The Schirmer Inheritance

“That’s right, chum,” the voice was saying soothingly. “Now just go over to the window there and pull the shutters to. Then we’ll have a little light on the scene. Slowly does it. Yes, you’ll have to use your hands, but watch what you do with them or we’ll have an accident. Don’t try calling out or anything, either. All nice and quiet. That’s the ticket.”

George pulled the shutters to, and at the same moment the light in the room went on. He turned.

The man who stood by the light switch, watching him, was in his middle thirties, short and thickset, with dark, thinning hair. His suit was obviously a local product. Just as obviously he was not. The rawboned, snub-nosed face and the sly, insolent eyes originated, as did the Cockney accent, from somewhere within the Greater London area.

“That’s better, eh?” the visitor said. “Now we can see what’s what without the neighbours across the street getting nosy.”

“What the hell’s the idea of all this?” said George. “And who the hell are you?”

“Easy, chum.” The visitor grinned. “No names, no pack drill. You can call me Arthur if you like. It’s not my name, but it’ll do. Lots of people call me Arthur. You’re Mr. Carey, aren’t you?”

“You should know.” George looked at the papers strewn over the bed.

“Ah, yes. Sorry about that, Mr. Carey. I meant to clear it up before you came back. But I didn’t have time for more than a glance. I haven’t taken anything, naturally.”

“Naturally. I don’t leave money in hotel rooms.”

“Oh, what a wicked thing to say!” said the visitor skittishly. “Tongue like a whiplash, haven’t we?”

“Well, if you’re not here for money, what are you here for?”

“A bit of a chat, Mr. Carey. That’s all.”

“Do you usually come calling with a gun?”

The visitor looked pained. “Look, chum, how was I to know you’d be reasonable-finding a stranger in your room? Supposing you’d start yelling blue murder and throwing the furniture about. I had to take precautions.”

“You could have asked for me downstairs.”

The visitor grinned slyly. “Could I? Ah, but maybe you don’t know much about these parts, Mr. Carey. All right”-his tone suddenly became businesslike-“I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. You promise not to start calling up the management or getting Charlie with me, and I’ll put the gun away. O.K.?”

“All right. But I’d still like to know what you’re doing here.”

“I told you. I want a little private chat. That’s all.” “What about?”

“I’ll tell you.” Arthur put his gun away inside his jacket and produced a packet of Greek cigarettes. He offered them to George. “Smoke, Mr. Carey?”

George produced a packet of his own. “No, thanks. I’ll stick to these.”

“Chesterfields, eh? Long time no see. Mind if I try one?”

“Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” He fussed about the business of giving George a light like an over-anxious host. Then he lit his own cigarette and drew on it appreciatively. “Nice tobacco,” he said. “Very nice.”

George sat down on the edge of the bed. “Look,” he said impatiently, “what exactly is this all about? You break into my room, go through my business papers, threaten me with a gun, and then say you only want a private chat. All right, so we’re chatting. Now what?”

“Mind if I sit down, Mr. Carey?”

“Do anything you like, but for Pete’s sake come to the point.”

“All right, all right, give us a chance.” Arthur sat down gingerly on a cane-backed chair. “It’s a private sort of a matter, Mr. Carey,” he said. “Confidential, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I wouldn’t like it to go any further,” he persisted maddeningly.

“I’ve got that.”

“Well now”-he cleared his throat-“I have been given to understand by certain parties,” he said carefully, “that you, Mr. Carey, have been making certain inquiries of a confidential nature in the town.”

“Yes.”

“This afternoon you had a certain conversation with a certain woman who shall be nameless.”

“Madame Vassiotis, you mean?”

“That’s right.”

“Then why say she shall be nameless?”

“No names, no pack drill.”

“Oh, all right. Get on.”

“She gave you certain information.”

“What about it?”

“Easy does it, Mr. Carey. Your inquiries were re a certain German N.C.O. named Schirmer. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Do you mind telling me why you are making the said inquiries, Mr. Carey?”

“If you were to tell me first just why you wanted to know, I might tell you.”

Arthur digested this reply for a moment or two in silence.

“And, just to make matters simpler, Arthur,” George added, “I’ll tell you that, although I’m a lawyer, I’m quite capable of understanding ordinary English. So what about letting your hair down and coming to the point?”

Mr. Arthur’s low forehead creased with the effort of thinking. “You see, it’s confidential, that’s the trouble, Mr. Carey,” he said unhappily.

“So you explained. But if it’s so confidential that you can’t talk about it, you’d better go home and let me get some sleep, hadn’t you?”