‘Yes, I heard.’
‘Don’t speak the language though, do you?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not. This way.’
He went through the left-hand door. I hesitated and then followed.
It was a sitting room that had obviously been furnished by the owners of the building. There were built-in cupboards and bookcases and a built-in sofa. There were cube-like easy chairs, glass-topped circular tables, and an oatmeal-coloured rug. You could have seen the same sort of things in any other furnished apartment building in any other European city. The extraordinary thing about this room was the decoration of the walls.
They were covered, every square foot of them, with pages cut from American magazines and stuck on with Scotch tape. There were pictures of filmstars (all women), there were near-nude ‘studies’ of women who were not filmstars and there were artlessly erotic colour drawings of reclining seductresses in lace step-ins. All would have looked quite at home in the room of an adolescent youth. Yet that was the comprehensible part of the display; it was not remarkable that Pashik should have the emotional development of a sixteen-year-old boy. The startling thing was that for every Ann Sheridan, for every sandal-tying beach beauty, for every long-legged houri, there was a precisely arranged frame of advertisement pages. The nearest Betty Grable was surrounded by Buick, Frigidaire, Lux, and American Airlines, all in colour. A sun-tanned blonde glistening with sea water had Coca-Cola, US Steel, Dictaphone, and Lord Calvert whisky. A gauze-veiled brunette with a man’s bedroom slipper in her hand and a speculative eye was framed by Bell Telephones, Metropolitan Life Insurance, General Electric, and Jello. The baffling thing was that the selection and grouping of advertisements seemed quite unrelated to the pictures. There was no wit, no hint of social criticism, in the arrangements. Many of the advertisements were not particularly distinguished as such. It was fantastic.
Sibley had gone back to the telephone. He had said something into it, listened again, and then, with a last word, hung up. He flicked his fingers at the wall as if he were launching a paper pellet.
‘Lots of fun, isn’t it?’
‘Lots. How did you get in?’
‘The concierge has a pass key and is corrupt. Would you like a drink? There must be some about.’ He opened one of the cupboards and peered inside.
‘Do you know Pashik well?’ I said.
‘Would you believe me if I said yes?’
‘No.’
‘Then let’s say that I think I know a bit more about him than you do. Cigars but no drinks,’ he added, producing a box. ‘Cigar?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘No, it’s a drink you need. You’re not looking your usual cheerful self, Foster dear. A bit pinched round the gills and upset. Let’s try this one.’ He went to another cupboard.
‘I take it you’re not afraid of Pashik’s suddenly turning up and finding you here searching his room. That wouldn’t embarrass you?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Was that why you came? Because you knew he wouldn’t be here?’
He looked up from the cupboard he was searching and shook his head. ‘No, Foster mio,’ he said softly, ‘that wasn’t why. I just wanted a little chat with him. When there was no answer, I had another thought and fetched the concierge. Silly of me, wasn’t it? — but I actually thought our Georghi might be dead.’
‘Why should you think that?’
‘It was just a thought I had.’ He straightened up suddenly with a bottle in his hand. ‘There now! Our old friend plum brandy!’ And then he looked directly at me. ‘You know about Pazar, of course?’
‘What about him?’
‘Tonight’s police statement that they’ve found him shot in a derelict house.’
‘Oh yes, that.’ I tried to make it casual.
He reached down and brought out two glasses. ‘A house in some street with a funny name,’ he said slowly. ‘What was it?’
‘Patriarch Dimo.’ My voice sounded unnatural to me.
‘That’s it. Who told you? Georghi?’
‘Yes. He had the statement.’
He brought the bottle and glasses over and put them on the table. ‘When did you see him?’
‘Oh, earlier on.’
He shook his head. ‘It won’t do, Foster dear,’ he said. ‘No, don’t get cross. I set a little trap and you fell into it, that’s all. That statement was only issued half an hour ago. I was on the phone to the office when you came in. That’s how I know.’ He thrust his head forward. ‘How did you know?’
I was feeling sick again. I sat down.
‘ Did Georghi tell you?’
I shook my head. ‘I found him by accident.’
He whistled softly. ‘My, my! You do get around! What sort of an accident was it that took you to. Patriarch Dimo? The same sort that got you into the Deltchev house?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Doing a little private investigating perhaps?’
‘That’s the idea.’
He shook his head regretfully. ‘Someone must be very cross with you.’
Another wave of sickness came. I drew a deep breath. ‘Then that’s probably why someone’s just tried to kill me,’ I said.
He stared at me expressionlessly for a moment. ‘A joke, Foster dear?’ he said gently. ‘A joke in bad taste?’
‘No joke.’
‘Where was it?’
‘In that road that runs round the Park.’
‘When?’
‘An hour or two ago.’
‘One man or two?’
‘Two.’
‘One of them couldn’t have been Georghi by any chance?’
‘No.’
He seemed to relax again. ‘Well, well! Poor Foster! No wonder you look peaky. And here I am chattering away instead of pouring the much-needed drink. There.’
I swallowed the drink and sat back for a moment with my eyes closed. I hoped he would believe that I was feeling faint. I had to think and it was difficult. Sibley was Brankovitch’s paid man and already I had given myself away appallingly. Pashik was involved with Aleko and Philip Deltchev in a Brotherhood plot to assassinate Vukashin. The wreckage of that plot was being used to convict the elder Deltchev. Now the dead Pazar, probably murdered by Aleko, had been officially discovered on the eve of the anniversary parade at which Vukashin was to have been assassinated. There was a contrived, bad-third-act feeling about the whole thing; as if…
‘Feeling better?’ said Sibley.
‘Yes, thanks.’ I opened my eyes. He was looking down at me coldly. I had not deceived him. He smiled.
‘What a busy week you’ve had! Have you any idea, I wonder, what you know that makes you worth killing?’
‘None at all.’
He sat down opposite me. ‘Maybe if you were to tell me what you do know, I could make a suggestion about that.’
‘Or perhaps find a way through the censorship with it? By the way, how is your little man at the Propaganda Ministry?’
He drank his drink down and looked at the empty glass as if waiting for someone to fill it. ‘Do I detect a note
