‘I want to buy a case for a pair of glasses,’ I said.
‘Eye-test?’ he asked, screwing up his eyes. I realized he must be very deaf. I came to a sudden and unexpected decision.
‘Yes, please,’ I said more loudly.
He looked happier and began to fuss round towards a little cubicle with all the familiar paraphernalia of eye-testing.
‘If you will come this way, please, sir.’
Lights were switched on and a dark curtain drawn across to shield us from the outside world. We went through the usual routine of reading the rows of letters on the printed card. Then he made me look at the bright red spot and the two parallel lines that want so terribly badly to be joined together. I shut one eye and we gazed at each other like loving Cyclops for several seconds.
‘Yes,’ he told me seriously when the ritual was over. ‘You ought to be wearing spectacles.’
‘I was afraid you’d tell me that,’ I said sadly. Fortunately for me I’ve enjoyed perfect sight all my life.
‘It will take several days to make them up. Can you call back, shall we say, on Tuesday?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’m just passing through Tunis, but I was especially recommended to consult you. If you’d just let me have the prescription.’
It took a few moments for that to sink in, but he was pleased at this suggestion of world fame and consented to write a series of figures on a sheet of headed notepaper. He handed it to me with a pinched little smile.
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Two thousand francs.’
‘And cheap at the price,’ I told him. I meant it too. He was happy enough about the whole thing to lead me to the door and bow me out.
When I entered the offices of Lloyds Bank I felt as if the whole of Tunis were an illusion which ceased to have effect the moment I passed through these portals. The place had an indefinable English aura about it, and reminded me irresistibly of my own branch in London. The chummy, smiling man in correct grey suiting behind the counter gave me a tremendous sense of security, and when I explained that I was a customer of Lloyds he readily agreed to place my package in the strong-room.
I felt considerably less vulnerable when I emerged into the street again. That faint bulge in my breast pocket had seemed as dangerous as a time-bomb liable to blow up at any moment.
I hailed a taxi to take me back to the hotel. I had told Steve that I would only be half an hour, and already an hour had passed since I left her. Going through the hotel foyer I kept my eyes open, but there was no sign of Audry Bryce or anyone even remotely resembling the so-called Colonel Rostand. I had to share the lift with a disquieting unveiled girl in Arab dress, who bore tattooed signs on her brow and cheeks. She was probably not more than fifteen, but as fully developed as a European woman of twenty, and to judge by her expression a good deal more worldly wise. She gazed at me with a kind of anticipatory relish. I was very relieved when the lift doors sighed open at the third floor.
There was no answer to my knock on the door of room number three seven two. I turned the handle and it opened.
‘Steve!’
No answer from the bathroom. Then I saw a sheet of paper on the floor just inside the door.
‘Got tired of waiting. Have gone to buy cute morocco leather slippers. Meet you for coffee on the hotel terrace at eleven.
S.’
‘Not at all wise,’ I muttered to myself. I glanced at my watch. It was three minutes to eleven.
I closed the door and left the key rattling on the inside. If anyone wanted to search the room it would be more convenient for all concerned if they did not have to force the lock.
Something made me knock on Audry Bryce’s door as I went past. No one answered. Rather than face the lift again I ran down the stairs to the hotel foyer.
‘Have you seen my wife come in yet?’ I asked the reception clerk.
‘No, monsieur. She has not come back yet.’
‘You saw her go out, then?’
‘Yes, monsieur. About twenty minutes ago.’
‘She was alone?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
A heavy brief case was deposited with a clatter on the counter close beside me. A voice spoke in stiff and guttural French.
‘You have a reservation for me, I think. The name is Schultz.’
I turned round and saw the blond features and athletic form of the proprietor of the El Passaro Club.
‘Hallo,’ I said in English. ‘You seem to get around.’
‘Pardon, monsieur?’
‘Perhaps you don’t remember me. I met you at your club the other evening.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ the German said. ‘I have so many customers. It is impossible to remember them all.’
‘You don’t remember the police inspector who was trying to trace your friend Colonel Rostand?’
‘Ah, yes, sir. I remember you now. You I think were also trying to find someone. A Mister Constantin. Were you successful?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid I did not find him that evening, and have not seen him since. A pity, because I had hoped we might do some profitable business together.’
Schultz nodded curtly, turning his head towards the clerk.
‘Excuse me, please. It has been nice to meet you again.’
‘You have a place here too, haven’t you?’ I persisted. ‘I’d like to take my wife there. What’s it called?’
‘‘It’s called Le Trou du Diable. The Devil’s Hole, sir. It is out at Sidi bou Saïd.’
‘Then I may see you there.’
Schultz shrugged non-committally and dropped me like a soiled handkerchief.
Not many people were using the hotel terrace at that time of day, but it was shady and pleasant. Steve had not yet arrived. I picked a table from which I could see the door she would come out by. I ordered a black coffee and a glass of iced water, then settled down to enjoy the second cigarette of the day.
I was stubbing it out when a patch of brilliant colour drew my eyes to the hotel doorway. Simone Lalange was standing there, poised like a ballerina as she looked around. She was wearing a scarlet shirt and a swinging white skirt. Her arms and shoulders were a deep bronzed colour. She saw me, gave a little wave, and began to move towards me with graceful elegance. Her waist was tiny and her skirt swayed to the movement of her hips.
I stood up as, uninvited, she sank into a chair beside mine.
‘What a pleasure to encounter you again!’ she exclaimed with apparent sincerity. ‘Mrs. Temple is not with you?’
‘I was just waiting for her. She’s gone to do some shopping. May I offer you something to drink? Coffee or an apéritif?’
She frowned and pouted her lips.
‘Perhaps a juice of fruit. Orange, if they have it.’
I snapped my fingers at the waiter and gave the order. She refused my offer of a cigarette with a smile, and took the gold case from her handbag.
‘I prefer to smoke mine.’
I watched her fit the cigarette into the holder and put it to her lips. I did not offer her a light. I wanted to see if Steve had been right about the initials on her book matches. The French girl lit her cigarette with concentrated attention, then threw the book of matches on the table. It fell with the initials S.L. facing towards me. I glanced up and caught her eyes fixed on me mockingly. She was indeed a very attractive woman and quite aware of it.
‘You are enjoying your stay in Tunis, Mr. Temple?’
‘Apart from one or two minor mishaps, very much, thank you. I’m surprised not to see Tony Wyse with you.’
‘Oh, he?’ Simone lifted one shoulder and began to swing her leg petulantly. ‘He is a nice enough boy but one can have too much of him. I managed to give him the cold brush-off, as you say it.’
‘He offered to show us all over Tunis, but we haven’t seen him at all. Do you know where he is staying?’
‘He told me he was going to the Hôtel Mimosa. I expect he is busy with business, and that is why you hav
e not seen him.’
‘We’ll manage without him,’ I said casually. ‘We’ve been offered the services of another guide – a Mr. Patrick O’Halloran.’
Simone Lalange leant back to allow the waiter to pour out her fruit juice. She had not shown the slightest interest in my statement. Not even her long imitation eyelashes had flickered.
I said: ‘I see Mr. Schultz has arrived in the hotel here. Perhaps you saw him as you came in?’
The two straws in the rapidly frosting glass were already between her lips. She looked up at me with innocent eyes.
‘Mr. Schultz? Who is that? Do I know him?’
‘He is the proprietor of the El Passaro Club. Perhaps you’ve forgotten our dance there?’
It was a remark which Steve would not have failed to hold against me. Simone looked at me sideways. She was very provocative, with her lips rounded to the shape of the straw and her throat moving slightly as she drank.
She leaned forward to put the half empty glass on the table.
‘I have not forgotten that. I was asking myself if one day we might be able to dance together again. It was so short, was it not?’
‘Simone,’ I said, and hoped my voice did not sound too intense, ‘that time when the lights went out. Was it you who took the spectacles from my pocket and hid them in my wife’s bag?’
Simone’s peal of laughter made all heads turn in our direction.
‘You are still thinking about that? Why should I want to do a so stupid thing as that?’
‘I don’t know. I was hoping that perhaps you could tell me.’
‘You think perhaps I try to make trouble between a man and his wife?’
‘No. I don’t think that.’
‘Mr. Temple. Why do you keep looking at your watch. Are you so bored as that?’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that my wife said she would meet me here at eleven and it’s now after a quarter to twelve.’
‘Well, a woman forgets about the time when she is shopping. I will try to keep you amused until she comes.’
Simone Lalange did keep me highly entertained for the next quarter of an hour. It is a pleasant sensation to be vamped by an attractive woman who is an expert at the game. In spite of my growing disquiet about Steve I could not help admiring her performance. In the end she gave me a wry grin, and began to get up.
‘I have enjoyed our conversation. I think Mrs. Temple is a fortunate woman.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘To have such an implacably faithful husband.’
I tried to indicate by my parting smile that I wished things could have been different. It was five past twelve when she disappeared into the hotel. Steve was an hour and five minutes overdue. She could be half an hour late, even three-quarters, but never so late as this.
I gave Simone a few moments’ start then hurried into the hotel. I had a sudden idea that I knew where Steve’s instinct might have taken her. At the reception desk I paused long enough to leave a message in case she came back while I was gone. She was to wait for me in our room. Then I ran out into the street and grabbed the taxi which was just depositing a fare at the hotel.
‘Take me to the House of Shoni. It’s at 227 Avenue de Mirabar.’
Chapter Seven
THE Rue de Mirabar was a long straggling street half in and half out of the Arab quarter. The House of Shoni stood on a corner where a narrow, noisome alley disappeared into the maze of tiny streets of which we had caught a glimpse during our coach ride the previous evening. It was a glorified junk cum antique shop, crammed with bric-à-brac picked up from everywhere between Timbuctoo and Stratford-upon-Avon. I told the driver to wait while I went to the glass door and peered inside, hoping against hope that I would see Steve’s familiar face, animated by the fascination of knocking the price of an antique down by twenty per cent. But the shop was empty of customers. With a sinking heart I pushed open the door. Above my head a small bell gave vent to a hearty ping. Almost at once a bead curtain covering a doorway behind the shop was parted and the shopkeeper came through.
Zoltan Gupte, for it was he, was an anthropological puzzle. At first sight I put him down as one of the Jewish community which lives on such uneasy terms with the Arabs of North Africa. Then I wondered if he were not more of an Indian, with his brown skin and jet-black hair. Later on, when I had a chance to examine his police dossier I found out that he was almost half-Turkish and spoke a dozen languages fluently. English was one of them. He shot me a look of intense astuteness and instantly decided on my nationality.
‘Good morning, sir. Is there anything special I can show you?’
‘As a matter of fact I came here to find my wife. Have you had a visit this morning from an English lady? I am afraid I don’t know what she was wearing, but she’s dark and she may have bought slippers.’
Zoltan Gupte was already shaking his head.
‘I have had no English ladies this morning, sir. Perhaps she has not arrived yet. You would like to have a look round while you are waiting?’
There was something defensive about the shopkeeper’s manner, as if he knew that these were only the opening thrusts in a duel.
I decided to come straight to the point. I took out my wallet and extracted from it the card which O’Halloran had given us. I turned it over, making sure that the shopkeeper saw the drawing on the back. Then I handed him the card.
‘We were recommended to come here by a man who said he was a representative of yours. His name is written on the card.’
Zoltan Gupte took the card without surprise. He merely glanced at the drawing at the back then slipped the card into his jacket pocket.
‘Is your name Temple?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded, pursing his lips and studying my face carefully.
‘Come this way, please. I have a friend of yours here.’
He led the way round behind the counter and held back the bead curtain for me to pass through. I am always reluctant to precede strange men through strange doorways. It’s one of the easiest ways of having your skull cracked open. But I was now far more concerned about Steve’s safety than my own. I ducked through and found myself in a narrow corridor.
‘It is the door opposite you at the end.’
I went ahead and opened the door. It revealed a sitting-room furnished with the most fabulous oriental luxury. The walls were hung with rare silks and damasks, the floor carpeted with Persian and Kairouan rugs. Brilliantly woven materials had been draped over the divans. There was an almost Victorian profusion of furniture, each piece a miracle of intricate workmanship. The air was heavy with the scent of joss-sticks.
The man who stood facing the door was utterly incongruous in this setting, but his good spirits were in no wise dampened.
‘So there ye are at last! Sure, I’d almost given ye up as a bad job.’
It was several seconds before I found my voice. Behind me I heard Zoltan Gupte chuckle as he gently closed the door.
‘O’Halloran! But I thought you were dead. The police told me you’d been murdered. In fact at one time I thought I was going to be accused of committing the crime.’
O’Halloran slapped his knee and almost doubled up with mirth.
‘Bring the gentleman a glass, Shamus,’ he said to Gupte when he recovered his breath. ‘This calls for a celebration.’
Gupte opened a large cabinet which contained several rows of bottles and brought out a glass. The whisky bottle and soda syphon were already on the table within easy reach of Mr. O’Halloran. In the meantime I noted that the Irishman was now wearing a suit which fitted him passably well.
‘You’re thinkin’ I’m a sight better dressed than when ye last saw me – is that it, Mr. Temple? If ever ye want to do the disappearin’ trick yeself there’s nothin’ I recommend better than bein’ murdered. All ye have to do is find a corpse of the right size and colour and give him the lend of yer clothes and wallet. The police will do the rest, God bless ’em!’
‘Say
when, Mr. Temple,’ Zoltan Gupte’s quiet voice interrupted.
‘Just a little whisky and plenty of soda, please,’ I said, and turned back to O’Halloran.
‘I suppose it’s not hard to come by a corpse in the Arab quarter – judging by what we saw last night.’
‘They’re two a penny,’ O’Halloran told me happily. ‘And when I want to come back to life all I have to do is go to the police and tell ’em I was robbed.’
I was anxious to find out what had been O’Halloran’s motive in making this complicated manœuvre, but there was something else I had to ask him first.
‘O’Halloran, do you know anything about my wife’s present whereabouts? I have good reason to believe she intended coming here this morning.’
‘And how would I know anythin’ about that seein’ I haven’t been out of this room since last evenin’! Has she been to the shop at all, Shamus?’
‘I have already told Mr. Temple that his wife has not been here.’
‘Perhaps she’ll turn up later on,’ O’Halloran said, dismissing the matter. ‘Why don’t ye take the weight off your feet? I think ye’re entitled to an explanation from me.’
Zoltan Gupte pushed a chair forward and I sat down. He offered me a cigarette from an ornately worked silver box, but this I declined.
‘The reason why I wanted ye to come here, Mr. Temple, was because there’s something ye have got which I’d like ye to hand over to me without anyone else’s knowledge.’
‘Oh, and what is that?’
‘I think ye know already. It’s a pair of spectacles belongin’ to a Mr. David Foster.’
‘I see.’
O’Halloran was frank at any rate.
‘Have ye got them with ye?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t, Mr. O’Halloran.’
‘But they’re still in your possession?’
‘I know where they are and no one else can get them. Why are you so interested in them?’
‘All I want to do is hand them over to their rightful owner.’
O’Halloran had sat down on the edge of a chair facing me, his glass of whisky cradled between the palms of his hands. Zoltan Gupte was still standing watchfully by the door.
East of Algiers Page 11
