Chapter 12 : Professor Geroulanos

Major Samson returned to the Legation early the following day. He had decided that, before meeting Professor Geroulanos, he must find out what was contained on Beaumont’s “three full cards”, regarding the activities of the good Doctor. The locked drawer in Beaumont’s desk was surprisingly easy to open with his penknife. Samson extracted the small wooden box, carefully noting its exact position in the drawer. The entries for Geroulanos did in fact cover three cards, though part of this was due to Beaumont’s large, bold hand:

                ‘Geroulanos. Professor of Surgery at the Medical School. Frequents German Archaeological School (Karo?) and constant visitor to German Legation. Personally known to Quadt. Rumoured to be in some way involved in 1910 uprising (not proved). Deeply antagonistic to Venizelos. Anonymous contributor of articles to Nea Hemera and Embros. Alastos, the clerk at the National Bank, reports considerable deposits made via drafts from Berlin. Is known to hold regular meetings with Dr Valettas, Dr Stais, Dr Anastasopoulos (the King’s physician) — all known for their Teutonic sympathies.’

                It was all, thought Samson, fairly circumstantial. The Professor had Germanic leanings, that much was obvious, but that wasn’t a crime. Even so, Samson quickly made a note of the details. The third card was less dog-eared and of more recent vintage: ‘A known associate of Skinas. Questioned by local police as a matter of routine. Not implicated. Was known to have spent morning after assassination in German Legation from whence he finally appeared, haggard and apparently distraught. His position continues to protect him.’

                Beaumont clearly suspected some involvement, but did not have the necessary proof. Could Geroulanos have put Skinas up to it, knowing that his unfortunate colleague was unstable? Samson replaced the cards and had put the box back in the drawer when a sudden impulse caused him to retrieve it once more and flick through the cards to the letter “S”. His curiosity was rewarded: ‘Samson, Major Lionel. Military Consul, Levant, 1910-11; attached to Embassy, Constantinople 1912. Temporary assignment, Smyrna, July to September, 1912. At siege of Adrianople from November 1912. Posted to Athens following assassination of King George. Purports to be investigating the motive behind the crime but in reality has been sent to report on Venizelos without the knowledge of the Minister. Is being watched.’ The last  two sentences, written in red ink, were obviously added after the previous entries. Beaumont must have returned to the Chancery the previous night after leaving the Panhellenion.

                As he replaced his own card, Samson heard voices resonating through the marble hall. He had just finished turning the lock in the drawer with his knife blade when Rendel, the Third Secretary, poked his head around the office door. ‘Oh, it’s you, Major. I was looking for Mr Beaumont.’

                Samson picked up his notebook and stood as if about to leave: ‘Not in yet. I’ve just come in early myself to catch up on my notes before vacating the office for the much put-upon Mr Beaumont. The office is his for the rest of the day!’

                Rendel had been waiting for a chance to speak privately to the Major and was not going to let the opportunity go to waste: ‘Fascinating work you’re doing. I’d rather have your job than that of the Second Secretary any day!’ Typically, Rendel was being obvious, though Samson liked him all the more for this. Besides, a further ally, in addition to Beaumont, might be of use. If Rendel wanted to help, why not give him the chance?

                ‘I say, Rendel, you could be of assistance to me. How are you at classical allusions?’

                Rendel, with his first in Greats from Oxford, looked only slightly crestfallen — as if somehow Samson should have been aware of this fact. ‘What is it you want to know?’

                ‘Does “Chaeronea” mean anything to you? I am afraid Sandhurst did not fully equip me!’

                ‘Most educated Greeks know of Chaeronea. It was the name of the battle in, let me see, 338 BC by which Philip of Macedon defeated the Greeks, then magnanimously granted them a federal constitution and assimilated them into his Greater Macedonian Empire. Why do you want to know?’

                ‘Oh, nothing … ’ came the infuriating reply.

                ‘Really, Major. I thought you wanted some help!’

                ‘I do, but I am afraid that that is not the answer I was hoping for. Macedonia is about to be fought over; it is in no position to conquer anything.’

                ‘Excuse me, Major. I think you have rather missed the point. The outcome of the battle was the consolidation of Greece and Macedonia into one entity. I would say that the modern equivalent would be for Greece, which is the stronger, to reclaim Macedonia from the Turks and Bulgarians … ’

                ‘So it is true!’ Samson blurted out involuntarily.

                ‘I beg your pardon?’

                Samson was aware of Rendel’s reputation within the Chancery for his overt enthusiasm which the others, bored by their jobs, found tiresome. Even Sir Francis was known on occasion to have expressed the wish that Rendel would not envelope the craft of diplomacy (for Sir Francis was loathe to consider it an art) in a such a cloak of romance. With this enthusiasm came an admirably open mind and a determination, therefore, always to do the right thing. Rendel was the perfect example of conscience triumphing over self-interest. It suddenly occurred to Samson that Rendel might just be untainted by the political atmosphere, and if so, perhaps …

                ‘I say Rendel, you don’t happen to have any acquaintances in the Foreign Ministry here?’

                Rendel broke into a sheepish grin: ‘Not done for a lowly Third Secretary to be acquainted with senior staff.’

                ‘No, that’s just it,’ countered Samson. ‘I meant one of the lower grades. Let me explain — I would like to meet someone who possesses the same sort of dedication as yourself. Who wants only the best for Greece. Do you follow?’

                Rendel considered the question carefully, anxious to be of help: ‘You mean someone he is neither in one camp nor the other! You could try Mavrogordato; he is very sound.’

                ‘Is there somewhere I could meet him informally? At the Panhellenion, perhaps?’

                ‘Goodness me, no. We never frequent the Panhellenion. It’s for tourists you know. We tend to meet most evenings at the Café Zacharátos on University Boulevarde. I leave the Panhellenion to Beaumont, Cuninghame and that lot!’ As Rendel spoke, Beaumont appeared, causing the Third Secretary to blush vividly and excuse himself hastily.

                ‘What was all that about?’ inquired Beaumont.

                ‘Just a thought, no more. Your office is your own today. I am due to see Sir Francis as soon as he comes in; I will put the subject of a separate office to him again.’ Samson vacated the small room, turned out of the Chancery and strolled into the garden. Although still early, it gave promise of being a searing day. To make matters worse, Samson was slowly coming to the realization that, after his recent illness, his body did not seem capable of functioning properly. It was as if it had had to relearn its most basic functions. He found himself breaking out into a sweat when it was cool, then feeling shivery in the stale atmosphere of Beaumont’s office. But once the temperature climbed above eighty degrees even this unpredictable cycle ceased to work. All his body could do then was to produce copious amounts of sweat which refused to evaporate. As if to remind him of this, at that moment a slight breeze rustled through the leaves, creating a gap through which a shaft of sunlight penetrated, striking Samson in the face. As he looked up, momentarily shocked and squinting, a first floor window opened behind him. The Minister looked down, briefly wondered what had caused Samson to start, and called out to him:

                ‘There you are! At your convenience, Major.’

                When Samson arrived in the Minister’s office Elliot was still looking out of the window. He spoke without acknowledging Samson’s presence: ‘I know you consider me, shall we say, ineffectual … ’

                Elliot’s admission took Samson by surprise; had he seen the contents of Beaumont’s secret box after all? For the moment Samson could do no more than stutter, ‘Minister? I do not … ’

                Elliot turned to face the Major: ‘I have given ten years of my life in an attempt to foster a better understanding with Greece. You can have no idea what it was like here in ’03 when I first arrived. The war with Turkey was still fresh in people’s minds; they were beaten and dispirited. Slowly, with the help of an understanding Monarch, they began to rebuild, to regain their confidence. Then, three years ago, Venizelos was elected in triumph. That was the crowning point of my tenure. Venizelos wanted nothing other than the closest co-operation with England and France, and has been working towards this aim ever since. He has avenged the defeat at the hands of the Turks, he has helped to form a Balkan League to resist German and Austrian pressure in the region. He has worked to strengthen the army and navy. And then this — this assassination. A sympathetic King is replaced by the Kaiser’s brother-in-law.’ Elliot’s tone clearly betrayed his sympathies. ‘If it doesn’t come today, before long a split will develop between the Venizelos’ government and the Court. My work — our whole policy — stands on the point of being ruined. You must find out what is behind the assassination. If I know the reason for it, perhaps I can counter it. I must know what I am dealing with. Here is Geroulanos’ address. Speak to him first, then arrange a meeting with Skinas.’ Elliot handed Samson a card with the address on it and returned to the window to gaze; the interview was at an end.

                Samson could not believe that Elliot’s earnestness was an act; his little speech must have been difficult for the Minister to make. The Major returned briefly to his shared office; Beaumont was not there. Samson opened the connecting door into the Second Secretary’s room expecting to find Hicks-Beach. Instead, the object of his search, George Rendel, was busy compiling a list of figures. He looked up, biting the end of his pen, as Samson spoke: ‘Ah, Rendel, the very person! Will you be seeing Mavrogordato tonight?’

                Rendel glanced at the desk calendar. ‘Friday? I should say so!’

                ‘Can I join you?’

                ‘But of course, Major. Café Zacharátos, anytime after six o’clock.’

                When Samson closed the connecting door, he became aware of a presence behind him. Beaumont had re-entered the office. How long he had been there, Samson could not tell.

                ‘On your way out, Major?’ Beaumont inquired.

                ‘Yes, Sir Francis has advised me to see Dr Geroulanos.’

                Beaumont lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: ‘Then I should be very careful as to what I said.’

                Samson was annoyed by the proffering of this superfluous advice. ‘I am not wanting in discretion, Beaumont,’ he snapped.

                ‘I am glad to hear it,’ replied Beaumont, also now annoyed.

                Samson turned smartly, out into the cool marble entrance hall. Tommy Cuninghame, just arriving, mid-morning, to commence his day’s activity, shouted a greeting which failed to register with Samson who, after a moment’s hesitation, walked purposefully to the front door. ‘Poor chap’s still not recovered,’ thought Cuninghame, before dashing up the stairs to invite Elliot for a round of golf that afternoon.

The Medical School at the University occupied a series of low, elegant stone buildings. Samson soon received directions to the office of the Professor of Surgery. As he approached the door of the office, Geroulanos himself appeared. ‘Major Samson? I am delighted to meet you. Sir Francis has just let me know that you were on your way.’ Geroulanos grabbed Samson’s hand effusively. ‘Sir Francis is wonderfully popular here in Athens. He has done no end of good. Please come in.’

                Geroulanos was tall and thin, with the economy of movement which seems to accompany such a build. His face, however, struck Samson as curious: it had the look of being deliberately constructed. His long, thin, flat-sided nose appeared to have been carefully positioned in the centre of his face, rather than being a natural outgrowth. His eyes looked heavily sculpted; his cheekbones chiselled. The overall effect of artificiality was set off by liquid black hair, brushed straight back, and a black goatee. For a minute the Major wondered if Geroulanos had somehow had a hand in the shape and construction of his own face. And he shuddered at the prospect that, if he were ever to need surgery, this might be the last face he saw before the anaesthetic took hold.

                Once seated, Geroulanos inquired: ‘As I understand it, you would like to see Skinas?’

                ‘Yes, if possible, Professor. I have been asked to prepare a report on the crime for my superiors. Purely a matter of routine.’

                ‘And they have sent you all the way from London for this?’

                ‘The late King, as you are aware,’ replied Samson, studiously avoiding the Professor’s question, ‘was Queen Alexandra’s brother. The British Government, in the circumstances, wishes to be seen to have done all in its power to ascertain the reason behind this deed.’

                ‘Ah, yes. The British Government.’ Geroulanos paused. He stared uncomfortably at Samson. ‘I am afraid you will not get much from Skinas. He is quite deranged. I am sure Sir Francis has told you that Skinas was under my tutelage for a short period some years ago. Even then, however, he had begun to exhibit the outward manifestation of the illness which was later to consume him. The final straw was an investment that went badly wrong. He lost a great deal of money; not all of it his own. His family … ’ The Professor’s voice trailed off, as if the memory were still too painful to recall.

                Samson, who had been busy writing in his notebook, looked up: ‘How long is it since he left the faculty, Professor?’ Geroulanos did not acknowledge Samson’s question, forcing him to repeat it.

                ‘Two years, I think. The Registrar will tell you precisely when he left. I cannot remember.’

                ‘And did you not keep in touch?’

                ‘Of course, I should have done, but it is difficult: the work, the teaching. Athens is a small city, Major. His disgrace was widely known. I understand, eventually, he went to Salonica to escape the censure of his family. Even so, I could have helped.’

                ‘I understand completely, Professor. So, other than the fact that he went to Salonica, you have no idea of his activities from the time he left the faculty until March of this year?’ Samson continued to write busily.

                ‘As I said, Major … ’ At which Geroulanos conspicuously shuffled some papers on his desk.

                As Samson suspected, the interview was producing no information which could not have been obtained from sources already published; while whatever he himself said was bound to be reported to the German Legation. The interview was a charade for Elliot’s benefit. It was about time, Samson decided, that the Minister was made aware of Geroulanos’ sympathies. ‘Well, thank you very much for your time, Professor. I understand you can make arrangements for me to see Skinas?’

                ‘Yes, certainly, Mr Samson. I have to be there as well, you see — he has been placed under my care, the poor fellow, and it is a condition that any visits are accompanied by a doctor. It is too late today; shall we say Monday at half-past ten?’

                ‘That,’ thought Samson, ‘should give you ample time to prepare the ground.’

                Geroulanos finished writing on a sheet of paper: ‘Here is the address. I will meet you there on Monday.’

                For a moment the Major considered asking Geroulanos if he had heard of the White Tower, knowing full well that Geroulanos would report this to the German Legation. But there was no need yet to put Quadt and the other on their guard. If he could not solve the puzzle, then it would be time to set a trap for the Professor. Samson left the building, walked out of sight of Geroulanos’ window, then doubled back behind a line of trees. From his vantage spot in the University Gardens, he now had a clear view of the entrance to the Medical School. As expected, before too long, the Professor emerged. Even from that distance, Samson could see he was less self-assured. His artificial features were contorted into a mask of anxiety. Samson had come across his sort before: they wanted to play at the game, but had not the stomach for it. As it was but a short distance to the German Legation, Samson had no real need to follow Geroulanos on foot. He could see the Professor pause furtively on the steps of the Legation, look back over his shoulder, and then dart inside. ‘Nothing like making yourself look conspicuous,’ thought the Major. There was little he could do now, other than hope that Achilles was on duty and might overhear something of benefit.

                Samson went first to the Telegraph Office in Academy Street, and then off to an early lunch, before returning to his room in the Pension Merlin to try to escape the worst of the afternoon’s heat. After a cold bath, he lay naked on his bed remembering that other afternoon in Smyrna, hoping thereby to convert thought into dream. He awoke two hours later with a headache, having dreamt instead of Georg Karo. Had Karo performed some trick at their meeting at Avret Hissar? Samson almost felt possessed by the German archaeologist. He sat up in bed, massaged his brow, put on his glasses and peered sideways out of the window just in time to see his bête noir, Karo, emerge from the German Legation in intense conversation with a Greek army officer. The man was beginning to haunt him.

The sleep had produced one result. Samson was now convinced that his theory of the German ship filled with weapons in Salonica harbour was correct. It was Avret Hissar which was the red herring. So sure was he that he hesitated, for fear of being proved wrong, before returning to the Telegraph Office for the answer to the cable he had sent at noon. For there was a simple way to prove his contention — he had wired the British Consul in Salonica (it was Egan, a capital fellow) to inform him by return the names of all the German ships currently in port. The reply was waiting for him; Samson collected it, put it in his pocket without reading it, and walked towards the Café for his evening rendezvous. He turned left out of Academy Street and into Charilaos Tricoupis Street. On the opposite side of the road was situated the German Archaeological Institute. Samson slowed and stared at the building. He could still visualize Professor Karo, standing amongst the sham diggings at Avret Hissar. There was still a piece of the puzzle missing; something was not quite right.

                He had stopped altogether now. He knew why he had hesitated before returning to the Telegraph Office; he knew why he had pocketed the reply without looking at it. Major Samson extracted the crumpled sheet from his pocket, flattened the creases, and read the contents. There were no German ships in Salonica harbour, nor had there been for some time. He screwed the paper into a ball once more and threw it disgustedly into the gutter. From an upper window across the street a curious onlooker followed Samson’s every move. Professor Karo, having returned briefly to the Institute before re-joining the Greek officer for dinner, did not recognize the Major. He shrugged his shoulders: an affair of the heart, the Professor mused, grateful that he had never formed an attachment. Having proceeded once more, Samson stopped abruptly, then returned to retrieve the telegram. This time he placed it carefully in his notebook. It could mean only one thing: the White Tower was a code name, and the only way he could crack the code would be with the help of Achilles.