Journey Into Fear

CHAPTER TEN

As Mr. Kuvetli had prophesied, Graham did feel better in the morning. Sitting up in his bunk drinking his coffee, he felt curiously free and competent. The disease from which he had been suffering was cured. He was himself again: well and normal. He had been a fool to worry at all. He ought to have known that everything would be all right. War or no war, men like him weren’t shot in the street. That sort of thing just didn’t happen. Only the adolescent minds of the Moellers and the Banats could entertain such possibilities. He had no misgivings. Even his hand was better. In the night the bandage had slipped, taking with it the bloody dressing which had been sticking to the wound. He was able to replace it with a piece of lint and two short strips of adhesive plaster. The change, he felt, was symbolic. Not even the knowledge that in the day before him he had some highly disagreeable things to do, could depress him.

The first thing he had to consider was, of course, his attitude towards Moeller. As Mr. Kuvetli had pointed out, it was possible that the man would wait until the evening before making any attempt to find out if the line he had put out the previous evening had caught the fish. That meant that he, Graham, would have to sit through two meals with Moeller and Banat without giving himself away. That, certainly, would not be pleasant. He wondered whether it might not be safer to approach Moeller at once. It would, after all, be far more convincing if the victim made the first move. Or would it be less convincing? Should the fish still be struggling on the hook when the line was reeled in? Evidently Mr. Kuvetli thought that it should. Very well. Mr. Kuvetli’s instructions should be followed exactly. The questions of how he was going to behave at lunch and dinner could be left to settle themselves when those times came. As for the actual interview with Moeller, he had ideas about making that convincing. Moeller should not have things all his own way. Rather to his surprise, he found that it was the thought of what he had to do about Josette which worried him most.

He was, he told himself, treating her shabbily. She had been kind to him in her way. Indeed, she could not have been kinder. It was no excuse to say that she had behaved badly over that business of José’s revolver. It had been unfair of him to ask her to steal for him: José was, after all, her partner. It would not even be possible now for him to give her that handbag with a thousand-franc note in it, unless he left it for her on his way through Paris, and it was always possible that she would not go to the Hotel des Belges. It was no good protesting that she was out for what she could get. She had made no secret of the fact and he had tacitly accepted it. He was treating her shabbily, he told himself again. It was an attempt to rationalise his feelings about her and it was strangely unsuccessful. He was perplexed.

He did not see her until just before lunch, and then she was with José.

It was a wretched day. The sky was overcast and there was an icy north-east wind with a hint of snow in it. He had spent most of the morning in a corner of the saloon reading some old copies of L’Illustration he found there. Mr. Kuvetli had seen and looked through him. He had spoken to no one except the Beronellis, who had given him a defensive “buon giorno,” and the Mathis, who had returned his greeting with a frigid bow. He had thought it necessary to explain to the Mathis that his rudeness of the previous evening had been unintentional and due to his feeling ill at the time. The explanation had been accepted by them with some embarrassment and it had occurred to him that they might have preferred a silent feud to an apology. The man had been particularly confused as if he were finding himself in some way ridiculous. They had soon decided that they must go for a walk on deck. Through the porthole Graham had seen them a few minutes later walking with Mr. Kuvetli. The only other person on deck that morning had been Moeller’s Armenian demonstrating pathetically, for there was a heavy swell, that her dislike of the sea was no mere figment of her “husband’s” imagination. Soon after twelve Graham had collected his hat and coat from his cabin and gone out for the stroll which he had decided should precede the drinking of a large whisky and soda.

He was on his way back to the saloon when he encountered Josette and José.

José stopped with an oath and clutched at his curly soft hat which the wind was trying to snatch from his head.

Josette met Graham’s eyes and smiled significantly. “José is angry again. Last night he played cards and lost. It was the little Greek, Mavrodopoulos. The attar of roses was too strong for the California Poppy.”

“He is no Greek,” said José sourly. “He has the accent of a goat as well as the smell. If he is a Greek I will …” He said what he would do.

“But he can play cards, mon cher caïd.”

“He stopped playing too soon,” said José. “You need not worry. I have not finished with him.”

“Perhaps he has finished with you.”

“He must be a very good player,” Graham put in tactfully.

José eyed him distastefully. “And what do you know about it?”

“Nothing,” retorted Graham coldly. “For all I know it may be simply that you are a very bad player.”

“You would like to play perhaps?”

“I don’t think so. Cards bore me.”

José sneered. “Ah, yes! There are better things to do, eh?” He sucked his teeth loudly.

“When he is bad-tempered,” Josette explained, “he cannot be polite. There is nothing to be done with him. He does not care what people think.”

José pursed up his mouth into an expression of saccharine sweetness. “ ‘He does not care what people think,’ ” he repeated in a high, derisive falsetto. Then his face relaxed. “What do I care what they think?” he demanded.

“You are ridiculous,” said Josette.

“If they do not like it they can stay in the lavabos,” José declared aggressively.

“It would be a small price to pay,” murmured Graham.

Josette giggled. José scowled. “I do not understand.”

Graham did not see that there was anything to be gained by explaining. He ignored José and said in English: “I was just going to have a drink. Will you come?”

She looked doubtful. “Do you wish to buy José a drink also?”

“Must I?”

“I cannot get rid of him.”

José was glowering at them suspiciously. “It is not wise to insult me,” he said.

“No one is insulting you, imbecile. Monsieur here asks us to have drinks. Do you want a drink?”

He belched. “I do not care who I drink with if we can get off this filthy deck.”

“He is so polite,” said Josette.

They had finished their drinks when the gong sounded. Graham soon found that he had been wise to leave the question of his attitude towards Moeller to answer itself. It was “Haller” who appeared in answer to the gong; a Haller who greeted Graham as if nothing had happened and who embarked almost immediately on a long account of the manifestations of An, the Sumerian sky god. Only once did he show himself to be aware of any change in his relationship with Graham. Soon after he began talking, Banat entered and sat down. Moeller paused and glanced across the table at him. Banat stared back sullenly. Moeller turned deliberately to Graham.

“Monsieur Mavrodopoulos,” he remarked, “looks as if he has been frustrated in some way, as if he has been told that he may not be able to do something that he wishes to do very badly. Don’t you think so, Mr. Graham? I wonder if he is going to be disappointed.”

Graham looked up from his plate to meet a level stare. There was no mistaking the question in the pale blue eyes. He knew that Banat, too, was watching him. He said slowly: “It would be a pleasure to disappoint Monsieur Mavrodopoulos.”

Moeller smiled and the smile reached his eyes. “So it would. Now let me see. What was I saying? Ah, yes …”

That was all; but Graham went on with his meal, knowing that one at least of the day’s problems was solved. He would not have to approach Moeller: Moeller would approach him.

But Moeller was evidently in no hurry to do so. The afternoon dragged intolerably. Mr. Kuvetli had said that they were not to have any sort of conversation and Graham deemed it advisable to plead a headache when Mathis suggested a rubber of bridge. His refusal affected the Frenchman peculiarly. There was a troubled reluctance about his acceptance of it, and he looked as if he had been about to say something important and then thought better of it. There was in his eyes the same look of unhappy confusion that Graham had seen in the morning. But Graham wondered about it only for a few seconds. He was not greatly interested in the Mathis.

Moeller, Banat, Josette and José had gone to their cabins immediately after lunch. Signora Beronelli had been induced to make the fourth with the Mathis and Mr. Kuvetli and appeared to be enjoying herself. Her son sat by her watching her jealously. Graham returned in desperation to the magazines. Towards five o’clock, however, the bridge four showed signs of disintegrating and, to avoid being drawn into a conversation with Mr. Kuvetli, Graham went out on deck.

The sun, obscured since the day before, was pouring a red glow through a thinning of the clouds just above the horizon. To the east the long, low strip of coast which had been visible earlier was already enveloped in a slate grey dusk and the lights of a town had begun to twinkle. The clouds were moving quickly as for the gathering of a storm and heavy drops of rain began to slant in on to the deck. He moved backwards out of the rain and found Mathis at his elbow. The Frenchman nodded.

“Was it a good game?” Graham asked.

“Quite good. Madame Beronelli and I lost. She is enthusiastic, but inefficient.”

“Then, except for the enthusiasm, my absence made no difference.”

Mathis smiled a little nervously. “I hope that your headache is better.”

“Much better, thank you.”

It had begun to rain in earnest now. Mathis stared out gloomily into the gathering darkness. “Filthy!” he commented.

“Yes.”

There was a pause. Then:

“I was afraid,” said Mathis suddenly, “that you did not wish to play with us. I could not blame you if such were the case. This morning you were good enough to make an apology. The true apology was due from me to you.”

He was not looking at Graham. “I am quite sure …” Graham began to mumble, but Mathis went on as if he were addressing the seagulls following the ship. “I do not always remember,” he said bitterly, “that what to some people is good or bad is to others simply boring. My wife has led me to put too much faith in the power of words.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Mathis turned his head and smiled wryly. “Do you know the word encotillonné?”

“No.”

“A man who is governed by his wife is encotillonné.”

“In English we say ‘hen-pecked.’ ”

“Ah, yes?” Obviously he did not care what was said in English. “I must tell you a joke about it. Once I was encotillonné. Oh, but very badly! Does that surprise you?”

“It does.” Graham saw that the man was dramatising himself, and was curious.

“My wife used to have a very great temper. She still has it, I think, but now I do not see it. But for the first ten years of our marriage it was terrible. I had a small business. Trade was very bad and I became bankrupt. It was not my fault, but she always pretended that it was. Has your wife a bad temper, Monsieur?”

“No. Very good.”

“You are lucky. For years I lived in misery. And then one day I made a great discovery. There was a socialist meeting in our town and I went to it. I was, you must understand, a Royalist. My family had no money, but they had a title which they would have liked to use without their neighbours sniggering. I was of my family. I went to this meeting because I was curious. The speaker was good, and he spoke about Briey. That interested me because I had been at Verdun. A week later we were with some friends in the café and I repeated what I had heard. My wife laughed in a curious way. Then when I got home I made my great discovery. I found that my wife was a snob and more stupid than I had dreamed. She said that I had humiliated her by saying such things as if I believed them. All her friends were respectable people. I must not speak as if I were a workman. She cried. I knew then that I was free. I had a weapon that I could use against her. I used it. If she displeased me I became a socialist. To the smug little tradesmen whose wives were her friends I would preach the abolition of profit and the family. I bought books and pamphlets to make my arguments more damaging. My wife became very docile. She would cook things that I liked so that I would not disgrace her.” He paused.

“You mean that you don’t believe all these things you say about Briey and banking and capitalism?” demanded Graham.

Mathis smiled faintly. “That is the joke about which I told you. For a time I was free. I could command my wife and I became more fond of her. I was a manager in a big factory. And then a terrible thing happened. I found that I had begun to believe these things I said. The books I read showed me that I had found a truth. I, a Royalist by instinct, became a socialist by conviction. Worse, I became a socialist martyr. There was a strike in the factory and I, a manager, supported the strikers. I did not belong to a union. Naturally! And so I was dismissed. It was ridiculous.” He shrugged. “So here I am! I have become a man in my home at the price of becoming a bore outside it. It is funny, is it not?”

Graham smiled. He had decided that he liked Monsieur Mathis. He said: “It would be funny if it were wholly true. But I can assure you that it was not because I was bored that I did not listen to you last night.”

“You are very polite,” began Mathis dubiously; “but …”

“Oh, there is no question of politeness. You see, I work for an armaments manufacturer, and so I have been more than interested in what you have had to say. On some points I find myself in agreement with you.”

A change came over the Frenchman’s face. He flushed slightly; a small delighted smile hovered round his lips; for the first time Graham saw the tense frown relax. “On which points do you not agree?” he demanded eagerly.

At that moment Graham realised that, whatever else had happened to him on the Sestri Levante, he had made at least one friend.

They were still arguing when Josette came out on deck. Unwillingly, Mathis interrupted what he was saying to acknowledge her presence.

“Madame.”

She wrinkled her nose at them. “What are you discussing? It must be very important that you have to stand in the rain to talk about it.”

“We were talking politics.”

“No, no!” said Mathis quickly. “Not politics, economics! Politics are the effect. We were talking about causes. But you are right. This rain is filthy. If you will excuse me, please, I will see what has happened to my wife.” He winked at Graham. “If she suspects that I am making propaganda she will not be able to sleep to-night.”

With a smile and a nod he went. Josette looked after him. “He is nice, that man. Why does he marry such a woman?”

“He is very fond of her.”

“In the way that you are fond of me?”

“Perhaps not. Would you rather we went in?”

“No. I came out for some air. It will not be so wet round on the other side of the deck.”

They began to walk round to the other side. It was dark now and the deck lights had been put on.

She took his arm. “Do you realise that to-day we have not really seen each other until now? No! Of course you do not realise it! You have been amusing yourself with politics. It does not matter that I am worried.”

“Worried? What about?”

“This man who wants to kill you, imbecile! You do not tell me what you are going to do at Genoa.”

He shrugged. “I’ve taken your advice. I’m not troubling about him.”

“But you will go to the British Consul?”

“Yes.” The moment had come when he must do some really steady lying. “I shall go straight there. Afterwards I shall have to see one or two people on business. The train does not leave until two o’clock in the afternoon, so I think that I shall have time. We can meet on the train.”

She sighed. “So much business! But I shall see you for lunch, eh?”

“I’m afraid it’s unlikely. If we did arrange to meet I might not be able to keep the appointment. It’ll be best if we meet on the train.”

She turned her head a little sharply. “You are telling me the truth? You are not saying this because you have changed your mind?”

“My dear Josette!” He had opened his mouth to explain again that he had business to attend to, but had stopped himself in time. He must not protest too much.

She pressed his arm. “I did not mean to be disagreeable, chéri. It is only that I wish to be sure. We will meet at the train if you wish it. We can have a drink together at Torino. We reach there at four and stop for half an hour. It is because of the coaches from Milano. There are some nice places to drink in Torino. After the ship here it will be wonderful.”

“It’ll be splendid. What about José?”

“Ah, it does not matter about him. Let him drink by himself. After the way he was rude to you this morning, I do not care what José does. Tell me about the letters you are writing. Are they all finished?”

“I shall finish them this evening.”

“And after that, no more work?”

“After that, no more work.” He felt that he could not stand much more of this. He said: “You’ll get cold if we stay out here much longer. Shall we go inside?”

She stopped and withdrew her arm from his so that he could kiss her. Her back was taut as she strained her body against his. Seconds later she drew away from him, laughing. “I must remember,” she said, “not to say ‘whisky-soda,’ but ‘whisky and soda’ now. That is very important, eh?”

“Very important.”

She squeezed his arm. “You are nice. I like you very much, chéri.”

They began to walk back towards the saloon. He was grateful for the dimness of the lights.

He did not have long to wait for Moeller. The German agent had been in the habit of leaving the table and going to his cabin as soon as a meal was finished. Tonight, however, Banat was the first to go, evidently by arrangement; and the monologue continued until the Beronellis had followed him. It was an account of comparisons made between the Sumero-Babylonian liturgies and the ritual forms of certain Mesopotamian fertility cults and it was with unmistakable triumph that he at last brought it to an end. “You must admit, Mr. Graham,” he added, lowering his voice, “that I have done extremely well to remember so much. Naturally, I made a few mistakes, and a good deal was lost, I have no doubt, in my translation. The author would probably fail to recognize it. But to the uninitiated I should say it would be most convincing.”

“I have been wondering why you have taken so much trouble. You might have been talking Chinese for all the Beronellis knew or cared.”

Moeller looked pained. “I was not talking for the Beronellis, but for my own private satisfaction. How stupid it is to say that the memory fails with the approach of old age. Would you think that I am sixty-six?”

“I’m not interested in your age.”

“No, of course not. Perhaps we could have a private talk. I suggest that we take a walk together on deck. It is raining, but a little rain will not hurt us.”

“My coat is on the chair over there.”

“Then I will meet you on the top deck in a few minutes’ time.”

Graham was waiting at the head of the companionway when Moeller came up. They moved into the lee of one of the lifeboats.

Moeller came straight to the point.

“I gather that you have seen Kuvetli.”

“I have,” said Graham grimly.

“Well?”

“I have decided to take your advice.”

“At Kuvetli’s suggestion?”

This, Graham reflected, was not going to be as easy as he had thought. He answered: “At my own. I was not impressed by him. Frankly, I was amazed. That the Turkish Government should have put such a fool of a man on the job seems to me incredible.”

“What makes you think he is a fool?”

“He seems to think that you are making some attempt to bribe me and that I am inclined to accept the money. He threatened to expose me to the British Government. When I suggested that I might be in some personal danger he seemed to think that I was trying to trick him in some stupid way. If that’s your idea of a clever man, I’m sorry for you.”

“Perhaps he is not used to dealing with the English brand of self-esteem,” Moeller retorted acidly. “When did this meeting take place?”

“Last night, soon after I saw you.”

“And did he mention me by name?”

“Yes. He warned me against you.”

“And how did you treat the warning?”

“I said that I would report his behaviour to Colonel Haki. He did not, I must say, seem to care. But if I had any idea of securing his protection, I gave it up. I don’t trust him. Besides, I don’t see why I should risk my life for people who treat me as if I were some sort of criminal.”

He paused. He could not see Moeller’s face in the darkness but he felt that the man was satisfied.

“And so you’ve decided to accept my suggestion?”

“Yes, I have. But,” Graham went on, “before we go any farther, there are one or two things I want to get clear.”

“Well?”

“In the first place, there is this man Kuvetli. He’s a fool, as I’ve said, but he’ll have to be put off the scent somehow.”

“You need have no fears.” Graham thought he detected a note of contempt in the smooth heavy voice. “Kuvetli will cause no trouble. It will be easy to give him the slip in Genoa. The next thing he will hear of you is that you are suffering from typhus. He will be unable to prove anything to the contrary.”

Graham was relieved. Obviously, Moeller thought him a fool. He said doubtfully: “Yes, I see. That’s all right, but what about this typhus? If I’m going to be taken ill I’ve got to be taken ill properly. If I were really taken ill I should probably be on the train when it happened.”

Moeller sighed. “I see that you’ve been thinking very seriously, Mr. Graham. Let me explain. If you were really infected with typhus you would already be feeling unwell. There is an incubation period of a week or ten days. You would not, of course, know what was the matter with you. By to-morrow you would be feeling worse. It would be logical for you to shrink from spending the night in a train. You would probably go to an hotel for the night. Then, in the morning, when your temperature began to rise and the characteristics of the disease became apparent, you would be removed to a clinic.”

“Then we shall go to an hotel to-morrow?”

“Exactly. There will be a car waiting for us. But I advise you to leave the arrangements to me, Mr. Graham. Remember, I am just as interested as you are in seeing that nobody’s suspicions are aroused.”

Graham affected to ponder this. “All right then,” he said at last. “I’ll leave it to you. I don’t want to be fussy, but you can understand that I don’t want to have any trouble when I get home.”

There was a silence and for a moment he thought that he had overacted. Then Moeller said slowly: “You have no reason to worry. We shall be waiting for you outside the Customs shed. As long as you do not attempt to do anything foolish-you might, for example, decide to change your mind about your holiday-everything will go smoothly. I can assure you that you will have no trouble when you get home.”

“As long as that’s understood.”

“Is there anything else you want to say?”

“No. Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Graham. Until to-morrow.”

Graham waited until Moeller had reached the deck below. Then he drew a deep breath. It was over. He was safe. All he had to do now was to go to his cabin, get a good night’s sleep and wait for Mr. Kuvetli in cabin number four. He felt suddenly very tired. His body was aching as if he had been working too hard. He made his way down to his cabin. It was as he passed the landing door of the saloon that he saw Josette.

She was sitting on one of the banquettes watching José and Banat playing cards. Her hands were on the edge of the seat and she was leaning forward, her lips parted slightly, her hair falling across her cheeks. There was something about the pose that reminded him of the moment, years ago it seemed, when he had followed Kopeikin into her dressing-room at Le Jockey Cabaret. He half expected her to raise her head and turn towards him, smiling.

He realized suddenly that he was seeing her for the last time, that before another day had passed he would be for her merely a disagreeable memory, someone who had treated her badly. The realization was sharp and strangely painful. He told himself that he was being absurd, that it had always been impossible for him to stay with her in Paris and that he had known it all along. Why should the leave-taking trouble him now? And yet it did trouble him. A phrase came into his head: “to part is to die a little.” He knew suddenly that it was not Josette of whom he was taking his leave, but of something of himself. In the back streets of his mind a door was slowly closing for the last time. She had complained that for him she was just a part of the journey from Istanbul to London. There was more to it than that. She was part of the world beyond the door: the world into which he had stepped when Banat had fired those three shots at him in the Adler-Palace: the world in which you recognised the ape beneath the velvet. Now he was on his way back to his own world; to his house and his car and the friendly, agreeable woman he called his wife. It would be exactly the same as when he had left it. Nothing would be changed in that world; nothing, except himself.

He went on down to his cabin.

He slept fitfully. Once he awoke with a start, believing that someone was opening the door of his cabin. Then he remembered that the door was bolted and concluded that he had been dreaming. When next he awoke, the engines had stopped and the ship was no longer rolling. He switched on the light and saw that the time was a quarter past four. They had arrived at the entrance to Genoa harbour. After a while he heard the chugging of a small boat and a fainter clatter from the deck above. There were voices too. He tried to distinguish Mr. Kuvetli’s among them, but they were too muffled. He dozed.

He had told the steward to bring coffee at seven. Towards six, however, he decided that it was useless to try to sleep any more. He was already dressed when the steward arrived.

He drank his coffee, put the remainder of his things in his case and sat down to wait. Mr. Kuvetli had told him to go into the empty cabin at eight o’clock. He had promised himself that he would obey Mr. Kuvetli’s instructions to the letter. He listened to the Mathis arguing over their packing.

At about a quarter to eight the ship began to move in. Another five minutes and he rang for the steward. By five to eight the steward had been, received with barely concealed surprise fifty lire, and gone, taking the suitcase with him. Graham waited another minute and then opened the door.

The alleyway was empty. He walked along slowly to number four, stopped as if he had forgotten something, and half turned. The coast was still clear. He opened the door, stepped quickly into the cabin, shut the door, and turned round.

The next moment he almost fainted.

Lying across the floor with his legs under the lower berth and his head covered with blood, was Mr. Kuvetli.