He had decided that any sort of stealth was out of the question. He must walk straight to the cabin, open the door and go in without hesitation. If the worst came to the worst and he was seen as he went in by the steward or anyone else, he could protest that he had thought that number nine was an empty cabin and that he was merely satisfying a curiosity to see what the other cabins were like.
But nobody appeared. He reached the door of number nine, paused for barely a second and then, opening the door softly, went in. A moment later he had shut the door behind him and put up the catch. If, for any reason, the steward should try to get in, he would assume that Banat was there when he found the door fastened.
He looked round. The porthole was closed and the air reeked of attar of roses. It was a two-berth cabin and looked strangely bare. Apart from the scent, there were only two indications that the cabin was occupied: the
grey raincoat hanging with the soft hat behind the door and a battered composition suitcase under the lower berth.
He ran his hands over the raincoat. There was nothing in the pockets and he turned his attention to the suitcase.
It was unlocked. He pulled it out and threw back the lid.
The thing was crammed with filthy shirts and underwear. There were, besides, some brightly-coloured silk handkerchiefs, a pair of black shoes without laces, a scent spray and a small jar of ointment. The gun was not there.
He shut the case, pushed it back and opened the washing cabinet-cum-wardrobe. The wardrobe part contained nothing but a pair of dirty socks. On the shelf by the tooth-glass was a grey washcloth, a safety razor, a cake of soap and a bottle of scent with a ground glass stopper.
He was getting worried. He had been so sure that the gun would be there. If what Josette had said were true it
must
be there somewhere.
He looked round for other hiding places. There were the mattresses. He ran his hands along the springs beneath them. Nothing. There was the waste compartment below the washing cabinet. Again nothing. He glanced at his watch. He had been there four minutes. He looked round again desperately. It
must
be in there. But he had looked everywhere. He returned feverishly to the suitcase.
Two minutes later he slowly straightened his back. He knew now that the gun was not in the cabin, that the
simple plan had been too simple, that nothing was changed. For a second or two he stood there helplessly, putting off the moment when he must finally admit his failure by leaving the cabin. Then the sound of footsteps in the alleyway nearby jarred him into activity.
The footsteps paused. There was the clank of a bucket being put down. Then the footsteps receded. He eased back the door catch and opened the door. The alleyway was empty. A second later he was walking back the way he had come.
He had reached the foot of the stairs before he allowed himself to think. Then he hesitated. He had told Josette that he would go back to the saloon. But that meant seeing Banat. He must have time to steady his nerves. He turned and walked back to his cabin.
He opened the door, took one step forward, and then stopped dead.
Sitting on the bunk with his legs crossed and a book resting on his knee was Haller.
He was wearing a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. He removed them very deliberately and looked up. “I’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Graham,” he said cheerfully.
Graham found his tongue. “I don’t …” he began.
Haller’s other hand came from under the book. In it was a large self-loading pistol.
He held it up. “I think,” he said, “that this is what you have been looking for, isn’t it?”
G
RAHAM LOOKED
from the gun to the face of the man who was holding it: the long upper lip, the pale blue eyes, the loose yellowish skin.
“I don’t understand,” he said, and put out his hand to receive the gun. “How …?” he began and then stopped abruptly. The gun was pointing at him and Haller’s forefinger was on the trigger.
Haller shook his head. “No, Mr. Graham. I think I shall keep it. I came for a little talk with you. Supposing you sit down here on the bed and turn sideways so that we can face one another.”
Graham strove to conceal the deadly sickness that was stealing over him. He felt that he must be going mad. Amid the flood of questions pouring through his mind there was only one small patch of dry land: Colonel Haki had examined the credentials of all the passengers who had embarked at Istanbul and reported that none of them
had booked for the journey less than three days prior to the sailing and that they were all harmless. He clung to it desperately.
“I don’t understand,” he repeated.
“Of course you don’t. If you will sit down I will explain.”
“I’ll stand.”
“Ah, yes. I see. Moral support derived from physical discomfort. Remain standing by all means if it pleases you to do so.” He spoke with crisp condescension. This was a new Haller, a slightly younger man. He examined the pistol as if he were seeing it for the first time. “You know, Mr. Graham,” he went on thoughtfully, “poor Mavrodopoulos was really very upset by his failure in Istanbul. He is not, as you have probably gathered, very intelligent and, like all stupid people, he blames others for his own mistakes. He complains that you moved.” He shrugged tolerantly. “Naturally you moved. He could hardly expect you to stand still while he corrected his aim. I told him so. But he was still angry with you, so when he came aboard I insisted on taking care of his pistol for him. He is young, and these Roumanians are so hotheaded. I did not want anything premature to happen.”
“I wonder,” said Graham, “if your name happens to be Moeller.”
“Dear me!” He raised his eyebrows. “I had no idea that you were so well informed. Colonel Haki must have been in a very talkative mood. Did he know that I was in Istanbul?”
Graham reddened. “I don’t think so.”
Moeller chuckled. “I thought not. Haki is a clever man. I have a great respect for him. But he is human and, therefore, fallible. Yes, after that fiasco in Gallipoli I thought it advisable to attend to things myself. And then, when everything had been arranged, you were inconsiderate enough to move and spoil Mavrodopolous’ shooting. But I bear you no ill will, Mr. Graham. I was irritated at the time, of course. Mavrodopoulos …”
“Banat is easier to say.”
“Thank you. As I was saying, Banat’s failure made more work for me. But now my irritation has passed. Indeed, I am quite enjoying the trip. I like myself as an archæologist. I was a little nervous at first, but as soon as I saw that I had succeeded in boring you I knew that all was well.” He held up the book he had been reading. “If you would like a record of my little speeches I can recommend this. It is entitled ‘The Sumerian Pantheon’ and is by Fritz Haller. His qualifications are given on the title page: ten years with the German Institute in Athens, the period at Oxford, the degrees: it is all here. He seems to be an ardent disciple of Spengler. He quotes the Master a great deal. There is a nostalgic little preface which was most helpful and you will find the piece about eternal truths on page three hundred and forty-one. Naturally I paraphrased a little here and there to suit my own mood. And I drew freely on some of the longer footnotes. You see, the effect I wanted to create was that of an erudite but loveable old bore. I think you will agree that I did well.”
“So there
is
a Haller?”
Moeller pursed his lips. “Ah, yes. I was sorry to inconvenience
him and his wife, but there was no other way. When I found that you were to leave on this boat I decided that it would be helpful if I travelled with you. Obviously I could not have booked a passage at the last moment without attracting Colonel Haki’s attention; I therefore took over Haller’s tickets and passport. He and his wife were not pleased. But they are good Germans, and when it was made plain to them that their country’s interests must come before their own convenience, they gave no more trouble. In a few days their passport will be returned to them with their own photographs restored to it. My only embarrassment has been the Armenian lady who is doing duty for Frau Professor Haller. She speaks very little German and is virtually a half-wit. I have been forced to keep her out of the way. I had no time to make better arrangements, you see. As it was, the man who found her for me had quite a lot of trouble convincing her that she wasn’t being carried off to an Italian
bordello
. Female vanity is sometimes extraordinary.” He produced a cigarette-case. “I hope you don’t mind my telling you all these little things, Mr. Graham. It’s just that I want to be frank with you. I think that an atmosphere of frankness is essential to any business discussion.”
“Business?”
“Just so. Now do please sit down and smoke. It will do you good.” He held out the cigarette-case. “Your nerves have been a little jumpy to-day, haven’t they?”
“Say what you want to say and get out!”
Moeller chuckled. “Yes, certainly a little jumpy!” He looked suddenly solemn. “It is my fault, I’m afraid. You
see, Mr. Graham, I could have had this little talk with you before, but I wanted to make sure that you would be in a receptive frame of mind.”
Graham leaned against the door. “I think that the best way I can describe my state of mind at the moment is to tell you that I have been seriously considering kicking you in the teeth. I could have done so from here before you could have used your gun.”
Moeller raised his eyebrows. “And yet you didn’t do it? Was it the thought of my white hairs that stopped you, or was it your fear of the consequences?” He paused. “No answer? You won’t mind if I draw my own conclusions, will you?” He settled himself a little more comfortably. “The instinct for self-preservation is a wonderful thing. It is so easy for people to be heroic about laying down their lives for the sake of principles when they do not expect to be called upon to do so. When, however, the smell of danger is in their nostrils they are more practical. They see alternatives not in terms of honour or dishonour, but in terms of greater or lesser evils. I wonder if I could persuade you to see my point of view.”
Graham was silent. He was trying to fight down the panic which had seized him. He knew that if he opened his mouth he would shout abuse until his throat ached.
Moeller was fitting a cigarette into a short amber holder as if he had time to waste. Obviously he had not expected any answer to his question. He had the self-contained air of a man who is early for an important appointment. When he finished with the cigarette-holder he looked up. “I like you, Mr. Graham,” he said. “I was,
I have admitted, irritated when Banat made such a fool of himself in Istanbul. But now that I know you I am glad that he did so. You behaved gracefully over that awkwardness at the dinner-table the night we sailed. You listened politely to my carefully memorised recitations. You are a clever engineer, and yet you are not aggressive. I should not like to think of your being killed—murdered—by any employee of mine.” He lit his cigarette. “And yet, the demands made upon us by our life’s needs are so uncompromising. I am compelled to be offensive. I must tell you that, as things stand at present, you will be dead within a few minutes of your landing at Genoa on Saturday morning.”
Graham had himself in hand now. He said: “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Moeller nodded approval. “I am glad to see you take it so calmly. If I were in your place I should be very frightened. But then, of course”—the pale blue eyes narrowed suddenly—“
I
should know that there was no possible chance of my escaping. Banat, in spite of his lapse in Istanbul, is a formidable young man. And when I consider the fact that ready waiting for me in Genoa there would be reinforcements consisting of several other men quite as experienced as Banat, I should realise that there was not the remotest chance of my being able to reach any sort of sanctuary before the end came. I should be left with only one hope—that they did their work so efficiently that I should know very little about it.”
“What do you mean by ‘as things stand at present’?”
Moeller smiled triumphantly. “Ah! I am so glad. You have gone straight to the heart of the matter. I mean,
Mr. Graham, that you need not necessarily die. There is an alternative.”
“I see. A lesser evil.” But his heart leaped in spite of himself.
“Scarcely an evil,” Moeller objected. “An alternative and by no means an unpleasant one.” He settled himself more comfortably. “I have already said that I liked you, Mr. Graham. Let me add that I dislike the prospect of violence quite as whole-heartedly as you do. I am lily-livered. I admit it freely. I will go out of my way to avoid seeing the results of an automobile accident. So, you see, if there is any way of settling this matter without bloodshed I should be prejudiced in favour of it. And if you are still uncertain of my personal goodwill towards you, let me put the question in another and harder light. The killing would have to be hurried, would consequently subject the killers to additional risks and would, therefore, be expensive. Don’t misunderstand me, please. I shall spare no expense if it is necessary. But, naturally enough, I hope it won’t be necessary. I can assure you that no one, with the possible exception of yourself, will be more delighted than I am if we can dispose of this whole thing in a friendly way as between business men. I hope you will at least believe that I am sincere in that.”
Graham began to get angry. “I don’t care a damn whether you’re sincere or not.”
Moeller looked crestfallen. “No, I suppose you don’t. I was forgetting that you have been under some nervous strain. You are naturally interested only in getting home safely to England. That may be possible. It just depends on how calmly and logically you can approach the situation.
It is necessary, as you must have gathered, that the completion of the work you are doing should be delayed. Now, if you die before you get back to England, somebody else will be sent to Turkey to do your work over again. I understand that the work as a whole would thus be delayed for six weeks. I also understand that that delay would be sufficient for the purposes of those interested. You might, might you not, conclude from that that the simplest way of dealing with the matter would be to kidnap you in Genoa and keep you under lock and key for the requisite six weeks and then release you, eh?”