Gavin Lyall - Judas Country

We all looked at her. After a moment, Kapotas said nervously: 'I am afraid the Professor is-'

'I know all about that. But I think he had his daughter with him; I was wondering if I could talk with her.'

I nodded at the bar doors. 'She's making a statement to the police in there, but she shouldn't be long.'

'Why, thank you. I'm Eleanor Travis.' And she held out a firm, slim hand.

She must have been about thirty-five, slim and a bit tall and with a general air of tautness. Something in the way the skin was pulled tight over the high suntanned cheekbones, the way she cocked her head and smiled, showing a lot of big white teeth, the cat-like precision with which she moved. Her hair was longish and blonde and a little likely to separate into straggles; she wore tight blue trousers – and had a bottom small enough for it – a blue denim shirt and a bright yellow silk neckscarf.

I said: 'Roy Case. And this is Ken Caviti.' She shook his hand, too.

Then he asked: 'Did you know Professor Spohr?'

'I never met him, no, but I've heard a lot about him."

'Oh?'

'I work for the Met in New York.'

"The which?'

'Metropolitan Museum of Art. I'm a medievalist.'

I said: 'Forgive me asking – but how did you know where the Professor was?'

Her whole body tautened another notch. But the smile stayed. 'It was on the radio this morning, the desk at the Ledra told me. I'd tried ringing him at a dozen hotels yesterday – including this one – and they'd all said he wasn't staying.'

Ken and I glanced at each other and he nodded about a millimetre. It sounded reasonable.

I said: 'He was trying to stay secret. I imagine a hotel guest is entitled to that. I suppose you didn't-' But then I said: 'Skip it.' I'd been going to ask if she'd played games with delivering those green envelopes all over town, but if she had she certainly wouldn't admit it.

Ken said. 'You really are from the Met, are you?'

This time the smile was long gone. Kapotas stood up straight and made worried twittering noises.

She said coolly: 'And who are you two?'

'He's an old friend of the Prof's,' I said quickly, 'and I'm an old friend of him. Sorry if we sound snoopy, but a man doesn't commit suicide every day.'

'I'd guess once is the most anybody ever did.' Her voice was quite calm. She reached into a big shoulder bag made of fringed white buckskin, rummaged around and handed all three of us visiting cards. It said: Eleanor Travis Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. TR9-5500.

Instinctively I ran a fingernail over the lettering to see if it was engraved. I hadn't had cards of my own since I'd left the RAF, where all officershad to have them and theyhad to be engraved, to show we were gentlemen as well.

'It's engraved,' Miss Travis said, voice still freeze-dried.

Ken grinned. 'And you know? – I'd've said she was no gentleman.'

Her face twitched for a second, then she smiled outright.

I said: 'Sorry again. But… other people were trying to track him down and I'm sure one did.'

Ken said sharply: 'When was this?'

'Last night. I found out just after I found him. Meant to tell you. Sorry.'

Miss Eleanor Travis, medievalist, asked: 'Just what is all this?'

'Perhaps you can tell us,' I said. 'You were looking for him, others were looking for him. You must have had a reason, so maybe they had the same one."

She nibbled the idea like the first taste of some new foreign food. 'We-ell… I've been researching in Rhodes the last two months and a rumour came through that Professor Spohr had been dropping hints that he had something interesting, and it sounded like he was trying to work up bids from the big museums, and I heard he was going to Cyprus so I called the director at the Met and asked if he wanted me to try and find out what it was all about' ^ 'And he said Yes?' I suggested.

She put on a slightly hesitant, artificial smile.'Er… how well did you know Professor Spohr?'

Ken said: 'I met him in jail, if that's what you mean.'

'Normally,' I said, 'Ken and I only move in strictly Blue Book circles, but you can't blame somebody for the people he meets in jail, can you?'

Her glance flicked back and 'forth between the two of us. 'Yees,' she said slowly. 'Well, this is what the director said.' She took a crumpled cable form from her Sitting Bull bag and passed it over.

Address and mistakes apart, it read: GO CYPRUS IF YOU LIKE WILL PAY HALF EXPENSES BUT IF WE BUY DIRECT FROM THAT OLD CROOK WILL BE FIRST TIME KEEP US INFORMED.

Ken said: 'Yes, I see,' quite tonelessly, and then: 'So you don't know what he was hawking around?'

'I was hoping his daughter would know – unless you do?'

He shook his head. 'He never told me. But he had something, all right.'

Mitzi came out of the bar with Lazaros close behind. He came straight across and asked Kapotas: 'Did Professor Spohr post any letters here yesterday?'

It was a clever idea, but eight hours too late. Kapotas shook his head. 'No. I opened the box before I went home yesterday, and again this morning. Nothing.'

'Did he make any telephone calls?'

Now why hadn't I been that clever eight hours ago? Kapotas reached for the book beside the switchboard and ran a finger down the column. 'Room 323… yes, at 8.25 last night he spoke to a number in Israel, in Jerusalem.'

'Papadimitriou put it through, did he? Why didn't he tell me?'

'He probably forgot in the fuss last night,' I said soothingly. 'He was in a pretty panicky state.' And this was an angle where I didn't want anybody getting rough with fragile fat old Papa.

Lazarosgrunted and looked half convinced. 'Just the number, no name, of course?" He wrote the number down, then stared at it. 'I can ask Papa; he probably listened in.' And headed off to the doorstep where the Sergeant was sunning himself.

Mitzi was standing just on the edge of our little sewing circle; now she leaned timidly forward. 'May I see the number, please?'

Kapotas shoved the book at her. She took a diary from her bag and copied it down. Ken asked: 'Do you recognise it?'

'No, but perhaps I can call it and ask what…' her voice trailed off.

Ken indicated Eleanor Travis. 'This is Miss Travis from the New York Met. She wanted to meet your father. Mitzi Braunhof, nee Spohr.'

Eleanor stuck out her hand and Mitzi shook it tentatively. 'I am sorry, but I cannot say anything about-'

Our Eleanor hadn't come all the way from Rhodes (paying half her own expenses) for that. She said firmly: 'I just wanted to see if the Met should put in a bid for whatever it was your father had turned up.'

When in doubt, talk money.

Mitzi frowned briefly, looked a little bothered, then shook her head. 'I am sorry I do not know… I have not had time for his papers yet, you understand… I only know it wasein Schwert… a sword.'

Ken and I looked at each other; he recovered first. 'Look -maybe we could all sit down for a little chat.' He looked towards the bar, where Apostólos was just unlocking the grill, but still with a table-full of policemen comparing and arranging papers.

He turned to Eleanor and smiled his best smile. 'If you've got any money, we could all go and have a quiet drink at the Ledra.'

Miss Travis had a little trouble getting used to the idea that two grown men could be completely broke, right down to the point at which she had to pay off the taxi. I spent a little time explaining about the laws of receivership and none at all telling where our last mils had gone.

We were just ahead of the lunchtime rush at the Ledra bar, so we got a corner table by the french windows and the waiter came across and said gravely: 'Good morning, Captain Caviti. It's been a long time.' And Ken said indeed it had and why didn't we all just drink whisky sours to make the ordering simpler? When Ken gets sparking, you don't find much room to argue, so we all had whisky sours; from Mitzi's expression as she sipped, it was the first she'd ever met.