An Echo of Scandal

by Laura Madeleine

  ‘So did I.’ He blinked at her. ‘Bet, I can’t thank you enough. How did …’ He waved a hand at the police station.

  The sun caught on the dull gold of a tooth. ‘The station chief is a dear friend. He was very understanding. Hot-blooded young men get into scraps every day. And as for this –’ she peered down at the passport as they walked towards the Gran Café ‘– that took a little more explaining. I told him that you were a writer, with a predictable penchant for old things, and that you had probably picked it up at a junk shop. Why on earth were you carrying it around?’

  He groaned. ‘It’s a long story.’

  They must have made an absurd-looking pair, Bet in her tweed, he more grubby and rumpled than ever. Wearily, he told her what had happened. How he’d located Dar Portuna, and met the person who lived there. How he’d ill-advisedly asked Norton to check the archives, only to come up with Langham’s suspicious death. How Zahrah had warned him that the authorities would descend on Dar Portuna if they found out it was Ale’s secret address. How he’d been trying to shut Norton up.

  The smoke spiralled around them, mingling with the smell of fresh coffee and morning pastries. Only when he started talking about the fight did he remember what he’d found in Norton’s desk.

  ‘Bet,’ he said, hastily wiping pastry crumbs from his mouth, ‘Norton had pictures of you in his desk, with another person, Kline I think it was, taken outside The Hold. It’s part of what made me so mad. He’s obviously been sniffing about, trying to dig up dirt on you too.’

  For a moment, Bet’s blue eyes were sharp. ‘Photos? What were we doing in them?’

  ‘Talking, that’s all, from what I could see.’

  Bet grunted. ‘I’ll have to have a chat with Mister Norton some time. He’s quite the annoyance.’

  She reached down for her handbag and took out a newspaper. He recognized it as Tangier Today, one of the cheaper English-language titles. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Yesterday’s evening edition. He managed to get page five, above the fold.’

  BACK FROM THE GRAVE?

  MYSTERY OF DROWNED

  MAN RESURFACES

  AFTER FIFTY YEARS

  Sam felt sick. He heard Zahrah’s voice again saying, You have to do better than try. He had promised he would try to keep Ale from danger, and here it was: proof of his failure. He didn’t want to look at the paper, every part of him wanted to hurl it across the room, but he didn’t. He had to see what the damage was. It was his responsibility, after all.

  It was a dreadful article. Norton’s suppositions had been written up in lurid detail. The passport was made much of: the mysterious Alejandro del Potro who existed in no records, but who was undoubtedly linked to an underworld smuggling ring, and to Langham’s disappearance. Sam forced himself to read on.

  Whilst the closure of British institutions in Morocco makes it difficult to obtain accurate police reports from the era, an inside source from the embassy – who did not want to be named – revealed that before his untimely death, Mr Arthur Langham may have been wanted by the British authorities on serious charges, in an investigation which was never fully concluded. This new information regarding Alejandro del Potro’s connection to Langham and possible involvement in his murder, as well as the location and existence to this day of a mansion safehouse in the casbah named ‘Dar Portuna’ – which was discovered by Interpress journalist Ellis Norton – has now been shared with Moroccan and Spanish authorities, as well as customs officials. It is Tangier Today’s understanding that the police will use the information in their ongoing efforts to apprehend and prosecute the individual known as ‘Alejandro del Potro’ for contravention of customs law.

  ‘The bastard,’ Sam muttered, his throat tight. ‘Why did he have to do it?’

  ‘He’s trying to write himself out of here,’ Bet said, looking down her nose at the paper. ‘Making the news, so that he can report it.’

  Sam stared down at the article, wishing he could scrub the words out of existence. ‘Zahrah, the woman I told you about who lives at Dar Portuna, she said something like this could put Ale – Alejandro – in danger. Do you think it will? Do you think the authorities will act upon it?’ He shoved the paper away. ‘It’s all my fault.’

  ‘No denying you had a role to play.’ Bet’s blue eyes were kind. ‘But you didn’t publish it, did you? I’ll hazard a guess that your version would be a bit more nuanced.’

  He just shook his head. She let him sit in silence for a while, before tapping the paper.

  ‘Norton’s “embassy source” is old Giles, I’d bet my hat on it. I saw the pair of them in the El Minzah the other night, getting cosy over the Benedictine.’ She smiled darkly. ‘I’ll have to have a chat with him, too.’

  Sam folded the paper over, not wanting to look at it any more. ‘What if Norton tries to use those photos of you?’ he asked quietly. ‘What if he writes something about your … past?’

  ‘About me?’ Bet raised her eyebrows. ‘What could he possibly write? I’m just a pensioner, spinning out her retirement in a nice warm country. And anyway –’ she slid him a look ‘– he’d never be able to prove a thing.’

  Outside in the street, she re-tied the scarf over her cropped grey hair, becoming a little old woman once more.

  ‘Well?’ she asked briskly. ‘What are you going to do? I’d suggest a bath, for starters.’

  He tried to smile. ‘I have to go to Dar Portuna to tell them about all this, try to apologize and hope that Ale can stay out of trouble. Then …’ He looked around at the heedless, blistering city. ‘I guess there’s no point in me staying. If I’d gone home a month ago, like my parents wanted me to, none of this would have happened.’

  Bet patted his arm. ‘Well, be sure to come and say cheerio to all of us at The Hold.’

  She didn’t sound overly concerned. She must have met hundreds of people like me, Sam thought bitterly, seen us all give up and go home.

  ‘Thank you, Bet,’ he said. ‘For everything.’

  She smirked. ‘Give an old lady a kiss.’

  He finally managed a weak laugh, and leaned down to kiss her weathered cheek. Before he could pull away she grabbed his collar.

  ‘That newspaper’s a rag, Sammy,’ she whispered rapidly in his ear. ‘Don’t let it get you down. Hacer de tripas corazón, as my old friend always says.’

  She released him and he stepped back in surprise, trying to see her face, but she was already walking away, stomping through the traffic with practised ease. He watched her disappear around a corner, half stunned, wondering whether he’d imagined what she’d said. Only then did he realize she hadn’t given him back the passport.

  He rubbed at his eyes. You’re not to be trusted with anything. Still, he was sure she’d keep it safe. He was so tired, beat down by the long night and the awful newspaper article, he couldn’t think any more, could barely look where he was going. When he stepped into Madame Sarah’s cool hallway, it was with relief. All he wanted to do was wash and sleep, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to. He had to get to Dar Portuna and face what he had done.

  The moment he set foot on the stairs, there was a shout from the kitchen and Madame Sarah appeared, pushed aside by her sister, a formidable woman in a bright orange headscarf.

  ‘Monsieur Hackett?’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’ he answered wearily. He dug his hands into his pockets, ready to give up however many dirhams he had left, only to stop – all of his money had gone to pay off the police. He felt himself turning red. ‘Ah, about the rent. I just need an hour or two before—’

  ‘No.’ The sister glared from the doorway. ‘Two nights you stay out, you don’t pay, and now you bring women into the house.’ She raised her chin. ‘This is a respectable place. We will not have it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m—’ Her words caught up with him. ‘What do you mean, women? I’ve never brought anyone here.’

  She let out a disbelieving laugh. ‘You tell us that, when there is one upstairs right now, one who
is rude, who came in here without—’

  He didn’t wait to hear more. He ran up the stairs two at a time, racing for his top floor room, knowing it could only be one person.

  Zahrah was standing by the window, wearing her old djellaba. Her short hair was messy, as if she’d been running her hands through it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped, stepping through the door. ‘I’m so sorry, I tried everything. You won’t believe the night—’

  She turned to face him. Her eyes were reddened, swollen from crying. The guilt froze solid in his chest.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  She said nothing. A moment later, her face collapsed and he knew. She stepped towards him; instinctively he put his arms around her, as her breath turned into a sob.

  ‘Ale’s gone.’

  Scofflaw

  Take one dash of orange bitters, three quarters of a pony of Canadian Club whisky, the same of French vermouth, a tablespoon of lemon juice and a tablespoon of imported grenadine. Shake well and strain into a cocktail glass. Drink fast, before it catches up with you.

  All things come at a price.

  I’d grown up around swindlers and thieves – I should have remembered not to trust anything that seemed too good to be true. I should have realized that the diamond walls of my world could turn to glass and crack; that the elegant fabrics could rip and unravel, that my saint’s gold could peel away like cheap gilding on a false coin. But I didn’t. Not until it was too late.

  Bouzid found me at the gate of Dar Portuna, bracing myself against the wall, my eyes screwed closed against the awful, dull throbbing in my head. The wound had stopped bleeding now, but I could feel it, flaking and tacky at the base of my skull. Bouzid was angrier than I had ever seen him. He grabbed my jacket, the way he had all those weeks ago when I had first trespassed into the gardens, and dragged me into the house, unheeding of my protests.

  He didn’t stop until we reached the study.

  Hilde was perched on the edge of the desk, her face strained, chewing at her nails. And Langham … when he looked at me, his eyes were like flint.

  ‘Where did you go?’ he demanded.

  I couldn’t think straight; the pain was muddled together with the memory of Cabrera saying my real name, with the fear of what he might do if I didn’t comply. ‘I went to the tailor’s.’ My voice sounded vague. ‘I left a note.’

  ‘The truth, del Potro.’ Langham’s hand was beneath his desk, in one of the drawers. ‘I need to know where …’

  I didn’t hear the rest. The throbbing grew worse, blue and yellow lights filling my vision. The next thing I knew I was on my knees, staring at the rug, hearing Hilde’s panicked voice.

  ‘Arthur!’

  She was at my side. I could smell her scent: powder and lilies and the clinging bittersweet tang of smoke. Coolness touched my skin, her fingers, exploring the back of my neck. ‘My god,’ she murmured, when she found the crusted blood. ‘Who did this to you?’

  I forced my eyes open. Langham was staring down at me, his face taut. I couldn’t betray him, I realized. Not now. I met his eyes.

  ‘Cabrera.’

  Bouzid was dispatched to fetch ice, Hilde the medical chest. For a moment, it was only Langham and I in the room.

  ‘Cabrera knows about me,’ I said, hauling myself up using the edge of the desk. ‘He knows what I am and he wants me to set you up. He said you have unfinished business.’

  Langham’s shoulders dropped. ‘Alejandro.’ He was stepping close, taking my face in his hands. ‘I’ll kill the bastard for hurting you. Did they …?’ His hands tightened.

  ‘No.’ I closed my eyes, unable to focus on him. ‘No. He didn’t want anyone to think anything was wrong. He needed me to be able to pretend everything was normal.’ I reached for the back of my head. ‘I don’t think Márquez was supposed to hit me so hard.’

  Langham produced a bottle of brandy and pushed a glass into my hand. I sat on the floor cushions in the lounge and sipped at it while Hilde swabbed at the back of my head. More nauseous than ever, I told them what had happened, how Cabrera had intercepted my note to Souissa and sent the tailor’s son to lure me there.

  ‘They must have been watching the house,’ I said, looking up. My eyes were swimming with the sting of alcohol, but even so, I saw the look that passed between Bouzid and Langham.

  When Hilde had finished, she made me lean back against the sofa. Langham came to sit opposite me, his face serious.

  ‘What information does Cabrera have on you?’

  ‘He knows I’m a woman,’ I murmured. ‘He knows my real name.’ I gripped the glass of brandy, its amber colour all too similar to Scotch. ‘He knows I’m wanted by the police in Spain, and that if I’m caught I’ll be garrotted for murder.’ I glanced up at them. ‘I didn’t do it, but that won’t matter. There are people who will swear I did.’

  Langham was very still. His eyes never left my face, but I could tell he was thinking hard, trying to decide what to believe of me, whether I was capable of killing a man, what it meant that I had lied about it. Would things ever be the same between us, now? He had asked me not to bring trouble into his house, and that is exactly what I had done. There was no sympathy in his look, or anger. Part of me wished he would react: shout and swear at me, or take my hand, but he did neither and I had to look away.

  Hilde was frowning at me too, worrying at her lip. Her trust in me had been based on the story I had told; a story so like her own. Now she knew that I had lied – would she understand?

  Finally, Langham blinked. ‘What exactly did Cabrera want you to do?’ he said slowly. ‘Use his exact words if you can.’

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to remember it; the stench of Márquez at my back, the awful closeness of Cabrera’s face as he spelled out his demands.

  ‘He wants me to report everything to him. Who telephones, who comes to the house, what Bouzid does. He knows about the party tomorrow night. He wants to set up the rendezvous for then, he said it would be the perfect cover.’ I forced myself to look up at them all. ‘He wants me to get into your study and take some papers from your desk, from any green file he said, and place them secretly in your coat or bag so that you carry them to the meeting.’ I could feel my face growing hot, ashamed of my own foolishness. ‘He said that would be enough.’

  To my surprise, Langham was nodding. ‘What about Hilde? Did he mention her?’

  Hilde’s face was curiously pale, her eyes fixed on Langham.

  ‘No,’ I stammered, looking between them. ‘No, he didn’t mention Hilde at all. He said that I should stay here during the rendezvous. He said that some other people might come to search the house, and that I should let them in.’

  ‘Other people – did he say who?’

  ‘No. He said I’d be able to tell when they arrived, though.’

  ‘And that was all? You’re sure?’

  I nodded my throbbing head. ‘Yes. I swear.’

  Abruptly, Langham’s flint-like expression softened. He reached over and squeezed my shoulder, before looking up at Bouzid.

  ‘It’s the British. I’m sure of it.’

  The other man grunted. ‘Would they trust Cabrera?’

  ‘They’d trust a mule if it trotted up to them with a promise in its mouth.’ Langham’s voice was filled with contempt. ‘Cabrera must’ve done a deal with them. No doubt they are offering him ample reward for ensuring I am caught red-handed.’

  I stared at the side of his face, his smooth skin, the fine lines about his eyes. ‘I don’t understand,’ I murmured. ‘The British authorities? What do they want with you?’

  Langham looked over at me then, with a soft, half-pitying smile.

  ‘Same as the Spanish want with you. They want to hang me, chico.’

  ‘Arthur!’ Hilde started up, glancing at me.

  ‘No,’ he stopped her. ‘If we are all to get out of this, Hilde, Alejandro needs to understand.’ He focused on me again. ‘Bautista and his crew are small fry, whe
n it comes to contraband. The real business isn’t in booze or tobacco, but in information.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘The sort of thing you delivered to Cabrera.’

  ‘The suitcase full of papers?’ I asked slowly. ‘What were they?’

  Langham smiled humourlessly. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea. You were lucky not to be caught, though. Cabrera’s obviously been double-crossing us.’ He looked a little thoughtful. ‘You didn’t catch any glimpse of what the papers were? Any stamps or letters?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Pity,’ he murmured.

  ‘But,’ I shifted to look at Bouzid, at Hilde, ‘smuggling isn’t a hanging offence, is it? They’d have to hang the whole of La Atunara, and half of Tangiers, if it was.’

  Langham laughed a little, and drank his brandy. ‘No, smuggling isn’t a hanging offence. Treason is, though. And murder.’

  I stared into his eyes, trying to see the man I thought I knew, but all I saw was my own reflection.

  Later, as afternoon became evening, we sat at the kitchen table – all four of us – our elbows resting on the scrubbed wood, drinking tumblers of wine and picking at food. We had never sat and eaten like that before. We are in this together, that meal said. We had to work and act as equals, if we were to get out of it. At another time, Bouzid’s lack of formality would have made me glad. But in that moment, all I could think was that everything was changing.

  ‘What’s important is that they are not connecting you to anything,’ Langham said to Hilde. ‘They see you as a socialite, nothing more. That makes you a safe pair of hands.’

  She nodded, and shifted in her chair. She had lied to me then, about her knowledge of Langham’s activities.

  ‘What about the party?’ I asked. ‘It can’t go ahead, now, surely?’

  ‘On the contrary, it must.’ Langham was twisting the ring around and around on his little finger. ‘If we call it off, Cabrera will know that you’ve told me everything. Then we lose the upper hand.’ He looked at me, eyes travelling over my hair, my collar. ‘Alejandro,’ he said softly. ‘The suit you ordered from the tailor, it was the one we talked about?’