“That was a travesty of justice.”
“Then why did you plead guilty?”
“Because my lawyer advised me to.” In fact, the C.I.D. Inspector had tricked me into it. He had as good as promised me that if I pleaded guilty I would get off with a fine.
He stared at me thoughtfully for a moment, then shut the file. “You must be a very stupid man, Simpson. You say to me: ‘I am telling you the truth,’ and yet when I try to test that statement all I hear from you is whining and protestation. I am not interested in how you explain away the past, or in any illusions about yourself that you may wish to preserve. If you cannot even tell the truth when there is nothing to be gained by lying, then I can believe nothing you tell me. You were caught by the British smuggling pornography and trying to peddle it. Why not admit it? Then, when you tell me that you did not know that you were smuggling arms and ammunition this afternoon, I might at least think: ‘This man is a petty criminal, but it is remotely possible that for once he is being truthful.’ As it is, I can only assume that you are lying and that I must get the truth from you in some other way.”
I admit that “some other way” gave me a jolt. After all, five minutes earlier he had been pouring me a glass of raki. He meant to put the fear of God into me, of course, and make me panic. Unfortunately, and only because I was tired, upset, and suffering from indigestion, he succeeded.
“I am telling you the truth, sir.” I could hear my own voice cracking and quavering but could do nothing to control it. “I swear to God I am telling you the truth. My only wish is to tell you all I can, to bring everything out of the darkness into the light of day.”
He stared at me curiously; and then, as I realized what I had said, I felt myself reddening. It was awful. I had used those absurd words Harper had made me write in that confession about the checks.
A sour smile touched his lips for an instant. “Ah yes,” he said. “I was forgetting that you have been a journalist. We will try once more then. Just remember that I do not want speeches in mitigation, only plain statements.”
“Of course.” I was too confused to think straight now.
“Why did you go to London in fifty-five? You must have known that Scotland Yard knew all about you.”
“How could I know? I hadn’t been in England for years.”
“Where were you during the war?”
“In Cairo doing war work.”
“What work?”
“I was an interpreter.”
“Why did you go to London?”
I cleared my throat and took a sip of raki.
“Answer me!”
“I was going to answer, sir.” There was nothing else for it. “The British distributor of our publications suddenly ceased making payments and we could get no replies from him to our letters. I went to England to investigate, and found his offices closed. I assumed that he had gone out of business, and began to look for another distributor. The man I eventually discussed the possibility with turned out to be a Scotland Yard detective. We used to send our shipments to Liverpool in cotton bales. It seems that the customs had discovered this and informed the police. Our distributor had been arrested and sent to prison. The police had kept it out of the papers somehow. I just walked into a trap.”
“Better, much better,” he said. He looked almost amused. “Naturally, though, you felt bitter towards the British authorities.”
I should have remembered something he had let drop earlier, but I was still confused. I tried to head him off.
“I was bitter at the time, of course, sir. I did not think I had had a fair trial. But afterwards I realized that the police had their job to do”-I thought that would appeal to him-“and that they weren’t responsible for making the laws. So I tried to be a model prisoner. I think I was. Anyway, I received the maximum remission for good behavior. I certainly couldn’t complain of the treatment I had in Maidstone. In fact, the Governor shoook hands with me when I left and wished me well.”
“And then you returned to Egypt?”
“As soon as my probationary period was up, yes. I went back to Cairo, sir.”
“Where you proceeded to denounce a British businessman named Colby Evans to the Egyptian authorities as a British secret agent.”
It was like a slap in the face, but I managed to keep my head this time. “Not immediately, sir. That was later, during the Suez crisis.”
“Why did you do it?”
I didn’t know what to say. How could I explain to a man like that that I had to pay back the caning they had given me. I said nothing.
“Was it because you needed to prove somehow to the Egyptian authorities that you were anti-British, or because you didn’t like the man, or because you were sincerely anti-British?”
It was all three, I suppose; I am not really sure. I answered almost without thinking.
“My mother was Egyptian. My wife was killed by a British bomb in the attack they made on us. Why shouldn’t I feel sincerely anti-British?”
It was probably the best answer I had given so far; it sounded true, even though it wasn’t quite.
“Did you really believe this man was an agent?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then you applied for Egyptian citizenship.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You stayed in Egypt until fifty-eight. Was that when they finally decided that Evans had not been a British agent after all and released him?”
“He was convicted at his trial. His release was an act of clemency.”
“But the Egyptians did start to investigate you at that time.” It was a statement.
“I suppose so.”
“I see.” He refilled my glass. “I think we are beginning to understand one another, Simpson. You now realize that it is neither my business nor my inclination to make moral judgments. I, on the other hand, am beginning to see how your mind works in the areas we are discussing-what holds the pieces together. So now let us go back to your story about Mr. Harper and Fraulein Lipp.” He glanced again at the file. “You see, for a man of your experience it is quite incredible. You suspect that Harper may be using you for some illegal purpose which will be highly profitable to him, yet you do as he asks for a mere hundred dollars.”
“It was the return journey I was thinking of, sir. I thought that when he realized that I had guessed what he was up to, he would have to pay me to take the risk.”
He sat back, smiling. “But you had accepted the hundred dollars before that possibility had occurred to you. You would not have searched the car outside Athens otherwise. You see the difficulty?”
I did. What I didn’t see was the way out of it.
He lit another cigarette. “Come now, Simpson, you were emerging very sensibly from the darkness a few minutes ago. Why not continue? Either your whole story is a lie, or you have left something of importance out. Which is it? I am going to find out anyway. It will be easier for both of us if you just tell me now.”
I know when I am beaten. I drank some more raki. “All right. I had no more choice with him than I have with you. He was blackmailing me.”
“How?”
“Have you got an extradition treaty with Greece?”
“Never mind about that. I am not the police.”
So I had to tell him about the traveler’s checks after all.
When I had finished, he nodded. “I see” was all he said. After a moment, he got up and went to the door. It opened the instant he knocked on it. He began to give orders.
I was quite sure that he had finished with me and was telling the guards to take me away to a cell, so I swallowed the rest of the raki in my glass and put the matches in my pocket on the off chance that I might get away with them.
I was wrong about the cell. When he had finished speaking, he shut the door and came back.
“I have sent for some eatable food,” he said.
He did not stop at the table, but went across to the telephone. I lighted a cigarette and returned the matches to the table. I don’t think he noticed. He was asking for an Istanbul number and making a lot of important-sounding noise about it. Then he hung up and came back to the table.