“Yes.”
“How did you share the fare?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You dropped them off. I assume you came on here, to the embassy.”
“That’s right.”
“So how was the cabman paid? Did you share the fare?”
“Oh, I see what you mean.” Potemkin ran his fingers through his hair. “No, no, it was my treat. I paid. I was coming back anyway, as you say.”
“Can you remember how much? It might be very important.”
“I don’t think so,” the ambassador intervened, in a voice of deep scorn. “As I just said, we are all busy. So, if you will allow us—”
Yashim had turned to face the ambassador. He cocked his head slightly to one side and put up a hand.
“I am sorry,” he said, very deliberately. “But I must insist. Count Potemkin, you see, was the last man to see the guards alive.”
The ambassador’s eyebrows flickered for an instant. Potemkin’s eyes widened.
“Good Lord!” he said. He did not look at Yashim.
“Yes, it is very sad. So you see, anything we can do to trace the men’s last movements could be helpful. Such as finding the cab driver.”
It was a punt, Yashim thought. Not quite impossible.
“I am quite sure that Count Potemkin will not remember how much the cab cost,” the prince said smoothly. “We do not encourage our officials to carry much money. Cabs are paid off by porters, at the entrance.”
“But of course,” Yashim said. “I am afraid I have been stupid. The porters, naturally, would keep a record of their disbursements.”
The prince stiffened, realising his mistake. “I will have Count Potemkin look into it. If we learn anything, of course we will inform you.”
Yashim bowed. “I do hope the Count has no travel plans. It may be necessary to speak with him again.”
“I am sure there will be no need,” said the prince, gritting his teeth.
Yashim went out, closing the door.
The prince sat down heavily at his desk.
“Well!” he said.
Potemkin said nothing. The interview, he felt, had gone rather well.
He would not, after all, be going home.
[ 38 ]
Once outside the prince’s office Yashim stood for a moment in the vestibule, frowning. A liveried footman stood to attention by the open mahogany doors. Lost in thought, Yashim walked slowly round the room until he found himself standing in front of a framed map which he pretended to examine, seeing nothing.
Nobody, he reflected, had asked him any questions. Was that odd? The work of an embassy was to pick up information; but they had shown no interest in his enquiry. They might have heard that the men were dead, true. But he said that Potemkin was the last man to see the men alive, and nobody asked him how he knew. It was as if the subject failed to interest them, and that was interesting.
