The Light of the Day - Eric Ambler [4]
How could I have possibly known what kind of man this Harper was?
As I explained, I had simply driven out to the Athens airport looking for business. I spotted this man going through customs and saw that he was carrying his ticket in an American Express folder. I gave one of the porters two drachmas to get me the man’s name from his customs declaration. Then I had one of the uniformed airline girls give him my card and the message: “Car waiting outside for Mr. Harper.”
It is a trick I have used lots of times and it has almost always worked. Not many Americans or British speak demotic Greek; and by the time they have been through the airport customs, especially in the hot weather, and been jostled by the porters and elbowed right and left, they are only too ready to go with someone who can understand what they’re talking about and take care of the tipping. That day it was really very hot and humid.
As he came through the exit from the customs I went up to him.
“This way, Mr. Harper.”
He stopped and looked me over. I gave him a helpful smile, which he did not return.
“Wait a minute,” he said curtly. “I didn’t order any car.”
I looked puzzled. “The American Express sent me, sir. They said you wanted an English-speaking driver.”
He stared at me again, then shrugged. “Well, okay. I’m going to the Hotel Grande-Bretagne.”
“Certainly, sir. Is this all your luggage?”
Soon after we turned off the coast road by Glyphada he began to ask questions. Was I British? I side-stepped that one as usual. Was the car my own? They always want to know that. It is my own car, as it happens, and I have two speeches about it. The car itself is a 1954 Plymouth. With an American I brag about how many thousands of miles it has done without any trouble. For the Britishers I have a stiff-upper-lip line about part-exchanging it, as soon as I can save enough extra cash, for an Austin Princess, or an old Rolls-Royce, or some other real quality car. Why shouldn’t people be told what they want to hear?
This Harper man seemed much like the rest. He listened and grunted occasionally as I told him the tale. When you know that you are beginning to bore them, you usually know that everything is going to be all right. Then, you stop. He did not ask how I happened to live and work in Greece, as they usually do. I thought that would probably come later; that is, if there were going to be a later with him. I had to find out.
“Are you in Athens on business, sir?”
“Could be.”
His tone as good as told me to mind my own business, but I pretended not to notice. “I ask, sir,” I went on, “because if you should need a car and driver while you are here I could arrange to place myself at your disposal.”
“Yes?”
It wasn’t exactly encouraging, but I told him the daily rate and the various trips we could take if he wanted to do some sight-seeing—Delphi and the rest.
“I’ll think about it,” he said. “What’s your name?”
I handed him one of my cards over my shoulder and watched him in the driving mirror while he read it. Then he slipped it into his pocket.
“Are you married, Arthur?”
The question took me by surprise. They don’t usually want to know about your private life. I told him about my first wife and how she had been killed by a bomb in the Suez troubles in 1956. I did not mention Nicki. I don’t know why; perhaps because I did not want to think about her just then.
“You did say you were British, didn’t you?” he asked.
“My father was British, sir, and I was educated in England.” I said it a little distantly. I dislike being cross-examined in that sort of way. But he persisted just the same.
“Well, what nationality are you?”
“I have an Egyptian passport.” That was perfectly true, although it was none of his business.
“Was your wife Egyptian?”
“No, French.”
“Did you have any children?”
“Unfortunately no, sir.” I was definitely cold now.
“I see.”
He sat back staring