“Yes, I see.”
“The straightforward course is to kill you. There is, however, a third possibility.” He paused and then said: “You are a very fortunate man, Mr. Graham.”
“What does that mean?”
“In times of peace only the fanatical nationalist demands that a man should surrender himself body and soul to the government of the country in which he was born. Yet, in war time, when men are being killed and there is emotion in the air, even an intelligent man may be so far carried away as to talk of his ‘duty to his country.’ You are fortunate because you happen to be in a business which sees these heroics for what they are: the emotional excesses of the stupid and brutish. ‘Love of country!’ There’s a curious phrase. Love of a particular patch of earth? Scarcely. Put a German down in a field in Northern France, tell him that it is Hanover, and he cannot contradict you. Love of fellow-countrymen? Surely not. A man will like some of them and dislike others. Love of the country’s culture? The men who know most of their countries’ cultures are usually the most intelligent and the least patriotic. Love of the country’s government? But governments are usually disliked by the people they govern. Love of country, we see, is merely a sloppy mysticism based on ignorance and fear. It has its uses, of course. When a ruling class wishes a people to do something which that people does not want to do, it appeals to patriotism. And, of course, one of the things that people most dislike is allowing themselves to be killed. But I must apologise. These are old arguments and I am sure you are familiar with them.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with them.”
“I am so relieved. I should not like to think that I had been wrong in judging you to be a man of intelligence. And it makes what I have to say so much easier.”
“Well, what have you got to say?”
Moeller stubbed his cigarette out. “The third possibility, Mr. Graham, is that you might be induced to retire from business for six weeks of your own free will-that you should take a holiday.”
“Are you mad?”
Moeller smiled. “I see your difficulty, believe me. If you simply go into hiding for six weeks, it may be rather awkward to explain matters when you return home. I understand. Hysterical fools might say that in choosing to remain alive instead of choosing to be killed by our friend Banat you did something shameful. The facts that the work would have been delayed in any case and that you were of more use to your country and its allies alive than dead would be ignored. Patriots, in common with other mystics, dislike logical argument. It would be necessary to practise a small deception. Let me tell you how it could be arranged.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
Moeller took no notice. “There are some things, Mr. Graham, which not even patriots can control. One of those things is illness. You have come from Turkey where, thanks to earthquakes and floods, there have been several outbreaks of typhus. What could be more likely than that the moment you get ashore at Genoa a mild attack of typhus should develop? And what then? Well, of course, you will be taken immediately to a private clinic and the doctor there will, at your request, write to your wife and employers in England. Of course, there will be the inevitable delays of war. By the time anyone can get to see you, the crisis will have passed and you will be convalescent: convalescent but much too weak to work or travel. But in six weeks’ time you will have recovered sufficiently to do both. All will be well again. How does that appeal to you, Mr. Graham? To me it seems the only solution satisfactory to both of us.”
“I see. You don’t have the bother of shooting me. I’m out of the way for the requisite six weeks and can’t tell tales afterwards without showing myself up. Is that it?”
“That’s a very crude way of putting it; but you are quite right. That is it. How do you like the idea? Personally I should find the prospect of six weeks’ absolute peace and quiet in the place I have in mind very attractive. It is quite near Santa Margherita, overlooking the sea and surrounded by pines. But then, I am old. You might fret.”
He hesitated. “Of course,” he went on slowly, “if you liked the idea, it might be possible to arrange for Señora Gallindo to share your six weeks’ holiday.”
Graham reddened. “What on earth do you mean?”
Moeller shrugged. “Come now, Mr. Graham! I am not short-sighted. If the suggestion really offends you, I apologise humbly. If not … I need hardly say that you would be the only patients there. The medical staff, which would consist of myself, Banat, and another man, apart from the servants, would be unobtrusive unless you were receiving visitors from England. However, that could be discussed later. Now what do you think?”
Graham steeled himself to make an effort. He said with deliberate ease: “I think you’re bluffing. Hasn’t it occurred to you that I may not be such a fool as you think? I shall, of course, repeat this conversation to the Captain. There will be police inquiries when we reach Genoa. My papers are perfectly genuine. Yours are not. Nor are Banat’s. I have nothing to hide. You have plenty to hide. So has Banat. You’re relying on my fear of being killed forcing me to agree to this scheme of yours. It won’t. It won’t keep my mouth shut either. I admit that I have been badly scared. I have had a very unpleasant twenty-four hours. I suppose that’s your way of inducing a receptive frame of mind. Well, it doesn’t work with me. I’m worried all right; I should be a fool if I weren’t; but I’m not worried out of my senses. You’re bluffing, Moeller. That’s what I think. Now you can get out.”
Moeller did not move. He said, as if he were a surgeon musing over some not entirely unforeseen complication: “Yes, I was afraid you might misunderstand me. A pity.” He looked up. “And to whom are you going to take your story in the first place, Mr. Graham? The Purser? The third officer was telling me about your curious behaviour over poor Monsieur Mavrodopoulos. Apparently you have been making wild allegations to the effect that he is a criminal named Banat who wants to kill you. The ship’s officers, including the Captain, seem to have enjoyed the joke very much. But even the best of jokes becomes tiresome if it is told too often. There would be a certain unreality about the story that I, too, was a criminal who wanted to kill you. Isn’t there a medical name for that sort of delusion? Come now, Mr. Graham! You tell me that you are not a fool. Please do not behave like one. Do you think that I should have approached you in this way if I had thought that you might be able to embarrass me in the way you suggest? I hope not. You are no less foolish when you interpret my reluctance to have you killed as weakness. You may prefer lying dead in a gutter with a bullet in your back to spending six weeks in a villa on the Ligurian Riviera: that is your affair. But please do not deceive yourself: those are the inevitable alternatives.”
Graham smiled grimly. “And the little homily on patriotism is to still any qualms I might have about accepting the inevitable. I see. Well, I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work. I still think you’re bluffing. You’ve bluffed very well. I admit that. You had me worried. I really thought for a moment that I had to choose between possible death and sinking my pride-just like the hero in a melodrama. My real choice was, of course, between using my common sense and letting my stomach do my thinking for me. Well, Mr. Moeller, if that’s all you have to say …”
Moeller got slowly to his feet. “Yes, Mr. Graham,” he said calmly, “that is all I have to say.” He seemed to hesitate. Then, very deliberately, he sat down again. “No, Mr. Graham, I have changed my mind. There is something else that I should say. It is just possible that on thinking this thing over calmly you may decide that you have been silly and that I may not be as clumsy as you now seem to think. Frankly, I don’t expect you to do so. You are pathetically sure of yourself. But in case your stomach should after all take control, I think I should issue a warning.”