“Banat. B-A-N-A-T. He is a Roumanian. He …”
“One moment, Monsieur.” The Purser got a sheet of paper out of a drawer and ran a pencil down the names on it with ostentatious care. Then he looked up. “There is no one of that name or nationality on the ship, Monsieur.”
“I was about to tell you, when you interrupted me, that the man is travelling on a false passport.”
“Then, please …”
“He is the passenger who came aboard this afternoon.”
The Purser looked at the paper again. “Cabin number nine. That is Monsieur Mavrodopoulos. He is a Greek business man.”
“That may be what his passport says. His real name is Banat and he is a Roumanian.”
The Purser remained polite with obvious difficulty. “Have you any proof of that, Monsieur?”
“If you radio Colonel Haki of the Turkish police at Istanbul, he will confirm what I say.”
“This is an Italian ship, Monsieur. We are not in Turkish territorial waters. We can refer such a matter only to the Italian police. In any case, we carry wireless only for navigational purposes. This is not the Rex or the Conte di Savoia, you understand. This matter must be left until we reach Genoa. The police there will deal with your accusation concerning the passport.”