The Lighthearted Quest (30 page)

“No! Is she done for?”

“Well, we hope not—but it will be quite a while before she's on the run again, so I'm taking a bit of leave.”

“Was anyone hurt? Is the Captain all right?” Julia asked, with an eagerness which rather surprised Angus Ross-shire.

“Oh, Cherry's as right as eight trivets. But you should have heard him swear!—you know he never does as a rule, but he let Freeman have it superbly.”

“I
wish
I'd been there! Precious Captain Blyth!” said Julia, with enthusiasm. She turned to her friend. “The
Vidago's
the most darling boat, I was so happy on her—and Captain Blyth is an angel. So you're hanging about here for a bit?” she asked Reeder.

“Yes. I thought I'd go inland now I have the chance—see Fez, and Marrakesh, and all that; there's never been time before.”

“It looks as though we shall all be ‘piling up' at Marrakesh,
though let's hope not actually wrecked,” said the Duke. “You are going, Miss Probyn is going, I and my party are going. I hope we all meet there and have a drink. Where shall you drink in Marrakesh, Julia? The Mamounia?”

“Mercy, no!” said Julia. “The Café de France.”

“Now what
is
all this nonsense about not being rung up on the telephone?” Mr. Lynch asked, as he steered his car skilfully through Casablanca's traffic on the way from the station.

“It may be nonsense, as you say, Paddy, only I have been being shadowed pretty persistently—even as far as Fez.”

“Who on earth by?”

“A seedy little creature who was pretty unsuitable for the job because he had a squint which one simply couldn't mistake.”

“And in whose interest is this flatty employed, do you imagine?”

“I don't imagine, and I don't know. I can only guess—and I want you to help me with my guessing. In fact, a car is such a good place to talk in—do you think we could potter about a little instead of going straight home? I've got a lot to tell you.”

“God help you, you have got it on your mind,” said Mr. Lynch. “O.K.—we'll potter.”

Julia had decided on her way down in the train to tell Mr. Lynch everything. He was intelligent, trustworthy, and had lived in Morocco for a considerable time; moreover not being a British subject he would be free from certain inhibitions. Her cogitations about this had been constantly interrupted by what she saw from the train windows—the endless young plantations of eucalyptus inland from Port Lyautey; the curious fact that all the orange-groves, gleaming with fruit in their neat squares, were surrounded by 20-foot hedges of some evergreen thing like a cypress; the large pale-brown winged insects that sprang up in clouds from beside the line in several places as the train passed—could they be locusts? She
must
ask Paddy about all these things—but also, she managed to decide, she must tell him her whole story. And while they sat drawn up by the kerb in the open space near the new Cathedral—that inspired combination of Gothic form with the characteristic Moroccan open-cut plaster-work in the windows, creating quite a new sort of beauty in ecclesiastical building—she did tell him. Julia had no great gift for lucid exposition; she began at the end rather than at the beginning, and continued with many parentheses and flash-backs. But from the moment when she said—“Well, I know what Colin is doing: he is digging out some rare mineral somewhere down in the South and shipping it out in velvet trousseau-trunks which they buy from an old Moor in Fez”—she held Mr. Lynch's attention. There was no more mockery; now and again he asked a question, but on the whole, at the end, he accepted her piecing together of facts from so many different sources, including his friend Mr. Bingham.

“Old ruffian,” he said cheerfully. “He told you much more than he ever has me! I knew about the chrome and molybdenum of course, and I'd heard vague talk of some rarer things being prospected for, but I'd no idea the East Germans were doing it. I'd better see what I can find out. There are others who know things besides Bingham.”

“Oughtn't we to go and see young Bathyadis?” Julia asked.

“Oh we will, by all means—I'd like a good tray as a baby-present for Nita, anyhow. But we shan't get anything from a Moor.”

“I did from his father,” Julia pointed out.

“Yes—that's the queerest part of the whole business.
Very
odd, his assuming you were in on it, and an amazing stroke of luck; everything else has flowed from that—though I'm not saying you weren't almighty smart, dear Julia. Whoever'd think it, to look at you? Your face really
is
your fortune!”

“Yes, isn't it?” said Julia tranquilly.

Mr. Lynch continued to meditate.

“I wonder if it would be any good having a go at the
Affaires Indigènes.”

“Why?”

“They keep tabs on all travellers: everyone has to have a
fiche,
a sort of
permis de circulation
with their name and so on, which is checked and stamped in each Administration Post. Car-drivers are even asked at one post where they are making for, and the French check by telephone to find if they've clocked in where they said.”

“Goodness, do they? They ought to be easy to trace, so, Paddy.”

“Not if they're using false names and false passports. And one person may dig a thing out, but there are probably whole echelons of men of straw between him and whoever ships it—in this case presumably young Bathyadis.” He reflected. “I'll think about it. Anyhow, come on home now and have a drink.”

“There he is!” Julia ejaculated, as Mr. Lynch swung the car swiftly round.

“Who is?”

“My shadower—look, the little man in the bad hat, on that seat. Oh, he's going off.”

Mr. Lynch pulled the car sharply back onto the wrong side of the road and overhauled Moshe; springing out, he caught the little Jew by the shoulder, and stared relentlessly in his face.

“I shall know you if I see you again,” he said in French—“And if I do see you again you will come to call on the police! Why do you pursue Mademoiselle?”

“I do not, I do not! I take the air only.”

“Well, take some other air! Go back to Tangier! Where's your notebook?”

Even as the little Jew said piteously—“Monsieur, I have no
carnet”
one hand flew protectively to the breast pocket of his shabby jacket; Paddy's followed it, and drew out a small book.

“Très-bien!
I keep this. Be off—it is not permitted to pursue
young ladies in Casablanca.” He returned to the car, tossing the notebook into Julia's lap as they drove off.

They studied it together over their drinks in Paddy's villa. There were various dates: Julia identified the two days when she had called on Bathyadis, with a small “f” in front of them; the number (which she happened to remember) of Steve's car, with the date of her return in it to Tangier, and such a quantity of entries with “P” and a date that Paddy laughed out loud when Julia explained that these must presumably represent her visits to Purcell's Bar.

“No wonder you needed to seek ‘gainful employment'—you seem to have lived in that bar!” he said, delightedly. Julia ignored this and went on studying the notebook—in view of what Purcell had said about the Jew's probably having only started following her after he had seen her outside the house in the Kasbah, she was looking for the date when she went up to see the Mendoub. There it was—with “XO1” and “XO2” against it. She showed these to Paddy, with great satisfaction.

“There's a car-number on the next line,” he said. “See? Moroccan, by the look of it.”

“Goodness, so there is! That might be the car they fetched the gin and whisky in.
Paddy!
Couldn't we trace them with that?”

“Might do. We'll have a fair try, anyhow. Do you want to change?”

In the pretty downstairs bedroom allotted to her Julia found an airmail letter on her dressing-table. “Oh, yes—sorry; that came this morning,” said Mr. Lynch, “but with all this Inspector Alleyn stuff I forgot to tell you. Dinner in half-an-hour?”

In spite of unpacking and dressing in a hurry, Julia found time to gobble her letter while she smeared stuff on her face and wiped it off again. It was from Mrs. Hathaway, to whom she had written about her impending stay in Casablanca, and brought news. After describing her visit to Glentoran and her
suggestion to Edina about getting in a factor Mrs. Hathaway went on—“And young Struthers
was
free, and is there now; Edina is running him in, and she says he's shaping so well that she hopes to be able to come South next week. She is delighted, of course. And from what your friend Geoffrey said (but don't tell him I told you) it seemed of little use her hanging on indefinitely waiting for Colin.”

“Good for you, Mrs. H.!” Julia ejaculated. “But I wonder exactly
what
Geoffrey has been saying.” She herself had mentioned confidentially to her old friend that she thought she might be on Colin's track, though it was far from certain that he could or would return even if she found him; but that letter could only have reached Mrs. Hathaway some days after the visit to Glentoran, when she had already suggested getting a factor at once—so Geoffrey certainly had said something.

Mr. Lynch, who had a very sound sense of priorities, called on Casablanca officialdom on his way to the bank next morning; he rang Julia up to say that lunch would have to be pretty late, as he proposed to have “some useful drinks”, and would she tell Mahomet? Julia relaxed in the sun on the balcony among the geraniums, still studying Moshe's grubby little notebook. There were various entries of “XO1” and XO2” prior to the day when she had seen Colin on the roof of the house in the Kasbah, but none after; presumably these figures represented him and the red-haired man, and when they left Tangier someone else had followed that line and Moshe been told off, as Purcell had suggested, to tail her. She smiled slowly when she noted that the last entry of all bore yesterday's date, with a small “c” and a car-number, presumably Paddy's. Would the little Jew also have memorised it?

Mr. Lynch came back in high spirits.

“Well, I've got the name of the owner of that car,” he said, throwing a slip of paper to Julia—“English all right, though not Monro.” Julia took up the slip—on it was written: “M. Charles Smith.”

Her air of stupefaction as she read was so marked that Paddy got up and came over to her.

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing—only I think it means that Colin must have been on the
Finetta.”

“That drug-yacht? Why on earth do you deduce that?”

She told him why, at some length; when Mahomet appeared in the archway leading to the dining-room he was told—“Five minutes more.”

“I didn't bother to tell you all this yesterday, because it was just a possibility,” Julia said at the end. “The dates fitted all right, and Angus Ross-shire mentioned that
he
thought Monro was one of the
Finetta
names—but I couldn't be positive. I think this ties it in, though.”

“So do I. But what on earth is the yacht doing in that lagoon where you say you saw her?”

“What indeed? That will want some thinking about. But isn't the first thing to find out where Mr. Charles Smith's car is now? Won't your
fiche
experts be able to tell that?”

“They should be. It'll take a little working, but I'm pretty
bien
with one of them, luckily. I'll tackle that the moment after lunch—and after tea, what about a call on Master Bathyadis?”

The visit to Bathyadis produced no fresh information, as Mr. Lynch had foretold, except concerning the situation of his shop, which was just outside the Old Medina, the original Moorish quarter, and therefore quite close to the harbour. Young Bathyadis expressed polite pleasure at seeing Julia, but seemed rather reserved otherwise, though he sold Paddy an exquisite old brass tray rather cheap. There were no velvet trousseau-trunks on view, and Julia refrained from asking to see one.

“We'll just call round at the Bureau to see if they've traced that car,” Mr. Lynch said as they drove off. Julia waited in the car—her companion presently returned with another slip of paper.

“Garaged, and in
this
town,” he said. “I think we'd better check right away.” They drove to the garage, where Julia again waited outside.

This time the pause was prolonged. Presently Paddy came out—“Got any money on you?”

“About 20,000 francs.”

“I daresay that will do.”

She handed over the notes and then waited again. When at last Paddy emerged he drove off very fast.

“Very
sticky, Monsieur Martin,” he said. “The car's there all right—I saw it; a black saloon. But it took most of your good francs, my dear Julia, to elicit what I so badly wanted to know: which is that for his trips to the interior Monsieur Smith leaves his car there and takes a closed
camionnette.”

“Golly! Did you get its number?”

“Yes, I did—that was what cost the money. How
are
you off for cash, by the way?”

“Oh, masses. I earn a salary in francs now, you see.”

“I don't see—but here we are. Wait again, will you?”

They were once more outside the Administration Offices—and this time the pause was brief before Mr. Lynch returned.

“Mr. Smith has now metamorphosed himself into a Swiss,” he said as he drove away. “Herr Nussbaumer. He travels in men's clothing and ladies' dresses, down in the South. What do you make of that? Can it be the party we want?”

“Oh,
yes
—it sounds exactly right to me. I know all about these Swiss and Austrian travellers: they sell shirts to the personnel at the mines, and frocks and nylons to the wives of the cantiniers.”