Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (15 page)

‘
Bien s
û
r, m
’
sieur!
’
There was only a brief flash of alarm in Mokta
’
s smiling face, but Ingham had seen it. Mokta went
into the office with his stack of towels.
He
was
back at once.

‘
Would you like a beer?
’
Ingham asked.

‘
With pleasure, thank you, m
’
sieur. But I can
’
t sit down
.’
Mokta ran around the comer of the building
to
get his
beer
from the service door. He was back quickly with a bottle.

‘
I was wondering, how do I hire an air-conditioner?
’

‘
Oh, very simple, m
’
sieur. I shall speak to the
directrice
, she will speak to the manager. It may take a couple of days
.’
Mokta
’
s smile was as broad as usual.

Ingham studied his grey eyes casually. Mokta
’
s eyes shifted, not in a dishonest way, but simply because Mokta, Ingham thought, was alert to everything around him, even to things that weren
’
t always there, like a shout from a superior.
‘
Well, perhaps you can speak to her. I would like one.
’
Ingham hesitated. He did not want to ask outright what they had done with the unconscious or dead Arab. But why wasn
’
t Mokta bringing it up? Even if Mokta hadn
’
t come to the bungalow with the others last night, he would have heard all about it.

Ingham offered Mokta a cigarette, which he accepted.

Was it too public here for Mokta to talk, Ingham wondered. Mokta
’
s eyes flickered to Ingham
’
s and away. Ingham was careful not to stare at him, not wanting to embarrass the boy. And no doubt, Mokta was waiting for him to begin. Ingham couldn
’
t. Why didn
’
t Mokta say something like,
‘
Oh, m
’
sieur, what a
catastrophe
last night! An old beggar who tried to get into your bungalow!
’
Ingham could hear Mokta saying it, and yet Mokta wasn
’
t saying it. After a minute or two, Ingham felt very uncomfortable.
‘
It
’
s warm today. I was in Tunis this morning,
’
Ingham said.

‘
Ah, oui? It is always warmer in Tunis! Mon dieu! I am glad I work here!
’

After accepting another cigarette for the road, Mokta de parted with their two beer bottles, and Ingham went back to his bungalow. He went over his notes for his chapter-in-progress, and made a few notes for the next chapter. He
could have been writing an answer to Ina
’
s last and more explanatory letter, but he did not want to think about Ina just now. It would be a letter that required some thought, unless he dashed off something that he might later regret. Ingham paper-dipped his notes and put them on a comer of his desk.

He wrote a short letter to his mother, explaining that his typewriter was undergoing a repair in Tunis. He told her that John Castlewood, whom he had not known very well, had killed himself in New York. He said he was working on a novel, and that he was going to try, despite his disappointment at the job
’
s falling through, to gain what he could from Tunisia. Ingham was an only child. His mother liked to know what he was doing, but she was not a meddler, and did not become upset easily. His father was equally concerned, but a worse correspondent than his mother. His father almost never wrote.

Ingham still had half an hour before his appointment with OWL. He wanted very much to take a walk on the beach, past Adams
’
s bungalow and towards Hammamet, in order to look at the sand among the trees there. He longed to find a torn-up patch that resembled a grave, he longed to be sure. But he realized that gen
tl
e rakings of sand with feet, with hands, could make a grave in the morning (or even at once) look like all the sand around it. No soil was more traceless than sand after a few minutes, even a slight breeze would smooth things out, and the sun would dry any moisture that the digging might have turned up. And he didn
’
t care to be seen peering around at the sand. And what was the Arab worth? Next to nothing,
probably. That was the un-Chris
tian thought that came to his mind, unfortunately. He locked his bungalow, and walked over to OWL
’
s.

Adams
’
s greeting was, as usual, hearty.
‘
Come in! Sit ye down!
’

Ingham appreciated the coolness of the room. It was like a glass of cold water when one was hot and thirsty. One drank this through the skin. What would August be like,
Ingham wondered, and reminded himself that he ought to leave soon,
Adams brought an iced Scotch and water.

‘
I got stung by a jelly-fish this afternoon
.’
Adams said.
‘
Habuki
,
they call them. July
’
s the season. You can
’
t see them in the water, you know, at least not
until
it
’
s too late. Ha-ha
!
Got me on
the
shoulder. One of the boys got some salve from the office, but it didn
’
t do any good. I went home and got some baking soda. It
’
s still the best remedy.
’

‘
Any particular time they come out? Time of day?
’

‘
No. It
’
s just the season now. By the way —
’
Adams sat down on his sofa in his crisp khaki shorts.
‘
I found out something more today about that yell last night. It was just outside your door. Of your bungalow.
’

‘
Oh?
’

“
That tallish boy
—
Hassim. He told me. He said Mokta was with them when they went to investigate.
—
You know the boy I mean?
’

‘
Yes. He cleaned my bungalow at first.
’
They had, for some reason, put a new boy on in the last few days.

‘
Hassim said it was an old Arab prowling around, and he bumped his head on something and knocked himself out. They dragged him off your terrace.
’
Adams again chuckled, with the delight of someone who lives in a place where nothing usually ever happened, Ingham thought.
‘
What interests me is that Mokta claims they didn
’
t find
anyone,
though he said they looked around for an hour. Someone
’
s lying. Maybe the old Arab did bump himself, but it could be that the boys beat him up and even killed him, and won
’
t admit it.
’

‘
Good Lord,
’
said Ingham, with genuine feeling, because he was imagining the boys doing just that.
‘
By accident, you mean, beating him up too much?
’

‘
Possibly. Because if it was a prowler they found and threw out, why should they be so cagey about it? There
’
s a mystery there, as I said this morning.
—
You didn
’
t hear anything?
’

‘
I heard the yell. I didn
’
t know it was so near me.
’
He was lying like the boys, Ingham realized, and suppose it all came out, through one of the boys, that the bump was a pretty bad fracture, a crush of the bone, and that the man was dead when they found him?

‘
Another thing,
’
Adams said,
‘
the hotels always hush up anything about thieves. Bad for business. The boys would hush anything up, because it
’
s part of their job to keep an eye on the place and not let any prowlers in. Of course there
’
s the watchman, as you know, but he
’
s usually asleep and he never walks around patrolling the place.
’

Ingham knew. The watchman was usually asleep in his straight chair, propped against the wall, any time after ten-thirty.
‘
How often does this kind of thing happen?
’

‘
Oh
—
only one other time in the year I
’
ve been here. They got two Arab boys who were prowling around last November. A lot of the bungalows were empty then, and the staff was smaller. Those boys were after furniture, and they broke a couple of door locks. I didn
’
t see them, but I heard they were beaten up by the hotel boys and thrown out on the road. The Arabs are merciless with each other in a fight, you know.
’
Adams took both their glasses, though Ingham was not quite finished.
‘
And what do you hear from your girl?
’
Adams asked from the kitchen.
‘
Ina, isn
’
t it?
’

Ingham stood up.
‘
She wrote me.
—
It was she who found John
Castlewood
’
s body. He
’
d taken sleeping pills.
’

‘
Really! Is that so?
—
In his apartment, you mean?
’

‘
Yes.
’
Ingham hadn
’
t told Adams that it had happened in his own apartment. Just as well.

‘
She
’
s not coming over?
’

‘
Oh, no. It
’
s a long way. I should be getting back in a week or so. Back to New York.
’

‘
Why so soon?
’

‘
I can
’
t stand the heat very well.
—
Didn
’
t you say you had something to show me?
’

‘
Ah, yes. Something for you to listen to. It
’
s short!
’
Adams
said, holding up a finger.
‘
But I think it
’
s interesting. Come in the bedroom
.’

Another blasted tape, Ingham thought. He had hoped that Adams might have found an ancient amphora on the sea bottom, or speared a rare fish. No such luck.

Once more the suitcase on the bed, the reverently handled recording machine.
‘
My latest
.’
Adams said softly.
‘
Scheduled for Wednesday next
.’

The tape hissed, and began:

‘
Good evening, friends, everywhere. This is Robin Good-fellow, bringing you a message from America, land ot the..
.’
Adams raced the tape, explained that it was his usual introduction. The tape chattered and squeaked, then slowed down to
‘
… what we might call democracy. It is true the Israelis have achieved a crushing victory. They are to be congratulated from a military point of view for having won over superior numbers. Two million seven hundred thousand Jews against an
Arab
population of one hundred and ten million. But who in fact struck the first blow?
—I
leave this, friends, to your governments to tell you. If they are honest, governments, they will say that Israel did.
’
(Long pause. The tape floated expectantly.)
‘
This is an historic fact. It is not damning, not fatal to Israel
’
s prestige, it is not going to
’
—
apparen
tl
y groping for a word, though Ingham was sure he had the whole thing written and rewritten before he began
—
‘
blacken
Israel, at least not in the eyes of pro-Israel countries. But I Not content with mere triumph and the displacement of thousands of Arabs, the seizure of Arab territory, the Israelis now show signs of the arrogant nationalism which was the hallmark of Nazi Germany, and for which Nazi Germany at last went to her doom. I say, much as Israel was provoked by threats to her homeland, her womenfolk, and by border incidents
—
and there were and are incidents to the discredit of Israel that might be cited
—
it would be well for Israel to be magnanimous in her hour of victory, and above
all
—
to guard against that overweening pride and chauvinism
which has been the downfall of greater countries than she…