Chapter 16 : A Death

Throughout Sunday, 22 June 1913 Samson worked on the draft of his report to Crowe in London. He had moved the small table in his room to a position under the window, from where he could turn away from his notes at intervals and view the calm world outside. Occasionally, even though a Sunday, someone would enter or leave the German Legation building opposite. Samson was almost past caring. He wished only to complete his report, clear himself of this Greek imbroglio, and apply for a new posting. As the day wore on, the report took shape; he now had the answers to most of the puzzle. The warning from Constantinople was delivered, of that he was sure, and he suspected, but could not confirm definitely, that Venizelos received it. Yet, as Triantafyllakos demonstrated, what did this prove? Simply that Venizelos doubted the source of the information. He suspected also that Kaiser Wilhelm, for dynastic reasons, was playing a lone hand in his Balkan policy. From the diplomatic reports he had seen, Turkey was firmly in the German camp, but the Foreign Office in Berlin, which favoured the Turco-Bulgarian bloc, desired nothing so much as a benevolent neutrality from Greece. That meant there were two mutually incompatible foreign policies operating in Berlin and Samson understood from his own experience at the Porte that this was a recipe for disaster. He knew that Wilhelm had vetoed the Austrian assassination plot and, as well as delivering a warning, had dispatched Hoffmann to make certain the plot miscarried. Why it had ultimately succeeded he hoped to establish the following day, though this depended on his being able to penetrate the mind of a madman. He knew that, within a week, Bulgaria would launch a surprise attack against Greece and presumably Serbia. And he knew that the Greek General Staff and the new King had applied to Berlin for a defensive alliance. If he hadn’t answered the original question — could Venizelos be trusted? — which he now considered was incapable of being answered, Samson at least contented himself in the knowledge that he had uncovered much of the secret history of recent Balkan events.

                After his visit to Skinas, the last remaining task he had set for himself was to verify the secret of Avret Hissar. And, to do this, he needed to enlist the help of Fitzmaurice in Constantinople. Reaching for a fresh sheet of paper, Samson drafted a cipher telegram to be dispatched first thing in the morning: “What do you know of weapons being sold by Turks in last year? Believe Bulgaria up to no good. Hans Humann arrives Stamboul as Naval Attaché, Sunday; Hoffmann now in Sofia. Urgent. Do not use diplomatic cipher. Code clerk at Legation is Greek. Samson.” The Major was sure that Fitzmaurice would know what was required of him. As he finished writing, the fine nib of his pen gouged the paper, splattering a procession of ink spots on the page. Samson stared at the random pattern of dots, which blurred as he did so. Before they could merge into a recognizable image he closed his eyes, leant his head forward and rested his brow gently on the fingertips of his left hand. When he opened his eyes again the ink splashes were still there, mingling now with drops of sweat from his brow.

Samson had arrived early at the Legation in the hope of avoiding his colleagues. The sooner he could leave Athens, the better. Entering the Legation that morning he noticed that the building was changed by the absence of people. Its secrets remained hidden. The cable to Fitzmaurice was sent by the secure Military Attaché’s cipher before nine o’clock on Monday morning. Having completed his task, he was just on his way out to hail a carriage for the trip to the Mental Hospital, when he was ambushed by Rendel, who appeared from nowhere.

                ‘I say, Major, what do you think of the news?’ he inquired, brandishing that morning’s Patris.

                ‘You know my Greek is not yet up to coping with a newspaper.’

                ‘This chap attached to the Premier’s office, Triantafyllakos, has blown his brains out. According to the newspaper his body was found yesterday, though it might have happened on Saturday night. It was common knowledge that he was compiling some sort of secret report about the assassination. It looks as if he uncovered something he couldn’t live with. What sort of secret would make a man want to kill himself, Major?’

                Samson grabbed the newspaper from Rendel’s hand. He looked at the story, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar, precious calligraphy, but it was no good. They were just symbols on the page. There was the report of the body being found; details about the task Triantafyllakos was suspected of being engaged upon; the description of the attitude of death; and it all meant nothing to Samson. He dropped the newspaper to his side and looked disconsolately at Rendel: ‘Secrets can’t kill; only the truth kills.’

                ‘Are you all right Major?’ Rendel inquired sympathetically; Samson did not respond. At that moment Beaumont breezed in, tossed a perfunctory greeting to Rendel and Samson, and quickened his step to make sure of claiming first use of the shared office. ‘Major?’ Rendel repeated.

                Samson said nothing and began to leave, the newspaper still clenched in his hand. After a few paces he stopped, turned back, and approached Rendel: ‘Is there any chance of my being allowed to visit the scene of the … suicide?’ It was with an effort that Samson refrained from saying ‘crime’.

                Rendel hesitated. ‘What interests you in this? Surely it is purely a domestic matter? Besides, Major, the Greek police can be chary of interference. They think it reflects upon their competence.’ Seeing Samson’s reaction he then smiled sheepishly: ‘I know Captain Gavronis personally. He is mentioned in the newspaper as being in charge of the investigation. If you must go, I’ll build you up as a kind of Sherlock Holmes. It will be all right. You’re in luck, also: Gavronis speaks excellent English.’

                ‘Will there be an investigation — for a suicide?’ Samson asked.

                ‘In the circumstances, there must be. Triantafyllakos was the Premier’s right hand man. He is one of the original band who accompanied him here from Crete in 1910. Besides, it was widely known about the report. I mean, it looks bad, doesn’t it? It looks as if Venizelos were implicated and this is why Triantafyllakos did it. You mark my words, in a couple of days there will be so-called “reliable” accounts that the poor man was up to his neck in debt, or his wife had left him, or some other perfectly logical reason to explain the deed. It’s curious, is it not, this business of trust. Already we are aware that the published excuse for the suicide will be a lie, so we assume another reason — the implication of Venizelos in Triantafyllakos’ report. But what if that is what they want us to think? Do you see, we each play on what we expect the other fellow to think. No wonder there is so much intrigue here! But of course, I am forgetting — you have come from Constantinople! I believe the Turks beat even the Greeks at the game.’

                Samson wished that Rendel would stop prattling on. He checked his watch: it was nine-fifteen. This left him little time to visit Visarionos Street and then reach the Asylum for the meeting at ten-thirty. But he had to make sure about Triantafyllakos. He decided that there was no other way than to telephone the Professor, offer his apologies, and rearrange the appointment for an hour later. In the meantime he asked Rendel to speak urgently to his friend on the local police force, as he wished to go directly to Visarionos Street. Rendel promised he would telephone immediately while Samson returned to the shared office. Beaumont was clearly not pleased to see him, especially so after Samson announced: ‘I say Beaumont, I just need to make a call, would you mind? After this I shall be out all day.’ Beaumont grudgingly removed himself, closing the door behind him as hard as he possibly could without actually slamming it. Samson picked up the handset, put it down, went to the door and quietly opened it. Beaumont was at the top of the stairs. Samson returned to the instrument and called the number for Professor Geroulanos; there was no answer. He then tried the Registrar in an attempt to get a message through. Instead he was informed that Geroulanos had reported sick and would not be in for the rest of the week. Samson thought it curious that Geroulanos had not informed him himself or left a message at the Legation, but it gave the Major the excuse he needed to visit Visarionos Street first and then bluff his way at the Asylum.

                As he left the office, Rendel called to him, ‘It’s all set, Major. Gavronis will be expecting you.’ Samson darted out the door. As he did so, Beaumont, who had witnessed this scene from the stairs, summoned Rendel to his office.

When Samson arrived at number thirteen Visarionos Street he found two policemen stationed outside, something he had not expected. After identifying himself he was shown inside. As he walked up the steps, he cast a surreptitious glance at the basement window he had entered on Saturday night. It was open; Samson was sure he had closed it behind him. He then had another thought, and fervently hoped the Greek police were not fully conversant with the latest advances in fingerprinting techniques. Just outside the door of Triantafyllakos’ study, Samson encountered Captain Gavronis. He appeared like nothing so much as a slightly older version of Mavrogordato, and Samson thought it typical that he was one of Rendel’s local acquaintances.

                ‘You have arrived quickly, Major. I have only this minute been informed of your interest in the case and your wish to view the scene. Did you know Triantafyllakos?’

                ‘No,’ Samson lied. The Major had decided that the best way to approach Gavronis was as an equal, both involved in affairs of state. He lowered his voice: ‘If I may speak to you very confidentially, Captain. My Government is anxious to foster excellent relations between our two countries. As you are doubtless aware, in the current climate, with a new King of unknown political affiliation, this may prove difficult.’ Gavronis nodded knowingly. ‘I have been sent privately to gauge the political situation here. The death of someone so intimately connected with the Government of Premier Venizelos is of great concern to us. Have you established definitely whether it was a suicide?’

                Gavronis thoughtfully considered what Samson had had to say before replying: ‘What makes you think it might not have been a suicide, Major?’

                ‘Nothing in particular. From what I have read, he didn’t appear to be the type of man to take his own life.’

                Gavronis shook his head slowly. ‘A few years ago, my superior, a man with a charming wife and three daughters, no monetary problems, well thought of, and in line for the highest office, left Police Headquarters one afternoon and went to the Piraeus. It was one of those days when one thinks to oneself, “no matter what my failings might be, no matter what I might wish to put right and cannot, no matter what is wrong with my life, this is a good day to be alive”. He caught a ferry to one of the islands, except that, when the ferry was some miles out to sea, he stood up, announced that “It was too warm today”, and jumped overboard. The captain turned the boat around at once. It was too late.’ Gavronis paused to recall the image of old friend lecturing them all, not on the latest developments in criminological procedure, but on politics — his favourite subject. ‘He was not the type to do away with himself either, you see. Some people take their lives because they do not see clearly enough; others because they see too clearly. My friend was in the latter category. It all meant nothing to him, do you see? He saw, and he saw nothing. Please, Major, would you follow me?’

                As they reached the door of the study Gavronis stopped and turned: ‘I have to warn you, it is unpleasant, though I imagine you have seen worse.’

                As they entered Samson was startled to notice Triantafyllakos’ body still slumped across the desk. The head wound had not bled as much as Samson would have expected, and what blood there was had congealed into a brown crusty blot on the desk. The smell was vile.

                Samson turned quizzically to Gavronis: ‘You have left the body here all this time? According to the newspaper report the act was committed on Saturday night or yesterday morning.’

                ‘I can assure you, Major, that this is not normal practice. The body was found early yesterday afternoon by the woman who comes to cook but we suspect that the body had been here for some time like this before she arrived. In fact I personally subscribe to the theory that the shot was fired about midnight on Saturday. We have interviewed one or two people in the Street who recall hearing what might have been a shot around that time.’ Samson took his mind back to Saturday night, the University Gardens, the sound of a shot.

                Triantafyllakos had given no indication when they had parted that the balance of his mind was disturbed in any way. Indeed, he had been alarmed at the proposed meeting with Skinas and had warned Samson to be careful; these were not the actions of a suicidal mind. Samson forced himself to look at the body again as Gavronis continued: ‘In cases such as this, we usually call on Professor Geroulanos at the Medical School; he is the unofficial police pathologist. I find him to be very useful in ascertaining time of death, cause of death and so on. He has a fine forensic mind, even though I find him opinionated at times. Yet, I admit, on a number of occasions when we would have pronounced a death to be a suicide, Geroulanos has raised doubts and has convinced us otherwise. In each case, I may say, an arrest has followed as a murderer, who would have otherwise escaped detection, has been apprehended. So you see, when I have heard from the dead man’s friends and neighbours that he had no obvious personal worries, but I know privately he has just completed a confidential report for the Government, I wonder if it is not a little too convenient that he dies. So, I need to summon Professor Geroulanos, to have him view the body just as it was found. But the Professor cannot be reached yesterday: it is Sunday, so perhaps he has gone to the sea for the day. Although it means leaving our poor friend in this undignified position, I feel I have no choice, for surely the Professor will be back at the faculty this morning. But no; I have tried three times. He is not at the University and is not expected all week; nor is he at his home. Frankly, I do not know quite what to make of it, Major.’

                Samson had not been listening all that intently and realized only after a somewhat embarrassing silence that Gavronis had finished speaking. The mystery of the disappearance of Geroulanos did not register at first. ‘Would it be all right, Captain, if I had a closer look?’

                ‘By all means, Major, but I must caution you, please, not to touch anything.’ Gavronis had seen enough of the body and the foul smelling small room since he had first been summoned the day before, and went outside into the street to talk to his men.

                Samson quickly checked the head wound. The powder had left a scorched halo around the entrance wound, so the gun had been held close to the temple, but this did not prove anything; indeed, Samson dismissed suicide at once as a possible explanation. Even from their short meeting he felt he knew Triantafyllakos well enough to know that, despite the reservations of Gavronis, he was not the type. Therefore, if it was murder, how was the gun placed against his temple and the trigger pulled without any obvious signs of a struggle. The room itself was exactly as Samson had left it. This could only have happened if Triantafyllakos had been unconscious at the time — or if he were already dead. There was no sign of bruising, no marks around the base of the neck; in fact, apart from the bullet wound itself, Triantafyllakos did not appear to have a mark on him. Samson sat down in the same chair he had occupied less than thirty-six hours previously and looked across at the body and the desk. If it was the shot Samson had heard while walking back across University Gardens, Triantafyllakos must have been murdered only a matter of minutes after he had left. The Major tried to think logically — the street was empty when he left number thirteen, therefore it was probable that the killer had been hiding in the house itself. If so, he would almost certainly have overheard their conversation.

                As this thought occurred to him, Samson looked at the desk again, recalling Triantafyllakos’ warning. But something was different. He cast his mind back to Saturday night and ran through his actions from the time he climbed the basement steps: the search of the room, being surprised at the bookshelves by Triantafyllakos, putting down on the desk the book he had inadvertently taken from the shelf … He suddenly leant forward: where was the book? If Triantafyllakos had replaced it on the shelves it must have been the last thing he had done. The Major swivelled round in his chair to view the bookshelves behind him. There was a conspicuous gap where the book had been. Samson leapt to his feet and checked the room again, thinking, as he did so, that surely someone would not commit a murder for a book. Yet there was no sign of it, unless, perhaps, Triantafyllakos had fallen across the volume.

                The Major went to the study door: he could see down the passage that Gavronis was engaged in an animated conversation with one of the policeman in the street. He returned to the body and, placing his hands under the armpits, raised the torso a fraction. A gorged fly, startled, appeared from the hole in the temple. The dead weight of the big man was heavier than he had anticipated and Samson grabbed an extra fold of the shirt to obtain a better grip. As he did so, pulling the shirt taught in the process, a small needle appeared through the fabric, close to the body’s spine. Samson let go of his hold and Triantafyllakos fell forward, hitting the desk hard and almost causing Samson to apologize. The Major gingerly lifted the collar of the shirt and peered down. The angle was awkward, but it appeared that, whatever it was, was protruding from Triantafyllakos’ flesh. Samson checked once more to make sure that Gavronis was still occupied, then carefully extracted the metal sliver, which he readily identified as the broken end of a hypodermic needle. So that was how it was done: poison. Samson lifted the body once more to make sure, this time, that the book was not hidden underneath, then, at the sound of footsteps, he hurriedly put the tip of the needle in his breast pocket and went to the door to intercept Gavronis.

                ‘Thank you for your assistance, Captain. I am through here.’

                ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ A startled expression flashed across Samson’s face until he realized that it was only a general inquiry.

                ‘As you say, Captain, I am not an expert. It would be better to wait for Professor Geroulanos and hear his opinion.’ Samson went back out into street and breathed deeply to flush the smell of that room out of his lungs. He walked to Sina Street and hailed a carriage for the trip to the Asylum. The motion further upset him: vague thoughts began to flow through his mind: why had Geroulanos disappeared so suddenly; what was the significance of the broken needle; where was the missing book and what did it contain to justify a murder? As the carriage jogged along he made a series of rough notes in a tremulous hand. “Needle — poison — access to both — medical knowledge? — Elgin’s book — Geroulanos.” For an instant the obvious connexion flashed into his mind and was just as quickly dismissed. What possible reason could Geroulanos have had for murdering Triantafyllakos? As the carriage came to a halt Samson half-expected the Professor to be waiting for him after all.