The Light of the Day - Eric Ambler [80]
Presumably I was being promoted to eating with the gentry so that they could keep an eye on me.
Miller was a gloomy feeder, and made the omelet less appetizing than it could have been by talking about infectious diseases all the time. How did they grow virus cultures in laboratories? Why, in eggs, of course! He discussed the possible consequences at length. The others took no notice; evidently they were used to him; but it got me down. I hadn’t felt much like eating anyway.
When the fruit came Harper looked across at me. “As soon as the Hamuls have cleared away,” he said, “you had better start getting the bags down. They think we’re going to Ankara for a couple of days, so it doesn’t matter if they see us. The important thing is that we leave ourselves time to clean up the rooms.”
“Clean them up?”
“For fingerprints. With any luck we’ll never be connected with this place. The rent was paid in advance and the owner couldn’t care less if we don’t show up again. The Hamuls will dust off most of it automatically. They’re great polishers, I’ve noticed. But things they could miss, like window handles and closet mirrors, we should take care of ourselves—just in case.”
By two o’clock I had all the bags down and asked Harper if I could go to my old room to clean up there. He nodded. “Okay, Arthur, but don’t be long. I want you to give Mr. Fischer a hand.”
I hurried upstairs. In the bathroom, I completed the cigarette-packet message. Then I went through the motions of “cleaning up”—Tufan already had my fingerprints—and returned to Fischer’s room.
At a quarter to three Harper drove the car from the garage to the courtyard and I loaded the bags. There wasn’t room for all of them in the luggage compartment, so some had to go on the floor by the back seat.
At three, Harper, Miller, and I went up to Miller’s room. There, Miller and I took our shirts off and swathed ourselves in the tackle, Harper assisting and rearranging things until he was satisfied that nothing would show. I had the spring hooks of the sling hanging down inside my trouser legs. It was dreadfully uncomfortable. Harper made me walk up and down so that he could see that all was in order.
“You look as if you’ve wet your pants,” he complained. “Can’t you walk more naturally?”
“The hooks keep hitting one another.”
“Well, wear one higher and one lower.”
After further adjustments, he was satisfied and we went downstairs to be inspected by Miss Lipp. She had fault to find with Miller—he had developed the same trouble with the blocks as I had had with the hooks—and while they were putting it right I managed to transfer the cigarette packet from my hip to my shirt pocket, so that it would be easier to get at when the time came.
Fischer was getting edgy now. The bandages prevented his wearing a wrist watch and he kept looking at Miller’s. Miller suddenly got irritated.
“You cannot help, so do not get in the way,” he snapped.
“It is time we were leaving. After four-thirty, they count the people going in.”
“I’ll tell you when it’s time to leave,” Harper said. “If you can’t keep still, Hans, go sit in the car.”
Fischer sulked, while Miller returned to his bedroom for final adjustments. Harper turned to me.
“You’re looking warm, Arthur. Better you don’t drive with all that junk under your shirt. You’ll only get warmer. Besides, Miss Lipp knows the way. You ride in the back.”
“Very well.” I had hoped that I might be able to drop the packet while I was making a hand signal; but I knew it was no use arguing with him.
At three-thirty we all went out and got into the car. Miller, of course, was first in the back. Harper motioned me to follow, then Fischer got in after me and Harper shut the door. So I wasn’t even next to a window.
Miss Lipp drove with Harper beside her.
From where I was sitting, the driving mirror did not reflect the road behind. After a minute or two, and on the pretext of giving Fischer more room for the arm that was in the sling, I managed to make a half turn and glance through the rear