Eric Ambler - Journey Into Fear

The Frenchman was staring at him with horror in his eyes. “Is it not possible,” he whispered. “Why …?”

“I should like to explain but I am afraid that I can’t. The point is, will you deliver the message for me?”

“Of course. But is there nothing else that I can do? These German agents-why can you not have them arrested?”

“For various reasons. The best way you can help me is to take this message for me.”

The Frenchman stuck out his jaw aggressively. “It is ridiculous!” he burst out and then lowered his voice to a fierce whisper. “Discretion is necessary. I understand that. You are of the British secret service. One does not confide these things but I am not a fool. Very well! Why do we not together shoot down these filthy Bosches and escape? I have my revolver and together.…”

Graham jumped. “Did you say that you had a revolver-here?”

Mathis looked defiant. “Certainly I have a revolver. Why not? In Turkey …”

Graham seized his arm. “Then you can do something more to help me.”

Mathis scowled impatiently. “What is that?”

“Let me buy your revolver from you.”

“You mean you are unarmed?”

“My own revolver was stolen. How much will you take for yours?”

“But.…”

“It will be more use to me than to you.”

Mathis drew himself up. “I will not sell it to you.”

“But.…”

“I will give it to you. Here.…” He pulled a small nickel-plated revolver out of his hip pocket and thrust it in Graham’s hand. “No, please. It is nothing. I would like to do more.”

Graham thanked his stars for the impulse which had led him to apologize to the Mathises the previous day. “You have done more than enough.”

“Nothing! It is loaded, see? Here is the safety catch. There is a light pull on the trigger. You do not have to be a Hercules. Keep your arm straight when you fire … but I do not have to tell you.”

“I am grateful, Mathis. And you will go to the Turkish Consul as soon as you land.”

“It is understood.” He held out his hand. “I wish you luck, my friend,” he said with emotion. “If you are sure that there is nothing else that I can do.…”

“I am sure.”

A moment later Mathis had gone. Graham waited. He heard the Frenchman go into the next cabin and Madame Mathis’ sharp voice.

“Well?”

“So you cannot mind your own business, eh? He is broke and I have lent him two hundred francs.”

“Imbecile! You will not touch it again.”

“You think not? Let me tell you he has given me a cheque.”

“I detest cheques.”

“I am not drunk. It is on an Istanbul bank. As soon as we arrive I shall go to the Turkish Consulate and see that the cheque is a good one.”

“A lot they will know-or care!”

“Enough! I know what I am doing. Are you ready? No! Then …”

Graham breathed a sigh of relief and examined the revolver. It was smaller than Kopeikin’s and of Belgian manufacture. He worked the safety catch and fingered the trigger. It was a handy little weapon and looked as if it had been carefully used. He looked about him for a place to put it. It must not be visible from the outside yet he must be able to get at it quickly. He decided eventually on his top left hand waistcoat pocket. The barrel, breach and half the trigger guard just fitted in. When he buttoned his jacket the butt was hidden while the lapels set in a way that concealed the bulge. What was more, he could, by touching his tie, bring his fingers within two inches of the butt. He was ready.

He dropped Mr. Kuvetli’s box of ammunition through the porthole and went up on deck.

They were in the harbour now and moving across to the west side. Towards the sea the sky was clear but a mist hung over the heights above the town, obscuring the sun and making the white amphitheatrical mass of buildings seem cold and desolate.

The only other person on deck was Banat. He was standing gazing out at the shipping with the absorbed interest of a small boy. It was difficult to realise that, at some moment in the last ten hours, this pale creature had come out of cabin number four with a knife which he had just driven into Mr. Kuvetli’s neck; that in his pocket at that moment were Mr. Kuvetli’s papers, Mr. Kuvetli’s money and Mr. Kuvetli’s pistol; that he intended to commit within the next few hours yet another murder. His very insignificance was horrible. It lent a false air of normality to the situation. Had Graham not been so acutely alive to the danger he was in, he would have been tempted to believe that the memory of what he had seen in cabin number four was the memory not of a real experience, but of something conceived in a dream.

He was no longer conscious of any fear. His body was tingling in a curious way; he was short of breath, and every now and again a wave of nausea would rise up from the pit of his stomach; but his brain seemed to have lost touch with his body. His thoughts arranged themselves with a quick efficiency that surprised him. He knew that short of abandoning all hope of reaching England in time to fulfil the Turkish contract by the specified date, his only chance of getting out of Italy alive lay in his beating Moeller at Moeller’s own game. Mr. Kuvetli had made it clear that Moeller’s “alternative” was a trick devised with the sole object of transferring the scene of the killing to a less public place than a main street of Genoa. In other words, he was to be “taken for a ride.” In a very short time now, Moeller, Banat and some others would be waiting with a car outside the Customs shed ready, if necessary, to shoot him down there and then. If, however, he were considerate enough to step into the car they would take him away to some quiet place on the Santa Margherita road and shoot him there. There was just one weak spot in their plan. They thought that if he were to get into the car he would do so believing that he was to be driven to a hotel in order to make an elaborate show of falling ill. They were mistaken; and in their being mistaken they presented him with the beginnings of a way out. If he acted quickly and boldly he might be able to get through.

They would not, he reasoned, be likely to tell him as soon as he got in the car what they were going to do. The fiction about the hotel and the clinic near Santa Margherita would be maintained until the last moment. From their point of view, it would be much easier to drive through the narrow streets of Genoa with a man who thought he was going to have six weeks’ holiday than with a man who had to be forcibly prevented from attracting the attention of passers-by. They would be inclined to humour him. They might even let him register at a hotel. In any case, it was unlikely that the car would go right through the city without being held up once by the traffic. His chances of escape lay in his being able to take them by surprise. Let him once get free in a crowded street, and they would have great difficulty in catching him. His objective, then, would be the Turkish Consulate. He had chosen the Turkish Consulate rather than his own, for the simple reason that with the Turks he would have to do less explaining. A reference to Colonel Haki would simplify matters considerably.

The ship was approaching the berth now, and men were standing on the quay ready to catch the lines. Banat had not seen him, but now Josette and José came out on deck. He moved quickly round to the other side. Josette was the last person he wanted to talk to at that moment. She might suggest that they share a taxi to the centre of the city. He would have to explain why he was leaving the quay in a private car with Moeller and Banat. There might be all sorts of other difficulties. At that moment he came face to face with Moeller.

The old man nodded affably. “Good morning, Mr. Graham. I was hoping to see you. It will be pleasant to get ashore again, won’t it?”