Eric Ambler - Journey Into Fear

Graham smiled. “I will be frank with you. I came to you now instead of in the morning so that there could be no chance of my thinking things over and deciding to take his advice after all.”

“What is important is,” said Mr. Kuvetli quietly, “that you have in fact come to me. Did you tell him that you were going to do so?”

“No. I told him that I thought he was bluffing.”

“And do you think that he was?”

“I don’t know.”

Mr. Kuvetli scratched his armpits thoughtfully. “There are so many things to be considered. And it depends on what you mean by saying that he is bluffing. If you mean that he could not or would not kill you, I think you are wrong. He could and would.”

“But how? I have a Consul. What is to prevent my getting into a taxi at the dock and going straight to the Consulate? I could arrange for some sort of protection there.”

Mr. Kuvetli lit another cigarette. “Do you know where the British Consulate-General in Genoa is?”

“The taxi-driver would know.”

“I can tell you myself. It is at the corner of the Via Ippolito d’Aste. This ship docks at the Ponte San Giorgio in the Vittorio Emanuele basin, several kilometres away from your Consulate. I have travelled this way before and so I know what I am saying. Genoa is a great port. I doubt, Monsieur Graham, whether you would complete one of those kilometres. They will be waiting for you with a car. When you took the taxi they would follow you as far as the Via Francia, then force the taxi on to the pavement and shoot you as you sit there.”

“I could telephone to the Consul from the dock.”

“Certainly you could. But you would have to go through the Customs shed first. You would then have to wait for the Consul to arrive. Wait , Monsieur! Do you understand what that means? Let us suppose that you were to reach the Consul by telephone immediately and convince him that your case was urgent. You would still have to wait at least half an hour for him. Let me tell you that your chances of surviving that half-hour would not be lessened if you spent it drinking prussic acid. To kill an unarmed, unguarded man is never difficult. Among the sheds on the quay it would be simplicity itself. No, I do not think Moeller is bluffing when he says that he can kill you.”

“But what about this proposal? He seemed very eager to persuade me to agree.”

Mr. Kuvetli fingered the back of his head. “There could be several explanations of that. For instance, it is possible that his intention is to kill you in any case and that he wishes to do so with as little trouble as possible. One cannot deny that it would be easier to kill you on the road to Santa Margherita than on the waterfront at Genoa.”

“That’s a pleasing idea.”

“I am inclined to think that it is the correct one.” Mr. Kuvetli frowned. “You see, this proposal of his looks very simple-you are taken ill, there is a forged medical certificate, you get better, you go home. Voilà! It is done. But think now of the actuality. You are an Englishman in a hurry to get to England. You land in Genoa. What would you do normally? Take the train for Paris, without a doubt. But what is it necessary to do now? You must, for some mysterious reason, remain in Genoa long enough to discover that you have typhus. Also you must not do what anyone else would do in those circumstances-you must not go to a hospital. You must instead go to a private clinic near Santa Margherita. Is it possible that it would not be thought in England that your behaviour was curious? I think not. Furthermore, typhus is a disease which must be notified to the authorities. That could not be done in this case because there would be no typhus and the medical authorities would soon discover the fact. And supposing your friends discover that your case has not been notified. They might. You are of some importance. The British Consul might be asked to investigate. And then what? No, I cannot see Monsieur Moeller taking such absurd risks. Why should he? It would be easier to kill you.”

“He says that he does not like having people killed if he can help it.”

Mr. Kuvetli giggled. “He must think you very stupid indeed. Did he tell you what he would do about my presence here?”

“No.”

“I am not surprised. For that plan to succeed as he explained it to you, there would be only one thing he could do-kill me. And even when he had killed me I should still embarrass him. Colonel Haki would see to that. I am afraid that Monsieur’s proposal is not very honest.”

“It sounded convincing. I may say that he was prepared to allow Señora Gallindo to make up the party if I liked to take her along.”

Mr. Kuvetli leered: a scurfy faun in a flannel night-shirt. “And did you tell Señora Gallindo that?”

Graham flushed. “She knows nothing of Moeller. I told her about Banat. I’m afraid I gave myself away last night when Banat came into the saloon. She asked me what was wrong and I told her. Anyway,” he added defensively but none too truthfully, “I needed her help. It was she who arranged to keep Banat occupied while I searched his cabin.”

“By arranging for the good José to play cards with him? Quite so. As to the suggestion that she should accompany you, I think that, if you had accepted it, it would have been withdrawn. It would, no doubt, be explained that difficulties had arisen. Does José know of this business?”

“No. I don’t think that she would tell him. She’s trustworthy, I think,” he added with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

“No woman is trustworthy,” gloated Mr. Kuvetli. “But I do not begrudge you your amusements, Monsieur Graham.” He moistened his upper lip with the tip of his tongue and grinned. “Señora Gallindo is very attractive.”

Graham checked the retort that rose to his lips. “Very,” he said tersely. “Meanwhile we have reached the conclusion that I shall be killed if I accept Moeller’s proposal and killed if I don’t.” And then he lost control of himself. “For God’s sake, Kuvetli,” he burst out in English, “do you think it’s pleasant for me to sit here listening to you telling me how easy it would be for these lice to kill me! What am I going to do ?”

Mr. Kuvetli patted his knee consolingly. “My dear friend, I understand perfectly. I was merely showing you that it would be impossible for you to land in the ordinary way.”

“But what other way can I land? I’m not invisible.”

“I will tell you,” said Mr. Kuvetli complacently. “It is very simple. You see, although this ship does not actually reach the quayside for the landing of passengers until nine o’clock on Saturday morning, she arrives off Genoa in the early hours, at about four o’clock. Night pilotage is expensive; accordingly, although she takes on a pilot as soon as it begins to get light, she does not move in until sunrise. The pilot boat …”

“If you’re suggesting that I leave by the pilot boat, it’s impossible.”

“For you, yes. For me, no. I am privileged. I have a diplomatic laisser passer.” He patted his jacket pocket. “By eight o’clock I can be at the Turkish Consulate. Arrangements can then be made for getting you away safely and taking you to the airport. The international train service is not as good as it used to be, and the Paris train does not leave until two o’clock in the afternoon. It is better that you do not remain so long in Genoa. We will charter a plane to take you to Paris immediately.”

Graham’s heart began to beat faster. An extraordinary feeling of lightness and ease came over him. He wanted to laugh. He said stolidly: “It sounds all right.”

“It will be all right, but precautions must be taken to see that it is so. If Monsieur Moeller suspects that there is a chance of your escaping, something unpleasant will happen. Listen carefully, please.” He scratched his chest and then held up a forefinger. “First; you must go to Monsieur Moeller to-morrow and tell him that you agree to his suggestion that you should stay in Santa Margherita.”