Madame had seated herself by the stove again. For a while she concentrated on her food, but once or twice she glanced in my direction. At length she said, ‘I was asking you, monsieur, about that affair in Tangier.’ And when I didn’t say anything, she added, ‘You’ve read the paper, haven’t you? What happened to this man after he left the Hotel Malabata with you?’
I glanced quickly across at the Frenchman. But he was concentrating on his food. He might not have heard her question. ‘Until I read the paper I hadn’t realised the police were looking for Wade,’ I told her.
‘But what happened to him?’
‘That’s something I shall have to tell Monsieur Frehel in the morning,’ I said. A cold sweat had broken out on my forehead. The man was concentrating too much on his food. He must be listening.
But Madame was persistent. She sat there, feeding the cat pieces of fish in her fingers and asking questions. And because I couldn’t just sit there and refuse to say anything, I told her about how I had seen the wreck and brought Wade back to my room at the hotel, all the things, in fact, that the International Police already knew. And whilst I was talking I was conscious of Jan’s growing nervousness.
The meal was over at last and I got to my feet, excusing myself by saying I was tired. Jan rose, too, and Madame saw us to the foot of the stairs. ‘Dormez bien, mes enfants.’ Her little beady eyes smiled at me maliciously.
We went upstairs to the narrow landing that ran the length of the inn. ‘Who was that man?’ Jan asked.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ I answered.
‘You mean — ‘
‘We’ll know in the morning,’ I said and pushed open the door of my room.
‘Philip. I want to talk to you about Kasbah Foum.’
‘Oh, damn Kasbah Foum!’ I said. ‘I’m tired now.’
And I went into the bedroom and closed the door behind me.
What did he want to keep talking about Kasbah Foum for? Hadn’t he got enough problems without trying to involve himself in something that concerned people like Kostos and Ali d’Es-Skhira? I was thinking of the Frenchman back there in the bar, talking to Madame, learning all the gossip of the place.
I sat down on the bed and stared miserably round the room. It was a sordid little box of a place with a big, brass-railed double bed that sagged in the middle and the bare minimum of furniture — a wash-stand, a tin slop pail, a chest of drawers, a wooden chair and a small built-in cupboard. The flaking paint patterned the walls with a stipple of little shadows cast by the naked electric light bulb. I shivered in the cold that struck up from the concrete floor.
I had a quick wash and went to bed. Somewhere out in the darkness a tam-tam throbbed, accompanying the queer, wailing cry of women singing. It went on and on, and then a donkey began to bray, a harsh, sobbing note as though it were slowly being strangled. I heard Bilvidic come to bed and then the auberge settled down to sleep and the only sound was the tam-tam beating out there in the night.
Gradually the moonlight filtered into the room. A little wind had got up and I listened to it moaning round the galvanised iron roof, searching for cracks in the old building.
And then I heard a movement in the passage outside. The catch of the door scraped as the handle was turned and the door opened and Jan’s voice whispered, ‘Are you asleep, Philip?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘What is it?’
He came in and shut the door gently behind him. ‘Mind if I put the light on?’ There was a click and I blinked my eyes.
‘What’s the trouble?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. I wanted to show you something.’ He came and sat on the bed. He was still dressed and he had the raincoat he’d bought in Marrakech wrapped tightly round him. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. His manner was quiet as though he’d made up his mind about something.
‘Well?’
‘I’m leaving for the south tomorrow. I would like you to come with me. No,’ he added quickly. ‘Don’t say anything. Have a look at this first.’ He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. ‘Please. Examine it.’
It was one of those stiff linen envelopes, but it had been softened and creased with age. It was damp, too, and the remains of the broken seal were indecipherable. Inside was a bulky document to which had been attached a note in French scrawled on a sheet of cheap notepaper that was torn and dirty along the creases where it had been folded. I sat up in bed and twisted round so that the light fell across my shoulder on to the document. It opened out into a stiff sheet of parchment covered with Arab writing. The ink was faded with age, but the words kasbah foum, written in capitals, caught my eye. And then, farther down, I saw the name Marcel Duprez. The name occurred several times and the document was signed Caid El Hassan d’Es-Skhira, and some sort of seal had been affixed.
‘But this is the document Kostos wanted,’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes.’
‘You crazy fool!’ I said, staring up at him. ‘Why didn’t you let him have it? If you’d given it to him — ‘
‘Kasbah Foum belongs to me.’
But. I didn’t believe him. How could it belong to him? ‘You took those deeds from Wade,’ I said. ‘Wade was acting for Ali and you took them — ‘
‘No,’ he said. ‘Wade never had the deeds. He offered me five hundred pounds if I’d give them to him and renounce my claim to the place. But I wouldn’t sell. Kasbah Foum is mine.’ He said it fiercely, possessively.
I pushed my hand across my eyes. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘How can this place belong to you? You’ve never been in Morocco before. Land like that isn’t bought and sold — ‘
‘Those deeds were given me by Marcel Duprez. He was the man I told you about in Marrakech, the man who died in that cellar in Essen.’ He stared at me, frowning angrily. ‘You don’t believe me, do you? Why do you think Wade agreed to take me on his boat? How do you think we met in the first place? I didn’t contact Wade. He contacted me.’ He pointed to the note pinned to the document. ‘If you still don’t believe me, take a look at that note. It was written by Marcel Duprez to the lawyers just before he died.’
I smoothed out the tattered note attached to the document. It was written in French in a shaky hand and addressed to Lavin, Roche et Lavin, of Rouen:
Dear Monsieur Roche,
The bearer of this note is Dr Jan Kavan, who is here with me in this abominable town of Essen. In the event of my death, he will come to you after the war. You will give him the document relating to Kasbah fount in French Morocco. This note you will regard as a codicil to my will. Being unable at this time to write to you direct, I hereby instruct you to ignore any illegality there may be in this method of making my wishes known to you and to carry out these instructions. Dr Kavan knows that Caid Hassan’s confirmation of this bequest is necessary to substantiate his claim to the ownership of Kasbah Fount and he holds the necessary letter to Caid Hassan, which he will show to you on request.
The note was signed Marcel Duprez and dated 22 September 1944. So the Marcel Duprez who had fought at Foum-Skhira with the Legion and the man who had died in a cellar at Essen were the same! And Kasbah Foum, subject to Caid’s confirmation, belonged to Jan. ‘But if you’re so interested in the place, why didn’t you get your title to it confirmed before?’ I asked him.
‘That’s what I should have done. It’s what I promised Marcel. As soon as the Allies arrived in Essen and I was released, I went to Rouen. I saw Monsieur Roche and he gave me the deeds. But — ‘ He shrugged his shoulders awkwardly. ‘There was so much to do in Czechoslovakia. I returned to Skoda and there was my research work, and then Karen and I were married. To be the owner of a little patch of desert somewhere in Morocco — ‘ He gave a short laugh. ‘It was absurd, you know. Even if there was silver there … I had plenty of money and I was happy. I put the deeds away and forgot all about them. Also I forgot about my promise. The Berbers meant nothing to me.’ He paused and then added, ‘But afterwards, when I was in England, I found those deeds among some papers Karen smuggled out to me. And then it wasn’t absurd any more. It was all I owned in the world.’