Hammond Innes - The Strange Land

I looked at her, feeling a sudden lump in my throat. I took a step forward and then stopped. ‘But you’ve so few of his paintings. I couldn’t possibly — ‘

‘Please. I want you to have it. He would have wanted it, too. I told you, he was doing a painting for you when — when it happened.’

She held the canvas out to me and I took it, still staring at her. Her eyes were wide and close to tears. A pulse beat in her throat. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I murmured. ‘I haven’t words to thank you.’

‘Just remember where I have asked you to hang it.’

I looked down at the painting, not knowing how to tell her what I felt. And then Jan came in. Julie went past me to the driving seat and started the engine. We drove past the tent where Ed White sat alone and down the piste towards Foum Skhira, the orderly trailing us in his truck.

The day had clouded over completely now and the wind was getting up so that all the sky beyond the palmerie was brown with sand. It was like it had been the day before. But the wind was from the other direction now and as we ran along the edge of the palmerie, we were sheltered from the drifting sand and all we experienced of the rising wind was the thrashing of the palm fronds as the soft, springy trunks bent under the thrust of it, though away to the left, between us and the mountains, the sand was on the move everywhere. We didn’t catch the full force of it again until we drove past the remains of the souk and out into the open space between Ksar Foum-Skhira and the forts. And here, besides the sand, the windscreen became spotted with rain.

There was a Citroen parked outside the Bureau and we drew up beside it. ‘That’s not Legard’s car,’ Jan said. ‘He had a jeep.’

‘Maybe somebody gave him a lift back,’ I said. But I noticed as we walked past it that it wasn’t an Army car. Under its white coating of dust it was black. I had a sudden sense of being trapped and glanced quickly at Jan. He was frowning and his eyes were looking around him uneasily.

The orderly hurried past us, his cloak flapping in the wind. We followed him into the passageway of the Bureau. He went straight to Legard’s office, knocked and went in. I hesitated, trying to catch what was being said, but they spoke softly. And then the orderly emerged again and beckoned to us.

Julie went in first and then Jan. They both stopped and there was a look of shocked surprise on Jan’s face. Then I, too, was inside the office and the sense of being trapped was overpowering.

It wasn’t Legard sitting at the desk in there. It was Bilvidic.

He rose as he saw Julie. ‘Mademoiselle Corrigan?’ he asked.

Julie nodded. ‘We were expecting to see Capitaine Legard.’

‘Ah yes. But he stayed to organise his food trucks. My name is Bilvidic, of the Surete in Casablanca.’ He paused and regarded Jan, who had turned automatically towards the door as though seeking escape. But the door had closed and, standing against it, was a man who was obviously a policeman in plain clothes. He was tall, thick-set, with sallow features and a flattened nose. Bilvidic motioned Julie to a seat. ‘Tell me, Mademoiselle Corrigan, how long have you known this gentleman?’ He indicated Jan.

‘Not very long,’ Julie answered. ‘Why?’

‘And all the time you have known him as Dr Kavan?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you agreed to drive him down here to Foum-Skhira?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Miss Corrigan has nothing to do with this business,’

I said quickly. ‘If you want to ask questions, please put them to me.’

‘Very well, monsieur. Since you wish it.’ Bilvidic’s grey eyes stared at me frostily over their little pouches. ‘Why did you lie to me? Why do you say this man has flown from England? You knew that we would check.’

I looked across at Jan. But he didn’t say anything. He was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his head slightly bowed; quite still like a man considering a problem.

Bilvidic, waiting, produced his pack of American cigarettes and lit himself one. ‘Eh bien,’ he said, and sat down on the corner of the desk and inhaled the smoke from his cigarette. ‘Since you do not wish to talk, I will tell you what we have been doing. First we check with Paris and London. There is no Dr Kavan leaving London Airport on the night of the eighteenth. There is no Dr Kavan leaving Orly Airport in Paris for Casablanca on the morning of the nineteenth.’ He glanced at Jan. ‘But you were on that flight from Tangier to Casablanca and you are shown on the list of passengers as having booked through from Paris.’ He made little clicking noises with his tongue and his eyes switched to me. ‘Why did you do it, Monsieur Latham? It was stupid of you. Now you must come to Casablanca for questioning.’ He turned to Jan. ‘Alors, monsieur. Your name is Roland Tregareth Wade, yes? And you are the owner of the yacht that is wrecked near Tangier on the night of the eighteenth.’

I waited for Jan to deny it, but he didn’t speak.

‘What’s the charge?’ I asked and my voice sounded nervous for I thought it would be murder.

But Bilvidic said, ‘There is no charge. He is being held for questioning. That is all. And we have to be in Casablanca by the morning.’

‘By tomorrow morning?’ It was over three hundred miles across the mountains. ‘It means driving all night. If there’s no charge, surely it isn’t as urgent — ‘

‘My headquarters insist that we are there by the morning.’

‘But why?’

‘It is nothing to do with us, monsieur. I do not wish to drive through the night any more than you do. Nor do I enjoy being here in the desert for Christmas Day,’ he added sharply. ‘It is because of the British authorities. This man’ — he nodded towards Jan — ‘has been masquerading as Dr Kavan. They insist that the matter of his identity is resolved immediately. If you do not like it, then you have only your government to blame.’

‘But I tell you he is Dr Kavan.’

‘Non, wow.’ He shook his head. ‘It is no good, monsieur. Undoubtedly he is Wade.’ He tapped a sheaf of notes that lay in front of him on the desk. ‘You see, the body of Dr Jan Kavan was washed up on the coast of Portugal near Cape St Vincent four days ago.’

There was a sudden silence in the room. Jan had moved forward slightly as though to ask a question. But now his eyes were fixed on the floor again. I was conscious of the tenseness of his body.

Bilvidic rose and moved behind the desk. ‘Tell me, monsieur, how much did Kavan tell you about himself when he applied for the post of doctor at your Mission?’

‘Not very much,’ I said. ‘Just that he was a qualified doctor and that — ‘

‘He did not tell you he was a famous scientist? Ah, well then, you would not appreciate the interest this matter has aroused. It is in all the British papers. But now that his body has been discovered his disappearance is no longer a mystery.’

‘If you’re certain the body was from the Gay Juliet, then it is Wade’s body.’ I looked across at Jan. Why the devil didn’t he say something? ‘What makes them think it’s Kavan’s?’ I asked Bilvidic.

‘It is definite, monsieur. We have a full report at headquarters. The state of the body, of course, was not good. But the general description is exact, and he is wearing a windbreaker purchased in Durham, which is where Kavan worked. It even had the name Kavan on it and in the pocket is a watch inscribed in Czech which was given to Kavan by his wife.’ He shook his head. ‘There is absolutely no doubt, monsieur. But the British insist that we check the identity of your friend here, and. also there is the matter of illegal entry into Morocco.’

‘Listen, monsieur,’ I said. ‘I assure you that this man is Kavan. There were two men on the boat — Kavan and Wade. It was Kavan I pulled out of the sea at Jews’ Bay.’