After a few miles I identified the surveillance car as a sand-colored Peugeot two or three hundred yards behind me. It kept that distance, more or less, even when trucks or other cars got between us, or going through towns. It never closed up enough for me to see the driver clearly. When I stopped at Corlu for lunch he did not overtake me. I did not see the Peugeot while I was there.
The restaurant was a cafe with a few shaky tables under a small vine-covered terrace outside. I had a glass or two of raki and some stuffed peppers. My stomach began to feel a bit better. I sat there for over an hour. I would have liked to stay longer. There were moments like that at school, too; when one bad time has ended and the next has not yet begun. There can be days of it also, the days when one is on remand awaiting trial-not innocent, not guilty, not responsible, out of the game. I often wish that I could have an operation-not a painful or serious one, of course-just so as to be convalescent for a while after it.
The Peugeot picked me up again three minutes after I left Corlu. I stopped again only once, for petrol. I reached Istanbul soon after four.
I put the Lincoln in a garage just off Taxim Square and walked to the hotel carrying my bag.
The Park Hotel is built against the side of a hill overlooking the Bosphorus. It is the only hotel that I know of which has the foyer at the top, so that the lift takes you down to your room instead of up. My room was quite a long way down and on a corner overlooking a street with a cafe in it. The cafe had a gramophone and an inexhaustible supply of Turkish caz records. Almost level with the window and about fifty yards away was the top of a minaret belonging to a mosque lower down the hill. It had loudspeakers in it to amplify the voice of the muezzin, and his call to prayer was deafening. When Harper had made the reservation, he had obviously asked for the cheapest room in the hotel.
I changed into a clean shirt and sat down to wait.
At six o’clock the telephone rang.
“Monsieur Simpson?” It was a man’s voice with a condescending lilt to it and an unidentifiable accent. He wasn’t an Englishman or an American.
“This is Simpson,” I answered.
“Miss Lipp’s car is all right? You have had no accidents or trouble on the journey from Athens?”
“No. The car is fine.”
“Good. Miss Lipp has a pressing engagement. This is what you are to do. You know the Hilton Hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Drive the car to the Hilton at once and put it in the car park opposite the entrance to the hotel and behind the Kervansaray night club. Leave the carnet and insurance papers in the glove compartment and the ignition key beside the driver’s seat on the floor. Is it understood?”
“It is understood, yes. But who is that speaking?”
“A friend of Miss Lipp. The car should be there in ten minutes.” He rang off abruptly as if my question had been impertinent.
I sat there wondering what I ought to do. I was certainly not going to do as he had told me. The only hope I had of my making any sort of contact with the people Tufan was interested in was through the car. If I just let it go like that I would be helpless. Even without Tufan’s orders to carry out I would have refused. Harper had said that I would be paid and get my letter back when the job was done. He, or someone in his behalf, would have to fulfill those conditions before I surrendered control of the car. He must have known that, too. After what had happened in Athens he could scarcely have expected me to trust to his good nature. And what had happened to all that talk of driving for Miss Lipp while she was in Turkey?
I hid the carnet under some shelf lining paper on top of the wardrobe and went out. It took me about ten minutes to walk to the Hilton.
I approached the car park briskly, swinging my keys in my hand as if I were going to pick up a car already there. I guessed that either the man who had telephoned or someone acting on his instructions would be waiting for the Lincoln to arrive, all ready to drive it away the instant I had gone. In Istanbul, it is unwise to leave even the poorest car unlocked and unattended for very long.
I spotted him almost immediately. He was standing at the outer end of the Hilton driveway smoking a cigarette and staring into the middle distance, as if he were trying to decide whether to go straight home to his wife or visit his girl friend first. Remembering that I would have to give Tufan his description, I took very careful note of him. He was about forty-five and thickset, with a barrel chest and a mop of crinkly gray hair above a brown puffy face. The eyes were brown, too. He was wearing a thin light-gray suit, yellow socks, and plaited leather sandals. Height about five ten, I thought.
I walked through the car park to make sure that there were no other possibilities there, then came out the other side and walked back along the street for another glimpse of him.
He was looking at his watch. The car should have been there by then if I were following instructions.
I walked straight back to the Park Hotel. As I unlocked the door to my room I could hear the telephone inside ringing.
It was the same voice again, but peremptory now.
“Simpson? I understand that the car is not yet delivered. What are you doing?”
“Who is that speaking?”
“The friend of Miss Lipp. Answer my question, please. Where is the car?”
“The car is quite safe and will remain so.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The carnet is in the hotel strong-room and the car is garaged. It will remain that way until I hand it over to Mr. Harper or someone holding credentials from Mr. Harper.”
“The car is the property of Miss Lipp.”
“The carnet is the name of Miss Lipp,” I answered; “but the car was placed in my care by Mr. Harper. I am responsible for it. I don’t know Miss Lipp except by name. I don’t know you even by name. You see the difficulty?”
“Wait.”
I heard him start to say something to someone with him: “Il dit que…” And then he clamped a hand over the telephone.
I waited. After a few moments he spoke again. “I will come to your hotel. Remain there.” Without waiting for my agreement, he hung up.
I went upstairs to the foyer and told the desk clerk that I would be out on the terrace if I were wanted. The terrace was crowded, but I eventually managed to find a table and order a drink. I was quite prepared to make the contact; but I had not liked the sound of the man on the telephone, and preferred to encounter him in a public place rather than in the privacy of my room.
I had left my name with the head waiter, and after about twenty minutes I saw him pointing me out to a tall, cadaverous man with a narrow, bald head and large projecting ears. The man came over. He was wearing a cream-and-brown-striped sports shirt and tan linen slacks. He had a long, petulant upper lip and a mouth that drooped at the corners.
“Simpson?”
“Yes.”
He sat down facing me. Brown eyes, one gold tooth left side lower jaw, gold-and-onyx signet ring on little finger of left hand; I made mental notes.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My name is Fischer.”
“Will you have a drink, Mr. Fischer?”
“No. I wish to clear this misunderstanding relative to Miss Lipp’s car.”
“There is no misunderstanding in my mind, Mr. Fischer,” I answered. “My orders from Mr. Harper were quite explicit.”
“Your orders were to await orders at the hotel,” he snapped. “You have not complied with them.”
I looked respectfully apologetic. “I am not doubting that you have a perfect right to give those orders, Mr. Fischer, but I assumed, naturally, that Mr. Harper would be here, or if not here in person, that he would have given a written authorization. That is a very valuable car and I…”
“Yes, yes.” He broke in impatiently. “I understand. The point is that Mr. Harper has been delayed until
