Almost before the word was out of his mouth, Arthur was out of the room and shutting the door noiselessly behind him.
It was not his uncertainty about bedbugs that kept George from sleeping soundly that night.
The café with the yellow blinds was in an exposed position on a busy corner, and everyone sitting in it could be clearly seen from anywhere in the main square: It was, George thought, the very last place he would have associated with the transaction of clandestine business. But then, he was not a practised conspirator. The café’s air of having nothing to conceal was probably its greatest asset. In Arthur’s world, no doubt, such matters were elaborately calculated.
Miss Kolin had listened blandly to George’s account of his interview with Arthur and accepted without comment his decision to postpone their departure. When, however, he had gone on to say that, in view of the possible risks involved, he would leave her to decide for herself whether she would accompany him or not, she had been quite obviously amused.
“Risks, Mr. Carey? But what sort of risks?”
“How should I know?” George was irritated. “The point is that this isn’t exactly the most law-abiding part of the world and this guy Arthur’s way of introducing himself for a cozy chat wasn’t exactly according to Emily Post, was it?”
She had shrugged. “It served its purpose.”
“What do you mean?”
“Frankly, Mr. Carey, I think that it was a mistake to give the Vassiotis woman so much money.”
“From my point of view, she’d earned it.”