Journey Into Fear (14 page)

He thought of the telegram he had sent in Athens that afternoon. “Home Monday,” he had said. Home Monday! He looked at his unbandaged hand and moved the fingers of it. By Monday they could be dead and beginning to decompose with the rest of the entity which called itself Graham. Stephanie would be upset, but she’d get over it quickly. She was resilient and sensible. But there wouldn’t be much money for her. She’d have to sell the house. He should have taken out more insurance. If only he’d known. But of course it was just because you
didn’t
know, that there
were
such things as insurance companies. Still, he could do nothing now but hope that it would be over quickly, that it wouldn’t be painful.

He shivered and began to swear again. Then he pulled himself up sharply. He’d
got
to think of some way out. And not only for his own sake and Stephanie’s. There
was the job he had to do. “It is in the interests of your country’s enemies that when the snow melts and the rain ceases, Turkish naval strength shall be exactly what it is now. They will do anything to see that it is so.” Anything! Behind Banat was the German agent in Sofia and behind him was Germany and the Nazis. Yes, he’d
got
to think of some way out. If other Englishmen could die for their country, surely he could manage to stay alive for it. Then another of Colonel Haki’s statements came back to him. “You have advantages over the soldier. You have only to defend yourself. You do not have to go into the open. You may run away without being a coward.”

Well he couldn’t run away now; but the rest of it was true enough. He didn’t have to go out into the open. He could stay here in the cabin; have his meals here; keep the door locked. He could defend himself, too, if need be. Yes, by God! He had Kopeikin’s revolver.

He had put it among the clothes in his suitcase. Now, thanking his stars that he had not refused to take it, he got it out and weighed it in his hand.

For Graham a gun was a series of mathematical expressions resolved in such a way as to enable one man, by touching a button, to project an armour-piercing shell so that it hit a target several miles away plumb in the middle. It was a piece of machinery no more and no less significant than a vacuum cleaner or a bacon slicer. It had no nationality and no loyalties. It was neither awe-inspiring nor symbolic of anything except the owner’s ability to pay for it. His interest in the men who had to fire the products of his skill as in the men who had to suffer their fire (and, thanks to his employers’ tireless internationalism,
the same sets of men often had to do both) had always been detached. To him who knew what even one four-inch shell could accomplish in the way of destruction, it seemed that they should be—could only be—nerveless cyphers. That they were not was an evergreen source of astonishment to him. His attitude towards them was as uncomprehending as that of the stoker of a crematorium towards the solemnity of the grave.

But this revolver was different. It wasn’t impersonal. There was a relationship between it and the human body. It had, perhaps, an effective range of twenty-five yards or less. That meant that you could see the face of the man at whom you fired it both before and after you fired it. You could see and hear his agony. You couldn’t think of honour and glory with a revolver in your hand, but only of killing and being killed. There was no machine to serve. Life and death were there in your hand in the shape of an elementary arrangement of springs and levers and a few grammes of lead and cordite.

He had never handled a revolver in his life before. He examined it carefully. Stamped above the trigger guard was “Made in U.S.A.” and the name of an American typewriter manufacturer. There were two small sliding bosses on the other side. One was the safety catch. The other, when moved, released the breech which dropped sideways and showed that there were cartridges in all six chambers. It was beautifully made. He took the cartridges out and pulled the trigger once or twice experimentally. It was not easy with his bandaged hand, but it could be done. He put the cartridges back.

He felt better now. Banat might be a professional
killer, but he was as susceptible to bullets as any other man. And
he
had to make the first move. One had to look at things from his point of view. He’d failed in Istanbul and he’d had to catch up with the victim again. He’d managed to get aboard the boat on which the victim was travelling. But did that really help him very much? What he had done in Roumania as a member of the Iron Guard was beside the point now. A man could afford to be bold when he was protected by an army of thugs and an intimidated judge. It was true that passengers were sometimes lost off ships at sea; but those ships were big liners, not two thousand ton cargo boats. It really would be very difficult to kill a man on a boat of that size without anyone discovering that you had done so. You might be able to do it; that is if you could get your victim alone on deck at night. You could knife him and push him over the side. But you would have to get him there first, and there was more than a chance that you would be seen from the bridge. Or heard: a knifed man might make a lot of noise before he reached the water. And if you cut his throat there would be a lot of blood left behind to be accounted for. Besides, that was always assuming that you could use a knife so skilfully. Banat was a gunman, not a cut-throat. That confounded Purser was right. There were too many people about for anyone to murder him on the ship. As long as he was careful he would be all right. The real danger would begin when he got off the ship at Genoa.

Obviously the thing for him to do there would be to go straight to the British Consul, explain all the circumstances, and secure police protection as far as the frontier.
Yes, that was it. He had one priceless advantage over the enemy.
Banat did not know that he was identified
. He would be assuming that the victim was unsuspecting, that he could bide his time, that he could do his work between Genoa and the French frontier. By the time he discovered his mistake it would be too late for him to do anything about rectifying it. The only thing now was to see that he did not discover the mistake too soon.

Supposing, for instance, that Banat had noticed his hasty retreat from the deck. His blood ran cold at the idea. But no, the man had not been looking. The supposition showed, though, how careful he had to be. It was out of the question for him to skulk in his cabin for the rest of the trip. That would arouse immediate suspicion. He would have to look as unsuspecting as he could and yet take care not to expose himself to any sort of attack. He must make sure that if he were not in his cabin with the door locked, he was with or near one of the other passengers. He must even be amiable to “Monsieur Mavrodopoulos.”

He unbuttoned his jacket and put the revolver in his hip pocket. It bulged absurdly and uncomfortably. He took the wallet out of his breast pocket and put the revolver there. That was uncomfortable, too, and the shape of it could be seen from the outside. Banat must not see that he was armed. The revolver could stay in the cabin.

He put it back in his suitcase and stood up, bracing himself. He’d go straight up to the saloon and have a drink now. If Banat were there, so much the better. A drink would help to ease the strain of the first encounter. He knew that it would be a strain. He had to face a man
who had tried once to kill him and who was going to try again, and behave as if he had never seen or heard of him before. His stomach was already responding to the prospect. But he had to keep calm. His life, he told himself, might depend on his behaving normally. And the longer he hung about thinking it over, the less normal he would be. Better get it over with now.

He lit a cigarette, opened the cabin door and went straight upstairs to the saloon.

Banat was not there. He could have laughed aloud with relief. Josette and José were there with drinks in front of them, listening to Mathis.

“And so,” he was saying vehemently, “it goes on. The big newspapers of the Right are owned by those whose interest it is to see that France spends her wealth on arms and that the ordinary people do not understand too much of what goes on behind the scenes. I am glad to be going back to France because it is my country. But do not ask me to love those who have my country in the palms of their hands. Ah, no!”

His wife was listening with tight-lipped disapproval. José was openly yawning. Josette was nodding sympathetically but her face lit up with relief when she saw Graham. “And where has our Englishman been?” she said immediately. “Mr. Kuvetli has told everyone what a magnificent time you both had.”

“I’ve been in my cabin recovering from the afternoon’s excitements.”

Mathis did not look very pleased at the interruption but said agreeably enough: “I was afraid that you were ill, Monsieur. Are you better now?”

“Oh yes, thanks.”

“You have been ill?” demanded Josette.

“I felt tired.”

“It is the ventilation,” said Madame Mathis promptly. “I myself have felt a nausea and a headache since I got on the ship. We should complain. But”—she made a derogatory gesture in the direction of her husband—“as long as he is comfortable all is well.”

Mathis grinned. “Bah! It is seasickness.”

“You are ridiculous. If I am sick it is of you.”

José made a loud plopping noise with his tongue and leaned back in his chair, his closed eyes and tightened lips calling upon Heaven to deliver him from domesticity.

Graham ordered a whisky.

“Whisky?” José sat up whistling astonishment. “The Englishman drinks whisky!” he announced and then, pursing his lips and screwing up his face to express congenital aristocratic idiocy, added: “Some viskee, pliz, ol’ bhoy!” He looked round, grinning, for applause.

“That is his idea of an Englishman,” Josette explained. “He is very stupid.”

“Oh I don’t think so,” said Graham; “he has never been to England. A great many English people who have never been to Spain are under the impression that all Spaniards smell of garlic.”

Mathis giggled.

José half rose in his chair. “Do you intend to be insulting?” he demanded.

“Not at all. I was merely pointing out that these misconceptions exist. You, for instance, do not smell of garlic at all.”

José subsided into his chair again. “I am glad to hear you say so,” he said ominously. “If I thought …”

“Ah! Be silent!” Josette broke in. “You make yourself look a fool.”

To Graham’s relief the subject was disposed of by the entrance of Mr. Kuvetli. He was beaming happily.

“I come,” he said to Graham, “to ask you to have drink with me.”

“That’s very good of you but I’ve just ordered a drink. Supposing you have one with me.”

“Most kind. I will take vermouth, please.” He sat down. “You have seen we have new passenger?”

“Yes, Monsieur Mathis pointed him out to me.” He turned to the steward bringing him his whisky and ordered Mr. Kuvetli’s vermouth.

“He is Greek gentleman. Name of Mavrodopoulos. He is business man.”

“What business is he in?” Graham found, to his relief, that he could talk of Monsieur Mavrodopoulos quite calmly.

“That I do not know.”

“That I do not care,” said Josette. “I have just seen him. Ugh!”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“She likes only men who look clean and simple,” said José vindictively. “This Greek looks dirty. He would probably smell dirty too, but he uses a cheap perfume.” He kissed his fingers to the air.
“Nuit de Petits Gars! Numero soixante-neuf! Cinq francs la bouteille.”

Madame Mathis’ face froze.

“You are disgusting, José,” said Josette. “Besides, your
own perfume cost only fifty francs a bottle. It is filthy. And you must not say such things. You will offend Madame here who is not used to your jokes.”

But Madame Mathis had already taken offence. “It is disgraceful,” she said angrily, “that such things should be said when there are women present. With men alone it would not be polite.”

“Ah yes!” said Mathis. “My wife and I are not hypocrites but there are some things that should not be said.” He looked as if he were pleased to be able, for once, to side with his wife. Her surprise was almost pathetic. They proceeded to make the most of the occasion.

She said: “Monsieur Gallindo should apologize.”

“I must insist,” said Mathis, “that you apologize to my wife.”

José stared at them in angry astonishment. “Apologize? What for?”

“He will apologize,” said Josette. She turned to him and broke into Spanish. “Apologize, you dirty fool. Do you want trouble? Don’t you see he’s showing off to the woman? He would break you in pieces.”

José shrugged. “Very well.” He looked insolently at the Mathises. “I apologize. What for, I do not know, but I apologize.”

“My wife accepts the apology,” said Mathis stiffly. “It is not gracious but it is accepted.”

“An officer says,” remarked Mr. Kuvetli tactfully, “that we shall not be able to see Messina because it will be dark.”

But this elephantine change of subject was unnecessary
for at that moment Banat came through the door from the promenade deck.

He stood there for an instant looking at them, his raincoat hanging open, his hat in his hand, like a man who has strayed into a picture gallery out of the rain. His white face was drawn from lack of sleep, there were circles under the small deep-set eyes, the full lips were twisted slightly as if he had a headache.

Graham’s heart drummed sickeningly at the base of his skull. This was the executioner. The hand with the hat in it was the hand which had fired the shots which had grazed his own hand, now outstretched to pick up a glass of whisky. This was the man who had killed men for as little as five thousand francs and his expenses.

He felt the blood leaving his face. He had only glanced quickly at the man but the whole picture of him was in his mind; the whole picture from the dusty tan shoes to the new tie with the filthy soft collar and the tired, frowsty, stupid face. He drank some of his whisky and saw that Mr. Kuvetli was bestowing his smile on the newcomer. The others were staring blankly.