“You might.”
Moeller shook his head. “But you would be wrong. You would disappear. Your employers and, no doubt, the Turkish Government would make inquiries about you. The Italian police would be informed. The British Foreign Office would address bombastic demands for information to the Italian Government. The Italian Government, conscious that its neutrality was being compromised, would bestir itself. I might find myself in serious difficulties, especially when you were released and could tell your story. It would be most inconvenient for me to be wanted by the Italian police. You see what I mean?”
“Yes, I see.”
“The straightforward course is to kill you. There is, however, a third possibility.” He paused and then said: “You are a very fortunate man, Mr. Graham.”
“What does
that
mean?”
“In times of peace only the fanatical nationalist demands that a man should surrender himself body and soul to the government of the country in which he was born.
Yet, in war time, when men are being killed and there is emotion in the air, even an intelligent man may be so far carried away as to talk of his ‘duty to his country.’ You are fortunate because you happen to be in a business which sees these heroics for what they are: the emotional excesses of the stupid and brutish. ‘Love of country!’ There’s a curious phrase. Love of a particular patch of earth? Scarcely. Put a German down in a field in Northern France, tell him that it is Hanover, and he cannot contradict you. Love of fellow-countrymen? Surely not. A man will like some of them and dislike others. Love of the country’s culture? The men who know most of their countries’ cultures are usually the most intelligent and the least patriotic. Love of the country’s government? But governments are usually disliked by the people they govern. Love of country, we see, is merely a sloppy mysticism based on ignorance and fear. It has its uses, of course. When a ruling class wishes a people to do something which that people does not want to do, it appeals to patriotism. And, of course, one of the things that people most dislike is allowing themselves to be killed. But I must apologise. These are old arguments and I am sure you are familiar with them.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with them.”
“I am so relieved. I should not like to think that I had been wrong in judging you to be a man of intelligence. And it makes what I have to say so much easier.”
“Well, what
have
you got to say?”
Moeller stubbed his cigarette out. “The third possibility, Mr. Graham, is that you might be induced to retire
from business for six weeks of your own free will—that you should take a holiday.”
“Are you mad?”
Moeller smiled. “I see your difficulty, believe me. If you simply go into hiding for six weeks, it may be rather awkward to explain matters when you return home. I understand. Hysterical fools might say that in choosing to remain alive instead of choosing to be killed by our friend Banat you did something shameful. The facts that the work would have been delayed in any case and that you were of more use to your country and its allies alive than dead would be ignored. Patriots, in common with other mystics, dislike logical argument. It would be necessary to practise a small deception. Let me tell you how it could be arranged.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
Moeller took no notice. “There are some things, Mr. Graham, which not even patriots can control. One of those things is illness. You have come from Turkey where, thanks to earthquakes and floods, there have been several outbreaks of typhus. What could be more likely than that the moment you get ashore at Genoa a mild attack of typhus should develop? And what then? Well, of course, you will be taken immediately to a private clinic and the doctor there will, at your request, write to your wife and employers in England. Of course, there will be the inevitable delays of war. By the time anyone can get to see you, the crisis will have passed and you will be convalescent: convalescent but much too weak to work or travel. But in six weeks’ time you will have recovered
sufficiently to do both. All will be well again. How does that appeal to you, Mr. Graham? To me it seems the only solution satisfactory to both of us.”
“I see. You don’t have the bother of shooting me. I’m out of the way for the requisite six weeks and can’t tell tales afterwards without showing myself up. Is that it?”
“That’s a very crude way of putting it; but you are quite right. That
is
it. How do you like the idea? Personally I should find the prospect of six weeks’ absolute peace and quiet in the place I have in mind very attractive. It is quite near Santa Margherita, overlooking the sea and surrounded by pines. But then, I am old. You might fret.”
He hesitated. “Of course,” he went on slowly, “if you liked the idea, it might be possible to arrange for Señora Gallindo to share your six weeks’ holiday.”
Graham reddened. “What on earth do you mean?”
Moeller shrugged. “Come now, Mr. Graham! I am not short-sighted. If the suggestion really offends you, I apologise humbly. If not … I need hardly say that you would be the only patients there. The medical staff, which would consist of myself, Banat, and another man, apart from the servants, would be unobtrusive unless you were receiving visitors from England. However, that could be discussed later. Now what do you think?”
Graham steeled himself to make an effort. He said with deliberate ease: “I think you’re bluffing. Hasn’t it occurred to you that I may not be such a fool as you think? I shall, of course, repeat this conversation to the Captain. There will be police inquiries when we reach Genoa. My papers are perfectly genuine. Yours are not.
Nor are Banat’s. I have nothing to hide. You have plenty to hide. So has Banat. You’re relying on my fear of being killed forcing me to agree to this scheme of yours. It won’t. It won’t keep my mouth shut either. I admit that I have been badly scared. I have had a very unpleasant twenty-four hours. I suppose that’s your way of inducing a receptive frame of mind. Well, it doesn’t work with me. I’m worried all right; I should be a fool if I weren’t; but I’m not worried out of my senses. You’re bluffing, Moeller. That’s what I think. Now you can get out.”
Moeller did not move. He said, as if he were a surgeon musing over some not entirely unforeseen complication: “Yes, I was afraid you might misunderstand me. A pity.” He looked up. “And to whom are you going to take your story in the first place, Mr. Graham? The Purser? The third officer was telling me about your curious behaviour over poor Monsieur Mavrodopoulos. Apparently you have been making wild allegations to the effect that he is a criminal named Banat who wants to kill you. The ship’s officers, including the Captain, seem to have enjoyed the joke very much. But even the best of jokes becomes tiresome if it is told too often. There would be a certain unreality about the story that I, too, was a criminal who wanted to kill you. Isn’t there a medical name for that sort of delusion? Come now, Mr. Graham! You tell me that you are not a fool. Please do not behave like one. Do you think that I should have approached you in this way if I had thought that you might be able to embarrass me in the way you suggest? I hope not. You are no less foolish when you interpret my reluctance to have you killed as weakness. You may
prefer lying dead in a gutter with a bullet in your back to spending six weeks in a villa on the Ligurian Riviera: that is your affair. But please do not deceive yourself: those
are
the inevitable alternatives.”
Graham smiled grimly. “And the little homily on patriotism is to still any qualms I might have about accepting the inevitable. I see. Well, I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work. I still think you’re bluffing. You’ve bluffed very well. I admit that. You had me worried. I really thought for a moment that I had to choose between possible death and sinking my pride—just like the hero in a melodrama. My real choice was, of course, between using my common sense and letting my stomach do my thinking for me. Well, Mr. Moeller, if that’s all you have to say …”
Moeller got slowly to his feet. “Yes, Mr. Graham,” he said calmly, “that is all I have to say.” He seemed to hesitate. Then, very deliberately, he sat down again. “No, Mr. Graham, I have changed my mind. There
is
something else that I should say. It is just possible that on thinking this thing over calmly you may decide that you have been silly and that I may not be as clumsy as you now seem to think. Frankly, I don’t expect you to do so. You are pathetically sure of yourself. But in case your stomach should after all take control, I think I should issue a warning.”
“Against what?”
Moeller smiled. “One of the many things you don’t seem to know is that Colonel Haki considered it advisable to install one of his agents on board to watch over you. I tried hard to interest you in him yesterday, but
was unsuccessful. Ihsan Kuvetli is unprepossessing, I agree; but he has the reputation of being a clever little man. If he had not been a patriot, he would have been rich.”
“Are you trying to tell me that Kuvetli is a Turkish agent?”
“I am indeed, Mr. Graham!” The pale blue eyes narrowed. “The reason why I approached you this evening instead of to-morrow evening is because I wanted to see you before he made himself known to you. He did not, I think, find out who I was until to-day. He searched my cabin this evening. I think that he must have heard me talking to Banat; the partitions between the cabins are absurdly thin. In any case, I thought it likely that, realizing the danger you were in, he would decide that the time had come to approach you. You see, Mr. Graham, with his experience, he is not likely to make the mistake that you are making. However, he has his duty to do and I have no doubt that he will have evolved some laborious plan for getting you to France in safety. What I want to warn you against is telling him of this suggestion I have made to you. You see, if you should after all come round to my way of thinking, it would be embarrassing for both of us if an agent of the Turkish Government knew of our little deception. We could scarcely expect him to keep silent. You see what I mean, Mr. Graham? If you let Kuvetli into the secret you will destroy the only chance of returning to England alive that remains to you.” He smiled faintly. “It’s a solemn thought, isn’t it?” He got up again and went to the door. “That was all I wanted to say. Good night, Mr. Graham.”
Graham watched the door close and then sat down on the bunk. The blood was beating through his head as if he had been running. The time for bluffing was over. He should be deciding what he was going to do. He had to think calmly and clearly.
But he could not think calmly and clearly. He was confused. He became conscious of the vibration and movement of the ship and wondered if he had imagined what had just happened. But there was the depression in the bunk where Moeller had been sitting and the cabin was filled with the smoke from his cigarette. It was Haller who was the creature of imagination.
He was conscious now more of humiliation than of fear. He had become almost used to the tight sensation in his chest, the quick hammering of his heart, the dragging at his stomach, the crawling of his spine which were his body’s responses to his predicament. In a queer, horrible way it had been stimulating. He had felt that he was pitting his wits against those of an enemy—a dangerous enemy but an intellectual inferior—with a chance of winning. Now he knew that he had been doing nothing of the kind. The enemy had been laughing up their sleeves at him. It had never even occurred to him to suspect “Haller.” He had just sat there politely listening to extracts from a book. Heavens, what a fool the man must think him! He and Banat between them had seen through him as if he were made of glass. Not even his wretched little passages with Josette had escaped their notice. Probably they had seen him kissing her. And as a final measure of their contempt for him, it had been Moeller who had informed him that Mr. Kuvetli was a Turkish agent
charged with his protection. Kuvetli! It was funny. Josette would be amused.
He remembered suddenly that he had promised to return to the saloon. She would be getting anxious. And the cabin was stifling. He could think better if he had some air. He got up and put on his overcoat.
José and Banat were still playing cards; José with a peculiar intentness as if he suspected Banat of cheating; Banat coolly and deliberately. Josette was leaning back in her chair smoking. Graham realised with a shock that he had left the room less than half an hour previously. It was amazing what could happen to your mind in so short a time; how the whole atmosphere of a place could change. He found himself noticing things about the saloon which he had not noticed before: a brass plate with the name of the builders of the ship engraved on it, a stain on the carpet, some old magazines stacked in a corner.
He stood there for a moment staring at the brass plate. The Mathis and the Italians were sitting there reading and did not look up. He looked past them and saw Josette turning her head back to watch the game. She had seen him. He went across to the farther door and out on to the shelter deck.
She would follow him soon to find out if he had been successful. He walked slowly along the deck wondering what he would say to her, whether or not to tell her about Moeller and his “alternative.” Yes, he would tell her. She would tell him that he was all right, that Moeller was bluffing. But supposing Moeller
weren’t
bluffing! “They will do anything to see that it is so.
Anything
, Mr. Graham! Do you understand?” Haki had not talked
about bluffing. The wound under the grimy bandage on his hand did not feel like bluffing. And if Moeller wasn’t bluffing, what was he, Graham, going to do?
He stopped and stared out at the lights on the coast. They were nearer now; near enough for him to see the movement of the boat in relation to them. It was incredible that this should be happening to him. Impossible! Perhaps, after all, he had been badly wounded in Istanbul and it was all a fantasy born of anæthesia. Perhaps he would become conscious again soon to find himself in a hospital bed. But the teak rail, wet with dew, on which his hand rested was real enough. He gripped it in sudden anger at his own stupidity. He should be thinking, cudgelling his brains, making plans, deciding; doing something instead of standing there mooning. Moeller had left him over five minutes ago and here he was still trying to escape from his senses into a fairyland of hospitals and anæsthetics. What was he going to do about Kuvetli? Should he approach him or wait to be approached? What …?