Ashenden

and Punishment. He did not want to think of this topic, but it forced itself upon him; his book dropped to his knees and staring at the wall in front of him (it had a brown wallpaper with a pattern of dingy roses) he asked himself how, if one had to, one would commit a murder in Naples. Of course there was the Villa, the great leafy garden facing the bay in which stood the aquarium; that was deserted at night and very dark; things happened there that did not bear the light of day and prudent persons after dusk avoided its sinister paths. Beyond Posilippo the road was very solitary and there were byways that led up the hill in which by night you would never meet a soul, but how would you induce a man who had any nerves to go there? You might suggest a row in the bay, but the boatman who hired the boat would see you; it was doubtful indeed if he would let you go on the water alone; there were disreputable hotels down by the harbour where no questions were asked of persons who arrived late at night without luggage; but here again the waiter who showed you your room had the chance of a good look at you and you had on entering to sign an elaborate questionnaire.

Ashenden looked once more at the time. He was very tired. He sat now not even trying to read, his mind a blank.

Then the door opened softly and he sprang to his feet. His flesh crept. The Hairless Mexican stood before him.

“Did I startle you?” he asked smiling. “I thought you would prefer me not to knock.”

“Did anyone see you come in?”

“I was let in by the night-watchman; he was asleep when I rang and didn’t even look at me. I’m sorry I’m so late, but I had to change.”

The Hairless Mexican wore now the clothes he had travelled down in and his fair wig. It was extraordinary how different he looked. He was bigger and more flamboyant; the very shape of his face was altered. His eyes were shining and he seemed in excellent spirits. He gave Ashenden a glance.

“How white you are, my friend! Surely you’re not nervous?”

“Have you got the documents?”

“No. He hadn’t got them on him. This is all he had.”

He put down on the table a bulky pocketbook and a passport.

“I don’t want them,” said Ashenden quickly. “Take them.”

With a shrug of the shoulders the Hairless Mexican put the things back in his pocket.

“What was in his belt? You said he kept feeling round his middle.”

“Only money. I’ve looked through the pocketbook. It contains nothing but private letters and photographs of women. He must have locked the documents in his grip before coming out with me this evening.”

“Damn,” said Ashenden.

“I’ve got the key of his room. We’d better go and look through his luggage.”

Ashenden felt a sensation of sickness in the pit of his stomach. He hesitated. The Mexican smiled not unkindly.

“There’s no risk, amigo,” he said, as though he were reassuring a small boy, “but if you don’t feel happy, I’ll go alone.”

“No, I’ll come with you,” said Ashenden.

“There’s no one awake in the hotel and Mr. Andreadi won’t disturb us. Take off your shoes if you like.”

Ashenden did not answer. He frowned because he noticed that his hands were slightly trembling. He unlaced his shoes and slipped them off. The Mexican did the same.

“You’d better go first,” he said. “Turn to the left and go straight along the corridor. It’s number thirty-eight.”

Ashenden opened the door and stepped out. The passage was dimly lit. It exasperated him to feel so nervous when he could not but be aware that his companion was perfectly at ease. When they reached the door the Hairless Mexican inserted the key, turned the lock and went in. He switched on the light. Ashenden followed him and closed the door. He noticed that the shutters were shut.

“Now we’re all right. We can take our time.”

He took a bunch of keys out of his pocket, tried one or two and at last hit upon the right one. The suitcase was filled with clothes.

“Cheap clothes,” said the Mexican contemptuously as he took them out. “My own principle is that it’s always cheaper in the end to buy the best. After all one is a gentleman or one isn’t a gentleman.”

“Are you obliged to talk?” asked Ashenden.

“A spice of danger affects people in different ways. It only excites me, but it puts you in a bad temper, amigo.”

“You see I’m scared and you’re not,” replied Ashenden with candour.

“It’s merely a matter of nerves.”

Meanwhile he felt the clothes, rapidly but with care, as he took them out. There were no papers of any sort in the suitcase. Then he took out his knife and slit the lining. It was a cheap piece and the lining was gummed to the material of which the suitcase was made. There was no possibility of anything being concealed in it.

“They’re not here. They must be hidden in the room.”

“Are you sure he didn’t deposit them in some office? At one of the consulates, for example?”

“He was never out of my sight for a moment except when he was getting shaved.”

The Hairless Mexican opened the drawers and the cupboard. There was no carpet on the floor. He looked under the bed, in it, and under the mattress. His dark eyes shot up and down the room, looking for a hiding-place, and Ashenden felt that nothing escaped him.

“Perhaps he left them in charge of the clerk downstairs?”

“I should have known it. And he wouldn’t dare. They’re not here. I can’t understand it.”

He looked about the room irresolutely. He frowned in the attempt to guess at a solution of the mystery.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Ashenden.

“In a minute.”

The Mexican went down on his knees, quickly and neatly folded the clothes, and packed them up again. He locked the bag and