Colin Forbes - The Greek Key

'No. Both of them are scared stiff of dangerous intruders. To an almost pathological extent it appears…'

He stopped speaking. He had parked the car at the top of the drive. The front door opened. Framed in the dark opening – the lights inside had been switched off – stood the silhouette of a man. Holding a pump-action shotgun. Aimed at the Mercedes point blank.

'I'll sort him out,' said Tweed.

'God! What a welcome,' whispered Paula. 'Worse than Quarme Manor. ..'

'Good evening.' Tweed had lowered his window. 'We are looking for Captain Robson. It says Endpoint on the name plate.'

'Who are you? What do you want?'

A trace of Scots accent. The voice clear, level in tone, controlled.

'Special Branch. My name is Tweed. We have just called on Colonel Barrymore…'

Tweed made it sound as though Barrymore had led them to Endpoint. He waited for a reaction, said no more. Silence is a potent weapon.

'You'd better come in then.' The shotgun was lowered, still held ready for action as they alighted from the car and walked across the terrace. 'You have some identification?'

'Just about to show you. I'm taking my card out of my pocket.. .'

'It is very lonely out here. There have been two attempts to break in to my home. I'm Robson.'

As he looked at the card, shotgun tucked under his arm, Tweed studied Robson. Medium height, heavily built, but all of it muscle and bone, he was about the same age as Barrymore. And like the colonel his skin was deeply suntanned. The top of his rounded head was covered with an untidy thatch of brown hair and he had a straggly moustache of the same colour. Clad in shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his shirt was open-necked, but his well-worn grey slacks had a razor-edged crease.

'Better come in, I suppose.' He handed back the card. 'Special Branch? Sure you've got the right man? Let's go and make ourselves comfortable in the sitting room.'

'Oh, this is my assistant, Paula Grey,' Tweed introduced.

'Welcome.'

Robson hardly gave her a glance as he closed the door and walked across a hall towards an open door. A brown-haired woman of about the same age appeared wearing an apron over her dress.

'Who is it, Oliver?'

Tweed detected a note of anxiety in her voice. White-faced, she had an air of bustle. Robson gestured towards her.

'My sister, May. Looks after me. Keeps the place going. Be lost without her. It's all right, May. Barrymore sent them along. We'll chat in the sitting room.' The moment she entered the hall the warmth hit Paula. Two old-fashioned radiators stood against the painted walls. The sitting room was long and large with a Wilton carpet wall to wail. Cosy-looking armchairs and couches were spread about and a log fire crackled beneath a huge burnished copper hood. 'Do take a pew, anywhere you like. This is my work room, too.'

He sat in an old swivel chair behind a desk with a scruffed top. A tumbler of something which looked like whisky stood next to a pile of newspapers. Robson stood up as they sat down.

'I'm forgetting my manners. What would you like to drink? I can do Scotch, white wine if you prefer…'

Paula had sat down close to him near the end of the desk. He stared suddenly as she adjusted the bracelet round her wrist. His right hand jerked, knocking over the tumbler. Liquid ran over the edge of the desk.

'Sorry. Damn careless of me…' He opened a drawer, took out a cloth and began mopping up the mess. 'Just back off holiday. Half here, half somewhere else.'

'I guessed that from your suntan,' Tweed remarked. 'You'd hardly have acquired that in this country. Go far?'

'Sailing off Morocco. Agadir and Casablanca. By myself. May can't stand the sea. Stayed back to guard the fort. Drinks?'

Both Tweed and Paula, notebook perched on her lap, asked for wine. Robson poured two glasses of Montrachet. Returning behind his desk, he produced a tobacco pouch and a pipe.

Tire away.'

'I'm checking details of a murder which took place over forty years ago,' Tweed began. 'During your stint of duty in the Middle East.'

'A long time ago, as you say – that grim business when we made that raid on Siros. Barrymore was in command, but you know that – just coming from his place. Why has it become important now?'

'Because someone else investigating it has just been murdered. Ever met Harry Masterson?'

Robson's thumb, tamping tobacco in the bowl, remained poised for a second or two. Paula saw the pause. Cautious was a word Barrymore had used, describing Robson.

'Yes, he visited me. Jolly sort of cove. Life and soul of the party type. Asked some rum questions. What on earth is going on? 'Just been murdered,' you said.'

That is what I am trying to find out. Could you tell me in your own words what did happen on Siros?'

'Who else's words would I use?' Robson smiled drily.

'And if you don't mind, Miss Grey will record your statement – for the record.'

'Of course not. Certainly she may. Special Branch. You have a system, I suppose. One thing I am entitled to, I assume. A copy of the statement. Siros.' He settled himself at ease in his chair, lit his pipe, watching Tweed from beneath his upswept eyebrows, his light blue eyes thoughtful. What a contrast to Barrymore, Paula thought: he's the soul of relaxation. And his house reflects his informal personality.

'Siros,' Robson repeated, puffed at the pipe, 'the main island in the Cyclades group. Shaped like a boomerang, a huge one. Steep cliffs along the southern coast – rising up to Mount Ida. Same name as the tallest mountain on Crete. No idea why. Siros was the headquarters of General Hugo Geiger, who commanded the German troops occupying the Cyclades…'

'Is Geiger still alive?' Tweed interjected.

'No idea. Bit long in the tooth by now if he is. Like our little group. Now… The Greek Resistance had made its own HQ on Siros. They thought hiding under the Germans' noses was a smart tactic. We were carrying a fortune in diamonds to hand over to the Resistance.. .'

'Who is 'we'?'

'The colonel, of course. Myself. You wouldn't think I was a commando in those days. I'm a doctor. The Resistance lot were short of medical help. Plus CSM Kearns, stout fellow. Lastly, the Greek, Gavalas. He was to be the contact with his own people. He'd escaped to Cairo. He was the one who carried the diamonds. To cut a long story short, we landed from the motor launch at night on the southern shore, made our way up a difficult defile cut in the mountainside – where the Germans would least expect a landing. It was wild terrain. Someone – can't remember who – sounded the alarm. German patrol. Every man for himself in that situation. We scattered, later reassembled at an agreed rendezvous – and Gavalas was missing.'

'He'd handed over those diamonds?'

'No one knew. Unlikely. That rendezvous was several miles away on the northern slopes of Mount Ida. We were still to the south. We started searching for Gavalas. It was pretty dramatic – horrific. Barrymore found him. Dead. A knife sticking out from under his left shoulder blade. And the diamonds had gone. We headed back for the rendezvous with the motor launch due to take us off. Nothing else to do.'

'And the knife?' Tweed prodded gently.

'That made it more horrific. A commando knife. The colonel checked us. We all still had our own knives -including the colonel. Later we wondered whether the knife had been taken off one of the two earlier teams which had perished while raiding Siros.'

'Who by?'

'Could have been one of the Greek Resistance. Even a German soldier. Someone must have had quite a collection. There were six commandos who died on Siros.'

'And the value of those diamonds?' Tweed asked.

'A hundred thousand pounds. Wartime value.' Robson tamped his pipe, glanced at Paula writing in shorthand.