Eric Ambler - Judgment on Deltchev

He looked up from the cupboard he was searching and shook his head. ‘No, Foster mio,’ he said softly, ‘that wasn’t why. I just wanted a little chat with him. When there was no answer, I had another thought and fetched the concierge. Silly of me, wasn’t it? — but I actually thought our Georghi might be dead.’

‘Why should you think that?’

‘It was just a thought I had.’ He straightened up suddenly with a bottle in his hand. ‘There now! Our old friend plum brandy!’ And then he looked directly at me. ‘You know about Pazar, of course?’

‘What about him?’

‘Tonight’s police statement that they’ve found him shot in a derelict house.’

‘Oh yes, that.’ I tried to make it casual.

He reached down and brought out two glasses. ‘A house in some street with a funny name,’ he said slowly. ‘What was it?’

‘Patriarch Dimo.’ My voice sounded unnatural to me.

‘That’s it. Who told you? Georghi?’

‘Yes. He had the statement.’

He brought the bottle and glasses over and put them on the table. ‘When did you see him?’

‘Oh, earlier on.’

He shook his head. ‘It won’t do, Foster dear,’ he said. ‘No, don’t get cross. I set a little trap and you fell into it, that’s all. That statement was only issued half an hour ago. I was on the phone to the office when you came in. That’s how I know.’ He thrust his head forward. ‘How did you know?’

I was feeling sick again. I sat down.

‘ Did Georghi tell you?’

I shook my head. ‘I found him by accident.’

He whistled softly. ‘My, my! You do get around! What sort of an accident was it that took you to. Patriarch Dimo? The same sort that got you into the Deltchev house?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Doing a little private investigating perhaps?’

‘That’s the idea.’

He shook his head regretfully. ‘Someone must be very cross with you.’

Another wave of sickness came. I drew a deep breath. ‘Then that’s probably why someone’s just tried to kill me,’ I said.

He stared at me expressionlessly for a moment. ‘A joke, Foster dear?’ he said gently. ‘A joke in bad taste?’

‘No joke.’

‘Where was it?’

‘In that road that runs round the Park.’

‘When?’

‘An hour or two ago.’

‘One man or two?’

‘Two.’

‘One of them couldn’t have been Georghi by any chance?’

‘No.’

He seemed to relax again. ‘Well, well! Poor Foster! No wonder you look peaky. And here I am chattering away instead of pouring the much-needed drink. There.’

I swallowed the drink and sat back for a moment with my eyes closed. I hoped he would believe that I was feeling faint. I had to think and it was difficult. Sibley was Brankovitch’s paid man and already I had given myself away appallingly. Pashik was involved with Aleko and Philip Deltchev in a Brotherhood plot to assassinate Vukashin. The wreckage of that plot was being used to convict the elder Deltchev. Now the dead Pazar, probably murdered by Aleko, had been officially discovered on the eve of the anniversary parade at which Vukashin was to have been assassinated. There was a contrived, bad-third-act feeling about the whole thing; as if …

‘Feeling better?’ said Sibley.

‘Yes, thanks.’ I opened my eyes. He was looking down at me coldly. I had not deceived him. He smiled.

‘What a busy week you’ve had! Have you any idea, I wonder, what you know that makes you worth killing?’

‘None at all.’

He sat down opposite me. ‘Maybe if you were to tell me what you do know, I could make a suggestion about that.’

‘Or perhaps find a way through the censorship with it? By the way, how is your little man at the Propaganda Ministry?’

He drank his drink down and looked at the empty glass as if waiting for someone to fill it. ‘Do I detect a note of bitchiness and distrust, Foster dear?’

‘Yes, you probably do.’

He looked at the bottle and poured himself another. ‘Drink will be the death of me,’ he said. ‘I was tiddly, of course, but it seemed such a good joke at the time. Although, Foster amigo , I won’t deny that I should also have been interested to see what your angle on the affair was going to be.’

‘My angle was and is that your little man in the Propaganda Ministry was Brankovitch.’

He giggled. ‘Who told you they played that trick? Georghi?’

‘Not Georghi.’

He giggled again. ‘Oh dear! Not Georghi, you mean, but someone else whose name you don’t want to mention in case I’m a Ministry spy who might get him into trouble. Oh dear, oh dear! I do see. I played right into your hands, didn’t I? No wonder you were so maddening. The thing was that they’d tried it on me days before. I could send anything I wanted if I knew how. That was the line. It would cost a bit, of course, but that was to make it sound right.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t like being taken for a fool, do you? I was a bit vexed, so I decided to amuse myself. I thought at first of pretending I’d fallen for it and sending a really dreadful story I’d heard about Vukashin’s sex life. Then I sobered up and thought again. In the end all I did was to lift their dialogue and try it on someone else. Georghi was my first customer and I frightened him out of his wits — or he pretended I did. And that was the crazy part of it; because it wasn’t until I saw him looking at me with those big brown eyes of his and got a breath of that subtle perfume that I remembered where I’d seen him before. Do I convince you?’

‘By no means.’

He gazed upwards soulfully. ‘It’s so sad. I can never make the truth sound convincing. Of course, I look so shifty. I should stick to lying, shouldn’t I?’

‘Where was it you saw Pashik before?’

‘Ah, I have your interest. If only I can keep it until the knock-out drops that I slipped into your drink begin to work, all will be well.’

Involuntarily I looked down at my glass.

He grinned. ‘You’re really very tiresome, aren’t you, Foster dear? If I didn’t want badly to know what makes you worth killing, I wouldn’t say another word.’

‘It’s late. I’m very tired. And-’

‘And it’s always so upsetting to be shot at,’ he said quickly. ‘How inconsiderate of me not to remember that!’

‘I wasn’t apologizing.’

‘Of course you weren’t. You were just hoping that I’d cut the cackle. I do understand. These affectations of mine are such a bore. All right. Let’s talk about Georghi Pashik — why he exists and in whose image he is made. What has he told you about himself?’

‘He was expelled from Italy for writing something Mussolini didn’t agree with. He did his military service in Austria. He admires Myrna Loy. The last item I deduced for myself from a picture in his office.’

‘She must be his spiritual mum, don’t you think? All right, here it is. Technically, a stateless person. Born in the Trentino, of Macedonian Greek parents who were themselves of doubtful national status. He takes Hungarian nationality. Treaty of Trianon muddle. He does his military service in Austria. He goes eventually to Paris and works for Havas as a messenger. Intelligent, ambitious, a worker. He writes odd pieces. He gets on. Eventually they give him a job in the Rome office. He gets important. Then he’s expelled, which is all very difficult because he’s married an Italian girl and the squadristi make it hot for her family. He has a lot of trouble squaring things. After a bit his wife dies and he returns here to the home of his forefathers with very peculiar ideas about the way the world ought to be run.’

‘What sort of ideas?’