The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [2]
The cab came to a halt in front of the outsized yellowstone house at Petraki, 17. Morrison paid the driver and thanked him for the most interesting discussion and crossed the street.
The brass knocker beat a thunder through the ancient mansion of Fotis Stergiou. In a moment its equally ancient butler, Tassos, led him into the home of the attorney. Tassos rapped softly, then ushered him into the office of Mr. Stergiou.
The old man looked up from his all-encompassing desk and smiled a wrinkled smile of recognition. He was a quaint old duck. A shock of gray hair stood straight up from his head, a large scarf was wrapped around his shoulders and a pair of square-cut glasses were balanced precariously on the tip of his nose.
“Aha, my American writer friend, right on time, as usual,” he greeted Mike and waved to a seat. “Coffee, please, Tassos,” his high-pitched voice ordered. He dug through the stacks of papers on his desk and found the brief. As he opened the folder and thumbed through it, Mike once again found himself staring at the magnificent black pearl ring on the wrinkled little finger of the attorney. “Well,” he finally said, “everything seems to be in good order.”
“How much longer?” Mike asked.
“Always in a hurry, you Americans. One might get the idea you don’t like our country.”
“This is hardly the time for a leisurely visit and I do have a commitment for the first of May.”
“Oh, yes, you’re going to Hollywood to write a cinema—anything important?”
“Nothing but the money.”
“Money—trouble is, everyone is in a grand rush to get their money out of the country these days. Can’t say I blame them. The bank promised to have the final releases over here shortly for signature. When do you plan to leave?”
“I have a plane for London in the morning.”
Tassos slipped in quietly.
“Coffee—good. We’ll take it in the solarium, if you please, Tassos.”
The two sipped coffee and exchanged tobaccos. Morrison was quite proud of his blend—a special mixture put up at Grundel’s Pipe Shop in the Mission District of San Francisco. However, it was too weak for the old man. Morrison politely bowed out after a half pipeload of Stergiou’s mixture.
As they passed time, Mr. Stergiou gave Morrison a short course in the Byzantine art pieces that adorned his home. As Mike had surmised, the black pearl ring was a family treasure and hadn’t left his little finger for forty years.
“Your wife’s death must have been quite a shock. Her uncle was truly fond of her. He spoke often of his visits to America.”
“Yes—yes—it was—quite a shock.”
“I see. And the children, how old are they now?”
A small smile creased the lips of the proud father and in an instant he had his wallet out and pictures thrust before the old man’s nose.
Stergiou adjusted his glasses and nodded. “They are lovely children. I can well understand your anxiety to get back to San Francisco. I trust they are in good hands.”
“Yes, my parents. We have a place together in Larkspur. A little over the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. They—they moved in with us after Ellie’s death.”
The old man tapped his pipe empty in the ash tray, paused reflectively a moment, then spoke. “Mr. Morrison, I wonder if I could ask a favor of a personal nature?”
“If I can help.”
“I have a document, one of great importance to a client of mine. With things so disrupted these days I am a bit hesitant to use the mails. I wonder if you would mind delivering it for me personally in London?”
“Certainly. I’d be most happy to.”
The old man reached into an inside pocket of his smoking jacket and withdrew a small white envelope.
Not much of a document, Morrison thought. Stergiou held it in his hand for several seconds, then handed it to Mike. It bore a London address to one Sir Thomas Whitley.
“Normally,” the old man apologized, “I wouldn’t ask, but there is a great deal involved for my client and with the chaos of the day ...”
Mike grinned. “Nothing a bit off color, by any chance?”
“Oh, you writers all have suspicious natures. No, nothing like that but a