The Book of the Seven Delights (5 page)

From his vantage point on the cargo, he scanned the dock in both directions and realized that there was no cover for further escape for fifty yards in either direction. With an oath, he flattened against the top of the crates and reconciled himself to waiting there until the retrieval squad moved on or darkness fell.

Then he spotted
her
.

Abigail Merchant was standing at the top of the gangway, arguing with one of the shore officials about an impromptu "tax" required of all persons disembarking from ships in the harbor. It was just like her, he thought, to come all the way to Morocco and then refuse to leave the damned boat because of scruples over a few
dirhams
in shore bribes.

An abrupt movement at the bottom of the gangway caught his eye and he spotted several dirty, half-naked wharf rats snatching up three large carpetbags and hauling them off at a dead run.

Pay attention, woman
—
they're robbing you blind
! It was all he could do to keep from shouting it at her.

"My bags—they're taking my bags!" She finally saw what was happening. "Stop them—somebody stop them!" She rushed down the gangway, shoving her way past the porters returning up it for more cargo, but the thieves had already reached the corner of a nearby street and were disappearing.

"
Un voleur
—
arretez-vous
!" Haffe shouted, pointing from the cabin deck. But his call only caused confusion amongst the crew and dockworkers, many of whom had checkered pasts and thought he was accusing rather than alerting them. "
Legionnaires
!" Haffe tried calling to the soldiers loitering at the corner. "
Allez, allez! Un voleur
!"

The Legionnaires seemed startled at first, then indignant at the notion that they were being asked to exert themselves in so mundane a cause. Tightening their grips on their truncheons, they took off in the opposite direction.

Captain Demetrios rushed up from one of the cargo holds to see what the yelling was about and quickly ordered some of his men to drop what they were doing and give chase.

As the
Star's
crew erupted in arguments about which way to go, where the thieves were likely to be headed, and what they might use as weapons against such brazen criminals, a handful of men came running from further down the quay… burly dockworkers bearing spars and lengths of iron pipe…

followed by a stocky, nattily dressed man in a white three-piece suit. The man came to a stop beside the trouble-prone Miss Merchant and doffed his hat.

Apollo froze, unable to expel the breath he'd just taken.

"Please… allow me to be of service, mademoiselle," the man declared in a mellifluous French accent, planting his silver-headed walking stick on the dock and striking a pose beside it. When she nodded permission, he waved his white Panama hat to send his men rushing after the thieves.

"Thank you, sir," she responded, sounding a bit breathless. "But surely I must contact the authorities…

the police…"

"I fear the authorities here in Casablanca will be of little assistance," he said with a rueful wag of head.

"Theft is an all too frequent occurrence on these docks. Fortunately, my employees are knowledgeable in the ways of the streets. If it is at all possible, mademoiselle, they will retrieve your bags." He produced a smile that oozed admiration. "Permit me to introduce myself. I am—"

"
Ferdineaux LaCroix
," Apollo muttered, watching the oily Frenchman plant a kiss on her hand and feeling like he needed to spit. Badly.

"Abigail Merchant. I am grateful, sir, for whatever you can do to retrieve my bags. They contain items that are irreplaceable."

Just then, LaCroix caught sight of Captain Demetrios standing in the middle of the gangplank watching them.

"
Capitaine
." LaCroix acknowledged him with a nod.

"Monsieur LaCroix."

Demetrios paused for a moment, looking as if he wanted to say something, but then nodded brusquely and headed back to his cargo. La Croix smiled and turned his attention once again to Abigail Merchant.

"
Quel dommage
, mademoiselle, that we must meet under such circumstances. If you will give me the name of your host in Casablanca, I shall see that your bags are delivered to you as soon as they are recovered."

"
Don't tell him
." Apollo ground out through gritted teeth.

"I had planned to go first to the British Consulate," she said with a hint of indecision. "The captain has said he will send for a carriage. And he has suggested a hotel called the Exeter."

"The Exeter. A fine old establish—" LaCroix smacked his forehead with his palm. "The fire. There was a fire recently, mademoiselle. I fear the Exeter is not available. But, there is another hotel… the Marrat."

He brightened and gestured down the dock to a handsome black carriage with fashionable yellow wheels. "I can take you there and save both you and
le capitaine
much trouble."

"
The Marrat
?" Apollo groaned. "
There isn't a door in the place that doesn't have at least fifty keys

."

As if on cue, two of LaCroix's beefy employees came rushing back around the nearby corner bearing two carpetbags. Abigail all but melted with relief.

"Oh, thank you, Mister LaCroix!" She squeezed the Frenchman's hands and then fell to her knees to undo the buckles and open the valises. "Thank heaven, they didn't—wait—there is still one bag missing.

My books and papers—"

"
Dammit
." Apollo clenched both fists. "
It would be that one
."

"We will find it, mademoiselle." LaCroix watched her refasten her bags and then offered her assistance in rising.

"Your kindness overwhelms me," she said, swaying to her feet.

"
Me, too
," Apollo snarled, shifting on the cargo to get a better view.

"I don't know how I can ever repay you," she continued.

"He'll think of a way. "

"The delight in your lovely face is my sole reward, mademoiselle," LaCroix said, staring at her as if she were edible. "And perhaps the honor of your company at dinner this evening in the Marrat's dining room."

"She'll say yes, of course. "

"I would be honored, monsieur."

Apollo watched, feeling thwarted and furious, as the Frenchman claimed her arm, escorted her down the dock, and helped her to his carriage. It wasn't that he actually cared about the stubbornly corseted Miss Merchant. But just now he had something of a stake in her well-being; when he saw the retrieval squad, he had visited her cabin and tucked his papers into her bag after all.

He waited to be sure the Legionnaires didn't return before climbing down from his hiding place. Taking no chances, he slid around the cargo in stages, listening and watching. The coast seemed clear and he stepped out onto the main dock—right into Haffe's incredulous stare.

"Your eye, Smeeth—praise be to Allah!" He was about to fall on his knees, when Apollo clamped a hand over his mouth and dragged him behind the cargo.

"Quiet." He released the little steward and flipped his eye-patch down into place, which made Haffe shake his head in bewilderment. "It's a disguise." Haffe still looked baffled. "I'm incognito. Hiding.

Cachant
." The light finally dawned.

"Did you see Miss Merchant leave?" Apollo said.

"Meez Mer-chant?
Oui
." He pointed to where the carriage had stood. "
Avec sa pappa
."

"He's not her papa, my friend," Apollo's nose curled. "Not by a long shot."

The Frenchman's carriage sent people scrambling for open doorways as it barreled through the narrow, deeply shaded streets of Casablanca. The air was hot and laden with the scents of dust, dung, and the dyed wool that hung in colorful skeins from lines strung across the streets. When the way broadened, a breeze dipped toward them, bringing scents of drying jute, foods cooking on charcoal braziers, and newly tanned leather.

Exotic sounds floated from the buildings they passed: the rhythmic thud of treadles from rug-weavers'

shops and the
pling
of stringed instruments floating out of cafes, the calls of food vendors in the markets.

The turbans and sun-bronzed faces of the men; the jingling jewelry and veiled faces of the women…

stalls packed with fabrics, slippers, and beaten brass… pushcarts overflowing with olives, oranges, dates, and melons… everything looked
so foreign
. And felt so foreign. Especially the heat.

Her sensible demicorset, as Smith predicted, seemed to be squeezing her breathless. She fanned her reddened face with her hand and stifled the memory of his telling her she should abandon the garment and the senseless propriety it represented.

Arrogant man. She hadn't asked for his advice. Thank heavens he hadn't been on the dock to see her lose her bags before she set foot on Moroccan soil.

"Will we pass the British Consulate en route?" she asked her benefactor.

"The British Consul maintains a house near the
Bab el-Marrakech
, but he spends most of his time in the city of Rabat," he informed her. "If you would contact him, you may have to wait for some time, mademoiselle. It is sometimes weeks between his visits."

"B-but, I was given to understand that there was a
permanent
consulate here." She clamped her hands together in her lap and tried not to perspire.

"London"—LaCroix's dark eyes glinted with amusement—"is very far from Casablanca,
oui
?"

She forced what must have been a weak smile.

She hadn't been in Casablanca more than an hour and she had already had her luggage stolen, learned that her carefully drawn plans were probably based on Foreign Office fictions, and fallen into the debt of a Frenchman who was looking at her as if she were a well-braised brisket.

Her spirits sank further when they drew up in front of the Hotel Marrat and she discovered her proposed lodging was a dusky stuccoed structure with patches of bare bricks showing through a crumbling surface, tile work in dire need of repair, and iron railings that gave a poor illusion of balconies beneath the upper-level windows. The paint was missing from the lower half of a pair of battered front doors that opened at the level of the street itself. She took a deep breath and prayed that the soured milk and moldy leather smells that assaulted her weren't coming from the hotel.

The owner of the Marrat, a gaunt, pasty-faced fellow dressed in a rumpled western suit and fez, hurried out to greet them the instant their carriage stopped. He bowed and smiled excessively, revealing a number of missing teeth and a starched collar that was all but blackened with oily dirt. As Monsieur LaCroix escorted her inside the hotel lobby her nose reported both the good news and the bad. The soured milk smell, thankfully, had remained in the street, but the moldy leather smell was very much a part of the Marrat.

Mister LaCroix—"Ferdi" as he insisted Abigail call him—instructed the manager to treat her as if she were royalty, kissed her hand, and declared he would count the minutes until he saw her at supper. She would be counting the minutes, too, she thought… until she could be on her way to Marrakech.

The manager insisted on personally showing her to her room, which was up two sets of worn stone steps and along a narrow loggia. At the center of the hotel was a overgrown courtyard containing a broken fountain. Her room was in a far corner on the third floor, well away from the entrance, and from the quiet of the surrounding rooms, well away from other guests as well.

The decor was a haphazard mixture of Europe and North Africa; walls of stucco set with colorful glazed tiles, but furnished with a mixture of western items. The bed was a tall poster affair with a well-worn mattress and metal springs and there was a dry sink made of parched-looking wood and a Chippendale wing chair with stuffing showing through horsehair upholstery. The chipped tile floor was covered by colorful wool rugs and on the ceiling was a paddle fan with blades of tooled leather, run by a belt driven by something outside the room that made a continual low, thumping sound.

When the door closed behind the manager and porters, she tested the bedding by thumping it and released a haze of dust. Throwing open the shutters, she leaned on the iron railing of her tiny balcony and inhaled deeply several times. It was only for a few nights, she told herself. She had survived deadly storms at sea; she could survive this, too.

Of course, at sea she had had help.

Smith's face rose unbidden in her mind and she felt a disconcerting pang of disappointment at not seeing him again before she left the ship… which she attributed to her failure to express proper gratitude to him and the nagging sense of indebtedness it left in her. If there was anything she couldn't abide it was being in someone's debt.

She thought of her new benefactor. And then tried
not
to think of him.

She had to reassert some control over her life. First thing tomorrow, she would go to the British Consulate herself. If the Consul was indeed gone, surely someone—a trusted secretary or majordomo—would be there in his absence. She would ask for and
get
the assistance she needed.

The dining area of the Marrat, a few steps away from the main lobby, was more like a noisy cafe than a proper hotel restaurant. The management had gone the proverbial extra mile for Monsieur LaCroix and his guest; their table was the only one with linen and candles instead of a scarred wooden top and a battered Persian lamp. A pall of smoke was collecting over the nearby tables, where men of both European and Moroccan descent indulged in Turkish tobacco, Western liquor, and spirited conversation.

There were no other women present, a fact driven home when Abigail realized that she and Monsieur LaCroix were the object of stares.

He had already ordered their meal but, mercifully, the menu contained items she recognized: chicken, squash, garlic, peas, and melons. The things she hadn't encountered before were relatively benign—a thick, clabbered milk they called
yoghurt
, rice-and-meat stuffed grape leaves called
dolmas
, and something like a cross between rice and cracked wheat, called couscous. Most of their conversation revolved around LaCroix's vivid descriptions of local food markets and cuisine and Moroccan life. It was only when the tea came—the same boiling hot infusion of mint and sugar she had experienced aboard the ship—that LaCroix at last came to what seemed to be the point of his invitation.