The smell had been faint, almost imperceptible, and he could not detect it again. For a moment he remained motionless, telling himself that he must have imagined it. Then panic seized him.
With shaking fingers he tore at the latches on the suitcase and flung back the lid.
The revolver was gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He undressed slowly, got into his bunk and lay there staring at the cracks in the asbestos round a steam pipe which crossed the ceiling. He could taste Josette’s lipstick in his mouth. The taste was all that was left to remind him of the self-assurance with which he had returned to the cabin; the self-assurance which had been swept away by fear welling up into his mind like blood from a severed artery; fear that clotted, paralysing thought. Only his senses seemed alive.
On the other side of the partition, Mathis finished brushing his teeth and there was a lot of grunting and creaking as he clambered into the upper berth. At last he lay back with a sigh.
“Another day!”
“So much the better. Is the porthole open?”
“Unmistakably. There is a very disagreeable current of air on my back.”
“We do not want to be ill like the Englishman.”