Chapter 11 : The Stooped Man

Beaumont’s information had a curious effect on Samson: it was as if he had always expected that this was what Humann really was. That he had known since their first meeting that Humann would turn out to be a naval attaché — what else could he have been? Then doubt crowded in. The seeming multiplicity of conspiracies could never be unravelled. What had the new German Naval Attaché to the Ottoman Empire been doing at Avret Hissar, miles from the coast and in Macedonia, with the head of the German Archaeological School in Athens? His head ached, his coffee was cold, and his wine tasted bitter. It was now well past seven o’clock and by eight he was expected at Elliot’s villa in the country. Samson thought of sending a message, putting off his visit, but quickly realized that this would be unwise. Elliot, if so minded, could cause too much trouble for him; he would have to handle the Minister carefully. As these thoughts weighed him down, the Major had let his head droop; stealing himself to leave the café, he jerked his head up. There, seated opposite him in the chair recently vacated by Beaumont, was the, by now familiar, face of the stooped man. Samson started.

                ‘Please, Monsieur, do not react so; others also may be watching.’

                Samson was annoyed at this injunction; and annoyed at the unwanted attention of the stooped man. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

                ‘I am someone who can help you, Monsieur.’ Although English was clearly not his first language, Samson thought he could detect a faint American accent.

                ‘I haven’t time for riddles, Mister … ’

                ‘Please, not so impatient. Names are not important. In our line of work they can be a hindrance, don’t you think? Who I am is unimportant, it is what I am.’

                Samson ignored the last statement: ‘ “Our line of work”?’ queried the Major, ‘Whatever do you mean, “Our line of work”?’

                ‘Spies, Monsieur. We are both spies.’ Samson stared hard at his unwelcome visitor but the face was unreadable, the expression only slightly conceited, punctuated by rapid blinking to mop up the excess from his watery eyes.

                ‘I don’t know what you are, Sir, but I am the Assistant Military Attaché to the British Legation.’ In his eagerness to end the conversation Samson sounded just a little too earnest.

                The nuance was lost on the stooped man. ‘Exactly, Major, as I said — a spy.’

                Samson could not help but raise a smile at this. He was too tired to be angry. ‘Your sources of information would appear to be very good … what shall I call you, then?’

                ‘As I said, Major, names are not important, but if you must, you may call me “Achilles,” I think.’ The stooped man allowed himself a visible expression of self-satisfaction at his own cleverness. ‘You will think it is appropriate when you have heard my story. And my sources of information are better than you could think. I know, for example, that you have been sent following the murder of our King. But I think you may need help. I can provide help. Does what I say interest you, Major?’

                ‘Up till now, you do not appear to have said anything of interest.’

                ‘ “The White Tower is now complete.” Does this mean anything to you, Major?’

                ‘Nothing in the slightest. I am sorry, Mister … ah, Achilles, I really must go.’

                Concern etched itself on the face of the stooped man; the blinking became more rapid. He had expected a better reception than this. Perhaps he was trying to be too coy. ‘Major, I want to help friends of Greece. Britain is friend of Greece, Germany, I think, is not. So I says to myself, “How can I help friend of Greece?” I get a job as porter at German Legation, that’s how. I do my job well, I am trusted. Then I am forgotten about. They think I am stupid Greek, but I understand languages. I know German; almost as good as English. I live three years in Chicago, you see. I tell them I know only a few words of German but am willing to learn. They say all I need to learn is enough to direct travellers away because they waste too much of the Minister’s valuable time. So I am hired. I listen to everything what goes on. I overhear things. Sometimes I pull papers out of basket. I wait. After the King’s death there’s a mighty fuss: something’s up, you bet. Eventually, as I suspect, an Englishman comes to investigate what are the Germans up to. When that happens, I tell this Englishman what I know.’

                ‘I see,’ replied Samson, now genuinely interested in what the man had to say. ‘And what do you know?’

                ‘First, I must have money.’

                Naïvely, Samson hadn’t been expecting this. His disappointment showed clearly: ‘You love your country, but at a price, eh?’

                ‘It is not like that, Major. I have family, they must be looked after. Sure I make money in Chicago, good money, but I give it all away; I am a generous man and I have many relatives to support. Now I am broke. The Germans do not pay their porters well. I take many risks. Your money will be well-spent.’

                ‘Very well. But first I must have proof of your bona fides.’ The stooped man’s moist eyes gazed without comprehension at Samson. ‘Your good intentions.’

                ‘Ah! yes, my “good intentions”. You want proof, Major. I will give you proof. Some days since, I am going about my business as usual. There is much excitement. A telegram has just been decoded and the clerk calls anxiously for Herr Quadt, the Minister. Herr Quadt is more nervous than usual. He twitches as he reads the telegram. At that moment Professor Geroulanos, the famous surgeon, enters accompanied by Professor Karo. They all go into the Minister’s office but in their excitement do not completely close the door. I hear them talking, so I go nearer. I listen.’ Achilles instinctively drew closer to Samson to impart the secret part of his message. As he did so, Samson noticed with disgust that his teeth were rotten. ‘Herr Quadt tells the Professor that the telegram is from “Humann”. I have heard this name before but do not know what it means. The message is … ’ The stooped man closed his eyes as he recalled the precise wording: ‘ “All goods in place. Precise co-ordinates to follow. Hoffmann reports “F” is ready to strike at any moment. Warn “Metriticicas”. Am returning Constantinople, arriving 22nd.” Quadt gives a high pitched laugh. ‘So you see, Gentlemen, “The White Tower” is now complete.’ Then he says to Geroulanos, “I hope your country will make better use of them than the Turks.” Then Karo breaks in: “It is to be Chaeronea all over again,” he says. “Only the positions are reversed,” says Geroulanos, and they all laugh.’ Achilles leant back, pleased he had accurately delivered the message he had committed to memory, and which he had been silently repeating to himself, like a mantra, since first hearing it. ‘Now you have the full message, does it not mean anything to you, Major?’

                Rather than admit that it did not, Samson instead needlessly demanded, ‘Why do you continually call me Major?’

                ‘It is your rank, is it not, Major? The Germans have their own spies as well. When a new British Military Attaché arrives they want to know why. You have been very ill Major. It was a simple job for Quadt’s agents to gain entry to your room in Aravantinos’ clinic and search your possessions.’

                Had he really been delirious then, when he believed Karo was in his room? Samson immediately tried to recall what he had with him in the clinic, but remained convinced that there was nothing incriminating. He had, as ordered by Crowe, destroyed the copy of Fitzmaurice’s letter. There was nothing else they could know. Samson stared at the stooped man again — the watery blue eyes could have looked earnest or duplicitous. He had to make a decision: was he to trust Achilles? There was little that was verifiable in the telegram except the fact about Humann. ‘Repeat the contents of the telegram for me, please.’ As Achilles did so, Samson wrote it down carefully in cipher in his notebook, to the increasing agitation of Achilles. The Major closed the notebook, fastened it and placed the gold pencil in the pocket down the spine. ‘You have nothing to fear,’ he assured his would-be informant. ‘This notebook never leaves my sight.’

                ‘You don’t know how the Germans work. Quadt is timid for sure, but Falkenhausen, the Military Attaché, he’s dangerous. Being English don’t count for much here Major. If they want something you have, your nationality won’t protect you. What if you get sick again and have to return to the clinic. Who will guard your little book of secrets then?’

                ‘It will be safe, I assure you.’

                Achilles stood: ‘I must go. It is still too early for Germans to arrive at the café but I must not be seen with you any more than is necessary. If you need to see me write to this address in Patissia Road. It is not my real address, in case you have ideas of having me watched. Otherwise, I meet you when I have something to report.’

                Samson did not like it: it was too good to be true. His investigation had barely commenced when already he had, apparently, a contact from within the German Legation. The story — that he was employed as a porter — should be easy enough to confirm, but what of the rest of the information? Samson opened his notebook again: was the message he had just been given genuine and, if so, was it of importance or simply an innocuous message designed to allay his suspicions about this supposedly invaluable new source? Was he being set up? He knew from Beaumont that Humann had just been gazetted as the Naval Attaché to the Porte, so the portion of the message that he would be returning to Constantinople three days hence made sense. But who were “F” and “Metriticicas” and how did the White Tower figure in the German plans? The only White Tower known to Samson was the one at Salonica; however Salonica was now firmly in Greek hands and too strong, he believed, to be threatened. Half the Greek army was now stationed there. And why was it so important that the Greek Professor of Surgery at the University should also be informed of this message?

                Samson signalled to a waiter and ordered another coffee. He knew that this would make him late for Elliot’s dinner; he would have to plead ill-health to avoid causing unnecessary offence. While he waited, he idly scribbled on his napkin. “Humann — White Tower — goods — co-ordinates — Chaeronea”: what was the connexion? Surely, Samson reasoned, it must have something to do with Humann’s work at Avret Hissar, or it made little sense otherwise. He remembered clearly how the fortress dominated the surrounding country. Even a modest battery of artillery might be able to stop an advancing army in its tracks. But there was no White Tower at Avret Hissar. Of the next part of the message, Samson was more certain: “Goods” could only refer to something secreted in or near the White Tower; it was more than likely to be weapons, and Turkish weapons at that, judging by Quadt’s subsequent remark. But why would the Greeks hope to make better use of whatever it was than the Turks? Solving a part of the puzzle produced a momentary sense of elation. Yet, although the message still hid its full meaning, the more he thought about it the more Samson instinctively believed that the go-between “Metriticicas” held the key; and Metriticicas, whoever he was, sounded Greek. If Achilles really was who he said he was, it should not be too difficult to uncover the identity of this traitor, for that was what he must be. There was one name Samson did know however — his old adversary, Hoffmann. Hoffmann had also been at the siege of Adrianople as a so-called ‘military consul’. Hoffmann was the best agent the Germans possessed in the Balkans; and Hoffmann could identify him. Samson gulped his thick, sweet coffee down, wished he hadn’t, and eventually succeeded in hailing a taxicab for the short ride to the railway station. The driver’s annoyance at what he considered an unnecessary use of such a conveyance was more than offset by the sizeable tip he received.

                Fortunately for Samson, trains for the eight mile journey to Cephissia departed frequently and it was not long before he was rattling out of the city, passing vineyards and olive groves. Try as he might, he found he could not concentrate on the message sent by Humann. Instead, his thoughts wandered. He leant back and closed his eyes only to find that this accentuated the swaying motion of the carriage and threatened to induce nausea. Forced to open his eyes again, he stared idly out of the window, following the contours of the rapidly darkening landscape. He felt a crushing depression. His tiredness and isolation intensified his thoughts on the pointlessness of his existence. His earlier grandiose belief that the fate of the Balkans depended upon him was now shown to be hollow. What could he hope to achieve who even doubted his own worth? As the daylight outside his compartment faded, the weak electric bulb above his head, faced with no competition, was now sufficient to obliterate the view and he saw his own face reflected in the dusty carriage window. But was it his face? As he stared the features appeared to change until finally he recognized Gabriel Effendi. The same civilized, urbane Gabriel Effendi who had nursed him in Adrianople; the same Gabriel Effendi who had tried to infiltrate the Bulgarian Headquarters; the same Gabriel Effendi who had had his throat slit by Hoffmann.

                Samson closed his eyes once more, hoping that when he opened them the apparition would have disappeared. Before he had a chance to find out the carriage juddered to a halt. The train had arrived in Cephissia. The Major emerged from the station which adjoined a small square lined by silver poplars gently bending with the breeze. The sole occupant of the square was a Greek asleep at the wheel of a battered Ford. Samson prodded the man, who opened a bleary eye and spat, clearly uninterested in the prospective fare. After a further prod had produced no result Samson deftly climbed into the seat alongside the driver and demanded to be taken to the private villa of the British Minister. The driver, recognizing insistence, cranked the sad machine to life and they set out.

The attractions of Elliot’s villa were undeniable and the Major envied Sir Francis: the pine-scented tranquillity of the location, nestled at the foot of Mount Pentelicus, the coolness after the heat of Athens, the clean air after the dust. He now wished he had made an effort and changed for dinner. Lady Elliot was waiting as the Ford came to a halt. Samson had met her only briefly, at the dinner for Asquith and his party when she had impressed him with her lack of artifice.

                ‘My dear Lady Elliot, not only am I late, but as, I am afraid, is all too apparent, I haven’t had the chance to change.’

                ‘Not at all, Mr Samson. My husband works you all too hard. Tommy Cuninghame is always complaining, which is why I am sure he welcomes your presence here, as we all do. He’ll be sorry to lose your company at the Hotel.’

                Beaumont was clearly keeping his boss well-informed. Samson reflected upon whether Beaumont would respect his confidence regarding the warning allegedly sent to Venizelos and then decided this was unworthy of him. Yet, what else did Sir Francis know? At that moment the Minister himself appeared: ‘Samson! Glad you could make it. I trust you found suitable accommodation? Dinner will not be until nine; if you don’t mind, my dear, we have a few minutes during which I should like to have a private word with our guest.’ Elliot ushered Samson out to the large terrace at the rear of the villa. The Major had no choice but to accompany the Minister, but how he longed to be, instead, seated at the dining table engaging in small talk.

                Elliot spoke first: ‘I hope, Major, you are now fully recovered? We were all worried about you, you know. The situation looked quite grave soon after your admission to the clinic. How is Beaumont treating you? We must get you your own office.’

                ‘Beaumont is being very helpful, Sir Francis.’

                ‘Shown you his locked box yet?’

                Samson did not reply. ‘There’s no need to say anything Major. I am aware that I am not supposed to know of its existence. Beaumont is a good chap — too valuable to lose. If he wants to waste his time on these cloak-and-dagger activities, that is the price I have to pay. His chancellery work is excellent.’ Elliot strolled to the edge of the terrace and gazed out at the nearly full moon. ‘And how is you investigation coming along, Major?’

                There was no way to avoid answering the question; however, recalling his orders from Crowe, Samson counted on the fact that the Minister knew no more than that he had been sent to investigate the assassination itself. ‘Slowly, Sir Francis. The start of any investigation is always difficult, and my illness did not help matters. You could, however, be of assistance to me. As you know, I have been sent to investigate the recent assassination to ascertain if it were politically motivated and, if so, what was the nature of the motivation. There is a question of Austrian involvement yet the assassin himself was Greek. This is the aspect of the crime which is causing the most unease in London.’ Samson paused to extract a cigarette from a battered silver case. He rarely smoked; except when he intended to prevaricate. ‘As the first part of any investigation, I ask myself, “Who has most to benefit”? So, who gains by the death of the King? Of the Powers, I eliminate France and England immediately, for the same reason that I suspect Germany and Austria: a King with a friendly disposition towards the Entente is replaced by one who is the Kaiser’s brother-in-law. Even so, I also eliminate Germany — the co-operation of their Foreign Minister in the recent London Conference has been visible for all to see. The Germans do not want complications at the moment. However, though the Austrians are not yet crossed off my list, they would only benefit if it could be shown that there was Serbian or Bulgarian involvement in the crime, thus hoping to set one Balkan ally off against the other. This theory breaks down if the disaffected Greek really did act alone. If, however, he was put up to it, then, by whom? Turkey, Serbia, Bulgaria? The Turks have enough on their hands at the moment; no, it doesn’t smack of the Turks. Serbia has nothing to gain and everything to lose. Bulgaria … ’ At this point Samson realized that he had been thinking aloud and had almost forgotten Elliot’s presence. He shivered in the cool night air.

                ‘We must go in now Major,’ announced Elliot, who had been deep in his own thoughts. ‘I have an idea — why not talk to the assassin himself? He is being held in the Mental Institution here in Athens, you know. Although he appears to be deranged, I have always had my doubts. You just might be able to get something out of him. If you wish, I will make an appointment for you to see Dr Geroulanos.’

                Samson did not follow: ‘Dr Geroulanos?’

                ‘Yes, the Head of the Medical School here. Capital fellow.’ (So, thought Samson, Elliot might know of the existence of Beaumont’s card index, but he certainly doesn’t know it contents.) ‘This Skinas, the assassin, taught at the School for a while. Geroulanos knew him personally. The poor chap was quite distraught when he learned that his ex-colleague was the assassin. Geroulanos might provide some useful information as to the previous character of Skinas. He should also be able to ease your passage into the asylum.’ With that, they walked through into the dining room.

Samson experienced the greatest difficulty in concentrating during the meal. More than once he was caught out when asked to venture his opinion regarding a topic which had arisen during the conversation — the conversation he had not been following. He found it impossible to obliterate from his mind the image of the White Tower. It was some time since he had last been in Salonica, but he knew the city’s most prominent landmark well enough. Rising stoutly and securely, its double-castellated top dominated the harbour. Long after visitors had forgotten the squalid city, they would remember the White Tower. Its air of permanence was unassailable. But to use it as an arsenal would be both dangerous and illogical. Salonica was reputed still to be crawling with Bulgarian agents, any one of whom could uncover such an obvious subterfuge. Supposing, therefore, the weapons were not secreted in the White Tower itself, but in the vicinity? This presented a similar problem in that any hiding place in Salonica itself might be uncovered by the Bulgarians. It had to be somewhere safe: a ship, perhaps? A German ship in the harbour? This made more sense. The weapons would not only be safely stored, but could be easily transported. Say, for example, the Greeks planned to advance eastwards, towards Kavalla. While the lightly armed troops marched quickly overland, the heavier weapons could be dispatched in the German transports and be awaiting their arrival in Kavalla. The city could soon be fortified and act as a forward post to protect Salonica. Any Bulgarian or Turkish advance through Thrace would encounter the problem of a well-equipped Greek army on its left flank. Nevertheless, however much Samson hypothesized, he still could not solve the riddle of Avret Hissar: what was its place in the overall scheme?

                ‘And what do you think, Major?’ inquired Lady Elliot.