by Jane Arbor
There being as yet no Michael Croft with whom to check her whereabouts, Carey told Reception where she could be found, and she and Mrs. Hobart had been working together for about an hour when, following a tap at the door, Randal Quest came in.
He bowed to Mrs. Hobart for permission to speak to Carey, whom he told, ‘I have to be away for the rest of the day, so make it your business, please, to see Mr. Croft as soon as he gets back, and ask him to report to me first thing in the morning, if I’m very late.’
Carey nodded assent. ‘I’ll do that. When do you expect him back?’
‘Early evening, I daresay. Perhaps before. You’ll need to explain yourself to Croft,’ he added significantly. ‘You understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He turned to Mrs. Hobart. ‘The hotel secretary who has been on leave and who won’t be expecting to see Miss Donne, our latest addition to the staff,’ he explained.
‘And say, what a treasure, at that!’ exclaimed Mrs. Hobart with conviction. ‘Tell me, Mr.—Sorry, but I don’t know that I’ve heard your name?’
‘Quest. Randal Quest.’
‘You’re the manager, I take it?’
‘Owner-manager. Yes.’
‘Well, as I was saying, do you know, Mr. Quest, just how many secretary-birds I’ve worn out and had to throw away in the last three years? Five! No less, believe me. And why? Because I’m not even a two-finger typist and I’m practically a non-starter with a pen. I get my stuff down in a cross between hieroglyphics, my own potted shorthand and the odd sentence or two in clear, here and there. Almost wholly illegible, I’m told, except to me. Except, until now, to your Miss Donne here, who hasn’t turned a hair. But literally, not a hair!’
‘You’ve found her helpful?’
‘Helpful? I believe she could read mirror-writing in Greek and upside down! Helpful, you say? She’s just saved my reputation, that’s what. Thanks to her, I’m still going to be Sadie Hobart who’s never yet let her editor down—yessir!’ Bunching neat typescript sheets into a pile and squaring them off, Mrs. Hobart beamed. ‘And so, when we’re through, which we almost are, eh, dear?— I’m going to be allowed to give her a drink?’
‘Of course. If she would like to accept.’
‘And what if, while we’re at it, I do my best to seduce her out of your service and into mine?’
Randal Quest glanced at Carey. ‘You’re at liberty to try, though mightn’t that be regarded as subversive professional practice?’ he countered lightly.
‘For which, I’d remind you, there’s always been a much more downright word,’ Mrs. Hobart flashed back.
‘Such as?’
‘Why, “All’s fair in love and war.” What else?’
‘And which, in relation to Miss Donne, would you say we are talking about, Mrs. Hobart?’
She wrinkled a deeply freckled nose at him. ‘Which—love or war—with Miss Donne as the booty? How would I know which, Mr. Quest? You tell me!’ she parried, and exploded in a gale of mirth at her own repartee.
Over their drink her blunt questions made Carey feel she was being annotated and card-indexed for future use. What did a purser’s assistant do in a ship? How did the work differ from that of a social hostess? How did a girl qualify for either? Which did Carey think she was going to prefer? How did the chances of promotion compare? Or maybe that consideration didn’t arise for anyone as cutely attractive as Carey, who was surely going to marry long before promotion mattered? concluded Mrs. Hobart, answering that one for herself with yet more infectious laughter.
Shrewd enough to sense that Carey guessed she was being quizzed for a purpose, she nodded, ‘That’s right, dear. As a writer I need to collect people as well as backgrounds for my books. But don’t think I only want to impale you on a pin and file you. If you ever want another switch of job or to travel further afield than Europe—just, let your Mr. Randal Quest look out. I’ll be waiting to pounce!’
They parted friends. Before lunch Carey did her ‘casual tour’, interpreted between a German and a Spanish couple trying to get acquainted over morning coffee, chatted to people on the swimming-pool patio and in the afternoon, when the whole place went into drowsy siesta, spent a quiet hour there alone, swimming and sunbathing.
She planned to await the arrival of Michael Croft in the room adjoining his which was to be her office. But as his own door was ajar and there was movement in his room, she knocked and went in, answering his, ‘O.K. Come in!’
She halted on the threshold, nervously expectant of his reaction of surprise at sight of her. His back was to her, bent over some papers on his desk, and as he turned she noticed simultaneously the ungainly shift of his feet and the supporting stick in his left hand.
They looked at each other. He was young, curly-haired, wearing the youthful uniform of linen jeans and a vivid shirt, and the battered rucksack on the floor beside him showed he had come straight to his office on his arrival. Which meant, Carey surmised, he had heard nothing about her—as, indeed, his blank look of query showed.
Carey said, ‘You won’t know me, Mr. Croft. I’m Carey Donne.’
He stared. ‘You’re—? Who did you say you were?’
‘Carey Donne. I—’
He shook his head. ‘Look, I just don’t get this. How can you be—’
‘I know,’ Carey cut in quickly. ‘I’m not the same one who was here before you went on holiday. But I’m the real Carey Donne. She—Rosalie Donne really—is my sister, and I’m afraid she and Mr. Martin Quest left here together to be married in Tangier and then flew to Ibiza where they plan to settle, the other side of last weekend. Mr. Randal Quest,’ she plunged on desperately, ‘is away today, but you’re to report to him first thing in the morning, and meanwhile he asked me to explain myself to you. What I’m doing here, that is,’ she finished lamely.
Michael Croft’s lips pursed in a long whistle. To himself more than to Carey he murmured, ‘So they eloped? Martin finally cut free? Wouldn’t have said he had it in him, but just look what love will do!’ He turned his attention back to Carey. ‘And what are you doing here, Miss—Carey Donne?’
‘I’m taking Rosalie’s place. As hostess for the season. As I was qualified and I was free, Mr. Quest almost seemed to think that to take it when he offered me the job was the least I could do to—to make up.’
‘Clear as mud. One minute, there’s a Carey Donne who isn’t; the next, one who claims she is. Query One—where did the second spring from? Query Two—Look, wouldn’t it be quicker if you began at the beginning and went on to the end? Here—’ With the ferrule of his stick he pushed a chair towards her and intercepted her involuntary glance at the stick by saying, ‘A hip thing I’ve got. Arthritic, but it’s pinned and it won’t get worse,’ as he reached for a chair himself and sat.
‘I take it you know already who I am?’ he asked. ‘Yes? Then if we’re introduced, shall we go on from there?’
‘Yes, well—’ As succinctly as she could Carey told him the story, realising from the comments he put in that Martin’s deep rebellion, if not his involvement with Rosalie, had been a fairly open secret for some time.
‘And though one didn’t guess what, something awfully phony about your sister too,’ Michael Croft told Carey when she had finished. ‘Had to comfort her myself like a brother more than once when she was in tears, without a clue about the work.’ He paused to survey Carey. ‘And so it’s now you for the chopping-block. I must say I hand it to you. You’ve got courage ... Carey. I may call you Carey?’
‘Please do, if you want to.’
‘Good, I will. Me—Michael. How!’ He raised a hand in a mock Red Indian salute and they both laughed.
‘And I suppose the whole place is agog with the scandal?’ he resumed.
‘In private, I daresay. In public it’s a forbidden topic by Mr. Quest’s orders.’
Michael nodded. ‘Shrewd of him. Once the current guests have moved out, the present set-up should be accepted as the status quo. How hav
e you made out with him to date? Can you cope?’
‘It remains to be seen. I hope I can.’
‘He takes knowing. For me he’s a grand person, but one has to make the grade—his grade, or else—And Denise? What do you—?’
But Denise, arriving in person, forestalled that question. She was barefoot, in a sarong-type wrap of orange towelling, her black hair streaming loose over golden-bronze shoulders. She went to perch on a corner of the desk, one leg crossed high. She spoke to Michael, ignoring Carey. ‘So you’re back to the treadmill, my friend? How does it feel?’
He looked at her and smiled. ‘Great.’
‘Liar,’ she taunted lightly.
He shook his head. ‘No, it’s good to be back. Better still, if you could tell me you’d missed me.’
From her position slightly above him she glanced at him through lowered lids. ‘But of course I missed my faithful Rover-hound from his kennel, what does he think? Not at all the same place without him—how will that do?’
Carey, indignant at the sheer insolence of that, watched Michael’s lips set and his smile fade. ‘Meaning it’s all I shall get?’ he asked levelly.
‘Meaning you’ll get more as soon as you’ve earned it.’ Denise leaned back, supporting herself on her hands behind her, her pose provocative. ‘And so—I’m bored. And so—you’re going to amuse me. You will suggest ways, and I shall say No to any which do not appeal to me, Yes to the one which does. En avanti I'm waiting—’
Carey looked at them both, almost praying that Michael would have the dignity to refuse her. But when he swivelled his chair to face his desk, saying, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve a pile of stuff here, the height of a mountain; I must wade in,’ Carey’s small breath of relief brought Denise’s glance round to her.
Denise slid down from her perch. ‘Other muttons in your pot, h’m? Oh well, have fun. Only don’t expect to find me waiting when you do decide to come out to play, will you?’
As she reached the door, Michael half rose and said to her back, ‘I shall see you at dinner?’ only to slump again in his chair when she went out without replying.
He stared at the desk-top. ‘I’m sorry about that. Denise isn’t usually quite so—direct,’ he said heavily, and after a moment prodded Carey’s silence by adding,
‘No comment?’
Forced to it, ‘I thought Miss Corel was quite offensively rude to you,’ Carey told him.
‘Yes, well—’ he sighed and shifted papers about. ‘Not a thing I can do, except assert myself occasionally. She’s such a lovely thing, and it’s not her fault I’ve let her see exactly where she’s got me.’ He glanced up at Carey, now standing beside him. ‘Pretty obvious to an outsider too, eh?’
‘Rather. I’m—sorry.’
He smiled suddenly. ‘Don’t be. I’m tough. I can take a lot of punishment from Denise, and the rare times when she does throw me a sop more than make up for the rest.’ Squaring his shoulders, he began to scan the papers before him with more purpose. ‘Better get on with this lot, I suppose. Was Randal planning to be away for the night, did you gather?’
‘I don’t think so. He only said to me “If I’m late—” Carey hesitated on her way to the door. ‘Do you call Mr. Quest Randal as a rule?’
Michael looked up from his slitting of an envelope. ‘Why, yes. Didn’t he introduce me as Michael?’
‘Well, yes. But as your employer, I thought—’
‘Ah, but he was a friend first, you see. His father and mine were buddies. His and Martin’s father died first, and when I lost my dad in the climbing accident where I broke this’—Michael indicated his hip—‘Randal sort of took over. He wasn’t much on the scene. He was abroad most of the time, but he saw me through the same school as Martin, and the pocket-money and the tuck-boxes were always laid on and, in my case, some top surgeons too. Meanwhile, he took on this place; Martin joined him out here and as I couldn’t hold down an active job, Randal made me his secretary a couple of years ago. Well’—he paused—‘as potted biography, how will that do?’
‘Fine. Thank you.’
‘It explains the Randal bit to your satisfaction?'
‘Oh yes.’ As Carey left Michael to his papers, she could have added that it had done more. It had shown her another facet to Randal Quest. He had belittled his fostering of Denise as a mere expediency which it had suited him to make. But his shouldering full responsibility for two teenage boys while he was still a young man himself did something to soften the harsh outline of the impression of him she had gained at second hand from Rosalie and Denise. She felt that Michael saw a different Randal Quest from either of them—a Randal Quest she realised she was curious to know better, intrigued by the enigma other people made of him, wanting quite badly enough guiding sense to judge for herself what he really was. When that happened—if it ever did—she found she was hoping it would bring her down on Michael’s side ...
From Michael’s office she made her way back across the foyer, deserted at this aperitif hour except for the small knot of people at the reception desk—a Moroccan taxi-driver straightening after setting down three pieces of air-luggage; an under-porter burdened by two more; the head hall porter and the reception clerk in wordy, gesticulatory argument, and a woman who, though taking no part in the commotion, was only too obviously its storm-centre. The irritable tap of the toe of her sandal on the marble floor, the very poise of her head, the querulous lift of her brows all said so. The lady had a grievance, that was clear. And whose job was it to soothe, to pour oil? Why, whose but Carey’s!
She approached the group, asked in English of the sculptured profile turned to her, ‘May I help?’ and then repeated the question in French, her next most fluent language.
The stranger turned and the toe-tapping ceased as she looked at Carey through light blue eyes which were as much the mark of the Aryan type as were the thick cream of her flawless skin and the almost luminous gold of her piled hair. She said in only slightly accented English, ‘I do not speak French. I am German. Who are you?’
‘My name is Donne—Carey Donne. I’m the social hostess. If there is anything I can do?’ Carey began, only to be cut short by a clamour from the French clerk to the effect that Madame had arrived, annoyed that there had been no car to meet her in Tangier and she had had to hire a taxi; Madame claimed she was expected, as a close friend of Monsieur Quest, but the desk had no booking made for Madame and, as Mademoiselle Donne knew, Monsieur Quest was away for the day.
‘Yes.’ Carey turned to the stranger. ‘There’s been some mistake, evidently. I’m very sorry. You would have written or wired for a suite, Frau—?’
‘—Ehrens. Gerda Ehrens. Of course I wrote for a booking. What do you suppose?’
‘Advising us of your arrival—when?’
‘Why, today, naturally, as I travelled today. And what happens? I have to find my own way from Tangier. No reservation has been made for me, and if I understand these types’—a snapped finger indicated the hall porter and the clerk—‘neither Randal Quest nor his manager are available.’
‘Not for the moment. But Mr. Randal Quest who is acting as his own manager for a time should be back tonight. Meanwhile I’ve no doubt at all that something can be arranged for you, Frau Ehrens. Perhaps if you could give the desk some idea of the accommodation you would like—?’ Carey invited.
‘They should know, if they keep any records. The same suite I had the last time I was here—with a balcony and a private sitting-room. I asked for it, or one just like it, in my letter—’
‘Which seems to have gone astray, though I’ll make full enquiries in the secretary’s office,’ Carey promised, then smiled. ‘You have been to the El Gara before, Frau Ehrens?’
‘Once. I was here in the spring, and it seemed to be efficiently run—then.’
‘As I hope you’ll find it is still, in spite of our shortcomings today,’ Carey smiled again. ‘And now, if you’d let me show you to a lounge and have coffee or something from the bar sent t
o you, I’ll get the desk to arrange your suite. If necessary, you would accept a temporary room for tonight?’
Frau Ehrens shrugged. ‘If I must.’ As she made to follow Carey she noticed the taxi-driver still hovering. ‘I’d better pay this fellow. What kind of currency will he take?’
‘I expect he would prefer dirhams. But if you would rather, the hall porter could take care of it for you,’ Carey told her.
‘No, I daresay I can do it.’ As she spoke she swung the big alligator-skin bag from her shoulder and tipped its contents on to a nearby table.
A bulging notecase slid. A lipstick rolled. A gold cigarette lighter clattered. Papers cascaded, and a sealed envelope of thick handmade stationery plumped at Carey’s feet.
She picked it up. Its address, in boldest black script, was to ‘Der Gasthof El Gara. Hassi Ain. Morocco.’ The stamp on it was unfranked. To Carey it seemed to tell its own tale, and she was quite unprepared for the frozen stare of the blue eyes as she handed it over. ‘Would this perhaps be your letter to us?’ she began. The one you—?’
‘Of course not. Please mind your own business,’ snapped Frau Ehrens.
‘I’m sorry.’ Carey flushed. She waited while the other woman dealt with the taxi-driver and gathered her belongings. The customer is always right, she reminded herself. But one didn’t have to like them too. And for probably as illogical a reason as that Frau Gerda Ehrens couldn’t admit to the very human error of an unposted letter, Carey decided she didn’t like her much.
CHAPTER FOUR
MICHAEL, consulted, agreed that in the interests of goodwill the El Gara must honour a reservation which had almost certainly never been made, and accordingly a suite which Frau Ehrens decided to approve was put at her disposal.
Of course, he remembered her previous visit, he told Carey.
Though “a close friend of Randal’s”? That’s stretching it a bit,’ he commented. ‘As far as I’m aware, they didn’t know each other before that.’
‘They may have kept in touch since,’ Carey suggested.
‘Possibly, and they were certainly close while she was here. But Randal hasn’t been out of Morocco for months and I’d say he’s not the man to be content to do his courting of a woman by remote control or by letter. For him, the direct approach—or nothing.’
