Eric Ambler - Journey Into Fear

“I think you are angry with me?”

“Good gracious, no! Why should I be?”

“Because I was rude to your little Turk.”

“He’s not my little Turk.”

“But you are angry?”

“Of course not.”

She sighed. “You are very mysterious. You have still not told me why you are travelling on this boat. I am very interested to know. It cannot be because it is cheap. Your clothes are expensive!”

He could not see her face, only a vague outline of her; but he could smell the scent she was using, and the mustiness of the fur coat. He said: “I can’t think why you should be interested.”

“But you know perfectly well that I am.”

She had come an inch or two nearer to him. He knew that, if he wanted to do so, he could kiss her and that she would return the kiss. He knew also that it would be no idle peck, but a declaration that their relationship was to be the subject of discussion. He was surprised to find that he did not reject the idea instantaneously, that the immediate prospect of feeling her full smooth lips against his was more than attractive. He was cold and tired: she was near, and he could sense the warmth of her body. It could do no one any harm if … He said: “Are you travelling to Paris via Modane?”

“Yes. But why ask? It is the way to Paris.”

“When we get to Modane I will tell you exactly why I travelled this way, if you are still interested.”

She turned and they walked on. “Perhaps it is not so important,” she said. “You must not think I am inquisitive.” They reached the companionway. Her attitude towards him had changed perceptibly. She looked at him with friendly concern. “Yes, my dear sir, you are tired. I should not have asked you to stay up here. I shall finish my walk alone. Good night.”

“Good night, Señora.”

She smiled. “Señora! You must not be so unkind. Good night.”

He went below amused and irritated by his thoughts. Outside the door of the saloon he came face to face with Mr. Kuvetli.

Mr. Kuvetli broadened his smile. “First officer says we shall have good weather, sir.”

“Splendid.” He remembered with a sinking heart that he had invited the man to have a drink. “Will you join me in a drink?”

“Oh no, thank you. Not now.” Mr. Kuvetli placed one hand on his chest. “Matter of fact, I have pain because of wine at table. Very strong acid stuff!”

“So I should imagine. Until to-morrow, then.”

“Yes, Mr. Graham. You will be glad to arrive back at your home, eh?” He seemed to want to talk.

“Oh yes, very glad.”

“You go to Athens when we stop to-morrow?”

“I was thinking of doing so.”

“Do you know Athens well, I suppose?”

“I’ve been there before.”

Mr. Kuvetli hesitated. His smile became oily. “You are in a position to do me service, Mr. Graham.”

“Oh yes?”

“I do not know Athens. I have never been. Would you allow me to go with you?”

“Yes, of course. I should be glad of company. But I was only going to buy some English books and cigarettes.”

“I am most grateful.”

“Not at all. We get in just after lunch, don’t we?”

“Yes, yes. That is quite right. But I will find out exact time. You leave that to me.”

“Then that’s settled. I think I shall go to bed now. Good night, Mr. Kuvetli.”

“Good night, sir. And I thank you for your favour.”

“Not at all. Good night.”

He went to his cabin, rang for the steward and said that he wanted his breakfast coffee in his cabin at nine-thirty. Then he undressed and got into his bunk.

For a few minutes he lay on his back enjoying the gradual relaxing of his muscles. Now, at last, he could forget Haki, Kopeikin, Banat, and the rest of it. He was back in his own life, and could sleep. The phrase “asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow” passed through his mind. That was how it would be with him. God knew he was tired enough. He turned on his side. But sleep did not come so easily. His brain would not stop working. It was as if the needle were trapped in one groove on the record. He’d made a fool of himself with that wretched woman Josette. He’d made a fool … He jerked his thoughts forward. Ah yes! He was committed to three unalloyed hours of Mr. Kuvetli’s company. But that was to-morrow. And now, sleep. But his hand was throbbing again, and there seemed to be a lot of noise going on. That boor José was right. The vibration was excessive. The cabins w ere too near the lavatories. There were footsteps overhead, too: people walking round the shelter deck. Round and round. Why, for Heaven’s sake, must people always be walking?

He had been lying awake for half an hour when the French couple entered their cabin.

They were quiet for a minute or two, and he could only hear the sounds they made as they moved about the cabin, and an occasional grunted comment. Then the woman began.

“Well, that is the first evening over! Three more! It is too much to think of.”

“It will pass.” A yawn. “What is the matter with the Italian woman and her son?”

“You did not hear? Her husband was killed in the earthquake at Erzurum. The first officer told me. He is very nice, but I had hoped that there would be at least one French person to talk to.”

“There are people who speak French. The little Turk speaks it very well. And there are the others.”

“They are not French. That girl and that man-the Spaniard. They say that they are dancers, but I ask you.”

“She is pretty.”

“Certainly. I do not dispute it. But you need not think little thoughts. She is interested in the Englishman. I do not like him. He does not look like an Englishman.”

“You think the English are all milords with sporting clothes and monocles. Ha! I saw the Tommies in nineteen fifteen. They are all small and ugly with very loud voices. They talk very quickly. This type is more like the officers who are thin and slow, and look as if things do not smell very nice.”

“This type is not an English officer. He likes the Germans.”

“You exaggerate. An old man like that! I would have sat with him myself.”

“Ah! So you say. I will not believe it.”

“No? When you are a soldier you do not call the Bosche ‘the filthy Bosche.’ That is for the women, the civilians.”

“You are mad. They are filthy. They are beasts like those in Spain who violated nuns and murdered priests.”

“But, my little one, you forget that there were many of Hitler’s Bosches who fought against the Reds in Spain. You forget. You are not logical.”

“They are not the same as those who attack France. They were Catholic Germans.”

“You are ridiculous! Was I not hit in the guts by a bullet fired by a Bavarian Catholic in ‘seventeen? You make me tired. You are ridiculous. Be silent.”

“No, it is you who …”

They went on. Graham heard little more. Before he could make up his mind to cough loudly, he was asleep.

He awoke only once in the night. The vibration had ceased. He looked at his watch, saw that the time was half-past two, and guessed that they had stopped at Chanaq to drop the pilot. A few minutes later, as the engines started again, he went to sleep again.

It was not until the steward brought his coffee seven hours later that he learned that the pilot cutter from Chanaq had brought a telegram for him.

It was addressed: “GRAHAM, VAPUR SESTRI LEVANTE, CANAKKALE.” He read:

“H. REQUESTS ME INFORM YOU B. LEFT FOR SOFIA HOUR AGO. ALL WELL. BEST WISHES. KOPEIKIN.”

It had been handed in at Beyoglu at seven o’clock the previous evening.

It was an Æ gean day: intensely coloured in the sun and with small pink clouds drifting in a bleached indigo sky. A stiff breeze was blowing and the amethyst of the sea was broken with white. The Sestri Levante was burying her stem in it and lifting clouds of spray which the breeze whipped across the well-deck like hail. The steward had told him that they were within sight of the island of Makronisi and as he went out on deck he saw it: a thin golden line shimmering in the sun and stretched out ahead of them like a sand bar at the entrance to a lagoon.