He put it back in his suitcase and stood up, bracing himself. He’d go straight up to the saloon and have a drink now. If Banat were there, so much the better. A drink would help to ease the strain of the first encounter. He knew that it would be a strain. He had to face a man who had tried once to kill him and who was going to try again, and behave as if he had never seen or heard of him before. His stomach was already responding to the prospect. But he had to keep calm. His life, he told himself, might depend on his behaving normally. And the longer he hung about thinking it over, the less normal he would be. Better get it over with now.
He lit a cigarette, opened the cabin door and went straight upstairs to the saloon.
Banat was not there. He could have laughed aloud with relief. Josette and José were there with drinks in front of them, listening to Mathis.
“And so,” he was saying vehemently, “it goes on. The big newspapers of the Right are owned by those whose interest it is to see that France spends her wealth on arms and that the ordinary people do not understand too much of what goes on behind the scenes. I am glad to be going back to France because it is my country. But do not ask me to love those who have my country in the palms of their hands. Ah, no!”
His wife was listening with tight-lipped disapproval. José was openly yawning. Josette was nodding sympathetically but her face lit up with relief when she saw Graham. “And where has our Englishman been?” she said immediately. “Mr. Kuvetli has told everyone what a magnificent time you both had.”
“I’ve been in my cabin recovering from the afternoon’s excitements.”
Mathis did not look very pleased at the interruption but said agreeably enough: “I was afraid that you were ill, Monsieur. Are you better now?”
“Oh yes, thanks.”
“You have been ill?” demanded Josette.
“I felt tired.”
“It is the ventilation,” said Madame Mathis promptly. “I myself have felt a nausea and a headache since I got on the ship. We should complain. But”-she made a derogatory gesture in the direction of her husband-“as long as he is comfortable all is well.”
Mathis grinned. “Bah! It is seasickness.”
“You are ridiculous. If I am sick it is of you.”
José made a loud plopping noise with his tongue and leaned back in his chair, his closed eyes and tightened lips calling upon Heaven to deliver him from domesticity.
Graham ordered a whisky.
“Whisky?” José sat up whistling astonishment. “The Englishman drinks whisky!” he announced and then, pursing his lips and screwing up his face to express congenital aristocratic idiocy, added: “Some viskee, pliz, ol’ bhoy!” He looked round, grinning, for applause.
“That is his idea of an Englishman,” Josette explained. “He is very stupid.”
“Oh I don’t think so,” said Graham; “he has never been to England. A great many English people who have never been to Spain are under the impression that all Spaniards smell of garlic.”
Mathis giggled.
José half rose in his chair. “Do you intend to be insulting?” he demanded.
“Not at all. I was merely pointing out that these misconceptions exist. You, for instance, do not smell of garlic at all.”
José subsided into his chair again. “I am glad to hear you say so,” he said ominously. “If I thought …”
“Ah! Be silent!” Josette broke in. “You make yourself look a fool.”
To Graham’s relief the subject was disposed of by the entrance of Mr. Kuvetli. He was beaming happily.
“I come,” he said to Graham, “to ask you to have drink with me.”
“That’s very good of you but I’ve just ordered a drink. Supposing you have one with me.”
“Most kind. I will take vermouth, please.” He sat down. “You have seen we have new passenger?”
“Yes, Monsieur Mathis pointed him out to me.” He turned to the steward bringing him his whisky and ordered Mr. Kuvetli’s vermouth.
“He is Greek gentleman. Name of Mavrodopoulos. He is business man.”
“What business is he in?” Graham found, to his relief, that he could talk of Monsieur Mavrodopoulos quite calmly.
“That I do not know.”
“That I do not care,” said Josette. “I have just seen him. Ugh!”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“She likes only men who look clean and simple,” said José vindictively. “This Greek looks dirty. He would probably smell dirty too, but he uses a cheap perfume.” He kissed his fingers to the air. “Nuit de Petits Gars! Numero soixante-neuf! Cinq francs la bouteille.”
Madame Mathis’ face froze.
“You are disgusting, José,” said Josette. “Besides, your own perfume cost only fifty francs a bottle. It is filthy. And you must not say such things. You will offend Madame here who is not used to your jokes.”
But Madame Mathis had already taken offence. “It is disgraceful,” she said angrily, “that such things should be said when there are women present. With men alone it would not be polite.”
“Ah yes!” said Mathis. “My wife and I are not hypocrites but there are some things that should not be said.” He looked as if he were pleased to be able, for once, to side with his wife. Her surprise was almost pathetic. They proceeded to make the most of the occasion.
She said: “Monsieur Gallindo should apologize.”
“I must insist,” said Mathis, “that you apologize to my wife.”
José stared at them in angry astonishment. “Apologize? What for?”
“He will apologize,” said Josette. She turned to him and broke into Spanish. “Apologize, you dirty fool. Do you want trouble? Don’t you see he’s showing off to the woman? He would break you in pieces.”
José shrugged. “Very well.” He looked insolently at the Mathises. “I apologize. What for, I do not know, but I apologize.”
“My wife accepts the apology,” said Mathis stiffly. “It is not gracious but it is accepted.”
“An officer says,” remarked Mr. Kuvetli tactfully, “that we shall not be able to see Messina because it will be dark.”
But this elephantine change of subject was unnecessary for at that moment Banat came through the door from the promenade deck.
He stood there for an instant looking at them, his raincoat hanging open, his hat in his hand, like a man who has strayed into a picture gallery out of the rain. His white face was drawn from lack of sleep, there were circles under the small deep-set eyes, the full lips were twisted slightly as if he had a headache.
Graham’s heart drummed sickeningly at the base of his skull. This was the executioner. The hand with the hat in it was the hand which had fired the shots which had grazed his own hand, now outstretched to pick up a glass of whisky. This was the man who had killed men for as little as five thousand francs and his expenses.
He felt the blood leaving his face. He had only glanced quickly at the man but the whole picture of him was in his mind; the whole picture from the dusty tan shoes to the new tie with the filthy soft collar and the tired, frowsty, stupid face. He drank some of his whisky and saw that Mr. Kuvetli was bestowing his smile on the newcomer. The others were staring blankly.
Banat walked slowly over to the bar.
“Bon soir, Monsieur,” said Mr. Kuvetli.
“Bon soir.” It was grunted almost inaudibly as if he were anxious not to commit himself to accepting something he did not want. He reached the bar and murmured something to the steward.
He had passed close to Madame Mathis and Graham saw her frown. Then he himself caught the smell of scent. It was attar of roses and very strong. He remembered Colonel Haki’s question as to whether he had noticed any perfume in his room at the Adler-Palace after the attacks. Here was the explanation. The man reeked of scent. The smell of it would stay with the things he touched.
“Are you going far, Monsieur?” said Mr. Kuvetli.
The man eyed him. “No. Genoa.”
“It is a beautiful city.”