The Lives of Harry Lime v1.0

by Unknown Author

  I replied that I was more interested in her. She had killed him. Perhaps the cops had ideas about that.

  ’They don’t suspect me. There was no reason why they should. I had a good alibi. I wasn’t even in town…’

  ‘You must tell me how you did it,’ I remarked jokingly.

  ‘I must apologise for interrupting such an interesting conversation,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘But it would be well for you both to raise your hands in the air—not too high—just shoulder-level. This is a very efficient gun I am holding and I am a very good marksman.’

  Slowly I raised my hands, and turned around. A very fat man in a crumpled white suit was standing by the doorway. He smiled benignly at us both. ‘You left the door open,’ he explained. Then he turned to me and asked: ‘Where is the heroin, Mr. Lime?’

  ‘You seem to know my name, Monsieur, but I am afraid that you have the advantage.’

  ‘I was—shall we say—a business associate of this widowed lady’s late husband,’ he explained.

  ‘O.K., don’t tell me. Let me guess. You began in Indo-China. You served three years in a penal colony in Brazil. They used to call you “the Doctor”—am I right.’

  He continued to smile. -‘I have a doctor’s degree.’

  Suddenly I remembered: ‘Dr. Bessie. That’s your name.’

  He remarked that I would make a very good detective.

  ‘I have a good memory, Dr. Bessie,’ I went on. ‘And I happen to be a professional collector of information. You’ll find the heroin in the piano.’

  He* thought for a moment before answering. ‘In the piano?’ he mused. ’This is probably a trick, Mr. Lime. Suppose you go to the piano and extract the heroin yourself.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, old man. It would be very simple for me to extract a revolver from the piano, and I think it would be very unpleasant for both of us, if there were any shooting. There must be police in the neighbourhood and I would much prefer you to find your heroin and leave quietly. I’m a peace-loving man.’

  He ruminated for a few seconds. Then he began to lumber towards the piano. As he moved slowly across the room, he remarked: ‘I’m keeping my eye on you, Lime.’

  He reached the piano, and lifted up the lid. As he did so, Patsy spoke for the first time. ‘Put your hands up, Bessie! I’m warning you. I’ll shoot if you don’t.’ He turned around with an exclamation. A shot rang out, and he sank to the floor. Patsy was holding a smoking automatic.

  I took a few moments to collect my wits. Then I said: ‘Congratulations. He must have been boasting when he said he was a good shot.’

  Patsy looked as calm as ever. ‘He should have kept his eyes on both of us. Is he dead?’

  I moved over and investigated. He was very dead. Suddenly Patsy exclaimed: ‘What’s that?’ I listened, and in the distance I heard a sound I knew only too well. A police siren.

  ‘Douse the lights, honey,’ I said. ‘We’re getting out of here.’ She moved over to the switch and turned the lights off. I crossed to her, and took her arm as if to guide her in the darkness. I gave a quick twist and caught the gun as it slipped out of her fingers. ‘You’re too impulsive for firearms, Mrs. Moughelti. I’m keeping the gun,’ I told her.

  ‘Why you…’ she began, but it was interrupted by a knocking at the door.

  ‘I think we’d better scram. Just two feet ahead of me, and don’t try anything funny,’ I went on as I propelled her towards the windows.

  We made our way out through the garden. The cops were all over the place, and after a while it was clear that our only hope lay in separating. The last I saw of her was her back as she vanished into the bushes.

  We both got away—by the grace of God. But they found her in the end. They took her off the plane on the return run to Paris. Somebody tipped the police off about that murder. You might call it the wages of Lime.

  One thing that Patsy didn’t know was that I had picked up the rug in the dark and had hidden it under a bush just outside the window. I came back later and collected it. Of course the word was out and I had no trouble in getting a good price in Marseilles the next week. But honestly, I don’t approve of drugs. That’s why I threw the original stuff into the Bay of Tangier i)and delivered several nicely wrapped packages of confectioner’s sugar.

  So my conscience is clear—except for one thing. That nice little prayer rug it was wrapped in. I know it didn’t belong to me, but it looks very nice in front of my tea table. And when I pour out tea I always get a good laugh. For I offer my guests the very best sugar with it. The very, very best brand of sugar, in fact.

  A syndicate of desperate gangsters once paid me fifty thousand dollars for only seven packages of the very same quality.

  AN OLD MOORISH CUSTOM

  by

  Irvan Ashkinazy

  There are many people who are unlikely to forget me. Police Detective Charen of the Algiers Gendarmerie, for one. As for Mademoiselle D’Aronj—that vibrant young creature must remember me best of all, I think.

  When I arrived in Algiers my passport—or at least the one, I presented—classified me as an American wine importer on an extended holiday. It wasn’t too difficult to wangle an invitation shortly afterwards to a soiree at the Governor’s mansion. It was there I met my target—Mile Valerie Orterie D’Aronj, a strikingly lovely young thing with features that were purely, classically Greek. More important, however, was the fact that she was the granddaughter of Armand D’Aronj, owner of an ancient estate some thirty-odd miles from Algiers—a place called ‘Barbarossa’.

  Four weeks and seven meetings later Valerie and I were dancing together at our rendezvous^ in the ballroom of the luxurious Granada Hotel, overlooking the Mediterranean. We were accompanied, as always, by Madame Plantage, her chaperon, and Ali, her chauffeur—a great Sudanese in a red fez and baggy pants.

  In those four weeks I had found out a lot about her family. Her aristocratic old grandfather was nominally a sheep-farmer, but on his estate, ‘Barbarossa’ he was in reality emperor of all he surveyed.

  The place, of course, was named after his ancestor, Aronj—the greatest of the Moorish pirates. A Greek turned Muslim, his beard was red, like the blood upon his hands. It was droll that after four hundred and fifty years an ancestor who had been cursed by God and man should have become a romantic figure.

  We had moved out into the veranda, and I was attempting to advance our relationship a further step.

  Valerie drew back: ‘No, no, chéri.’ Do not embrace me.’ she cried.

  ‘But if you love me…’

  ‘Please! It will not be easy.’ she interrupted.

  I asked her what she meant.

  ‘My Grandpere—the Seigneur…I owe him too much…He and I, we are the last of the D’Aronj! ’

  ‘Yes, I know, but…’

  She went on: ‘He has plans for me—to live in Paris for a while, a term at the Sorbonne, a season in Rome, in Athens.’

  ‘We can do all that now—on a long, wonderful honeymoon.’ I interjected.

  She was still doubtful.

  ‘If I spoke to him, wouldn’t he think of your happiness? And give his consent?.’ I asked.

  ‘I…I do not know! ’

  ‘Suppose I drive up to Barbarossa tomorrow, and ask him.’

  Reluctantly she consented. But she warned me:] ‘My* dear, do not joke with grandpere. He is most serious/

  I didn’t know it at that time, but he was going to prove even more serious than either of us expected. But for the moment things were going better than I had hoped. The next day, however, would prove the final test of—shall we say—my ‘salesmanship’.

  And even if it failed, there were other methods. And why not? All’s fair, they say, in love and war.

  Yes—and in piracy.

  I was making my way at a leisurely pace back to my hotel, when I heard footsteps overtaking me, and looked down at a stout, pink-cheeked little man in a baggy, alpaca suit and fuzzy fedora. He kept pace, looking up at me wi
th glossy, inquisitive eyes.

  Finally he said: ‘M’sieu Lime?’

  I acknowledged the compliment.

  He drew a wallet from his pocket and flipped it open. The identity card beneath its plastic shield stared up at me: ‘Pierre Jules Charen…Police Detective.’

  We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments while I wondered what he wanted. Then he said:

  ‘Just before sailing for Algiers, did you meet there one calling himself Dubois? ’

  I said I couldn’t recall the name.

  ‘He is one who arrived here on the same ship as yourself. The steward has said that you seemed to be acquainted with him.’

  ‘If I did, it was with a face, not a name. You know how it is aboard ship.’

  There was a pause. Then I asked who this Dubois character was.

  ‘A bandit.’ he replied. ’Only his name is not Dubois; it is Mario Marteau.’

  It appeared that a British art dealer had identified his picture as one of several bandits who had tortured and robbed him the previous week. The police thought that Marteau might, perhaps, be a lieutenant of El Sikkeena.

  ‘Eh…Who?’ I asked.

  He smiled. ’El Sikkeena—a Bedouin outlaw. One of our local gangster leaders. If it occurs that you see Mario Marteau again…’

  ‘I’ll give you a ring, you can be sure.’ I promised.

  Charen waddled away into the gathering twilight. How many pieces of my past had he dug up. That forged passport, had he checked it with the Paris Surete? But no! He’d have picked me up for sure if he had!

  Or was this one of those cat and mouse games?

  When I got to my room, the door was already unlocked. So M’sieu Charen had been there!

  From the doorway I could see the lamp glowing softly. Beside it stood a freshly opened bottle of champagne, a glass half full of the pale amber wine, and an Arab’s burnous draped over the edge of the table. There was a silence—the silence of an enemy holding his breath.

  A low, sardonic voice broke the silence: ‘Harry.’ it said.

  A tall familiar figure, dressed as an Arab, stepped from behind the door, his black, curly hair glistened in the lamplight; his teeth flashed in a hard grin.

  ‘Well, come on in, ami.’ Do not just stand there and stare.’ he said.

  It was Mario. He came straight to the point

  ’El Sikkeena’s treasury is getting low. He is getting impatient with you, Harry.’

  ’Impatient? What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘He has paid you a large sum. How long do you expect him to wait for results while you engage in dancing and making love?’

  I explained that an operation like ours could not be rushed. Mademoiselle D’Aronj was not a bazaar girl to be won over in a day.

  ‘It is not necessary to press this courtship to marriage! All we ask is that you obtain the information we desire! ’

  ’One depends on the other.’ I replied. I motioned him to sit down, and he did so with bad grace. Then I continued: ‘You know, “I’m inclined to think that your chief’s theory is entirely correct. I mean, about old D’Aronj having a secret hoard hidden somewhere. D’Aronj lives like a prince—in a style his lands, his apparent resources could not possibly support…’ ’Tell me something new.’ Mario interrupted. ‘Perhaps I will. That legend you told me in Palermo—about Aronj Barbarossa burying a billion francs’ worth of gold cups and things in a cave…’

  ‘It is no legend!’

  I was inclined to agree. In fact, as I told him, I had been doing some unaccustomed research in the Government library. Aronj Barbarossa had actually captured a galleon back in 1504 which the Pope had sent from Genoa loaded with gold dust and wine for the use of the Church. He was pursued by warships and hid his loot in a cave on the coast somewhere between Algiers and Bougie.

  ‘I’m not interested in fairy tales.’ he commented dryly.

  ‘Neither am I, Mario. According to the records, the galleon Aronj captured was loaded with newly mined gold dust for the goldsmiths of Livita Vecchia! There is no mention of finished gold articles.’

  He swept my remarks aside.

  ‘All I know is what I see now. Old Armand D’Aronj has sold numerous antiques of pure gold to dealers, this past year. The Englishman we robbed had a sixteenth-century cup he bought from D’Aronj just two weeks ago.’

  ’Okay, okay.’ I said. ‘You just leave it to me. I’ll find out soon enough just where the stuff is hidden.’

  He got up. ‘You have just twenty-four hours.’

  I thought that he was kidding, but he was deadly serious.

  ‘I did not risk coming here to joke with you, my friend. El Sikkeena has waited too long already. He wants results.’

  ‘But twenty-four hours! That’s impossible.’ I protested.

  ‘If it is impossible.’ he said as he moved over towards the door, ‘your services will be dispensed with—permanently.’

  There was a long pause. Then he added, ‘I am sure you understand?’

  ’Old man, you’re as subtle as an avalanche!’ I replied laughingly. But I knew I was in a spot.

  The sun was high when I woke the next morning. I dressed carefully, hired an expensive limousine and drove out from Algiers towards the ancient estate of Barbarossa. There was much to be done—and only twenty-four hours in which to do it.

  Twenty-four hours…I had that much time according to El Sikkeena to make a legend come true! To locate the treasure of a Barbary corsair, dead and gone these four hundred years!

  A large stone wall marked the border of the estate. A pair of white-robed guards, armed with rifles, swung open the marxo wooden gate; and shortly afterwards I pulled up before the villa of Seigneur Armand D’Aronj.

  Valerie must have told the servants of my projected visit, because I was quickly taken across a courtyard into the library. There, behind a massive desk, the old man sat.

  I walked over towards him. ‘M’sieu D’Aronj, it is good to find you at home, sir. I was hoping to speak to you.’

  ‘Were you?’ His voice was cold.

  ‘Yes…Your granddaughter and I, Seigneur…’

  His voice was sarcastic as he interrupted. ‘But, of course! Your charming campaign to win her hand!’

  When I asked him what he meant, he continued: ‘Did you imagine that I would not trouble to find out who you are? Algeria does not welcome such as you.’

  ’There’s certainly a mistake somewhere…’ I began.

  ’The only mistake is that I did not start earlier! Before you could make a fool of my granddaughter! ’

  I tried to brazen it out, but in my heart I knew that it was useless. ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’ I said, ‘but whatever it is, Valerie knows it isn’t true. Where is she?’

  He didn’t answer, so I shouted her name. ‘Valerie!’ A door opened at the other end of the room and Ali, the giant Sudanese, stepped in, red fez, baggy pants and all. This time, however, something new had been added—a gay bandolier of cartridges and a rifle—a rifle whose black muzzle stared at me as the old man picked up the telephone on his desk.

  After a few moments, he muttered angrily to himself, and replaced the receiver. Then he turned to me and said:

  ’The telephone service will no doubt improve itself later, and I will be able to arrange a police escort to take you back to town. In the meantime, Ali will convey you to a guest-room suitable for you.’

  I started to talk fast. I explained that El Sikkeena thought he had discovered some treasure, that El Sikkeena was no friend of mine and that he might raid Barbarossa that very night.

  The old man looked at me uncertainly. ‘If it were true, which I doubt, why should you warn me? What do you expect to get out of this?’ he asked.

  ‘Your friendship,’ I replied.

  He repeated my words ironically.

  ‘Plus, Monsieur,’ I continued, ‘a nominal percentage of the loot left by your illustrious ancestor.’

  That terminated the interview.
‘Nom d’un chien,’ he exploded, ’take him out before I kill him.’

  The ‘suitable guest-room’ in which Ali locked me ’ featured primarily an iron door, naked stone walls and a single barred window. The hours passed, the shadows lengthened, and nothing happened except that I got thirsty. Towards evening I caught a sudden glimpse of Valerie crossing the courtyard with her grandfather, and shouted to her from the window. She gave me a single look—and continued on. That look convinced me that, as far as she was concerned,

  I had as much appeal as a can of embalming fluid.

  A crescent moon rose, stars burned bright and I got thirstier than ever. Was the old devil going to keep me there until I died of thirst, I wondered. Surely he’d got his blasted call through to Algiers by this time.

  And then I knew. Of course! El Sikkeena and his raiders had cut the telephone lines in preparation for an attack.

  No sooner had I reached that conclusion, than the attack began. From the firing I reckoned that there must have been at least a dozen of D’Aronj’s retainers defending the fortress-like villa. And they seemed to be giving a good account of themselves; before long the bodies of El Sikkeena’s bandits lay scattered in the courtyard and on the plain beyond.

  The others had taken cover and were firing at the. windows. Bullets came into my cell ricochetting from wall to wall. I couldn’t help thinking that sooner or later, one would knock me into a side pocket.

  But finally the firing slackened. Almost immediately my door opened. Valerie stood in the passage. *You were right,’ she said. *You warned grandfather, but he did not believe you.’

  I remained silent. She continued, ’Take this rifle, Harry. Help us defend the house.’

  It was all one to me. If I was taken alive, I was finished anyway.

  We picked our way through the darkened rooms and corridors, stepping over the bodies of the slain.

  The big Sudanese lay half crouched beside an embrasure. He whirled as we entered.

  ‘Better point that rifle the other way, lad.’ I remarked. ‘I’m on your side.’