by Eric Ambler
“Very good, sir. It is full of petrol, but I was going to dust it.” I was all smiles above, and all binoculars below.
“Very well.” He waved me off in his highhanded way. “The car must be here in half an hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
I drove round the courtyard into the garage, and hid the binoculars behind an empty oil drum before I gave the car a flickover with a wet duster.
Just before ten I drove it to the courtyard and left it there with the ignition key in. Then, I went back to the yard, through the door into the orchard, and found a place from which I could see the car without being seen. When they went out, I wanted to make sure that they had all gone-Fischer, Harper, Miss Lipp, and Miller.
After forty minutes or so, all four came out and got into the car. As soon as they had gone, I went to the kitchen. Geven was there chopping meat and sipping brandy. I had a drink myself and let him talk for a while before asking whether they were expected back for lunch. They were not. He would make an omelet pour le personnel.
I went upstairs to the bedroom floor. At the head of the back stairs the corridor ran left and right, parallel to the rear wall of the villa. If you turned right, you came to my room and Geven’s, among others; if you turned left, you were faced by a pair of double doors. Beyond them were the master bedrooms and guest suites.
The double doors were half open when I went up. Through the opening, I caught a glimpse of a wickerwork trolley full of dirty linen, and of old Hamul working on the floor of the corridor with a carpet sweeper. Mrs. Hamul was presumably changing the sheets on the beds.
I went to my room, waited an hour, and then strolled back along the corridor.
The door was still open and the Hamuls were still messing about in the bedrooms. I went down to the kitchen and had another drink with Geven. He was busy with the stewpot and another hour went by before he decided to make the omelet. I heard the Hamuls come down at about the same time and go through to the laundry. As soon as I had finished eating, I told Geven that I was going to have a sleep and went upstairs again.
First, I locked my room from the outside in case he looked in to see if I were there; then I went through the double doors and shut them behind me.
What I was looking for was the map, and it was difficult to know where to start. There were about eighteen rooms there, and they were of all shapes and sizes. Some were bedrooms, some sitting rooms; some were so sparsely furnished that it was hard to tell what they had been. Where there was furniture, it was all in the same bilious-looking French-hotel style. The only things not in short supply were mirrors and chandeliers; every room had those.
I identified Miller’s room first, because his suitcase was open on the bed, then Fischer’s because of the shirts in one of the drawers. I found no map in either room. Miss Lipp’s suite was over the center portico, with Harper’s next to it on the corner. There was a connecting door. I looked through all the drawers and cupboards, I looked inside the suitcases, I looked above and below every piece of furniture. The only maps I found were in a copy of Europa Touring that was on Miss Lipp’s writing desk, along with some Italian paperback novels.
Beyond Harper’s suite, and on the side of the building overlooking the orchard, there was a room that had been fitted up as a studio. Architect’s drawers had been built along one wall. It seemed a good place to look for a large flat map, and I was carefully going through every drawer when I heard the sound of car doors slamming.
I scrambled through Harper’s bedroom, which had windows onto the courtyard, and saw the roof of the Lincoln in front of the portico. Then I panicked. I missed the door which led to the passage and got into his bathroom instead. By the time I had found the right door, I could hear Fischer’s voice from the stairs. It was hopeless to try to dodge round through the rooms. I didn’t know the way well enough. All I could do was retreat back through Harper’s bedroom into the studio and shut the door. From there, there was no other way out, except through the window; but it was the only hiding place I could find.
I heard him come into the room, then a clink of money, then a sort of slap. He was emptying his pockets onto the table. The door didn’t latch properly and I could hear every move he made. I knew that he would hear any move I made, too. I froze there.
“My God, that city’s worse than New York in August,” he said.
I heard Miss Lipp answer him. The door connecting the suites, which I had shut, must have been opened by her.
“I wonder if Hamul fixed that water. Undo me, will you, Liebchen ?”
He moved away. I tiptoed over to the studio window and looked out. There was a small balcony outside and, a few feet below, the roof of the terrace. If I could get down there, I thought it might be possible to reach the orchard without breaking my neck. The trouble was that I would have to open the french window to get to the balcony. It had one of those long double bolts that you work by twisting a handle in the center. They can make a clattering noise when they spring open, and this one looked as if it would. I went back to the door.
It sounded as if they were in his sitting room. I heard her give a soft chuckle.
“Too many clothes on,” she said.
He came back into the bedroom and, then, after a moment or two, went into the bathroom. Water began to run. I went to the window again and gingerly tried the handle. It moved easily enough. The bottom bolt slid out and the door sprang inward with a slight thud; but then I saw that one side of the connecting link was broken and that the top bolt hadn’t moved. I tried to pull it down by hand, but it was too stiff. I would have to push it down through the slot at the top. I put a chair against the window and looked about for something metal I could use to push with.
The noise of running water from the bathroom stopped, and I stood still again. I tried to think what I had in my pockets that might move the bolt; a key perhaps.
“I will have to do something about my tan when we get back,” said Miss Lipp. She was in the next room now.
“It’s holding up.”
“Your hair’s wet.”
Silence, then a deep sigh from her and the bed creaked.
For about two minutes I clung to the hope that they were going to have a siesta. Then movements began. After a while I could hear their breathing and it wasn’t the breathing of sleep. More minutes went by and there were other sounds. Then, the beast with two backs was at work, and soon it was making its usual noises, panting and grunting and moaning, while I stood there like a half-wit, picturing her long legs and slim thighs and wondering how on earth I was going to get out of there without anybody seeing me. I was sweating so much that it was running into my eyes and misting my glasses. I couldn’t have seen to get the bolt open just then, even if I had dared to try.
They seemed to go on interminably; but the noisy finales arrived at last. I waited, hopefully, for them to go to their bathrooms; but they didn’t. There was just a long silence, until I heard him say: “Here,” and a lighter clicked. Another silence, until he broke it.
“Where shall we eat tonight?”
“Les Baux. I will have the feuillete de ris de veau. You?”
“Avallon, Moulin des Ruats, the coq au vin.”
“With the Cuvee du Docteur?”
“Of course. Though right now, frankly, I’d settle for a ham sandwich and a glass of beer.”
“It’s not for long, Liebchen. I wonder who told Hans that this man could cook.”
“He can cook all right, but he’s one of those lushes who has to be wooed. If he isn’t, he gets into a white rage and says ‘The hell with you.’ Hans doesn’t know how to handle him. I’ll bet Arthur eats better than we do. In fact, I know damn well he does. Where’s the ash tray?”
“Here.” She giggled. “Careful!”
“Merde, alors!”
“That is not the place for an ash tray.”
Soon it began all over again. Eventually, when they were exhausted, they did have the decency to go to the bathrooms. While the water wa
s running, I got up onto the chair and worked on the bolt with my room key. By the time he had finished in the bathroom, I had the window unlatched. I had to wait then until they were asleep; though it was not until I heard her voice again that I knew that she had returned to his bed.
“Liebchen,” she said drowsily.
“What is it?” He was half asleep, too.
“Be careful, please, tomorrow.”
“Entendu.”
There was the sound of a kiss. I looked at my watch. It was twenty past three. I gave them ten minutes, then carefully edged over to the window and pulled one side open. I did it very slowly because there was a slight breeze outside and I did not want the draft to open the bedroom door while I was still there. Then I edged my way out onto the balcony.
It was a four-foot drop to the roof of the terrace and I made scarcely any noise getting down. I had more trouble at the end of the terrace. I am really not built for climbing, and I tried to use the trelliswork as a stepladder. It gave way, and I slithered to the ground clutching at the branches of an espaliered peach tree.
I managed to get to my room without anyone seeing the mess I was in. When I had cleaned up and changed my shirt, I went down to the car and put it away in the garage.
If I had noticed then that the door panels had been taken off, things would have turned out very differently for Harper, Lipp, and Miller; but I didn’t notice. It didn’t even occur to me to look at them. I was still too flustered to do anything except try to behave naturally. Garaging the car was just a way of showing myself outside and on the job.
I went back into the kitchen. There was nobody there. I found a bottle of Geven’s brandy and had a drink and a cigarette. When I was quite calm again, I went out and walked down the drive to the road.
The Opel was parked near the fishing-boat pier. I strolled across to it and saw the men inside watching me. As I passed, I said: “Tufan.”
When I had gone on a few paces I heard a car door open. A moment or so later a man fell in step beside me.
“What is it?” He was a dark, hard-eyed police type in an oatmeal-colored shirt with buttoned pockets. He spoke in French.
“Something dangerous is to be attempted tomorrow,” I said. “I do not know what. I overheard part of a conversation. Major Tufan should be informed.”
“Very well. Why did you not drive today?”
“They told me I wasn’t needed. Where did they go?”
“To Istanbul, Beyoglu. They drove to a garage by the Spanish Consulate. It is a garage that has spare parts for American cars. The driver, Fischer, remained there with the car for ten minutes. The other two men and the woman walked to the Divan Hotel. They had lunch there. Fischer joined them there and also had lunch. Then they walked back to the garage, picked up the car, and returned here. Major Tufan says that you are to report on a chart later.”
“If I can. Tell him I made a search of the bedrooms while they were out, but could not find the chart. I will try to search the living rooms tonight. It may be quite late before I can report. Will you be here?”
“Someone will be.”
“All right.”
As we turned and walked back towards the Opel, I crossed the road and re-entered the drive. I had something to think about now. From what I had overheard in the courtyard the night before, I knew that Fischer had some special task to perform that day. Had he already performed it, or was it yet to be performed? Driving the car into Istanbul so that he and the others could have some eatable food didn’t seem very special. On the other hand, it was odd that I should have been told to stay behind, and odd about that visit to the garage. There was nothing wrong with the car and it needed no spare parts. And why had Fischer not walked to the Divan with the other three? Why had he stayed behind?
It is obvious that I should have thought of the car doors first. I didn’t do so for a very simple reason: I knew from personal experience how long it took to remove and replace one panel, and Fischer had not been at the garage long enough to empty one door, let alone four. The possibility that his function might have been to give orders instead of doing the actual work didn’t occur to me, then. And, I may say, it didn’t occur to Tufan at all. If it had, I should have been spared a ghastly experience.
Anyway, when I went back through the yard to take a look at the car, my mind was on spare parts. I looked in the luggage compartment first to see if anything had been stowed away there; then I examined the engine. You can usually tell by the smudges and oil smears when work has been done on an engine. I drew a blank, of course. It wasn’t until I opened the door to see if anything had been left in the glove compartment that I saw the scratches.
Whoever had taken the panels off had made the very mistake I had been so careful to avoid; he had used an ordinary screwdriver on the Phillips heads. There were scratches and bright marks on the metal as well as cuts in the leather where the tool had slipped. Of course, nobody would have noticed them on a casual inspection, but I was so conscious of the panels and what I had seen behind them that the slightest mark stood out. I went over all four and knew at once that they had all been taken off and replaced. I also knew, from the different feel of the doors when I swung them on their hinges, that the heavy things which had been concealed inside were no longer there. Presumably, they had been removed in the garage near the Spanish Consulate. Where they were at that moment was anybody’s guess.
I wondered whether I should go down to the road again immediately and report to the surveillance car, or wait until I reported later about the map. I decided to wait. If the stuff was still in the garage, it would probably still be there in the morning. If, as seemed more likely, it had already been moved somewhere else, then the damage was done and two or three hours would make no difference. Anyway, I didn’t want to go back down to the road. I felt that I had run enough risks for one day already; and I still had to go looking for that damned map. I think I did the sensible thing. I can’t stand people who are wise after the event, but it must be obvious now that it was Tufan who made the real mistakes, not me.
The trouble with Geven began while we were in the kitchen eating our dinner; or, rather, while I was eating and he was putting away more brandy. It was about seven o’clock, and he had been drinking steadily since six. In that hour he must have had nearly a third of a bottle. He wasn’t yet quite drunk; but he was certainly far from sober.
He had made a perfectly delicious risotto with finely chopped chicken livers and pimientos in it. I was on my second helping and trying to persuade him to eat what he had on his plate, when Fischer came in.
“Geven!”
Geven looked up and gave him his wet smile. “Vive la Compagnie,” he said convivially, and reached for a dirty glass. “Un petit verre, monsieur?”
Fischer ignored the invitation. “I wish to know what you are preparing for dinner tonight,” he said.
“It is prepared.” Geven gave him a dismissive wave of his hand and turned to me again.
“Then you can tell me what it is.” At that moment Fischer caught sight of my plate. “Ah, I see. A risotto, eh?”
Geven’s lip quivered. “That is for us servants. For the master and his guests there is a more important dish in the manner of the country.”
“What dish?”
“You would not understand.”
“I wish to know.”
Geven answered in Turkish. I understood one word of what he said: kuzu, baby lamb.
To my surprise, and to Geven’s, too, I think, Fischer answered in the same language.
Geven stood up and shouted something.
Fischer shouted back, and then walked from the room before Geven had time to answer.
Geven sat down again, his lower lip quivering so violently that, when he tried to drain his glass, most of the brandy ran down his chin. He refilled the glass and glowered at me.
“Pislik!” he said. “Domuz!”
Those are rude words in Turkish. I gathered that they were meant for Fischer, so I
said nothing and got on with my food.
He refilled my glass and shoved it towards me. “A toast,” he said.
“All right.”
“There’ll be no promotion this side of the ocean, so drink up, my lads, bless ’em all!”
Only he didn’t say “bless.” I had forgotten that he had been educated in Cyprus when it was under British rule.
“Drink!”
I drank. “Bless ’em all.”
He began to sing. “Bless all the sergeants and W.O. ones, bless all the corporals and their bleeding sons! Drink!”
I sipped. “Bless ’em all.”
He drained the glass again and leaned across the chopping table breathing heavily. “I tell you,” he said menacingly; “if that bastard says one more word, I kill him.”
“He’s just a fool.”
“You defend him?” The lower lip quivered.
“No, no. But is he worth killing?”
He poured himself another drink. Both lips were working now, as if he had brought another thought agency into play in order to grapple with the unfamiliar dilemma my question had created.
The Hamuls arrived just then to prepare for the service of the evening meal, and I saw the old man’s eyes take in the situation. He began talking to Geven. He spoke a country dialect and I couldn’t even get the drift of what he was saying; but it seemed to improve matters a little. Geven grinned occasionally and even laughed once. However, he still went on drinking, and, when I tried to slip away to my room, there was a sudden flare of temper.
“Where you go?”
“You have work to do here. I am in the way.”
“You sit down. You are my guest in the kitchen. You drink nothing. Why?”
I had a whole tumblerful of brandy in front of me by now. I took another sip.
“Drink!”
I drank and tried to look as if I were enjoying myself. When he wasn’t looking, I managed to tip half the brandy in my glass down the sink. It didn’t do much good. As soon as he noticed the half-empty glass, he filled it up again.
Dinner had been ordered for eight-thirty, and by then he was weaving. It was Mrs. Hamul who did the dishing up. He leaned against the range, glass in hand, smiling benignly on her while she ladled the loathsome contents of the stewpot onto the service platters. Dinner was finally served.