Napoleon Chotas was an early riser. He enjoyed his moments of solitude before the pressures of the day began to engulf him. He always breakfasted alone, and read the morning newspapers with his meal. On this particular morning there were several items of interest. Premier Themistocles Sophoulis had formed a new five-party coalition cabinet. I must send him a note of congratulations. Chinese Communist forces were reported to have reached the north bank of the Yangtze River. Harry Truman and Alben Barkley were inaugurated as President and Vice-President of the United States. Napoleon Chotas turned to page two, and his blood froze. The item that caught his eye read:
Mr. Frederick Stavros, a partner in the prestigious law firm of Tritsis and Tritsis, was struck and killed last evening by a hit-and-run driver as he was leaving Kapnikarea Church. Witnesses report that the vehicle was a black limousine with no license plates. Mr. Stavros was a major figure in the sensational murder trial of Noelle Page and Larry Douglas. He was the attorney for Larry Douglas and…
Napoleon Chotas stopped reading. He sat in his chair, rigid, his breakfast forgotten. An accident. Was it an accident? Constantin Demiris had told him there was nothing to worry about. But too many people had made the mistake of taking Demiris at face value.
Chotas reached for the telephone and called Constantin Demiris. A secretary put him through.
“Have you read the morning papers yet?” Chotas asked.
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
“Frederick Stavros is dead.”
“What?” It was an exclamation of surprise. “What are you talking about?”
“He was killed last night by a hit-and-run driver.”
“My God. I’m sorry, Leon. Have they caught the driver?”
“No, not yet.”
“Maybe I can put a little extra pressure on the police. Nobody’s safe these days. By the way, how is Thursday for you for dinner?”
“Fine.”
“It’s a date.”
Napoleon Chotas was an expert at reading between the lines. Constantin Demiris was genuinely surprised. He had nothing to do with Stavros’s death, Chotas decided.
The following morning, Napoleon Chotas drove into the private garage of his office building and parked his car. As he moved toward the elevator, a young man appeared out of the shadows.
“Do you have a match?”
An alarm in Chotas’s mind went off. The man was a stranger, and he had no business being in this garage.
“Certainly.” Without thinking, Chotas slammed his briefcase into the man’s face.
The stranger screamed out in pain. “You son of a bitch!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun with a silencer attached.
“Hey! What’s going on here?” a voice called. A uniformed guard was running toward them.
The stranger hesitated for an instant, then ran for the open door.
The guard reached Chotas’s side. “Are you all right, Mr. Chotas?”
“Ah…yes.” Napoleon Chotas found himself struggling for breath. “I’m fine.”
“What was he trying to do?”
Napoleon Chotas said slowly, “I’m not sure.”
It could have been a coincidence, Chotas told himself as he sat at his desk. It’s possible that the man was simply trying to rob me. But you don’t use a gun with a silencer to rob people. No, he intended to kill me. And Constantin Demiris would have professed to have been as shocked by the news as he had pretended to have been about the death of Frederick Stavros.
I should have known, Chotas thought. Demiris is not a man to take risks. He can’t afford to leave any loose ends. Well, Mr. Demiris is in for a surprise.
Napoleon Chotas’s secretary’s voice came over the intercom: “Mr. Chotas, you’re due in court in thirty minutes.”
Today was his summation in a serial-murder case, but Chotas was too shaken to appear in a courtroom. “Call the judge and explain that I’m ill. Have one of the partners cover for me. No more calls.”
He took a tape recorder from a desk drawer and sat there, thinking. Then he began to speak.
Early that afternoon, Napoleon Chotas appeared at the office of the state prosecuting attorney, Peter Demonides, carrying a manila envelope. The receptionist recognized him at once.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Chotas. May I help you?”