such demand that he would never have to worry again for the rest of his life. He and Elena
could be married and begin to raise a family. He would move into a suite of luxurious
offices, hire law clerks and join a fashionable club like the Athenee Lesky, where one met
affluent potential clients. The metamorphosis had already begun. Every time Frederick
Stavros walked out into the streets of Athens, he was recognized and stopped by someone
who had seen his picture in the newspaper. In a few short weeks he had jumped from
anonymity to the attorney who was defending Larry Douglas. In the privacy of his soul
Stavros admitted to himself that he had the wrong client. He would have preferred to be
defending the glamorous Noelle Page instead of a nonentity like Larry Douglas, but he
himself was a nonentity. It was enough that he, Frederick Stavros, was a major participant
in the most sensational murder case of the century. If the accused were acquitted, there
would be enough glory for everyone. There was only one thing that plagued Stavros, and
he thought about it constantly. Both defendants were charged with the same crime, but
another attorney was defending Noelle Page. If Noelle Page was found innocent, and
Larry Douglas was convicted…Stavros shuddered and tried not to think about it. The
reporters kept asking him whether he thought the defendants were guilty. He smiled to
himself at their naïveté. What did it matter whether they were guilty or innocent? They
were entitled to the best legal defense that money could buy. In his case he admitted that
the definition was stretched a bit. But in the case of Noelle Page’s lawyer…ah, that was
something else again. Napoleon Chotas had undertaken her defense, and there was no
more brilliant criminal lawyer in the world. Chotas had never lost an important case. As he
thought about that, Frederick Stavros smiled to himself. He would not have admitted it to
anyone, but he was planning to ride to victory on Napoleon Chotas’ talent.
While Frederick Stavros was toiling in his dingy law office, Napoleon Chotas was
attending a black-tie dinner party at a luxurious home in the fashionable Kolonaki section
of Athens. Chotas was a thin, emaciated-looking man with the large, sad eyes of a
bloodhound in a corrugated face. He concealed a brilliants incisive brain behind a mild,
vaguely baffled manner. Now toying with his dessert, Chotas sat, preoccupied, thinking
about the trial that would begin tomorrow. Most of the conversation that evening had
centered around the forthcoming trial. The discussion had been a general one, for the
guests were too discreet to ask him direct questions. But toward the end of the evening as
the ouzo and brandy flowed more freely, the hostess asked, “Tell us, do you think they are
guilty?”
Chotas replied innocently, “How could they be? One of them is my client.” He drew
appreciative laughter.
“What is Noelle Page really like?”
Chotas hesitated. “She’s a most unusual woman,” he replied carefully. “She’s
beautiful and talented—” To his surprise he found that he was suddenly reluctant to
discuss her. Besides, there was no way one could capture Noelle with words. Until a few
months ago he had only been dimly aware of her as a glamorous figure flitting through the
gossip columns and adorning the covers of movie magazines. He had never laid eyes on