Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers looked impatient. «Ah, yes. Quite». He put his hands behind his back and spun around to examine a large map of the world that hung above the filing cabinet. «I expect we’d better be going,» he said.
Wilcox looked at Dyar significantly. He had meant to tell him a little more about Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers, above all to advise him not to ask any questions. But perhaps it was just as well that he had said nothing.
Dyar slipped into his raincoat as they descended the stairs. «We may as well walk,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. «It’s stopped raining for the present, and the shop’s not very far». They went down the hill and came out into the wide square which had been empty last night save for the taxis; now it was a small city of natives engaged in noisy commerce. «Chaos,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers, a note of satisfaction in his voice. As they went under the bare trees in the center of the square the water dripped down upon their heads. The women huddled in rows along the pavement, wrapped in candy-striped woolen blankets, holding forth great bunches of drenched white lilies and calling out hoarsely for them to buy. The day was coming to a close; the sky was growing duller.
«Shrewd people, these mountain Berbers,» remarked Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. «But no match for the Indians».
«The Indians?» Dyar looked confused.
«Oh, not your redskins. Our Indians. Moslems, most of them, from India. Tangier’s full of them. Hadn’t you noticed? Young Ramlal, that we’re on our way to see, he’s one. Most shrewd. And his father, old Ramlal, in Gib. Amazing business acumen. Quite amazing. He’s a bandit, of course, but an honest bandit. Never takes a shilling above what’s been agreed upon. He doesn’t need to, of course. His commission’s enormous. He knows he has you and he piles it on because he knows he’s worth it». Dyar listened politely; they were going between two rows of money changers. The men sat behind their small desks directly in the street. A few of them, spotting the two foreigners speaking English, began to call out to them. «Yes! Come on! Yes! Change money!»
«The devil of it is,» Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers was saying, «the authorities are onto it. They know damned well Gib’s one of the most important leakage points».
Dyar said tentatively: «Leakage?»
«Sterling leakage. They know there’s probably twenty thousand pounds slipping out every day. And they’re catching up with some of the chaps. It’s only a question of time before they’ll be able to put a stop to it altogether. Time is of the essence. Naturally it makes a man a bit nervous». He laughed apologetically. «It’s a chance one must take. I like Morocco and my wife likes it. We’re building a little villa here and we must have some capital, risk or no risk».
«Oh, sure,» said Dyar. He was beginning to understand.
Ramlal’s window was piled with cheap wrist watches, fountain pens and toys. The shop was tiny and dark; it smelled of patchouli. Once Dyar’s eyes had got used to the lack of light inside, he realized that all the stock was in the window. The shop was completely empty. A swarthy young man sat at a bare desk smoking. As they entered he rose and bowed obsequiously.
«Good evening, Ramlal,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers in the tone of a doctor making his rounds through a ward of incurables.
«About to get under way?» Ramlal spoke surprisingly good English.
«Yes. Tomorrow. This is Mr. Dyar, my secretary». Dyar held out his hand to Ramlal, looking at Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. «What the hell goes on?» he said to himself. He acknowledged the introduction.
«He’ll arrange everything,» went on Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. «You’ll give him the packet». Ramlal was looking carefully at Dyar all the while. Showing his very white teeth he smiled and said: «Yes, sir».
«Got him?» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers.
«Yes, indeed, sir».
«Well, we must be going. Your father’s well, I hope?»
«Oh, yes, sir. Very well, thank you».
«Not too many worries, I hope?»
Ramlal smiled even more widely. «Oh, no, sir».
«That’s good,» grunted Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. «Well, look after yourself, Ramlal. See you when I get back». Ramlal and Dyar shook hands again and they went out.
«Now if you’ll come along with me to the Café España I’ll present you to Benzekri».
Dyar looked at his watch. «I’m afraid I’ve got to get back to the office». It was twilight, and raining lightly. The narrow street was packed with people wearing djellabas, raincoats, turkish towels, overalls, blankets and rags.
«Nonsense,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers sharply. «You’ve got to meet Benzekri. Come along. It’s essential».
«Well, since I’m your secretary,» Dyar smiled.
«In this matter you are». Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers walked as close to Dyar as he could, speaking directly into his ear. «Benzekri is with the Crédit Fonder here. I’ll show you the entrance as we go by it in a moment». They had come out into the Zoco Chico, filled with the drone of a thousand male voices. This evening there was electricity and the cafés were resplendent.
Working their way among the clusters of men standing engaged in conversation, they crossed slowly to the lower end of the square. «There’s the entrance,» said Mr. Ashcome-Danvers, pointing at a high portal of iron grillework that stood at the top of a few steps in a niche. «That’s the Crédit Fonder and that’s where you’ll take the packet. You’ll just ask for Mr. Benzekri and go upstairs to his office. And here’s the Café España».
Mr. Benzekri was there, sitting alone at one end of the terrace. He had a head like an egg — quite bald — and a face like a worried hawk. He did not smile when he shook hands with Dyar; the lines in his forehead merely deepened. «You will have a beer?» he inquired. His accent was thick.
«We’ll sit for a moment. I’ll not take anything,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. They sat down. «None for me, either,» Dyar said. He was not feeling too well, and he wanted a whiskey.
«Mr. Dyar will be bringing you a little present one of these days,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. «He understands that he’s to give it to no one but you».
Mr. Benzekri nodded gravely, staring down into his glass of beer. Then he lifted his head and looked sadly at Dyar for a moment. «Good,» he said, as if there the matter ended.
«I know you are in a hurry,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers to Dyar. «So if you’d like to go on about your affairs go along. And many thanks. I shall be back in a few weeks».
Dyar said good evening. He had to fight his way across the Zoco Chico and up the narrow street; everyone was moving against him. «My new station in life: messenger-boy,» he thought with a wry inner smile. He did not particularly like Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers: he had behaved exactly as though he had been paying him for his services. Not that he had expected payment, but still, the principal reason a man does not want to be paid for such things is to avoid being put into the position of an inferior. And he was in it anyway.
Wilcox was impatient when he got back to the office. «Took you long enough,» he said.
«I know. He made me go on with him and meet some other guy from the bank».