The Whispers of Nemesis by Anne Zouroudi Page A

and Patrikios . . . But I think of all of them, Volakis had the edge. He was a great loss to our national literature. I thank you for clarifying that I haven’t lost my way. I shall go on, and find the house.’
    â€˜Just a moment,’ said Attis, as the fat man turned to go. ‘Do you have a publisher for your piece?’
    With shrewd eyes, the stranger looked at him.
    â€˜If the article is worthwhile, it will no doubt find a place in one of the academic journals.’
    â€˜Have you thought of aiming for the national press?’
    The fat man laughed.
    â€˜To be blunt,’ he said, ‘admirer though I am of Volakis, his work and his ideas are not daily reading for the man in the street.’
    â€˜Perhaps not,’ said Attis. ‘But what if you had some insight into the man from one who knew him? That would be a story with mass appeal, wouldn’t it? Enough appeal to tempt even the nationals.’
    The fat man appeared to consider.
    â€˜Perhaps so, yes. But where would I be lucky enough to find a personal acquaintance of Volakis who would talk to me, and provide that insight? I believe the family is very private, at Volakis’s request. He was not, I think, a man who sought publicity.’
    â€˜No, he wasn’t. But publicity’s always useful, even after a writer’s death. The estate – the poet’s family – always benefits from an increase in sales.’
    â€˜The family? Or the publishing business?’
    â€˜Without the business of publishing, the world would never have seen Volakis’s work,’ said Attis, defensively. ‘Without a publisher, a poet may be as brilliant as he likes, but his work will never be read.’
    â€˜Quite right,’ said the fat man, genially. ‘I meant no offence.’
    â€˜You didn’t answer my question,’ said Attis, ‘whether you might interest a wider audience in your piece, if you’d a good source on the poet’s life.’
    â€˜I should be honest and tell you that a source on the poet’s death would be more appropriate to my skills. I don’t wish to mislead you. I am not a professional journalist, and my interest in the arts is a sideline only. If you are looking for someone to promote Volakis’s work, I, as a mere amateur, am not your man. I work as an investigator. That is where my talents lie.’
    Attis’s eyes lit with interest.
    â€˜Investigators come in many flavours and colours,’ he said. ‘Insurance investigators, tax investigators, investigators of water leaks: which of the breed are you?’
    The fat man smiled.
    â€˜I investigate anything which has a bad smell about it,’ he said. ‘I specialise in wrongdoing, underhandedness and deceit.’
    He looked into Attis’s face, as if seeking something there. Attis was uncomfortable under his scrutiny and looked away.
    â€˜Fraud, then,’ he said. ‘Is that something you could look into?’
    â€˜Fraud, embezzlement, extortion: all manna to me,’ said the fat man, cheerfully. ‘Though I should warn you, my findings are not always welcomed, even by those who have sought out my services.’
    Attis considered.
    â€˜I’m on my way to the village to make a phone call,’ he said. ‘If you come with me, I’ll buy you coffee, and we can talk. I have a proposition which may interest you. They call me Attis Danas.’
    He held out his hand, and the fat man shook it.
    â€˜I will listen to any proposition, though I do not guarantee to go along with it,’ he said. ‘Hermes Diaktoros, of Athens. The name – Hermes Messenger, in more modern parlance, as I’m sure you’re aware – is my father’s idea of humour. He’s something of a classical scholar. And in the spirit of my namesake, I call these’ – he indicated his white tennis shoes – ‘my winged sandals. You know your way about here better