The Light of the Day - Eric Ambler [32]
I spotted him almost immediately. He was standing at the outer end of the Hilton driveway smoking a cigarette and staring into the middle distance, as if he were trying to decide whether to go straight home to his wife or visit his girl friend first. Remembering that I would have to give Tufan his description, I took very careful note of him. He was about forty-five and thickset, with a barrel chest and a mop of crinkly gray hair above a brown puffy face. The eyes were brown, too. He was wearing a thin light-gray suit, yellow socks, and plaited leather sandals. Height about five ten, I thought.
I walked through the car park to make sure that there were no other possibilities there, then came out the other side and walked back along the street for another glimpse of him.
He was looking at his watch. The car should have been there by then if I were following instructions.
I walked straight back to the Park Hotel. As I unlocked the door to my room I could hear the telephone inside ringing.
It was the same voice again, but peremptory now.
“Simpson? I understand that the car is not yet delivered. What are you doing?”
“Who is that speaking?”
“The friend of Miss Lipp. Answer my question, please. Where is the car?”
“The car is quite safe and will remain so.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The carnet is in the hotel strong-room and the car is garaged. It will remain that way until I hand it over to Mr. Harper or someone holding credentials from Mr. Harper.”
“The car is the property of Miss Lipp.”
“The carnet is the name of Miss Lipp,” I answered; “but the car was placed in my care by Mr. Harper. I am responsible for it. I don’t know Miss Lipp except by name. I don’t know you even by name. You see the difficulty?”
“Wait.”
I heard him start to say something to someone with him: “Il dit que …” And then he clamped a hand over the telephone.
I waited. After a few moments he spoke again. “I will come to your hotel. Remain there.” Without waiting for my agreement, he hung up.
I went upstairs to the foyer and told the desk clerk that I would be out on the terrace if I were wanted. The terrace was crowded, but I eventually managed to find a table and order a drink. I was quite prepared to make the contact; but I had not liked the sound of the man on the telephone, and preferred to encounter him in a public place rather than in the privacy of my room.
I had left my name with the head waiter, and after about twenty minutes I saw him pointing me out to a tall, cadaverous man with a narrow, bald head and large projecting ears. The man came over. He was wearing a cream-and-brown-striped sports shirt and tan linen slacks. He had a long, petulant upper lip and a mouth that drooped at the corners.
“Simpson?”
“Yes.”
He sat down facing me. Brown eyes, one gold tooth left side lower jaw, gold-and-onyx signet ring on little finger of left hand; I made mental notes.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My name is Fischer.”
“Will you have a drink, Mr. Fischer?”
“No. I wish to clear this misunderstanding relative to Miss Lipp’s car.”
“There is no misunderstanding in my mind, Mr. Fischer,” I answered. “My orders from Mr. Harper were quite explicit.”
“Your orders were to await orders at the hotel,” he snapped. “You have not complied with them.”
I looked respectfully apologetic. “I am not doubting that you have a perfect right to give those orders, Mr. Fischer, but I assumed, naturally, that Mr. Harper would be here, or if not here in person, that he would have given a written authorization. That is a very valuable car and I …”
“Yes, yes.” He broke in impatiently. “I understand. The point is that Mr. Harper has been delayed until tomorrow afternoon and Miss Lipp wishes her car at once.”
“I’m sorry.”
He leaned across the table towards me and I caught a whiff of after-shave