Eric Ambler - The Schirmer Inheritance

As, therefore, he raised his hands obediently and put them behind his head, he was suddenly aware of an overwhelming, unreasoning, and quite impracticable desire to run away somewhere and hide. He struggled against it for a moment; then the man spoke again and the desire went as suddenly as it had arrived. The blood began to pound unpleasantly in his head.

“That’s right, chum,” the voice was saying soothingly. “Now just go over to the window there and pull the shutters to. Then we’ll have a little light on the scene. Slowly does it. Yes, you’ll have to use your hands, but watch what you do with them or we’ll have an accident. Don’t try calling out or anything, either. All nice and quiet. That’s the ticket.”

George pulled the shutters to, and at the same moment the light in the room went on. He turned.

The man who stood by the light switch, watching him, was in his middle thirties, short and thickset, with dark, thinning hair. His suit was obviously a local product. Just as obviously he was not. The rawboned, snub-nosed face and the sly, insolent eyes originated, as did the Cockney accent, from somewhere within the Greater London area.

“That’s better, eh?” the visitor said. “Now we can see what’s what without the neighbours across the street getting nosy.”

“What the hell’s the idea of all this?” said George. “And who the hell are you?”

“Easy, chum.” The visitor grinned. “No names, no pack drill. You can call me Arthur if you like. It’s not my name, but it’ll do. Lots of people call me Arthur. You’re Mr. Carey, aren’t you?”

“You should know.” George looked at the papers strewn over the bed.

“Ah, yes. Sorry about that, Mr. Carey. I meant to clear it up before you came back. But I didn’t have time for more than a glance. I haven’t taken anything, naturally.”

“Naturally. I don’t leave money in hotel rooms.”

“Oh, what a wicked thing to say!” said the visitor skittishly. “Tongue like a whiplash, haven’t we?”

“Well, if you’re not here for money, what are you here for?”

“A bit of a chat, Mr. Carey. That’s all.”

“Do you usually come calling with a gun?”

The visitor looked pained. “Look, chum, how was I to know you’d be reasonable-finding a stranger in your room? Supposing you’d start yelling blue murder and throwing the furniture about. I had to take precautions.”

“You could have asked for me downstairs.”

The visitor grinned slyly. “Could I? Ah, but maybe you don’t know much about these parts, Mr. Carey. All right”-his tone suddenly became businesslike-“I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. You promise not to start calling up the management or getting Charlie with me, and I’ll put the gun away. O.K.?”

“All right. But I’d still like to know what you’re doing here.”

“I told you. I want a little private chat. That’s all.” “What about?”

“I’ll tell you.” Arthur put his gun away inside his jacket and produced a packet of Greek cigarettes. He offered them to George. “Smoke, Mr. Carey?”

George produced a packet of his own. “No, thanks. I’ll stick to these.”

“Chesterfields, eh? Long time no see. Mind if I try one?”

“Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” He fussed about the business of giving George a light like an over-anxious host. Then he lit his own cigarette and drew on it appreciatively. “Nice tobacco,” he said. “Very nice.”

George sat down on the edge of the bed. “Look,” he said impatiently, “what exactly is this all about? You break into my room, go through my business papers, threaten me with a gun, and then say you only want a private chat. All right, so we’re chatting. Now what?”

“Mind if I sit down, Mr. Carey?”

“Do anything you like, but for Pete’s sake come to the point.”

“All right, all right, give us a chance.” Arthur sat down gingerly on a cane-backed chair. “It’s a private sort of a matter, Mr. Carey,” he said. “Confidential, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I wouldn’t like it to go any further,” he persisted maddeningly.

“I’ve got that.”

“Well now”-he cleared his throat-“I have been given to understand by certain parties,” he said carefully, “that you, Mr. Carey, have been making certain inquiries of a confidential nature in the town.”

“Yes.”

“This afternoon you had a certain conversation with a certain woman who shall be nameless.”

“Madame Vassiotis, you mean?”

“That’s right.”

“Then why say she shall be nameless?”

“No names, no pack drill.”

“Oh, all right. Get on.”

“She gave you certain information.”

“What about it?”

“Easy does it, Mr. Carey. Your inquiries were re a certain German N.C.O. named Schirmer. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Do you mind telling me why you are making the said inquiries, Mr. Carey?”

“If you were to tell me first just why you wanted to know, I might tell you.”

Arthur digested this reply for a moment or two in silence.

“And, just to make matters simpler, Arthur,” George added, “I’ll tell you that, although I’m a lawyer, I’m quite capable of understanding ordinary English. So what about letting your hair down and coming to the point?”

Mr. Arthur’s low forehead creased with the effort of thinking. “You see, it’s confidential, that’s the trouble, Mr. Carey,” he said unhappily.

“So you explained. But if it’s so confidential that you can’t talk about it, you’d better go home and let me get some sleep, hadn’t you?”

“Now, don’t talk like that, Mr. Carey. I’m doing my best. Look! If you were to tell me what you want to know about this chap for, I could tell certain persons who might be able to help you.”

“What persons?”

“Persons with information to give.”

“You mean information to sell , don’t you?”

“I said give .”

George examined his guest thoughtfully. “You’re British, aren’t you, Arthur?” he said after a moment. “Or is that confidential?”

Arthur grinned. “Want to hear me speak Greek? I speak it like a native.”

“All right, then. You’re a citizen of the world, then, eh?”

“Goldsmith!” said Arthur unexpectedly.

“Pardon?”

“Oliver Goldsmith,” repeated Arthur; “he wrote a book called The Citizen of the World . We had it at school. Lot of crap about a Chinaman who comes to London and sees the sights.”

“What part of London do you come from, Arthur?”

Arthur wagged a finger coyly. “Ah, naughty, naughty! That would be telling!”

“Afraid I’ll check up on the British War Office lists of troops reported missing in Greece and find out which ones came from where you came from?”

“What do you think, chum?”

George smiled. “O.K., Arthur. Here it is. This man Schirmer I’ve been inquiring about was entitled to some money left by a distant relative of his in America. He was reported missing. I came here really to get confirmation of his death, but I’d also like to know if he ever had any children. That’s all. I found out today that he’s dead.”

“From old Ma Vassiotis?”

“That’s right. And now I’m on my way home.”

“I get it.” Arthur was thinking hard now. “Much money, is there?” he said at last.

“Just enough to make it worth my while coming here.”

“And that little bit of homework you’ve got with you?”

“Miss Kolin, you mean? She’s an interpreter.”

“I get you.” Arthur came to a decision. “Supposing-just supposing, mind-that there was a bit more information you could find out about this German. Would it be worth your while to stay another couple of days?”