An Echo of Scandal

by Laura Madeleine

  Even so, it was all I could do to keep up my pretended groans as we entered the streets of Gibraltar. A different world to La Atunara, just across the border. Here were motorcars and gleaming shop fronts, fussily dressed matrons next to sailors and soldiers and beyond them all boats – so many boats, jostling white on the sea like gulls.

  The hotel they took me to was set high on the rock, above the tangle of narrow streets. The Grand, it was called. I had never set foot anywhere like The Grand.

  Where the inn was straw and stone and old wood tough as iron, The Grand was marble and white gravel and shining polish. I did not belong there, in my grimy suit. Even the doormen, who were paid not to notice, looked at me as if I were a bird dropping on a scrubbed step.

  But the lady was helping me out of the car; she was insisting I put my arm about her shoulder. The man was calling for a chair. One was brought, a wicker thing on wheels, and I was taken through a lobby that smelled of flowers into an elevator – another first for me – and from there along a corridor with a patterned wooden floor, into a room.

  Doctor, the Englishman was saying, and I felt a stab of panic. A doctor was a thing that could not be fooled: the girls at the inn had never been successful in concealing their ailments from the health inspector. If the gentleman and the lady discovered I was a woman, what would they do? Question me? They would undoubtedly think I was no good, a whore on hard times perhaps, and tell the hotel to take me back to the border, once they were satisfied I would not die. I might have time to get away, if the Spanish authorities had not alerted the British about the murder, but if they had …

  My mind racing, I began to look around the room for a way to escape. It was like the car: wide and cool and very clean, with thin curtains that billowed like sails. At any other time I would have sighed to be there, but all I could think about was my lie, and how to maintain it, and how soon these people would lose interest, and leave me to my fate.

  The lady appeared with a wet cloth in her hands. I smelled her perfume again as she pushed me back into the cushions of a sofa.

  ‘You must stay calm, the doctor will be here soon.’ When she tried to wipe gently at my face, at the blood on my lip, I flinched away. No one had ever touched me like that before.

  If anything, she looked sorry. ‘We should see about your chest,’ she murmured. ‘Let me—’ Before I knew what was happening, she had slid her hand inside the jacket, dangerously close to the strips of cloth that bound my breasts. I cried out, cringing away from her.

  ‘Leave him be, Hilde.’ A voice came to my rescue. ‘He’s clearly frightened. And in shock, I would guess.’ The man was standing at a sideboard. When he turned, he held two glasses, filled with brown liquid. He seemed to belong in that room the way a painting would, or a statue.

  ‘Here.’ He held out one of the glasses towards me.

  I took it, unable to look at either of them, and sipped the liquid.

  Scotch. It was Scotch. The smell of it ambushed me and I was back at the inn, breathing in spilled liquor and the stink of blood that rushed from the Señor’s throat. I choked and the glass tipped in my hand. The lady plucked it from my fingers.

  ‘Arthur, really. The poor boy’s probably never had a drink of whisky in his life. Go and get some brandy instead, that’s better for shock.’

  Soon I found a big, bulbous glass pressed into my hands, filled with brandy. Exceptionally good brandy. I gulped it, gasped as it stung my lip and gulped the rest.

  ‘Bueno,’ the man said. ‘¿Cómo estás? ¿Dónde estás herido?’

  I looked at him sharply. I hadn’t expected him to speak Spanish. In English, I could hide, I could play dumb, but in Spanish it would be harder.

  ‘Mi pierna,’ I said, nodding at my leg. ‘Sólo mi pierna.’ I didn’t want anyone prodding at my chest. ‘Y mi labio,’ I muttered, pulling down my lip to show where it was hot and swollen.

  ‘Gracias a Dios,’ he said, his eyes creasing in a smile. ‘I was worried you were bleeding from your guts or something.’

  I shook my head, though my empty guts were smarting from the brandy, squirming at the memory of blood and Scotch. I glanced at the man again, as he spoke to the lady in English, and she made a noise of relief. When I looked back, it was into his eyes once more.

  ‘What in god’s name were you doing, stepping in front of my car like that?’

  He said it lightly, and looked amused, tolerant, but still I was wary.

  ‘I did not mean to,’ I said. ‘The sun was in my eyes.’ Ifrahim’s old excuse; the answer of a petty thief.

  The man was watching me, his own eyes unfathomable. ‘Mine too,’ he said.

  ‘¿Cómo te llamas?’ That was the lady, interrupting in clumsy-sounding Spanish.

  My swollen lip twitched. ‘Del Potro,’ I told her, without breaking the man’s gaze. ‘Alejandro del Potro.’

  Tangier

  July 1978

  Tangier, 12.7.78

  Dear A,

  I would be happy to return your case. However, I would like to do so in person. I have a lot of questions. One to start: did you take my letter?

  Best,

  Sam Hackett

  *

  12.7.78

  Dear Mr Hackett,

  To answer your question: yes. I apologize. I can only say that I acted in shock, seeing something again I had long thought lost.

  I am afraid it is impossible to meet. I ask you again to consider my request. I am prepared to offer a substantial reward for the return of the writing case. Forgive me for saying so, but it appears you could make use of the money.

  Regards,

  A

  *

  Tangier, 13.7.78

  Dear A,

  Forgive me for saying so, but my financial situation is my own business. The fact of the matter is this: I have something else of yours too, something I believe you will want more than the writing case. What if I said ‘Hotel Continental’ and ‘15’ to you?

  Best,

  Sam

  *

  ‘What does he mean, “impossible to meet”?’ Sam held the letter away from the sticky bar. ‘It can’t be literally impossible.’

  ‘Maybe he’s house bound,’ said Roger, pouring out a gin and tonic.

  ‘Maybe he prefers to remain incognito,’ Bet winked, tapping her cigar.

  Roger laughed, and went to deliver the drinks. Sam shifted on the bar stool and took another long gulp of beer. He couldn’t escape a nagging feeling of guilt, telling other people about the suitcase, about A, whoever he was. A fifty-year secret wasn’t something to be thrown about a bar like tittle-tattle. And yet, he’d felt off balance ever since he’d received the first note. It was as if the fiction he’d been writing had come to life; as if he’d conjured ‘A’ into being using only his imagination. He had to tell someone, if only to make sure it was all real, that he wasn’t going insane.

  ‘He must live in Tangier,’ he said, after a silence. ‘Or the notes wouldn’t arrive so fast.’

  ‘They all come through Khalid, at the Gran Café?’ Bet asked.

  Sam nodded. ‘There was another one waiting when I went in yesterday. I tried to grill Khalid, but he’s not saying a word. I sat there for three hours, waiting to see if anyone came to collect my response. Nothing.’

  Bet gave a half-laugh and sucked on her cigar.

  ‘Then there’s the passport I found in the suitcase, belonging to this del Potro character.’ Sam kept his voice low. For some reason, saying the name aloud made his neck prickle. ‘Do you think he stole A. L.’s case? Maybe—’ He swallowed. A person rarely abandoned an entire suitcase, especially one containing their passport. ‘Maybe something happened to this del Potro. Maybe he was a thief and he was arrested, or died, and that’s why he never returned?’

  He looked up hopefully, only to find Bet staring at him, a strange expression on her face.

  ‘What did you say that name was?’ she asked, her voice husky.

  ‘Del Potro. Alejand
ro del Potro.’ He sat up straighter. ‘Why? Have you heard of him?’

  Bet was silent, working her lips. Finally, she shook her head. ‘Before my time. It sounded familiar, that’s all.’

  He looked over at Roger, but the bartender just turned away, depositing some empty glasses in the sink.

  ‘Are there any people left here from that time?’ Sam asked, frustrated. ‘There was a date I found in the writing case, July nineteen twenty-eight. Is there anyone who might remember what Tangier was like back then? If nothing else, it’d be great to get some more material. I think I might be on to something with this … whatever it is I’m writing.’

  Roger smiled. ‘Good for you, lad.’ He rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. ‘There are a few. But you have to understand, a lot of stuff happened when Tangier was the International Zone. Not much of it legal. Folk tend to keep their pasts to themselves, even now. Only person I can think of who might talk is old Lil Simcox. What d’you reckon, Bet?’

  Sam couldn’t read the expression on her face. ‘Lil was born here,’ she said. ‘Die here too, if she’s got any say in it.’

  ‘Do you think I could talk to her?’

  Roger and Bet exchanged a look.

  ‘You can talk,’ Roger said eventually, ‘as long as you don’t expect much of a response. Poor old girl is losing it.’

  ‘Hardly surprising, after her life,’ Bet muttered, and pointed to Sam’s glass. ‘Another?’

  Norton didn’t turn up at The Hold that night, something Sam was strangely thankful for. He’d already spilled A’s secrets to two people; any more and it would be halfway around Tangier before he made it home to bed. Anyway, it was his story. Telling Roger and Bet was one thing, but confiding in a journalist was quite another.

  He was up and out early the next day, despite having written until late. Yawning, he hurried down the Rue d’Italie with the writing case in hand. The Gran Café de Paris smelled of bleach and stale smoke and the coolness of night, punctured by the first hot coffees of the day. Khalid was there, setting out chairs. He rolled his eyes when he saw Sam and reached into his apron.

  Another envelope.

  ‘When did this arrive?’ Sam demanded, tearing at the paper. The café had been open all of ten minutes. Whoever delivered the letters had beaten him to it. ‘Was it him again, the old man?’

  Khalid shrugged. ‘I cannot say, Monsieur Hackett. I was in the kitchen.’

  14.7.78

  I do not care for evasiveness. If you are trying to blackmail or bribe me, then get on and do it.

  A

  Sam stared at the letter, stunned. What had he written to cause that kind of reaction? He thought back to his previous note.

  What if I said ‘Hotel Continental’ and ‘15’ to you?

  His face flared with embarrassment. Of course. He thought he’d been clever, witty, dangling what he knew in front of A without an explanation. But he’d misjudged the situation, caught up as he was in his writing. The case belonged to A’s past, his real past, not Sam’s fantasy. No wonder the man was pissed off.

  But still – blackmail? It seemed extreme. Why would A bring that up, apropos of nothing? Unless he had something to hide … Sam smoothed out one of the last sheets of the old paper, and began to scrawl a reply.

  14.7.78

  Dear A,

  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, and I promise, I have no interest in blackmail or bribes. I’m a writer, that’s all, and I find myself writing about you, or at least, the things that once belonged to you. You see, in the bottom of this writing case, I found a key and a tag, with a number.

  It was the longest letter he had written to date, describing how he’d discovered that the tag belonged to the Hotel Continental, and how he’d searched the storeroom there, and everything that came after.

  There was a passport in the suitcase, belonging to a man named Alejandro del Potro. Was he someone you knew? Please believe me when I say I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. I just want to know a little more about you, who you are, your life here. It must sound strange, but you’ve caught my imagination in a way nothing else has.

  He paused. Was it too much? Maybe, but he wanted to be honest. The only thing he hadn’t mentioned was the strange, pencil-written letter.

  Please write back. I have so many questions.

  Sam

  He sealed the letter, scrawled A on the front and went to the counter to find Khalid.

  ‘I’ll be back this afternoon,’ he said loudly.

  Khalid nodded, and tucked the letter into his apron. He obviously didn’t relish his role as go-between, no matter what A was paying him. Sam walked out of the café and turned, making sure Khalid saw him pass the windows. As soon as he was out of sight, he stopped and turned. If Khalid wouldn’t tell him who A was, he’d have to find out another way.

  The French Embassy stood across from the café, with its stern, clipped hedge and stone pillars, entirely at odds with the grime and hustle of the street. Trying to be casual, he stepped through the gates and looked for an unobtrusive place to wait. He found that by standing in the shadow of one of the hedges, he could see the terrace of the Gran Café de Paris without being seen himself.

  All right, he thought, taking the rolling papers from his pocket. Let’s see who you are.

  One cigarette became two as the morning grew warmer. Before too long the sun drove the shade away, beating down on the back of his neck. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the café as it filled up with men in suits and sports jackets and djellabas. A couple of girls went in, American or British students possibly, and he almost gave up on the stake-out. Another twenty minutes, he told himself, another ten.

  His scalp was prickling in the heat, feet swollen in the sloppy espadrilles. It must have been nearing eleven. When a man walked past the embassy pushing a cart full of melon, hacked into slices, he couldn’t stand it any more, and ducked out of the gate to buy some.

  He ate it with the writing case tucked under one arm, and his eyes on the café, the juice running down the backs of his hands, dripping from his wrists. He almost expected it to hiss when it hit the gravel below. It was lukewarm and honey-sweet, washing the taste of nicotine from his mouth, filling his head with a rush of sugar.

  A uniformed guard found him just as he was spitting the pips into the hedge.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que vous faites?’ the man barked.

  ‘I’m, ah, waiting for someone,’ Sam said unconvincingly. ‘I’m American and I—’

  Something flashed across the street; the glass door of the Gran Café de Paris, reflecting the sun. A figure was hurrying out, looking down, sliding something small and rectangular and white into a shoulder bag, something like an envelope …

  Without thinking, Sam broke into a run, though the guard shouted angrily and made a grab for him. He barged through people on the pavement, almost tripping headfirst into a roadside stall filled with broken watches and old shoes. More people shouted at him, he didn’t care. He blinked hard, staring down the street.

  There, the figure was walking away, one hand gripping the bag. Whoever it was, they were swathed in a brown djellaba, the hood pulled up against the heat. Sam jogged, trying to close the distance between them, but the person was already nearing the corner of the Rue de la Liberté.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouted.

  The figure paused and half turned towards him. He caught a glimpse of dark hair before they whirled around and disappeared between two taxis.

  ‘Hey!’ Sam yelled again and lunged to follow, only to almost be knocked down by a moped, the driver screaming at him. Heart hammering, swiping sweat from his eyes, he looked down the street and caught a glimpse of the figure, rounding a corner. He raced to follow. Beyond, the road curved left towards the Place de France and the English Church, right towards the tarpaulined chaos of the medina. He had no idea which way the person had gone. Gasping in a lungful of hot air, he took a gamble, and turned right.

  It couldn’t have been
a worse time. Late morning, and the narrow paths between the market stalls were swimming with people, crowded with breath and voices and the smell of wet dirt and meat, pungent fish, crushed spices. He fought down one passage, turned left and battled past the stall that sold live chickens and ducks, squawking in their cages. Blood and water ran across the cobbles from the butcher’s stalls, making his shoes stick to the ground. Almost every person there was wearing a djellaba, it would be impossible to …

  A flash of movement, the strap of a shoulder bag, a figure elbowing through the crowd towards the Grand Socco. Sam had no breath to shout, could only fight his way to the edge of the market, clinging to the writing case. I’ll never smoke again, he swore as he staggered into a run, lungs heaving. The figure was nearing the edge of the socco and the old city gates, the entrances to the maze of the casbah. If whoever it was stepped through there, he’d be screwed, he’d never find them.

  At the mouth of the Bab el-Fahs the figure glanced back over their shoulder. Sam had no breath to call out, but he raised his hand, and the case in it, holding it up like a plea. He must have looked absurd, but for a moment, the figure seemed to hesitate—

  ‘Hackett!’

  Hands were slapping his arms, a face filling his view, white and red and shiny with sweat. Norton.

  ‘What a lucky meet,’ the journalist was saying, ‘I’m just on my way to lunch. Care to join?’

  Sam shrugged out of Norton’s grip and stepped around him, peering into the crowd; too late. The space by the gate was empty. The figure was gone.