A man’s features, the bone structure and the tissue which covers it, are the product of a biological process; but his face he creates for himself. It is a statement of his habitual emotional attitude; the attitude which his desires need for their fulfilment and which his fears demand for their protection from prying eyes. He wears it like a devil mask; a device to evoke in others the emotions complementary to his own. If he is afraid, then he must be feared; if he desires, then he must be desired. It is a screen to hide his mind’s nakedness. Only a few men, painters, have been able to see the mind through the face. Other men in their judgements reach out for the evidence of word and deed that will explain the mask before their eyes. Yet, though they understand instinctively that the mask cannot be the man behind it; they are generally shocked by a demonstration of the fact. The duplicity of others must always be shocking when one is unconscious of one’s own.
So, when at last Latimer saw Dimitrios and tried to read in the face of the man staring across the room at him the evil which he felt should be there, it was of that sense of shock which he was conscious. Hat in hand, in his dark, neat French clothes, with his slim, erect figure and sleek grey hair, Dimitrios was a picture of distinguished respectability.
His distinction was that of a relatively unimportant guest at a large diplomatic reception. He gave the impression of being slightly taller than the one hundred and eighty-two centimetres with which the Bulgarian police had credited him. His skin had the creamy pallor which succeeds in middle age a youthful sallowness. With his high cheekbones, thin nose and beak-like upper lip he might well have been the member of an Eastern European legation. It was only the expression of his eyes that fitted in with any of Latimer’s preconceived ideas about his appearance.
They were very brown and seemed at first to be a little screwed up, as if he were short-sighted or worried. But there was no corresponding frown or contraction of the eyebrows, and Latimer saw that the expression of anxiety or short-sightedness was an optical illusion due to the height of the cheekbones and the way the eyes were set in the head. Actually, the face was utterly expressionless, as impassive as that of a lizard.
For a moment the brown eyes rested on Latimer; then, as Mr Peters closed the door behind him Dimitrios turned his head and said in strongly accented French: ‘Present me to your friend. I do not think that I have seen him before.’
Latimer very nearly jumped. The face of Dimitrios might not be revealing, but the voice certainly was. It was very coarse and sharp, with an acrid quality that made nonsense of any grace implicit in the words it produced. He spoke very softly, and it occurred to Latimer that the man was aware of the ugliness of his voice and tried to conceal it. He failed. Its promise was as deadly as the rattle of a rattlesnake.
‘This is Monsieur Smith,’ said Mr Peters. ‘There is a chair behind you. You may sit down.’
Dimitrios ignored the suggestion. ‘Monsieur Smith! An Englishman. It appears that you knew Monsieur Visser.’
‘I have seen Visser.’
‘That is what we wanted to talk to you about, Dimitrios,’ said Mr Peters.
‘Yes?’ Dimitrios sat down on the spare chair. ‘Then talk and be quick. I have an appointment to keep. I cannot waste time in this way.’
Mr Peters shook his head sorrowfully. ‘You have not changed at all, Dimitrios. Always impetuous, always a little unkind. After all these years no word of greeting, no word of regret for all the unhappiness you caused me. You know, it was most unkind of you to hand us all over to the police like that. We were your friends. Why did you do it?’
‘You still talk too much,’ said Dimitrios. ‘What is it you want?’
Mr Peters sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. ‘Since you insist on making this a purely business meeting – we want money.’
The brown eyes flickered towards him. ‘Naturally. What do you want to give me for it?’
‘Our silence, Dimitrios. It is very valuable.’
‘Indeed? How valuable?’
‘It is worth at the very least a million francs.’
Dimitrios sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. ‘And who is going to pay you that for it?’
‘You are, Dimitrios. And you are going to be glad to get it so cheaply.’
Then Dimitrios smiled.
It was a slow tightening of the small, thin lips; nothing more. Yet there was something inexpressibly savage about it; something that made Latimer feel glad that it was Mr Peters who had to face it. At that moment, he felt, Dimitrios was far more appropriate to a gathering of man-eating tigers than to a diplomatic reception, however large. The smile faded. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you shall tell me now precisely what you mean.’
To Latimer, who would, he knew, have responded promptly to the menace in the man’s voice, Mr Peters’ bland hesitation was maddeningly reckless. He appeared to be enjoying himself.
‘It is so difficult to know where to begin.’
There was no reply. Mr Peters waited for a moment and then shrugged. ‘There are,’ he went on, ‘so many things that the police would be glad to know. For instance, I might tell them who it was who sent them that dossier in 1931. And it would be such a surprise for them to know that a respectable director of the Eurasian Credit Trust was really the Dimitrios Makropoulos who used to send women to Alexandria.’
Latimer thought that he saw Dimitrios relax a little in his chair. ‘And you expect me to pay you a million francs for that? My good Petersen, you are childish.’
Mr Peters smiled. ‘Very likely, Dimitrios. You were always inclined to despise my simple approach to the problems of this life of ours. But our silence on those matters would be worth a great deal to you, would it not?’
Dimitrios considered him for a moment. Then: ‘Why don’t you come to the point, Petersen? Or perhaps you are only preparing the way for your Englishman.’ He turned his head. ‘What have you to say, Monsieur Smith? Or is neither of you very sure of himself?’
‘Petersen is speaking for me,’ mumbled Latimer. He wished fervently that Mr Peters would get the business over.
‘May I continue?’ inquired Mr Peters.
‘Go on.’
‘The Yugoslav police, too, might be interested in you. If we were to tell them where Monsieur Talat…’
‘Par example!’ Dimitrios laughed malignantly. ‘So Grodek has been talking. Not a sou for that, my friend. Is there any more?’
‘Athens, 1922. Does that mean anything to you, Dimitrios? The name was Taladis, if you remember. The charge was robbery and attempted murder. Is that so amusing?’
Into Mr Peters’ face had come the look of unsmiling, adenoidal viciousness that Latimer had seen for a moment or two in Sofia. Dimitrios stared at him unblinkingly. In an instant the atmosphere had become deadly with a naked hatred that to Latimer was quite horrible. He felt as he had once felt when, as a child, he had seen a street fight between two middle-aged men. He saw Mr Peters draw the Lüger from his pocket and weigh it in his hands.
‘You have nothing to say to that, Dimitrios? Then I shall go on. A little earlier that year you murdered a man in Smyrna, a money-lender. What was his name, Monsieur Smith?’
‘Sholem.’
‘Sholem, of course. Monsieur Smith was clever enough to discover that, Dimitrios. A good piece of work, don’t you think? Monsieur Smith, you know, is very friendly with the Turkish police; almost, one might say, in their confidence. Do you still think that a million francs is a lot to pay, Dimitrios?’
Dimitrios did not look at either of them. ‘The murderer of Sholem was hanged,’ he said slowly.
Mr Peters raised his eyebrows. ‘Can that be true, Monsieur Smith?’
‘A Negro named Dhris Mohammed was hanged for the murder, but he made a confession implicating Monsieur Makropoulos. An order was issued for his arrest in 1924. The charge was murder, but the Turkish police were anxious to catch him for another reason. He had been concerned in an attempt to assassinate Kemal in Adrianople.’
‘You see, Dimitrios, we are very well informed. Shall we continue?’ He paused. Dimitrios still stared straight in front of him. Not a muscle of his face moved. Mr Peters looked across at Latimer. ‘Dimitrios is impressed, I think. I feel sure he would like us to continue.’
When Latimer thinks of Dimitrios now it is that scene which he remembers: the squalid room with its nightmare wallpaper, Mr Peters sitting on the edge of the bed, his wet eyes half closed and the pistol in his hands, talking, and the man sitting between them, staring straight in front of him, his white face as still as that of a waxwork and as lifeless. The droning of Mr Peters’ voice was punctuated by silences. To Latimer’s overwrought nerves those silences were piercing in their intensity. But they were short, and after each one Mr Peters would drone on again: a torturer mumbling the repetition of his questions after each turn of the screw.
‘Monsieur Smith has told you that he saw Visser. It was in a mortuary in Istanbul that he saw him. As I told you, he is very friendly with the Turkish police, and they showed him the body. They told him that it was the body of a criminal named Dimitrios Makropoulos. It was foolish of them to be so easily deceived, was it not? But even Monsieur Smith was deceived for a while. Fortunately I was able to tell him that Dimitrios was still alive.’ He paused. ‘You do not wish to comment? Very well. Perhaps you would like to hear how I discovered where you were and who you were.’ Another silence. ‘No? Perhaps you would like to know how I knew that you were in Istanbul at the time poor, silly Visser was killed; or how easily Monsieur Smith was able to identify a photograph of Visser with the dead man he saw in the mortuary.’ Another silence. ‘No? Perhaps you would like to be told how easy it would be for us to arouse the interest of the Turkish police in the curious case of a dead murderer who is alive, or of the Greek police in the case of the refugee from Smyrna who left Tabouria so suddenly. I wonder if you are thinking that it would be difficult for us to prove that you are Dimitrios Makropoulos, or Taladis, or Talat, or Rougemont, after such a long time has elapsed. Are you thinking that, Dimitrios? You do not wish to answer? Then let me tell you that it would be quite easy for us to prove. I could identify you as Makropoulos, and so could Werner or Lenôtre or Galindo or the Grand Duchess. One of them is sure to be alive and within reach of the police. Any of them would be glad to help to hang you. Monsieur Smith can swear that the man buried in Istanbul is Visser. Then there is the crew of the yacht you chartered in June. They knew that Visser went with you to Istanbul. There is the concièrge in the Avenue de Wagram. He knew you as Rougemont. Your present passport would not be a very good protection to a man with so many false names, would it? And even if you submitted to a little chantage from the French and Greek police, Monsieur Smith’s Turkish friends would not be so accommodating. Do you think that a million francs is too much to pay for saving you from the hangman, Dimitrios?’
He stopped. For several long seconds Dimitrios continued to stare at the wall. Then at last he stirred and looked at his small gloved hands. His words, when they came, were like stones dropped one by one into a stagnant pool. ‘I am wondering,’ he said, ‘why you ask so little. Is this million all that you are asking?’
Mr Peters sniggered. ‘You mean, are we going to the police when we have the million? Oh, no, Dimitrios. We shall be fair with you. This million is only a preliminary gesture of good will. There will be other opportunities for you. But you will not find us greedy.’
‘I am sure of that. You would not want me to become desperate, I think. Are you the only ones who have this curious delusion that I killed Visser?’
‘There is no one else. I shall want the million in mille notes tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’
‘You will receive instructions as to how you are to give them to us, by post, in the morning. If the instructions are not followed exactly you will not be given a second chance. The police will be approached immediately. Do you understand?’
‘Perfectly.’
The words were spoken levelly enough. To a casual observer they might have been concluding an ordinary business deal. But neither of their voices was quite steady. To Latimer it seemed as if it were only the Lüger that prevented Dimitrios from attacking and killing Mr Peters and only the thought of a million francs that prevented Mr Peters from shooting Dimitrios. Two lives hung by the thin, steel threads of self-preservation and greed.
As Dimitrios stood up an idea seemed to occur to him. He turned to Latimer. ‘You have been very silent, Monsieur. I wonder if you have been understanding that your life is in your friend Petersen’s hands. If, for example, he decided to tell me your real name and where you might be found, I should very likely have you killed.’
Mr Peters showed his white false teeth. ‘Why should I deprive myself of Monsieur Smith’s help? Monsieur Smith is invaluable. He can prove that Visser is dead. Without him you could breathe again.’
Dimitrios took no notice of the interruption. ‘Well, Monsieur Smith?’
Latimer looked up into the brown anxious-seeming eyes and thought of Madame Preveza’s phrase. They were certainly the eyes of a man ready to do something that hurt, but they could have belonged to no doctor. There was murder in them.
‘I can assure you,’ he said, ‘that Petersen has no inducement to kill me. You see…’
‘You see,’ put in Mr Peters quickly, ‘we are not fools, Dimitrios. You can go now.’
‘Of course.’ Dimitrios went towards the door, but at the threshold he paused.
‘What is it?’ said Mr Peters.
‘I should like to ask Monsieur Smith two questions.’
‘Well?’
‘How was this man whom you took to be Visser dressed when he was found?’
‘In a cheap blue serge suit. A French carte d’identité, issued at Lyons a year previously, was sewn into the lining. The suit was of Greek manufacture, but the shirt and underwear were French.’
‘And how was he killed?’
‘He had been stabbed in the side and then thrown into the water.’
Mr Peters smiled. ‘Are you satisfied, Dimitrios?’
Dimitrios stared at him. ‘Visser,’ he said slowly, ‘was too greedy. You will not be too greedy, will you, Petersen?’
Mr Peters gave him stare for stare. ‘I shall be very careful,’ he said. ‘You have no more questions to ask? Good. You will receive your instructions in the morning.’
Dimitrios went without another word. Mr Peters shut the door, waited a moment or two, then, very gently opened it again. Motioning to Latimer to remain where he was, he disappeared on to the landing. Latimer heard the stairs creak. A minute later he returned.
‘He has gone,’ he announced. ‘In a few minutes we, too, shall go.’ He sat down again on the bed, lit one of his cheroots and blew the smoke out as luxuriously as if he had just been released from bondage. His sweet smile came out again like a rose after a storm. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that was Dimitrios about whom you have heard such a great deal. What did you think of him?’
‘I didn’t know what to think. Perhaps, if I had not known so much about him, I should have disliked him less. I don’t know. It is difficult to be reasonable about a man who is obviously wondering how quickly he can murder you.’ He hesitated. ‘I did not realize that you hated him so much.’
Mr Peters did not smile. ‘I assure you, Mr Latimer, that it was a surprise to me to realize it. I did not like him. I did not trust him. After the way he betrayed us all, that was understandable. It was not until I saw him in this room just now that I realized that I hated him enough to kill him. If I were a superstitious man, I would wonder if perhaps the spirit of poor Visser had entered into me.’ He stopped, then added ‘Salop!’ under his breath. He was silent for a moment. Then he looked up. ‘Mr Latimer, I must make an admission. I must tell you that even if you had agreed to the offer I made you, you would not have received your half million. I would not have paid you.’ He shut his mouth tightly as if he were prepared to receive a blow.
‘So I imagine,’ said Latimer dryly. ‘I very nearly accepted the offer just to see how you would cheat me. I take it that you would have made the real time for delivery of the money an hour or so earlier than you would have told me, and that, by the time I arrived on the scene, you and the money would have gone. Was that it?’
Mr Peters winced. ‘It was very wise of you not to trust me, but very unkind. But I suppose that I cannot blame you.’ He rubbed salt in the wound. ‘The Great One has seen fit to make me what is known as a criminal, and I must tread the path to my Destiny with patient resignation. But it was not to abase myself that I admitted to having tried to deceive you. It was to defend myself. I would like to ask you a question.’
‘Well?’
‘Was it – forgive me – was it the thought that I might betray you to Dimitrios that made you refuse my offer to share the money with you?’
‘It never occurred to me.’
‘I am glad,’ said Mr Peters solemnly. ‘I should not like you to think that of me. You may dislike me, but I should not care to be thought cold-blooded. I may tell you that the thought did not occur to me either. There you see Dimitrios! We have discussed this matter, you and I. We have mistrusted one another and looked for betrayal. Yet it is Dimitrios who put this thought in our heads. I have met many wicked and violent men, Mr Latimer, but I tell you that Dimitrios is unique. Why do you think he suggested to you that I might betray you?’
‘I imagine that he was acting on the principle that the best way to fight two allies is to get them to fight each other.’
Mr Peters smiled. ‘No, Mr Latimer. That would have been too obvious a trick for Dimitrios. He was suggesting to you in a very delicate way that I was the unnecessary partner and that you could remove me very easily by telling him where I could be found.’
‘Do you mean that he was offering to kill you for me?’
‘Exactly. He would have only you to deal with then. He does not know, of course,’ added Mr Peters thoughtfully, ‘that you do not know his present name.’ He stood up and put on his hat. ‘No, Mr Latimer, I do not like Dimitrios. Do not misunderstand me, please. I have no moral rectitude. But Dimitrios is a savage beast. Even now, though I know that I have taken every precaution, I am afraid. I shall take his million and go. If I could allow you to hand him over to the police when I have done with him, I would do so. He would not hesitate if the situation were reversed. But it is impossible.’
‘Why?’
Mr Peters looked at him curiously. ‘Dimitrios seems to have had a strange effect on you. No, to tell the police afterwards would be too dangerous. If we were asked to explain the million francs – and we could not expect Dimitrios to remain silent about them – we should be embarrassed. A pity. Shall we go now? I shall leave the money for the room on the table. They can take the suitcase for a pourboire.’
They went downstairs in silence. As they deposited the key, the man in his shirtsleeves appeared with an affiche for Mr Peters to complete. Mr Peters waved him away. He would, he said, fill it in when he returned.
In the street he halted and faced Latimer.
‘Have you ever been followed?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Then you will be followed now. I do not suppose that Dimitrios has any real hope of our leading him to our homes, but he was always thorough.’ He glanced over Latimer’s shoulder. ‘Ah, yes. He was there when we arrived. Do not look round, Mr Latimer. A man wearing a grey mackintosh and a dark soft hat. You will see him in a minute.’
The hollow feeling which had disappeared with the departure of Dimitrios jolted back into its position in Latimer’s stomach. ‘What are we to do?’
‘Return by Metro, as I said before.’
‘What good will that do?’
‘You will see in a minute.’
The Ledru-Rollin Metro station was about a hundred yards away. As they walked towards it the muscles in Latimer’s calves tightened and he had a ridiculous desire to run. He felt himself walking stiffly and self-consciously.
‘Do not look round,’ said Mr Peters again.
They walked down the steps to the Metro. ‘Keep close to me now,’ said Mr Peters.
He bought two second-class tickets and they walked on down the tunnel in the direction of the trains.
It was a long tunnel. As they pushed their way through the spring barriers, Latimer felt that he could reasonably glance behind him. He did so, and caught a glimpse of a shabby young man in a grey raincoat about thirty feet behind them. Now the tunnel split into two. One way was labelled: ‘Direction Pte. de Charenton’, the other: ‘Direction Balard’. Mr Peters stopped.
‘It would be wise now,’ he said, ‘if we appeared to be about to take leave of one another.’ He glanced out of the corners of his eyes. ‘Yes, he has stopped. He is wondering what is going to happen. Talk, please, Mr Latimer, but not too loudly. I want to listen.’
‘Listen to what?’
‘The trains. I spent half an hour here listening to them this morning.’
‘What on earth for? I don’t see…’
Mr Peters gripped his arm and he stopped. In the distance he could hear the rumble of an approaching train.
‘Direction Balard,’ muttered Mr Peters suddenly. ‘Come along. Keep close to me and do not walk too quickly.’
They went on down the right-hand tunnel. The rumble of the train grew louder. They rounded a bend in the tunnel. Ahead was the green automatic gate.
‘Vite!’ cried Mr Peters.
The train was by now almost in the station. The automatic door began to swing slowly across the entrance to the platform. As Latimer reached it and passed through with about three inches to spare, he heard, above the hiss and screech of pneumatic brakes the sound of running feet. He looked round. Although Mr Peters’ stomach had suffered some compression, he had squeezed himself through on to the platform. But the man in the grey raincoat had, in spite of his last-minute sprint, left it too late. He now stood, red in the face with anger, shaking his fists at them from the other side of the automatic gate.
They got into the train a trifle breathlessly.
‘Excellent!’ puffed Mr Peters happily. ‘Now do you see what I meant, Mr Latimer?’
‘Very ingenious.’
The noise of the train made further conversation impossible. Latimer stared vacantly at a Celtique advertisement. So that was that. Colonel Haki had been right after all. The story of Dimitrios had no proper ending. Dimitrios would buy off Mr Peters and the story would merely stop. Somewhere, at some future time, Dimitrios might happen to find Mr Peters and then Mr Peters would die as Visser had died. Somewhere, at some time, Dimitrios himself would die: probably of old age. But he, Latimer, would not know about those things. He would be writing a detective story with a beginning, a middle and an end; a corpse, a piece of detection and a scaffold. He would be demonstrating that murder would out, that justice triumphed in the end and that the green bay tree flourished alone. Dimitrios and the Eurasian Credit Trust would be forgotten. It had all been a great waste of time.
Mr Peters touched his arm. They were at Chatelet. They got out and took the Porte d’Orléans correspondance to St Placide. As they walked down the Rue de Rennes, Mr Peters hummed softly. They passed a café.
Mr Peters stopped humming. ‘Would you like some coffee, Mr Latimer?’
‘No, thanks. What about your letter to Dimitrios?’
Mr Peters tapped his pocket. ‘It is already written. Eleven o’clock is the time. The junction of the Avenue de la Reine and the Boulevard Jean Jaurès is the place. Would you like to be there, or are you leaving Paris tomorrow?’ And then, without giving Latimer a chance to reply: ‘I shall be sorry to say goodbye to you, Mr Latimer. I find you so sympathetic. Our association has, on the whole, been most agreeable. It has also been profitable to me.’ He sighed. ‘I feel a little guilty, Mr Latimer. You have been so patient and helpful and yet you go unrewarded. You would not,’ he enquired a trifle anxiously, ‘accept a thousand francs of the money? It would help to pay your expenses.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘No, of course not. Then, at least, Mr Latimer, let me give you a glass of wine. That it is! A celebration! Come, Mr Latimer. There is no taste in nothing. Let us collect the money together tomorrow night. You will have the satisfaction of seeing a little blood squeezed from this swine Dimitrios. Then we will celebrate with a glass of wine. What do you say to that?’
They had stopped at the corner of the street which contained the Impasse. Latimer looked into Mr Peters’ watery eyes. ‘I should say,’ he said deliberately, ‘that you are wondering if there is a chance that Dimitrios might decide to call your bluff and thinking that it might be a good idea to have me in Paris until you have the money actually in your pocket.’
Mr Peters’ eyes slowly closed. ‘Mr Latimer,’ he said bitterly, ‘I did not think… I would not have thought that you could have put such a construction on…’
‘All right, I’ll stay.’ Irritably, Latimer interrupted him. He had wasted so many days: another one would make no difference. ‘I’ll come with you tomorrow, but only on these conditions. The wine must be champagne; it must come from France, not Meknes, and it must be a vintage cuvée of either 1919, 1920 or 1921. A bottle,’ he added vindictively, ‘will cost you at least one hundred francs.’
Mr Peters opened his eyes. He smiled bravely. ‘You shall have it, Mr Latimer,’ he said.