In only one of his books, Murder’s Arms, had Latimer handled a situation in which one of the characters had been menaced by a murderer with a revolver. He had not enjoyed the task and if the incident had not been logical and necessary and had it not occurred in the last chapter but one (where a little of the more obvious sort of melodrama is sometimes permissible) he would have taken pains to avoid it. As it was, he had tried to go about the business intelligently. What, he had asked himself, would have been his own emotions in the circumstances? He had concluded that he would have been frightened out of his wits and completely tongue-tied.
Now, however, he was neither frightened out of his wits nor completely tongue-tied. It may have been that the circumstances were different. Mr Peters’ attitude – he was holding his massive pistol as if it were a wet fish – could scarcely be described as menacing. Nor, as far as Latimer was aware, was Mr Peters a murderer. Also, he had met Mr Peters before and found him a bore. There was something quite illogically reassuring about that fact.
But if he were, as yet, neither frightened nor tongue-tied, he was very much bewildered. Accordingly, he failed to achieve the nonchalant ‘Good evening’, the cheerful ‘Well, this is a surprise!’ appropriate to the occasion. Instead, he emitted a single, stupid monosyllable.
He said: ‘Oh.’ And then, in a craven but quite involuntary attempt to ease the embarrassing situation: ‘Something seems to have happened.’
Mr Peters took a firmer grasp of his pistol.
‘Would you be so good,’ he said gently, ‘as to shut the door behind you? I think that if you stretched out your right arm you could do it without moving your feet.’ The pistol was now levelled in an unmistakable fashion.
Latimer obeyed. Now, at last, he felt very frightened indeed, much more frightened than the character in the book had felt. He was afraid that he was going to be hurt; he could already feel the doctor probing for the bullet. He was afraid that Mr Peters was not used to the pistol, that he might fire accidentally. He was afraid of moving his hand too quickly lest the sudden movement should be misinterpreted. The door closed. He began to shake from head to foot and could not decide whether it was anger, fear or shock that made him do so. Suddenly he made up his mind to say something.
‘What the hell does this mean?’ he demanded harshly and then swore. It was not what he had intended to say and he was a man who very rarely swore. He was sure now that it was anger that was making him tremble. He glowered into Mr Peters’ wet eyes.
The fat man lowered his pistol and sat down on the edge of the mattress.
‘This is most awkward,’ he said unhappily. ‘I did not expect you back so soon. Your maison close must have proved disappointing. The inevitable Armenian girls, of course. Appealing enough for a while and then merely dull. I often think that perhaps this great world of ours would be a better, finer place if…’ He broke off. ‘But we can talk about that another time.’ Carefully he put the remains of the toothpaste tube on the bedside table. ‘I had hoped to get things tidied a little before I left,’ he added.
Latimer decided to play for time. ‘Including the books, Mr Peters?’
‘Ah, yes, the books!’ He shook his head despondently. ‘An act of vandalism. A book is a lovely thing, a garden stocked with beautiful flowers, a magic carpet on which to fly away to unknown climes. I am sorry. But it was necessary.’
‘What was necessary? What are you talking about?’
Mr Peters smiled a sad, long-suffering smile. ‘A little frankness, Mr Latimer, please. There could be only one reason why your room should be searched and you know it as well as I do. I can see your difficulty, of course. You are wondering exactly where I stand. If it is any consolation to you, however, I may say that my difficulty is in wondering exactly where you stand.’
This was fantastic. In his exasperation, Latimer forgot his fears. He took a deep breath.
‘Now look here, Mr Peters, or whatever your name is, I am very tired and I want to go to bed. If I remember correctly, I travelled with you in a train from Athens several days ago. You were, I believe, going to Bucharest. I, on the other hand, got off here in Sofia. I have been out with a friend. I return to my hotel to find my room in a disgusting mess, my books destroyed, and you flourishing a pistol in my face. I conclude that you are either a sneak thief or a drunk. But for your pistol, of which I am, I confess, afraid, I should already have rung for assistance. But it seems to me on reflection that thieves do not ordinarily meet their victims in first-class sleeping cars, nor do they tear books to pieces. Again, you do not appear to be drunk. I begin, naturally, to wonder if, after all, you may not be mad. If you are, of course, I can do nothing but humour you and hope for the best. But if you are comparatively sane I must ask you once more for an explanation. I repeat, Mr Peters: what the hell does this mean?’
Mr Peters’ tear-filled eyes were half-closed. ‘Perfect,’ he said raptly. ‘Perfect! No, no, Mr Latimer, keep away from the bell-push, please. That is better. You know, for a moment I was almost convinced of your sincerity. Almost. But, of course, not quite. It really is not kind of you to try to deceive me. Not kind, not considerate and such a waste of time.’
Latimer took a step forward. ‘Now listen to me…’
The Lüger jerked upwards. The smile left Mr Peters’ mouth and his flaccid lips parted slightly. He looked adenoidal and very dangerous. Latimer stepped back quickly. The smile slowly returned.
‘Come now, Mr Latimer. A little frankness, please. I have the best of intentions towards you. I did not seek this interview. But since you have returned so unexpectedly, since I could no longer meet you on a basis of, may I say, disinterested friendship, let us be frank with one another.’ He leaned forward a little. ‘Why are you so interested in Dimitrios?’
‘Dimitrios!’
‘Yes, dear Mr Latimer, Dimitrios. You have come from the Levant. Dimitrios came from there. In Athens you were very energetically seeking his record in the relief commission archives. Here in Sofia you have employed an agent to trace his police record. Why? Wait before you answer. I have no animosity towards you. I bear you no ill-will. Let that be clear. But, as it happens, I, too, am interested in Dimitrios and because of that I am interested in you. Now, Mr Latimer, tell me frankly where you stand. What – forgive the expression, please – is your game?’
Latimer was silent for a moment. He was trying to think quickly and not succeeding. He was confused. He had come to regard Dimitrios as his own property, a problem as academic as that of the authorship of an anonymous sixteenth-century lyric. And now, here was the odious Mr Peters, with his shabby appearance and his smiles and his Lüger pistol, claiming acquaintance with the problem as though he, Latimer, were the interloper. There was, of course, no reason why he should be surprised. Dimitrios must have been known to many persons. Yet he had felt instinctively that they must all have died with Dimitrios. Absurd, no doubt, but…
‘Well, Mr Latimer.’ The fat man’s smile had lost none of its sweetness, but there was an edge to his husky voice that made Latimer think of a small boy pulling the legs off flies.
‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that if I am going to answer questions, I ought to be allowed to ask some. In other words, Mr Peters, if you will tell me what your game is, I will tell you about mine. I have nothing at all to hide, but I have a curiosity to satisfy. And it really is no good your weighing your pistol so ominously. It is no longer an argument. It is of a large calibre and probably makes a considerable amount of noise when fired. Besides, you would gain nothing by shooting me. While I thought that you might fire it to protect yourself from arrest, it no doubt had its uses. Now, you might just as well put it away in your pocket.’
Mr Peters smiled on steadily. ‘Very neatly and charmingly put, Mr Latimer. All the same, I think I shall keep my pistol for the moment.’
‘As you please. Do you mind telling me what you hoped to find here – in the bindings of my books, or in the tube of toothpaste?’
‘I was looking for an answer to my question, Mr Latimer. But all I found was this.’ He held up a sheet of paper. It was the chronological table which Latimer had jotted down in Smyrna. As far as he remembered, he had left it folded in a book he had been reading. ‘You see, Mr Latimer, I felt that if you hid papers between the leaves of books, you might also hide more interesting papers in the bindings.’
‘It wasn’t intended to be hidden.’
But Mr Peters took no notice. He held up the paper delicately between a finger and thumb – a schoolmaster about to consider a schoolboy essay. He shook his head.
‘And is this all you know about Dimitrios, Mr Latimer?’
‘No.’
‘Ah!’ He gazed pathetically at Latimer’s tie. ‘Now who, I wonder, is this Colonel Haki, who seems so well informed and so indiscreet? The name is Turkish. And poor Dimitrios was taken from us at Istanbul, was he not? And you have come from Istanbul, haven’t you?’
Involuntarily, Latimer nodded and then could have kicked himself, for Mr Peters’ smile broadened.
‘Thank you, Mr Latimer. I can see that you are prepared to be helpful. Now let us see. You were in Istanbul, and so was Dimitrios, and so was Colonel Haki. There was a note here about a passport in the name of Talat. Another Turkish name. And there is Adrianople and the phrase “Kemal attempt”. “Attempt” – ah, yes! Now, I wonder if you translated that word literally from the French “attentat”. You won’t tell me? Well, well. I think that perhaps we may take that for granted. You know it almost looks as if you have been reading a Turkish police dossier. Now, doesn’t it, eh?’
Latimer had begun to feel rather foolish. He said: ‘I don’t think you’re going to get very far that way. You’re forgetting that for every question you ask you’re going to have to answer one. For example, I should very much like to know whether you ever actually met Dimitrios?’
Mr Peters contemplated him for a moment without speaking. Then: ‘I don’t think that you are very sure of yourself, Mr Latimer,’ he said slowly. ‘I have an idea that I could tell you much more than you could tell me.’ He dropped the Lüger into his overcoat pocket and got to his feet. ‘I think I must be going,’ he added.
This was not at all what Latimer expected or wanted, but he said ‘Goodnight’ calmly enough.
The fat man walked towards the door. But there he stopped. ‘Istanbul,’ Latimer heard him murmur thoughtfully. ‘Istanbul. Smyrna 1922, Athens the same year, Sofia 1923. Adrianople – no, because he comes from Turkey.’ He turned round quickly. ‘Now, I wonder…’ He paused, and then seemed to make up his mind. ‘I wonder if it would be very stupid of me to imagine that you might be thinking of going to Belgrade in the near future. Would it, Mr Latimer?’
Latimer was taken by surprise, and, even as he began to say very decidedly that it would be more than stupid of Mr Peters to imagine any such thing, he knew by the other’s triumphant smile that his surprise had been detected and interpreted.
‘You will like Belgrade,’ Mr Peters continued happily. ‘Such a beautiful city. The views from the Terazija and the Kalemegdan! Magnificent! And you must certainly go out to Avala. But perhaps you know it better than I do. How I wish that I were going with you! Such beautiful girls! Broad-cheeked and graceful. For a young man like you they would be most amenable. Of course, such things do not interest me. I am a simple soul and getting old. I have only my memories left. But I do not disapprove of youth. I do not disapprove. One is only young once, and the Great One surely intended us to make what happiness we can. Life must go on, eh?’
Latimer pulled the bedclothes off the chair and sat down facing him. He was on the verge of losing his temper and his brain was beginning to work.
‘Mr Peters,’ he said, ‘in Smyrna I had occasion to examine certain fifteen-year-old police records. I afterwards found out that those same records had been examined three months previously by someone else. I wonder if you would like to tell me if that someone else was you.’
But the fat man’s watery eyes were staring into space. A slight frown gathered on his forehead. He said, as though he were listening to Latimer’s voice for mistakes in intonation: ‘Would you mind repeating that question?’
Latimer repeated the question.
There was another pause. Then Mr Peters shook his head decidedly. ‘No, Mr Latimer, it was not I.’
‘But you were yourself making inquiries about Dimitrios in Athens, weren’t you, Mr Peters? You were the person who came into the bureau while I was asking about Dimitrios, weren’t you? You made a rather hurried exit, I seem to remember. Unfortunately I did not see it, but the official there commented on it. And it was design, not accident, that brought you to Sofia on the train by which I was travelling, wasn’t it? You also took care to find out from me – very neatly, I admit – at which hotel I was staying, before I got off the train. That’s right, isn’t it?’
Mr Peters was smiling sunnily again. He nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Latimer, all quite right. I know everything that you have done since you left the record bureau in Athens. I have already told you that I am interested in anyone who is interested in Dimitrios. Of course, you found out all about this man who had been before you in Smyrna?’
The last sentence was put in a little too casually. Latimer said: ‘No, Mr Peters, I did not.’
‘But surely you were interested?’
‘Not very.’
The fat man sighed. ‘I do not think that you are being frank with me. How much better if…’
‘Listen!’ Latimer interrupted rudely. ‘I’m going to be frank. You are doing your level best to pump me. I’m not going to be pumped. Let that be clear. I made you an offer. You answer my questions and I’ll answer yours. The only questions you’ve answered so far have been questions to which I had already guessed the answers. I still want to know why you are interested in this dead man Dimitrios. You said that you could tell me more than I could tell you. That may be so. But I have an idea, Mr Peters, that it is more important for you to have my answers than it is for me to have your answers. Breaking into hotel rooms and making this sort of mess isn’t the sort of thing any man does in a spirit of idle inquiry. To be honest, I cannot for the life of me conceive of any reason for your interest in Dimitrios. It did occur to me that perhaps Dimitrios had kept some of that money he earned in Paris… You know about that, I expect?’ And in response to a faint nod from Mr Peters: ‘Yes, I thought you might. But, as I say, it did occur to me that Dimitrios might have hidden his treasure and that you were interested in finding out where. Unfortunately my own information disposes of that possibility. His belongings were on the mortuary table beside him, and there wasn’t a penny piece there. Just a bundle of cheap clothes. And as for…’
But Mr Peters had stepped forward and was staring down at him with a peculiar expression on his face. Latimer allowed the sentence he had begun to trail off lamely into silence. ‘What is the matter?’ he added.
‘Did I understand you to say,’ said the fat man slowly, ‘that you actually saw the body of Dimitrios in the mortuary?’
‘Yes; what of it? Have I carelessly let slip another useful piece of information?’
But Mr Peters did not answer. He had produced one of his thin cheroots and was lighting it carefully. Suddenly he blew out a jet of smoke and started to waddle slowly up and down the room, his eyes screwed up as if he were in great pain. He began to talk.
‘Mr Latimer, we must reach an understanding. We must stop this quarrelling.’ He halted in his tracks and looked down at Latimer again. ‘It is absolutely essential, Mr Latimer,’ he said, ‘that I know what you are after. No, no, please! Don’t interrupt me. I admit that I probably need your answers more than you need mine. But I cannot give you mine at present. Yes, yes, I heard what you said. But I am talking seriously. Listen, please.
‘You are interested in the history of Dimitrios. You are thinking of going to Belgrade to find out more about him. You cannot deny that. Now, both of us know that Dimitrios was in Belgrade in 1926. Also, I can tell you that he was never there after 1926. Why are you interested? You will not tell me. Very well. I will tell you something more. If you go to Belgrade you will not discover a single trace of Dimitrios. Furthermore, you may find yourself in trouble with the authorities if you pursue the matter. There is only one man who could and would, under certain circumstances, tell you what you want to know. He is a Pole, and he lives near Geneva.
‘Now then! I will give you his name and I will give you a letter to him. I will do that for you. But first I must know why you want this information. I thought at first that you might perhaps be connected with the Turkish police – there are so many Englishmen in the Near Eastern police departments these days – but that possibility I no longer consider. Your passport describes you as a writer, but that is a very elastic term. Who are you, Mr Latimer, and what is your game?’
He paused expectantly. Latimer stared back at him with what he hoped was an inscrutable expression. Mr Peters, unabashed, went on:
‘Naturally, when I ask what your game is, I use the phrase in a specific sense. Your game is, of course, to get money. But that is not the answer I need. Are you a rich man, Mr Latimer? No? Then what I have to say may be simplified. I am proposing an alliance, Mr Latimer, a pooling of resources. I am aware of certain facts which I cannot tell you about at the moment. You, on the other hand, possess an important piece of information. You may not know that it is important, but nevertheless it is. Now, my facts alone are not worth a great deal. Your piece of information is quite valueless without my facts. The two together, however, are worth at the very least –’ he stroked his chin ‘– at the very least five thousand English pounds, a million French francs.’ He smiled triumphantly. ‘What do you say to that?’
‘You will forgive me,’ replied Latimer coldly, ‘if I say that I cannot understand what you’re talking about, won’t you? Not that it makes any difference whether you do or don’t. I am tired, Mr Peters, very tired. I want badly to go to bed.’ He got to his feet and, pulling the bedclothes on to the bed, began to remake it. ‘There is, I suppose, no reason why you should not know why I am interested in Dimitrios,’ he went on as he dragged a sheet into position. ‘The reason is certainly nothing to do with money. I write detective stories for a living. In Stambul I heard from a Colonel Haki, who is something to do with the police there, about a criminal named Dimitrios, who had been found dead in the Bosphorus. Partly for amusement – the sort of amusement that one derives from crossword puzzles – partly from a desire to try my hand at practical detection, I set out to trace the man’s history. That is all. I don’t expect you to understand it. You are probably wondering at the moment why I couldn’t think of a more convincing story. I am sorry. If you don’t like the truth, you can lump it.’
Mr Peters had listened in silence. Now he waddled to the window, pitched out his cheroot and faced Latimer across the bed.
‘Detective stories! Now, that is most interesting to me, Mr Latimer. I am so fond of them. I wonder if you would tell me the names of some of your books.’
Latimer gave him several titles.
‘And your publisher?’
‘English, American, French, Swedish, Norwegian, Dutch or Hungarian?’
‘Hungarian, please.’
Latimer told him.
Mr Peters nodded slowly. ‘A good firm, I believe.’ He seemed to reach a decision. ‘Have you a pen and paper, Mr Latimer?’
Latimer nodded wearily towards the writing table. The other went to it and sat down. As he finished making the bed and began to collect his belongings from the floor, Latimer heard the hotel pen scratching over a piece of the hotel paper. Mr Peters was keeping his word.
At last he finished and the chair creaked as he got up. Latimer, who was replacing some shoe trees, straightened his back. Mr Peters had recovered his smile. Goodwill oozed from him like sweat.
‘Here, Mr Latimer,’ he announced, ‘are three pieces of paper. On the first one is written the name of the man of whom I spoke to you. His name is Grodek – Wladyslaw Grodek. He lives just outside Geneva. The second is a letter to him. If you present that letter he will know that you are a friend of mine and that he can be frank with you. He is retired now, so I think I may safely tell you that he was at one time the most successful professional agent in Europe. More secret naval and military information has passed through his hands than through those of any other one man. It was always accurate, what is more. He dealt with quite a number of governments. His headquarters were in Brussels. To an author I should think he would be very interesting. You will like him, I think. He is a great lover of animals. A beautiful character au fond. Incidentally, it was he who employed Dimitrios in 1926.’
‘I see. Thank you very much. What about the third piece of paper?’
Mr Peters hesitated. His smile became a little smug. ‘I think you said that you were not rich.’
‘No, I am not rich.’
‘Half a million francs, two thousand five hundred English pounds, would be useful to you?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘Well, then, Mr Latimer, when you have tired of Geneva I want you to – how do you say? – to kill two birds with one stone.’ He pulled Latimer’s chronological table from his pocket. ‘On this list of yours you have other dates besides 1926 still to be accounted for if you are to know what there is to know about Dimitrios. The place to account for them is Paris. That is the first thing. The second is that if you will come to Paris, if you will put yourself in touch with me there, if you will consider, then, the pooling of resources, the alliance that I have already proposed to you, I can definitely guarantee that in a very few days you will have at least two thousand five hundred English pounds to pay into your account – half a million French francs!’
‘I do wish,’ retorted Latimer irritably, ‘that you would be a little more explicit. Half a million francs for doing what? Who is going to pay this money? You are far too mysterious, Mr Peters – far too mysterious to be true.’
Mr Peters’ smile tightened. Here was a Christian, reviled but unembittered, waiting steadfastly for the lions to be admitted into the arena.
‘Mr Latimer,’ he said gently, ‘I know that you do not trust me. I know that. That is the reason why I have given you Grodek’s address and that letter to him. I want to give you concrete evidence of my goodwill towards you, to prove that my word is to be trusted. And I want to show that I trust you, that I believe what you have told me. At the moment I cannot say more. But if you will believe in and trust me, if you will come to Paris, then here, on this piece of paper, is an address. When you arrive send a pneumatique to me. Do not call, for it is the address of a friend. If you will simply send a pneumatique giving me your address, I will be able to explain everything. It is perfectly simple.’
It was time, Latimer decided, to get rid of Mr Peters.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is all very confusing. You seem to me to have jumped to a lot of conclusions. I had not definitely arranged to go to Belgrade. It is not certain that I shall have time to go to Geneva. As for going on to Paris, that is a thing which I could not possibly consider at the moment. I have a great deal of work to do, of course, and…’
Mr Peters buttoned up his overcoat. ‘Of course.’ And then, with a curious urgency in his tone: ‘But if you should find time to come to Paris, do please send me that pneumatique. I have put you to so much trouble, I should like to make restitution in a practical way. Half a million francs is worth considering, eh? And I would guarantee it. But we must trust one another. That is most important.’ He shook his head despondently. ‘One goes through life like a flower with its face turned to the sun, ever seeking, ever hoping, wanting to trust others, but afraid to do so. How much better if we trusted one another, if we saw only the good things, the finer things in our fellow creatures! How much better if we were frank and open, if we went on our ways without the cloak of hypocrisy and lies that we wear now! Yes, Mr Latimer, hypocrisy and lies. None of us are guiltless. I am as guilty as others. It only causes trouble, and trouble is bad for business. Besides, life is so short. We are here on this globe for a short time only before the Great One recalls us.’ He heaved a very noisy sigh. ‘But you are a writer, Mr Latimer, and sensitive to these things. You could express them so much better than I could.’ He held out his hand. ‘Goodnight, Mr Latimer. I won’t say “goodbye.”’
Latimer took the hand. It was dry and very soft.
‘Goodnight.’
At the door he half turned. ‘Half a million francs, Mr Latimer, will buy a lot of good things. I do hope that we shall meet in Paris. Goodnight.’
‘I hope so, too. Goodnight.’
The door closed and Mr Peters was gone, but to Latimer’s over-wrought imagination it seemed as if his smile, like the Cheshire cat’s, remained behind him, floating in the air. He leaned against the door and surveyed for an instant the upturned suitcases. Outside it was beginning to get light. He looked at his watch. Five o’clock. The business of clearing up the room could wait. He undressed and got into bed.
For a while he lay there thinking, trying to rearrange his thoughts, to make adjustments, to form opinions. But his brain seemed drugged. It was as if he had come out of a theatre into a dark street with his mind full of images, fragments of passion clinging to a web of nerves. Mr Peters was really quite disgusting; though less disgusting perhaps than the absconding pimp, Dimitrios. But he only knew Dimitrios by hearsay. ‘Like a doctor’s eyes when he is doing something to you that hurts.’ There was a world of horror there: Madame Preveza’s own private world. What was Peters’ game? That was the thing to know. He must think very carefully. There was so much to think about. So much. Half a million francs…
Within five minutes of his getting into bed he was asleep.