The Lighthearted Quest (26 page)

“Oh, no, poor old thing—at least only indirectly. Bathyadis did.”

He stared at her.

“I think you must be a witch,” he said slowly. “That is the last thing I should have expected Bathyadis to tell you.”

“No, I'm not a witch. Merely lucky, and a little putting two-and-two together. For one thing, Bathyadis' son from Casablanca happened to be in Fez, and I met him, too,” Julia pursued.

Purcell started again at this rather equivocal statement—for a moment or so he said nothing, and Julia watched the effect of her insinuation sinking in, contentedly. At last—

“I should very much like to know exactly how much you do know,” the half-caste said.

“I'm sure you would. And I should love to tell you, if you will promise to tell me the rest,” Julia riposted.

Purcell laughed.

“I think I must ask first a question myself,” he said.

“Fire away.”

“Have you seen your cousin?”

“Now look, Mr. Purcell, be your age!” Julia expostulated, slowly. “How
could
I have seen him? You know when they left here, with all that gin, as well as I do, and you know how long it takes them to load up the big trunks in Fez—and to fix the rest,” said Julia, guessing glibly. “Do you want me to believe that you
don't
know how long they usually spend grubbing out their mineral down in the South? I couldn't have caught up with them without a plane, possibly.”

His eyes never left her face during this speech—and Julia watched him too. Surprise; something like consternation; but also, unmistakably, a hint of amusement.

“You are alarming,” he said at length. “But since you know so much, what more can you want to hear from me?”

“Lots. I want to know
where
I can most quickly get hold of them, and see my cousin. For instance, do they go to Casablanca themselves to arrange about exporting the stuff, or do they leave that to young Bathyadis?”

“This too,” Purcell murmured, half to himself. “Would you be willing to tell me from whom you have learned all this? It is quite important to me to know.”

“Yes, gladly—when you have told me precisely where and how to contact Colin. It is no use my going off into the blue, trying to locate him at all those German-run
cantines;
I should need a car, which I can't afford,
and
an interpreter—which I can't afford either,” said Julia. “So please give me a time and a place. I'm sure you can.”

Purcell again stared at her, she noticed, when she spoke of the
cantines
run by Germans.

“I wish I knew your sources of information,” he said. “In one week!”

“I'll spill every single bean, once you have told me where I can meet him,” Julia replied.

Purcell was silent then for quite a long time. At last with characteristic percipience he said—

“I am sure that at this point I ought to tell you to give up this attempt to find your cousin, and that it will be useless even if you succeed—but I am equally certain that it would be quite fruitless to do this.”

“Totally,” Julia agreed. She began to feel quite hopeful—though she still did not know where Purcell stood, his last words sounded as if he meant to tell her something.

“Therefore,” Purcell pursued, “I suggest that in about a fortnight's time you go to Marrakesh, and—“

A tiny crash, quite close by, made them both look round. The little man with the cast in his eye had entered unnoticed; in stealing round the corner to the inner room and creeping in under a table he had dislodged an ash-tray. Julia fairly exploded with rage.

“Will you
please
tell that loathsome little wretch to clear out! I won't have him hanging round me all the time!”

Purcell had risen, like the unhappy man; he took him by the shoulder and led him out, ignoring his protests “Purthell,
I wanted to thee you!” After shutting the door on him Purcell locked it, and knocked on the bar-top; the Moor appeared looking frightened; Purcell berated him in Arabic—Julia couldn't understand a word, but it was evident that Mahomet was getting a terrific tongue-ing; he cringed and clasped his hands in entreaty before his master returned to Julia's table.

“Mahomet must have let him in by the back entrance,” he Said, sitting down again. “We should have heard the door. But now will you please tell me what you mean by this man's hanging round you?”

“He follows me everywhere,” said Julia, still indignant. “He was at Petit-Jean when I changed trains, going up, and then he was after me in Fez—I saw him twice.”

“Where, may I know? At your hotel?”

“No, I never saw him at the hotel. But he was at Bathyadis's both times that I went there.”

Purcell looked grave.

“Have you seen him anywhere else?”

“Yes, up in the Kasbah here, when I went to look for Colin in that red-haired type's house. You still haven't told me why you fibbed and pretended that he was staying at the Minzah,” said Julia coolly—“but let that pass. Anyhow he was hanging about up there too. Who is he? And why does he follow me?”

“I may point out that you did not tell me about this visit to the Kasbah,” Purcell said. “I
see.
You saw them on the roof, of course, when you went up to watch the Mendoub's procession. It is so unwise to sit out there, but Mr. Tor—“ he bit the word off.

“He will do it, will he?” said Julia, trying hard to think of names which began with Tor—there hardly seemed to be any.

Purcell ignored this question.

“And Moshe was up there? Where?”

“Hanging about in the alley. I didn't get in, of course—otherwise I shouldn't still be in Morocco! But who is this creature, and why does he follow me?”

“He is a miserable little Jew, who earns a living as best he can—usually by rather unsavoury activities.”

“So I should suppose,” said Julia scornfully.

“Jews have a hard time in Morocco,” said Purcell with detachment. “They are not over-popular with the Moslems, especially the new nationalist element; they would like to go to Palestine, but Palestine is already overcrowded, and only a few get permits. I believe there is in Morocco a waiting-list of 250,000 or more would-be emigrants—so be merciful in your judgements.”

Julia liked him more than ever for saying that, but she pursued her enquiry.

“But why does he follow
me?”

“He was probably not following you when you went to that house in the Kasbah; most likely he was just watching it. But having seen you there, no doubt he reported the fact, and was detailed to follow you.”

“But—“ Julia's head was full of questions, jostling one another to be asked first—and there was the business of Marrakesh to be followed up, too. The winning question popped out.

“How could he have known that I was going to Fez?”

“How did you buy your ticket?”

“The hotel porter got it for me.”

“There you are. Hotel porters, too, get a nice little
douceur
for supplying such information.”

“Yes, but Mr. Purcell, who for?
Who
wants to have me watched and pays that creature for doing it?”

Purcell's face took on one of its gleaming expressions of amused intelligence; Julia was watching him with happy expectancy when a violent hammering on the door began. The half-caste sprang up, glancing at his watch.

“I left it locked,” he murmured; “but of course it is time. Can you come in tomorrow at eleven?”

“No, I can't. I must go to my job.”

“In the evening then, early. Five o'clock?”

The hammering was renewed, with redoubled violence, while Julia wondered whether, if she had to go out to
“l'excavation”,
she could possibly be back by five. She decided that she would, come hell and high water.

“Yes, five tomorrow. I'll pay then.” As Purcell opened the door and the bunch, protesting loudly in high voices, surged in, she went out.

It was raining next morning. Julia was glad of the weather, as it meant that there could be no question of going out to the excavation—Mme La Besse was like a cat about the wet. Tangier in rain has a strange, dis-orientated aspect. The colour-washed flats and houses, so brilliant in sunshine, look stained and shabby, the tossing fronds of the palms fling showers of heavy drops into the air; the usually lively little donkeys patter dolefully along on the wet tarmac with drooping ears, their backs darkened with moisture; as for the Arab women, their sodden white draperies cling dismally round them, making them resemble, now, bundles of washing still dripping from the tub—a most unhappy sight. But dampness accentuates scents and odours, and since residential Tangier is full of flowering gardens, in rain its air is unbelievably fragrant; Julia snuffed it up happily through the open window of her taxi.

She was touched by the pleasure with which the Belgian greeted her. They sat down to con over Julia's measurements and descriptions of the
huilerie
at Volubilis; and when she produced a neatly-typed description of the Berber oil-mill in Moulay Idriss, Mme La Besse's pleasure and excitement knew no bounds.

“But this is wonderful! Evidently, our
huilerie
is of this type. Probably the Berbers still use a Phoenician kind of mill; or
possibly the Phoenicians adapted a mill already used by the Berbers.” She instantly dictated a long and enthusiastic letter to a fellow archaeologist in Tunis—after typing this Julia drove off to post it and to shop in the Gran Socco, where all the Berber women looked pinched, drops falling from the brims of their vast straw hats. She told Mme La Besse firmly that she could not stay late, and sharp at five she was tapping lightly on the door of Purcell's Bar. To her surprise a new Moor opened it, and ushered her in.

“Have you fired Mahomet?” the girl asked Purcell as she sat down; she meant it jokingly, but he answered in all seriousness.

“Certainly. I cannot employ someone who takes money from others.”

“Do you think the Jew paid Mahomet to let him in, then?” Julia asked in surprise.

“I
know
he did. Mahomet was bribed.”

This episode sent Julia's thoughts back to her unanswered question of the previous evening, when the bunch had come hammering on the door. She did very much want to know who was having her followed, and why—but it was more important to get Purcell to amplify his hint about Marrakesh, which had been interrupted by the entry of the Jew, and she went for that first.

“Horrid little creature,” she said. “But now tell me about going to Marrakesh—in about a fortnight, you said?”

“Yes, about that. I think you might learn a little more—much as you seem to know!—and even see your cousin, possibly. Marrakesh is an
entrepôt
for many wares,” said Purcell, looking crafty and amused.

“Oh,
how
good of you!
See
him!” Julia exclaimed, delighted.

“Do not thank me too soon. It is a very speculative venture; I should not suggest it to most people. But you seem to have the knack of success.”

“Goody,” said Julia. “Well, that will suit me perfectly—I
want to see Marrakesh anyhow, and I can
get
driven there from Casa.”

“Excuse me, but driven by whom?”

“An Irishman—that friend of mine I told you about. How do I proceed?—who's the local St John? Not that he was much good,” said Julia reflectively. “He really did very little but tell me to call it all off.”

Purcell laughed.

“Poor Mr. St John. I can imagine him in your hands! Well, in Marrakesh you will really do best by frequenting the Café de France, on the Djema el F'na, the great square—you should eat all your meals there; the food is delicious.”

“Expensive?”

“I am afraid so. But it is the place where most Europeans, except the tourists, eat.”

“I see.”

“And sometimes go up onto the roof to drink coffee; there is a wonderful view of the Atlas mountains, but also it commands the whole square. Have you a pair of field-glasses?”

“No. Oh, dear, and they cost the earth!”

“Possibly I might be able to get you a pair fairly reasonably,” said Purcell.

“Ah, yes—from Gibraltar, where everything is so cheap, I suppose. What do I want them for?”

“To study the crowds on the Djema el F'na—unless you have exceptionally long sight.”

“No, mine is very short. Oh, what a worry! Well, never mind—do get them,” she said resignedly. If she could only find Colin through a pair of field-glasses, field-glasses she would have. “How much shall I have to pay?”

“I think I might get you a really good pair, second-hand, for about twenty-five pounds.”

“Right—how kind you are! Will you go ahead and do that? Unless Lady Tracy has a pair, just the sort of thing she would have. I'll let you know tomorrow, shall I?”

“By all means.”

“Well, when I have them, what do I do? Spot my cousin from the roof of this Café place, and then plunge down and find him?”

“Exactly that; unless you meet him in the bar.”

“It sounds rather complicated,” said Julia dubiously. “Suppose he's walked on by the time I get down? How many flights up is this roof?”

Purcell laughed outright.

“You are so practical! I am not sure—four or five flights, I think. But there is always the chance that he would not have moved on, but would be standing in the same circle watching dancers, or a juggler, or a snake-charmer.”

“Fun!” said Julia. “Right, I've got that. But suppose I don't spot him? Is there a local Bathyadis?”

“More or less, yes. At least there is a house in a garden, where curios are sold, and tea is served
à la marocaine;
there is a tall blonde woman there, Swiss or Swedish, I don't know which—anyhow she is called Mademoiselle Hortense.”