THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK

by Richard Savin

  Sophie gave a nod of greeting. ‘I hope your flight was good, monsieur. I imagine Klaus will have told you how things are.’

  Bonny’s half-hooded eyes showed little enthusiasm. ‘He has, and it is less than I had hoped for.’

  ‘Well, monsieur,’ Klaus von Meyer said disdainfully, ‘it will not be difficult to find your British agent. I have already arranged for the word to be passed out in the souks that there is a reward to be had. It will not be long before you shall have him. Now let us talk business.’

  The two men followed the slim outline of Sophie Romero into the cool of the warehouse, up an iron staircase to the first floor, along a corridor, into a room that looked out over the wharves and the sea beyond.

  They sat around the table, Bonny with his arms folded tight against his chest, straight faced, and without the least hint of humour. ‘As you know, I represent the Reich in this matter – and Reichsführer Himmler. For the Algerian criminal Xicluna, I am authorised to offer you the sum of one million Reichsmarks delivered to any bank you choose, so long as it is in a country that is either neutral or a friend of Germany.’ He waited for a response.

  Sophie Romero cast a quick glance at von Meyer. His face showed no indication of his feelings about the offer. Secretly, he knew the Americans were not of a mind to deal, but Bonny, he also knew, was unaware of this. Then there was Vichy. While the government there had indicated they would bid for Xicluna they had yet to put a price on it; they had no interest in Grainger. Bonny’s was the only solid offer on the table.

  ‘And the British agent, Grainger; how much?’

  Bonny maintained his poker face. ‘I am authorised to offer you half a million for the spy – and your rehabilitation into the Reich. All charges over your membership of the SA to be expunged and you will be given the rank of Standartenfuhrer of the SS.’

  Sophie Romero was shaking her head. Von Meyer smiled, but it was a cold, sardonic smile. ‘Two million for the Algerian and one for the British spy. The business of rehabilitation and a job in the SS is not interesting.’ He held out both hands and grinned. ‘After all, what is given by the Fatherland today can be so easily taken away tomorrow. Money is the only thing that interests us – and it must be in gold; paper money can so easily catch fire in the flames of war, monsieur.’

  Bonny contemplated for a moment, then pushed his chair back noisily and stood up. ‘I will take my instructions from Berlin. Now, please drive me back to the city and my hotel. I will let you have a response in the morning. In the meantime find my British spy.’

  Pierre Bonny was the chief of the Carlingue, but this Gestapo clone did not have a presence in Vichy. The Carlingue were Paris based: Frenchmen recruited by the Nazis operating in the Occupied Zone to form a French Gestapo: collaborateurs. The Carlingue was the hated accomplice of the occupiers. Its vicious reputation for cruelty outbid that of their masters, but – in Vichy, he had no legal writ.

  At a bright hour of the morning, Bonny walked into the office of the Prefect of Police on Hassan II street, a grand colonial building in the French style. He was in the strange position of a man with no official status but who could not be ignored. Vichy was in substance little more than a client of the Reich and to refuse the Carlingue was to refuse the Gestapo – not a course to be recommended.

  Gabriel Hamiot was a Paris policeman, serving in the colonial arm of the service. He had known Bonny from the old days, when Bonny had been a respected policeman; but Bonny had fallen from grace, discredited. He had become involved with the criminal underworld of Paris. He was on the take: bribes for looking the other way, kickbacks for alibis, false testimony in the highest courts. It had cost him two years of his freedom and his police career. When the Wehrmacht marched into Paris and Himmler began recruiting, Bonny was at the head of the queue, and he had revenge on his mind.

  ‘Pierre, welcome to Casablanca. What service can I offer you?’ Hamiot exuded a warmth he did not feel.

  ‘There is a German operating here; his name is Klaus von Meyer. The Gestapo would like him arrested and handed over. Not now, but later, when I request it.’

  Hamiot frowned; he raised his eyebrows. He knew Bonny’s methods; they would be questionable. He had no intention of landing himself in trouble. ‘Are there papers or is this not a Vichy matter?’

  Bonny didn’t care for the response. This fonctionnaire with his glossy white reputation was like all the rest, contemptuous and condescending – but like all those others, in the end he would do as he was told. There was space enough in the camps for unhelpful policemen as well as Jews. ‘Don’t push your luck Gabriel. The Gestapo want him. I have my orders, and that is enough.’

  Hamiot smiled but there was little contrition, and anyway what did it matter to him – it would be one German less. ‘What has he done to upset the Gestapo, or can’t you tell me?’

  ‘You remember Ernst Rohm?’

  ‘Of course, leader of the SA, Hitler’s old bodyguard. Liquidated in ‘34 along with the organisation’s top commanders.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Klaus von Meyer was one of Rohm’s top enforcers. He was the one that got away. It was Himmler who signed the order for detention – and, of course, eventual execution.’ Bonny gave an ugly grin. ‘I can count on you, Gabriel, I am sure.’

  ‘When do you want this arrest?’

  ‘Not yet, I’ll tell you when. In the meantime keep your gendarmes away from him, if he should come to your attention, that is. Your men should be careful, though; he is a killer by instinct.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No. There is a British agent, here in the city. I want him too. Not as dangerous as Meyer, but resourceful – and clever. He will be harder to find, but easier to take. Let me know if there is news. I am staying at the Hotel L’Iglesia.’

  Out on the street the sun was again hot. The dark suit that Pierre Bonny was wearing marked him as an outsider, a man who would be easy to spot.

  Chapter 22

  A place of safety

  By the time she got back to the house, Evangeline had largely worked out her plan. She had a month in which to organise and that she hoped would be enough. In the dining room she laid out a sheet of paper on which she drew up two columns. On the left side she wrote down a list of the all the things she possessed that she could sell, setting against each item what she hoped was the value.

  Next she took the roll of notes she had found in the desk and counted them. There was one thousand pesetas in all. Together with what she had in her purse, the money from Carlos’ clothes, and what was left of the month’s housekeeping allowance, she had barely two thousand. It would not keep them for long but it would be enough to buy time, and she had the wedding gifts she had given Carlos, gifts that had meant nothing to him but which would now make a difference to her. There was also her wedding ring, to which she felt no attraction, and finally there was the jewel in her crown: the car. These, she calculated, would buy her a new future.

  ‘Have a seat, Tamaya.’ Evangeline pulled a dining chair away from the table. ‘Here.’ Tamaya hesitated. Evangeline was insistent. ‘Come along, I need to talk with you.’ Tamaya sat down with a diffidence that spoke of the embarrassment she felt sitting in the presence of her mistress.

  Evangeline put both hands squarely on the table. ‘Tamaya, I will be plain in this matter. There is very little money and I can no longer pay you.’

  Tamaya’s face sank, ‘Oh, madame, I do not want to leave.’

  Evangeline raised a hand. ‘Hear me out. I am to have a child and I must find a way to earn enough to feed it. So, I have decided. I shall go to Girona and find a shop for rent and I will do the one thing I know how. I shall open a patisserie. Now, if you wish, you may come with me. I can only offer you a room and your food.’

  At this Tamaya brightened. ‘I could work for you, madame. I know how to bake. I would not ask for pay, only that I can stay in your house.’

  ‘I have thought ab
out this, Tamaya. If it is successful it may be possible to give you a wage. Is that agreeable?’

  At this Tamaya descended into tears. ‘Oh, madame.’

  Evangeline again put up a hand. ‘And do stop calling me madame; I am beginning to think I haven’t got a proper name at all. Please, you must call me by my name Evangeline, and when you feel comfortable you can try Evi, which is what my friends in Turckheim used to call me. Now, can I take it you would like to do that? Here …,’ she picked up a table napkin and handed it to her. ‘Now do stop crying, it solves nothing, and there is an awful lot to do. In the morning I would like you to accompany me to Girona and we can make a start. Now practise: what is my name?’

  Tamaya took the napkin and dabbed her eyes. ‘Evangeline, madame.’ She said uncertainly.

  ‘No, not madame.’

  At this both women laughed and, in so doing, the chains that bound her as a servant to a mistress were broken.

  They found the Garatge Plana close to the city centre. When he saw the car being parked on the forecourt the owner himself came out to greet them. ‘Good morning, señora,’ he beamed, then stood back to admire the car. ‘This, if I am not mistaken, is the car of Don Carlos de Lorca – is it not?’

  ‘It is,’ Evangeline agreed. ‘Regrettably he is now the late Don Carlos. He met with a tragic accident. I am his widow,’

  The man looked flustered, then gathered some gravitas. ‘Oh, señora, my condolences.’

  ‘Thank you, señor.’

  ‘Such a shame, a very fine gentleman, and with great taste. I personally sold this car to him. He knew the best when he saw it.’ He took a pace back to admire the car. ‘540 SK,’ he said lovingly.

  Evangeline smiled coyly. ‘Is that good?’

  ‘Good!’ the man gasped in a mock exclamation. ‘Señora, it is the best. Nobody in the whole world has produced anything finer.’

  Well, Carlos, she said silently to herself, at least you got one thing right. ‘I wish to sell it, señor. It is too big for my needs. Are you interested to buy it?’

  ‘Señora, I am at your service.’ She could almost feel the heat as he stoked up his avarice. Cars, she knew, were at a premium. From the outset of the war all civilian production had ceased as factories turned their attention to armaments and vehicles for the military.

  He almost fell over himself with enthusiasm. This was an opportunity that should not be let go. ‘Please,’ he beckoned her towards his office. ‘Do come inside. May I offer you coffee – or perhaps tea?’

  One hundred and fifty thousand pesetas, that was the offer – and it was much more than she had expected. She left feeling lifted. To his disappointment she had told him she was not quite ready to enter into the sale but that she would return when she was.

  It had been easy to transact her business at the garage; finding a property was to be more difficult. Nothing, nothing, nothing. There were only four agencies in the city handling the property she sought, and turn by turn they sent her away without hope. The plans she had laid were being consumed along with the day and she began to feel the heavy sense of failure pressing down on her.

  Il Agente Inmobiliario was her final resort. As with the others, the reception was indifferent. The agent was taciturn. There was no enthusiasm in his voice and he seemed to be viewing her as something of a nuisance. ‘Property such as you seek is not easy to find, señora. Much has been damaged or destroyed in the Civil War. There are more offers than there are properties.’

  ‘Well, señor, I will take whatever you can find.’

  The agent curled up his top lip, pressing it to his nose, as if he had caught the whiff of a bad odour. ‘I have a long list of clients who are waiting, señora.’ He gave a heavy shrug of his shoulders. ‘Everyone is waiting – Valentina!’ A woman appeared in the doorway of the back office.

  ‘Bring me the list of our commercial clients.’

  ‘Si, Señor Borja.’

  Moments later she brought a brown card folder and laid it in front of the agent. He opened it, huffing with resignation as he performed what he clearly considered to be the motions of a useless task. He let his eyes scan briefly down the list of names, each with a requirement set against it. He considered the situation. ‘There are eleven clients before you, all wanting what you require.’

  ‘I see.’ Evangeline made ready to stand; she had heard it all before, but the man indicated he had not finished.

  ‘Of course, señora, it is possible …,’ he hesitated, ‘… to pay, shall we call it, a premium; a sum in consideration for getting your name to the top of the list.’

  Evangeline did not beat about the bush. Here was the glint of hope but there would be a cost. She had seen it before in this country. If something was scarce, then there would be demands: a bribe. ‘How much?’

  The agent pursed his lips and took a measured breath. ‘Shall we say two thousand?’

  ‘That is a lot, señor.’

  He sniffed, a short noisy intake of air through his nostrils. He closed the folder. ‘That is the cost, señora.’

  There was nothing for it. If she wanted to escape Cadaqués she would have to pay. ‘I accept,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I will return later with your money.’

  In the Carrer de les Hortes she found the shop of a jeweller and dealer in rare coins.

  ‘These are from my late husband’s estate.’ She laid out the watch and the jade cufflinks she had so recently bought for him. ‘They have never been used, they are as new.’ She took a paper from her handbag and unfolded it on the counter in front of him. ‘This is the attestation of my inheritance. You will see they are listed.’

  The jeweller gave the paper no more than a cursory look. ‘Five thousand,’ he said without preamble.

  ‘They cost ten, señor; they are like new.’ She took out another paper from her bag. ‘This is the receipt from the jeweller in Figueres.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘I understand, but I am in business for profit, señora, not for my amusement. That is the best I can offer. Evangeline hesitated, she was desperate but she dared not show it. She picked up the items and placed them back in her bag. ‘It is too little, señor. Thank you, but I will try elsewhere.’

  ‘Let me see them again.’ The jeweller held out his hand.

  ‘I could go to six, señora, but that is my limit.’

  Evangeline hesitated. ‘No,’ she said slowly, ‘but I will accept seven.’

  Again the man shook his head. He picked up the watch, examined it, then placed it back on the counter. He looked vacantly up towards the ceiling as if turning it over in his mind. ‘Six thousand-five hundred. That is my very best offer, señora.’

  Reluctantly she agreed. It was less than she had hoped for but she had little choice. She would need every peseta she could get. She opened her purse and took out her wedding ring. ‘How much?’

  The jeweller looked at the assay mark: eighteen carat, he said pretty much to himself. He weighed it on a balance. ‘I can only give the scrap gold price for this.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she shrugged dismissively. It was not worth the haggle; it only carried bad memories and they were worth even less.

  He counted out the money and handed it to her.

  Señor Borja at the Agente Inmobiliario seemed surprised that she had returned. He had not expected to see her again. Nevertheless he took the money, counting it methodically before locking it away in a heavy iron cash box. ‘You realise, señora, that this does not guarantee I will find you a property, only that you will go to the top of the list and get the first choice of anything that is offered.’

  ‘Well,’ she said as they drove back to Cadaqués, ‘all we can do is wait. We are in the hands of Señor Borja, a place I do not much like being. If nothing comes of this before the month is out, then we shall have to make plans to take rooms in the city and wait there till something turns up.’

  That afternoon she went through the papers in Carlos’ desk. There was nothing of value left. Just old corresp
ondence and receipts for purchases of equipment in Buenos Aires. In amongst them she found the now worthless share certificate for his half of the equity in the Argentinian mine. Her first thought was to burn it along with all the other paper. However, in a moment of bitter humour she decided she would frame it as a reminder of how gullible she had been.

  As the evening drew in she went to the kitchen where Tamaya was preparing dinner. ‘I think,’ Evangeline said, ‘it would be best if we took our food together in future. It seems silly and purposeless for you to sit in one room while I sit in another.’

  Tamaya looked uncertain, then gave the faintest nod of her head. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, ‘I should like that.’

  *

  One week after the visit to Girona a letter arrived. It was from the Agente Inmobiliario. There was a property: a shop with rooms above.

  The shop was in the Carrer Santa Clara. It was a wide, busy thoroughfare, with many businesses and restaurants, though the street itself showed signs of neglect and the burden of the Civil War. That aside, it was a good location for their needs.

  ‘It has been empty for some time,’ Señor Borja casually observed. He opened the front door and a smell of pent up dust came out to greet them. When he pulled back the shutters and let the light from the street flood in, it became clear there would be much to do. But it had what they needed: a good display window at the front, a counter backed by shelves and, through a door behind it, a large kitchen with a wood-fired oven. It needed work but it was work they could mostly do themselves; cleaning and painting would put much of it right. They would need the services of a carpenter, a plumber and an electrician, but only for small jobs.

  ‘What is the rent to be, señor?’

  Borja looked surprised. ‘This is not for rent, señora; this property is to be sold. Did I not say so in my letter?’

  ‘I don’t think so, señor.’ She took the letter out of her handbag and re-read it. Then she saw it, right at the bottom. How could she have missed it: 130,000 pesetas.