He had won his reprieve, but he knew that he was still very far from being out of the wood. At any time that day or the next, the police or a representative of the Greek Foreign Office might come to see his uncle, and blow everything wide open. He could only pray that Luke was right and the Czechs would decide that they had not a strong enough case against him to press for action. But if Luke proved wrong, the line he had taken
of concealing the truth would make his case worse than ever. He had burnt his boats, and with them any hope that his uncle would give him protection.
10
Wh<D Knows What is Round the Corner?
That Sunday proved the worst day that Robbie had ever spent in his life. It seemed interminable and, as though drawn by a magnet, he could not resist spending the greater part of it hovering in the vicinity of the hall. As his uncle's secretary was off duty, he used his room as a listening post, sitting in it with the door ajar and a book, on which he found it impossible to concentrate, on his lap. Every time the front-door bell rang, he jumped up and peered out, waiting with pounding heart to find out who the caller was.
So absorbed was his mind with the fear that it could be only a matter of time before he would have to face exposure, that it was not until twelve o'clock that it occurred to him that he ought to do something about the belongings he had left at the Grande Bretagne. Glad of the chance to occupy himself with something that would temporarily take his thoughts off his nerve-racking vigil, he went in search of his uncle's valet, Loadham.
This lean, cadaverous individual also pressed Robbie's trousers and looked after his clothes. He took a gloomy pleasure in describing life in the great houses in which, when younger, he had served masters much more blue-blooded than Sir Finsterhorn, and Robbie was a good listener. Moreover, with his habitual generosity, Robbie gave Loadham a handsome tip every week; so their relations were distinctly cordial.
Haying run Loadham to earth, he opened matters by giving him his usual weekly tip, although he had been away for the past week. He then asked him to go to the Grand Bretagne, pay his bill and collect his things. A little nervously, he added: T came back here last night because some thieves broke into my suite at the hotel. The management don't know that, so they may expect me to pay for the damage to the doors. If they do, don't mention the thieves; just pay up without argument. And . . . er, Loadham, I'd be awfully grateful if you didn't say anything about this to anybody.'
As Loadham took the blank cheque that Robbie had made °ut, he gave him a pained look that almost amounted to a
reprimand. 'As though I should ever dream of such a thing, Mr. Robbie. None of my gentlemen has ever had to complain about my discretion.'
Satisfied that Loadham would not give him away, Robbie hastened back to the hall, fearful now that a bringer of explosive tidings might have appeared on the scene in his absence; but an anxious enquiry of the footman on duty reassured him. No one had called during the past half-hour.
Both Sir Finsterhorn and Euan were out for lunch, so he ate the meal in solitary state. Afterwards, knowing that his uncle would not be back for some hours, he determined to be firm with himself and spend the afternoon lying down in his room. Up there, he found that Loadham had accomplished his mission. The valet had put away all his clothes, but his other belongings were in their usual places and, with heartfelt thanks, he saw that his precious manuscript was on his desk.
After an hour of attempting to doze, he gave it up and went downstairs again. It had crossed his mind that, if the police did call while his uncle was out, at least he would know that he must expect the worst and be prepared for a second visit from them. It was not until after six that the awful tension from which he was suffering began to ease, as Greek officials would be certain to consider an Ambassador's convenience. It seemed unlikely, therefore, that they would put off seeking an interview until an hour when he might be entertaining people to drinks.
It happened, too, that Sir Finsterhorn had invited a number of people in for cocktails that evening, and afterwards he was giving a small, bachelor dinner party to introduce a newly arrived Military Attache to his French, Italian and Turkish opposite numbers. So, from seven o'clock onwards, Robbie's apprehensions perforce nagged at him only intermittently; but by the time he got to bed, he was thoroughly worn out.
That nothing untoward had occurred on Sunday should have reduced his fears considerably. Yet soon after he woke, the horrid thought came to him that, the Greek Foreign Office being manned only by a skeleton staff on the Sabbath, the police were unlikely to have made the necessary contacts there on that day. Therefore, his period of maximum danger had yet to be faced.
Again, like an uneasy ghost, he haunted the hall and staircase until several people had asked him what he was waiting for. Driven by this up to the first-floor landing, he hovered there for a while, cold shivers going down his spine at every ring of the front-door bell. A lunch party forced him to endeavour to behave normally from one o'clock until nearly three. Then, so that he might continue to keep his tormented watch on the hall, he adopted the expedient of pretending to go into the matter of his return to England. At intervals, he rang up in turn every travel agency, air line and shipping company he could think of, and made copious notes of flying times, sailings and fares. Somehow, he got through the afternoon and it was drink-time again. Euan was entertaining a party of American archaeologists on Sir Finsterhorn's liquor, and their talk meant little to Robbie; but he helped himself liberally to cocktails and stood about keeping an anxious eye on his uncle, in case one of the staff came in to say that someone was asking for him.
By eight o'clock, Robbie was three parts tight, but the amount he had drunk had made him take a rosier view of things. He was at last beginning to believe that Luke must have been right, and that he need not have feared exposure after all.
Having just seen off two -of his guests, Euan passed within a few paces of him and, noticing that his face was chalk-white, paused to ask: 'What's the matter, Robbie? You look as if you'd just seen a ghost.'
Robbie was feeling distinctly queasy. Gulping down the hot saliva that was running in his mouth, he mumbled: 'Nothing. Well—nothing much. It's only that . . . that I'm not feeling very well.'
Euan shot a quick look at Sir Finsterhorn, then said with a kindness unusual in him: 'Your trouble, my lad, is that you've been knocking it back too hard, and if you make an ass of yourself at dinner, the Old Man will have your head off. Better go up to your room. I'll re-arrange the places at the dinner table and tell him that you've eaten something that has disagreed with you.'
'Thanks, Euan,' Robbie nodded. 'Jolly decent of you.' Then, with an uncertain smile, he straightened his shoulders and left what remained of the party.
Upstairs he was sick, had a bath and felt better. Flopping into bed, he at last relaxed, and the lingering fumes of the alcohol he had imbibed helped to dull his brain into sleep.
On the Tuesday morning, he came downstairs to breakfast with a ravenous appetite, but still not entirely easy in his mind. It had struck him that, instead of calling on his uncle, the Greek authorities might take up the matter of his criminal activities by sending the Ambassador a written memorandum. If they had done that, it would have been drafted only the day before, and so would arrive in that morning's post.
Once more on tenterhooks through breakfast and after it, he hung about in the vicinity of his uncle's study until a quarter past ten, fearing that at any moment the secretary might emerge with a dread summons for him. But when the secretary did appear, he gave Robbie a smiling nod, and by that time the morning's post must have been opened and dealt with. It was only then, after what seemed to him an unending nightmare of uncertainty, that he felt he might dare to think of the future.