Free Background to Danger by Eric Ambler Page A

blinking in the light, darted suspiciously round the room, like those of a cornered animal. One corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Zaleshoff, who had let him in, followed him into the room and shut the door.
    “Well,” he said in German, “you have what you were sent for?”
    Ortega shook his head and strove to regain his breath.
    “No,” he said at last, “they were not there.”
    Zaleshoff looked at him steadily for a moment; then, stepping forward, he gripped the sleeve of the man’s coat and jerked him towards him.
    “No lies, my friend,” he said grimly. Then let go of the coat and held up his hand. Tamara saw that it was smeared with blood.
    “What happened?” he added dangerously.
    The Spaniard was recovering his breath. He assumed a jaunty air. His dry, bloodless mouth twisted a little.
    “I kill him perhaps, eh?” He snickered and his eyes wandered towards the girl, seeking approbation. “He saw me on the train and tried to escape me at the station; but I was too quick for him perhaps. He took a taxi and drove about to escape me, but though he was cunning, I was more cunning, and I follow him to the Hotel Josef.”
    Zaleshoff turned quickly to Rashenko.
    “The Hotel Josef, where is that?”
    The dumb man wrote quickly. Zaleshoff looked at the paper and nodded. Then he turned again to Ortega.
    “Go on.”
    “I follow him to his room.”
    “How did you know which room?”
    Ortega shrugged disdainfully.
    “It is a poor hovel, not such as I am perhaps used to in my native country, where I am rich. I wait outside the door and hear the porter give him the number. He named himself Sachs. It was room twenty-five on the third floor. Then he ask to telephone and I do not hear that. But also I hear him tell to expect a Herr Kenton who would call.”
    “Kenton? That is an English name.”
    “Perhaps. On the train with him from Ratisbon there is an American or perhaps he may have been English. Perhaps this American has the photographs. I do not know. I could not wait.”
    Zaleshoff made a gesture of impatience.
    “Quick, what did you do?”
    “I go to his room by the back way so that no one sees me and I knock at his door. He says to come in, HerrKenton, and although my name is not Kenton, but Ortega, a great family name in Spain, I go in. When he sees me he cried out and go for the gun he had. But I reach him first and get him. It hurt him,” added the Spaniard reminiscently.
    The veins stood out on Zaleshoff’s forehead.
    “You were ordered not to kill,” he said quietly.
    Ortega shrugged.
    “It was a small thing—nothing.”
    “You fool!” shouted Zaleshoff suddenly. “You were ordered not to kill. You kill. You were ordered to get the photographs from Borovansky. You do not get them. There is only one place for you, my friend.” His voice dropped suddenly. “You know where that is, Ortega, do you not? Lisbon, my friend, Lisbon.”
    “There were no photographs, no photographs at all.”
    “Or perhaps,” went on Zaleshoff viciously, “you would prefer the Austrian police to the Portuguese. The telephone, please, Rashenko.”
    “Mother of God,” screamed the Spaniard, “I tell you that there were no photographs.”
    Zaleshoff sneered.
    “So you say. But, you see, I do not believe you. There was no doubt a wealthier bidder for your services. How much, Ortega? How much did they offer you to turn traitor?”
    “Madre de Dios, juro que es mentira!”
Sweat was pouring from his face.
    “Where did you look?”
    “His coat, his luggage, everything.”
    “The lining of his coat?”
    “I tear it to pieces; also his luggage. There is nothing.”
    “He had hidden it in the room.”
    “He had no time.”
    “Did you look?”
    “It was necessary that I go perhaps.”
    “And this Herr Kenton; did he arrive?”
    “I do not know. I go.”
    “What did this American on the train look like?”
    “Tall, thin, a soft hat, young perhaps.”
    Zaleshoff turned to the others.
    “It is necessary