Hammond Innes - The Strange Land

‘Why should that worry you?’ I demanded. ‘You said last night—’

‘I told you the truth,’ he cut in quickly, and then glanced at me nervously as though trying to discover whether I believed him or not. ‘But I can’t tell them the truth,’ he added. ‘Once they know I’m Jan Kavan’ — he hesitated — ‘they will send me back to England. I know they will. I feel it. And I must get to Morocco. I must get to Morocco.’ He looked at me. ‘Please. You want a doctor, don’t you? You want a doctor for your Mission?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Then you must let me enter French Morocco on Wade’s passport.’

‘But why should they send you back to England? What makes you think—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he shouted at me. His voice had that upward trend that it had had the night before when he’d been half hysterical with exhaustion. ‘Just leave it at that. Leave it at that.’

‘All right,’ I said, for he was in a desperately nervous state. ‘But if you enter Morocco on Wade’s passport, your own papers will have no entry stamp. You can’t work at the Mission unless your papers are in order.’

‘I understand.’ He nodded, his forehead wrinkled in thought. ‘But that is something we can sort out later. Maybe I lose my papers, maybe I forge the necessary stamp. I don’t know. But first I must get to Morocco. That is the important thing. And I can’t do that except on Wade’s passport.’

‘But, good heavens, man!’ I said. ‘You’re not Wade’s double, surely. There’s the photograph — the description and his signature, too — you’d never get away with it.’

‘Nonsense,’ he said, his tone suddenly more confident. ‘Do you think I learned nothing during the war? I was six years working in the laboratories at Essen and passing information to the British. Besides, don’t forget I have been shipwrecked.’ He dragged himself to his feet, standing a little unsteadily. And then his voice was suddenly agitated again. ‘Where’s the oilskin bag? I had a little oilskin bag tied round my neck. I had all the papers in it — everything. Did you see it? It wasn’t left on the beach, was it?’

‘No, it’s here somewhere,’ I said. I crossed over to the bed, wishing now that I’d had a look at it last night. ‘It’s among the bedclothes. I threw it here last night.’

But it wasn’t on the bed. It had slipped off on to the couch and was lying under the counterpane. He almost snatched it out of my hand as I held it out to him. ‘You’d better have some food,’ I suggested.

But he shook his head. ‘Not until I’ve seen a doctor.’ He suddenly smiled. It was almost as though the feel of that oilskin bag in his hands had given him back his confidence. ‘If he’s a good doctor, he’ll tell me I’m suffering from lack of food and if the police bother to enquire, they will not be surprised if I recover quickly’

Curiously, I found myself liking him. Behind the nervous tension and the almost neurotic fear of the authorities was a man of considerable personality, a man of drive and energy. Whatever he had done, whatever he was afraid of, he had guts. ‘What are you going to do about the passport?’ I asked.

‘Oh, that’s not too difficult,’ he said, shaking the contents of the oilskin bag out on to the bed. ‘Wade was about my build and colouring. He even had blue eyes-He was thinner and more wiry, that’s all.’ He tossed the blue-covered British passport across to me. ‘I’ll have to fix the photograph, of course.’

The passport was slightly damp, otherwise there was nothing to show that it had come through the surf of Jew’s Bay. On the first page there was the man’s name — Mr Roland Tregareth Wade — and on the next his description: Profession — Company director; Place of birth and date — St Austell, 10 April 1915; Residence — France; Height — 5 ft 11 ins; Colour of eyes — blue: Colour of hair — black. I turned the page and looked at the photograph. It showed him to be a rather good-looking man with a square forehead and black hair. But the cheeks were a little heavy, the broad, full-lipped mouth rather too easy-going, and there were link pouches under the eyes. It wasn’t a dissipated face and:: wasn’t a dishonest face, but somehow it wasn’t quite frank — it was the face of a man about whom one would have reservations.

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.