Hammond Innes - The Strange Land

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.’

He nodded, stuffing the oilskin bag into his pocket. ‘I’ll wait for you downstairs.’

When I went down to join him, I heard his voice raised in altercation with the patrone. It was something to do with the passport and they were shouting at each other in French. ‘Then why did Monsieur Latham tell me to come down here to get it?’ Kavan demanded agitatedly. He caught sight of me then and said, ‘This idiot says he gave you my passport.’

The patrone nodded his head emphatically. ‘Si, si, senor. Did you not ask for both the passports — yours and that of senor here?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But you refused to give me his. You said he must collect it personally and fill in the form at the same time.’

‘No, no. It is true about the paper. But I give you the passport.’ He turned to the hotel boy standing by the desk. ‘Did I not give the senor both the passports?’

‘Si, si, si.’ The Arab nodded.

It was the same boy who had come up to my room the previous night to collect Kavan’s wet clothes. And suddenly I knew why the patrone had wanted these clothes. He had been told to check through the pockets. ‘Do you know a Greek called Kostos?’ I asked him.

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. He didn’t say anything, but I knew I was right. Kostos was at the back of this passport nonsense, too. I sent the Arab boy for a taxi. ‘If you haven’t produced that passport by the time the taxi arrives,’ I told the patrone, ‘I’m going straight to the British Consul.’

He shrugged his shoulders, but there was a frightened look in his shifty eyes.

‘Now come on,’ I said. ‘Hand it over.’

But he shook his head obstinately and reiterated his statement that he’d already given it to me.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’ll see what the Consul and the police think of that story.’

Kavan plucked at my arm. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he whispered urgently. ‘I’ve still got my own papers.’ His face was white and the twitch at the corner of his mouth had started again.

‘That’s no good,’ I said. ‘They’re not stamped as having entered Tangier. You’d never get across the frontier.’

‘But — ‘ His mouth stayed open. He was trembling. I thought he was scared because he was a refugee and in a bureaucratic world; refugees have no existence unless their papers are in order. But it wasn’t that. ‘I’m not going to the Consulate,’ he hissed. ‘Whatever happens, I’m not going to the Consulate. We’ve got to get that passport.’

I glanced at the patrone. His greasy face was sullen and obstinate and frightened. ‘It’s no good,’ I said. ‘Kostos must have some kind of hold over him. We’re not going to get it.’

‘But we must. We must.’

‘If you hadn’t called yourself Wade and got mixed up with Kostos,’ I said angrily, ‘this would never have happened.’ ‘The taxi arrived then and I turned to the patrone, giving him one more chance to produce it. But he only shrugged his shoulders and called on the saints to witness the truth of what he was saying.