Journey Into Fear (16 page)

“What are you thinking about?”

“To-morrow.” She said that she was a friend. If there was one thing he needed now, it was, God knew, a friend. Any friend. Someone to talk to, to discuss it with. Nobody knew about it but him. If anything happened to him there would be nobody to accuse Banat. He would go scot free to collect his wages. She was right. It was stupid to distrust her simply because she danced in night places. After all, Kopeikin had liked her and he was no fool about women.

They had reached the corner below the bridge structure. She stopped as he had known she would.

“If we stay here,” she said, “I shall get cold. It will be better if we go on walking round and round and round the deck.”

“I thought you wanted to ask me questions.”

“I have told you I am not inquisitive.”

“So you did. Do you remember that yesterday evening I told you that I came on this ship to avoid someone who was trying to shoot me and that this”—he held up his right hand—“was a bullet wound?”

“Yes. I remember. It was a bad joke.”

“A very bad joke. Unfortunately, it happened to be true.”

It was out now. He could not see her face but he heard her draw in her breath sharply and felt her fingers dig into his arm.

“You are lying to me.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“But you are an engineer,” she said accusingly. “You said so. What have you done that someone should wish to kill you?”

“I have done nothing.” He hesitated. “I just happen to be on important business. Some business competitors don’t want me to return to England.”

“Now you are lying.”

“Yes, I am lying, but not very much. I
am
on important business and there
are
some people who do not want me to get back to England. They employed men to kill me while I was in Gallipoli but the Turkish police arrested these men before they could try. Then they employed a professional killer to do the job. When I got back to my hotel after I left Le Jockey Cabaret the other night, he was waiting for me. He shot at me and missed everything except my hand.”

She was breathing quickly. “It is atrocious! A bestiality!
Does Kopeikin know of it?”

“Yes. It was partly his idea that I should travel on this boat.”

“But who are these people?”

“I only know of one. His name is Moeller and he lives in Sofia. The Turkish police told me that he is a German agent.”

“The
salop
! But he cannot touch you now.”

“Unfortunately he can. While I was ashore with Kuvetli this afternoon, another passenger came aboard.”

“The little man who smells? Mavrodopoulos? But.…”

“His real name is Banat and he is the professional killer who shot at me in Istanbul.”

“But how do you know?” she demanded breathlessly.

“He was at Le Jockey Cabaret watching me. He had followed me there to see that I was out of the way before he broke into my room at the hotel. It was dark in the room when he shot at me, but the police showed me his photograph later and I identified him.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she said slowly: “It is not very nice. That little man is a dirty type.”

“No, it is not very nice.”

“You must go to the Captain.”

“Thanks. I’ve tried to see the Captain once. I got as far as the Purser. He thinks I’m either crazy, drunk, or lying.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing for the moment. He doesn’t know that I know who he is. I think that he will wait until we get to Genoa before he tries again. When we get there I shall go to the British Consul and ask him to advise the police.”

“But I think he
does
know that you suspect him. When we were in the
salone
before dinner and the Frenchman was talking about trains, this man was watching you. Mr. Kuvetli was watching you also. You looked so curious, you see.”

His stomach turned over. “You mean, I suppose, that I looked frightened to death. I was frightened. I admit it. Why shouldn’t I? I am not used to people trying to kill me.” His voice had risen. He felt himself shaking with a sort of hysterical anger.

She gripped his arm again. “Ssh! You must not speak so loudly.” And then: “Does it matter so much that he knows?”

“If he knows, it means that he will have to act before we get to Genoa.”

“On this little ship? He would not dare.” She paused. “José has a revolver in his box. I will try to get it for you.”

“I’ve got a revolver.”

“Where?”

“It’s in my suitcase. It shows in my pocket. I did not want him to see that I knew I was in danger.”

“If you carry the revolver you will be in no danger. Let him see it. If a dog sees that you are nervous, he will bite you. With types like that you must show that you are dangerous and then they are afraid.” She took his other arm. “Ah, you do not need to worry. You will get to Genoa and you will go to the British Consul. You can ignore this dirty beast with the perfume. By the time you get to Paris you will have forgotten him.”

“If I get to Paris.”

“You are impossible. Why should you not get to Paris?”

“You think I’m a fool.”

“I think perhaps you are tired. Your wound …”

“It was only a graze.”

“Ah, but it is not the size of the wound. It is the shock.”

He wanted suddenly to laugh. It was true what she was saying. He hadn’t really got over that hellish night with Kopeikin and Haki. His nerves were on edge. He was worrying unnecessarily. He said: “When we get to Paris, Josette, I shall give you the best dinner it is possible to buy.”

She came close to him. “I don’t want you to give me anything,
chéri
. I want you to like me. You
do
like me?”

“Of course I like you. I told you so.”

“Yes, you told me so.”

His left hand touched the belt on her coat. Her body moved suddenly pressing against his. The next moment his arms were round her and he was kissing her.

When his arms grew tired, she leaned back, half against him, half against the rail.

“Do you feel better,
chéri
?”

“Yes, I feel better.”

“Then I will have a cigarette.”

He gave her the cigarette and she looked at him across the light of the match. “Are you thinking of this lady in England who is your wife?”

“No.”

“But you
will
think of her?”

“If you keep talking about her I shall have to think about her.”

“I see. For you I am part of the journey from Istanbul to London. Like Mr. Kuvetli.”

“Not quite like Mr. Kuvetli. I shan’t kiss Mr. Kuvetli if I can help it.”

“What do you think about me?”

“I think that you’re very attractive. I like your hair and your eyes and the scent you use.”

“That is very nice. Shall I tell you something,
chéri?”

“What?”

She began to speak very softly. “This boat is very small; the cabins are very small; the walls are very thin; and there are people everywhere.”

“Yes?”

“Paris is very large and there are nice hotels there with big rooms and thick walls. One need not see anyone one does not wish to see. And do you know,
chéri
, that if one is making a journey from Istanbul to London and one arrives in Paris, it is sometimes necessary to wait a week before continuing the journey?”

“That’s a long time.”

“It is because of the war, you see. There are always difficulties. People have to wait days and days for permission to leave France. There is a special stamp that must be put in your passport, and they will not let you on the train to England until you have that stamp. You have to go to the Préfecture for it and there is a great deal of
chi-chi
. You have to stay in Paris until the old women in the Préfecture can find time to deal with your application.”

“Very annoying.”

She sighed. “We could pass that week or ten days very
nicely. I do not mean at the Hotel des Belges. That is a dirty place. But there is the Ritz Hotel and the Lancaster Hotel and the Georges Cinque.…” She paused and he knew that he was expected to say something.

He said it. “And the Crillon and the Meurice.”

She squeezed his arm. “You are very nice. But you understand me? An apartment is cheaper, but for so little time that is impossible. One cannot enjoy oneself in a cheap hotel. All the same I do not like extravagance. There are nice hotels for less than it costs at the Ritz or the Georges Cinque and one has more money to spend on eating and dancing at nice places. Even in war time there are nice places.” The burning end of her cigarette made an impatient gesture. “But I must not talk about money. You will make the old women at the Préfecture give you your permit too soon and then I shall be disappointed.”

He said: “You know, Josette, I shall begin in a minute to think that you are really serious.”

“And you think that I am not?” She was indignant.

“I’m quite sure of it.”

She burst out laughing. “You can be rude very politely. I shall tell José that. It will amuse him.”

“I don’t think I want to amuse José. Shall we go down?”

“Ah, you are angry! You think that I have been making a fool of you.”

“Not a bit.”

“Then kiss me.”

Some moments later she said softly: “I like you very much. I would not mind very much a room for fifty francs a day. But the Hotel des Belges is terrible. I do not want to go back there. You are not angry with me?”

“No, I am not angry with you.” Her body was soft and warm and infinitely yielding. She had made him feel as if Banat and the rest of the journey really did not matter. He felt both grateful to and sorry for her. He made up his mind that, when he got to Paris, he would buy her a handbag and slip a thousand franc note in it before he gave it to her. He said: “It’s all right. You needn’t go back to the Hotel des Belges.”

When at last they went down to the saloon it was after ten. José and Mr. Kuvetli were there playing cards.

José was playing with thin-lipped concentration and took no notice of them; but Mr. Kuvetli looked up. His smile was sickly.

“Madame,” he said ruefully, “your husband plays cards very well.”

“He has had a lot of practice.”

“Ah, yes, I am sure.” He played a card. José slapped another one on top of it triumphantly. Mr. Kuvetli’s face fell.

“It is my game,” said José and gathered up some money from the table. “You have lost eighty-four lire. If we had been playing for lire instead of centesimi I should have won eight thousand four hundred lire. That would be interesting. Shall we play another game?”

“I think that I will go to bed now,” said Mr. Kuvetli hurriedly. “Good night, Messieurs-dame.” He went.

José sucked his teeth as if the game had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “Everyone goes to bed early on this filthy boat,” he said. “It is very boring.” He looked up at Graham. “Do you want to play?”

“I’m sorry to say that I must go to bed, too.”

José shrugged. “Very well. Good-bye.” He glanced at Josette and began to deal two hands. “I will play a game with you.”

She looked at Graham and smiled hopelessly. “If I do not he will be disagreeable. Good night, Monsieur.”

Graham smiled and said good night. He was not unrelieved.

He got to his cabin feeling a good deal more cheerful than he had felt when he had left it earlier in the evening.

How sensible she was! And how stupid he’d been! With men like Banat it was dangerous to be subtle. If a dog saw that you were nervous, he bit you. From now on he would carry the revolver. What was more, he would use it if Banat tried any funny business. You had to meet force with force.

He bent down to pull his suitcase from under the bunk. He was going to get the revolver out then and there.

Suddenly he stopped. For an instant his nostrils had caught the sweet cloying smell of attar of roses.

The smell had been faint, almost imperceptible, and he could not detect it again. For a moment he remained motionless, telling himself that he must have imagined it. Then panic seized him.

With shaking fingers he tore at the latches on the suitcase and flung back the lid.

The revolver was gone.

H
E UNDRESSED SLOWLY
, got into his bunk and lay there staring at the cracks in the asbestos round a steam pipe which crossed the ceiling. He could taste Josette’s lipstick in his mouth. The taste was all that was left to remind him of the self-assurance with which he had returned to the cabin; the self-assurance which had been swept away by fear welling up into his mind like blood from a severed artery; fear that clotted, paralysing thought. Only his senses seemed alive.

On the other side of the partition, Mathis finished brushing his teeth and there was a lot of grunting and creaking as he clambered into the upper berth. At last he lay back with a sigh.

“Another day!”

“So much the better. Is the porthole open?”

“Unmistakably. There is a very disagreeable current of air on my back.”

“We do not want to be ill like the Englishman.”

“That was nothing to do with the air. It was seasickness. He would not admit it because it would not be correct for an Englishman to be seasick. The English like to think that they are all great sailors. He is
drôle
but I like him.”

“That is because he listens to your nonsense. He is polite—too polite. He and that German greet each other now as if they were friends.
That
is not correct. If this Gallindo …”

“Oh, we have talked enough about him.”

“Signora Beronelli said that he knocked against her on the stairs and went on without apologising.”

“He is a filthy type.”

There was a silence. Then:

“Robert!”

“I am nearly asleep.”

“You remember that I said that the husband of Signora Beronelli was killed in the earthquake?”

“What about it?”

“I talked to her this evening. It is a terrible story. It was not the earthquake that killed him. He was shot.”

“Why?”

“She does not wish everyone to know. You must say nothing of it.”

“Well?”