“It is good of you. We will wash; then I take you to a restaurant I know. The finest restaurant in Brussels for Wiener Schnitzel. And with good wine.”
“We’ll have to go easy. I didn’t bring much emergency money.” “No matter. I have enough. You will be my guest.”
“We’ll see.”
“No, no. It will be my pleasure. Now I will put out my things while you use the bathroom.”
“You’d better go first. I’ll have to shave.”
“It is good of you, Herr Doktor. I shall not trouble to do that now. Perhaps in the morning. I will be quick.”
A trivial exchange, but the arrangement was to have enormous consequences for Andrew. If he had taken first use of the bathroom, he would not have observed the peculiar actions of Mr. Kusitch in the bedroom. He would have closed the door on his side and left the little man to himself. But Kusitch, indifferent to matters of privacy-or because of his gregarious need-left the door open on his side when he invited Andrew to take his turn, and then started talking again, asking questions.
“How long have you been away from London?”
“Three years.”
“Himmel! I had thought you were tourist. Have you been working to stay so long from your country?”
“That’s it.”
“In Athens?”
“In Greece. For the International Red Cross.”
Lathering his face, Andrew turned towards the doorway. Kusitch was combing his hair. His cheap composition suitcase was open on the bed and he had set out some bottles and tubes on the dressing table.
“Ah! The International Red Cross!” He was having a little difficulty with a bald patch. “The war left much work for you doctors. You found things bad in Greece?”
“Surely, they are bad everywhere in eastern Europe.”
“Yes.” Kusitch applied some grease to his hair and got to work with a brush. “In my country, too.”
“You are not from Greece?”
“Yugoslavia.” The little man’s tone was suddenly vague as if he had lost interest in the subject. Andrew turned from the doorway and began to use his razor. The bathroom mirror gave him a view of the bedroom, but it missed the section that contained Mr. Kusitch. The questioning voice still came from the position in front of the dressing table.
“Then you go home to London on leave, Herr Doktor?”
Andrew completed a stroke, holding a cheek taut. “No. I’ve given up the job. I’m going home for good.”
“So? You wish no more to be a doctor?”
“I’m taking a hospital post.”
He craned forward a little, coming to a place on his upper lip where he had cut himself yesterday. He heard Kusitch padding softly about on the bedroom carpet and caught a glimpse of him in the mirror on a course towards the window. Then, suddenly, he saw a more distant image of Kusitch. He watched because the curious effect interested him. Within the section of the bedroom revealed by the bathroom mirror stood a large antique pier glass. It was slewed round slightly off parallel to the wall and raked forward an inch or two from the vertical, and it was this accidental arrangement that had enlarged his field of vision.
Kusitch, still in his shirtsleeves, was standing on the parquetry beyond the line of the carpet. Andrew went on shaving, but continued to watch the image in the pier glass. Kusitch seemed to be in a dream for a moment. He made a movement behind him, and next he had a manila envelope in his right hand. He crouched down, lifted the carpet, shoved the envelope underneath it, and then pushed an armchair over the spot.
Andrew grinned. The little man wasn’t going to risk being waylaid and robbed in this foreign city, so with naive cunning he left the bulk of his money under the carpet for any dishonest servant to find. But he might be right at that. The obvious hiding places were sometimes the safer. Nevertheless, the precaution was in a way pathetic. What did the little man know of the Herr Doktor he clung to so trustfully? Was honesty so patent in the Maclaren face?
The Herr Doktor cleaned up the Maclaren face with a facecloth and took a look at it in the mirror. He was prejudiced, of course, but it did seem to him that it was fairly engaging as faces went. You would not, perhaps, describe it as particularly handsome, but you could scarcely deny that it was human. Why that girl at the airport should have looked at him as if he were some sort of werewolf he could not imagine.
He turned from the mirror, his spine crawling at the memory of the humiliation. He towelled his face vigorously, angrily. Then, as he looked over the towel’s edge directly into the pier glass, he saw something that put the girl from his mind.
Kusitch had just advanced to the bed and picked up his grey tweed jacket, and on the counterpane lay an automatic pistol.
Andrew stared.
There was no mistaking the thing. It showed up clearly, darkly metallic against the pink counterpane.
Kusitch put on the jacket that had covered the weapon. He straightened the lapels and squared his shoulders. He had his back turned towards the bathroom door and, if it had not been for the pier glass, Andrew would never have seen what was on the bed. But Kusitch was as yet unaware of the revealing pier glass. Still with his back to the bathroom, he took up the pistol, held it close to him, opened the magazine, and slid out the clip of cartridges. Then he pressed his thumb into the clip. He was making sure that the slides ran smoothly in the guides. They did. He replaced the clip. Then, as he did so, he looked up and saw the pier glass.
If he was disturbed, he gave no sign of it. He wheeled about and greeted Andrew with a beaming face.
“So,” he said. “You feel better that you have shaved, hah?”
“Much better.” Andrew tried to make his tone quite casual. “What are you doing with that thing?”
“This!” Kusitch weighed the pistol in his right hand. His eyes probed keenly, but he laughed. “Do not trouble yourself, Herr Doktor. When I travel in strange countries, I like to take my little friend with me. You cannot tell when he will not be of use.”
“What are you afraid of?”
Mr. Kusitch shrugged. “It is a precaution.” Andrew smiled. “Well, I’ve been in some tough places, but never one where a pistol would have been much use.”
“You are a doctor. My trade is different.”
“What is your trade?”
“Do you need to know that, my friend?” Kusitch was gently polishing the grip of his pistol with the ball of his thumb.
“I’m sorry.” Andrew spoke a little sharply. “You must forgive me if I seem curious. I was concerned only to know whether you were carrying anything valuable with you.”
“Only my life, Herr Doktor.”
The shutter flicked behind the grey eyes and Andrew saw mystery again. But it was no longer interesting. Now, it worried him. He had been a fool not to rebuff the man from the start. Almost certainly Kusitch was some sort of criminal. But he had given himself away too soon. If he thought he was going to get anything out of Andrew Maclaren, he was very much mistaken.
Andrew turned abruptly, strode through the bathroom to his own chamber and shut the door firmly. There was no look to the door, and nothing but a bolt on the bathroom side. He seized a shirt and hastily put it on, but before he could fasten the buttons, Kusitch had opened the door and entered.
Andrew turned, his heart throbbing painfully. The little man smiled mournfully and held out empty hands.
“You must not be angry with me, Herr Doktor,” he said. “You have cause; I will admit it. I ask questions but do not receive them. I will tell you about my trade, so that you will understand.”
“It isn’t at all necessary.” Andrew fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. He felt foolish now. He scowled.
“Pardon, but I think so,” Kusitch said with dignity. “There must be no suspicion between us.”
“Suspicion?”
“In your mind, Herr Doktor. You think perhaps that I am a thief who makes friendly to steal from you. Do not deny, Herr Doktor. Perhaps, even an assassin!” Kusitch lifted his arms from his sides and let them fall helplessly. “I
