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 was 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!”
