‘Do you think you’ll be fit enough to travel tonight? There’s a train at nine thirty-five. We could be in Casablanca tomorrow morning in time to catch the day train to Marrakech.’
‘Is there a sleeper on the train tonight?’
‘Yes. I’ll try and book berths.’
There was a knock at the door. It was one of the hotel boys. The patrone had sent him up for Kavan’s passport. ‘What’s he want the passport for?’ Kavan asked. I explained that it was the custom in Tangier for the hotelier to hold visitors’ passports and he let the boy have it. ‘And bring the senor’s clothes up, will you?’ I told him.
‘Si, si, senor.’
When he had gone, Kavan began rummaging in the oilskin bag and produced a rather battered book that looked something like a ledger. ‘Do you think you could dispose of that for me?‘He held it out to me.
‘What is it?‘I asked.
‘It’s the Jog of the Gay Juliet. I brought it ashore with me as evidence of what happened to Wade. It should be burned now. Do you think you can manage that?’
‘Are you sure you want it destroyed?’ I asked him. ‘I could leave it with a friend of mine - just in case.’
‘No. I’m sure your friend is reliable, but — ‘ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘And I daren’t take it with me, just in case the douane decide to search me. Burn it, will you?’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said. ‘What else did you bring ashore with you?’
‘My own papers and visas. There’s some money, too.’
‘How much?’
He glanced at me quickly. ‘Quite a lot.’
I explained to him then that the regulations only permitted him to take so much in cash into French Morocco. I suggested that I bank the excess for transfer to the Banque d’Etat at Marrakech and he agreed. Altogether there was over four hundred pounds, mainly in English notes. ‘Is this Wade’s or yours?’ I asked. , He looked at me hard. ‘Does it matter? Wade wasn’t the sort to have dependants.’
There was a knock at the door and the boy came in with his clothes and my jacket. I slipped the notes into my hip pocket. The boy paused as he was arranging the clothes on a chair. He was staring at the oilskin bag which Kavan still held in his hands. The dark, Arab eyes met mine and then he turned abruptly and hurried out. “You said you’d lived in Tangier,’ Kavan said as the door dosed. ‘You know it well?’
‘Well enough to want to get out of it,’ I answered.
‘Can you find Karen for me then?’ His voice was suddenly urgent. ‘I must get in touch with her before we leave. I must tell her where I’m going. Can you do that for me?’
‘I don’t know.’ Tangier wasn’t a big place, not the European section of it. But there wasn’t much time. ‘The best chance would be through the immigration authorities.’
‘No, no. Don’t do that. Not the authorities. But you must know people here - somebody would know about her in a place like this. Please. Find out where she’s living and give her the address of the Mission. Tell her to write to me there as soon as she’s convinced that she’s not being watched. No, not to me. Tell her to write to you. That would be safer. Will you do that?’
‘I’ll try.’ I got my hat. ‘Better lock the door behind me,’ I said, and left him and went down the stairs and out into the bright sunlight of the streets.
I went first to Cook’s in the rue de Statut and was lucky enough to get two wagon-lit berths on the night train. Then I crossed the Zocco Grande to the British bank in the Siaghines where I arranged for Kavan’s money to be changed into Moroccan francs and transferred to the Mission’s account in Marrakech. It was then past midday and I cut up a side street to a small Italian cafe, and there I sat over my lunch and read Gay Juliet’s log.
Until then I think Wade had appeared to me as an almost mythical character. But he was real enough by the time I had finished his record of that winter voyage out from Falmouth. As a kid I had done a lot of sailing -that was back in the days when my father was alive, before he’d gone bankrupt. I knew enough about the sea to be able to interpret, in terms of physical conditions, such laconic statements as: ‘Wind Force 7, gusting 8. Direction S.W. Waves 20 feet, breaking heavily. Lay to under bare sticks, everything battened down. Jan very sick. Pumping every half hour.’ This was off Ushant and continued for fifteen hours. Sometimes he was less factual, more descriptive, as in the entry for November 30: ‘Light S.E. breeze off the land. Heavy swell with sea oily and black. Moon just lipping horizon. Ghosting along under Genoa - no sound except the grunt of porpoises. They have been with us all night, their movements visible on account of the phosphorescence, which is unusual at this time of the year. Jan fit now and has the makings of a good seaman. Pray God it doesn’t ;tart to blow again. Both of us very tired.’
The log was something more than a bare record of speed, course and conditions. It was Wade’s personal record, entered up daily from the chart table data and going back over several voyages: Cannes to Naples ,and back - Cannes to Palermo and on to the Piraeus, across to Alexandria and back to Nice by way of Valetta - Nice to Gibraltar. The yachts were all different, so were the crews. Sometimes he sailed single-handed. But always the same flowing, easy handwriting, the same graphic descriptive details running through the Mediterranean voyages and on to the final trip out from England. And then, suddenly, two pages from the last entry, the writing changed, became finer, neater, more exact. ‘Dec. 12 - 0245: Course 195°. Wind S.S.E. Force 3-4. Speed 5 knots. A terrible thing has happened. Roland lost overboard shortly after I relieved him. Time 0205 approx. Heavy swell running. Threw lifebelt to him and gybed to bring ship round…’
Wade was dead and Kavan was writing up his log.
There was a rather touching finality about that abrupt change in the writing. After all those hundreds of sea miles, logged and recorded between the brown board covers of the book, this bald statement that the sea had claimed him.
Whatever else the man had been, he was a fine yachtsman.
I rifled through the remaining twenty or so pages of the book. They were blank, except for the last two which contained odd jottings, reminders of things he had probably planned on the long night watches. They were under port headings, such as Naples - see Borgioli - Ring Ercoli - Votnero 23-245 - Cheaper to slip here and get top sides blown off and repainted (Luigi Cantorelli’s yard) etc. I glanced quickly to the last entry and there, sure enough, was the heading TANGIER and underneath - Michel Kostos, 22 rue de la Grande Mosquee. Tel. 237846. There were several other names and telephone numbers and then a note - Try to contact Ed White. Wazerzat 12 (Lavin, Roche et Lavin).
I sat drinking my coffee and wondering about this last entry. Lavin, Roche et Lavin was obviously the name of a French firm and Wazerzat looked like the phonetic spelling of an Arab town - Ouarzazate, for instance.
I closed the book slowly and finished my coffee. Reading that log had brought the man to life in my mind. Reluctantly, I called the patrone and had him take me through into the kitchen, and there I thrust the book down into the red hot coals of the range. I found myself muttering a prayer for him as it burst into flames. The book should have been consigned to the sea.
Coming back into the cafe, I noticed an Arab sitting in the far corner, by the window. I hadn’t seen him come in. I suppose I had been too engrossed in the story of Wade’s voyages. There was something familiar about his face. I paid my bill and, as I walked out, our eyes met and I remembered that he had been in the bank when I had arranged for the transfer of Kavan’s money. He had quick, intelligent eyes and a hard, aquiline face. His djellaba was of the smooth, grey gaberdine favoured by the richer guides and pimps and he wore brown European shoes.
I turned up into the Arab town, climbing quickly towards the kasbah. I wanted to take a look at Jews’ Bay — and I wanted to quash the suspicion that had suddenly crossed my mind.
ť From the Naam Battery I looked down to the sea and across the width of Jews’ Bay. The sea was blue and sparkled in the sunsh
ine. The water of the bay was faintly corrugated and there was a fringe of white where the swell broke on the golden sand. It was a quiet, peaceful scene, utterly at variance with my memories of what it had been like down there less than twenty-four hours ago. There was no sign of the wreck, but a small motor launch was hovering around the spot where the yacht had struck. I turned and walked back to the Place du Tabor, and there was the Arab I had left sitting in the cafe.
It was just possible, of course, that it was a coincidence. There were always guides hanging around the Place du Tabor. I cut down the rue Raid-Sultan, past the old palace - the Dar el Makhzen - and the treasury and into the labyrinth of alleys that run steeply down to the Zocco Chico. It was cool and quiet, but the roar of the markets drifted up to me on the still air like the murmur of a hive. I reached an intersection where the main alley descended in shallow steps through a tunnel formed by the houses. A narrower passage, leading I knew to a cul-de-sac, ran off at right angles and close by a baby sunning itself in an open doorway. I slipped into the doorway and waited.
Almost immediately I heard the patter of slippers hurrying down to the intersection. It was the same Arab. He hesitated an instant, glancing along the empty passage of the cul-de-sac. Then he dived into the tunnel of the main alley and went flapping down the steps like an ungainly bird.
There was no doubt about it now. I was being followed. The thought that a man like Kostos was now in a position to do this to me made me unreasonably angry. I went on down the alley and came out into the Zocco Chico. The Arab was waiting for me there. His face showed relief as he saw me, and then he looked away. I went straight up to him. ‘Who told you to follow me?’ I asked him angrily in Spanish. He started to walk away, but I caught hold of him by the arm and swung him round. ‘Was it Senor Kostos?’ Recognition of the name showed in his eyes. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’re going back to the Hotel Malabata now.’ I let him go and turned up by the Spanish Church, walking fast.
He was close behind me as I entered the hotel. I went straight over to the reception desk where the patrone was sitting and demanded my bill and both our passports.
‘You are leaving Tangier, senor?’ He was a sallow-faced, oily little man with discoloured teeth and a large, hooked nose. I think he was of mixed Arab-Spanish blood. His eyes stared at me inquisitively over the rim of deep, fleshy pouches. His interest made me suspicious. My bill,’ I said. ‘I’m in a hurry.’
He glanced up at the clock above his head. It was just after three. ‘Already you have missed the train, senor. The next one does not depart until twenty-one hundred thirty-five.’
‘I’m still in a hurry,’ I said.
He shrugged his shoulders and started making out the bill. His eyes kept shifting to my face as he wrote.
They were full of curiosity. Through the open doorway I could see the Arab waiting patiently across the street.
‘There will be a small addition for the other senor.’
‘That’s all right.’
He put down his pen. ‘He can have your room if he wishes.’ He stared at me. ‘Or do you both leave Tangier together?’
‘Give me the bill,’ I said. He met my gaze for an instant and then his eyes dropped shiftily.
I settled the bill and he gave me my passport with the change. ‘It is necessary for you to complete this paper, senor. It is for the police.’ He was smiling at me craftily as he handed me the printed form which I should have filled in on arrival. He knew that the information I had to give included the address of my destination. When I had completed it, all but this one item, I hesitated. Then I wrote in the Pension de la Montagne. It was the pension from which we had seen the yacht being blown into Jews’ Bay. In the old days there had been no telephone there. I handed the form back to him and he glanced at it quickly, almost eagerly. ‘I’d like my friend’s passport, too,’ I said.
But he shook his head. ‘I am sorry, senor. He must collect it himself and complete the paper for the police.’
I nodded. ‘All right,’ I said, and went up to the room. Kavan unlocked the door for me. He had had a wash and was dressed in his underclothes. ‘I’m glad you’re up,’ I said. ‘Get dressed quickly. We’re leaving at once.’
He reacted instantly to the urgency in my voice. ‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘It’s your friend Kostos.’ And I explained how I had been followed. ‘The man’s waiting for us outside now. We’ve got to lose him before we get on that train. And I don’t trust the patrone here either.’
‘Did you find Karen?’ he asked.
‘No. We can do that later when we’ve got rid of this Arab. Come on. Hurry.’ Thank heavens he looked a lot better.
He didn’t argue and when he’d got into his clothes, I sent him down to get his passport while I finished packing my, case. ‘There’s a form to fill in,’ I told him as he was going out. ‘For destination put the Pension de la Montagne. It’s out of town and it’ll take them some time to check that we’re not there.’
He nodded, stuffing the oilskin bag into his pocket. ‘I’ll wait for you downstairs.’
When I went down to join him, I heard his voice raised in altercation with the patrone. It was something to do with the passport and they were shouting at each other in French. ‘Then why did Monsieur Latham tell me to come down here to get it?’ Kavan demanded agitatedly. He caught sight of me then and said, ‘This idiot says he gave you my passport.’
The patrone nodded his head emphatically. ‘Si, si, senor. Did you not ask for both the passports - yours and that of senor here?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But you refused to give me his. You said he must collect it personally and fill in the form at the same time.’
‘No, no. It is true about the paper. But I give you the passport.’ He turned to the hotel boy standing by the desk. ‘Did I not give the senor both the passports?’
‘Si, si, si.’ The Arab nodded.
It was the same boy who had come up to my room the previous night to collect Kavan’s wet clothes. And suddenly I knew why the patrone had wanted these clothes. He had been told to check through the pockets. ‘Do you know a Greek called Kostos?’ I asked him.
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. He didn’t say anything, but I knew I was right. Kostos was at the back of this passport nonsense, too. I sent the Arab boy for a taxi. ‘If you haven’t produced that passport by the time the taxi arrives,’ I told the patrone, ‘I’m going straight to the British Consul.’
He shrugged his shoulders, but there was a frightened look in his shifty eyes.
‘Now come on,’ I said. ‘Hand it over.’
But he shook his head obstinately and reiterated his statement that he’d already given it to me.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’ll see what the Consul and the police think of that story.’
Kavan plucked at my arm. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he whispered urgently. ‘I’ve still got my own papers.’ His face was white and the twitch at the corner of his mouth had started again.
‘That’s no good,’ I said. ‘They’re not stamped as having entered Tangier. You’d never get across the frontier.’
‘But — ‘ His mouth stayed open. He was trembling. I thought he was scared because he was a refugee and in a bureaucratic world; refugees have no existence unless their papers are in order. But it wasn’t that. ‘I’m not going to the Consulate,’ he hissed. ‘Whatever happens, I’m not going to the Consulate. We’ve got to get that passport.’
I glanced at the patrone. His greasy face was sullen and obstinate and frightened. ‘It’s no good,’ I said. ‘Kostos must have some kind of hold over him. We’re not going to get it.’
‘But we must. We must.’
‘If you hadn’t called yourself Wade and got mixed up with Kostos,’ I said angrily, ‘this would never have happened.’ ‘The taxi arrived then and I turned to the patrone, giving him one more chance to produce it. But he only shrugged his shoulders and called on the saints to witness the truth of what
he was saying.
‘All right,’ I said, and I got Kavan out to the taxi and bundled him in. The Arab moved towards us from the opposite corner of the street. ‘Le Consulat Britannique,’ I ordered the driver. ‘Vite, vite!’
Kavan caught hold of my arm as the taxi drove off. ‘It’s no good,’ he cried. ‘I won’t go to the Consulate. I won’t go, I tell you.’ He was wrought up to a point of hysteria. ‘Tell him to stop.’ He leaned quickly forward to tap on the glass partition.
But I pulled him back, struggling with him. ‘Don’t be a fool!’ I shouted at him. ‘You wanted to call yourself Wade. Well, now you’ve got to be Wade until we’re out of Tangier. And you won’t get out till we’ve recovered that passport.’
‘There must be some other way. I could slip across the frontier….’ He reached forward to the partition again, but I flung him back into his seat. ‘What are you scared of?’ I demanded, shaking him. I was suddenly furiously angry, fed up with the whole wretched business. ‘Why are you frightened of the Consul? What is it you’ve done?’
‘Nothing. I told you before. I’ve done nothing. Absolutely nothing.’ His voice was trembling. He seemed on the verge of tears he was so wrought up. ‘I promise you. Please. Tell the driver to stop.’
‘No,’ I said, holding him down. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ My voice sounded hard. ‘We’re going to see the Consul. Either that or you tell me why you’re scared to go there. Did you kill Wade?’
‘No.’ He stared at me, his body shocked rigid. ‘It happened just as I said.’
‘Then what the devil is it you’re scared of? Why did you insist on taking his name? Come on now,’ I added, gripping hold of his arm. ‘If you want any more help from me, you’d better give me the whole story.’
He stared at me, his white, frightened face outlined against the dark leather of the cab. ‘All right,’ he whispered, and his body relaxed under my hand as though a weight had been lifted from him. ‘All right, I’ll tell you.’ He leaned back in his seat as though exhausted. ‘I have told you I am a scientist.’ I nodded. ‘Have you lived here so long in North Africa that you don’t know what that means?’ He leaned quickly forward, his face becoming excited again. ‘It means you have something here — ‘ He tapped his forehead. ‘And because of that your life is not your own any more. It belongs to the State. I am a Czech. If you take me to the Consulate, then I shall be sent back to England, and sooner or later they will get me. Or else life will become so insupportable …’
The Strange Land Page 7
