would like any of the alternatives.
"Now, where did this great-uncle live? Where did he die, and when? What was his name?"
"His name was Robert Emmett Dempsey. He lived and died in Dublin. When? Hell, I don't remember, exactly. Some time in the nineteen twenties, during the Irish Civil War, while I was just a toddler. I never knew him, never even met the man. He was one of my grandpa's horde of step-brothers. I never
knew he'd left anything to anybody 'til that box was delivered to me, last year," declared Fitz.
"Who sent it to you, Mister Fitzgilbert?" Biscuitt demanded immediately. "Where was it sent from? Did it come via mail or express?"
Fitz shrugged, convincingly ... he hoped. "It was mailed from Dublin, Republic of Eire. I couldn't read the return address or the signature on the note that only said that this was a bequest from my great-uncle, Robert E. Dempsey, originally meant to go to my father, sent finally to me because it had been discovered that he had died. And before you ask me, no, I can't find that note; I suppose I just threw it out with the box and the wrapping papers. So, now, what else do you want to know?"
"He is lying," said the Greek in good, if rather accented, British English. "You are a liar, Mister Fitzgilbert. You accuse us of theft, but you are the thief, you and your accomplices, who have and probably are still looting the antiquities of my country, or of Turkey, Italy or Syria. Such robbery of sites of archeological value is thoroughly despicable, a crime in every country of the civilized world. Your evil greed cannot be, will not be tolerated longer. Do you hear me? You decadent Americans sicken me. You all seem to think you own all the world. But you do not and if you do not immediately tell us just who are your European accomplices, where they can presently be found and where are located the sites they are despoiling, you will be made very sorry that you did not cooperate.
"Have you ever seen a Turkish or a Syrian prison, Mister Fitzgilbert? Have ever you been into one, perhaps? They are not at all like the overly luxurious prison facilities of the United States of America. They, and we Greeks, too, know what criminals are and
how to deal with them. Soft, effete Americans placed in those prisons quite often never live long enough to come to trial, you know. Those who are not murdered by other prisoners, or beaten to death by guards when they have the effrontery to disobey orders, very often loll themselves or go mad, unable to live with the thought of the things that have been done to them in the processes of interrogation and imprisonment."
"Are you admitting that you Greeks torture prisoners, then?" asked Fitz bluntly. "That you use physical torture to obtain confessions'?"
"Of course not!" snapped the Interpol man. "Unlike Turkey and Syria, Greece is a civilized country, Mister Fitzgilbert. All of Western art and culture, philosophy, democracy and civilization itself is owed to Greece. You arrogant Americans should remember these debts owed my country far more than you do. The Golden Age of Greece ..."
"Has been gone one hell of a long time, Mister Vitalis," said Gus coldly. "What the hell have you fuckers done recent, huh? You done had you two ... or is it three? . . . civil wars sincet the end of World War Two alone. If it won't for American loans and the Marshall Plan and American tourists to Greece, you'd all be so fucking broke you'd be eating dog turds for breakfast!"
Turning on Gus, the Greek said icily, "You would be well advised to hold your tongue, you fat, hairless, uncouth cretin. You are already in serious trouble. Do not further compound your difficulties."
Old Gus Tolliver was not fazed by the threatening words or manner. "Listen here to me, you fucking, over-eddicated Greek prick, you, I got me connections don't none of you know about, and I done a'ready put some feelers out on the bunch of you
bastards. Fitz is lighter then he knows, I think. You bunch
"Now, where did this great-uncle live? Where did he die, and when? What was his name?"
"His name was Robert Emmett Dempsey. He lived and died in Dublin. When? Hell, I don't remember, exactly. Some time in the nineteen twenties, during the Irish Civil War, while I was just a toddler. I never knew him, never even met the man. He was one of my grandpa's horde of step-brothers. I never
knew he'd left anything to anybody 'til that box was delivered to me, last year," declared Fitz.
"Who sent it to you, Mister Fitzgilbert?" Biscuitt demanded immediately. "Where was it sent from? Did it come via mail or express?"
Fitz shrugged, convincingly ... he hoped. "It was mailed from Dublin, Republic of Eire. I couldn't read the return address or the signature on the note that only said that this was a bequest from my great-uncle, Robert E. Dempsey, originally meant to go to my father, sent finally to me because it had been discovered that he had died. And before you ask me, no, I can't find that note; I suppose I just threw it out with the box and the wrapping papers. So, now, what else do you want to know?"
"He is lying," said the Greek in good, if rather accented, British English. "You are a liar, Mister Fitzgilbert. You accuse us of theft, but you are the thief, you and your accomplices, who have and probably are still looting the antiquities of my country, or of Turkey, Italy or Syria. Such robbery of sites of archeological value is thoroughly despicable, a crime in every country of the civilized world. Your evil greed cannot be, will not be tolerated longer. Do you hear me? You decadent Americans sicken me. You all seem to think you own all the world. But you do not and if you do not immediately tell us just who are your European accomplices, where they can presently be found and where are located the sites they are despoiling, you will be made very sorry that you did not cooperate.
"Have you ever seen a Turkish or a Syrian prison, Mister Fitzgilbert? Have ever you been into one, perhaps? They are not at all like the overly luxurious prison facilities of the United States of America. They, and we Greeks, too, know what criminals are and
how to deal with them. Soft, effete Americans placed in those prisons quite often never live long enough to come to trial, you know. Those who are not murdered by other prisoners, or beaten to death by guards when they have the effrontery to disobey orders, very often loll themselves or go mad, unable to live with the thought of the things that have been done to them in the processes of interrogation and imprisonment."
"Are you admitting that you Greeks torture prisoners, then?" asked Fitz bluntly. "That you use physical torture to obtain confessions'?"
"Of course not!" snapped the Interpol man. "Unlike Turkey and Syria, Greece is a civilized country, Mister Fitzgilbert. All of Western art and culture, philosophy, democracy and civilization itself is owed to Greece. You arrogant Americans should remember these debts owed my country far more than you do. The Golden Age of Greece ..."
"Has been gone one hell of a long time, Mister Vitalis," said Gus coldly. "What the hell have you fuckers done recent, huh? You done had you two ... or is it three? . . . civil wars sincet the end of World War Two alone. If it won't for American loans and the Marshall Plan and American tourists to Greece, you'd all be so fucking broke you'd be eating dog turds for breakfast!"
Turning on Gus, the Greek said icily, "You would be well advised to hold your tongue, you fat, hairless, uncouth cretin. You are already in serious trouble. Do not further compound your difficulties."
Old Gus Tolliver was not fazed by the threatening words or manner. "Listen here to me, you fucking, over-eddicated Greek prick, you, I got me connections don't none of you know about, and I done a'ready put some feelers out on the bunch of you
bastards. Fitz is lighter then he knows, I think. You bunch
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