At her door she held out her hand. I took it, there was a fleeting pressure, and she was gone. Scarcely erotic, but I was satisfied with progress to date.
I wandered a bit but finally got back to my room. Al-Fassi was waiting and I retrieved the big key, then we left the hotel by an almost invisible door.
After the expense money changed hands, Bigard instructed me loftily on the difference between floral oils and fixative oils, on the rudiments of the distilling process (a ton of flowers yields a pound of oil), and other facts. I tried to set up a contact plan with him for my return, but he insisted on the security of an indirect transfer of formula and final payment.
It wasn’t crucial, and frankly I’d seen enough of M. le CEO. Via al-Fassi, I’d signal my return; Bigard would send back contact instructions for me with a cutout of his choice. He didn’t trust us — fair enough.
When al-Fassi dropped me off, I peeled some bills from my new roll for him, said good night, and sauntered to the hotel’s front entrance. It was always locked at that hour but instead of waking the concierge I let myself in. Like a genie from a bottle, Hamad appeared, pretending not to be eaten with curiosity as to how I’d fared with Madame. I gave him some dirhams for a job well done but, as he walked along with me toward my room, I ignored his hints for a blow-by-blow account. Giving up at the short corridor leading to my door, he said, “Gotta split, Mac. Sweet dreams of heavenly houris.”
Damn clown. I unlocked the heavy door and felt for the switch. Before I found it the bedlight snapped on. There, sitting up in my bed, was Madame la Generale Fouchette, bare bosom gleaming. By God, I thought, smiling at her silkily, this will be an Arabian Night.
It was my last smile for a time. Clutching the sheet to her chin, eyes blazing like obsidian on fire, she loosed a volley of Arabic that rocked me onto my heels. A flanking volley caught me in a crossfire as a nightgowned maidservant burst in from the other room.
In Arabic, Madame snapped at her. Instantly she subsided. In French, Madame snapped at me, “How dare you presume — leave! Leave at once.”
My lower jaw subsided. Blankly I gaped around the room, then back at Madame gracing my bed. Problem was, it wasn’t my bed.
Sort of wigwagging my hands, I retreated, stammering, “M-mille pardons, ma-madame. Erreur, erreur.”
Debonair as a sneak thief with the shakes, I groped for the door, slunk around it, eased it shut. Damn that gag-happy, low-comedy camel of a Hamad!
When I reached the lobby he was gone and I’d regained some of what I like to think of as my usual aplomb. Hell, maybe the idiot had thought he was doing me a favor.
This time, without him along to steer me subtly the wrong way, I paid attention to my route. The master key was still in my hand but before using it I verified the room number. My room, my bed, thank God. Sleep came slowly, though, so I conjured up a picture of Madame in my — in her bed. Gleaming bosom, yes, of course. But hadn’t I seen the ghost of a smile just before I’d slunk out? Yes? No? No — I must have imagined it.
Before I left for New York the next day, I informed Hamad what I thought of him (he denied everything), arranged for the hotel to garage the Lamborghini, and wrote a message of apology to Madame — erreur, erreur.
In New York it took me a day, through a solid source in a petrochemical firm that supplied WF&F, to get a fix on a knowledgeable target individual there, then another day to manufacture an accidental encounter with him.
A harried, rumpled, likable Assistant Chemist. I wined and dined him. In a week he seemed ripe. Over a fine meal at Box Tree I propositioned him.
No, he wouldn’t sell the formula. Yes, he had four kids to send to college, yes, he had a first and second mortgage and high-interest loans on two cars that needed replacing, but no, no, no.
I sensed that he had another problem, though, a trickier one. It took me three days to worm out the admission that a key ingredient in WF&F’s hot new J’Excite was rhodinal, a floral oil made from flowers, not petroleum. He simply hadn’t been able to come up with a substitute. He was paid to create synthetics. He had failed. He was scared stiff he’d lose his job if he admitted his failure.
To protect his family’s livelihood, he’d arranged a clandestine supply of rhodinal. I admired his enterprise and told him so.
Because of his position, he had no problem working rhodinal into the blend. But the synthetics-oriented U.S.A. didn’t produce enough of the proper type of geranium. He was down close to the bottom of his hidden rhodinal vat.
I knew where there were miles of geraniums, the right kind. If I could assure him a steady supply, would he trade that for the J’Excite formula?
He stewed for a couple more days, growing even more rumpled. Finally, over dinner at Le Cygne, he capitulated. I left for Morocco the next day.
At the Mamounia I growled at Hamad to find al-Fassi and when he showed, I sent him off to tell Louis Bigard that he and I must meet because, although I had what he wanted, there were ramifications.
Bigard balked, implying to al-Fassi that I was simply trying to squeeze him for more money. Instead, he stuck to the original plan and sent me a curt note with contact arrangements: “J’ai choisi une personne qui sera au Cocktail Mamounia vers sept heures ce soir. Elle portera quelque chose de rouge” The person he had chosen would be in the Mamounia bar about seven this evening. She’d be wearing something red.
She. Elle. Surprising. But okay with me. He had more at stake than I, so he’d select somebody he rated A-1 in the trustworthy department. The recognition signal was amateurish, any female might wear something red. But she’d be alone, so all I risked was an icy stare if I braced the wrong woman.
I hit the bar about five to seven. There were a couple of male singles, no female, so I sat where I could watch the entrance. Just as my martini arrived, Hamad entered, dapper as ever in dinner jacket and boutonniere. He started my way but a self-styled prankster was the last person I wanted around now. Ferociously I scowled him off. He paused, seemed about to come on again, when, fortunately, my contact appeared, hesitating in the doorway.
Brushing past Hamad I approached the woman although not with my usual aplomb. But she had to be the one. She was a she (definitely). She was alone. Her jellabah was a soft carmine, accented by a veil of a slightly lighter tone. My heavenly houri, spiced with red.
Bigard’s houri, rather. For him to choose her as go-between, their connection had to be very close. As if she were his mistress of long standing. Disappointing. I’d have credited Madame la Generale with far better taste.
She took my hand to draw me away from the doorway. “I have received the message. We have many things to discuss, you and I. Come, please.”
Once again I found myself in her room. But this time she was so close that her body touched my side as she whispered, “We cannot talk here, we are not really alone.” She gestured at the room. “The ears of the police.”
“I understand,” I said, a little hoarsely. “Where?”
The great eyes glinted conspiratorially. “In one hour come to my medina home. Here, I have written the route.”
Gently she pushed me toward the door. Outside, I drew a deep breath. Clandestine operating at its best, by God! Seductive fragrances (hers was jasmine — real). A beautiful veiled temptress-cut-out. Secret formulas. A rendezvous in the depths of a Moorish medina. Come weeze me to zee kasbah, keed.
Al-Fassi was standing by in my room; he too was surprised. He’d never heard Madame’s name linked with Bigard’s in medina gossip. “Très discret.”