I looked across at Kavan. ‘What about the photograph?’ I asked him.
But it didn’t seem to worry him. ‘They’re not to know that the passport was wrapped in oilskin,’ he said. ‘By the time they get it the pages will be damp and very dirty. The beard helps, too.’ He rasped his hand over his chin.
‘You seem to have it all worked out,’ I said.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘A kindly Providence worked it all out for me.’
‘Well, I hope Providence realises its responsibility.’ My mind was running over the possible snags, conscious that I was thoroughly implicated in the whole business. I glanced down at the passport again, turning the pages. The visa section showed that Wade had travelled extensively — Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Roumania — most of the satellite countries — and Egypt, as well as Britain and France. He had visas for French Morocco, Algeria and Spanish Morocco, but these were not counter-stamped with dates of entry. The final pages for currency were a mass of entries. I tossed the passport back on to the bed beside him. ‘I’ll go and get the patrone to ring for a doctor,’ I said.
He nodded. He had already picked up the passport and was padding across the room to the wash-basin.
By the time the doctor arrived Kavan was back in bed and the passport, now crumpled and dirty, was drying in the sun by the open window. I checked it through. The ink on Wade’s signature on the first page had run badly, so had the figures giving his height which was a good two inches taller than Kavan, and the upper half of the face in the photograph was almost obliterated by a dirty stain. The yacht’s certificate of registration had been treated in the same way, and Kavan had completed the form which the police sergeant had left, the signature shaky, but not unlike what could be deciphered of Wade’s signature.
The doctor was a young, thoroughly efficient Frenchman. He examined Kavan carefully and, after questioning him about what had happened, wrote a prescription for a tonic and advised a diet of meat broth and steak for the next two or three days. He left with a little bow and a handshake, and I went across to the Cypriot restaurant and got Kavan a tray of food. It was the first hot food he had had for over sixty hours.
The passport was almost dry and I took it, together with the other papers, down to the Customs House. There was no difficulty. The sergeant was there and he only gave a cursory glance at the passport before stamping it. Officially Kavan was now Wade and I walked out into the hot sunshine with a light heart and a feeling of relief. The way was now clear for me to return to Enfida.
It was odd, but I felt no qualms, no sense of apprehension. Just as soon as Kavan was fit to travel, I could shake the dust of Tangier off my feet. That was all I was thinking all out as I walked back to the hotel. Wade was dead. An investigation into how it happened would serve no useful purpose. There remained only the yacht. The waves were still pounding heavily at the sands and one of the Customs officers had told me that the wreck was breaking up fast. The Lloyd’s representative would have to be contacted about the insurance to avert suspicion. After that, the Wade who had arrived in Tangier could simply disappear.
I imagined Kavan would be sleeping after his food, but instead there was the sound of somebody talking beyond the closed door of my room. I hesitated, and then I heard a voice that I recognised say, ‘What you are running is no business of mine. I am interested only in the deeds of Kasbah Foum.’ It was Kostos.
Kavan made some reply that was inaudible, and then the Greek’s voice cut in: ‘You are lying. I know that you visited Marcel Duprez’s lawyers in Rouen. I know that — ‘ He stopped abruptly as I pushed open the door.
Kavan was sitting up in the bed, the blankets pulled rightly round his naked body. Kostos was standing by the couch. They were both looking towards the door as I entered. They were quite still like a tableau, and the tension in the room was something that you could feel. “What are you doing here, Kostos?’ I demanded angrily.
‘Nothing. Nothing that is to do with you. You keep out of this, Lat’am.’ His eyes switched to Kavan. ‘Think it over, my friend.’ He began buttoning up his raincoat. Ali is a fool. I tell him that when I know that in Cairo he arranges for you to act as the contact man. Your reputation is no dam’ good. But you double-cross me and you find yourself out on the Marchan with a knife in your back.’ He fished in the pocket of his waistcoat and flipped a piece of pasteboard on to the blankets on Kavan’s feet. ‘Come to my office as soon as you are recovered. An’ no more nonsense, you see. This is not Europe. This is North Africa, and all out there’ — he waved his hand towards the uncurtained windows — ‘it is an Arab world with only a thin layer of white peoples who tread a careful step.’ He put his hat on, pulling it down with a quick tug at the brim, and then turned to go -
As he passed me, he paused, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Not a sparrow falls. Remember, Lat’am. An’ don’t do nothing silly, eh?’ He pushed past me and went out, slamming the door behind him.
I turned to face Kavan, who was still sitting up in the bed. ‘What’s all this about?’ I demanded. ‘What did Kostos want?’
‘Some papers — a cargo. How the hell do I know? Kostos is a part of Wade’s world.’ He shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t scared; not the way he had been when the police had been in the room. But there was a tautness in his voice that showed his uneasiness. ‘Wade was a crook,’ he added.
‘Then why in God’s name did you sail with him?’
‘I told you before — because I am a Czech and a refugee and it’s the only way I can get out of England.’
‘But if you knew he was a crook —?’
‘I didn’t discover that till later.’ He lay back and put his hands behind his head. ‘He came and saw me in London and it was agreed that I should sail with him to Tangier’ I knew nothing about him, except that he wanted — ‘ He stopped there. ‘Can I have a cigarette please?’
I handed him the packet and lit one myself. ‘Well, when did you discover he was running something?’ I asked.
‘We ran into a gale off Ushant,’ he said. ‘We could easily have slipped into the lee of the islands through the Chenal du Four and put into Brest. Instead, he stood out into the Atlantic, beating into the teeth of it to clear the coast of France. He said he wasn’t taking any chances. That’s how I knew.’
‘But what about the Customs when you left Falmouth?’
‘We didn’t clear Customs. He said there was no need.’
‘What was he running?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Currency, securities — how do I know? When I asked him, he told me to mind my own damn business. He didn’t talk about his own affairs.’
‘Did you know Kostos would be waiting for you when you arrived?’
‘Of course not.’
“But when he came up to you on the beach — why didn’t you tell him you weren’t Wade?’
He pushed himself up on to his elbow. ‘Because the police are there. Because I have to escape from myself, from all the past. Now leave it at that, will you?’ He lay back, breathing heavily. ‘I’m sorry, Latham,’ he murmured. ‘It’s just that I’m tired. As soon as we’re clear of Tangier — ‘
‘But we’re not clear of Tangier yet,’ I reminded him. “What exactly did Kostos say? Had he been here long?’
‘No.’ He hesitated, looking at me uncertainly out of the corners of his eyes. ‘He wanted some documents. He said that I’d been employed by an Arab to get them.
He meant, of course, that Wade had.’ He paused and then asked me if I knew anything about an Arab called Ali d’ Es-Skhira.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’s a nationalist; a fanatic. The French deported him from Morocco after he’d caused serious rioting in Marrakech. He lives in Tangier now. Why?’