The Light of the Day - Eric Ambler [14]
“Hullo, papa,” she said.
I said hullo back and went to the bathroom to get rid of the handkerchief with all the blood on it. Then I went in and began to get undressed.
“You didn’t stay long at the Club,” she said.
“He wanted to go on to Irma’s.”
She did not like that, of course. “Did you find out any more about him?”
“He is a businessman—accounting machines, I think. He has a friend who owns a Lincoln. He wants me to drive it to Istanbul for him. I start tomorrow. He’s paying quite well—a hundred dollars American.”
She sat up at that. “That’s very good, isn’t it?” And then, inevitably, she saw my face. “What have you done to yourself?”
“I had a bit of an accident. Some fool in a Simca. I had to stop suddenly.”
“Did the police come?”
She had a tiresome habit of assuming that, just because I was once accused (falsely) of causing an accident through driving while drunk, every little traffic accident in which I am involved is going to result in my being prosecuted by the police.
“It wasn’t important,” I said. I turned away to hang up my suit.
“Will you be long away?” She sounded as if she had accepted the accident.
“Two or three days. I shall come back suddenly by air and surprise you with a lover.”
I thought that would amuse her, but she did not even smile. I got into bed beside her and she put the light out. After a few moments she said: “Why does a man like Mr. Harper want to go to a house?”
“Probably because he is impotent anywhere else.”
She was silent for a time. Then she put up a hand and touched my face.
“What really happened, papa?”
I considered telling her; but that would have meant admitting openly that I had lied about the accident, so I did not answer. After a while, she turned away from me and went to sleep.
She was still asleep, or pretending to be, when I left in the morning.
Harper kept me waiting ten minutes; just long enough for me to remember that I had forgotten to disconnect the battery on my car. It did not hold its charge very well anyway, and the electric clock would have run it down by the time I returned. I was wondering if I would have time to telephone Nicki and tell her to ask the concierge to disconnect the battery, when Harper came down.
“All set?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“We’ll get a cab.”
He told the driver to go to Stele Street out in the Piraeus.
As soon as we were on the way, he opened the briefcase and took out a large envelope. It had not been there the night before; of that I am certain. He gave it to me.
“There’s everything you’ll need there,” he said; “carnet de tourisme for the car, insurance Green Card, a thousand Greek drachma, a hundred Turkish lira, and fifty American dollars for emergencies. The carnet has been countersigned authorizing you to take it through customs, but you’d better check everything out yourself.”
I did so. The carnet showed that the car was registered in Zurich, and that the owner, or at any rate the person in legal charge of it, was a Fräulein Elizabeth Lipp. Her address was Hotel Excelsior, Laufen, Zurich.
“Is Miss Lipp your friend?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“Are we going to meet her now?”
“No, but maybe you’ll meet her in Istanbul. If the customs should ask, tell them she doesn’t like eight-hundred-and-fifty-mile drives, and preferred to go to Istanbul by boat.”
“Is she a tourist?”
“What else? She’s the daughter of a business associate of mine. I’m just doing him a favor. And by the way, if she wants you to drive her around in Turkey you’ll be able to pick up some extra dough. Maybe she’ll want you to drive the car back here later. I don’t know yet what her future plans are.”
“I see.” For someone who had told me that I wasn’t to ask questions, he was being curiously outgoing. “Where do I deliver the car in Istanbul?”
“You don’t. You go to the Park Hotel. There’ll be a room reservation for you there. Just check in on Thursday and wait for instructions.”
“Very well. When do I get that letter I signed?”
“When you’re paid off at the end of the job.”
Stele Street was down at the docks. By an odd coincidence there happened to be a