“Signore?”
“Do you speak English?”
“No, Signore.” “French?”
“Yes. What is it you wish?”
“I want to see the Captain at once.”
“For what reason, Monsieur?”
“It is absolutely necessary that I am put ashore immediately.”
The Purser put his cigar down and turned in his swivel chair.
“My French is not very good,” he said calmly. “Do you mind repeating …?”
“I want to be put ashore.”
“Monsieur Graham, is it?”
“Yes.”
“I regret, Monsieur Graham. It is too late. The pilot boat has gone. You should have …”
“I know. But it is absolutely necessary that I go ashore now. No, I am not mad. I realise that under ordinary circumstances it would be out of the question. But the circumstances are exceptional. I am ready to pay for the loss of time and the inconvenience caused.”
The Purser looked bewildered. “But why? Are you ill?”
“No, I …” He stopped and could have bitten his tongue off. There was no doctor aboard and the threat of some infectious disease might have been sufficient. But it was too late now. “If you will arrange for me to see the Captain at once, I will explain why. I can assure you that my reasons are good ones.”
“I am afraid,” said the Purser stiffly, “that it is out of the question. You do not understand …”
“All I am asking,” interrupted Graham desperately, “is that you put back a short way and ask for a pilot boat. I am willing and able to pay.”
The Purser smiled in an exasperated way. “This is a ship, Monsieur, not a taxi. We carry cargo and run to a schedule. You are not ill and …”
“I have already said that my reasons are excellent. If you will allow me to see the Captain …”
“It is quite useless to argue, Monsieur. I do not doubt your willingness or ability to pay the cost of a boat from the harbour. Unfortunately that is not the important thing. You say that you are not ill but that you have reasons. As you can only have thought of those reasons within the last ten minutes, you must not be angry if I say that they cannot be of very grave importance. Let me assure you, Monsieur, that nothing but proved and evident reasons of life and death will suffice to stop any ship for the convenience of one passenger. Naturally, if you can give me any such reasons I will place them before the Captain immediately. If not, then I am afraid your reasons must wait until we get to Genoa.”
“I assure you …”
The Purser smiled sorrowfully. “I do not question the good faith of your assurances, Monsieur, but I regret to say that we need more than assurances.”
“Very well,” snapped Graham, “since you insist on details I will tell you. I have just found that there is a man on this ship who is here for the express purpose of murdering me.”
The Purser’s face went blank. “Indeed, Monsieur?”
“Yes, I …” Something in the man’s eyes stopped him. “I suppose you’ve decided that I’m either mad or drunk,” he concluded.
“Not at all, Monsieur.” But what he was thinking was as plain as a pikestaff. He was thinking that Graham was just another of the poor lunatics with whom his work sometimes brought him in contact. They were a nuisance, because they wasted time. But he was tolerant. It was useless to be angry with a lunatic. Besides, dealing with them always seemed to emphasize his own sanity and intelligence: the sanity and intelligence which, had the owners been less short sighted, would long ago have taken him to a seat on the board of directors. And they made good stories to tell his friends when he got home. “Imagine, Beppo! There was this Englishman, looking sane but really mad. He thought that someone was trying to murder him! Imagine! It is the whisky, you know. I said to him …” But meanwhile he would have to be humoured, to be dealt with tactfully. “Not at all, Monsieur,” he repeated.
Graham began to lose control of his temper. “You asked me for my reasons. I am giving them to you.”
“And I am listening carefully, Monsieur.”
“There is someone on this ship who is here to murder me.”
“And his name, Monsieur?”
“Banat. B-A-N-A-T. He is a Roumanian. He …”
“One moment, Monsieur.” The Purser got a sheet of paper out of a drawer and ran a pencil down the names on it with ostentatious care. Then he looked up. “There is no one of that name or nationality on the ship, Monsieur.”
“I was about to tell you, when you interrupted me, that the man is travelling on a false passport.”
“Then, please …”
“He is the passenger who came aboard this afternoon.”
The Purser looked at the paper again. “Cabin number nine. That is Monsieur Mavrodopoulos. He is a Greek business man.”
“That may be what his passport says. His real name is Banat and he is a Roumanian.”
The Purser remained polite with obvious difficulty. “Have you any proof of that, Monsieur?”
“If you radio Colonel Haki of the Turkish police at Istanbul, he will confirm what I say.”
“This is an Italian ship, Monsieur. We are not in Turkish territorial waters. We can refer such a matter only to the Italian police. In any case, we carry wireless only for navigational purposes. This is not the Rex or the Conte di Savoia, you understand. This matter must be left until we reach Genoa. The police there will deal with your accusation concerning the passport.”
“I don’t care a damn about his passport,” said Graham violently. “I’m telling you that the man intends to kill me.”
“And why?”
“Because he has been paid to do so; that is why. Now do you understand?”
The Purser got to his feet. He had been tolerant. Now the time had come to be firm. “No, Monsieur, I do not understand.”
“Then if you cannot understand, let me speak to the Captain.”
“That will not be necessary, Monsieur. I understand enough.” He looked Graham in the eyes. “In my opinion there are two charitable explanations of this matter. Either you have mistaken this Monsieur Mavrodopoulos for someone else, or you have had a bad dream. If it is the former, I advise you not to repeat your mistake to anyone else. I am discreet, but if Monsieur Mavrodopoulos should hear of it he might regard it as a reflection upon his honour. If it is the second, I suggest that you lie down in your cabin for a while. And remember that nobody is going to murder you on this ship. There are too many people about.”
“But don’t you see …?” shouted Graham.
“I see,” said the Purser grimly, “that there is another less charitable explanation of this matter. You may have invented this story simply because for some private reason you wish to be put ashore. If that is true, I am sorry. It is a ridiculous story. In any case, the ship stops at Genoa and not before. And now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”
“I demand to see the Captain.”
“If you will close the door as you leave,” said the Purser happily.
Almost sick with anger and fear, Graham went back to his cabin.
He lit a cigarette and tried to think reasonably. He should have gone straight to the Captain. He could still go straight to the Captain. For a moment he considered doing so. If he … But it would be useless and unnecessarily humiliating. The Captain, even if he could get to him and make him understand, would probably receive his story with even less sympathy. And he would still have no proof that what he said was true. Even if he could persuade the Captain that there was some truth in what he was saying, that he was not, in fact, suffering from some form of delusional insanity, the answer would be the same: “Nobody is going to murder you on this ship. There are too many people about.”
Too many people about! They did not know Banat. The man who had walked into a police official’s house in broad daylight, shot the official and his wife and then calmly walked out again, was not going to be unnerved so easily. Passengers had disappeared from ships in mid-ocean before. Sometimes their bodies had been washed ashore, and sometimes they hadn’t. Sometimes the disappearances had been explained, and sometimes they hadn’t. What would there be to connect this disappearance of an English engineer (who had behaved very queerly) from a ship at sea with Mr. Mavrodopoulos, a Greek business man? Nothing. And even if the body of the English engineer were washed ashore before the fish had rendered it unidentifiable and it were found that he had been killed before he had entered the water, who was going to prove that Mr. Mavrodopoulos-if by that time there were anything left of Mr. Mavrodopoulos but the ashes of his passport-had been responsible for the killing? Nobody.