The Light of the Day - Eric Ambler [67]
The trouble was, as it had been all along, that he didn’t know the people concerned. I did. I knew how vile they were, too. In fact, there was nothing I wanted more at that moment than to see them get hell. But they just didn’t strike me as the sort of people who would be hired terrorists. I could not have said why. If he had countered by asking me what sort of people were hired terrorists and how many I had met, I would have had no sensible answer. All I could have said would have been: “These people wouldn’t take that kind of risk.”
When I got back to the villa, Fischer was standing on the terrace at the top of the steps. He motioned to me to pull up there. As he came down the steps, I remembered, just in time, to shove the binoculars onto the floor by my feet.
“You will not be wanted today, Simpson,” he said. “We are going on a private excursion. I will drive the car.”
“Very good, sir. It is full of petrol, but I was going to dust it.” I was all smiles above, and all binoculars below.
“Very well.” He waved me off in his highhanded way. “The car must be here in half an hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
I drove round the courtyard into the garage, and hid the binoculars behind an empty oil drum before I gave the car a flickover with a wet duster.
Just before ten I drove it to the courtyard and left it there with the ignition key in. Then, I went back to the yard, through the door into the orchard, and found a place from which I could see the car without being seen. When they went out, I wanted to make sure that they had all gone—Fischer, Harper, Miss Lipp, and Miller.
After forty minutes or so, all four came out and got into the car. As soon as they had gone, I went to the kitchen. Geven was there chopping meat and sipping brandy. I had a drink myself and let him talk for a while before asking whether they were expected back for lunch. They were not. He would make an omelet pour le personnel.
I went upstairs to the bedroom floor. At the head of the back stairs the corridor ran left and right, parallel to the rear wall of the villa. If you turned right, you came to my room and Geven’s, among others; if you turned left, you were faced by a pair of double doors. Beyond them were the master bedrooms and guest suites.
The double doors were half open when I went up. Through the opening, I caught a glimpse of a wickerwork trolley full of dirty linen, and of old Hamul working on the floor of the corridor with a carpet sweeper. Mrs. Hamul was presumably changing the sheets on the beds.
I went to my room, waited an hour, and then strolled back along the corridor.
The door was still open and the Hamuls were still messing about in the bedrooms. I went down to the kitchen and had another drink with Geven. He was busy with the stewpot and another hour went by before he decided to make the omelet. I heard the Hamuls come down at about the same time and go through to the laundry. As soon as I had finished eating, I told Geven that I was going to have a sleep and went upstairs again.
First, I locked my room from the outside in case he looked in to see if I were there; then I went through the double doors and shut them behind me.
What I was looking for was the map, and it was difficult to know where to start. There were about eighteen rooms there, and they were of all shapes and sizes. Some were bedrooms, some sitting rooms; some were so sparsely furnished that it was hard to tell what they had been. Where there was furniture, it was all in the same