The Lighthearted Quest (34 page)

Steve was quicker off the mark than either of the others—he fairly shot down the length of the verandah, knocking over Moors and tables impartially; he had reached Julia's prostrate shape and stood pugnaciously over it just in time to prevent her being trodden on in the panic-stricken stampede out of the bar. Mr. Lynch, following him, saw the two tall men in bérets emerge in the wake of this rush, but at a more reasonable pace; the bearded one paused and looked down distressedly at Julia's fallen body—the Irishman noticed that he jerked his right thumb-joint outwards in a sickening distorted fashion. But his companion with the red moustache turned and beckoned him on—he followed, and they were instantly engulfed in the swarm of Africans which filled the street. It was impossible to follow them, or even to see which way they went.

A van-full of police arrived almost at once, and with the Commandant began an assessment of damage and casualties; a doctor, summoned by telephone, arrived with commendable promptitude. The
agent de police
who had been sitting at the
table by the door was dead; so was a waiter, emerging with a tray of coffees at the instant when the bomb exploded. Julia, who was lifted and laid on the bar, was unconscious, blood pouring from a cut in her big white forehead; the Duke, who had been a little behind her, was able to pick himself up, but sat rather dazed in a chair, also streaming with blood from a gash in his head from flying glass. The police began to demand identities—which caused a rapid melting-away of the indigenous crowd. Paddy during this interrogation happened to glance round towards their table; he raced back just in time to seize the wrist of an Arab who had picked up Julia's handbag—the man, he saw, had a wart on his nose. Furious, Lynch wrenched the bag free, and with his other hand took a twisted grip of the folds of the man's robe, yelling at the pitch of his voice to the police—
“lci!
This is one of them!” Abdul twisted like an eel, but it is impossible to wriggle
out
of a djellaba, with its long sleeves, and Lynch was very strong; a couple of
agents,
delighted to secure at least one prisoner after the outrage, seized Abdul and bore him away. The Irishman's one idea now was to get that infernal piece of rock out of the handbag before the police began looking for papers—turning away, he extracted it and stowed it in an inner pocket and then returned to the bar.

Here the doctor was taking Julia's pulse and lifting her eyelids—he diagnosed shock and concussion, while Lynch showed her passport and
fiche
to the Commandant. At this point a little French pressman appeared and also began taking names, by the simple method of looking over the shoulders of the police while they examined the papers of the casualties. Steve now cut across officialdom.

“Let's get her hospitalised!” he said. “Isn't Casablanca the best place?—she said it was good on hospitals. I have a car right here—I can get her in, fast. This Marrakesh seems a pretty hick town; surely we'd better get her to Casablanca?”

Paddy Lynch was inclined to agree—“But, Mother of God,
there's all her stuff at the hotel!—she won't want that left after her.”

“Well, why don't I drive her in, and you collect her things and bring them along, when you've done talking to these police guys? She's sick, and we're wasting time! Give me the
ad
dress, and I'll go.”

Both the police and the doctor had by this time got round to the Duke; the doctor put a temporary dressing on the cut in his head—he had already done this for Julia—while the little pressman greedily copied down all the particulars given to the police. Angus, who was coming round gradually, hearing of Steve's plan said—“I could come along, and hold her head steady. Perhaps, Lynch, you would be so good as to collect my gear too and bring it. Oh, yes—and pay my bill.” He handed a bundle of notes to Paddy.

So Steve fetched his borrowed car and Julia, still unconscious, was placed along the back seat, her head resting on the Duke's further arm; Mr. Lynch furnished the address of the appropriate hospital, and the American shot off in the best film style.

“What about your things?” Paddy shouted to him at the last moment.

“I'll be back,” the airman shouted in reply.

As sometimes happens, the explosion of that bomb on the Djema el F'na really made more noise in England than in Morocco. Londoners are not so prone to listen to the nine-o'clock news as country dwellers, since they are usually having dinner, or at the theatre, or attending a “cocktail
prolongé”,
so it was poor Mrs. Monro who first heard of it, sitting at Glentoran over her wretched fire with Jimmy Struthers. She was so upset that she tried to ring up Mrs. Hathaway, but that lady was watching a new French film at the Academy Cinema—“Ask her to ring you back,” Struthers prompted, and finally did this himself for his agitated employer.

But next morning a selection of banner headlines announced the episode to every breakfast-table or tray in Britain.

“TERRORIST OUTRAGE IN MARRAKESH. TWO BRITISH CASUALTIES” said the sober journals; “SCOTTISH DUKE SERIOUSLY INJURED—GIRL JOURNALIST NOT EXPECTED TO RECOVER” screamed the more scare-minded prints: in either case, their friends soon learned from the smaller type that both the Duke of Ross-shire and Miss Julia Probyn had been blown up in a restaurant in Marrakesh by a bomb, and rushed to hospital in Casablanca, while two other people (fortunately French) had been killed outright; Miss Probyn had serious injuries to her face.

Ringing up Mrs. Hathaway was a habit with others besides poor Ellen Monro—Edina telephoned before 8.30, asking if she might come in at lunch-time, and was told that she could be given lunch; Mr. Consett, more restrainedly putting his call through from the Treasury at 10, was also bidden to luncheon. They found their hostess very much distressed, though still her usual sensible self.

“What was she doing looking for Colin in Marrakesh? Surely that's right inland,” Edina said.

Mrs. Hathaway glanced at Mr. Consett.

“I think she thought he might have gone inland,” she said smoothly.

“Was she with that Lynch man, do you suppose?” Consett asked.

“Oh, yes—he was taking her to Marrakesh.”

“Then he must know something. God, what did I do with his address?”

“I can give it you. But I telegraphed to him this morning to ask for more details.”

Edina was turning over the mass of morning papers restlessly, throwing them aside, and jerking her thumb-joint in and out.

“I think I shall go out and see what's happening,” she announced suddenly. “After all, she went on our account, and
this is pretty rotten for her. One doesn't know what the hospitals are like, or anything.”

Mrs. Hathaway looked relieved.

“If you really can get away, that would be splendid,” she said. “Geoffrey, can one fly direct to Casablanca?”

Mr. Consett thought B.E.A. to Gibraltar and on would be the best—“Besides, you must have visas for French and Spanish Morocco, and those, as I know to my cost, take ages here, whereas in Tangier you can get them in no time.” He added that he had a friend in the Foreign Office who would help to “hurry” the Spanish and International Zone visas.

“All right—I'll go to Tangier. It will take forty-eight hours at least, I suppose, to get all this, and the currency; but I'd better get on to B.E.A. at once. Mrs. H., may I use your telephone?”

“I expect the Consulate-General will help you about telephoning to Casablanca even before you get the visas, as Julia is a British subject,” said Mrs. Hathaway.

“Yes, and poor Angus Ross-shire too—he's such a sweet. I'd hate him to be badly hurt.”

When the Foreign Office tries it can arrange things rather fast, and it was only three days after her sudden decision when Edina set off by air for Tangier. She rang up Mrs. Hathaway triumphantly just before she left.

“I've got my exes! We've thought up an African lay-out for camel-hair coats for some rather big clients of ours, and they've jumped at it. It may take some time, so I shan't be rushed, and I can go anywhere.”

“That's good. But Edina, be sure to telegraph me the moment you've seen her, and let me know, won't you? And about her face.”

“Dear
Mrs. H., of course I will. What did Paddy Lynch say?”

“Only ‘Still in hospital injuries less serious than feared firstly,' “ said Mrs. Hathaway, laughing rather weakly.

“What a man!
Firstly!”
said Edina with contempt. “Well I won't cable you in journalese! God bless—and look after poor Mother.”

“Oh, yes—I've promised to go up to her tomorrow, by the way, so telegraph to Glentoran, please.”

In fact if Mr. Lynch had delayed his cable to Mrs. Hathaway for another twenty-four hours he would have been able to send a much more reassuring one. Julia's concussion proved to be slight, and her naturally calm, not to say lethargic, nature greatly lessened the effects of the shock; the cut on her forehead, though disfiguring, was not deep enough to require stitches, and was merely strapped up with plaster; on her third day in hospital, when visited by Mr. Lynch she declared herself “as fit as a flea”, and demanded to be taken away. “Dr. Gillebeaud says I can go—wait, let's see if we can get him, if you don't believe me. Go and shout for the nurse.”

Dr. Gillebeaud when he appeared showed himself to be helplessly under Julia's spell; he pronounced that yes, if Mademoiselle could have reasonable attention, she might leave.

“You can give me reasonable attention, can't you, Paddy darling? Fatimah is
so
good.”

“I shall have to push out either Reeder or Keller—they're both staying with me,” said poor Mr. Lynch.

“Well, push them out, in God's name! Who's your
old
friend?
Really,
Paddy!”

Keller was pushed out, and Julia returned to her charming ground-floor rooms the same afternoon; Mr. Reeder, whom Paddy rightly judged to be much less flush of foreign cash than the American, remained. The Duke, who had telephoned regularly to the hospital, turned up at the villa almost immediately after Julia's return, to enquire.

“Dear Julia, I would never have believed that anyone could look so lovely with Elastoplast all over their face,” he said,
kissing her affectionately. “We ought to have you photographed and send a glossy to the advertising Edina; I am sure it would put on sales.”

“Well, yes, perhaps. How is your scalp, Angus? Oh, lucky you—only a scalp wound! Though you seem to be doing quite a bit in the bandage line.”

“Yes, my sweet; but under it there are
eight
stitches—and oh the horror of having them tweaked out! I am going back to Tangier for
that
martyrdom; my sickly elderly friend is better, but he is insular enough to put all his faith in the English doctor there. So now that you are better, we shall probably sail tomorrow.” He turned to Reeder. “What are your plans? If you are returning to Tangier, would you care to pilot us up?”

Reeder looked towards Julia.

“What are you doing, Miss Probyn? Staying here? If you are going back to Tangier I don't think you ought to travel alone.”

“Oh, thank you so much, but Steve is going to drive me back to Tangier when I go, the kind creature.”

“Then, thank you very much, I should like to come up with you on the yacht,” said Reeder to the Duke. “In fact I believe I could take any ship into Tangier harbour blindfold!”

“You'd better come on board with me tonight, then, so that we can sail tomorrow at the hour which the tide, or the moon, or the pilot, or whatever it is dictates,” said Angus Ross-shire.

When they had left—

“I don't suppose it will be a ha'porth of use going to see young Bathyadis again, do you?” said Julia.

“No, quite futile. Besides, now that they've gone, I have a bit to tell you. The police are letting it be believed that terrorists threw the bomb, but I think they have a pretty fair idea of what lay behind this particular one.”

“Do you mean thrown who
by,
or who
at?”
Julia asked ungrammatically.

“Both. I didn't tell you in the hospital, with all those nurses dodging in and out, but I copped Abdul trying to pinch your bag, and handed him over.”

“Goodness, did I leave my bag?”

“Yes, you foolish creature!—and I had to do a nice bit of sleight of hand to get that infernal piece of rock out of it and into my pocket before the police examined your papers. But they grilled Abdul pretty thoroughly, I gather from my friend here, and learned that he was employed by we-know-whom.”

“You mean the East Germans?”

“Of course. But Abdul, in a very natural fit of pique—no one
enjoys
being grilled by the French police—seems to have made it abundantly clear to them that others besides his employers were probably exporting strategic minerals without concessions, and that it was the people in this organisation that the Germans were gunning for.”

“In fact Colin and the red-haired man?”

“Yes, presumably.”

“What did they have to say about that?”

“Not much. The French are always pretty cagey, and out here they've got to be nearly as mute as the Arabs. But unless the British have some top-secret agreement somewhere else, I'm beginning to wonder how much longer the velvet-trunk industry will last.”

Julia frowned in thought, as well as she could for the Elastoplast.

“It
must
be official, or why the B. of E.?” she said at last. “But it's all rather funny. Anyhow as far as we are concerned I think the only thing now is to watch the
Finetta
—don't you?”

“Yes—and that house in the Kasbah.”

“Of course. Well, the day after tomorrow, Paddy dear, I think I'd better get Steve to drive me back to Tangier.”