‘No,’ replied Keramikos. ‘I suppose it was not latched properly.’ He closed the door. It was dark again and the silence of the night drew closer to me.
A few minutes later they came out. A key grated in the lock of the door and the two shadowy figures disappeared along the path that led back to the belvedere.
I waited there for perhaps half an hour. It was very cold and rather eerie in that white silence with only the stars for company. But I was determined to take no chances. Keramikos must not see me return. And I had plenty to occupy my mind as I stood there in the chill darkness.
But at last the cold drove me in. I moved quietly, keeping to the shadows. I crossed the belvedere in the shadow of a fir tree that had crept across it, for the moon was getting low. The bar room seemed warm and friendly after the cold of the night. I crossed to the bar and poured myself a stiff, neat cognac. It was fire in my chilled stomach. I poured myself another.
‘I have been waiting for you, Mr Blair.’
I nearly dropped the glass. The voice came from the shadows in the corner by the piano. I swung round.
It was Keramikos. He was seated on the piano stool. His figure was shadowy in the darkness of the corner, but his glasses reflected the single bar light. He looked like a great toad.
‘Why?’ I asked, and my voice trembled.
‘Because I saw the print of a pair of shoes outside that door. When I touched the prints the snow was wet. It had to be either you or Valdini. Valdini’s room is next to mine. He snores. Your door was open. That was careless, I think.’ He got up. ‘Would you be so kind as to pour me a cognac. It has been cold, waiting for you. Though not as cold, doubtless, as you found it, waiting outside.’
I poured him a drink.
He came over and took it from my hand. His hand was large and hairy. It was much steadier than mine.
‘Your health,’ he said with a smile and raised the glass.
I did not feel in the mood for such a gesture.
‘Why did you wait up for me?’ I asked. ‘And where’s the Austrian fellow?’
The Austrian fellow?’ He peered at me through his glasses. ‘You did not see him, eh?’ He nodded as though satisfied about something. ‘He’s gone,’ he said. ‘He does not know you were there. I waited up for you because there are some questions I would like to ask you.’
‘And there are a few I’d like to ask you,’ I said.
‘I’ve no doubt,’ he replied curtly. ‘But you would be a fool to expect me to answer them.’ He considered me for a moment as he poured himself another drink. ‘You speak German, eh?’ he asked. Ť ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You were listening to our conversation. It is not good, Mr Blair, to meddle in matters that are of no concern to you.’ His voice was quiet, his tone reasonable. It was difficult to realise that there was an implied threat.
‘Murder is a matter that concerns everybody,’ I responded sharply.
The slittovia, eh? So you heard that. What else did you hear?’ There was no mistaking the menace in his voice now, though the tone was still quiet.
‘God!’ I cried. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
He gazed at the drink in his glass. ‘You should not leap to conclusions, Mr Blair,’ he said. ‘You only heard part of the conversation.’
‘Listen, Keramikos,’ I said. ‘You can’t fool me by suggesting that I didn’t hear all the conversation. That little scrap was complete in itself. The Austrian was proposing coldblooded murder.’
‘And do you know why?’
‘Because you’re searching for something,’ I snapped back, angered by the casualness of his manner. ‘What is there to search for that’s so important you’ll commit murder in order not to be interrupted?’
‘That, my friend, is none of your business,’ he replied quietly. ‘If you believe you have correctly interpreted the scrap of conversation you have overheard, then I suggest you avoid travelling on the slittovia. And confine your curiosity to your own affairs. My advice to you is — get on with your film story.’
‘How the hell do you expect me to write a film script in these circumstances?’ I cried.
He laughed. ‘That is for you to consider. In the meantime, be a little less curious. Good-night, Mr Blair.’ He nodded to me curtly and walked out of the room. I heard his feet on the stairs and then the sound of a door closing.
I finished my drink and went up to my room. The door stood open as Keramikos had said. I was certain I had closed it when I left. The room looked just the same. There was no indication that any one had been in it. I sat down on the bed and switched on the electric heater. I was puzzled and, I think, a little frightened. Keramikos had not been angry, but there had been a quiet menace in his words that was even more disturbing.
