilot, but how often does that matter? – twice, three times a year? You're the one whoknows how to bring in business; that matters all the time. I'm not complaining. But – just try and keep off strawberries and monkeys.'
I grinned. 'I'll try.' So maybe, after – how many? – three nights out of jail, he was cured. We could get back to work.
He stood up. 'I'll drop over and see Mitzi. Back at the Castle for lunch, no?'
I mooched about the town staring into closed shops and listening to church bells until noon, then back to the hotel for a first beer with Kapotas.
He was looking fresh and smart in a non-Sunday tie, but also gloomy and nervous. Then I remembered Papaand the partner from Harborne, Gough coming in that afternoon.
'Cheers. Have you got the books balanced?'
'On a tight-rope. You know about Papadimitriou?'
'I heard. Tell me – when we were in Beirut, was anybody here asking for him?'
'Would I know? Papadimitriou was the first person anybody coming here would meet, most of the time.'
I nodded. It was also possible that Papa had gone looking for a partner instead of one finding him.
'Somebody was asking about Professor Spohr,' Kapotas added.
'Who? When?'
'On Friday evening. Only by telephone. It was the Israeli Embassy.'
'Areyou sure?'
He shrugged. 'The voice sounded… well, right.' There's already a clipped, dry tone you could call an Israeli accent just so long as you don't expect all Israelis to have it. 'I said I knew nothing and put Papadimitriou to speak to him.'
'This was Friday evening? After dark?'
'Yes, why?' Then: 'Oh, of course,' as he got the point.
Naturally no Israeli Embassy can be strictly religious; they'd break the Sabbath, all right – but only on important business. Dead or alive, Bruno Spohr couldn't stand very high on Israel's list of problems.
'What happened then?' I asked.
'I don't know.' He took a mouthful of beer and tried to think. 'Papa went out soon after, and… and I never saw him again,' he suddenly remembered. 'Perhaps I should tell the police.'
I nodded. God knows what they'd make of it, but at least they'd have the authority to check with the embassy. I'd get told to go and unleaven my head.
I changed the subject: 'Has Papa's niece been told?'
'She is off duty now. I gave Inspector Lazarosher address.'
A waiter – I meanthe waiter – came in and started clattering about leisurely, laying the tables behind us. I went to fetch two more beers.
Then Ken came in, bouncing like a frisky cat. He saw the glasses in my hand. 'Lay off that stuff, boyo- you're aviating.'
I put the glasses carefully back on the bar. 'I'm what?'
'Doing the ever-popular intrepid birdman act. Private charter to Israel.'
If the glasses hadn't been out of my hands they would have been anyway. 'Towhere! On whose money? And with that… that… 'Apostólosthe barman was watching me; '… with that… load?'
Kapotas was on his feet by now. Ken grabbed both beer-glasses and shooed us back to the table, out of range of the bar. He shoved one glass at Kapotas and gulped at the other. 'The girls'll pay the charter, they've agreed. They think Gadulla's our only chance, and if it comes right we need the Beech. Nowyou-' he turned to Kapotas '-wouldn't mind having the aeroplane and its cargo out of the way – earning money, remember -while your big wheel from London comes snooping through? Roy told me about him.'
Kapotas looked thoughtful. I said: 'I hope they know what charter rates are like. '
'I was moderately honest about it,' Ken said. 'They're paying a hundred quid – they're saving the air fares, remember – and it won't be more than three hours there-and-back so you'll seesome profit. The lad from London will think you're marvellous.'
Kapotas was beginning to like it. I said firmly: 'Dynamite into Hell, yes, but I'm not flying that load into Israel. Of all places-'
Ken waved his non-drinking hand impatiently. 'It's stilltransit cargo. They won't care as long as it stays in the Beech.'
There was a long silence except for the shufflings of the waiter in the dining-room end. Kapotas was back to gloom again.
I slapped both hands on the table. 'All right. This time. But Ken -you go by airline. Eleanor won't look suspicious and Mitzi should get by with Braunhof on her passport, but the name Cavitt could blow the whole expedition.'
He saw the sense of it. 'Okay, I'll get booking.'
I followed him into the lobby; there was nobody around. 'You got the hundred off the girls in advance?'
He nodded. 'I didn't want to mention it in front of Kapotas.'
'Quite so. But give me fifty now; I've got to refuel.'
'Sure.' He split a wad of Cyprus notes and gave me half.
'Thanks. And I learnt one thing: somebody saying they were the Israeli Embassy rang about Spohr on Friday evening. He talked to Papa, then Papa went out and resigned from there.'
He got the point of Friday evening straight off. 'But an Israeli accent?'
'Kapotas thinks so.'
He considered. 'I doubt Papa knew Israel. He might've been ready to go shares with somebody who did.'
'And who knows us.'
'Say again?'
'One reason why he didn't kill you: if he recognised you he'd guess I'd be somewhere around.'
He scratched his nose with the earpiece of the phone. 'Plenty of people who know us and Israel… Only one I can think of here is that Israeli agent – Mihail Ben Iver.'
I nodded. 'I love him, too.'
'Come off it, Roy. The Ha Mosad's pulled some dirty tricks down the line, but…'
'Who says he's their secret service, except you?'
After a time he said softly: 'That's right, isn't it?'