Most of the photographs were, as the Colonel had said, blurred. One or two of the faces were, indeed, no more than blobs of grey with dark patches marking the eyes and mouths. Those that were clear looked like prison photographs. The men in them stared sullenly at their tormentors. There was one of a negro wearing a tar-boosh with his mouth wide open as if he were shouting at someone to the right of the camera. Graham turned the cards over, slowly and hopelessly. If he had ever seen any of these men in his life, he could not recognise them now.
The next moment his heart jolted violently. He was looking at a photograph taken in very strong sunshine of a man in a hard straw hat standing in front of what might
have been a shop, and looking over his shoulder at the camera. His right arm and his body below the waist were out of the picture, and what was in was rather out of focus; in addition the photograph looked as if it had been taken at least ten years previously; but there was no mistaking the doughy, characterless features, the long-suffering mouth, the small deep-set eyes. It was the man in the crumpled suit.
“Well, Mr. Graham!”
“This man. He was at Le Jockey Cabaret. It was the Arab girl who drew my attention to him while we were dancing. She said that he came in just after Kopeikin and me, and that he kept looking at me. She warned me against him. She seemed to think that he might stick a knife in my back and take my wallet.”
“Did she know him?”
“No. She said that she recognised the type.”
Colonel Haki took the card and leaned back. “That was very intelligent of her. Did you see this man, Mr. Kopeikin?”
Kopeikin looked, and then shook his head.
“Very well.” Colonel Haki dropped the card on the desk in front of him. “You need not trouble to look at any more of the photographs, gentlemen. I know now what I wanted to know. This is the only one of the fifteen that interests us. The rest I put with it merely to make sure that you identified this one of your own accord.”
“Who is he?”
“He is a Roumanian by birth. His name is supposed to be Petre Banat; but as Banat is the name of a Roumanian province, I think it very probable that he never had a
family name. We know, indeed, very little about him. But what we do know is enough. He is a professional gunman. Ten years ago he was convicted, in Jassy, of helping to kick a man to death, and was sent to prison for two years. Soon after he came out of prison he joined Codreanu’s Iron Guard. In nineteen thirty-three he was charged with the assassination of a police official at Bucova. It appears that he walked into the official’s house one Sunday afternoon, shot the man dead, wounded his wife, and then calmly walked out again. He is a careful man, but he knew that he was safe. The trial was a farce. The court-room was filled with Iron Guards with pistols, who threatened to shoot the judge and everyone connected with the trial if Banat were convicted. He was acquitted. There were many such trials in Roumania at that time. Banat was afterwards responsible for at least four other murders in Roumania. When the Iron Guard was proscribed, however, he escaped from the country, and has not returned there. He spent some time in France until the French police deported him. Then he went to Belgrade. But he got into trouble there, too, and has since moved about Eastern Europe.
“There are men who are natural killers. Banat is one of them. He is very fond of gambling, and is always short of money. At one time it was said that his price for killing a man was as little as five thousand French francs and expenses.
“But all that is of no interest to you, Mr. Graham. The point is that Banat is here in Istanbul. I may tell you that we receive regular reports on the activities of this man Moeller in Sofia. About a week ago it was reported
that he had been in touch with Banat, and that Banat had afterwards left Sofia. I will admit to you, Mr. Graham, that I did not attach any importance to the fact. To be frank, it was another aspect of this agent’s activities which was interesting me at the time. It was not until Mr. Kopeikin telephoned me that I remembered Banat and wondered if, by any chance, he had come to Istanbul. We know now that he is here. We know also that Moeller saw him just after those other arrangements for killing you had been upset. There can be no doubt, I think, that it was Banat who was waiting for you in your room at the Adler-Palace.”
Graham strove to seem unimpressed. “He looked harmless enough.”
“That,” said Colonel Haki, sagely, “is because you are not experienced, Mr. Graham. The real killer is not a mere brute. He may be quite sensitive. Have you studied abnormal psychology?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“It is very interesting. Apart from detective stories, Krafft-Ebing and Stekel are my favourite reading. I have my own theory about men such as Banat. I believe that they are perverts with an
idée fixe
about the father whom they identify not with a virile god”—he held up a cautionary finger—“but with their own impotence. When they kill, they are thus killing their own weakness. There is no doubt of it, I think.”
“Very interesting, I feel sure. But can’t you arrest this man?”
Colonel Haki cocked one gleaming boot over the arm of his chair, and pursed his lips. “That raises an awkward
problem, Mr. Graham. In the first place, we have to find him. He will certainly be travelling with a false passport and under a false name. I can and, of course, will circulate his description to the frontier posts so that we shall know if he leaves the country, but as for arresting him … You see, Mr. Graham, the so-called democratic forms of government have serious drawbacks for a man in my position. It is impossible to arrest and detain people without absurd legal formalities.” He threw up his hands—a patriot bemoaning his country’s decadence. “On what charge can we arrest him? We have no evidence against him. We could, no doubt, invent a charge and then apologise, but what good will it do? No! I regret it, but we can do nothing about Banat. I do not think it matters a great deal. What we must think of now is the future. We must consider how to get you home safely.”
“I have, as I have already told you, a sleeping berth on the eleven o’clock train. I fail to see why I shouldn’t use it. It seems to me that the sooner I leave here the better.”
Colonel Haki frowned. “Let me tell you, Mr. Graham, that if you were to take that or any other train, you would be dead before you reached Belgrade. Don’t imagine for one moment that the presence of other travellers would deter them. You must not underrate the enemy, Mr. Graham. It is a fatal mistake. In a train you would be caught like a rat in a trap. Picture it for yourself! There are innumerable stops between the Turkish and French frontiers. Your assassin might get on the train at any of them. Imagine yourself sitting there for hour after hour after hour trying to stay awake lest you should
be knifed while you slept; not daring to leave the compartment for fear of being shot down in the corridor; living in terror of everyone—from the man sitting opposite to you in the restaurant car to the Customs officials. Picture it, Mr. Graham, and then reflect that a transcontinental train is the safest place in the world in which to kill a man. Consider the position! These people do not wish you to reach England. So they decide, very wisely and logically, to kill you. They have tried twice and failed. They will wait now to see what you will do. They will not try again in this country. They will know that you will now be too well protected. They will wait until you come out in the open. No! I am afraid that you cannot travel by train.”
“Then I don’t see.…”
“If,” continued the Colonel, “the air line services had not been suspended we could send you by aeroplane to Brindisi. But they
are
suspended—the earthquake, you understand. Everything is disorganized. The planes are being used for relief work. But we can do without them. It will be best if you go by sea.”
“But surely …”
“There is an Italian shipping line which runs a weekly service of small cargo boats between here and Genoa. Sometimes, when there is a cargo, they go up as far as Constanza, but usually they run only as far as here, calling at the Piræus on the way. They carry a few passengers, fifteen at the most, and we can make sure that every one of them is harmless before the boat is given its clearance papers. When you get to Genoa, you will have only the short train journey between Genoa and the
French frontier to put you out of reach of German agents.”
“But as you yourself pointed out, time is an important factor. To-day is the second. I am due back on the eighth. If I have to wait for boats I shall be days late. Besides, the journey itself will take at least a week.”
“There will be no delay, Mr. Graham,” sighed the Colonel. “I am not stupid. I telephoned the port police before you arrived. There is a boat leaving in two days’ time for Marseilles. It would have been better if you could have travelled on that even though it does not ordinarily take passengers. But the Italian boat leaves to-day at four-thirty in the afternoon. You will be able to stretch your legs in Athens to-morrow afternoon. You will dock in Genoa early Saturday morning. You can, if you wish and if your visas are in order, be in London by Monday morning. As I have told you, a marked man has advantages over his enemies: he can run away—disappear. In the middle of the Mediterranean, you will be as safe as you are in this office.”
Graham hesitated. He glanced at Kopeikin; but the Russian was staring at his finger nails.
“Well, I don’t know, Colonel. This is all very good of you, but I can’t help thinking that, in view of the circumstances which you have explained to me, I ought to get in touch with the British Consul here, or with the British Embassy, before deciding anything.”
Colonel Haki lit a cigarette. “And what do you expect the Consul or the Ambassador to do? Send you home in a cruiser?” He laughed unpleasantly. “My dear Mr. Graham, I am not asking you to decide anything. I am
telling you what you must do. You are, I must again remind you, of great value to my country in your present state of health. You must allow me to protect my country’s interests in my own way. I think that you are probably tired now and a little upset. I do not wish to harass you, but I must explain that, if you do not agree to follow my instructions, I shall have no alternative but to arrest you, have an order issued for your deportation and put you on board the
Sestri Levante
under guard. I hope that I make myself clear.”
Graham felt himself reddening. “Quite clear. Would you like to handcuff me now? It will save a lot of trouble. You need …”
“I think,” put in Kopeikin hastily, “that I should do as the Colonel suggests, my dear fellow. It is the best thing.”
“I prefer to be my own judge of that, Kopeikin.” He looked from one to the other of them angrily. He felt confused and wretched. Things had been moving too quickly for him. Colonel Haki he disliked intensely. Kopeikin seemed to be no longer capable of thinking for himself. He felt that they were making decisions with the glib irresponsibility of schoolboys planning a game of Red Indians. And yet the devil of it was that those conclusions were inescapably logical. His life was threatened. All they were asking him to do was to go home by another and safer route. It was a reasonable request but.… Then he shrugged his shoulders. “All right. I seem to have no choice.”
“Exactly, Mr. Graham.” The Colonel smoothed out his tunic with the air of one who has reasoned wisely with a child. “Now we can make our arrangements. As soon
as the shipping company’s offices are open Mr. Kopeikin can arrange for your passage and obtain a refund for your railway ticket. I will see that the names and particulars of the other passengers are submitted to me for approval before the ship sails. You need have no fears, Mr. Graham, of your fellow travellers. But I am afraid that you will not find them very
chic
or the boat very comfortable. This line is actually the cheapest route to and from Istanbul if you live in the west. But you will not, I am sure, mind a little discomfort if you have peace of mind to compensate for it.”
“As long as I get back to England by the eighth, I don’t care how I travel.”
“That is the right spirit. And now I suggest that you remain in this building until it is time for you to leave. We will make you as comfortable as possible. Mr. Kopeikin can collect your suitcase from the hotel. I will see that a doctor looks at your hand later on to see that it is still all right.” He looked at his watch. “The concièrge can make us some coffee now. Later, he can get some food for you from the restaurant round the corner.” He stood up. “I will go and see about it now. We cannot save you from bullets to let you die of starvation, eh?”
“It’s very kind of you,” said Graham; and then, as the Colonel disappeared down the corridor: “I owe you an apolegy Kopeikin. I behaved badly.”
Kopeikin looked distressed. “My dear fellow! You cannot be blamed. I am glad everything has been settled so quickly.”
“Quickly, yes.” He hesitated. “Is this man Haki to be trusted?”
“You do not like him either, eh?” Kopeikin chuckled. “I would not trust him with a woman; but with you—yes.”
“You approve of my going on this boat?”
“I do. By the way, my dear fellow,” he went on mildly, “have you a gun in your luggage?”
“Good heavens, no!”
“Then you had better take this.” He pulled a small revolver out of his overcoat pocket. “I put it in my pocket when I came out after you telephoned. It is fully loaded.”
“But I shan’t need it.”
“No, but it will make you feel better to have it.”
“I doubt that. Still.…” He took the revolver and stared at it distastefully. “I’ve never fired one of these things, you know.”
“It is easy. You release the safety catch, point it, pull the trigger and hope for the best.”
“All the same …”
“Put it in your pocket. You can give it to the French Customs officials at Modano.”
Colonel Haki returned. “The coffee is being prepared. Now, Mr. Graham, we will decide how you are to amuse yourself until it is time for you to go.” He caught sight of the revolver in Graham’s hand. “Ah-ha! You are arming yourself!” He grinned. “A little melodrama is sometimes unavoidable, eh, Mr. Graham?”