The Messenger of Athens: A Novel Read Free

concerned. “I believe we should take action in this matter. Wasting police time is a serious offense.”
    The fat man stepped forward and, placing the fingertipsof both hands on the Chief of Police’s desk, leaned towards him.
    “We were talking about the body,” said the fat man. “I’d like to see it as soon as possible. Then I can get on with my investigation.”
    The pencil tapping ceased. The Chief of Police considered for a moment, then spread his hands.
    “She was buried yesterday,” he said. “There was no reason to delay. As I’ve said, the death was in no way suspicious.”
    “It matters not,” said the fat man, easily. “I’ll make do with the autopsy report.”
    Simultaneously, the sergeant and the constable opened drawers in their desks, found pieces of paper there and began to read.
    “May I sit down?” asked the fat man, politely.
    Sighing, the Chief of Police stood, and from the darkness of the corner behind him, lifted out a cane-bottomed chair.
    “Thank you,” said the fat man, placing it at an angle to the policeman’s desk and sitting down. “I wonder if you might have an ashtray I could use?”
    Opening one of the brass-handled drawers, the Chief of Police produced a heavy, cut-glass ashtray already half-full of gray ash and butts stained brown with filtered smoke.
    The fat man reached into his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes incongruous with these late years of the twentieth century—an old-fashioned box whose lift-up lid bore the head and naked shoulders of a 1940sstarlet, her softly permed platinum hair curling around a coy smile. Beneath the maker’s name (
Surely
, thought the Chief of Police,
they went out of business years ago?
) ran a slogan in an antique hand:
The cigarette for the man who knows a real smoke
. Taking out a matchbox and shaking it, the fat man frowned when there was no answering rattle from within. He placed the matchbox on the desk and searched again in his jacket pocket. Producing a slim, gold lighter, he knocked the tip of a cigarette on the desk, lit it, and replaced the lighter in his pocket.
    “The autopsy report,” said the fat man, exhaling smoke as he spoke. “I’d like to have my own copy, for reference.”
    The Chief of Police smiled and leaned back in his chair.
    “You know,” he said, “here in the islands, we do things a little differently from the way things are done in the city. We like to take a more personal approach. Being that much closer to the community we serve.”
    “And where are you from originally, Chief of Police?”
    “Patmos,” said the Chief of Police. “I come from Patmos.”
    “And you’ve served here how long?”
    “Over a year.”
    “And you feel you have got to know the people here well, in that short time?”
    The Chief of Police ignored the question. Instead, he went on: “In cases like this, part of our job is to avoid scandal for the family concerned. A good name is very important to these people.”
    “Where is the autopsy report, Chief of Police?” The fat man was beginning to sound impatient.
    “Well,” said the Chief of Police, “I decided it was unnecessary. No autopsy was performed.”
    The fat man’s expression began to change, from genial to dangerous.
    “How is that possible?” he asked. “Mrs. Asimakopoulos was a young woman in good health, was she not?”
    The Chief of Police gave a sideways nod of assent.
    “It was your duty to have an autopsy performed. You know full well it was. So explain to me why there was no autopsy.”
    The Chief of Police, believing he held all the aces, smiled triumphantly.
    “Because,” he said, acidly, “the cause of death was clear. Though not what was written on the death certificate. It was a delicate matter.”
    “So what was written on the death certificate?”
    “Accidental death.”
    “And what, in your opinion, was the true cause of death?”
    “Suicide.”
    “Suicide?”
    “She jumped off a cliff.” He shrugged. “Absolutely