Eric Ambler - Journey Into Fear

He passed one of his fellow passengers, the first he had seen, an elderly man leaning on the rail staring at the lights of Istanbul coming into view as they cleared the mole. Now, as he reached the end of the deck and turned about, he saw that a woman in a fur coat had just come out of the saloon door and was walking towards him.

The light on the deck was dim and she was within a few yards of him before he recognised her.

It was Josette.

For a moment they stared blankly at one another. Then she laughed. “Merciful God! It is the Englishman. Excuse me, but this is extraordinary.”

“Yes, isn’t it.”

“And what happened to your first-class compartment on the Orient Express?”

He smiled. “Kopeikin thought that a little sea air would do me good.”

“And you needed doing good?” The straw-coloured hair was covered with a woollen scarf tied under the chin, but she held her head back to look at him as if she were wearing a hat that shaded her eyes.

“Evidently.” On the whole, he decided, she looked a good deal less attractive than she had looked in her dressing-room. The fur coat was shapeless, and the scarf did not suit her. “Since we are talking about trains,” he added, “what happened to your second-class compartment?”

She frowned with a smile at the corners of her mouth. “This way is so much less expensive. Did I say that I was travelling by train?”

Graham flushed. “No, of course not.” He realised that he was being rather rude. “In any case, I am delighted to see you again so soon. I have been wondering what I should do if I found that the Hotel des Belges was closed.”

She looked at him archly. “Ah! You were really going to telephone me, then?”

“Of course. It was understood, wasn’t it?”

She discarded the arch look and replaced it with a pout. “I do not think that you are sincere after all. Tell me truthfully why you are on this boat.”

She began to walk along the deck. He could do nothing but fall in step beside her.

“You don’t believe me?”

She lifted her shoulders elaborately. “You need not tell me if you do not wish to. I am not inquisitive.”

He thought he saw her difficulty. From her point of view there could be only two explanations of his presence on the boat: either his claim to be travelling first class on the Orient Express had been a pretentious lie intended to impress her-in which case he would have very little money-or he had somehow discovered that she was travelling on the boat, and had abandoned the luxury of the Orient Express in order to pursue her-in which case he would probably have plenty of money. He had a sudden absurd desire to startle her with the truth.

“Very well,” he said. “I am travelling this way to avoid someone who is trying to shoot me.”

She stopped dead. “I think it is too cold out here,” she said calmly. “I shall go in.”

He was so surprised that he laughed.

She turned on him quickly. “You should not make such stupid jokes.”

There was no doubt about it; she was genuinely angry. He held up his bandaged hand. “A bullet grazed it.”

She frowned. “You are very bad. If you have hurt your hand I am sorry, but you should not make jokes about it. It is very dangerous.”

“Dangerous!”

“You will have bad luck, and so shall I. It is very bad luck to joke in that way.”

“Oh, I see.” He grinned. “I am not superstitious.”

“That is because you do not know. I would sooner see a raven flying than joke about killing. If you wish me to like you, you must not say such things.”

“I apologise,” said Graham, mildly. “Actually I cut my hand with a razor.”

“Ah, they are dangerous things! In Algiers José saw a man with his throat cut from ear to ear with a razor.”

“Suicide?”

“No, no! It was his petite amie who did it. There was a lot of blood. José will tell you about it if you ask him. It was very sad.”

“Yes, I can imagine. José is travelling with you, then?”

“Naturally.” And then, with a sidelong look: “He is my husband.”

Her husband! That explained why she “put up with” José. It also explained why Colonel Haki had omitted to tell him that the “dancing blonde” was travelling on the boat. Graham remembered the promptitude with which José had retired from the dressing-room. That, no doubt, had been a matter of business. Attractions at a place like Le Jockey Cabaret were not quite so attractive if they were known to have husbands in the vicinity. He said: “Kopeikin didn’t tell me that you were married.”

“Kopeikin is very nice, but he does not know everything. But I will tell you confidentially that with José and me it is an arrangement. We are partners, nothing more. He is jealous about me only when I neglect business for pleasure.”

She said it indifferently, as if she were discussing a clause in her contract.

“Are you going to dance in Paris now?”

“I do not know. I hope so; but so much is closed on account of the war.”

“What will you do if you can’t get an engagement?”

“What do you think? I shall starve. I have done it before.” She smiled bravely. “It is good for the figure.” She pressed her hands on her hips and looked at him, inviting his considered opinion. “Do you not think it would be good for my figure to starve a little? One grows fat in Istanbul.” She posed. “You see?”

Graham nearly laughed. The picture being presented for his approval had all the simple allure of a full-page drawing in La Vie Parisienne . Here was the “business man’s” dream come true: the beautiful blonde dancer, married but unloved, in need of protection: something expensive going cheap.

“A dancer’s must be a very hard life,” he said dryly.

“Ah, yes! Many people think that it is so gay. If they knew!”

“Yes, of course. It is getting a little cold, isn’t it? Shall we go inside and have a drink?”

“That would be nice.” She added with a tremendous air of candour: “I am so glad we are travelling together. I was afraid that I was going to be bored. Now, I shall enjoy myself.”

He felt that his answering smile was probably rather sickly. He was beginning to have an uncomfortable suspicion that he was making a fool of himself. “We go this way, I think,” he said.

The salone was a narrow room about thirty feet long, with entrances from the shelter deck and from the landing at the head of the stairs to the cabins. There were grey upholstered banquettes round the walls and, at one end, three round dining tables bolted down. Evidently there was no separate dining-room. Some chairs, a card table, a shaky writing desk, a radio, a piano and a threadbare carpet completed the furnishings. Opening off the room at the far end was a cubby hole with half doors. The lower door had a strip of wood screwed to the top of it to make a counter. This was the bar. Inside it, the steward was opening cartons of cigarettes. Except for him, the place was deserted. They sat down.

“What would you like to drink, Mrs.…,” began Graham tentatively.

She laughed. “José’s name is Gallindo, but I detest it. You must call me Josette. I would like some English whisky and a cigarette, please.”

“Two whiskies,” said Graham.

The steward put his head out and frowned at them. “Viski? ? molto caro,” he said warningly; “très cher. Cinque lire . Five lire each. Vair dear.”

“Yes, it is, but we will have them just the same.”

The steward retired into the bar, and made a lot of noise with the bottles.

“He is very angry,” said Josette. “He is not used to people who order whisky.” She had obviously derived a good deal of satisfaction from the ordering of the whisky, and the discomfiture of the steward. In the light of the saloon her fur coat looked cheap and old; but she had unbuttoned it and arranged it round her shoulders as if it had been a thousand guinea mink. He began, against his better judgment, to feel sorry for her.