La Vièrge St Marie was situated, with somewhat dingy logic, in a street of houses behind the church of Sveta Nedelja. The street was narrow, sloping and poorly lit. At first it seemed unnaturally silent. But behind the silence there were whispers of music and laughter – whispers that would start out suddenly as a door opened and then be smothered as it closed again. Two men came out of a doorway ahead of them, lit cigarettes and walked quickly away. The footsteps of another pedestrian approached and then stopped as their owner went into one of the houses.
‘Not many people about now,’ commented Marukakis. ‘Too early.’
Most of the doors were panelled with translucent glass and had dim lights showing through them. On some of the panels the number of the house was painted; painted rather more elaborately than was necessary for ordinary purposes. Other doors bore names. There was Wonderbar, OK, Jymmies Bar, Stambul, Torquemada, Vitocha, Le Viol de Lucrece and, higher up the hill, La Vièrge St Marie.
For a moment they stood outside it. The door looked less shabby than some of the others. Latimer felt to see if his wallet was safe in his pocket as Marukakis pushed open the door and led the way in. Somewhere in the place an accordion band was playing a paso-doble. They were in a narrow passage between walls coated unevenly with red distemper. The floor was carpeted. Facing them at the end of the passage was a small vestiaire. When they had entered it had been empty except for a few hats and coats, but now a pallid man in a white jacket took his place behind the counter and grinned a welcome. He said: ‘Bonsoir, Messieurs,’ took their hats and coats and indicated with a flourish a staircase leading down to the right in the direction of the music. It was labelled: BAR–DANCING–CABARET.
They found themselves in a low-ceilinged room about thirty feet square. At regular intervals round the pale blue walls were placed oval mirrors supported by papier-mâché cherubims. The spaces between the mirrors were decorated haphazardly with highly stylized pictures painted on the walls, of monocled men with straw-coloured hair and nude torsoes, and women in tailor-made costumes and check stockings. In one corner of the room was a minute bar; in the opposite corner the platform on which sat the band – four listless Negroes in white ‘Argentine’ blouses. Near them was a blue plush curtained doorway. The rest of the wall space was taken up by small cubicles which rose to the shoulder height of those sitting at the tables set inside them. A few more tables encroached on the dancefloor in the centre.
When they came in there were about a dozen persons seated in the cubicles. The band was still playing and two girls who looked as though they might presently form part of the cabaret were dancing solemnly together.
‘Too early,’ repeated Marukakis disappointedly. ‘But it will pick up soon.’
A waiter swept them to one of the cubicles and hurried away, to reappear a moment or two later with a bottle of champagne.
‘Have you got plenty of money with you?’ murmured Marukakis. ‘We shall have to pay at least two hundred leva for this poison.’
Latimer nodded. Two hundred leva was about ten shillings.
The band stopped. The two girls finished their dance, and one of them caught Latimer’s eye. They walked over to the cubicle and stood smiling down. Marukakis said something. Still smiling, the two shrugged their shoulders and went away. Marukakis looked doubtfully at Latimer.
‘I said that we had business to discuss, but that we would entertain them later. Of course, if you don’t want to be bothered with them…’
‘I don’t,’ said Latimer firmly and then shuddered as he drank some of the champagne.
Marukakis sighed. ‘It seems a pity. We shall have to pay for the champagne. Someone may as well drink it.’
‘Where is La Preveza?’
‘She will be down at any moment now, I should think. Of course,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘we could go up to her.’ He raised his eyes significantly towards the ceiling. ‘It is really quite refined, this place. Everything seems to be most discreet.’
‘If she will be down here soon there seems to be no point in our going up.’ He felt an austere prig and wished that the champagne had been drinkable.
‘Just so,’ said Marukakis gloomily.
But an hour and a half passed by before the proprietress of La Vièrge St Marie put in an appearance. During that time things certainly did become livelier. More people arrived, mostly men, although among them were one or two peculiar-looking women. An obvious pimp, who looked very sober, brought in a couple of Germans who looked very drunk and might have been commercial travellers on the spree. A pair of rather sinister young men sat down and ordered Vichy water. There was a certain amount of coming and going through the plush-curtained door. The cubicles were all occupied and extra tables were set up on the dancefloor which soon became a congested mass of swaying, sweating couples. Presently, however, the floor was cleared and a number of the girls who had disappeared some minutes before to replace their clothes with a bunch or two of artificial primroses and a great deal of suntan lotion, did a short dance. They were followed by a youth dressed as a woman who sang songs in German; then they reappeared without their primroses to do another dance. This concluded the cabaret and the audience swarmed back on to the dancefloor. The atmosphere thickened, and became hotter and hotter.
Through smarting eyes Latimer was idly watching one of the sinister young men offering the other a pinch of what might have been snuff, but which was not, and wondering whether he should make another attempt to slake his thirst with the champagne, when suddenly Marukakis touched his arm.
‘That will be her,’ he said.
Latimer looked across the room. For a moment a couple on the extreme corner of the dancefloor obstructed the view; then the couple moved an inch or two, and he saw her standing motionless by the curtained door by which she had entered.
She possessed that odd blousy quality that is independent of good clothes and well-dressed hair and skilful maquillage. Her figure was full but good and she held herself well; her dress was probably expensive, her thick, dark hair looked as though it had spent the past two hours in the hands of a hairdresser. Yet she remained, unmistakably and irrevocably, a slattern. There was something temporary, an air of suspended animation, about her. It seemed as if at any moment the hair should begin to straggle, the dress slip down negligently over one soft, creamy shoulder, the hand with the diamond cluster ring which now hung loosely at her side reach up to pluck at pink silk shoulder straps and pat abstractedly at the hair. You saw it in her dark eyes. The mouth was firm and good-humoured in the loose, raddled flesh about it, but the eyes were humid with sleep and the carelessness of sleep. They made you think of things you had forgotten, of clumsy gilt hotel chairs strewn with discarded clothes and of grey dawn light slanting through closed shutters, of attar of roses and of the musty smell of heavy curtains on brass rings, of the sound of the warm, slow breathing of a sleeper against the ticking of a clock in the darkness. Yet now the eyes were open and watchful, moving about while the mouth smiled a greeting here and there. Latimer watched her turn suddenly and go towards the bar.
Marukakis beckoned to the waiter and said something to him. The man hesitated and then nodded. Latimer saw him weave his way towards where Madame Preveza was talking to a fat man with his arm round one of the cabaret girls. The waiter whispered something. Madame Preveza stopped talking and looked at him. He pointed towards Latimer and Marukakis, and for a moment her eyes rested dispassionately on them. Then she turned away, said a word to the waiter and resumed her conversation.
‘She’ll come in a minute,’ said Marukakis.
Soon she left the fat man and went on making her tour of the room, nodding, smiling indulgently. At last she reached their table. Involuntarily, Latimer got to his feet. The eyes studied his face.
‘You wished to speak with me, Messieurs?’ Her voice was husky, a little harsh, and she spoke in strongly-accented French.
‘We should be honoured if you would sit at our table for a moment,’ said Marukakis.
‘Of course.’ She sat down beside him. Immediately, the waiter came up. She waved him away and looked at Latimer. ‘I have not seen you before, Monsieur. Your friend I have seen, but not in my place.’ She looked sideways at Marukakis. ‘Are you going to write about me in the Paris newspapers, Monsieur? If so, you must see the rest of my entertainment – you and your friend.’
Marukakis smiled. ‘No, Madame. We are trespassing on your hospitality to ask for some information.’
‘Information?’ A blank look had come into the dark eyes. ‘I know nothing of any interest to anybody.’
‘Your discretion is famous, Madame. This, however, concerns a man, now dead and buried, whom you knew over fifteen years ago.’
She laughed shortly and Latimer saw that her teeth were bad. She laughed again, uproariously, so that her body shook. It was an ugly sound that tore away her slumberous dignity, leaving her old. She coughed a little as the laughter died away. ‘You pay the most delicate compliments, Monsieur,’ she gasped. ‘Fifteen years! You expect me to remember a man that long? Holy Mother of Christ, I think you shall buy me a drink after all.’
Latimer beckoned to the waiter. ‘What will you drink, Madame?’
‘Champagne. Not this filth. The waiter will know. Fifteen years!’ She was still amused.
‘We hardly dared to hope that you would remember,’ said Marukakis a trifle coldly. ‘But if a name means anything to you… it was Dimitrios – Dimitrios Makropoulos.’
She had been lighting a cigarette. Now she stopped still with the burning match in her fingers. Her eyes were on the end of the cigarette. For several seconds the only movement that Latimer saw in her face was the corners of her mouth turning slowly downward. It seemed to him that the noise about them had receded suddenly, that there was cotton wool in his ears. Then she slowly turned the match between her fingers and dropped it on to the plate in front of her. The eyes did not move. Then, very softly, she said: ‘I don’t like you here. Get out – both of you!’
‘But…’
‘Get out!’ Still she did not raise her voice or move her head.
Marukakis looked across at Latimer, shrugged and stood up. Latimer followed suit. She glared up at them sullenly. ‘Sit down,’ she snapped. ‘Do you think I want a scene here?’
They sat down. ‘If you will explain, Madame,’ said Marukakis acidly, ‘how we can get out without standing up we should be grateful.’
The fingers of her right hand moved quickly and grasped the stem of a glass. For a moment Latimer thought that she was going to break it in the Greek’s face. Then her fingers relaxed and she said something in Greek too rapid for Latimer to understand.
Marukakis shook his head. ‘No, he is nothing to do with the police,’ Latimer heard him reply. ‘He is a writer of books and he seeks information.’
‘Why?’
‘He is curious. He saw the dead body of Dimitrios Makropoulos in Stambul a month or two ago, and he is curious about him.’
She turned to Latimer and gripped his sleeve urgently. ‘He is dead? You are sure he is dead? You actually saw his body?’
He nodded. Her manner made him feel oddly like the doctor who descends the stairs to announce that all is over. ‘He had been stabbed and thrown into the sea,’ he added and cursed himself for putting it so clumsily. In her eyes was an emotion he could not quite identify. Perhaps, in her way, she had loved him. A slice of life! Tears should follow.
But there were no tears. She said: ‘Had he any money on him?’
Slowly, uncomprehendingly, Latimer shook his head.
‘Merde!’ she said viciously. ‘The son of a diseased camel owed me a thousand French francs. Now I shall never see it back. Salop! Get out, both of you, before I have you thrown out!
It was nearly half-past three before Latimer and Marukakis left La Vièrge St Marie.
The preceding two hours they had spent in Madame Preveza’s private office, a be-flowered room filled with furniture: a walnut grand piano draped in a white silk shawl with a fringe and pen-painted birds in the corners of it, small tables loaded with bric-à-brac, many chairs, a browning palm tree in a bamboo stand, a chaise-longue and a large roll-top desk in Spanish oak. They had reached it, under her guidance, via the curtained door, a flight of stairs and a dimly lit corridor with numbered doors on either side of it and a smell that reminded Latimer of an expensive nursing home during visiting hours.
The invitation had been the very last thing that he had expected. It had come close on the heels of her final exhortation to them to ‘get out’. She had become plaintive and apologized. A thousand francs was a thousand francs. Now she would never see it. Her eyes had filled with tears. To Latimer she had seemed fantastic. The money had been owing since 1923. She could not seriously have expected its return after fifteen years. Perhaps somewhere in her mind she had kept intact the romantic illusion that one day Dimitrios would walk in and scatter thousand franc notes like leaves about her. The fairy tale gesture! Latimer’s news had shattered that illusion and when her first anger had gone she had felt herself in need of sympathy. Forgotten had been their request for information about Dimitrios. The bearers of the bad news must know how bad their news had been. She had been saying farewell to a legend. An audience had been necessary, an audience who would understand what a foolish, generous woman she was. Their drinks she had said, rubbing salt in the wound, were on the house.
They had seated themselves side by side on the chaise-longue while she had rummaged in the roll-top desk. From one of the innumerable pigeonholes she had produced a small dog-eared notebook. The pages of it had rustled through her fingers. Then:
‘February fifteenth, 1923,’ she had said suddenly. The notebook had shut with a snap and her eyes had moved upwards calling upon Heaven to testify to the accuracy of the date. ‘That was when the money became due to me. A thousand francs and he promised faithfully that he would pay me. It was due to me and he had received it. Sooner than make a big scene – for I detest big scenes – I said that he could borrow it. And he said that he would repay me, that in a matter of weeks he would be getting plenty of money. And he did get that money, but he did not pay me my thousand francs. After all I had done for him, too!
‘I picked that man up out of the gutter, Messieurs. That was in December. Dear Christ, it was cold. In the eastern provinces people were dying quicker than you could have machine-gunned them – and I have seen people machine-gunned. At that time I had no place like this, you understand. Of course, I was a girl then. Often I used to be asked to pose for photographs. There was one that was my favourite. I had on just a simple drape of white chiffon, caught in at the waist with a girdle, and a crown of small white flowers. In my right hand, which rested – so – upon a pretty white column, I held a single red rose. It was used for postcards, pour les amoureux, and the photographer coloured the rose and printed a very pretty poem at the bottom of the card.’ The dark, moist lids had drooped over her eyes and she had recited softly:
Je veux que mon coeur vous serve d’oreiller,
Et à votre bonheur je saurai veiller.’
‘Very pretty, don’t you think?’ The ghost of a smile had tightened her lips. ‘I burnt all my photographs several years ago. Sometimes I am sorry for that, but I think that I was right. It is not good to be reminded always of the past. That is why, Messieurs, I was angry tonight when you spoke of Dimitrios; for he is of the past. One must think of the present and of the future.
‘But Dimitrios was not a man that one forgets easily. I have known many men, but I have been afraid of only two men in my life. One of them was the man I married and the other was Dimitrios. One deceives oneself you know. One thinks that one wants to be understood when one wants only to be half-understood. If a person really understands you, you fear him. My husband understood me because he loved me and I feared him because of that. But when he grew tired of loving me I could laugh at him and no longer fear him. But Dimitrios was different. Dimitrios understood me better than I understood myself, but he did not love me. I do not think he could love anyone. I thought that one day I should be able to laugh at him too, but that day never came. You could not laugh at Dimitrios. I found that out. When he had gone I hated him and told myself that it was because of the thousand francs he owed to me. I wrote it down in my book as proof. But I was lying to myself. He owed me more than a thousand francs. He had always cheated me over the money. It was because I feared him and could not understand him as he understood me that I hated him.
‘I was living in a hotel then. A filthy place, full of scum. The patron was a dirty bully, but friendly with the police, and while one paid for one’s room one was safe, even if one’s papers were not in order.
‘One afternoon I was resting when I heard the patron shouting at someone in the next room. The walls were thin and I could hear everything. At first I paid no attention, for he was always shouting at someone, but after a while I began to listen because they were speaking in Greek and I understand Greek. The patron was threatening to call in the police if the room was not paid for. I could not hear what was said in reply for the other man spoke softly, but at last the patron went out and there was quiet. I was half-asleep when suddenly I heard the handle of my door being tried. The door was bolted. I watched the handle turn slowly as it was released again. Then there was a knock.
‘I asked who was there but there was no answer. I thought that perhaps it was one of my friends and that he had not heard me so I went to the door and unbolted it. Outside was Dimitrios.
‘He asked in Greek if he could come in. I asked him what he wanted and he said that he wanted to talk to me. I asked him how he knew that I spoke Greek, but he did not answer. I knew now that he must be the man in the next room. I had passed him once or twice on the stairs and he had always seemed very polite and nervous as he stood aside for me. But now he was not nervous. I said that I was resting and that he could come to see me later if he wished. But he smiled and pushed the door open and came in and leaned against the wall.
‘I told him to get out, that I would call the patron, but he only smiled and stayed where he was. He asked me then whether I had heard what the patron had said and I replied that I had not heard. I had a pistol in the drawer of my table and I went to it, but he seemed to guess what I was thinking for he moved across the room as if by accident and leaned against the table as if he owned the place. Then he asked me to lend him some money.
‘I was never a fool. I had a thousand leva pinned high up in the curtain but only a few coins in my bag. I said that I had no money. He seemed not to take any notice of that and began to tell me that he had not eaten anything since the day before, that he had no money and that he felt ill. But all the time he talked his eyes were moving, looking at the things in the room. I can see him now. His face was smooth and oval and pale and he had very brown, anxious eyes that made you think of a doctor’s eyes when he is doing something to you that hurts. He frightened me. I told him again that I had no money, but that I had some bread if he wanted it. He said: “Give me the bread.”
‘I got the bread from the drawer and gave it to him. He ate it slowly, still leaning against the table. When he had finished he asked for a cigarette. I gave him one. Then he said that I needed a protector. I knew then what he was after. I said that I could manage my own affairs. He said that I was a fool and he could prove it. If I would do as he said he would get five thousand leva that day and give me half of it. I asked what he wanted me to do. He told me to write a note that he would dictate. It was addressed to a man whose name I had never heard and simply asked for five thousand leva. I thought he must be mad and to get rid of him I wrote the note and signed it “Irana”. He said that he would meet me at a café that evening.
‘I did not trouble to keep the appointment. The next morning he came again to my room. This time I would not let him in. He was very angry and said he had two thousand five hundred leva for me. Of course, I did not believe him, but he pushed a thousand leva note under the door and said that I should have the rest when I let him in. So I let him in. He gave me immediately another fifteen hundred leva. I asked him where he had got it and he said that he had delivered the note himself to the man who had given him the money immediately.
‘I have always been discreet. I am not interested in the real names of my friends. Dimitrios had followed one of them to his home, had found out his real name and that he was an important man and then with my note in his hand had threatened to tell his wife and daughters of our friendship unless he paid.
‘I was very angry. I said that for the sake of two thousand five hundred leva, I had lost one of my good friends. Dimitrios said that he could get me richer friends. He said, too, that he had given the money to me to show that he was serious and that he could have written the note himself and gone to my friend without telling me.
‘I saw that this was true. I saw also that he might go to other friends unless I agreed with him. So Dimitrios became my protector and he did bring me richer friends. And he bought himself very smart clothes and sometimes went to the best cafés.
‘But soon, someone I knew told me that he had become involved in politics and that he often went to certain cafés that the police watched. I told him that he was a fool, but he took no notice. He said that soon he would make a lot of money. And then he became suddenly angry and said that he would not stay behind for anyone, that he was tired of being poor. When I reminded him that it was because of me that he was not starving he turned upon me.
‘“You!” he said. “Do you think that you make money for me? There are thousands like you. I chose you because, although you look soft and sentimental, you are cunning and can keep your head. When I came in that day, I guessed that you had money hidden in the curtain because your sort always has money in the curtain. It is an old trick. But it was at your bag that you kept looking so anxiously. I knew then that you were sensible. But you have no imagination. You do not understand money. You can buy anything you fancy, and in restaurants they look up to you. It is only those without imagination who stay poor. When you are rich people do not mind what you do. You have the power and that is what is important to a man!” And he went on to tell me about rich men he had seen in Smyrna, men who owned ships and grew figs and had great houses on the hills outside the town.
‘Then, for a single moment, because when men become sentimental and tell me their dreams I despise them, I forgot my fear of Dimitrios. Sitting there in his smart clothes with his eyes on mine he appeared to me absurd. I laughed.
‘He was always pale but now all the blood left his face and suddenly I was terrified. I thought he meant to kill me. He had a glass in his hand. Slowly he raised it, then smashed it on the edge of the table. Then he got up and with the broken half in his hand came towards me. I screamed. He stopped and dropped the glass on the floor. It was stupid, he said, to be angry with me. But I knew why he had stopped. He had remembered that I would be useless to him with my face cut about.
‘After that I did not see him much. Often he left Sofia for several days at a time. He did not tell me where he went and I did not ask. But I knew that he had made important friends, for, once, when the police were making difficulties about his papers, he laughed and told me not to worry about the police. They would not dare to touch him, he said.
‘But one morning he came to me in great agitation. He looked as if he had been travelling all night and had not shaved for several days. I had never seen him so nervous. He took me by the wrists and said that if anyone asked me I must say that he had been with me for the last three days. I had not seen him for over a week but I had to agree and he went to sleep in my room.
‘Nobody asked me about him, but later that day I read in the newspaper that an attempt had been made on Stambulisky at Haskovo and I guessed where Dimitrios had been. I was frightened. An old friend of mine, whom I had known before Dimitrios, wanted to give me an apartment of my own. When Dimitrios had had his sleep and gone, I went to my friend and said that I would take this apartment.
‘I was afraid when I had done it, but that night I met Dimitrios and told him. I had expected him to be angry but he was quite calm and said that it would be best for me. Yet I could not tell what he was thinking because he always looked the same, like a doctor when he is doing something to you that hurts. I took courage and reminded him that we had some business to settle. He agreed and said that he would meet me three days later to give me all the money that was due to me.’
She had paused then and looked from Latimer to Marukakis with a faint, taut smile on her lips. There had been something defensive in the smile. She had shrugged her shoulders slightly.
‘You think it curious that I should trust Dimitrios. You think that I was a fool. But because Dimitrios frightened me, I would trust him. To distrust him was to remind myself of that fear. All men can be dangerous; as tame animals in a circus can be dangerous when they remember too much. But Dimitrios was different. He had the appearance of being tame, but when you looked into his brown eyes you saw that he had none of the feelings that make ordinary men soft, that he was always dangerous. I trusted him because there was nothing else for me to do. But I also hated him.
‘Three days later I waited for him in the café and he did not come. Several weeks after that I saw him and he said that he had been away but that if I would meet him on the following day, he would pay me the money he owed. The meeting place was a café in the Rue Perotska, a low place that I did not like.
‘This time he came as he had promised. He said that he was in difficulties about money, that he had a great sum coming to him and that he would pay me within a few weeks.
‘I wondered why he had kept the appointment merely to tell me that, but later I understood why. He had come to ask me a favour. He had to have certain letters received by someone he could trust. They were not his letters, but those of a friend of his, a Turk named Talat. If this friend could give the address of my apartment, Dimitrios himself would collect the letters when he paid me my money.
‘I agreed. I could do nothing else. It meant that if Dimitrios had to collect these letters from me he would have to pay me the money. But I knew in my heart and he knew too that he could have collected the letters and not paid me a sou and I could have done nothing.
‘We were sitting there drinking coffee – for Dimitrios was very mean in cafés – when the police came in to inspect papers. It was quite usual at that time, but it was not good to be found in that café because of its reputation. Dimitrios had his papers in order, but because he was a foreigner they took his name and mine because I was with him. When they had gone he was very angry, but I think he was angry, not because of their taking his name, but because they had taken my name as being with him. He was much put out and told me not to trouble about the letters as he would arrange for them with someone else. We left the café and that was the last time I saw him.’
She had had a Mandarine-Curaçao in front of her and now she had drunk it down thirstily. Latimer had cleared his throat.
‘And the last you heard of him?’
Suspicion had flickered for an instant in her eyes. Latimer had said: ‘Dimitrios is dead, Madame. Fifteen years have gone by. Times have changed in Sofia.’
Her queer, taut smile had hovered on her lips.
‘“Dimitrios is dead, Madame.” That sounds very curious to me. It is difficult to think of Dimitrios as dead. How did he look?’
‘His hair was grey. He was wearing clothes bought in Greece and in France. Poor stuff.’ Unconsciously he had echoed Colonel Haki’s phrase.
‘Then he did not become rich?’
‘He did once become rich, in Paris, but he lost his money.’
She had laughed. ‘That must have hurt him.’ And then suspicion again: ‘You know a lot about Dimitrios, Monsieur. If he is dead… I don’t understand.’
‘My friend is a writer,’ Marukakis had put in. ‘He is naturally interested in human nature.’
‘What do you write?’
‘Detective stories.’
She had shrugged. ‘You do not need to know human nature for that. It is for love stories and romances that one must know human nature. Romans policiers are ugly. Folle Farine I think is a lovely story. Do you like it?’
‘Very much.’
‘I have read it seventeen times. It is the best of Ouida’s books and I have read them all. One day I shall write my memoirs. I have seen a lot of human nature you know.’ The smile had become a trifle arch and she had sighed and fingered a diamond brooch.
‘But you wish to know more of Dimitrios. Very well. I heard of Dimitrios again a year later. One day I received a letter from him, from Adrianople. He gave a Poste Restante address. The letter asked me if I had received any letters for this Talat. If I had I was to write saying so, but to keep the letters. He said that I was to tell nobody that I had heard from him. He promised again to pay me the money he owed me. I had no letters addressed to Talat and wrote to tell him so. I also said that I needed the money because, now that he had gone away, I had lost all my friends. That was a lie, but I thought that by flattering him I would perhaps get the money. I should have known Dimitrios better. He did not even reply.
‘A few weeks after that a man came to see me. A type of fonctionnaire he was, very severe and businesslike. His clothes looked expensive. He said that the police would probably be coming to question me about Dimitrios.
‘I was frightened at that, but he said that I had nothing to fear. Only I must be careful what I said to them. He told me what to say; how I must describe Dimitrios so that the police would be satisfied. I showed him the letter from Adrianople and it seemed to amuse him. He said that I could tell the police about the letter coming from Adrianople, but that I must say nothing about this name Talat. He said that the letter was a dangerous thing to keep and burnt it. That made me angry, but he gave me a thousand leva note and asked me if I liked Dimitrios, if I was a friend. I said that I hated him. Then he said that friendship was a great thing and that he would give me five thousand leva to say what he had told me to the police.’
She had shrugged. ‘That is being serious, Messieurs. Five thousand leva! When the police came I said what this man had asked me to say and the following day an envelope with five thousand leva in it arrived by post. There was nothing else in the envelope, no letter. That was all right. But listen! About two years later I saw this man in the street. I went up to him, but the salop pretended that he had not seen me before and called the police to me. Friendship is a great thing.’
She had picked up the book and put it back in its pigeonhole.
‘If you will excuse me, Messieurs, it is time I returned to my guests. I think I have talked too much. You see, I know nothing about Dimitrios that is of any interest.’
‘We have been most interested, Madame.’
She had smiled. ‘If you are not in a hurry, Messieurs, I can show you more interesting things than Dimitrios. I have two most amusing girls who…’
‘We are a little pressed for time, Madame. Another night we would be delighted. Perhaps you would allow us to pay for our drinks.’
She had smiled. ‘As you wish, Messieurs, but it has been most agreeable talking to you. No, no, please! I have a superstition about money being shown in my own private room. Please arrange it with the waiter at your table. You will excuse me if I don’t come down with you? I have a little business to attend to. Au’voir, Monsieur. Au’voir, Monsieur. A bientôt.’
The dark, humid eyes had rested on them affectionately. Latimer had found himself feeling absurdly distressed at the leave-taking.
It had been a gérant who had responded to their request for a bill. He had had a brisk, cheerful manner.
‘Eleven hundred leva, Messieurs.’
‘What!’
‘The price you arranged with Madame, Messieurs.’
‘You know,’ Marukakis remarked as they waited for their change, ‘I think one does wrong to disapprove altogether of Dimitrios. He had his points.’
‘Dimitrios was employed by Vazoff acting on behalf of the Eurasian Credit Trust to do work in connection with getting rid of Stambulisky. It would be interesting to know how they recruited him, but that is a thing we shall never know. However, they must have found him satisfactory because they employed him to do similar work in Adrianople. He probably used the name Talat there.’
‘The Turkish police did not know that. They heard of him simply as “Dimitrios”,’ put in Latimer. ‘What I cannot understand is why Vazoff – it obviously was Vazoff who visited La Preveza in 1924 – allowed her to tell the police that she had had that letter from Adrianople.’
‘For only one reason, surely. Because Dimitrios was no longer in Adrianople.’ Marukakis stifled a yawn. ‘It’s been a curious evening.’
They were standing outside Latimer’s hotel. The night air was cold. ‘I think I’ll go in now,’ he said.
‘You’ll be leaving Sofia?’
‘For Belgrade. Yes.’
‘Then you are still interested in Dimitrios?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Latimer hesitated. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for your help. It has been a miserable waste of time for you.’
Marukakis laughed and then grinned apologetically. He said: ‘I was laughing at myself for envying you your Dimitrios. If you find out any more about him in Belgrade I should like you to write to me. Would you do that?’
‘Of course.’
But Latimer was not to reach Belgrade.
He thanked Marukakis again and they shook hands; then he went into the hotel. His room was on the second floor. Key in hand, he climbed the stairs. Along the heavily carpeted corridors his footsteps made no sound. He put the key in the lock, turned it and opened the door.
He had been expecting darkness and the lights in the room were switched on. That startled him a little. The thought flashed through his mind that perhaps he had mistaken the room, but an instant later he saw something which disposed of that notion. That something was chaos.
Strewn about the floor in utter confusion were the contents of his suitcases. Draped carelessly over a chair were the bedclothes. On the mattress, stripped of their bindings, were the few English books he had brought with him from Athens. The room looked as if a cageful of chimpanzees had been turned loose in it.
Dazed, Latimer took two steps forward into the room. Then a slight sound to the right of him made him turn his head. The next moment his heart jolted sickeningly.
The door leading to the bathroom was open. Standing just inside it, a disembowelled tube of toothpaste in one hand, a massive Lüger pistol held loosely in the other, and on his lips a sweet, sad smile, was Mr Peters.