I was going to suggest a walk around town, but getting this case solved is more important.

The collector lived in a rambling two-story stone house with a sweeping view of the Parthenon. The neighborhood was a zigzag of little lanes. To Heinrich, it appeared to be one of those historic neighborhoods that had gone to seed for a time and then been snapped up by real estate developers. The homes all looked newly refurbished. Whitewashed walls and red roof tiles shone in the Mediterranean sun. Heinrich noticed a lot of security cameras and spike-topped cast iron fences enclosing the verdant yards.

“Looks like the crisis hasn’t hit everyone,” he said.

“These people always seem immune,” Thalia grumbled.

A squat Eastern European maid with a kerchief around her head answered the door and greeted them in heavily accented Greek. Heinrich thought the accent sounded Polish so he took a chance and wished her good morning in that language.

The maid looked surprised. “Are you Polish?” she asked in her own language.

“Not exactly. I have … family there.”

“Come in! Would you like some coffee? Tea?” She seemed ecstatic. Heinrich figured being a foreigner and working a menial job for a local rich guy probably made for a lonely life.

And this guy sure was rich. They passed through a marble front hall lined with medieval Orthodox icons, the dark faces of Jesus and the saints seeming to float out at them from backgrounds of gold paint. The living room – bright from skylights and from a sliding glass door that led to a broad stretch of garden – was richly appointed with stylish Scandinavian furniture. Several Greek statues stood in various spots around the room, and along one wall was a long glass case with several shelves. Statuettes, dozens of coins, a helmet, and a sword were on display. All looked to be in good condition.

“This stuff looks as good as the stuff we saw in the Met,” Heinrich said as the maid bustled off to get her employer.

“And every one of them appears genuine,” Thalia said, peering through the glass. “Mr. Lambros has a good eye.”

“I thank you, Professor Georgiades.”

They turned and saw Kristian Lambros walking through a side door. He was younger than Heinrich had expected, perhaps in his early forties, and had the content, florid face of a rich man who enjoyed life. This was not a self-made man who had struggled and clawed his way into wealth, like Charles Montaine had. Heinrich figured that Lambros had inherited his wealth, although he did look intelligent enough to not dissipate it. Lambros looked out of shape, with thin arms and the beginnings of a belly, but he stood erect and confident, master of his little domain. Heinrich hated him on sight.

Lambros shook each of their hands with a professional yet cursory grip. Heinrich had the feeling that the grip would have been stronger and more sustained if he and Thalia had been fellow businessmen instead of the help.

Their host turned to the case.

“As you say, Professor Georgiades, these are all genuine, and they have all been cleared by the Ministry of Antiquities,” Lambros said in fluent English for Heinrich’s benefit. Heinrich decided not to reveal that he was learning Greek. Often people let things slip in their own language when they thought others couldn’t understand. That had helped him on more than one occasion.

The maid brought tea and coffee, smiled at Heinrich, and hurried off. They sat down.

“Would you prefer something stronger?” Lambros asked, moving to a wet bar at one side of the room. Heinrich glanced at his watch. It was 11:30 in the morning.

“No, thanks.”

Lambros gave the wet bar a mournful look, moved over to an easy chair, and took a cup of coffee.

“I have good news,” he announced. “I think I have made contact with this gang of thieves.