Wade was dead and Kavan was writing up his log.
There was a rather touching finality about that abrupt change in the writing. After all those hundreds of sea miles, logged and recorded between the brown board covers of the book, this bald statement that the sea had claimed him.
Whatever else the man had been, he was a fine yachtsman.
I rifled through the remaining twenty or so pages of the book. They were blank, except for the last two which contained odd jottings, reminders of things he had probably planned on the long night watches. They were under port headings, such as Naples — see Borgioli — Ring Ercoli — Votnero 23-245 — Cheaper to slip here and get top sides blown off and repainted (Luigi Cantorelli’s yard) etc. I glanced quickly to the last entry and there, sure enough, was the heading TANGIER and underneath — Michel Kostos, 22 rue de la Grande Mosquee. Tel. 237846. There were several other names and telephone numbers and then a note — Try to contact Ed White. Wazerzat 12 (Lavin, Roche et Lavin).
I sat drinking my coffee and wondering about this last entry. Lavin, Roche et Lavin was obviously the name of a French firm and Wazerzat looked like the phonetic spelling of an Arab town — Ouarzazate, for instance.
I closed the book slowly and finished my coffee. Reading that log had brought the man to life in my mind. Reluctantly, I called the patrone and had him take me through into the kitchen, and there I thrust the book down into the red hot coals of the range. I found myself muttering a prayer for him as it burst into flames. The book should have been consigned to the sea.
Coming back into the cafe, I noticed an Arab sitting in the far corner, by the window. I hadn’t seen him come in. I suppose I had been too engrossed in the story of Wade’s voyages. There was something familiar about his face. I paid my bill and, as I walked out, our eyes met and I remembered that he had been in the bank when I had arranged for the transfer of Kavan’s money. He had quick, intelligent eyes and a hard, aquiline face. His djellaba was of the smooth, grey gaberdine favoured by the richer guides and pimps and he wore brown European shoes.
I turned up into the Arab town, climbing quickly towards the kasbah. I wanted to take a look at Jews’ Bay — and I wanted to quash the suspicion that had suddenly crossed my mind.
ť From the Naam Battery I looked down to the sea and across the width of Jews’ Bay. The sea was blue and sparkled in the sunshine. The water of the bay was faintly corrugated and there was a fringe of white where the swell broke on the golden sand. It was a quiet, peaceful scene, utterly at variance with my memories of what it had been like down there less than twenty-four hours ago. There was no sign of the wreck, but a small motor launch was hovering around the spot where the yacht had struck. I turned and walked back to the Place du Tabor, and there was the Arab I had left sitting in the cafe.
It was just possible, of course, that it was a coincidence. There were always guides hanging around the Place du Tabor. I cut down the rue Raid-Sultan, past the old palace — the Dar el Makhzen — and the treasury and into the labyrinth of alleys that run steeply down to the Zocco Chico. It was cool and quiet, but the roar of the markets drifted up to me on the still air like the murmur of a hive. I reached an intersection where the main alley descended in shallow steps through a tunnel formed by the houses. A narrower passage, leading I knew to a cul-de-sac, ran off at right angles and close by a baby sunning itself in an open doorway. I slipped into the doorway and waited.
Almost immediately I heard the patter of slippers hurrying down to the intersection. It was the same Arab. He hesitated an instant, glancing along the empty passage of the cul-de-sac. Then he dived into the tunnel of the main alley and went flapping down the steps like an ungainly bird.
There was no doubt about it now. I was being followed. The thought that a man like Kostos was now in a position to do this to me made me unreasonably angry. I went on down the alley and came out into the Zocco Chico. The Arab was waiting for me there. His face showed relief as he saw me, and then he looked away. I went straight up to him. ‘Who told you to follow me?’ I asked him angrily in Spanish. He started to walk away, but I caught hold of him by the arm and swung him round. ‘Was it Senor Kostos?’ Recognition of the name showed in his eyes. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’re going back to the Hotel Malabata now.’ I let him go and turned up by the Spanish Church, walking fast.
He was close behind me as I entered the hotel. I went straight over to the reception desk where the patrone was sitting and demanded my bill and both our passports.
‘You are leaving Tangier, senor?’ He was a sallow-faced, oily little man with discoloured teeth and a large, hooked nose. I think he was of mixed Arab-Spanish blood. His eyes stared at me inquisitively over the rim of deep, fleshy pouches. His interest made me suspicious. •My bill,’ I said. ‘I’m in a hurry.’
He glanced up at the clock above his head. It was just after three. ‘Already you have missed the train, senor. The next one does not depart until twenty-one hundred thirty-five.’
‘I’m still in a hurry,’ I said.
He shrugged his shoulders and started making out the bill. His eyes kept shifting to my face as he wrote.
They were full of curiosity. Through the open doorway I could see the Arab waiting patiently across the street.
‘There will be a small addition for the other senor.’
‘That’s all right.’
He put down his pen. ‘He can have your room if he wishes.’ He stared at me. ‘Or do you both leave Tangier together?’
‘Give me the bill,’ I said. He met my gaze for an instant and then his eyes dropped shiftily.
I settled the bill and he gave me my passport with the change. ‘It is necessary for you to complete this paper, senor. It is for the police.’ He was smiling at me craftily as he handed me the printed form which I should have filled in on arrival. He knew that the information I had to give included the address of my destination. When I had completed it, all but this one item, I hesitated. Then I wrote in the Pension de la Montagne. It was the pension from which we had seen the yacht being blown into Jews’ Bay. In the old days there had been no telephone there. I handed the form back to him and he glanced at it quickly, almost eagerly. ‘I’d like my friend’s passport, too,’ I said.
But he shook his head. ‘I am sorry, senor. He must collect it himself and complete the paper for the police.’
I nodded. ‘All right,’ I said, and went up to the room. Kavan unlocked the door for me. He had had a wash and was dressed in his underclothes. ‘I’m glad you’re up,’ I said. ‘Get dressed quickly. We’re leaving at once.’
He reacted instantly to the urgency in my voice. ‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘It’s your friend Kostos.’ And I explained how I had been followed. ‘The man’s waiting for us outside now. We’ve got to lose him before we get on that train. And I don’t trust the patrone here either.’
‘Did you find Karen?’ he asked.
‘No. We can do that later when we’ve got rid of this Arab. Come on. Hurry.’ Thank heavens he looked a lot better.
He didn’t argue and when he’d got into his clothes, I sent him down to get his passport while I finished packing my, case. ‘There’s a form to fill in,’ I told him as he was going out. ‘For destination put the Pension de la Montagne. It’s out of town and it’ll take them some time to check that we’re not there.’