The Light of the Day - Eric Ambler [51]
“Oh, these are real gems, Miss Lipp.”
“What’s the biggest emerald in the world look like, Arthur?”
“Well, it’s pear-shaped, and about the size of a pear, too.”
“Smooth or cut?”
“Smooth.”
“Couldn’t it be green tourmaline?”
“Well, I suppose I don’t know really, Miss Lipp. I’m not an expert.”
“Do you care which it is?”
I was getting bored with this. “Not much, Miss Lipp,” I answered. “It just makes a more interesting story if it’s an emerald.”
She smiled. “It makes a more amusing story if it’s not. Have you ever been to the mysterious East?”
“No, Miss Lipp.”
“But you’ve seen pictures. Do you know what makes those tall pagodas glitter so beautifully in the moonlight?”
“No, Miss Lipp.”
“They’re covered with little pieces of broken bottle glass. And the famous emerald Buddha in Bangkok isn’t emerald at all, it’s carved from a block of ordinary green jasper.”
“Little-known facts,” I thought. “Why don’t you send it in to Reader’s Digest?” I didn’t say it though.
She took a cigarette from the gold case in her bag and I fumbled in my pocket for matches; but she had a gold lighter, too, and didn’t notice the matches I held out to her. “Have you always done this sort of work?” she asked suddenly.
“Driving? No, Miss Lipp. Most of my life I have been a journalist. That was in Egypt. When the Nasser crowd took over, things became impossible. It was a matter of starting again.” Simple, straightforward—a man who has suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune but wasn’t looking for anyone’s shoulder to weep on.
“I was thinking about the traveler’s checks,” she said. “Is that what you meant by ‘starting again’?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Harper had to tell you about that.” It was no surprise, of course, that Harper had told her; but with so many other things on my mind—driving, keeping the door panel from rattling, cramp in my leg and wondering how the hell I was going to replace the screws—all I could think of was that obvious reply.
“Did you think he wouldn’t tell me?” she went on.
“I didn’t think about it either way, Miss Lipp.”
“But since he did tell me and since you’re driving this car, that must mean that I don’t mind too much about things like that, mustn’t it?”
For one idiotic moment I wondered if she were making some sort of pass at me; but it was a brief moment.
“I suppose so,” I answered.
“And that Mr. Harper doesn’t mind either?”
“Yes.”
“And that, in fact, we’re all very sensible, tolerant persons?”
I couldn’t help glancing at her. She was watching me in her amused, considering way, but there was nothing sleepy about her eyes now. They were steadily intent.
And then I got the message. I was being sounded, either to discover what I had made of the setup and if they had left any shirt-tails showing, or to find out if I could be trusted in some particular way. I knew that how I answered would be very important indeed to me; but I didn’t know what to say. It was no use pretending to be stupid any more, or trying to avoid the issue. A test was being applied. If I failed it, I was out—out with Harper, out with Tufan and his Director, out with the Turkish customs, and, in all probability, out with the Greek police as well.
I felt my face getting red and knew that she would notice. That decided me. People get red when they feel guilty or nervous; but they also get red when they are angry. In order not to seem nervous or guilty, all I could do was to seem angry.
“Including Mr. Fischer?” I asked.
“What about Mr. Fischer?”
“Is he sensible, too, Miss Lipp?”
“Does that matter?”
I glanced at her again. “If my personal safety—safety from some sort of