“What is important is,” said Mr. Kuvetli quietly, “that you have in fact come to me. Did you tell him that you were going to do so?”
“No. I told him that I thought he was bluffing.”
“And do you think that he was?”
“I don’t know.”
Mr. Kuvetli scratched his armpits thoughtfully. “There are so many things to be considered. And it depends on what you mean by saying that he is bluffing. If you mean that he could not or would not kill you, I think you are wrong. He could and would.”
“But how? I have a Consul. What is to prevent my getting into a taxi at the dock and going straight to the Consulate? I could arrange for some sort of protection there.”
Mr. Kuvetli lit another cigarette. “Do you know where the British Consulate-General in Genoa is?”
“The taxi-driver would know.”
“I can tell you myself. It is at the corner of the Via Ippolito d’Aste. This ship docks at the Ponte San Giorgio in the Vittorio Emanuele basin, several kilometres away from your Consulate. I have travelled this way before and so I know what I am saying. Genoa is a great port. I doubt, Monsieur Graham, whether you would complete one of those kilometres. They will be waiting for you with a car. When you took the taxi they would follow you as far as the Via Francia, then force the taxi on to the pavement and shoot you as you sit there.”
“I could telephone to the Consul from the dock.”