The light of day

6

As I came off the pier, she got out of the car. She was wearing a light yellow cotton dress that did even less to obscure the shape of her body than the slacks and shirt I had seen her in the day before. She had the keys of the car in her hand, and, as I came up, she handed them to me with a friendly smile.

“Good morning, Arthur.”

“Good morning, madam. It’s good of you to meet me.”

“I want to do some sightseeing. Why don’t you put your bag in the trunk for now, then we won’t have to stop off at the villa.”

“Whatever you say, madam.” I put my bag down and went to hold the rear door open for her, but she was already walking round to the front passenger seat, so I had to scuttle round to get to that door ahead of her.

When she was installed, I hurriedly put my bag in the luggage compartment and got into the driver’s seat. I was sweating slightly, not only because it was a warm day but also because I was flustered. I had expected Fischer to meet me with the car; I had expected to go straight to the villa, to be told where I would sleep, to be given a moment to orient myself, a chance to think and time to plan. Instead, I was on my own with Miss Lipp, sitting where she had been sitting until a few moments ago, and smelling the scent she used. My hand shook a little as I put the ignition key in, and I felt I had to say something to cover my nerves.

“Isn’t Mr. Harper joining you, madam?”

“He had some business to attend to.” She was lighting a cigarette. “And by the way, Arthur,” she went on, “don’t call me madam. If you have to call me something, the name’s Lipp. Now, tell me what you have on the tour menu.”

“Is this your first time in Turkey, Miss Lipp?”

“First in a long time. All I remember from before is mosques. I don’t think I want to see any more mosques.”

“But you would like to begin with Istanbul?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did you see the Seraglio?”

“Is that the old palace where the Sultans’ harem used to be?”

“That’s it.” I smiled inwardly. When I had been a guide in Istanbul before, it had been the same. Every woman tourist was always interested in the harem. Miss Lipp, I thought to myself, was no different.

“All right,” she said, “let’s go see the Seraglio.”

I was regaining my composure now. “If I may make a suggestion.”

“Go ahead.”

“The Seraglio is organized as a museum now. If we go straight there we shall arrive before it opens. I suggest that I drive you first to the famous Pierre Loti cafe, which is high up on a hill just outside the city. There, you could have a light lunch in pleasant surroundings and I could take you to the Seraglio afterwards.”

“What time would we get there?”

“We can be there soon after one o’clock.”

“Okay, but I don’t want to be later.”

That struck me as rather odd, but I paid no attention. You do get the occasional tourist who wants to do everything by the clock. She just had not impressed me as being of that type.

I started up and drove back along the coast road. I looked for the Peugeot, but it wasn’t there that day. Instead, there was a gray Opel with three men in it. When we got to the old castle at Rumelihisari, I stopped and told her about the blockade of Constantinople by Sultan Mehmet Fatih in 1453, and how he had stretched a great chain boom across the Bosphorus there to cut off the city. I didn’t tell her that it was possible to go up to the main keep of the castle because I didn’t want to exhaust myself climbing up all those paths and stairs; but she didn’t seem very interested anyway, so, in the end, I cut the patter short and pushed on. After a while, it became pretty obvious that she wasn’t really much interested in anything in the way of ordinary sightseeing. At least that was how it seemed at the time. I don’t think she was bored, but when I pointed places out to her, she only nodded. She asked no questions.

It was different at the cafe. She made me sit with her at a table outside under a tree and order raki for us both; then she began asking questions by the dozen; not about Pierre Loti, the Turkophile Frenchman, but about the Seraglio.

I did my best to explain. To most people, the word “palace” means a single very big building planned to house a monarch. Of course, there are usually a few smaller buildings around it, but the big building is The Palace. Although the word “Seraglio” really means “palace,” it isn’t at all like one. It is an oval-shaped walled area over two miles in circumference, standing on top of the hill above Seraglio Point at the entrance to the Bosphorus; and it is a city within a city. Originally, or at least from the time of Suleiman the Magnificent until the mid-nineteenth century, the whole central government, ministers and high civil servants as well as the Sultan of the time, lived and worked in it. There were household troops and a cadet school as well as the Sultan’s harem inside the walls. The population was generally over five thousand, and there was always new building going on. One reason for this was a custom of the Ottomans. When a new Sultan came to the throne, he naturally inherited all the wealth and property accumulated by his father; but he could not take the personalized property for his own personal use without losing face. Consequently, all the old regalia had to be stored away and new pieces made, a new summer palace had to be built and, of course, new private apartments inside the Seraglio, and a new mosque. As I say, this went on well into the nineteenth century. So the Seraglio today is a vast rabbit warren of reception rooms, private apartments, pavilions, mosques, libraries, gateways, armories, barracks, and so on, interspersed by a few open courtyards and gardens. There are no big buildings in the “palace” sense. The two biggest single structures happen to be the kitchens and the stables.

Although the guidebooks try to explain all this, most tourists don’t seem to understand it. They think “Seraglio” means “harem” anyway and all they are interested in apart from that is the “Golden Road,” the passage that the chosen girls went along to get from the harem to the Sultan’s bed. The harem area isn’t open to the public as a matter of fact; but I always used to take the tourists I had through the Mustafa Pasha pavilion at the back and tell them that that was part of the harem. They never knew the difference, and it was something they could tell their friends.

Miss Lipp soon got the idea, though. I found that she knew something about Turkish history; for instance, who the Janissaries had been. For someone who, only an hour or so earlier, had been asking if the Seraglio was the old palace, that was a little surprising. At the time, I suppose, I was too busy trying to answer her other questions to pay much attention. I had shown her the guidebook plan and she was going through all the buildings marked on it.

“The White Eunuchs’ quarters along here, are they open?”

“Only these rooms near the Gate of Felicity in the middle.”

“The Baths of Selim the Second, can we see them?”

“That is part of the museum now. There is a collection of glass and silverware there, I think.”

“What about the Hall of the Pantry?”

“I think that building has the administration offices in it now.”

Some of the questions I couldn’t answer at all, even vaguely, but she still kept on. Finally, she broke off, swallowed her second raki at a gulp, and looked across at me.

“Are you hungry, Arthur?”

“Hungry? No, Miss Lipp, not particularly.”

“Why don’t we go to the palace right now then?”

“Certainly, if you wish.”

“Okay. You take care of the check here. We’ll settle later.”

I saw the eyes of one or two men sitting in the cafe follow her as she went back to the car, and I noticed them glancing at me as I paid for the drinks. Obviously they were wondering what the relationship was-father, uncle, or what? It was oddly embarrassing. The trouble was, of course, that I didn’t know what to make of Miss Lipp and couldn’t decide what sort of attitude to adopt towards her. To add to the confusion, a remark Harper had made at the Club in Athens, about Nicki’s legs being too short, kept coming into my mind. Miss Lipp’s legs were particularly long, and, for some reason, that was irritating as well as exciting; exciting because I couldn’t help wondering what difference long legs would make in bed; irritating because I knew damn well that I wasn’t going to be given the chance to find out.

I drove her to the Seraglio and parked in what used to be the Courtyard of the Janissaries, just outside the Ortakapi Gate by the executioner’s block. As it was so early, there were only two or three other cars besides the Lincoln. I was glad of that because I was able to get off my piece about the gate without being overheard by official guides with other parties. The last thing I wanted at that moment was to have my guide’s license asked for and challenged.

The Ortakapi Gate is a good introduction to the “feel” of the Seraglio. “It was here at this gate that the Sultans used to stand to watch the weekly executions. The Sultan stood just there. You see the block where the beheading was done. Now, see that little fountain built in the wall there? That was for the executioner to wash the blood off himself when he had finished. He was also the Chief Gardener. By the way, this was known as the Gate of Salvation. Rather ironic, don’t you think? Of course, only high palace dignitaries who had offended the Sultan were beheaded here. When princes of the royal house were executed-for instance, when a new Sultan had all his younger brothers killed off to prevent arguments about the succession-their blood could not be shed, so they were strangled with a silk cord. Women who had offended were treated in a different way. They were tied up in weighted sacks and dropped into the Bosphorus. Shall we go inside now?”

Until Miss Lipp, I had never known it to fail.

She gave me a blank stare. “Is any of that true, Arthur?”

“Every word of it.” It is true, too.

“How do you know?”

“Those are historic facts, Miss Lipp.” I had another go. “In fact, one of the Sultans got bored with his whole harem and had them all dumped into the Bosphorus. There was a shipwreck off Seraglio Point soon after, and a diver was sent down. What he saw there almost scared him to death. There were all those weighted sacks standing in a row on the bottom and swaying to and fro with the current.”

“Which Sultan?”

Naturally, I thought it was safe to guess. “It was Murad the Second.”

“It was Sultan Ibrahim,” she said. “No offense, Arthur, but I think we’d better hire a guide.”

“Whatever you say, Miss Lipp.”

I tried to look as if I thought it a good idea, but I was really quite angry. If she had asked me right out whether I was a historical expert on the Seraglio, I would have told her, quite frankly, that I was not. It was the underhand way in which she had set out to trap me that I didn’t like.

We went through the gate, and I paid for our admissions and selected an English-speaking guide. He was solemn and pedantic, of course, and told her all the things I had already explained all over again; but she did not seem to mind. From the way she bombarded him with questions you would have thought she was going to write a book about the place. Of course, that flattered him. He had a grin like an ape.

Personally, I find the Seraglio rather depressing. In Greece, the old buildings, even when they are in ruins and nothing much has been done in the way of restoration, always seem to have a clean, washed look about them. The Seraglio is stained, greasy, and dilapidated. Even the trees and shrubs in the main courtyards are neglected, and the so-called Tulip Garden is nothing but a scrubby patch of dirt.

As far as Miss Lipp was concerned though, the place might have been Versailles. She went everywhere, through the kitchens, through the museum rooms, the exhibition of saddles, this kiosk, that pavilion, laughing at the guide’s standard jokes and scuffing her shoes on the broken paving stones. If I had known what was going on in her mind, of course, I would have felt differently; but as it was, I became bored. After a bit, I gave up following them everywhere and just took the short cuts.

I was looking forward to a sit-down by the Gate of the Fountain while they “did” the textiles exhibition, when she called me over.

“Arthur, how long will it take us to get to the airport from here?”

I was so surprised that I must have looked at her a bit blankly. “The airport?”

She put on a slight heaven-give-me-patience look. “Yes, Arthur, the airport. Where the planes arrive. How long from here?”

The guide, who hadn’t been asked, said: “Forty minutes, madame. ”

“Better allow forty-five, Miss Lipp,” I said, ignoring him.

She looked at her watch. “The plane gets in at four,” she said. “I tell you what, Arthur. You go get yourself a sandwich or something. I’ll meet you where you parked the car in an hour. Right?”

“As you wish, Miss Lipp. Are we meeting someone at the airport?”

“If that’s all right with you.” Her tone was curt.

“I only meant that if I knew the line and flight number I could check if the plane is going to be on time.”

“So you could, Arthur. I didn’t think of that. It’s Air France from Geneva.”

I was in the sunshine of her smile again, the bitch.

There was a restaurant of sorts near the Blue Mosque, and when I had ordered some food I telephoned Tufan.

He listened to my report without comment until I had finished. “Very well,” he said then, “I will see that the passports of the Geneva passengers are particularly noted. Is that all?”

“No.” I started to tell him my theory about the drug operation and its necessary link with a raw-opium supplier, but almost at once he began interrupting.

“Have you new facts to support this?”

“It fits the information we have.”

“Any imbecile could think of ways of interpreting the information we have. It is the information we do not have that I am interested in. Your business is to get it, and that is all you should be thinking about.”

“Nevertheless…”

“You are wasting time. Report by telephone, or as otherwise arranged, and remember your listening times. Now, if that is all, I have arrangements to make.”

The military mind at work! Whether he was right or wrong (and, as it happens, he was both right and wrong) made no difference. It was the arrogance of the man I couldn’t stand.

I ate a disgusting meal of lukewarm mutton stew and went back to the car. I was angry with myself, too.

I have to admit it; what had really exasperated me was not so much Tufan’s anxiety-bred offensiveness as my own realization that the train of thought which had seemed so logical and reasonable the previous night, was not looking as logical and reasonable in the morning. My conception of the “student” Miss Lipp as a laboratory technician was troublesome enough; but speaking again with Tufan had reminded me that the villa, which I had so blithely endowed with a clandestine heroin-manufacturing plant, also housed a elderly married couple and a cook. So that, in addition to the time-factor improbability, I now had to accept another: either the plant was to be so small that the servants would not notice it or Harper counted on buying their discretion.

Then, in sheer desperation, I did something rather silly. I felt that I had to know if the grenades and pistols were still in the car. If they had been taken out, at least one bit of my theory was still just tenable. I could assume that they had been delivered or were in process of delivery to the person who wanted them.

I had about twenty minutes to spare before Miss Lipp came out of the Seraglio; but in case she was early I drove the car to the other end of the courtyard under some trees opposite the Church of St. Irene. Then I got the Phillips screwdriver out of my bag and went to work on the door by the driver’s seat.

I wasn’t worried about anyone seeing me. After all, I was only carrying out Tufan’s orders. The men in the Opel wouldn’t interfere; and if some cab driver became inquisitive, I could always pretend that I was having trouble with a door lock. All that mattered was the time, because I had to do it carefully to avoid making marks.

I loosened all the screws carefully first, and then began to remove them. It seemed to take an age. And then a horrible thing happened. Just as I was taking out the last screw but one, I happened to glance up and saw Miss Lipp with the guide walking across the courtyard from the alleyway leading to the Archaeological Museum.

I knew at once that she had seen the car because she was walking straight towards it. She was about two hundred yards away, and on the opposite side of the car to the door I had been working on, but I knew that I couldn’t get even one of the screws back in time. Besides, I was not in the place she had told me to be. There was only one thing I could do: stuff the screws and screwdriver into my pocket, start the car, drive around the courtyard to meet her, and hope to God the two loose screws would hold the panel in place when I opened the door to get out.

I had one piece of luck. The guide practically fell over himself opening her door for her, so I didn’t have to open the one on my side. I was able to get my apology in at the same time.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Lipp. I thought you might be visiting the St. Irene Church and I wanted to save you the walk back.”

That got by all right because she couldn’t thank the guide and answer me at the same time. The guide was an unexpected help, too, as he immediately asked her if she would like to see the church, “pure Byzantine, built in the reign of Justinian, and of great historical interest.”

“I’ll leave that for another time,” she said.

“But you will be here tomorrow, madame, when the Treasury Museum is on view?”

“Well, maybe.”

“Otherwise, it must be Thursday, madame. That part and the pictures are on view only two days in the week, when all the other rooms are closed.” He was obviously panting for her to come again. I wondered how much she had tipped him.

“I’ll try and make it tomorrow. Thank you again.” She gave him the smile. To me, she said: “Let’s go.”

I drove off. As soon as we got onto the cobbles the panel started to vibrate. I immediately pressed my knee against it and the vibration stopped; but I was really scared now. I didn’t think that she would notice that the screws were out; but Fischer or Harper certainly would; and there was this unknown we were going to meet. I knew that I had somehow to replace the screws while the car was at the airport.

“Is the plane on time?” she asked.

A donkey cart came rattling out of a side street at that moment, and I made a big thing of braking and swerving out of its way. I didn’t have to pretend that the cart had shaken me up. I was shaken up all right. My call to Tufan and the argument with him had made me forget completely about calling the airline. I did the best I could.

“They didn’t know of any delay,” I said; “but the plane was making an intermediate stop. Would you like me to check again?”

“No, it’s not worth it now.”

“Did you enjoy the Seraglio, Miss Lipp?” I thought if I kept talking it might quieten my stomach down a bit.

“It was interesting.”

“The Treasury is worth seeing, too. Everything the Sultans used was covered with jewels. Of course, a great many of the things were gifts from kings and emperors who wanted to impress the Sultans with their greatness. Even Queen Victoria sent things.”

“I know.” She chuckled. “Clocks and cut glass.”

“But some of the things are really incredible, Miss Lipp. There are coffee cups sculptured out of solid amethyst, and, you know, the largest emerald in the world is there on the canopy of one of the thrones. They even did mosaic work with rubies and emeralds instead of marble.” I went on to tell her about the gem-encrusted baldrics. I gave her the full treatment. In my experience every normal woman likes talking about jewels. But she didn’t seem much interested.

“Well,” she said, “they can’t be worth much.”

“All those hundreds and thousands of jewels, Miss Lipp!” My leg was getting stiff trying to stop the panel from vibrating. I wriggled surreptitiously into a new position.

She shrugged. “The guide told me that the reason they have to close some rooms on the days they open up the others is because they’re understaffed. The reason they’re understaffed is because the government hasn’t the money to spend. That’s why the place is so shabby, too. Pretty well all of the money they have for restoration goes into the older, the Byzantine buildings. Besides, if all those stones were real gems they’d be in a strong-room not a museum. You know, Arthur, quite a lot of these old baubles turn out in the end to be just obsidian garnet.”

“Oh, these are real gems, Miss Lipp.”

“What’s the biggest emerald in the world look like, Arthur?”

“Well, it’s pear-shaped, and about the size of a pear, too.”

“Smooth or cut?”

“Smooth.”

“Couldn’t it be green tourmaline?”

“Well, I suppose I don’t know really, Miss Lipp. I’m not an expert.”

“Do you care which it is?”

I was getting bored with this. “Not much, Miss Lipp,” I answered. “It just makes a more interesting story if it’s an emerald.”

She smiled. “It makes a more amusing story if it’s not. Have you ever been to the mysterious East?”

“No, Miss Lipp.”

“But you’ve seen pictures. Do you know what makes those tall pagodas glitter so beautifully in the moonlight?”

“No, Miss Lipp.”

“They’re covered with little pieces of broken bottle glass. And the famous emerald Buddha in Bangkok isn’t emerald at all, it’s carved from a block of ordinary green jasper.”

“Little-known facts,” I thought. “Why don’t you send it in to Reader’s Digest?” I didn’t say it though.

She took a cigarette from the gold case in her bag and I fumbled in my pocket for matches; but she had a gold lighter, too, and didn’t notice the matches I held out to her. “Have you always done this sort of work?” she asked suddenly.

“Driving? No, Miss Lipp. Most of my life I have been a journalist. That was in Egypt. When the Nasser crowd took over, things became impossible. It was a matter of starting again.” Simple, straightforward-a man who has suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune but wasn’t looking for anyone’s shoulder to weep on.

“I was thinking about the traveler’s checks,” she said. “Is that what you meant by ‘starting again’?”

“I’m sorry Mr. Harper had to tell you about that.” It was no surprise, of course, that Harper had told her; but with so many other things on my mind-driving, keeping the door panel from rattling, cramp in my leg and wondering how the hell I was going to replace the screws-all I could think of was that obvious reply.

“Did you think he wouldn’t tell me?” she went on.

“I didn’t think about it either way, Miss Lipp.”

“But since he did tell me and since you’re driving this car, that must mean that I don’t mind too much about things like that, mustn’t it?”

For one idiotic moment I wondered if she were making some sort of pass at me; but it was a brief moment.

“I suppose so,” I answered.

“And that Mr. Harper doesn’t mind either?”

“Yes.”

“And that, in fact, we’re all very sensible, tolerant persons?”

I couldn’t help glancing at her. She was watching me in her amused, considering way, but there was nothing sleepy about her eyes now. They were steadily intent.

And then I got the message. I was being sounded, either to discover what I had made of the setup and if they had left any shirt-tails showing, or to find out if I could be trusted in some particular way. I knew that how I answered would be very important indeed to me; but I didn’t know what to say. It was no use pretending to be stupid any more, or trying to avoid the issue. A test was being applied. If I failed it, I was out-out with Harper, out with Tufan and his Director, out with the Turkish customs, and, in all probability, out with the Greek police as well.

I felt my face getting red and knew that she would notice. That decided me. People get red when they feel guilty or nervous; but they also get red when they are angry. In order not to seem nervous or guilty, all I could do was to seem angry.

“Including Mr. Fischer?” I asked.

“What about Mr. Fischer?”

“Is he sensible, too, Miss Lipp?”

“Does that matter?”

I glanced at her again. “If my personal safety-safety from some sort of bad luck, let us say-depended on Fischer’s being sensible, I’d be quite worried.”

“Because he upset a drink over you?”

“Ah, he told you that, did he? No, that was only stupid. I’d be worried because he was careless, because he gave himself away.”

“Only himself?” There was quite an edge to her voice now. I knew that I had gone far enough.

“What else is there to give away, Miss Lipp?” I am wary but not treacherous, Miss Lipp. I watch my own interests, Miss Lipp, but I know how to be discreet, too, no matter how phony the setup looks.

“What indeed?” she said shortly.

She said no more. The test was over. I did not know whether I had passed or not; but there was nothing more that I could do, and I was glad of the relief. I hoped she would not notice that I was sweating.

We arrived at the airport ten minutes before the plane was due. She got out and went into the arrivals section, leaving me to find a place to park. I quickly did the two loose screws up before I went to join her.

She was at the Air France counter.

“Fifteen minutes to wait,” she said.

“And at least another fifteen before they get through customs,” I reminded her. “Miss Lipp, you have had no lunch. The cafe here is quite clean. Why not wait there and have some cakes and tea? I will keep a check on the plane and arrange for a porter to be ready. When the passengers are in customs I will let you know.”

She hesitated, then, to my relief, nodded. “All right, you do that.”

“May I ask who it is that we are meeting?”

“Mr. Miller.”

“I will take care of everything.”

I showed her where the cafe was, hung around long enough to make sure that she was going to stay there, and then hurried back to the car.

I was sweating so much by this time that my fingers kept slipping on the screwdriver. In fact, I did what I had been trying hard to avoid doing and scratched the leather; but it couldn’t be helped. I rubbed some spit on the place and hoped for the best. The Opel was parked about a dozen yards away and I could see the men in it watching me. They probably thought I’d gone mad.

When the last screw was in place, I put the screwdriver back in my bag and went inside again to the Air France counter. The plane was just landing. I found a porter, gave him five lira, and told him about Mr. Miller. Then I went to the men’s room and tried to stop myself from sweating by running cold water over my wrists. It helped a little. I cleaned myself up and went back to the cafe.

“The passengers are beginning to come through now, Miss Lipp.”

She picked up her bag. “Take care of the check will you, Arthur?”

It took me a minute or two to get the waiter’s attention, so I missed the meeting between Miss Lipp and Mr. Miller. They were already on the way out to the car when I saw them. The porter was carrying two pieces of luggage, one suitcase and one smaller bag. I went ahead and got the luggage compartment open.

Mr. Miller was about sixty with a long neck and nose, lined gray cheeks, and a bald head with brown blotches on the skin. The backs of his hands had blotches, too. He was very thin and his light tussore suit flapped as he walked as if it had been made for someone with more flesh to cover. He had rimless glasses, pale lips, a toothy smile, and that fixed stare ahead which says: “You’ll have to get out of my way, I’m afraid, because I haven’t the time to get out of yours.”

As they came up to the car Miss Lipp said: “This is Arthur Simpson, who’s driving for us, Leo.”

Before I could even say “good afternoon” he had handed me the raincoat he had been carrying over his arm. “Good, good,” he said, and climbed into the back seat. She smiled slightly as she got in after him, though not at me, to herself.

The coat smelled of lavender water. I put it with the luggage, tipped the porter again, and got into the driver’s seat.

“To the villa, Miss Lipp?” I asked.

“Yes, Arthur.”

“Wait a minute.” It was Miller. “Where is my coat?”

“With your luggage, sir.”

“It will get dirty in there. It should be on a seat in here.”

“Yes, sir.”

I got out again and retrieved the coat.

“What a fuss you make, Leo,” I heard her say. “The car’s quite clean.”

“The baggage in there is not clean. It has been in the belly of a plane with other baggage. It has been on the floor and table of the customs place. It has been handled by the man who searched it, handled again by the porter. Nothing is clean.” His accent had no American inflections, and he couldn’t pronounce his th ’s. I thought he might be French.

I draped the coat over the back of the seat in front of him. “Will that be all right, sir?”

“Yes, of course,” he said impatiently.

That type is always the same. They make the difficulties and then behave as if you’re the one who’s being the nuisance.

“Let’s go, Arthur,” said Miss Lipp. Her tone was noncommittal. I couldn’t tell whether she found him tiresome or not. I watched them in the driving mirror.

As soon as we were clear of the airport, he settled back and looked her over in a fatherly way.

“Well, my dear, you’re looking healthy. How are Karl and Giulio?”

“Karl’s fine. Giulio we haven’t seen yet. He’s with the boat. Karl was thinking of going over there tomorrow.”

“Have you anything planned for then?”

“We thought you might like to do a little sightseeing. That is unless you’re tired.”

“You are more considerate than a daughter, my dear.” The teeth leered at her and the pale eyes behind the rimless glasses flickered towards my back.

I had already realized that this was a conversation conducted solely for my benefit, but now I saw her face stiffen. She knew that I was listening hard and was afraid that he was overdoing it.

“You must persuade Arthur to show you around the Seraglio Palace,” she said. “He is quite an authority on it. Isn’t that right, Arthur?”

That was as good as telling me that the old fool would believe any cock-and-bull story I cared to tell him. On the other hand, it must be telling him something, too; perhaps warning him that the driver wasn’t such a fool as he looked. I had to be careful.

“I would be happy to show Mr. Miller what there is to see,” I said.

“Well, we must certainly think about that,” he replied; “certainly, we must think about it.”

He glanced at her to see if he had said the right thing. A sentence of my father’s came into my mind. “One moment they’re all full of piss and wind and the next moment…” At that point he would make a raspberry sound with his tongue. Vulgar, of course, but there was never any doubt about the kind of man he meant.

Mr. Miller kept quiet after that. Once or twice she pointed out places of interest, in the manner of a hostess with a newly arrived guest; but the only thing he asked about was the tap water at the villa. Was it safe to drink or was there bottled water available? There was bottled water, she told him. He nodded, as if that had confirmed his worst fears, and said that he had brought plenty of Entero Vioform for intestinal prophylaxis.

We reached the villa a little after five. Miss Lipp told me to sound the horn as I went up the drive.

The reception committee consisted of Harper and Fischer. Hovering in the background, ready to carry luggage, was an old man wearing an apron whom I took to be Hamul, the resident caretaker.

Tufan had said that Fischer was the lessee of the villa but there was no doubt who was the real host there. All Fischer received from the incoming guest was a nod of recognition. Harper got a smile and an “Ah, my dear Karl.” They shook hands with businesslike cordiality, and then Harper, Miller, and Miss Lipp went straight into the house. To Fischer were left the menial tasks of telling Hamul where Miller’s bags were to go, and of showing me where to put the car and where I was to sleep.

At the back of the villa there was a walled stable yard. Part of the stabling had been converted into a garage with room for two cars. It was empty except for a Lambretta motor scooter.

“The Lambretta belongs to the cook,” Fischer said; “see that he does not steal gasoline from the car.”

I followed him across the yard to the rear entrance of the house.

Inside, I had a brief glimpse of the polished wood flooring of a passage beyond the small tiled hallway, before he led the way up a narrow staircase to the top floor. All too obviously we were in the old servants’ quarters. There were six small attic cubicles with bare wood floors, bare wood partition walls, and a single skylight in the roof for all of them. The sanitary arrangements consisted of an earthenware sink with a water tap on the wall at the head of the stairs. It was stiflingly hot under the low roof and there were dust and cobwebs everywhere. Two of the cubicles showed signs of having been swept out recently. Each contained an iron bedstead with a mattress and gray blankets. In one, there was a battered composition-leather suitcase. Fischer showed me to the other.

“You will sleep here,” he said. “The chef has the next bed. You will eat your meals with him in the kitchen.”

“Where is the toilet?”

“There is a pissoir across the yard in the stables.”

“And the bathroom?”

He waved his hand towards the sink. He was watching my face and enjoying himself just a bit too obviously. I guessed that this had been his own wonderful idea of a punishment for the crime of calling him a servant, and that Harper probably did not know of it. In any case, I had to protest. Without some privacy, especially at night, I could neither use the radio nor write reports.

I had put my bag down on the floor to rest my arm. Now I picked it up and started to walk back the way we had come.

“Where are you going?”

“To tell Mr. Harper that I’m not sleeping here.”

“Why not? If it is good enough for the chef it is good enough for you, a driver.”

“It will not be good enough for Miss Lipp if I smell because I am unable to take a bath.”

“What did you expect-the royal apartment?”

“I can still find a hotel room in Sariyer. Or you can get another driver.”

I felt fairly safe in saying that. If he were to call my bluff I could always back down; but I thought it more likely that I had already called his. The very fact that he was arguing with me suggested weakness.

He glared at me for a moment, then walked to the stairs.

“Put the car away,” he said. “It will be decided later what is to be done with you.”

I followed him down the stairs. At the foot of them, he turned off left into the house. I went out to the yard, left my bag in the garage, and walked back to the car. When I had put it away, I went into the house and set about finding the kitchen. It wasn’t difficult. The passage which I had glimpsed from the back entrance ran along the whole length of the house, with a servants’ stairway leading to the bedroom floor, and, on the right, a series of doors which presumably gave the servants access to the various reception rooms in front. There was a smell of garlic-laden cooking. I followed the smell.

The kitchen was a big stone-floored room on the left of the passage. It had an old charcoal range along the rear wall with three battered flues over it, and a heavy pinewood table with benches in the middle. The table was cluttered with cooking debris and bottles, and scarred from years of use as a chopping block. Empty butcher’s hooks hung from the beams. There was a barrel on a trestle, and beside it a sinister-looking zinc icebox. A doorway to one side gave on to what appeared to be a scullery. A short man in a dirty blue denim smock stood by the range stirring an iron pot. This was Geven, the cook. As I came in he looked up and stared.

He was a dark, moon-faced, middle-aged man with an upturned nose and large nostrils. The mouth was wide and full with a lower lip that quivered much of the time as if he were on the verge of tears. The thick, narrow chest merged into a high paunch. He had a three-day growth of beard, which was hardly surprising in view of the fact that he had nowhere to shave.

I remembered that he was a Cypriot and spoke to him in English. “Good evening. I am the chauffeur, Simpson. Mr. Geven?”

“Geven, yes.” He stopped stirring and we shook hands. His hands were filthy and it occurred to me that Mr. Miller was probably going to need his Entero Vioform. “A drink, eh?” he said.

“Thanks.”

He pulled a glass out of a bowl of dirty water by the sink, shook it once, and poured some konyak from an already opened bottle on the table. He also refilled his own half-empty glass, which was conveniently to hand.

“Here’s cheers!” he said, and swallowed thirstily. A sentence of Tufan’s came into my mind-“He gets drunk and attacks people.” I had not thought to ask what sort of people he usually attacked, the person with whom he was drinking or some casual bystander.

“Are you British?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How you know I speak English?”

An awkward question. “I didn’t know, but I don’t speak Turkish.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied. “You worked for these people before?”

“A little. I drove the car from Athens. Normally, I work there with my own car.”

“Driving tourists?”

“Yes.”

“Are these people tourists?” His tone was heavily ironical.

“I don’t know. They say so.”

“Ah!” He winked knowingly and went back to his stirring again. “Are you by the week?”

“Paid you mean? Yes.”

“You had some money from them?”

“For the trip from Athens.”

“Who paid? The Fischer man?”

“The Harper man. You don’t think they really are tourists?”

He made a face and rocked his head from side to side as if the question were too silly to need an answer.

“What are they, then?”

He shrugged. “Spies, Russia spies. Everyone know-Hamul and his wife, the fishermen down below, everyone. You want something to eat?”

“That smells good.”

“It is good. It is for us. Hamul’s wife cooks for him in their room before they come to wait table in the dining room. Then, I cook for the spies. Maybe, if I feel like it, I give them what is left after we eat, but the best is for us. Get two dishes, from the shelf there.”

It was a chicken and vegetable soup and was the first thing I had eaten with any pleasure for days. Of course, I knew that I would have trouble with the garlic later; but, with my stomach knotted up by nerves the way it was, I would have had trouble with anything. Geven did not eat much. He went on drinking brandy; but he smiled approvingly when I took a second helping of the soup.

“Always I like the British,” he said. “Even when you are backing the Greeks in Cyprus against us, I like the British. It is good you are here. A man does not like drinking alone. We can take a bottle upstairs with us every night.” He smiled wetly at the prospect.

I returned the smile. It was not the moment, I felt, to tell him that I hoped not to be sharing the servants’ quarters with him.

And then Fischer had to come in.

He looked at the brandy bottle disapprovingly, and then at me. “I will show you your room,” he said.

Geven held up an unsteadily protesting hand. “ Effendi, let him finish his dinner. I will show him where to sleep.”

It was Fischer’s opportunity. “Ah no, chef,” he said; “he thinks himself too good to sleep with you.” He nodded to me. “Come.”

Geven’s lower lip quivered so violently that I was sure he was about to burst into tears; but his hand also went to the bottle as if he were about to throw it at me. It was possible, I thought, that he might be going to do both things.

I whispered hurriedly: “Harper’s orders, nothing to do with me,” and got out out of the room as quickly as I could.

Fischer was already at the staircase in the passage.

“You will use these stairs,” he said; “not those in the front of the house.”

The room to which he now showed me was at the side of the house on the bedroom floor. He pointed to the door of it.

“There is the room,” he said, and then pointed to another door along the corridor; “and there is a bathroom. The car will be wanted in the morning at eleven.” With that he left, turning off the lights in the corridor as he went.

When he had gone, I turned the lights on again. The corridor had cream lincrusta dadoes with flowered wallpaper above. I had a look at the bathroom. It was a most peculiar shape and had obviously been installed, as an afterthought, in a disused storage closet. There was no window. The plumbing fixtures were German, circa 1905. Only the cold-water taps worked.

The bedroom wasn’t too bad. It had a pair of french windows, a brass bedstead, a chest of drawers, and a big wardrobe. There was also a deal table with an ancient hand-operated sewing machine on it. At the time when women guests in big houses always brought their lady’s maids with them to stay, the room had probably been given to one of the visiting maids.

There was a mattress on the bed, but no sheets or blankets. I knew it would be unwise to complain again. Before I got my bag from the garage, I went back up to the servants’ quarters and took the blankets from the cubicle which Fischer had allocated to me. Then I returned to the room. The car radio transmission wasn’t due until eleven; I had time to kill. I began by searching the room.

I always like looking inside other people’s drawers and cupboards. You can find strange things. I remember once, when I was at Coram’s, my aunt had pleurisy and the District Nurse said that I would have to be boarded out for a month. Some people with an old house off the Lewisham High Road took me in. The house had thick laurel bushes all round it and big chestnut trees that made it very dark. I hated going past the laurel bushes at night, because at that time I believed (in the way a boy does) that a madman with a German bayonet was always lying in wait ready to pounce on me from behind and murder me. But inside the house it was all right. There was a smell of Lifebuoy soap and furniture polish. The people had had a son who had been killed on the Somme, and they gave me his room. I found all sorts of things in the cupboard. There was a stamp collection, for instance. I had never collected stamps, but a lot of chaps at school did and I took one or two of the stamps and sold them. After all, he was dead, so he didn’t need them. The thing I liked most though was his collection of minerals. It was in a flat wooden case divided up into squares with a different piece of mineral in each one and labels saying what they were-graphite, galena, mica, quartz, iron pyrites, chalcocite, flourite, wolfram, and so on. There were exactly sixty-four squares and exactly sixty-four pieces of mineral, so at first I couldn’t see how to keep any of them for myself because the empty square would have shown that something was missing. I did take one or two of them to school to show the chemistry master and try to get in his good books; but he only got suspicious and asked me where I had found them. I had to tell him that an uncle had lent them to me before he would let me have them back. After that, I just kept them in the box and looked at them; until I went back to my aunt’s that is, when I took the iron pyrites because it looked as if it had gold in it. I left a small piece of coal in the square instead. I don’t think they ever noticed. I kept that piece of iron pyrites for years. “Fool’s gold” some people call it.

All I found in the room at Sardunya was an old Russian calendar made of cardboard in the shape of an icon. There was a dark-brown picture of Christ on it. I don’t read Russian, so I couldn’t make out the date. It wasn’t worth taking.

I had the windows wide open. It was so quiet up there that I could hear the diesels of a ship chugging upstream against the Black Sea current towards the boom across the narrows above Sariyer. Until about eight-thirty there was a faint murmur of voices from the terrace in front. Then they went in to dinner. Some time after nine, I became restless. After all, nobody had told me to stay in my room. I decided to go for a stroll.

Just to be on the safe side, in case anyone took it into his head to go through my things, I hid the radio on top of the wardrobe. Then I went down, out through the rear door, and skirted the front courtyard to the drive.

It was so dark there under the trees that I couldn’t really see where I was going, and after I had gone a hundred yards or so I turned back. Miss Lipp, Harper, Miller, and Fischer were coming out onto the terrace again when I reached the courtyard, and Hamul was lighting candles on the tables.

Along the side of the courtyard it was quite dark, and the weeds made it easy to move quietly over the gravel. At the entrance to the stable yard I stopped by the wall to see if I could hear anything they said.

I must have waited there for twenty minutes or more before I heard anything but an indistinct mumble. Then, one of the men laughed loudly-Miller it was-and I heard him saying seven words as if they were the climax of a joke.

“Let the dogs be fed and clothed!” he cackled, and then repeated it. “Let the dogs be fed and clothed!”

The others laughed with him, and then the mumbling began again. I went on in and up to my room.

I made the bed as comfortable as I could with the blankets, and then shaved to save myself the trouble of doing so in the morning.

Just before eleven, I took the radio out of its case, opened the back, and turned the small switch. All I got was a hissing sound. I waited. I did not trouble to use the earphone, because I did not see any reason to then. I had not even shut the windows.

On the stroke of eleven, the set made a harsh clacking noise. A moment later, a voice crackled through the tiny loudspeaker at such a high volume level that I could feel the whole set vibrating in my hands. I tried to turn the thing down, but, with the V.H.F. on, the control seemed to have no effect. All I could do was stuff the set under the blankets. Even there it seemed like a public-address system. I scrambled to the windows and shut them. The loudspeaker began repeating its message.

Attention period report. Attention period report. New arrival is Leopold Axel Miller. Belgian passport gives following data: Age sixty-three, described as importer, place of birth Antwerp. Data now also received concerning Tekelek S.A., a Swiss corporation registered in Berne. Nominal capital fifty thousand Swiss francs. Directors are K. W. Hoffman, R. E. Kohner, G. D. Bernadi, and L. A. Mathis, all of whom are believed to have personal numbered and secret accounts at Banque Credit Suisse, Zurich. Business of Tekelek said to be sale of electronic accounting machines manufactured in West Germany. Urgent you report progress. Attention period report…

I fumbled under the blankets, turned the V.H.F. switch off, and replaced the back on the set. Then I tuned in a Turkish station in case anyone had heard the noise and came to investigate.

Nobody did.

“Urgent you report progress.”

I had a cigarette packet with two cigarettes left in it. I lit one, put the other in my pocket, and went to the bathroom for a piece of toilet paper.

When I returned I locked the door and sat down to write my progress report. It was quite short.

Cook, caretaker, and local fishermen all believe suspects to be Russian spies.

I folded the toilet paper, put it inside the cigarette packet, crumpled the packet, and put the result in my pocket ready for disposal in the morning.

I felt I had done my duty for that day.