The Lighthearted Quest (24 page)

Moreover—though Julia didn't argue this out very clearly with herself—by a succession of strokes of extraordinary luck such as Mr. Bingham's indiscretions and Bathyadis' mistake about her, she had found out quite a lot, and she wanted very badly to go on until she had unravelled the whole mystery. That would be one in the eye for Geoffrey—and for the Bank of England too! No, she would go on, for a bit anyhow, and as carefully as possible. Very well—and she returned to her assessment of facts. From Bathyadis she knew that whatever was exported went in the velvet trunks: this was confirmed directly by Mr. St John, and indirectly by the landlord, who had said that the mineral-smugglers sent their commodity out “concealed in something else, so that it appears other than what it is”. He was talking of the Germans, but what better concealment for a precious mineral than to put it in velvet trunks and—
yes!
send these down to antique-dealers at the ports, who could easily, somehow, ship it out. It must be that or “thatabouts”, Julia thought, smiling as the old nursery expression at Glentoran rose of itself in her mind. That of course was where young Bathyadis came in, and there flashed back into her recollection how he had expressed such surprising gratitude to Mr. St John for suggesting that he should start up in business in Casablanca. Aha!—the old boy had been responsible for organising that; no doubt it was because with his immense local knowledge he could arrange such things that he was “in on” the business, in spite of his age and his indiscreet tongue.

But now, what was the next step towards finding Colin? He was in the South, with the red-haired man, staying in
cantines
and moving about: that was all she knew—except that the landlord had said that metal-runners, if illicit, used false passports
and disguise. She didn't of course know for certain that Colin's activities
were
illicit, but if they were completely above-board, why the mystery everywhere, and the velvet trunks, which were a sort of commercial equivalent of false beards? No, for the moment she would assume that their business was
not
above-board. Therefore it was pretty useless to attempt to follow them and find them herself; that would involve a lot of arranging, since she spoke no Arabic, and would cost a great deal—besides, she suddenly realised, she didn't know in which of the two areas they were operating, the one south of the Atlas, or the new one
en pleine Sahara,
near Mindouf?—Dindouf?—no, Tindouf, that was the name—of which the landlord had spoken.

Very well—following them was out, for the moment anyhow. And if they were not coming] back to Fez for six weeks or two months it was senseless to wait there for them. Julia paused at that point for some time, sitting staring in front of her, looking perfectly blank. She was wondering if it would be any good going to see Bathyadis again, with some other guide than the nosey Abdul, and trying to arrange with him to let her know when they did return by telegram or telephone, using some code expression like—oh, “Carrots received” or “House on fire”. She grinned a little at these ideas, but finally decided against that too. Very likely the old Moor would be unwilling to do either, with his panic about names in
bureaux de postes;
he would probably refer her to Mr. St John, which would be quite hopeless. No—really the best thing would be to return to Tangier at once and try to make Purcell tell her some more, using some of her newly-acquired knowledge to “bounce” him. What Purcell stood for in the whole business was another thing to find out, but that he was pretty accurately informed was certain—he had been right about Bathyadis, right about Mr. St John, and he certainly knew about the antique-dealers at the ports, because he had been so startled when she mentioned them. And sooner or later Colin and
friend were pretty certain to come back to that house in the Kasbah.

Right—back to Tangier. In her lethargic-seeming fashion Julia was quite a fast worker, and she now went leisurely downstairs and informed the landlord that she had decided to leave the following day. The landlord expressed regret; so did Julia—there was still so much to see in Fez. She had decided upstairs to make a false excuse, and now smoothly said that she thought she ought to go down to Casablanca to investigate the matter of the doctor's murder. (She already knew that the train from Fez went direct to Casablanca, but by changing at Petit-Jean she could get back to Tangier.) While they were talking “Madame” appeared; the landlord had married a Frenchwoman, not a Moor, and Julia asked her politely how she liked being in Fez, and whether she preferred it to life at the
cantine?
Oh, but infinitely! Beni-Issar was so
triste,
so isolated—for shopping, for instance, nothing was obtainable nearer than Mogador, or at the best Marrakesh where the shops were
plutôts indigènes',
nothing in the way of clothes in the least up-to-date, and the price of having one's hair set in the Mamounia Hotal! Julia smiled her slow smile, and sympathised—Madame was in fact a surprisingly trim and chic little person. The couple invited her to take an
apéritif
with them, and they sat in the small hall; Madame pursued the subject of the discomforts of life in “the South”. Ah, if only these travelling vendors of clothes had been going about when they were there!

Julia made an enquiring sound.

Yes, just in the last few months travelling salesmen had started making journeys round the southern regions in
camionnettes,
the landlord said; mostly clothes for men, of course, but he had heard that they had a tolerable selection of garments for women too; stockings, blouses, even
petites robes.
This was clearly a subject of the highest interest to both husband and wife; they pursued it alternately, in strophe and anti-strophe.
Such a boon for the personnel at the mines, who could at least see what they were purchasing when they bought a new shirt instead of getting it by mail-order from Casablanca, said Monsieur. Yes, and equally for the ladies, when they required new stockings, Madame chimed in—and these Austrians and Swiss brought really good
marques,
her friends informed her, like “Nylons Guy”.

Oh, it was not the French who conducted this new enterprise, Julia asked, interested—Mr. Bingham had omitted this particular side-line, but it would all fit in nicely to yet another article.

No, no—Austrians and Swiss. Really they were public benefactors, Madame was saying fervently, when the hall door opened and Steve Keller walked in.

“I have the week-end off, so I came to look you up,” he said, when Julia had introduced him to the landlord and his wife, who promptly retired to the bureau.

“Is
it the week-end?” Julia asked vaguely—so much seemed to be happening in Fez that she had almost lost count of time.

“Well, day before yesterday was Thursday, when we went to Volubilis, so I make today Saturday,” said the airman, grinning.

“So it is.”

“How's Methuselah?”

“Not very well, I'm afraid,” said Julia, guiltily—it occurred to her that she ought before this to have rung up the Consulate to ask if the poor old creature was all right. Should she, or would that introduce more complications? He might have already denounced her to the Consul as a spy, in his frame of mind when they parted—feeling even guiltier she decided to let it alone.

Mr. Keller took the news of Mr. St John's indisposition very cheerfully.

“Then he won't want to come on any more trips,” he said.
“Fine. What are you doing tomorrow? Care to come for another drive?”

“But I'm going back to Tangier tomorrow,” said Julia, thoughtlessly—and then looked quickly round. No, the
patron
was not in sight. “Or rather to Casablanca,” she said, more loudly, in case he had been within earshot all the same.

Steve looked puzzled, and also rather dashed.

“Let's get this straight—“ he began, rather crossly.

“No—don't let's; at least, not here,” said Julia, almost hurriedly for her—“and don't shout. Come outside.”

In the sunny street—“I wasn't shouting,” the American said rather sulkily. “What's the mix-up, anyway. Where
are
you going?”

Julia felt foolish. Frankness, at least up to a point, seemed the best course.

“I am really going back to Tangier,” she said; “but the people here had expected me to stay longer, and they've been so nice—so as an excuse I said I was going to Casa to write up the murder.”

“What murder? Oh, that doctor. But what d'you mean write up? Are you a writer?”

“Well, I'm a journalist.”

He stared at her.

“You don't look like one! Well—maybe a bit like Virginia Cowles—she's pretty chic,” he said, still staring. “But don't you have to go down and cover this murder?”

“Oh, no—I write for weeklies, so I can send what I like.”

“Then why do you have to leave tomorrow? Why not come for a drive with me, and go Monday?”

Julia hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment.

“No, I must go,” she said. “I have a job in Tangier, and if I get back tomorrow I can start work again on Monday. My employer wasn't very willing to let me come up here at all.”

“What kind of a job? You are full of surprises, aren't you?—I thought you were just a rich tourist.”

“No English tourists are rich nowadays,” said Julia. “We get exactly a hundred pounds, which isn't quite three hundred dollars, to spend abroad in a whole year; so if we want to stay abroad we have to earn abroad—that's all.”

“Three hundred dollars
a year!
That's just silly,” said the American.

“Silly is the word,” Julia replied.

Mr. Keller appeared to reflect.

“Say, are you an early riser?” he asked at length.

“If I have to be. Why?”

“How would it be if I drove you down to Tangier tomorrow, if you absolutely have to go? If we started early I could get back to Meknes the same night. What do you say?”

Julia said Yes. It would save the fare, she would see more of the country, and it would completely fox the little man with the cast in his eye, unless
nos ennemis
sprang him a car. Steve said, “And you fix one of those raw-food picnics of yours, can you?” in tones of great satisfaction.

Julia did not start worrying about Steve, obvious as his pleasure at spending another day with her already was. It was common form for young men to keep on turning up, once she had met them, and to want to take her for drives, or to the theatre, or sailing in uncomfortably small boats. As for the early start, her train would have left at seven a.m. anyhow. She whispered a reminder to him that their destination was supposed to be Casablanca, and then ordered her breakfast and a picnic lunch for two, and went off to dine with him.

And the next morning, sharp at eight o'clock, they set off, with the picnic-basket in the back of the car; the sun struck silver through the olive-groves as they spun through Morocco, down towards the coast and Tangier.

That same Sunday morning, Mrs. Monro, Edina and Mrs. Hathaway were sitting at breakfast in the gloomy dining-room at Glentoran. Olimpia was rather a failure at
porridge and even at poached eggs, which she was wont to serve on a bed of fried onion-rings, to the horror of Mrs. Monro and Forbes; but she made a wonderful hispanicised version of kedgeree which Edina and the guest were enjoying; Mrs. Monro, who disliked its strong spicy flavourings, had boiled herself an
egg
in a little electric boiler. Presently a strong smell of burning bread filled the room, and Edina leapt up and ran to the side-table.

“Damn that machine! Why on earth can't it throw the things out?” she exclaimed, removing two charred and blackened pieces of toast from the shining gadget. She peered at it, and then turned indignantly.

“Mother! Forbes really is unutterable! He'd turned it to
six.
Two is the outside. I can't think why you put up with him,” the girl added, adjusting the knob and cutting two more slices of bread—“he really is the
world's
fool.”

“No washing-up,” Mrs. Hathaway murmured.

“True enough—but Mother might try to make him do what little work he does properly. I can't run the place
and
the house,” said Edina impatiently.

Her mother wisely said nothing. The fact was, as Mrs. Hathaway had already observed the previous evening, that Edina was getting thoroughly restive at her enforced stay in Scotland, and the older woman understood now why Mrs. Monro had sent her that muddled and inconclusive appeal to “come up and talk things over”, which had brought her to Glentoran the day before. Characteristically, however, Ellen Monro had so far shown no disposition to talk on any but the most trivial subjects, and was presently driven off by a neighbour to attend the Presbyterian church at Duntroon. Presbyterian services held no appeal for either Mrs. Hathaway or Edina, and since the nearest Episcopalian one took place over forty miles away they abandoned all idea of Sabbath observance, and settled down over the fire.

“When did you last hear from Julia?” Edina asked, kicking
a labrador out of the way in order to put on more logs from the vast wood-basket.

“Just this week.”

Julia had in fact written to Mrs. Hathaway within a day or so of writing to Edina, and to much the same effect, except that she had omitted the account of Mr. Reeder, and had suggested that if Mrs. Hathaway “happened” to be in touch with Geoffrey Consett, she might “exert a tiny spot of superior-age pressure, and see if that wretched young man can't be made to spill the odd bean”. Mrs. Hathaway, who knew Geoffrey quite well, had promptly asked him round for a drink: the conversation which ensued had left her puzzled and rather ill at ease. Mr. Consett, when she questioned him about Colin, had given a life-like representation of a worm on a pin; but he presently stressed what he had written to Julia at Casablanca, only in even stronger terms—that whatever Julia or anyone else did, or said, or wished, it was quite impossible for young Monro to leave his employment for the moment.