Tremor (11 page)

Then Matthew saw the girl. She had just come onto the beach and was spreading her towel under an umbrella. She also had chosen an umbrella as far away from the rest as possible, but in a different direction from his own. She was wearing a white bikini, and her slender limbs were already lightly tanned as if not unaccustomed to the sun. He picked up his own towel and, since there were still umbrellas to spare, walked over and chose one about twenty yards from her. His intention had been to go in and ring Edouard de Blaye, but that could wait.

The heat was so considerable that his body had dried completely on the way back; his hair was only just damp at the base of the neck. He clasped his knees and watched the French girl go in to swim. What a walk! One supposed she had been taught, but it simply looked elegant and wonderfully assured. His mind drifted off to imagine some emergency in which he could be of incalculable service to her and so begin a friendship in which she was eagerly grateful to him and anxious to be his friend. But
could
you, dare you try something on with a woman with a walk like that?

A shadow moved across his sunbed. ‘Hi, Matt, enjoying the view? Nice bit of stuff over there, isn't she. Gor, makes you feel you've been wasting your life!'

Jack Frazier. In white slacks which looked as if they'd never been on before, short-sleeved scarlet shirt, floppy sunhat. Matthew had noticed earlier that they were in adjoining bedrooms on the second floor. Frazier's thin brown aquiline face looked darker under the hat: he would have passed for a Moroccan. The inevitable damp cigarette end smouldered at the corner of his mouth, and the small suitcase was tucked under his arm.

‘Never known it like this before. Least, not in February. I reckon it's the Chergui.'

‘The what?'

‘The Chergui. Usually we get sea breezes here, but this is the hot wind from the Sahara. Phew! What time is it?'

‘Ten thirty.'

Frazier fiddled with his watch. ‘Always forget to change it.'

‘You not swimming?' Matthew asked.

‘Maybe. Not yet, though. Waiting for my car. I ordered it while I was in Casablanca. Said nine thirty. But everything's late now, since the French left. Slack, y'know. You mark my words. All these wonderful roads the French built: they're all going to pot. Give 'em a few years to slip back. The Arabs are all the same.'

‘Are you French?' Matthew asked.

Frazier looked at him sharply. ‘Why d'you ask?'

‘I just thought you might be. I know enough French to know that you speak it without an English accent.'

‘Ah, hum, yes, well.' Frazier kicked at the sand. ‘Haven't lived in France for donkey's years.' He looked at his watch to make sure he had got it right. ‘Wonder if those bastards have brought the car yet.'

Frazier was off. As he moved away he said: ‘ I got some business this morning. Maybe I'll swim this afternoon. See you.'

After he had gone Matthew closed his eyes. The sultry day had given him a headache. He must have dozed off, because he opened his eyes and the sea was empty. He screwed up his eyes to look for a bobbing head: none there. He half started up in alarm, then saw the French girl had returned to her sunbed. She was just lying down and rubbing her legs with a sun cream.

Being olive-skinned, Matthew browned easily without burning, and usually he didn't bother with cream – it messed up one's clothes – but this sun, though a bit hazy, might be fairly lethal.

He dozed again – very strange to be so sleepy and lethargic. Must ring Edouard. Elevenish was a suitable time. He woke to see the stray yellow dog inching its way into the shadow of Mlle Deschamps's umbrella. In spite of indolent attempts on her part to wave it away it crept, belly on sand, a little bit closer.

Matthew got up, walked across to the other umbrella and tried to pick up the dog and carry it away. Not a success; the dog weighed a ton and soon wriggled away from him and squatted down a few yards off.

‘Thank you,' she said in English.

‘Not a success, I'm afraid.'

‘You should not have tried to pick him up. They seem gentle animals, but it is better to be careful.'

He dusted his hands and made to scare the dog away. It shrank back another six feet, hesitated, looked at him with a bloodshot eye and loped off.

‘It is not so much that I mind his company,' she said, ‘ but I do not fancy the possibility of – of the
morsure de puce
.'

Matthew smiled at her. She was sitting up clasping her knees.

‘You knew I was English?'

She nodded. ‘I supposed so. Though I heard you speak fluent French last night.'

‘I spent two years in Paris.'

‘Ah.'

‘You are from Paris, mademoiselle?'

‘Yes.'

There was a pause.

He said: ‘I am grateful to the dog.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I was trying to think of some excuse to come over and speak to you.' He laughed infectiously.

He could not see her eyes for the dark glasses, but the frank approach didn't seem to have offended her.

She said: ‘It is so hot. Usually there is a breeze from the sea.'

‘My friend Frazier tells me this is from the Sahara. I've forgotten the name he gave it. He says it's very unusual for this time of year … You have been here before, mademoiselle?'

‘Once, yes.'

She had not invited him to sit down.

‘This is my first visit to Morocco,' he said. ‘I hope to hire a car. Do you have one?'

‘No.'

‘I have a friend in Taroudant. I intend to see him. You have friends here?'

‘I am simply taking a break. And looking for the sun.'

‘I hope there's not going to be a storm.'

‘If there is it will soon be over.'

They watched the three Frenchwomen who had wended their way through the gardens and were now ploughing through the soft sand of the beach towards the sea. Their beach attire was no smarter than their travel costumes last night. The youngest wore a bikini, the others were in one-piece suits, but they all looked as if the swimgear had been borrowed from someone else. They bulged in the expected places and some unexpected places besides. Breasts were reluctant to remain covered, thighs wobbled, hair escaped from under fussy caps. But any thoughts that they might be regarded as amusing or even ludicrous never occurred to them. They talked in loud voices and laughed and puffed out cheeks at the heat, and the youngest one tripped on ahead while they called comic remarks to her. Presently they were in the sea with squeals and squawks and waving arms. Only one, the oldest one, it seemed, could swim, and they stayed bobbing about and splashing the water at shoulder level.

Matthew looked at Nadine, and they exchanged smiles.

‘I don't see any life-saving equipment,' he said.

‘There's a belt and rope by the pool … At least these ladies are enjoying themselves.'

‘Are you not?'

She shrugged. ‘ I did not mean that.'

‘I'm glad you didn't mean that.'

There was another silence, then he excused himself, saying he had a telephone call to make.

‘This is the Baron de Blaye's residence.'

Matthew pressed in the
jeton
. ‘ May I speak to M. Edouard de Blaye.'

‘Who may I ask is calling?'

‘Matthew Morris.'

‘A moment, sir.'

Matthew fingered another
jeton
.

A heavier voice. ‘This is de Blaye. Who is speaking?'

‘Oh, I'm sorry, sir, it was your son I was calling. He will know my name. Matthew Morris.'

‘Unfortunately my son is not here. He is in St Moritz, skiing.'

Matthew swore under his breath. Of course he should have made sure before he left England. But it had all been decided in such a hurry …

‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have troubled you. I knew Edouard, your son, when I was living in Paris, and he pressed me to come and stay with him in Taroudant if I were ever in this country.'

‘Where are you speaking from?'

‘Agadir. The Hotel Saada.'

‘Oh. Unfortunate. He will be here I expect next month. Will you still be here then?'

‘I can't manage more than two weeks. How is Edouard? Please give him my regards. We were great friends in Paris and he told me about the lovely house you have here.'

They talked for a few moments, and Matthew put in another
jeton
. Then the Baron said: ‘ Do you have a car?'

‘Er – yes.'

‘It's only an hour's drive from Agadir. My wife is in Normandy, so I am almost alone at present. Perhaps you would care to have lunch with me one day?'

‘I shall be delighted. And honoured.'

‘Good. When would suit you?'

‘Almost any day.'

‘Let me see, I have business in Rabat on Friday. Tomorrow? Is that too soon?'

‘Not at all.'

‘Good. Come about twelve. In time for a swim before lunch.'

‘Thank you. You're very kind.'

They were about to ring off when Matthew said: ‘ Baron.'

‘Yes?'

‘Might I bring a lady?'

‘Naturally. It will be my pleasure.'

As soon as he had hung up Matthew went to the concierge and obtained the name and number of the car company. There was only one, it seemed. And when he rang them they said most of their cars were already rented out but he could have a Renault Four. He settled for that.

After about an hour he went down to the beach again. The three Frenchwomen were lying in the garden in the shade of a great palm tree, gasping like newly landed fish. They had not changed, and dark patches marked the canvas chairs they sat in. On the beach Mlle Deschamps had not moved. Her book lay face down in the sand. The yellow dog had returned.

He carefully pushed the dog away. She lifted her glasses to see who it was.

‘Sorry. I disturb you.'

‘It's not important.'

He squatted down in the sand beside her.

‘D'you mind if I stay?'

‘Not at all. But I am going in in a moment.'

He ran the fine sand through his fingers. ‘I have hired a car. It will be delivered tomorrow morning at nine.'

‘Ah.'

‘One of the problems of air travel,' he said, ‘is that one is more or less lifted up and deposited from place to place and sees nothing of the country in between. You say you have been here once before. Did you come to know much of it then?'

‘No. A lot of it was in – a lot of my time was in the desert.'

‘Are you an actress?'

‘Yes.'

‘I think I have seen you in some film.'

She smiled. ‘Possible. But I do not think it likely. And you, monsieur?'

‘I? Oh, by profession I'm a writer. An author, you know.'

There were few advantages, Matthew found, to the trade he had worked at, but it did sometimes impress people. Much depended on the people: booksellers and booksellers' assistants, for instance, almost always assumed an expression of frozen contempt – partly defensive, no doubt, because they had never heard his name and partly because they knew instantly that they had no copies of his books in their shops. But some ordinary people took note, especially if they were Celts or French or German.

Difficult to say what impression if any the information had made on Mlle Nadine Deschamps.

‘Only three published yet,' he added, the hint of apology in his tone being totally assumed, since at his age even two was a good track record, especially if one didn't know the sales figures.

‘My compliments. Are any of them in French?'

‘Not yet.'

‘It will come,' she said.

There was a pause.

He said: ‘I mentioned Taroudant. Have you been?'

‘No.'

‘I am going tomorrow. My friend's father, the Baron de Blaye, has a winter house there. It's no distance. Perhaps sixty kilometres. I shall be going for lunch. I'm told they have a pool.'

Nadine took her book up and shook the sand off it. Then she put it, together with her sun cream and a pochette, into a larger beach bag. It was a fine green canvas bag decorated with red poppies.

He said: ‘Would you come with me?'

Jean Tournelle, also known as Johnny Carpenter, also known as John Frazier, also known as Frère Jacques, parked in the shade of a date palm, then walked the few yards down the Rue Beni Mellal to the home of his father. This street, round-cobbled and not easy for motor cars, was just on the edge of the French Quarter, the line here being not so distinctly drawn as in Fez or Marrakech. The sun glared down on the white walls. In an hour the narrow street would be mainly in shadow: this was midday. Canned Arab music came in a mournful monotone from the café on the corner. In the carpet shop next door two men crouched under an awning stitching slippers. A yellow mongrel dog, apparent brother of the one on the beach, scratched in the dust.

Colonel Tournelle, as he was universally known, lived in a pleasant villa at the end of the street where it turned into the Rue Cambon. The villa was square and white with a barely cambered French tile roof, and the entrance hall looked through into a small palm-treed garden with a lily-pond and a fountain. Ever since he left the Army Gaston Tournelle had done well for himself.

In 1923 he had married Fiona Carpenter in Paris, where she had found herself stranded when the dancing company she was with folded up. Tournelle was then in the Army, a good-looking corporal, who shortly after his marriage was sent to Morocco with his regiment to garrison the area round Rabat and Casablanca. A few years later he was seriously wounded in a skirmish with the Riffs, and in 1938 applied for his discharge. During the war he was in the Army commissariat in Casablanca, but at the end of it had never returned to France. Settled in Agadir, he contrived to make a handsome living in the black market. As a quartermaster sergeant, which he had been for the later part of his military life, he knew all the problems of supply and demand, had excellent contacts, and knew how to negotiate his way round the law. He had never been in trouble with the authorities and had never been so greedy as to involve himself in organized crime. (It was rumoured that he had recently made a fat profit from the devaluation of the dirham.)