The horn began to blare then and they broke and ran. I was running, too, now. I shouted something -something in English. I caught a glimpse of White peering out of his tent. There was a stab of flame and the crack of a gun. Then he started to run. We were all running - running towards a still body that lay in a tight bundle on the piste. By the time I reached it, the man’s assailants - three or four of them - had vanished into the darkness that lay outside the beam of the headlights.
The body lying on the piste was alive. I saw that at a glance. The man was breathing heavily, his heaving chest thrusting the air out in great gasping sobs. But there was blood on the sand. ‘I didn’t hit him,’ Ed White panted. ‘I fired over their heads to scare them.’
‘Of course,’ I said and turned the man over.
It was our missing guide - Moha. There was a cut above his right eye that extended across his forehead and into his hair. It looked as though a stone had hit him. But down by his waist his djellaba had been ripped open with a knife and there was more blood. Jan thrust me aside, tearing the djellaba apart to expose the torn flesh of the man’s buttocks. He examined the wound quickly and then nodded and said, ‘He’s all right. Just a flesh wound.’ He sat back on his haunches, staring at the inert body. The man was still panting as though he had just flopped down after winning a race. ‘Why did they attack him?’ he asked, twisting his head round and looking up at me.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘We’d better get him up to the camp.’
As we lifted him up, I saw he had something tightly clutched in his right hand. It was a roll of paper. I prised the fingers from their grip on it and then we carried him to the larger of the two tents, where we laid him on one of the camp beds. Julie joined us there, carrying a bowl of water and some bandages. Whilst she set to work to bathe the man’s wounds, I took the crumpled paper over to the pressure lamp. It was written in Arabic, the writing thin and shaky, but recognisably the same as the writing on the deeds of Kasbah Foum. It was signed Caid El-Hassan d’Es-Skhira.
I touched Jan on the shoulder as he bent over the knife wound in Moha’s body. ‘Here’s the answer to your question,’ I said. ‘He was attacked because he was bringing you this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Confirmation of your title to Kasbah Foum.’
‘But I thought the Caid — ‘ He almost snatched the paper from me and stood staring down at the writing.
‘Does this mean Kasbah Foum belongs to me?’ he asked, and he held the paper out to me so that I could read it.
‘Yes,’ I said, peering over his shoulder. ‘The letter states quite clearly that the Caid agrees to Duprez’s choice of a successor to the title and requests the authorities to make the necessary registration. It further states that so long as you live, neither he nor any member of his family shall have any interest in the property.’ I hesitated.
‘What is it?’ he asked quickly.
‘He doesn’t mention your name anywhere. He simply refers to you as “the bearer of the deeds”.’
‘Probably he couldn’t remember my name.’ He was holding the paper tightly in his hand as though afraid it might vanish. ‘Does it make any difference, do you think?’
‘I don’t imagine so. You have the deeds and you have his letter confirming the title. It should be all right.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t understand, Philip. I never thought he’d agree to it so quickly. I thought he’d want to talk to Legard and make some enquiries … What do you think made him do it in such a hurry?’
The man on the camp bed groaned and moved. I turned and saw that he had recovered consciousness. ‘Maybe that’s your answer,’ I said. ‘The old man knows his son only too well.’
There was a movement in the entrance to the tent. It was the goat boy from the old Kasbah, Moha’s son. He stood there with wide, shocked eyes, staring at his father. Then he looked at us and there was anger and fear on his small, immature features. It was best that the boy knew the truth of it and I asked his father what happened.
Apparently Moha had received a message from the Caid to attend him in his room. He had found him alone on his couch writing a letter. This he had handed to Moha with instructions that it should be delivered to us with all possible speed. He had left with it at once, but, as he came through the palmerie, he realised that he was being followed. He was past his village then and all he could do was run on in the hope of reaching our camp before his pursuers caught up with him. He had almost made it.
We patched him up as best we could and then drove him down the piste to the nearest point to his village and escorted him to his house. Afterwards we drove back to the camp and had a meal. That night I insisted on Jan moving into Ed White’s tent. The American was the only one of us who had a gun. I had Julie lock herself in her own compartment and I was just settling down in the passenger seat where I should be within easy reach of the controls, when the door was flung open. It was Jan. He was half-undressed. ‘What is it?’ I said, for he was excited about something.
‘This.’ He threw something into my lap.
It was a small blue book - a British passport. And when I opened it I saw that it was Wade’s. ‘Where did you get this?’ I asked him.
‘It was in my suitcase.’
‘But — ‘ I stared at it. ‘How could it be in your suitcase?’
‘I think Kostos must have put it there this morning. You remember there was nobody at the camp that first time he came here. We were up in the gorge.’
‘But why should he return it to you like that?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what I wanted to ask you.’
It occurred to me then that Kostos, suspecting Jan of murder, was getting rid of the one piece of evidence that involved him.
I didn’t tell Jan this, but long after he’d gone back to the tent I was still thinking about it.
The passenger seat made an uncomfortable bed and I slept little. Nothing happened during the night and when dawn broke and showed me the empty expanse of desert leading down to the palmerie, I transferred myself to the bunk and slept through till almost midday.
By the time I had washed and shaved and had some coffee, Jan and Ed White were coming down out of the gorge for their midday meal. They were talking together and laughing as though they had known each other all their lives. Julie came out of the cook tent and stood beside me, looking up the track, watching them approach. ‘I’m glad,’ she said. I glanced at her and she added, ‘If Ed hadn’t been as nice as he is … it could have been horrible here if they’d hated each other. They’re so completely unalike.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘They have things in common. They’re both strangers in a new country. And there’s the mine. They’re both absorbed in Kasbah Foum.’
‘Philip!’ Jan’s voice reached me on the light breeze. He seemed excited. ‘We’ve found it,’ he shouted to me. ‘We’ve found the entrance to the mine. There’s just one corner of it exposed now, but by tomorrow we’ll have cleared it entirely.’
‘Fine,’ I said and sat down on the step of the bus and lit a cigarette, looking down across the sand and the dusty green of the palmerie to the Post gleaming white in a sudden shaft of sunlight. I was thinking that Legard would be back and wishing I had Jan’s power of concentration, his ability to shut his mind to everything but the immediate problem.
‘Jan’s right,’ Ed said. His eyes, too, were aglint with excitement. ‘I guess we’ll have the entrance fully exposed by tomorrow. After that, all we’ve got to do is to clear the rock fall inside the shaft.’
Their enthusiasm should have been infectious. But I felt strangely flat. Whether it was the place or just the fact that I saw the situation too clearly, I don’t know, but my gaze kept turning away from the gorge down the piste towards the Post.
It was an odd sort of day, almost English. Julie had laid the table out in the open under the fly of the big tent. The air was cool, despite the periodic bursts of sunshine, and there was a lot of
cloud about, especially towards the west, where it was banked up in great cotton-wool piles of cumulus. ‘I’ve been ransacking your stores,’ Julie said to Ed. ‘I opened up some of your tinned turkey. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Why should I?’ Ed laughed. ‘That’s what it’s there for - to be eaten. Besides I owe you people a debt of gratitude anyway. If Jan hadn’t turned up when he did, it would have been a week or more before I found the entrance.’
Julie was standing over the table. ‘You boys are so interested in what you’re doing, I’ll bet you haven’t any idea why I’m serving a turkey dinner.’ There was laughter in her eyes.
Jan stared at her with a puzzled frown. It was Ed who suddenly laughed out loud. ‘I got it,’ he cried. ‘I got it.’ And he thumped the table with his fist. ‘By God, it’s Christmas Day.’ And he jumped to his feet and dived into his tent, coming out with a bottle of cognac. ‘Merry Christmas!’ He was laughing as he held the bottle up.
‘Do you mean it’s the twenty-fifth today?’ Jan’s voice sounded surprised, as though time had crept up on him unawares.
Julie put her hand on his shoulder. ‘And tomorrow will be the twenty-sixth. Your wife will be in Ouarzazate tomorrow. Remember?’
He nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’ He repeated the word as though it were something unattainable and I saw him glance towards the Post.
Julie turned to Ed. ‘Afterwards, I’ll drive you down to the Post. There’s probably some mail for you.’
‘Oh, don’t bother.’ He turned to Jan. ‘We got more important things to talk about.’
‘But you must have your mail on Christmas Day,’ Julie said. ‘There’ll probably be some presents — ‘
Something in the expression on his face stopped her. He was standing with the bottle in his hand looking round at the tent. ‘I’ve been too much of a rolling stone, I guess. And I’ve no family anyway.’ He came over to the table. ‘Come on, let’s have a drink.’ And he began to pour us each a cognac.
We drank a toast and then we started to feed. Every now and then Jan glanced uneasily down the piste towards the palmerie. It was as though he were waiting for something to happen, for tomorrow - the future — to catch up with him.
About halfway through the meal he suddenly stopped eating, his eyes staring down towards Foum-Skhira. I turned in my seat and saw a little puff of sand scurrying along the edge of the palmerie. It was a French truck driving fast along the piste towards us. ‘Do you think Legard is back?’ he asked me.
The truck drew up by the tent in a cloud of sand. The bearded orderly from the Post was at the wheel. ‘Bureau,’ he shouted, pointing urgently towards Foum Skhira.
I got up and went over to him. ‘Who wants us to go to the Bureau?’ I asked the Berber.
But he insisted on sticking to his limited French. ‘Bureau,’ he repeated. ‘Vite, vite, monsieur.’ It was clear that for official business he regarded French as the only language to talk to Europeans.
I asked him again who wanted us, whether Legard was back, but he remained obstinately silent, merely repeating, ‘Bureau, monsieur.’
‘fa va,’ I said and went back to the others. ‘I think we’d better go and see what’s happened,’ I told Jan.
He nodded and we continued our meal in silence, whilst the orderly sat stolidly waiting for us in his truck. When we had finished I got to my feet. ‘I’ll drive you down, shall I?’ Julie said. Ed sat watching us. His freckled face was puckered in a frown. Jan drew me to one side. ‘I’m just going to have a word with Ed,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll join you. We’ve come to an understanding - a sort of gentleman’s agreement. I want him to realise that whatever Legard’s instructions about me, he’s free to go ahead on his own.’ He turned back to the table then, and Julie and I went out to the bus.
As we climbed in, she said, ‘I’ve got something for you, Philip. I wanted to give it to you before the meal, but I couldn’t because of Ed.’ She went through into her section of the caravan and came out carrying one of George’s canvases. She turned it round so that I could see it. It was a painting of the ravine at Enfida, showing the Mission house as a small white building above the green of the olive trees. ‘It’s just to remind you of us - to hang in your room when you build your new Mission.’
I looked at her, feeling a sudden lump in my throat. I took a step forward and then stopped. ‘But you’ve so few of his paintings. I couldn’t possibly — ‘
‘Please. I want you to have it. He would have wanted it, too. I told you, he was doing a painting for you when - when it happened.’
She held the canvas out to me and I took it, still staring at her. Her eyes were wide and close to tears. A pulse beat in her throat. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I murmured. ‘I haven’t words to thank you.’
‘Just remember where I have asked you to hang it.’
I looked down at the painting, not knowing how to tell her what I felt. And then Jan came in. Julie went past me to the driving seat and started the engine. We drove past the tent where Ed White sat alone and down the piste towards Foum Skhira, the orderly trailing us in his truck.
The day had clouded over completely now and the wind was getting up so that all the sky beyond the palmerie was brown with sand. It was like it had been the day before. But the wind was from the other direction now and as we ran along the edge of the palmerie, we were sheltered from the drifting sand and all we experienced of the rising wind was the thrashing of the palm fronds as the soft, springy trunks bent under the thrust of it, though away to the left, between us and the mountains, the sand was on the move everywhere. We didn’t catch the full force of it again until we drove past the remains of the souk and out into the open space between Ksar Foum-Skhira and the forts. And here, besides the sand, the windscreen became spotted with rain.
There was a Citroen parked outside the Bureau and we drew up beside it. ‘That’s not Legard’s car,’ Jan said. ‘He had a jeep.’
‘Maybe somebody gave him a lift back,’ I said. But I noticed as we walked past it that it wasn’t an Army car. Under its white coating of dust it was black. I had a sudden sense of being trapped and glanced quickly at Jan. He was frowning and his eyes were looking around him uneasily.
The orderly hurried past us, his cloak flapping in the wind. We followed him into the passageway of the Bureau. He went straight to Legard’s office, knocked and went in. I hesitated, trying to catch what was being said, but they spoke softly. And then the orderly emerged again and beckoned to us.
Julie went in first and then Jan. They both stopped and there was a look of shocked surprise on Jan’s face. Then I, too, was inside the office and the sense of being trapped was overpowering.
It wasn’t Legard sitting at the desk in there. It was Bilvidic.
He rose as he saw Julie. ‘Mademoiselle Corrigan?’ he asked.
Julie nodded. ‘We were expecting to see Capitaine Legard.’
‘Ah yes. But he stayed to organise his food trucks. My name is Bilvidic, of the Surete in Casablanca.’ He paused and regarded Jan, who had turned automatically towards the door as though seeking escape. But the door had closed and, standing against it, was a man who was obviously a policeman in plain clothes. He was tall, thick-set, with sallow features and a flattened nose. Bilvidic motioned Julie to a seat. ‘Tell me, Mademoiselle Corrigan, how long have you known this gentleman?’ He indicated Jan.
‘Not very long,’ Julie answered. ‘Why?’
‘And all the time you have known him as Dr Kavan?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you agreed to drive him down here to Foum-Skhira?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Miss Corrigan has nothing to do with this business,’
I said quickly. ‘If you want to ask questions, please put them to me.’
‘Very well, monsieur. Since you wish it.’ Bilvidic’s grey eyes stared at me frostily over their little pouches. ‘Why did you lie to me? Why do you say this man has flown from England? You knew that
we would check.’
I looked across at Jan. But he didn’t say anything. He was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his head slightly bowed; quite still like a man considering a problem.
Bilvidic, waiting, produced his pack of American cigarettes and lit himself one. ‘Eh bien,’ he said, and sat down on the corner of the desk and inhaled the smoke from his cigarette. ‘Since you do not wish to talk, I will tell you what we have been doing. First we check with Paris and London. There is no Dr Kavan leaving London Airport on the night of the eighteenth. There is no Dr Kavan leaving Orly Airport in Paris for Casablanca on the morning of the nineteenth.’ He glanced at Jan. ‘But you were on that flight from Tangier to Casablanca and you are shown on the list of passengers as having booked through from Paris.’ He made little clicking noises with his tongue and his eyes switched to me. ‘Why did you do it, Monsieur Latham? It was stupid of you. Now you must come to Casablanca for questioning.’ He turned to Jan. ‘Alors, monsieur. Your name is Roland Tregareth Wade, yes? And you are the owner of the yacht that is wrecked near Tangier on the night of the eighteenth.’
I waited for Jan to deny it, but he didn’t speak.
‘What’s the charge?’ I asked and my voice sounded nervous for I thought it would be murder.
But Bilvidic said, ‘There is no charge. He is being held for questioning. That is all. And we have to be in Casablanca by the morning.’
‘By tomorrow morning?’ It was over three hundred miles across the mountains. ‘It means driving all night. If there’s no charge, surely it isn’t as urgent — ‘
‘My headquarters insist that we are there by the morning.’
The Strange Land Page 20
