Kopeikin drank some whisky and put his glass down with a bang. “I am afraid, my dear fellow, that you cannot under any circumstances leave on the eleven o’clock train.”
“What on earth do you mean? Of course I can. I’m perfectly all right.”
Kopeikin looked at him curiously. “Fortunately you are. But that does not alter facts.”
“Facts?”
“Did you notice that both your windows and the shutters outside have been forced open?”
“I didn’t. I didn’t look. But what of it?”
“If you will look out of the window you will see that there is a terrace below which gives on the garden. Above the terrace there is a steel framework which reaches almost to the second floor balconies. In the summer it is covered with straw matting so that people can eat and drink on the terrace, out of the sun. This man obviously climbed up by the framework. It would be easy. I could almost do it myself. He could reach the balconies of all the rooms on this floor of the hotel that way. But can you tell me why he chooses to break into one of the few rooms with both shutters and windows locked?”
“Of course I can’t. I’ve always heard that criminals were fools.”
“You say nothing was stolen. Your suitcase was not even opened. A coincidence that you should return just in time to prevent him.”
“A lucky coincidence. For goodness’ sake, Kopeikin, let’s talk about something else. The man’s escaped. That’s the end of it.”
Kopeikin shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my dear fellow. Does he not seem to you to have been a very curious thief? He behaves like no other hotel thief ever behaved. He breaks in, and through a locked window as well. If you had been in bed, he would certainly have awakened you. He must, therefore, have known beforehand that you were not there. He must also have discovered your room number. Have you anything so obviously valuable that a thief finds it worth his while to make such preparations? No. A curious thief! He carries, too, a pistol weighing at least a kilogramme with which he fires three shots at you.”
“Well?”
Kopeikin bounced angrily out of his chair. “My dear fellow, does it not occur to you that this man was shooting to kill you, and that he came here for no other purpose?”
Graham laughed. “Then all I can say is that he was a pretty bad shot. Now you listen to me carefully, Kopeikin. Have you ever heard the legend about Americans and Englishmen? It persists in every country in the world where English isn’t spoken. The story is that all Americans and Englishmen are millionaires, and that they always leave vast amounts of loose cash about the place. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to try to snatch a few hours’ sleep. It was very good of you to come round, Kopeikin, and I’m very grateful, but now …”
“Have you ever,” demanded Kopeikin, “tried firing a heavy pistol in a dark room at a man who’s just come through the door? There’s no direct light from the corridor outside. Merely a glow of light. Have you ever tried? No. You might be able to see the man, but it’s quite another thing to hit him. Under these circumstances even a good shot might miss first time as this man missed. That miss would unnerve him. He does not perhaps know that Englishmen do not usually carry firearms. You may fire back. He fires again, quickly, and clips your hand. You probably cry out with the pain. He probably thinks that he has wounded you seriously. He fires another shot for luck, and goes.”
“Nonsense, Kopeikin! You must be out of your senses. What conceivable reason could anyone have for wanting to kill me? I’m the most harmless man alive.”
Kopeikin glared at him stonily. “Are you?”
“Now what does that mean?”
But Kopeikin ignored the question. He finished his whisky. “I told you that I was going to telephone a friend of mine. I did so.” He buttoned up his coat deliberately. “I am sorry to tell you, my dear fellow, that you must come with me to see him immediately. I have been trying to break the news to you gently, but now I must be frank. A man tried to murder you to-night. Something must be done about it at once.”
Graham got to his feet. “Are you mad?”
“No, my dear fellow, I am not. You ask me why anyone should want to murder you. There is an excellent reason. Unfortunately, I cannot be more explicit. I have my official instructions.”
Graham sat down. “Kopeikin, I shall go crazy in a minute. Will you kindly tell me what you are babbling about? Friend? Murder? Official instructions? What is all this nonsense?”
Kopeikin was looking acutely embarrassed. “I am sorry, my dear fellow. I can understand your feelings. Let me tell you this much. This friend of mine is not, strictly speaking, a friend at all. In fact, I dislike him. But his name is Colonel Haki, and he is the head of the Turkish secret police. His office is in Galata, and he is expecting us to meet him there now to discuss this affair. I may also tell you that I anticipated that you might not wish to go, and told him so. He said, forgive me, that if you did not go you would be fetched. My dear fellow, it is no use your being angry. The circumstances are exceptional. If I had not known that it was necessary both in your interests and in mine to telephone him, I would not have done so. Now then, my dear fellow, I have a taxi outside. We ought to be going.”
Graham got slowly to his feet again. “Very well. I must say, Kopeikin, that you have surprised me. Friendly concern, I could understand and appreciate. But this … Hysteria is the last thing I should have expected from you. To get the head of the secret police out of bed at this hour seems to me a fantastic thing to do. I can only hope that he doesn’t object to being made a fool of.”
Kopeikin flushed. “I am neither hysterical nor fantastic, my friend. I have something unpleasant to do, and I am doing it. If you will forgive my saying so, I think …”
“I can forgive almost anything except stupidity,” snapped Graham. “However, this is your affair. Do you mind helping me on with my overcoat?”
They drove to Galata in grim silence. Kopeikin was sulking. Graham sat hunched up in his corner staring out miserably at the cold, dark streets, and wishing that he had not telephoned Kopeikin. It was, he kept telling himself, absurd enough to be shot at by a hotel sneak thief: to be bundled out in the early hours of the morning to tell the head of the secret police about it was worse than absurd; it was ludicrous. He felt, too, concerned on Kopeikin’s account. The man might be behaving like an idiot; but it was not very pleasant to think of him making an ass of himself before a man who might well be able to do him harm in his business. Besides, he, Graham, had been rude.
He turned his head. “What’s this Colonel Haki like?”
Kopeikin grunted. “Very chic and polished-a ladies’ man. There is also a legend that he can drink two bottles of whisky without getting drunk. It may be true. He was one of Ataturk’s men, a deputy in the provisional government of nineteen-nineteen. There is also another legend-that he killed prisoners by tying them together in pairs and throwing them into the river to save both food and ammunition. I do not believe everything I hear, nor am I a prig, but, as I told you, I do not like him. He is, however, very clever. But you will be able to judge for yourself. You can speak French to him.”
“I still don’t see …”
“You will.”
They pulled up soon afterwards behind a big American car which almost blocked the narrow street into which they had turned. They got out. Graham found himself standing in front of a pair of double doors which might have been the entrance to a cheap hotel. Kopeikin pressed a bell push.
One of the doors was opened almost immediately by a sleepy-looking caretaker who had obviously only just been roused from his bed.
“Haki efendi evde midir,” said Kopeikin.
“Efendi var-dir. Yokari.” The man pointed to the stairs.
They went up.