Love Is Dangerous

by Barbara Cartland

  Almost without thinking of what she should do, she took the initiative.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “What do you want?”

  Her tone was aggressive and she saw that it seemed to surprise the men who glanced quickly at each other and then back at her. One of them, a tall dark man with a small moustache, replied in broken English with a pronounced accent,

  “The man, he has come down here. We saw him.”

  There was something about both these Moroccans that made Melina decide that the first man had been right. They were evil and she could not trust them.

  “You are mistaken,” she said firmly. “It must have been some other balcony. Certainly nobody has come this way.”

  “We saw him,” the man repeated, while the smaller man muttered something in Arabic that obviously confirmed what had been said.

  It was then, sliding slowly from the roof behind them, that they were joined by a third man. He was fatter and older than the other two and he was out of breath, but Melina saw that he wore the uniform of a Police Officer.

  The taller man, who had spoken first, quite obviously relayed in Arabic his conversation with Melina and the Police Officer, still breathless, took the initiative.

  “My men tell me that a criminal who has escaped from us dropped onto your balcony, madame,” he said with an air of authority.

  “Your men are mistaken,” Melina replied. “I was sitting on the balcony a moment ago and nobody came that way.”

  Even as she spoke, she saw on the worn rug on the floor between her and the Police Officer that there was a spot of blood. She saw it without really looking down at it, without taking her eyes from the officer’s face, but she knew without being told that it was incriminating evidence unless she could hide it.

  She stepped forward, covered it with her foot and pointed, as she did so, to the money on the bed.

  “If any criminal had come in here,” she said, “do you imagine he would have left that behind?”

  The three men looked at the money and then back at Melina.

  “He is not a thief,” the Police Officer said briefly. “I have my orders. This room must be searched.”

  He snapped his fingers and the two Moroccans moved forward to open the wardrobe where Melina’s few dresses were hung and the cupboard, which held nothing except her two small suitcases.

  It was then that the Police Officer walked towards the bathroom door.

  He turned the handle. The door was locked.

  “Who is in there?”

  His voice was almost drowned by the sudden rush of water. Someone had turned on both the bath taps full blast.

  The Police Officer knocked on the door. There was no answer. It was doubtful if the occupant inside could hear him above the noise of rushing water.

  He knocked again, this time more thunderously and now the taps were turned off and a voice asked,

  “What do you want, darling?”

  The Police Officer turned towards Melina.

  “Who is in there?” he enquired again.

  “My – my husband.”

  Melina told the lie and felt the blood rush accusingly to her cheeks. The Police Officer looked at her for a moment and she felt that he did not believe her.

  “Your husband!”

  He looked round the tidy bedroom. It did not look like a room that was being shared. There were no clothes belonging to a man either in the wardrobe or on the chair.

  “Your husband!” he repeated reflectively. “He is staying here with you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Melina answered, “he has only just arrived. I was not expecting him – but he turned up. He – he came by plane.”

  Again she could see that the Police Officer was not inclined to believe her.

  “I should like to speak to your – husband,” he said grimly.

  He hammered on the bathroom door.

  “Come out, if you please.”

  “Who’s there?” came the question.

  “The police. Kindly open the door. We wish to question you.”

  “Question me? Good Lord, darling! What have you been up to?”

  The voice was the gay, unconcerned voice of an Englishman who has nothing to fear and believes that the Police are only concerned with the parking of a car or the fact that one has left it without the lights on.

  “They – they are looking for a man,” Melina called out.

  She somehow felt that she had to take part in this strange drama. At the same time she knew that her hands were trembling a little.

  The man, as she had first seen him, had looked so villainous with blood on his face and on the knife he held in his hand. What had he done? Who was she helping to evade justice?

  It flashed through her mind that now she was hopelessly involved. There would be a case and she would have to give evidence. She would have to explain to a jury in a crowded court why she had championed a man who had dropped onto her balcony, obviously fleeing from justice, obviously an assailant of some sort.

  Why could she not have had the sense to tell him to run to somewhere else in the hotel and then directed the other men after him?

  But, she told herself, he was English!

  She would expect to be helped if she appealed to one of her fellow countrymen abroad and she must do the same.

  “Well, give me a moment,” she heard the voice say from behind the bathroom door. “Tell whoever is there that I am having a bath. Offer them a drink or something.”

  “I am afraid I have no drink up here,” Melina answered resisting an absurd desire to giggle hysterically.

  It was all so ridiculous, she thought, just like a rather bad film. And yet the knives in the hands of the two Moroccans were real enough and so was the pistol in the belt of the Police Officer.

  “I don’t suppose my husband will be long,” she said with an effort at unconcern and walking to the bed picked up the money that was lying on it.

  To do so she had to pass very near the two Moroccans.

  They smelt of sweat and excitement and – something else. Something that made her remember the words of an old Nanny she had had once.

  “There’s many kinds of smells,” she had said, “and evil’s the worst of them.”

  Yes, they were evil. Melina was sure of it. She gathered up her money, feeling, although she did not look at them, the eyes of the men were glinting enviously as she put it away in her handbag.

  Then deliberately she forced herself to move to the looking glass. She tidied her hair, patting it neatly over each ear.

  “It’s a nice day for my husband to arrive in Tangier,” she said conversationally to the Police Officer. “He has never been here before and I did so want him to see it at its best.”

  The men were looking at her uncertainly. She knew that her unconcern was making them uneasy and doubtful if they could really trust what they had seen with their own eyes.

  As if agitated by his own thoughts, the Police Officer hammered again on the bathroom door.

  “Open the door, please, sir. We cannot waste time waiting for you.”

  Melina noted the word ‘sir’, and felt a sudden rise of hope in her heart. If only when they saw him they would not recognise him. If only somehow he had got rid of those bloodstained garments.

  “I can’t think what all the fuss is about,” a lazy voice said and then the door was opened and he was standing there.

  He was wearing the white towelling peignoir that the hotel provided not only for those who wanted to have a bath but for those who wished to go down and swim on the beach.

  Above it his face was very sunburnt, but his hair was fair and one side of his face had been newly shaved while the other was lathered with soap and in his hand he held the razor that Melina used to keep her legs smooth before she went swimming.

  “Now, what’s all this about?” he asked, looking with what Melina thought was quite unexaggerated surprise at the three men standing in the bedroom.

  “My men
saw a criminal we were chasing drop down onto this balcony,” the Police Officer said, but now his voice was less aggressive and there was something not quite positive in his tone.

  “Well, your men must have been mistaken, mustn’t they?” the Englishman replied in a drawly voice. “And what am I supposed to do about it? He’s not here in the bathroom with me, as you can see for yourself. Have you looked under the bed? My wife will tell you he certainly was not in the room when I went to my bath and she has been here ever since.”

  “There – must have been a mistake,” the Police Officer mumbled.

  “There must, indeed,” the Englishman answered. “And had you not better be running about looking for him instead of standing here asking me a lot of questions I cannot answer? Now if you will excuse me, I will go back to my shaving.”

  He turned as he spoke towards the glass over the basin in the bathroom and started to move the razor with precision down his lathered cheek.

  The Police Officer looked at his assistants.

  Melina did not understand what he said, but the gist of his words was quite obvious. ‘Fools and imbeciles that they were, they had let the man they were seeking slip through their fingers!’

  The Police Officer bowed to Melina.

  “Your pardon, madame. Good afternoon, monsieur.”

  Knowing that the other two men were watching her and that there was still a look of suspicion in their eyes, she turned unconcernedly back to the dressing table and, picking up a lipstick, began to outline her lips.

  She heard the door shut behind them and then she turned, only to see the Englishman at the open door of the bathroom with his finger to his lips.

  Then for a moment he disappeared and she heard the taps running again – a barrier of sound to prevent eavesdropping, she thought, before he walked back to her.

  And now she saw that the lather had gone from the unshaven side of his face and there was a long scratch that was still bleeding slightly.

  “Oh, your face!” she exclaimed involuntarily.

  He smiled.

  “My face does not matter,” he said quietly. “I have to thank you for saving my life!”

  Chapter 2

  “I – don’t understand what this is – all about,” Melina faltered.

  The stranger smiled and she saw that now the blood was beginning to trickle down his cheek after he had removed the lather,

  “You’re – bleeding!”

  “It’s only a scratch,” he replied.

  “Is that what you call it?” she asked a little dryly, as she turned towards her dressing table and taking some cleansing tissues from their box, held them out to him.

  Crossing to the mirror he began to wipe away the blood. It was undoubtedly a deep scratch and without saying anything Melina handed him a small bottle of antiseptic that she always carried with her.

  “I can see you are a very practical girl,” he remarked as he took it from her.

  “I am wondering if you ought to have a stitch or two in it,” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “No doctors, I am allergic to them!”

  She watched him clean the wound and then he looked at her with a twinkle in his eyes and a raised eyebrow.

  “No plaster?” he said. “Don’t say you’re going to fail me now.”

  Melina opened a drawer and found what he wanted and he covered the cut on his cheek and threw the bloodstained tissues into the wastepaper basket. Then, having done so, he bent down and took them out again.

  “Never leave traces of the crime,” he said lightly, “That’s the first rule for all good criminals!”

  He went into the bathroom and she heard him flushing the stained tissues down the lavatory. She waited until he came back again into the room before she spoke.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, repeating herself. “When you dropped down onto the balcony, I was quite sure that you were an Arab. Now please tell me what all this is about.”

  She knew as she spoke that her question embarrassed him.

  He looked away from her, walked a few steps towards the open window and then, with his back to her, replied,

  “I wish I could explain it all to you. As it is, I must simply ask you to take me on trust, a fellow countryman in trouble. And you have helped me more than I can possibly begin to explain.”

  “Would they really – have killed you?” Melina asked in a low voice.

  “Perhaps they would only have locked me up,” he answered, his voice deliberately careless and she knew that he was evading her question.

  “But what have you done?”

  He turned round laughing.

  “Isn’t that just like a woman?” he said. “You are already convinced that it is all my fault. What do you think I have done? Pinched some money out of the till or been bolder still and robbed a bank?”

  “You would not have had to be dressed as an Arab to do either of those things,” Melina commented.

  “You’re being too curious,” he said. “Quite frankly the main problem at the moment is how I am to get away from here.”

  “You mean without any clothes?” Melina said. “What about your Arab disguise?”

  “It’s rather wet at the moment,” he replied almost apologetically. “I hid it in the cistern of the lavatory.”

  Melina laughed. She could not help it.

  “It’s all like a television serial,” she said. “Quite frankly, if I had not taken such a dislike to those two men with the Police Officer, I would not believe a word of it. You are quite sure that there isn’t a candid camera hidden somewhere in the walls?”

  He looked at her reflectively for a moment and then he said,

  “Walk out to the balcony. Stand looking at the view as if you are admiring it and then, as you turn to come back, glance up at the roof. Tell me if you can see anything.”

  Melina obeyed him without argument.

  She walked on to the balcony, stood for a moment staring at the blue sea, the sunshine on the white roofs and an aeroplane winging its way in from Gibraltar.

  Then, a little self-consciously because she knew that he was watching her, she turned back towards the bedroom.

  She glanced up. A head ducked behind the parapet, but not before she had seen and noted the headdress.

  “There is an Arab on the roof to the left,” she called out. “He ducked down when he saw me.”

  “That is what I was expecting,” the stranger said. “And now will you open your bedroom door. Look down the corridor and tell me if there is anyone about.”

  Feeling as if she was acting in some strange and rather frightening charade, Melina did as she was asked. At the far end of the long narrow corridor an Arab was sitting cross-legged on the floor, presumably asleep. She re-entered the room and closed the door behind her.

  “There is someone else there,” she said. “And I don’t think it’s one of the hotel servants.”

  “Charming, isn’t it?” he said. “A prisoner in a white bathrobe. Now let me think what we do about this.”

  “Surely you can tell me what all this is about?” Melina suggested. “I don’t think it’s fair to come in here and frighten me without letting me understand – ”

  She stopped suddenly.

  There was a knock on the door. She saw the expression on the stranger’s face and knew what he expected.

  “Go into the bathroom,” she whispered.

  She heard him turn the key in the lock. She waited for a moment, trying to control her breathing, which was coming quickly from between her lips.

  Then the knock came again.

  “Who – who is it?” she asked and knew that her voice quavered.

  “It’s I, Ambrose!” was the answer and, in the relief of it being someone she knew, Melina ran the few steps to the door and flung it wide.

  “Mr. Wheatley!” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  She had never smiled at him in such a charming manner before, but the relief that he was no
t a bloodthirsty Arab made her forget her caution where Mrs. Schuster’s young friend was concerned.

  Ambrose came into the room and closed the bedroom door behind him.

  “I say, Melina,” he began. “I’ve just heard that you have had the sack. It’s a damned shame if you ask me.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Melina said, feeling suddenly that it was a very long time ago since she had been sacked and that at the moment Mrs. Schuster seemed far less real to her than the man in the bathroom and the danger that surrounded him.

  Maybe Ambrose Wheatley could help, she thought.

  “I have never heard such a thing as to turn you off just like that,” Ambrose Wheatley was saying. “But then my cousin was always a hard woman, we know that. She’s too attractive, has too much money and, most important, she’s an American. They always think in that country that God made the world for American women to use as a footstool and your late employer for one cannot bear to think she cannot get her own way in everything.”

  “I think she usually does, doesn’t she?” Melina said vaguely, not really interested for the moment in Mrs. Schuster.

  “Now look here,” Ambrose Wheatley said, coming closer to her and putting his hand on her shoulder. “I feel this is partly my fault. I am afraid I showed rather too obviously how jolly pretty I think you are, in fact you’re far too attractive for any normal man’s peace of mind. So, I have an idea. Will you listen to it?”

  “Yes – yes, I suppose so,” Melina replied.

  When he had first appeared, she had been about to blurt out to him about the predicament of the Englishman who was hiding in her bathroom.

  Now, as she had been unable to get a word in because Ambrose Wheatley had so much to say, she was beginning to have second thoughts.

  She had thought that it would be easy to enlist his help, but now she was beginning to see not only that the story sounded a very fishy one, but how was she to explain the presence of a strange man whose name she did not even know, dressed in her white peignoir and hiding behind the locked door of the bathroom?

  “What I am going to suggest,” Ambrose Wheatley went on, “may sound a little peculiar to you to start with. But, if you agree, I am quite sure we will find it will be the hell of a lot of fun together.”