Judgment on Deltchev by Eric Ambler Read Free Book Online

for you, sir,’ he said. He glanced at the scrap of paper that he had taken out of the key rack. ‘Mr Stanoiev called to see you and will call again.’
    ‘Stanoiev? I don’t know anyone of that name. Are you sure it was for me?’
    He looked stupid. ‘I don’t know, sir. He went away.’
    ‘I see.’
    The lift was deserted. I walked up the wide shallow stairs to the sixth floor.
    My room was at the end of a long corridor with upholstered benches set against the wall at intervals along it. As I started down the corridor, I noticed that at the far end there was a man sitting on one of the benches. He was reading a newspaper.
    It made an odd picture; one never expects corridor furniture to be used except as shelves for trays and chambermaids’ dusters. As I approached he looked upcasually, then went back to his newspaper. I glanced at him as I passed by.
    He was a thin, dried-up man with pale, haggard eyes and grey hair cropped so that the bone of his skull was visible. He had a peculiarly blotchy complexion like that of someone just cured of a skin disease. The hands holding up the newspaper were long and yellow. There was a black soft hat beside him on the bench.
    I went past him to my room. I put the key in the lock and turned it. Then someone spoke from just behind me.
    ‘Herr Foster?’
    It made me jump. I turned round. The man who had been on the bench was standing there with his hat under his arm.
    I nodded.
    ‘Petlarov,’ he said, and then added in German, ‘I can speak French or German, whichever you prefer.’
    ‘German will be all right. I’m glad to see you.’ I finished opening the door. ‘Will you come in?’
    He bowed slightly. ‘Thank you.’ He walked in and then turned and faced me. ‘I must apologize,’ he said in a clipped, businesslike way, ‘for answering your note in this fashion. A native of this country would not find it strange, but as you are a foreigner I must make an explanation.’
    ‘Please sit down.’
    ‘Thank you.’ In the light of the room his clothes were shabby and he looked ill. His precise, formal manner, however, seemed to ignore both facts. He chose a hard chair as if he did not intend to stay long.
    ‘First,’ he said, ‘I think you should know that I am under surveillance; that is to say, I have to report to the police every day. Second, I am officially listed as an“untrustworthy person”. That means that if you were to be seen entering my house or talking to me in a public place, you would attract the attention of the police, and yourself become suspect. That is why I have used this unconventional means of seeing you. I discovered your room number by leaving a note for you in the name of Stanoiev and noticing which box it was put into. Then I came discreetly up here and waited for you to return. You need therefore have no fear that my name is in any way connected with yours or my presence here known about.’ He bowed curtly.
    ‘I am most grateful to you for coming.’
    ‘Thank you. May I ask how you obtained my address?’
    ‘From a man named Pashik.’
    ‘Ah, yes. I thought it must be him.’ He looked thoughtfully into space.
    ‘Do you know him well, Herr Petlarov?’
    ‘You mean what is my opinion of him?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He considered for a moment. ‘Let us say that I do not subscribe to the common belief that he is merely a disagreeable person whose political views change with the person he talks to. But now that I am here, what do you want of me?’
    I had held out my cigarettes. His hand had gone out to them as he was speaking, but now he hesitated. He looked up from the cigarettes, and his eyes met mine.
    ‘I have some more,’ I said.
    He smiled in a deprecatory way. ‘If you had perhaps a bar of chocolate or a biscuit, Herr Foster, it would, I think, be better for my stomach than tobacco.’
    ‘Of course.’ I went to my suitcase. ‘I have no chocolate, but here are some biscuits.’
    I had a box, bought in Paris for the train journey