65 Short Stories (102 page)

For three days Ashenden led the idle life that fitted so well the fantastical, untidy, and genial city. He did nothing from morning till night but wander at random, looking, not with the eye of the tourist who seeks for what ought to be seen, nor with the eye of the writer who looks for his own (seeing in a sunset a melodious phrase or in a face the inkling of a character), but with that of the tramp to whom whatever happens is absolute. He went to the museum to look at the statue of Agrippina the Younger, which he had particular reasons for remembering with affection, and took the opportunity to see once more the Titian and the Brueghel in the picture gallery. But he always came back to the church of Santa Chiara. Its grace, its gaiety, the airy persiflage with which it seemed to treat religion and at the back of this its sensual emotion; its extravagance, its elegance of line; to Ashenden it seemed to express, as it were in one absurd and grandiloquent metaphor, the sunny, dusty, lovely city and its bustling inhabitants. It said that life was charming and sad; it’s a pity one hadn’t any money but money wasn’t everything, and anyway why bother when we are here today and gone tomorrow, and it was all very exciting and amusing, and after all we must make the best of things: 
facciamo una piccola combinazione.

But on the fourth morning, when Ashenden, having just stepped out of his bath, was trying to dry himself on a towel that absorbed no moisture, his door was quickly opened and a man slipped into his room.

‘What d’you want?’ cried Ashenden.

‘It’s all right. Don’t you know me?’

‘Good Lord, it’s the Mexican. What have you done to yourself?’

He had changed his wig and wore now a black one, close-cropped, that fitted on his head like a cap. It entirely altered the look of him and though this was still odd enough, it was quite different from that which he had borne before. He wore a shabby grey suit.

‘I can only stop a minute. He’s getting shaved.’

Ashenden felt his cheeks suddenly redden.

‘You found him then?’

‘That wasn’t difficult. He was the only Greek passenger on the ship. I went on board when she got in and asked for a friend who had sailed from the Piraeus. I said I had come to meet a Mr George Diogenidis. I pretended to be much puzzled at his not coming, and I got into conversation with Andreadi. He’s travelling under a false name. He calls himself Lombardos. I followed him when he landed and do you know the first thing he did? He went into a barber’s and had his beard shaved. What do you think of that?’

‘Nothing. Anyone might have his beard shaved.’

‘That is not what I think. He wanted to change his appearance. Oh, he’s cunning. I admire the Germans, they leave nothing to chance, he’s got his whole story pat, but I’ll tell you that in a minute.’

‘By the way, you’ve changed your appearance too.’

Ah, yes, this is a wig I’m wearing; it makes a difference, doesn’t it?’

‘I should never have known you.’

‘One has to take precautions. We are bosom friends. We had to spend the day in Brindisi and he cannot speak Italian. He was glad to have me help him and we travelled up together. I have brought him to this hotel. He says he is going to Rome tomorrow, but I shall not let him out of my sight; I do not want him to give me the slip. He says that he wants to see Naples and I have offered to show him everything there is to see.’

‘Why isn’t he going to Rome today?’

‘That is part of the story. He pretends he is a Greek business man who has made money during the war. He says he was the owner of two coasting steamers and has just sold them. Now he means to go to Paris and have his fling. He says he has wanted to go to Paris all his life and at last has the chance. He is close. I tried to get him to talk. I told him I was a Spaniard and had been to Brindisi to arrange communications with Turkey about war material. He listened to me and I saw he was interested, but he told me nothing and of course I did not think it wise to press him. He has the papers on his person.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He is not anxious about his grip, but he feels every now and then round his middle. They’re either in a belt or in the lining of his vest.’

‘Why the devil did you bring him to this hotel?’

‘I thought it would be more convenient. We may want to search his luggage.’

‘Are you staying here too?’

‘No, I am not such a fool as that. I told him I was going to Rome by the night train and would not take a room. But I must go, I promised to meet him outside the barber’s in fifteen minutes.’

‘All right.’

‘Where shall I find you tonight if I want you?’

Ashenden for an instant eyed the Hairless Mexican, then with a slight frown looked away.

‘I shall spend the evening in my room.’

‘Very well. Will you just see that there’s nobody in the passage?’

Ashenden opened the door and looked out. He saw no one. The hotel in point of fact at that season was nearly empty. There were few foreigners in Naples and trade was bad.

‘It’s all right,’ said Ashenden.

The Hairless Mexican walked boldly out. Ashenden closed the door behind him. He shaved and slowly dressed. The sun was shining as brightly as usual on the square and the people who passed, the shabby little carriages with their scrawny horses, had the same air as before, but they did not any longer fill Ashenden with gaiety. He was not comfortable. He went out and called as was his habit at the Consulate to ask if there was a telegram for him. Nothing. Then he went to Cook’s and looked out the trains to Rome: there was one soon after midnight and another at five in the morning. He wished he could catch the first. He did not know what were the Mexican’s plans; if he really wanted to get to Cuba he would do well to make his way to Spain, and, glancing at the notices in the office, Ashenden saw that next day there was a ship sailing from Naples to Barcelona.

Ashenden was bored with Naples. The glare in the streets tired his eyes, the dust was intolerable, the noise was deafening. He went to the Galleria and had a drink. In the afternoon he went to a cinema. Then, going back to his hotel, he told the clerk that since he was starting so early in the morning he preferred to pay his bill at once, and he took his luggage to the station, leaving in his room only a dispatch-case in which were the printed part of his code and a book or two. He dined. Then returning to the hotel he sat down to wait for the Hairless Mexican. He could not conceal from himself the fact that he was exceedingly nervous. He began to read, but the book was tiresome, and he tried another; his attention wandered and he glanced at his watch. It was desperately early; he took up his book again, making up his mind that he would not look at his watch till he had read thirty pages, but though he ran his eyes conscientiously down one page after another he could not tell more than vaguely what it was he read. He looked at the time again. Good God, it was only half past ten. He wondered where the Hairless Mexican was, and what he was doing; he was afraid he would make a mess of things. It was a horrible business. Then it struck him that he had better shut the window and draw the curtains. He smoked innumerable cigarettes. He looked at his watch and it was a quarter past eleven. A thought struck him and his heart began to beat against his chest; out of curiosity he counted his pulse and was surprised to find that it was normal. Though it was a warm night and the room was stuffy his hands and feet were icy. What a nuisance it was, he reflected irritably, to have an imagination that conjured up pictures of things that you didn’t in the least want to see! From his standpoint as a writer he had often considered murder, and his mind went to that fearful description of one in 
Crime and 
Punishment. He did not want to think of this topic, but it forced itself upon him; his book dropped to his knees and staring at the wall in front of him (it had a brown wall-paper with a pattern of dingy roses) he asked himself how, if one had to, one would commit a murder in Naples. Of course there was the Villa, the great leafy garden facing the bay in which stood the aquarium; that was deserted at night and very dark; things happened there that did not bear the light of day and prudent persons after dusk avoided its sinister paths. Beyond Posilippo the road was very solitary and there were byways that led up the hill in which by night you would never meet a soul, but how would you induce a man who had any nerves to go there? You might suggest a row in the bay, but the boatman who hired the boat would see you; it was doubtful indeed if he would let you go on the water alone; there were disreputable hotels down by the harbour where no questions were asked of persons who arrived late at night without luggage; but here again the waiter who showed you your room had the chance of a good look at you and you had on entering to sign an elaborate questionnaire.

Ashenden looked once more at the time. He was very tired. He sat now not even trying to read, his mind a blank.

Then the door opened softly and he sprang to his feet. His flesh crept. The Hairless Mexican stood before him.

Did I startle you?’ he asked smiling. ‘I thought you would prefer me not to knock.’

Did anyone see you come in?’

‘I was let in by the night-watchman; he was asleep when I rang and didn’t even look at me. I’m sorry I’m so late, but I had to change.’

The Hairless Mexican wore now the clothes he had travelled down in and his fair wig. It was extraordinary how different he looked. He was bigger and more flamboyant; the very shape of his face was altered. His eyes were shining and he seemed in excellent spirits. He gave Ashenden a glance.

‘How white you are, my friend! Surely you’re not nervous?’

‘Have you got the documents?’

‘No. He hadn’t got them on him. This is all he had.’

He put down on the table a bulky pocket-book and a passport.

‘I don’t want them,’ said Ashenden quickly. ‘Take them.’

With a shrug of the shoulders the Hairless Mexican put the things back in his pocket.

‘What was in his belt? You said he kept feeling round his middle.’

‘Only money. I’ve looked through the pocket-book. It contains nothing but private letters and photographs of women. He must have locked the documents in his grip before coming out with me this evening.’

‘Damn,’ said Ashenden.

‘I’ve got the key of his room. We’d better go and look through his luggage.’ Ashenden felt a sensation of sickness in the pit of his stomach. He hesitated. The Mexican smiled not unkindly.

‘There’s no risk, 
amigo,’ 
he said, as though he were reassuring a small boy, ‘but if you don’t feel happy, I’ll go alone.’

‘No, I’ll come with you,’ said Ashenden.

‘There’s no one awake in the hotel and Mr Andreadi won’t disturb us. Take off your shoes if you like.’

Ashenden did not answer. He frowned because he noticed that his hands were slightly trembling. He unlaced his shoes and slipped them off. The Mexican did the same.

‘You’d better go first,’ he said. ‘Turn to the left and go straight along the corridor. It’s number thirty-eight.’

Ashenden opened the door and stepped out. The passage was dimly lit. It exasperated him to feel so nervous when he could not but be aware that his companion was perfectly at ease. When they reached the door the Hairless Mexican inserted the key, turned the lock, and went in. He switched on the light. Ashenden followed him and closed the door. He noticed that the shutters were shut.

Now we’re all right. We can take our time.’

He took a bunch of keys out of his pocket, tried one or two and at last hit upon the right one. The suitcase was filled with clothes.

‘Cheap clothes,’ said the Mexican contemptuously as he took them out. ‘My own principle is that it’s always cheaper in the end to buy the best. After all one is a gentleman or one isn’t a gentleman.’

‘Are you obliged to talk?’ said Ashenden.

‘A spice of danger affects people in different ways. It only excites me, but it puts you in a bad temper, 
amigo.’

‘You see, I’m scared and you’re not,’ replied Ashenden with candour. ‘It’s merely a matter of nerves.’

Meanwhile he felt the clothes, rapidly but with care, as he took them out There were no papers of any sort in the suitcase. Then he took out his knife and slit the lining. It was a cheap piece and the lining was gummed to the material of which the suitcase was made. There was no possibility of anything being concealed in it

‘They’re not here. They must be hidden in the room.’

‘Are you sure he didn’t deposit them in some office? At one of the consulates, for example?’

‘He was never out of my sight for a moment except when he was getting shaved.’

The Hairless Mexican opened the drawers and the cupboard. There was no carpet on the floor. He looked under the bed, in it, and under the mattress. His dark eyes shot up and down the room, looking for a hiding-place, and Ashenden felt that nothing escaped him.

‘Perhaps he left them in charge of the clerk downstairs?’