Eric Ambler: Journey Into Fear

“She dances very well. She seems to admire you very much. She says that you have a great success. You do, of course.”

“A great success! Here?” The disillusioned genius raised her eyebrows. “I hope you gave her a good tip, Mr. Graham.”

“He gave her twice as much as was necessary,” said Kopeikin. “Ah, here are the drinks!”

They talked for a time about people whom Graham did not know, and about the war. He saw that behind her posturing she was quick and shrewd, and wondered if the American in Italy had ever regretted his “sincerity.” After a while Kopeikin raised his glass.

“I drink,” he said pompously, “to your two journeys.” He lowered his glass suddenly without drinking. “No, it is absurd,” he said, irritably. “My heart is not in the toast. I cannot help thinking that it is a pity that there should be two journeys. You are both going to Paris. You are both friends of mine, and so you have”-he patted his stomach-“much in common.”

Graham smiled, trying not to look startled. She was certainly very attractive, and it was pleasant to sit facing her as he was; but the idea that the acquaintance might be extended had simply not occurred to him. He was confused by it. He saw that she was watching him with amusement in her eyes, and had an uncomfortable feeling that she knew exactly what was passing through his mind.

He put the best face on the situation that he could. “I was hoping to suggest the same thing. I think you should have left me to suggest it, Kopeikin. Mademoiselle will wonder if I am as sincere as an American.” He smiled at her. “I am leaving by the eleven o’clock train.”

“And in the first class, Mr. Graham?”

“Yes.”

She put out her cigarette. “Then there are two obvious reasons why we cannot travel together. I am not leaving by that train and, in any case, I travel in the second class. It is perhaps just as well. José would wish to play cards with you all the way, and you would lose your money.”

There was no doubt that she expected them to finish their drinks and go. Graham felt oddly disappointed. He would have liked to stay. He knew, besides, that he had behaved awkwardly.

“Perhaps,” he said, “we could meet in Paris.”

“Perhaps.” She stood up and smiled kindly at him. “I shall stay at the Hotel des Belges near Trinité, if it is still open. I shall hope to meet you again. Kopeikin tells me that as an engineer you are very well known.”

“Kopeikin exaggerates-just as he exaggerated when he said that we should not hinder you and your partner in your packing. I hope you have a pleasant journey.”

“It has been so good to meet you. It was so kind of you, Kopeikin, to bring Mr. Graham to see me.”

“It was his idea,” said Kopeikin. “Good-bye, my dear Josette, and bon voyage . We should like to stay, but it is late, and I insisted on Mr. Graham’s getting some sleep. He would stay talking until he missed the train if I permitted it.”

She laughed. “You are very nice, Kopeikin. When I come next to Istanbul, I shall tell you first. Au ’voir , Mr. Graham, and bon voyage.” She held out her hand.

“The Hotel des Belges near Trinité,” he said: “I shall remember.” He spoke very little less than the truth. During the ten minutes that his taxi would take to get from the Gare de l’Est to the Gare St. Lazare, he probably would remember.

She pressed his fingers gently. “I’m sure you will,” she said. “Au ‘voir , Kopeikin. You know the way?”

“I think,” said Kopeikin, as they waited for their bill, “I think that I am a little disappointed in you, my dear fellow. You made an excellent impression. She was yours for the asking. You had only to ask her the time of her train.”

“I am quite sure that I made no impression at all. Frankly, she embarrassed me. I don’t understand women of that sort.”

“That sort of woman, as you put it, likes a man who is embarrassed by her. Your diffidence was charming.”

“Heavens! Anyway, I said that I would see her in Paris.”

“My dear fellow, she knows perfectly well that you have not the smallest intention of seeing her in Paris. It is a pity. She is, I know, quite particular. You were lucky, and you chose to ignore the fact.”

“Good gracious, man, you seem to forget that I’m a married man!”

Kopeikin threw up his hands. “The English point of view! One cannot reason; one can only stand amazed.” He sighed profoundly. “Here comes the bill.”

On their way out they passed Maria sitting at the bar with her best friend, a mournful-looking Turkish girl. They received a smile. Graham noticed that the man in the crumpled brown suit had gone.

It was cold in the street. A wind was beginning to moan through the telephone wires bracketed on the wall. At three o’clock in the morning the city of Sulyman the Magnificent was like a railway station after the last train had gone.

“We shall be having snow,” said Kopeikin. “Your hotel is quite near. We will walk if you like. It is to be hoped,” he went on as they began to walk, “that you will miss the snow on your journey. Last year there was a Simplon Orient express delayed for three days near Salonika.”

“I shall take a bottle of brandy with me.”

Kopeikin grunted. “Still, I do not envy you the journey. I think perhaps I am getting old. Besides, travelling at this time …”

“Oh, I’m a good traveller. I don’t get bored easily.”

“I was not thinking of boredom. So many unpleasant things can happen in war time.”

“I suppose so.”

Kopeikin buttoned up his overcoat collar. “To give you only one example …

“During the last war an Austrian friend of mine was returning to Berlin from Zürich, where he had been doing some business. He sat in the train with a man who said that he was a Swiss from Lugano. They talked a lot on the journey. This Swiss told my friend about his wife and his children, his business, and his home. He seemed a very nice man. But soon after they had crossed the frontier, the train stopped at a small station and soldiers came on with police. They arrested the Swiss. My friend had also to leave the train as he was with the Swiss. He was not alarmed. His papers were in order. He was a good Austrian. But the man from Lugano was terrified. He turned very pale and cried like a child. They told my friend afterwards that the man was not a Swiss but an Italian spy and that he would be shot. My friend was upset. You see, one can always tell when a man is speaking about something he loves, and there was no doubt that all that this man had said about his wife and children was true: all except one thing-they were in Italy instead of Switzerland. War,” he added solemnly, “is unpleasant.”

“Quite so.” They had stopped outside the Adler-Palace Hotel. “Will you come in for a drink?”

Kopeikin shook his head. “It is kind of you to suggest it, but you must get some sleep. I feel guilty now at having kept you out so late, but I have enjoyed our evening together.”

“So have I. I’m very grateful to you.”

“A great pleasure. No farewells now. I shall take you to the station in the morning. Can you be ready by ten?”

“Easily.”

“Then good night, my dear fellow.”

“Good night, Kopeikin.”

Graham went inside, stopped at the hall porter’s desk for his key and to tell the night porter to call him at eight. Then, as the power for the lift was switched off at night, he climbed wearily up the stairs to his room on the second floor.

It was at the end of the corridor. He put the key in the lock, turned it, pushed the door open and, with his right hand, felt along the wall for the light switch.

The next moment there was a splinter of flame in the darkness and an ear-splitting detonation. A piece of plaster from the wall beside him stung his cheek. Before he could move or even think, the flame and the noise came again and it seemed as if a bar of white-hot metal had been suddenly pressed against the back of his hand. He cried out with pain and stumbled forward out of the light from the corridor into the darkness of the room. Another shot scattered plaster behind him.