Journey Into Fear

CHAPTER SIX

Graham stood there motionless. His body was tingling as if some violent mechanical shock had been transmitted to it through his heels. He heard Mathis’ voice a long way away, asking him what the matter was.

He said: “I don’t feel well. Will you excuse me, please?”

He saw apprehension flicker over the Frenchman’s face and thought: “He thinks I’m going to be sick.” But he did not wait for Mathis to say anything. He turned and, without looking again at the man by the saloon door, walked to the door at the other end of the deck and went below to his cabin.

He locked the door when he got inside. He was shaking from head to foot. He sat down on the bunk and tried to pull himself together. He told himself: “There’s no need to get worried. There’s a way out of this. You’ve got to think.”

Somehow Banat had discovered that he was on the Sestri Levante. It could not have been very difficult. An inquiry made at the Wagon-Lit and shipping company offices would have been enough. The man had then taken a ticket for Sofia, left the train when it crossed the Greek frontier, and taken another train via Salonika to Athens.

He pulled Kopeikin’s telegram out of his pocket and stared at it. “All well!” The fools! The bloody fools! He’d distrusted this ship business from the start. He ought to have relied on his instinct and insisted on seeing the British Consul. If it had not been for that conceited imbecile Haki … But now he was caught like a rat in a trap. Banat wouldn’t miss twice. My God, no! The man was a professional murderer. He would have his reputation to consider-to say nothing of his fee.

A curious but vaguely familiar feeling began to steal over him: a feeling that was dimly associated with the smell of antiseptics and the singing of a kettle. With a sudden rush of horror, he remembered. It had happened years ago. They had been trying out an experimental fourteen-inch gun on the proving ground. The second time they fired it, it had burst. There had been something wrong with the breech mechanism. It had killed two men outright and badly injured a third. This third man had looked like a great clot of blood lying there on the concrete. But the clot of blood had screamed: screamed steadily until the ambulance had come and a doctor had used a hypodermic. It had been a thin, high, inhuman sound; just like the singing of a kettle. The doctor had said that the man was unconscious even though he was screaming. Before they had examined the remains of the gun, the concrete had been swabbed down with a solution of lysol. He hadn’t eaten any lunch. In the afternoon it had begun to rain. He …

He realised suddenly that he was swearing. The words were dropping from his lips in a steady stream: a meaningless succession of obscenities. He stood up quickly. He was losing his head. Something had got to be done; and done quickly. If he could get off the ship …

He wrenched the cabin door open and went out into the alleyway. The Purser was the man to see first. The Purser’s office was on the same deck. He went straight to it.

The door of the office was ajar and the Purser, a tall, middle-aged Italian with the stump of a cigar in his mouth, was sitting in his shirt-sleeves before a typewriter and a stack of copies of Bills of Lading. He was copying details of the Bills on to the ruled sheet in the typewriter. He looked up with a frown as Graham knocked. He was busy.

“Signore?”

“Do you speak English?”

“No, Signore.” “French?”

“Yes. What is it you wish?”

“I want to see the Captain at once.”

“For what reason, Monsieur?”

“It is absolutely necessary that I am put ashore immediately.”

The Purser put his cigar down and turned in his swivel chair.

“My French is not very good,” he said calmly. “Do you mind repeating …?”

“I want to be put ashore.”

“Monsieur Graham, is it?”

“Yes.”

“I regret, Monsieur Graham. It is too late. The pilot boat has gone. You should have …”

“I know. But it is absolutely necessary that I go ashore now. No, I am not mad. I realise that under ordinary circumstances it would be out of the question. But the circumstances are exceptional. I am ready to pay for the loss of time and the inconvenience caused.”

The Purser looked bewildered. “But why? Are you ill?”

“No, I …” He stopped and could have bitten his tongue off. There was no doctor aboard and the threat of some infectious disease might have been sufficient. But it was too late now. “If you will arrange for me to see the Captain at once, I will explain why. I can assure you that my reasons are good ones.”

“I am afraid,” said the Purser stiffly, “that it is out of the question. You do not understand …”

“All I am asking,” interrupted Graham desperately, “is that you put back a short way and ask for a pilot boat. I am willing and able to pay.”

The Purser smiled in an exasperated way. “This is a ship, Monsieur, not a taxi. We carry cargo and run to a schedule. You are not ill and …”

“I have already said that my reasons are excellent. If you will allow me to see the Captain …”

“It is quite useless to argue, Monsieur. I do not doubt your willingness or ability to pay the cost of a boat from the harbour. Unfortunately that is not the important thing. You say that you are not ill but that you have reasons. As you can only have thought of those reasons within the last ten minutes, you must not be angry if I say that they cannot be of very grave importance. Let me assure you, Monsieur, that nothing but proved and evident reasons of life and death will suffice to stop any ship for the convenience of one passenger. Naturally, if you can give me any such reasons I will place them before the Captain immediately. If not, then I am afraid your reasons must wait until we get to Genoa.”

“I assure you …”

The Purser smiled sorrowfully. “I do not question the good faith of your assurances, Monsieur, but I regret to say that we need more than assurances.”

“Very well,” snapped Graham, “since you insist on details I will tell you. I have just found that there is a man on this ship who is here for the express purpose of murdering me.”

The Purser’s face went blank. “Indeed, Monsieur?”

“Yes, I …” Something in the man’s eyes stopped him. “I suppose you’ve decided that I’m either mad or drunk,” he concluded.

“Not at all, Monsieur.” But what he was thinking was as plain as a pikestaff. He was thinking that Graham was just another of the poor lunatics with whom his work sometimes brought him in contact. They were a nuisance, because they wasted time. But he was tolerant. It was useless to be angry with a lunatic. Besides, dealing with them always seemed to emphasize his own sanity and intelligence: the sanity and intelligence which, had the owners been less short sighted, would long ago have taken him to a seat on the board of directors. And they made good stories to tell his friends when he got home. “Imagine, Beppo! There was this Englishman, looking sane but really mad. He thought that someone was trying to murder him! Imagine! It is the whisky, you know. I said to him …” But meanwhile he would have to be humoured, to be dealt with tactfully. “Not at all, Monsieur,” he repeated.

Graham began to lose control of his temper. “You asked me for my reasons. I am giving them to you.”

“And I am listening carefully, Monsieur.”

“There is someone on this ship who is here to murder me.”

“And his name, Monsieur?”

“Banat. B-A-N-A-T. He is a Roumanian. He …”

“One moment, Monsieur.” The Purser got a sheet of paper out of a drawer and ran a pencil down the names on it with ostentatious care. Then he looked up. “There is no one of that name or nationality on the ship, Monsieur.”

“I was about to tell you, when you interrupted me, that the man is travelling on a false passport.”

“Then, please …”

“He is the passenger who came aboard this afternoon.”

The Purser looked at the paper again. “Cabin number nine. That is Monsieur Mavrodopoulos. He is a Greek business man.”

“That may be what his passport says. His real name is Banat and he is a Roumanian.”

The Purser remained polite with obvious difficulty. “Have you any proof of that, Monsieur?”

“If you radio Colonel Haki of the Turkish police at Istanbul, he will confirm what I say.”

“This is an Italian ship, Monsieur. We are not in Turkish territorial waters. We can refer such a matter only to the Italian police. In any case, we carry wireless only for navigational purposes. This is not the Rex or the Conte di Savoia, you understand. This matter must be left until we reach Genoa. The police there will deal with your accusation concerning the passport.”

“I don’t care a damn about his passport,” said Graham violently. “I’m telling you that the man intends to kill me.”

“And why?”

“Because he has been paid to do so; that is why. Now do you understand?”

The Purser got to his feet. He had been tolerant. Now the time had come to be firm. “No, Monsieur, I do not understand.”

“Then if you cannot understand, let me speak to the Captain.”

“That will not be necessary, Monsieur. I understand enough.” He looked Graham in the eyes. “In my opinion there are two charitable explanations of this matter. Either you have mistaken this Monsieur Mavrodopoulos for someone else, or you have had a bad dream. If it is the former, I advise you not to repeat your mistake to anyone else. I am discreet, but if Monsieur Mavrodopoulos should hear of it he might regard it as a reflection upon his honour. If it is the second, I suggest that you lie down in your cabin for a while. And remember that nobody is going to murder you on this ship. There are too many people about.”

“But don’t you see …?” shouted Graham.

“I see,” said the Purser grimly, “that there is another less charitable explanation of this matter. You may have invented this story simply because for some private reason you wish to be put ashore. If that is true, I am sorry. It is a ridiculous story. In any case, the ship stops at Genoa and not before. And now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”

“I demand to see the Captain.”

“If you will close the door as you leave,” said the Purser happily.

Almost sick with anger and fear, Graham went back to his cabin.

He lit a cigarette and tried to think reasonably. He should have gone straight to the Captain. He could still go straight to the Captain. For a moment he considered doing so. If he … But it would be useless and unnecessarily humiliating. The Captain, even if he could get to him and make him understand, would probably receive his story with even less sympathy. And he would still have no proof that what he said was true. Even if he could persuade the Captain that there was some truth in what he was saying, that he was not, in fact, suffering from some form of delusional insanity, the answer would be the same: “Nobody is going to murder you on this ship. There are too many people about.”

Too many people about! They did not know Banat. The man who had walked into a police official’s house in broad daylight, shot the official and his wife and then calmly walked out again, was not going to be unnerved so easily. Passengers had disappeared from ships in mid-ocean before. Sometimes their bodies had been washed ashore, and sometimes they hadn’t. Sometimes the disappearances had been explained, and sometimes they hadn’t. What would there be to connect this disappearance of an English engineer (who had behaved very queerly) from a ship at sea with Mr. Mavrodopoulos, a Greek business man? Nothing. And even if the body of the English engineer were washed ashore before the fish had rendered it unidentifiable and it were found that he had been killed before he had entered the water, who was going to prove that Mr. Mavrodopoulos-if by that time there were anything left of Mr. Mavrodopoulos but the ashes of his passport-had been responsible for the killing? Nobody.

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.

Banat walked slowly over to the bar.

“Bon soir, Monsieur,” said Mr. Kuvetli.

“Bon soir.” It was grunted almost inaudibly as if he were anxious not to commit himself to accepting something he did not want. He reached the bar and murmured something to the steward.

He had passed close to Madame Mathis and Graham saw her frown. Then he himself caught the smell of scent. It was attar of roses and very strong. He remembered Colonel Haki’s question as to whether he had noticed any perfume in his room at the Adler-Palace after the attacks. Here was the explanation. The man reeked of scent. The smell of it would stay with the things he touched.

“Are you going far, Monsieur?” said Mr. Kuvetli.

The man eyed him. “No. Genoa.”

“It is a beautiful city.”

Banat turned without answering to the drink the steward had poured out for him. He had not once looked at Graham.

“You are not looking well,” said Josette severely. “I do not think you are sincere when you say that you are only tired.”

“You are tired?” said Mr. Kuvetli in French. “Ah, it is my fault. Always with ancient monuments it is necessary to walk.” He seemed to have given Banat up as a bad job.

“Oh, I enjoyed the walk.”

“It is the ventilation,” Madame Mathis repeated stubbornly.

“There is,” conceded her husband, “a certain stuffiness.” He addressed himself very pointedly to exclude José from his audience. “But what can one expect for so little money?”

“So little!” exclaimed José. “That is very good. It is quite expensive enough for me. I am not a millionaire.”

Mathis flushed angrily. “There are more expensive ways of travelling from Istanbul to Genoa.”

“There is always a more expensive way of doing anything,” retorted José.

Josette said quickly: “My husband always exaggerates.”

“Travelling is very expensive to-day,” pronounced Mr. Kuvetli.

“But …”

The argument rambled on, pointless and stupid; a mask for the antagonism between José and the Mathis. Graham listened with half his mind. He knew that sooner or later Banat must look at him and he wanted to see that look. Not that it would tell him anything that he did not already know, but he wanted to see it just the same. He could look at Mathis and yet see Banat out of the corner of his eye. Banat raised the glass of brandy to his lips and drank some of it; then, as he put the glass down, he looked directly at Graham.

Graham leaned back in his chair.

“… but,” Mathis was saying, “compare the service one receives. On the train there is a couchette in a compartment with others. One sleeps-perhaps. There is waiting at Belgrade for the coaches from Bucharest and at Trieste for the coaches from Budapest. There are passport examinations in the middle of the night and terrible food in the day. There is the noise and there is the dust and soot. I cannot conceive …”

Graham drained his glass. Banat was inspecting him: secretly, as the hangman inspects the man whom he is to execute the following morning; mentally weighing him, looking at his neck, calculating the drop.

“Travelling is very expensive to-day,” said Mr. Kuvetli again.

At that moment the dinner gong sounded. Banat put his glass down and went out of the room. The Mathis followed. Graham saw that Josette was looking at him curiously. He got to his feet. There was a smell of food coming from the kitchen. The Italian woman and her son came in and sat down at the table. The thought of food made him feel ill.

“You are sure you feel well?” said Josette as they went to the dinner tables. “You do not look it.”

“Quite sure.” He cast about desperately for something else to say and uttered the first words that came into his head: “Madame Mathis is right. The ventilation is not good. Perhaps we could walk on deck after dinner is over.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Ah, now I know that you cannot be well! You are polite. But very well, I will go with you.”

He smiled fatuously, went on to his table, and exchanged reserved greetings with the two Italians. It was not until he sat down that he noticed that an extra place had been laid beside them.

His first impulse was to get up and walk out. The fact that Banat was on the ship was bad enough: to have to eat at the same table would be intolerable. But everything depended upon his behaving normally. He would have to stay. He must try and think of Banat as Monsieur Mavrodopoulos, a Greek business man, whom he had never seen or heard of before. He must …

Haller came in and sat down beside him. “Good evening, Mr. Graham. And did you enjoy Athens this afternoon?”

“Yes, thanks. Mr. Kuvetli was suitably impressed.”

“Ah, yes, of course. You were doing duty as a guide. You must be feeling tired.”

“To tell you the truth, my courage failed me. I hired a car. The chauffeur did the guiding. As Mr. Kuvetli speaks fluent Greek, the whole thing went off quite satisfactorily.”

“He speaks Greek and yet he has never been to Athens?”

“It appears that he was born in Smyrna. Apart from that, I regret to say, I discovered nothing. My own private opinion is that he is a bore.”

“That is disappointing. I had hopes … However, it cannot be helped. To tell you the truth, I wished afterwards that I had come with you. You went up to the Parthenon, of course.”

“Yes.”

Haller smiled apologetically. “When you reach my age you sometimes think of the approach of death. I thought this afternoon how much I would have liked to have seen the Parthenon just once more. I doubt if I shall have another opportunity of doing so. I used to spend hours standing in the shade by the Propylæa looking at it and trying to understand the men who built it. I was young then and did not know how difficult it is for Western man to understand the dream-heavy classical soul. They are so far apart. The god of superlative shape has been replaced by the god of superlative force and between the two conceptions there is all space. The destiny idea symbolised by the Doric columns is incomprehensible to the children of Faust. For us …” He broke off. “Excuse me. I see that we have another passenger, I suppose that he is to sit here.”

Graham forced himself to look up.

Banat had come in and was standing looking at the tables. The steward, carrying plates of soup, appeared behind him and motioned him towards the place next to the Italian woman. Banat approached, looked round the table, and sat down. He nodded to them, smiling slightly.

“Mavrodopoulos,” he said. “Je parle français un petit peu.”

His voice was toneless and husky and he spoke with a slight lisp. The smell of attar of roses came across the table.

Graham nodded distantly. Now that the moment had come he felt quite calm.

Haller’s look of strangled disgust was almost funny. He said pompously: “Haller. Beside you are Signora and Signor Beronelli. This is Monsieur Graham.”

Banat nodded to them again and said: “I have travelled a long way to-day. From Salonika.”

Graham made an effort. “I should have thought,” he said, “that it would have been easier to go to Genoa by train from Salonika.” He felt oddly breathless as he said it and his voice sounded strange in his own ears.

There was a bowl of raisins in the centre of the table and Banat put some in his mouth before replying. “I don’t like trains,” he said shortly. He looked at Haller. “You are a German, Monsieur?”

Haller frowned. “I am.”

“It is a good country, Germany.” He turned his attention to Signora Beronelli. “Italy is good, too.” He took some more raisins.

The woman smiled and inclined her head. The boy looked angry.

“And what,” said Graham, “do you think about England?”

The small tired eyes stared into his coldly. “I have never seen England.” The eyes wandered away round the table. “When I was last in Rome,” he said, “I saw a magnificent parade of the Italian army with guns and armoured cars and aeroplanes.” He swallowed his raisins. “The aeroplanes were a great sight and made one think of God.”

“And why should they do that, Monsieur?” demanded Haller. Evidently he did not like Monsieur Mavrodopoulos.

“They made one think of God. That is all I know. You feel it in the stomach. A thunderstorm makes one think of God, too. But these aeroplanes were better than a storm. They shook the air like paper.”

Watching the full self-conscious lips enunciating these absurdities, Graham wondered if an English jury, trying the man for murder, would find him insane. Probably not: he killed for money; and the Law did not think that a man who killed for money was insane. And yet he was insane. His was the insanity of the sub-conscious mind running naked, of the “throw back,” of the mind which could discover the majesty of God in thunder and lightning, the roar of bombing planes, or the firing of a five hundred pound shell; the awe-inspired insanity of the primæval swamp. Killing, for this man, could be a business. Once, no doubt, he had been surprised that people should be prepared to pay so handsomely for the doing of something they could do so easily for themselves. But, of course, he would have ended by concluding, with other successful business men, that he was cleverer than his fellows. His mental approach to the business of killing would be that of the lavatory attendant to the business of attending to his lavatories or of the stockbroker towards the business of taking his commission: purely practical.

“Are you going to Rome now?” said Haller politely. It was the heavy politeness of an old man with a young fool.

“I go to Genoa,” said Banat.

“I understand,” said Graham, “that the thing to see at Genoa is the cemetery.”

Banat spat out a raisin seed. “That is so? Why?” Obviously, that sort of remark was not going to disconcert him.

“It is supposed to be very large, very well arranged, and planted with very fine cypresses.”

“Perhaps I shall go.”

The waiter brought soup. Haller turned rather ostentatiously to Graham and began once more to talk about the Parthenon. It seemed that he liked arranging his thoughts aloud. The resultant monologue demanded practically nothing of the listener but an occasional nod. From the Parthenon he wandered to pre-Hellenic remains, the Aryan hero tales, and the Vedic religion. Graham ate mechanically, listened, and watched Banat. The man put his food in his mouth as if he enjoyed it. Then, as he chewed, he would look round the room like a dog over a plate of scraps. There was something pathetic about him. He was-Graham realised it with a shock-pathetic in the way that a monkey, in its likeness to man, could be pathetic. He was not insane. He was an animal and dangerous.

The meal came to an end. Haller, as usual, went to his wife. Thankful for the opportunity, Graham left at the same time, got his overcoat, and went out on deck.

The wind had dropped and the roll of the ship was long and slow. She was making good speed and the water sliding along her plates was hissing and bubbling as if they were red hot. It was a cold, clear night.

The smell of attar of roses was at the back of his throat and in his nostrils. He drew the fresh unscented air into his lungs with conscious pleasure. He was, he told himself, over the first hurdle. He had sat face to face with Banat and talked to him without giving himself away. The man could not possibly suspect that he was known and understood. The rest of it would be easy. He had only to keep his head.

There was a step behind him and he swung round quickly, his nerves jumping.

It was Josette. She came towards him smiling. “Ah! So this is your politeness. You ask me to walk with you, but you do not wait for me. I have to find you. You are very bad.”

“I’m sorry. It was so stuffy in the saloon that …”

“It is not at all stuffy in the saloon, as you know perfectly well.” She linked her arm in his. “Now we will walk and you shall tell me what is really the matter.”

He looked at her quickly. “What is really the matter! What do you mean?”

She became the grande dame. “So you are not going to tell me. You will not tell me how you came to be on this ship. You will not tell me what has happened to-day to make you so nervous.”

“Nervous! But …”

“Yes, Monsieur Graham, nervous!” She abandoned the grande dame with a shrug. “I am sorry but I have seen people who are afraid before. They do not look at all like people who are tired or people who feel faint in a stuffy room. They have a special look about them. Their faces look very small and grey round the mouth and they cannot keep their hands still.” They had reached the stairs to the boat deck. She turned and looked at him. “Shall we go up?”

He nodded. He would have nodded if she had suggested that they jump overboard. He could think of only one thing. If she knew a frightened man when she saw one, then so did Banat. And if Banat had noticed.… But he couldn’t have noticed. He couldn’t. He …

They were on the boat deck now and she took his arm again.

“It is a very nice night,” she said. “I am glad that we can walk like this. I was afraid this morning that I had annoyed you. I did not really wish to go to Athens. That officer who thinks he is so nice asked me to go with him but I did not. But I would have gone if you had asked me. I do not say that to flatter you. I tell you the truth.”

“It’s very kind of you,” he muttered.

She mimicked him. “ ‘It’s very kind of you.’ Ah, you are so solemn. It is as if you did not like me.”

He managed to smile. “Oh, I like you, all right.”

“But you do not trust me? I understand. You see me dancing in Le Jockey Cabaret and you say, because you are so experienced: ‘Ah! I must be careful of this lady.’ Eh? But I am a friend. You are so silly.”

“Yes, I am silly.”

“But you do like me?”

“Yes, I like you.” A stupid, fantastic suggestion was taking root in his mind.

“Then you must trust me, also.”

“Yes, I must.” It was absurd, of course. He couldn’t trust her. Her motives were as transparent as the day. He couldn’t trust anybody. He was alone; damnably alone. If he had someone to talk to about it, it wouldn’t be so bad. Now supposing Banat had seen that he was nervous and concluded that he was on his guard. Had he or hadn’t he seen? She could tell him that.

“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.