Greek Fire Read Free

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    â€œLeave it now.” He made an impatient gesture. “Before we go on I’d like you to get Mr. Manos on the phone.”
    Otho put away his notebook, but as he was about to go out Lascou said: “And also Major Kolono.”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œMajor Kolono. You’ll find him at police headquarters. Tell him I’d like him to call round here about four-thirty this afternoon on a personal matter.”
    â€œVery good, sir.”
    While he waited, George Lascou re-read a report he had received that morning from a man whom he occasionally and reluctantly employed. Having done that, he put it in his wallet and began to slit open with a bronze dagger some letters that Otho had brought in. The blade of the dagger was three thousand years old and a lion hunt was inlaid on it. The handle had long since rotted away and been replaced with a modern ivory one. He read the letters, made an emphatic note in the margin of one, got up, lit a cigarette, and went to one of the windows which looked out over Constitution Square. He was high enough here to be undisturbed by the bustle and noise and all the clamour of the morning traffic below, high enough too to see over the new budding trees to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and to the Old Palace, where Parliament had recently been prorogued. Beyond were the trees of the National Garden. Along the further rim of the square three trolley-buses were crawling like centipedes surprised by the lifting of a stone. A handsome man, with that shadowed pallor that comes to some Greeks; the pince-nez he wore softened the strong cheekbones and the strong skull, gave an uncertain studious look to a face otherwise purposeful. As Otho came in again he let the scarlet-and-whitestriped satin curtain fall.
    â€œSir, I phoned Mr. Manos at his office but he was in court. I left a message for them to ring when he came back.”
    Lascou put the end of his cigarette in an ash-tray.
    â€œThen get him out of court. I want to speak to him.”
    It was then nearly 11 a.m.

Chapter Three
    At three o’clock that afternoon a short stout young woman was walking through Zappeion Park. Her mane of hair was dragged back and fastened under a scarlet head-scarf. Her cheeks were puffy with crying but she was not crying now; her face was set like iron; it was a good-tempered face riven by lightning, hardened by storm. She walked any way, not looking where she was going and not caring; but after a while she came opposite a statue and hesitated staring at it, not really seeing it but uncertain whether to go on or turn back. As she stopped, a man who had been following the same path stopped also and looked at the statue. After a moment he glanced at her and said in English:
    â€œHe died here too.”
    â€œWhat? Who?” She stared at him with blind, angry eyes. “What do you say?”
    â€œByron. That statue. He loved Greece more even than his own land.”
    She focused the speaker properly for the first time, saw his slight figure and down-pulled hat. “If you are from the police I will spit in your face.”
    â€œIf I were from the police that would land you in trouble.”
    â€œAnd you are not?”
    â€œI am not.”
    â€œThen get out of my way!”
    She turned her back on him and walked off. There were not many people about and he followed her a few paces behind with his easy cat-like walk.
    â€œTell me one thing,” he said, catching her up. “How did the accident happen? I was coming to see him about midday when I heard.”
    She strode out of the park but at the entrance stopped, breathing again like a bull, formidable for all her shortness, quite capable of knocking him down in the street.
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œA friend. My name is Gene Vanbrugh.”
    â€œWhat is your business?”
    â€œI was at the Little Jockey last night. This morning I had a certain business proposition to put to your husband, but I was too