Wilcox looked uncomfortable. He ran his finger along the edge of the ash tray. «Well, yes. I’m not surprised,» he said. Before the other could speak again he went on. «But if you’ll excuse my saying so, I can’t help feeling you’ve chosen a rather crude method of getting it here».
Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers smiled. «Yes. If you like, it’s crude. I don’t think that militates against its success in any way».
«I wonder,» said Wilcox.
«Why should it?»
«Well, it’s too large a sum to bring in that way».
«Nonsense!» Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers cried. «Don’t be bound by tradition, my boy. That’s simply superstitious of you. If one can do it that way with a small amount, one can do it in exactly the same way with a larger one. Can’t you see how safe it is? There’s nothing whatever in writing, is there? The number of agents is reduced to a minimum — all I need to be sure of is old Ramlal, his son and you».
«And all I need to be sure of is that nobody knows it when I go to Ramlal and take out nine thousand pounds in cash. That includes our British currency snoopers as well as the Larbi crowd. And I’d say it’s impossible. They’re bound to know. Somebody’s bound to find out».
«Nonsense,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers again. «If you’re afraid for your own skin,» he smiled ingratiatingly, fearing that he might be treading on delicate ground, «and you’ve every right to be, of course, why — send someone else to fetch it. You must have someone around you can trust for a half hour».
«Not a soul,» said Wilcox. He had just thought of Dyar. «Let’s have some lunch. We can have it right here in the room. They have some good roast beef downstairs, or had yesterday». He reached for the telephone.
«Afraid I can’t». Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers was half expecting Wilcox to raise his percentage, and he did not want to do anything which might help put him sufficiently at his ease to make him broach the subject.
«Sure?» said Wilcox. «No, I can’t,» repeated Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers.
Wilcox took up the telephone. «A whiskey?» He lifted the receiver.
«Oh, I think not, thank you».
«Of course you will,» said Wilcox. «Give me the bar».
Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers rose and stood looking out the window. The wet town below looked freshly built; the harbor and the sky beyond it were a uniform gray. It was raining indifferently. Wilcox was saying: «Manolo? Haig and Haig Pinch, two Perriers and ice for Two Forty Six». He hung up, and in the same breath went on: «I can do it, but I’ll need another two percent».
«Oh, come,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers patiently, «I’ve been waiting for you to put it up. But I must say I didn’t expect a two percent increase. That’s a bit thick. Ramlal ten, and now you want seven».
«A bit thick? I don’t think so,» said Wilcox. «And I don’t think you’ll think so when you have your nine thousand safely in the Crédit Foncier. It’s all very well for you to keep telling me how easy it is. You’ll be safe in Paris» —
«My dear boy, you probably will think I’m exaggerating when I say I can think of six persons at this moment who I know would be delighted to do it for three percent».
Wilcox laughed. «Perfectly true. I can think of plenty who’d do it for one percent, too, if it comes to that. But you won’t use them». To himself he was saying that Dyar was the ideal one to use in this connection: he was quite unknown in the town, his innocence of the nature of the transaction was a great advantage, and he could be given the errand as a casual part of his daily work and thus would not have to be paid any commission at all; the entire seven percent could be kept intact. «You’ll have to meet the man I have in mind, of course, and take him around to young Ramlal yourself. He’s an American».
«Aha!» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers, impressed.
Wilcox saw that he would have his way about the percentage. «Commission figures between ourselves, you understand,» he went on.
«Obviously,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers in a flat voice, staring at him coldly. He supposed Wilcox intended to keep five and give the man two, which was just what Wilcox intended him to think.
«You can come around to my office this afternoon and size him up, if you like».
«My dear boy, don’t be absurd. I’m perfectly confident in anyone you suggest. But I still think seven percent is a bit steep».
«Well, you come and talk with him,» said Wilcox blandly, feeling certain his client had no desire to discuss the matter with anyone, «and if you don’t like his looks we’ll try and think up someone else. But I’m afraid the seven will have to stand».
There was a knock at the door, and a waiter came in with the drinks.
Dyar awoke feeling that he had not really slept at all. He had a confused memory of the morning’s having been divided into many episodes of varying sorts of noise. There had been the gurgling of the plumbing as the early risers bathed and he tried to drop off to sleep, the train that shunted back and forth on the siding between his window and the beach, the chattering of the scrubwomen in the corridor, the Frenchman in the next room who had sung «La Vie en Rose» over and over while he shaved, showered and dressed. And through it all, like an arhythmical percussive accompaniment there had been the constant metallic slamming of doors throughout the hotel, each one of which shook the flimsy edifice and resounded through it like a small blast.
He looked at his watch: it was twenty-five past twelve. He groaned; his heart seemed to have moved into his neck and to be beating there. He felt breathless, tense and exhausted. In retrospect the night before seemed a week long. Going to bed by daylight always made him sleep badly. And he was bothered by two things, two ideas that he felt lodged in the pit of his stomach like unwanted food. He had spent twenty dollars during the evening, which meant that he now had $460 left, and he had borrowed a hundred pesetas from an Arab, which meant that he had to see the Arab again.
«God-damned idiot!» he said as he got out of bed to look in his bags for the aspirin. He took three, had a quick shower, and lay down again to relax. A chambermaid, having heard the shower running, knocked on the door to see when she could make up the room. «Who is it?» he yelled, and not understanding her reply, did not get up to let her in. Presently he opened his eyes again and discovered that it was twenty minutes past two. Still not feeling too well, he dressed and went down into the lobby. The boy at the desk handed him a slip that read: Llamar a la Sra. Debalberde 28–01. He looked at it apathetically, thinking it must be for someone else. Stepping outside, he began to walk along the street without paying attention to where he was going. It was good to be in the air. The rain dripped out of the low sky in a desultory fashion, as if it were falling from invisible eaves overhead.
Suddenly he realized he was extremely hungry. He raised his head and looked around, decided there would be no restaurant in the vicinity. A half-mile or so ahead of him, sprawling over a hill that jutted into the harbor, was the native town. At his right the small waves broke quietly along the deserted beach. He turned to his left up one of the many steep streets that led over the hill. Like the others it was lined with large new apartment houses, some of which were still under construction but inhabited, nonetheless. Near the top of the hill he came to a modest-looking hotel with the word Restaurant printed over the doorway. In the dining room, where a radio roared, several people were eating. The tables were small. He sat down and looked at the typewritten card at his place. It was headed Menu à 30 p. He counted his money and grinned a little to see that he still had thirty-five pesetas. As he ate his hors d’oeuvre he found his hunger growing rapidly; he began to feel much better. During the merlans frits he pulled out the piece of paper the boy at the desk had given him and studied it absently. The name conveyed nothing to him; suddenly he saw that it was a message from Daisy de Valverde. «Radio Internacional,» boomed the imbecilic girl’s voice. A harp glissando followed. He had no particular desire to see his hostess of last night, or to see anyone, for that matter. At the moment he felt like being alone, having an opportunity to accustom himself to the strangeness of the town. But for fear she might be waiting for his call he went out into the lobby and asked the desk clerk to make the call for him. «Veinteyochocerouno,» he heard him shout several times, and he wondered if he would ever be able even to make a telephone call by himself. After the man handed the instrument to him he had to wait a long time for her to come to the phone.