Tremor (23 page)

The manager said it would be sent up on the breakfast tray.

In the late afternoon Johnny Carpenter went to see his father.

The old man looked better, and one of the monitoring units had been switched off.

‘So you haven't trusted him,' he said, glancing at the case under Johnny's arm.

Johnny waited until the fat nurse was out of earshot.

‘Not for that. He's getting me the other.'

‘When?'

‘Tomorrow or the next day.' It was always Johnny's habit to lie about his projected movements, even to the one man he could trust. Rational thought hardly came into it; it was instinct.

‘They say I can't be moved for a week yet,' Tournelle said. ‘It's up to you, but when I get home it'll be bed for maybe another week after that. If you can hang on that long. A fortnight, I'd say, at most.'

‘I'll see,' said Johnny, sucking his teeth. There was no smoking in this hospital and he found it a deprivation.

‘What you been up to?' his father demanded suddenly, his eyes straying again to the case. ‘It's not like you to go for the big time.'

‘Not all that big,' Johnny said uneasily. ‘It was just a chance that came along.'

Tournelle breathed heavily for a moment or two, and the nurse came back.

‘
ça va?
' she asked.

‘
ça va. ça va.
This is my son. We have a little private talk.'

‘I know, I know. But do not excite yourself.
I
shall get the blame if all is not well.'

They waited until she had moved on again. An old man at the other end of the ward was having a fit of coughing.

‘Is it all money?' asked Tournelle.

Johnny fidgeted. ‘ I will tell you soon enough. Now it's better maybe you shouldn't know any more than you do. In two weeks …'

In two weeks, he thought, I shall be in Rio. Never been there. Wonder what it's like. Known as a bolt-hole for robbers. Maybe that's not a bad thing. Easygoing laws. No extradition treaty. Or maybe I'll move on. The more hops I make the less likely to be traced. Buenos Aires is a good spot too. Or Santiago. They said Chile was one of the most beautiful countries in the world. As long as you had money you could go anywhere. Johnny had never had much to do with women. A tart now and then and that was enough. He had no intention of linking himself to some blonde gold-digger who would help him get rid of his hard-won money at a fabulous rate. Maybe when the chase had died away he would buy a little
hacienda
and find a pretty little servant girl as fresh as a peony and settle down with her …

‘What are you thinking about?' Gaston Tournelle demanded in a harsh voice.

Johnny started. ‘Oh … Just this and that. These flights from Casablanca to Agadir, are they pretty regular?'

‘So far as I know. They've got their own line now, of course. Air Maroc. They're using French planes. Have to. France makes the loans, France takes the pick of the trade.'

‘Well … This is damned funny weather for February, isn't it? Hot wind. Hot nights. Not the usual.' Johnny stood up as the nurse approached again. ‘ Time I was off. See you tomorrow.'

His father stared at him piercingly. ‘Go easy, Jacques. Take your time. Don't jump at things. You've got to be cautious in this life.'

‘Aye,' said Johnny. ‘Dead right. You have to be cautious, don't you.'

Nadine had not seen Matthew since they returned. She had kept to her room expecting, she said, the call from Maurice Daumier, her agent. This was partly true, partly a diplomatic absence. She wanted to have time to breathe, time to think her own thoughts, to distance herself for a few hours from this importunate young man. He had an eager, cheerful, triumphant vitality that carried one away. She felt herself more circumspect, more clear-eyed than he was, and that she might have to think for them both.

The call did finally come about six. Maurice always began work late and ended his day late. Of all the Paris agents he had the closest connections with Hollywood; it was why she had joined him. The important part of Maurice's day began when his contacts in Hollywood were fully awake.

This time, however, he had another proposition. The part which might become available for her was in a French film, and the development was hanging fire. But another property had begun to stir itself. Rossellini was mounting a film to be called
Era Notte a Roma
, and hoped to begin shooting it at Cinecittà in the autumn. If she could contrive to find herself in Rome on the return from her holiday, he would join her there and take her along to meet the great man. How was her Italian? No, it need not be fluent; the part that she might play was of a Polish girl stranded in Rome and involved in the disturbances of last year.

Of course, said Nadine, she would be delighted. Or interested, she corrected. It never did to be too eager.

Keep in touch, Daumier said. He did not think there was any pressure for a week or so. Rossellini was in New York. But if the moment should come suddenly, he might want her to fly to Rome at short notice.

Of course, said Nadine, she would do that.

An hour later she went down to join Matthew for drinks.

He was standing at the foot of the stairs and saw her coming down. He went up three steps at a time to join her.

She knew as he came up to her, smiling, eager, eyes glinting, and took her hand, that she would sleep with him again tonight. It was a decision taken by her body rather than by her reasoning mind, but she never for a moment queried it. For tonight she had no doubts.

In the hall as they went down Lee and Letty were just coming in from the gardens. Darkness had fallen, but the grounds and all the paths were lighted by shaded lanterns. A sickle of new moon showed among the clouds over the sea. The three French ladies were wrangling with the concierge at the desk. M. and Mme Thibault were nowhere to be seen.

The smaller Caravelle flying from Casablanca was delayed leaving because of an electric storm. Ten o'clock was past before it touched down in Agadir.

It had been a long journey for Big Smith and Greg Garrett, but their luggage was light and they were soon through to the waiting taxis outside. Greg Garrett had taken the risk of bringing a 9mm Luger with him, but no one had bothered at Casablanca.

Smith gave the address of the Hôtel Mahraba to the driver. While waiting in Casablanca Garrett, who knew a few words of French, had gone to the tourist agency at the airport and asked them to book them in at a hotel. The clerk had first tried the Saada but was told it was full. So they had been booked into the second best hotel, the Mahraba.

In a short time they were in, had surrendered their passports, had signed the register in the hotel and had stared back uncompromisingly at fellow guests who stared at them. They looked an unusual couple to be walking late at night into a holiday hotel. In a London street you would hardly have remarked them. Here they stood out like sore thumbs. One might have been a heavy-weight boxer and the other his promoter.

The clerk said dinner was over, but if they would like some soup and some crayfish sandwiches … Or coffee and biscuits?

They'd have the lot, said Smith, and while the clerk's back was turned swivelled the guest book round to see the names of recent arrivals. The clerk, turning back, frowned disapprovingly at this manoeuvre and was about to protest, but Smith reversed the book again with a disagreeable grin and said: ‘Was just looking. Thought a mate of mine might be here. Name of Frazier. That ring a bell?'

‘No, sir,' said the clerk coldly. ‘ Supper will be in the dining-room in ten minutes. Would you care to see your room?'

‘Nah,' said Smith. ‘Eat first, I reckon. You got any beer?'

Travelling in the same aeroplane with the two Englishmen was a sharp-featured Moroccan wearing a blue skullcap. He was tall and thin and otherwise dressed entirely in black. On the left lapel of his long coat was the Star of David. He looked consumptive.

He had left Agadir on the morning flight, gone to a friend he knew in the port area of Casablanca, spent the day sipping coffee at a bar restaurant and wandering through the shops. He had bought a coral necklace for his wife, making sure it was the real thing, not artificial stones dyed pink. Then in the evening he had returned to his friend in the port and picked up a passport, which carried a photograph of Johnny Frazier but said that his name was Henri Delaware and stated that he was French Canadian, born in Chicoutimi, Quebec Province, in October 1924.

When he arrived in Agadir he took a taxi to the little photographic shop in the Rue Moulay Ismail and deposited the envelope containing the passport with his cousin. His cousin remarked on his lateness but said it would not affect the arrangement, as Benjamin would not be coming off duty at the Casino until eleven. He was then going to deliver the passport to the new Mr Henri Delaware personally and receive a cash payment on the spot.

‘Christ!' exclaimed Big Smith. ‘What the hell was that?'

While they were eating the table had fairly danced under them. At another table two glasses fell over, rolled to the edge and smashed. A ripple stirred the swimming-pool outside. It was as if an underground train very close below the surface had moved under them at speed.

‘Damn me,' said Greg Garrett. ‘Like the bloody Blitz back again.' He got up and stared around.

The only waiter left in the deserted dining-room hurried over. He said something to them in French and then, receiving uncomprehending stares, broke into English.

‘It is but a little tremble, messieurs, a little tremble. Now and then in this country the earth gives a little tremble. It is like thunder but it comes from the earth and not from the sky. Do not disturb yourselves.'

Garrett didn't resume his seat. ‘I've finished anyhow. Come on, Big, you'll do till morning. I've a fancy for a stroll.'

‘Stroll? This time of night?'

‘Why not? No time like the present. It's only eleven. Reckon I've a fancy to go round one or two of the other hotels, take a look at their visitors' books.'

‘They won't let us look at them.'

‘Well, then, just go round asking if they've a guest called Johnny Frazier. Dear friend of ours. Dear, dear friend. They can't refuse to say if they have a guest of that name.'

Big Smith belched. ‘What was in that soup? I never do trust fish soup. Never know what the hell's in it.' He dragged himself reluctantly to his feet. ‘God, I'm flaked out. I never was one for messing around at airports … I suppose you know, don't you, he'll likely have changed his name again.'

‘Maybe. But he travelled under Frazier.'

‘If it's the right Frazier.'

‘Well, I've a mind to find out.'

After the earth tremor, which seemed more pronounced inland than near the coast, Dr Ibrahim Berrada left his house and his wife and his son, whom he would never see again, got into his low-built dark blue Citroën, a car so beloved of the French police force, and drove a mile back to the hospital. Dr Sadeq was still on duty.

‘Damage?' Berrada said brusquely.

‘Yes, some. Superficial. But it alarmed some of the patients. We have been around to pacify them. All is quiet now.'

Berrada walked round. Nurses and wards were functioning normally. Colonel Tournelle had been taken off the danger list today, and Berrada nodded to him as he went past. In the laboratory two young dispensers were still picking things off the floor and rearranging them on the shelves. Berrada did not go up on to the roof, which he knew to be in poor condition, but screeched open a window to peer out at the hospital wall. It looked perfectly sound.

He was about to withdraw his head when he noticed an outside building used for storage. One wall had completely collapsed, and most of the contents of the hut had fallen out with it and lay on the gravel sand beside it.

He withdrew his head and shut the window. Sadeq had followed him all the way and was standing beside him.

‘We'll evacuate the hospital.'

‘What?'

‘Begin on the top floor. Mobilize all the help you can get. There are – what, six, eight nurses? Have the patients brought down singly. Two of our staff should organize the blankets; bring down what mattresses are easily portable. No panic, take it slowly, but waste no time. I personally will speak to every patient as he is brought down.'

‘But, do you want—'

‘I have told you what I want,' Berrada said. ‘No panic. But waste no time.'

When the tremor occurred Lee and Letty were in the Casino. The tables rocked, dice spilled, a woman screamed, some plaster dust floated down from the ceiling. A number of people got up, looked around, looked speculatively at the ceiling, talked among themselves, half-joking, half-alarmed. It was noticeably the Europeans, or those who had experienced wartime bombing, who were the more uneasy.

Letty said: ‘Just when I was winning. Perhaps they are going to blow the place up.'

Lee said: ‘ Bombers are getting nearer. Maybe we should move to the dugout.'

She glanced up to see if he was also joking. But it wasn't really fun. A heavy rumbling like the sound of distant gunfire was too reminiscent for them both.

They went on playing for a further twenty minutes. At another table the three Frenchwomen were creating a disturbance. They were arguing with the
tailleur
, a man called Ardrossi, who had, they said, unfairly scooped in two of their chips.

The three ladies had become unpopular in the hotel because of their noisiness and general air of caring nothing for what other people thought, but they had got into conversation with Letty in a shop where they were all looking at leather slippers, and they had laughed and joked with her in an amiable fashion, and Lee had come in later on to see them all practising their broken English on Letty, so he had gone out of his way to be amiable in his turn.