‘No, nothing • like that.’ she interrupted. ’First, listen. On shipboard, you remember, I told you I was to meet my husband…’
‘“if”, you said…’
‘Yes. This is the “if”. Years ago, Harry, when the Red Army was driving through East Germany, and we had to flee, my husband had to hide all our valuables. He hid them himself. He alone knew where they were. Then, a few weeks ago, we made plans to try and get them back. It would cost us a lot, we knew—bribes, purchase of an aeroplane, a fee for the pilot, more bribes/
I was listening intently.
She continued: ‘Klaus had to fly into Helwigstem, don’t you see, himself—a mad and dangerous idea, but he refused to tell anyone else where his cache was. He couldn’t trust anyone. I went to America to raise some of the funds we needed. Lady Barbara has been good enough to lend us more. But—just today—I have learned that even more is needed.’
‘More money? ’
She rose, and crossed to the davenport where I was sitting. ‘Mr. Lime, say no, quickly, if you can’t do me this favour.’ she pleaded. ‘But I have exhausted all my other resources. If you knew how much it costs to bribe those officials, over there!’
‘I’ll bet. How much do you need? ’
She sank down on to the seat beside me and clasped my hand in both of hers. ’Oh, you will do it? It’s just a loan, mind you.’
For the second time I asked her what sum she needed. In a scared voice she asked whether ten thousand American dollars would be too much. Then, seeing that the sum did not appal me, she added:
‘And see? for security…you will take these…my pearls. You have already guarded them well.’
I protested that I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.
‘Yes! I insist! Otherwise, I will not even ask you for the loan.’
She was adamant, and I allowed myself to be persuaded.
Five minutes later I had made a trip downstairs, returned, handed her ten bills and placed the pearls in my inside pocket. We smiled, shook hands on the deal, and I walked out of her room with a fortune.
It called for a celebration. A pal of mine runs a pub which I use as a message centre. That is to say that I have sent letters there, and get up to date on all the news I need to know in my line of business.
Over a double whisky and soda, I passed the pearls over to him. He whistled with appreciation.
‘I had them priced by a jeweller.’ I said, ‘and he said that he would ask a hundred and fifty thousand pounds for them.’
‘Let me just have a look, do you mind.’ he asked.
‘Look ‘em over all you want to, Barney.’ I replied. ’This is your last chance. I’ll fence them somewhere in Paris this evening.’
He asked me where I had got them. I vaguely replied that it was some German princess.
He grunted as he screwed a jeweller’s glass into his eye and I elaborated that she was French born.
He put his magnifying-glass down. ‘Name of what?’ he asked.
I told him. He began to chuckle.
’Tell me the joke!’ I said.
‘I thought these pearls looked funny, for all you said they weren’t sham…’
This was going too far. I protested that I had had them priced myself.
He was laughing now. ‘Maybe you had some pearls priced, but not these, my boy. The oldest trick in the world—pulled on you, Harry Lime!’
‘Don’t try to pull your tricks on me, Barney.’ I said. I was angry now.
‘I don’t need to. It’s been pulled already. Harry, me bucko, I know who your Anne de Bourbon is—she’s a slick little article, but she’s not German and I don’t think you’ll find any Helwigstein on the map. She’s Doris Jones, that’s who she is and she was bom right here in Clapham, and she’s took you and shook you! For how much!’
’Ten thousand dollars.’ I replied, as I moved to the telephone.
Of course I found that she had checked out of the Carleton. And she hadn’t left a forwarding address. I came slowly back to the table.
‘So all I’ve got is this pearl necklace.’ I said…
‘It’s a good imitation.’ he replied, ‘must be worth at least fifty pounds…’
I began to smile: ‘So I come ahead after all.’
He looked at me for a moment, and then asked me what I meant.
It was my turn to laugh. Wait till your slick little article tries to pass those notes, Barney.’ I said. ’They’re counterfeit. That’ll teach her to try hoodwinking Harry Lime.’
A TICKET TO TANGIER
by
Orson Welles
I was down on my luck—way down, scraping the bottom. A couple of deals had fallen through and I found myself in Paris with a lot of time on my hands and only the price of a beer in my pocket. .’ was spending my time and the beer money at Fouquets; not because the beer is any cheaper at Fouquets, but because you meet a nicer class of people there, and, besides, they let you read the newspapers free.
So I was drinking beer and reading a paper when I came to the advertisement: one of those classified ads in the personal column—and it was addressed to Harry Lime. Harry Lime being me I read on with some interest.
There was no signature and no address. ‘Harry Lime.’ it said quite simply, ‘will find a business opportunity of an extremely profitable nature in the city of Tangier.’
Now I might have thought that this was one of the boys trying to hustle me out of Paris or just trying to be funny. Except that the advertisement mentioned the city of Tangier. Why Tangier? There are few places in the world I hadn’t been to, and Tangier just happens to be one of them. Also Tangier, as everybody knows, is full of money and I couldn’t imagine anybody wanting to send me there—right in the heart of the free gold area, where every second address is a bank and every second person is an international operator—just for a gag.
There are probably more chances in Tangier to grab a fast buck than you’ll find in the world today, so I was inclined to take the ad a little seriously. Of course it might have been a police trap; there are cops in countries all over the globe busy looking for me, and some of them are just sharp enough to try to pull me in a queer corner like that. But the truth is that one of the only cities left where they don’t happen to want me for what is known as ‘questioning’, is the port of Tangier. That’s what sold me. There was just one complication: my beer was finished and with it my financial resources. My problem was how to raise the price of a ticket.
While I was brooding, my eye happened to wander down the personal column, and a little below the advertisement addressed to me was this: ‘Gentleman travelling to Tangier—a visit to the desk of the porter at the Lancaster Hotel on Rue de Berg will repay any business man planning a visit to Tangier who can whistle a certain tune:’
Well, of course, that didn’t have to be Harry Lime, but there is a song I am fond of, one I’ve been whistling for years and everybody who knew about me might know about that song. Anyway what could I lose? So I went over to the hotel and approached the concierge. He asked me what he could do for me.
‘I don’t quite know that you can do anything,’ I replied. ‘But do you happen to read the Paris edition of the Herald Tribune?’
He smiled. ‘No, M’sieu. I prefer to follow the news in my own language, but we have copies of the paper you mention for sale.’
I decided to try a new tactic. ‘Do you like to whistle.’ I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. ‘I am a lover of music, M’sieu, but I do not whistle. No. As a young lad, however, in the orchestra of my school I was considered quite proficient on the bassoon…/
‘Well, try this on your bassoon.’ I interrupted, and began to whistle a few bars.
He didn’t let me get far. ‘Ah, yes, but of course. I have something for you, Mr. Lime—here.’ he said, and passed me over a thick manila envelope. I asked who it was from. But he shook his head.
’O.K., old man.’ I said. ’Thanks, anyway. I wish I could
give you something for your trouble, but I forgot my wallet this morning.’
’That was anticipated, M’sieu.’
I looked at him blankly.
’Everything, M’sieu, has been taken care of.’ he explained.
’Everything?’
‘Yes, M’sieu, that is the word, I believe—everything.’
In the envelope was an airline ticket for Tangier, 50,000 francs in nice fresh notes and the following letter:
‘My dear Mr. Lime, when you arrive in Tangier go immediately to the El Mirador Hotel where a suite is reserved for you. After you have dined, go to a cabaret called “The Caballa”, wait there for instructions.’
The porter interrupted my meditations.
’Excuse me, M’sieu, but it is 2.45 and your plane leaves at 3.15.’
‘Will you call me a cab?’ I asked.
‘No need for that, M’sieu. There is a limousine at the door.’
It was a pleasant trip with a very—a very, very pretty hostess on board. I am afraid that I was a demanding passenger and required a great deal of attention. Towards the end of the flight, I pressed the buzzer on my seat.
‘Yes, Mr. Lime?’
‘My name isn’t Mr. Lime,’ I said. ‘My name is Harry. Have you ever been to a nightclub in Tangier called the Caballa?’
‘Why, yes, I have,’ she answered.
‘Yes you have what? ’
She laughed. ‘Yes I have, Harry.’
’Is it a nice nightclub?’ I asked.
She replied that it was the best in town.
’That’s good. I’m glad you like it. I’ve reserved a table there for us. O.K.?’
There was a long pause. Then she said: ’Fasten your safety-belt. We’re coming in.’
Some hours later I remarked that she was one of the few girls outside of Havana who knew anything at all about the rhumba.
‘I learned it in Havana,’ she said with a smile.
’That almost explains it.’
She asked me what I meant by almost.
‘I don’t know. O.K. you learned to dance in Havana, but so do lots of other people. O.K. you’re a hostess on an airline and you’re very good-looking and there are lots of good-looking hostesses that dance the rhumba. But they don’t dance that well, and they’re none of them that beautiful. No, I don’t know what I mean by almost—but really, you know, you’re almost too good to be true.’
‘I’m not so good.’
’That’s good.’
After a pause she said: ‘You don’t even know my name.’
’Oh, yes I do. They have a sign on the door to the cockpit. It said: Captain—I. R. Stevenson. Co-Pilot—J. O’Grady. Air-Hostess—P. Smith. So that’s your name, isn’t it, P. Smith. May I call you P?’
‘P is for Patsy.’
A few minutes later she said: ‘Let’s take a walk outside, it’s awfully close in here.’
‘I’ll just pay the check.’
‘Don’t bother,’ she said with a laugh. ‘It’s been taken care of.’
I pointed out that she was my guest. Besides, I was •the male in the party and I had my pride.
However, she was quite firm. ‘I’m sorry, Harry. It’s all taken care of. Come on.’
We found a cab outside. Patsy asked the driver if he knew the Villa Moughelti.
’The Villa Moughelti? Oh, yes, Mademoiselle—you mean the great palace on the hill. I know it well.’ The cab twisted and turned its tortuous way through the native quarter, and then pretty soon we were out in the country. I noticed that we were climbing steadily and were passing beautiful villas, the homes of rich expatriates who had come to live in this strange little international settlement where you don’t even have to register with your Consulate and nobody pays any income tax at all.
I think that I neglected to mention that Patsy was beautiful, and if I did mention it, believe me I was understating the situation. She had grey eyes and that clear powdery gold hair that makes you think of the ashes of angels’ wings. I’ve known an awful lot of girls but none of them I’ve ever laid eyes on could have given Patsy a worried moment. There may be better-looking aeroplane hostesses, but if there are they’re working for airlines on another planet.
As we climbed on up the noon-bright hills over Tangier, I completely forgot the strange business which had brought me there, the advertisement in the paper, the airline ticket and all the rest of it. I didn’t care why I’d been sent for to Tangier, and I didn’t care who had done it and what he wanted from me.
I didn’t even know that the cab had stopped.
After a long time, Patsy moved away from me. I adore kissing you,’ she sighed. ‘You do it very well, but we’ve come to our destination.’
Reluctantly I diverted my attentions. Through the window of the cab I saw some sort of private mansion.
I asked her whether she was sure that we’d be welcome.
‘I’m certain of it,’ she replied. ‘Here, you take the key. You’re my guest.’
‘But how…’
‘You’ve been my guest all along. “Gentleman travelling to Tangier—a visit to the desk of the porter at the Lancaster Hotel in Rue de Berg will repay any business man planning a visit to Tangier who can whistle a certain tune.”—You whistled a tune, didn’t you?’
‘Yes—but how do you know about it?’
‘I had a friend once who told me how fond you’ve always been of that music…’
‘No, I mean about the ad in the paper,’ I interrupted.
‘I ought to know. I paid for it,’ she said softly. ‘And my plane ticket…’
‘I got a reduction from the airline.’
It was a huge place—full of heavy chandeliers and pompous pieces of furniture, most of which were pretty spooky-looking because they were covered with dust cloths. Obviously the place hadn’t been lived in for many months. But who was it who had lived here? Who was it had built this unlikely palace on a hill overlooking the harbour of Tangier? Above all, why had I been brought here? Just who was P. Smith, air-hostess, and what did she expect me to do about it? We made a tour of several huge chambers before I even began to get any answers. Eventually we entered a huge room, that evidently used to be a ballroom. Patsy told me to close all the curtains and then to turn on the lights. I looked around and saw a piano, about thirty gilt chairs and a big rolled-up carpet. Then Patsy said: ‘Do you know anything about heroin?’
So that was it. I thought for a moment before answering: ‘Not anything to speak of. I don’t use drugs, Miss Smith.’
‘But you sell them.’
I asked her what she was trying to suggest.
‘I’m suggesting that there isn’t much you don’t know about breaking the law—any law.’
It was no use trying to deny that my knowledge of that particular subject wasn’t fairly extensive, so I remarked that she had a point there.
‘Now let’s stop kidding and get down to business,’ she said sharply.
I thought that it was about time I took a hand in the questioning: First of all, I think that you had better answer a few questions, Miss P. Smith—Air-Hostess.’
’That isn’t necessary.’
‘Maybe not, sweetheart, but I am the curious type. I like the facts before I take on a job—all of them. First of all, what’s your racket?’
‘I haven’t any racket. I’m an airline hostess,’ she said with a smile.
‘Yes—because the run takes you to Tangier. Am I right?’ She didn’t answer but I could see that I had guessed correctly.
We’!! play it my way, or we won’t play at all,’ I went on. ‘You must need me awful bad to take all this trouble to look me up and move me here. If you need me that much, you’re going to cooperate. So we’ll start off with your real name, and we’ll go on from there.’
She was silent for a moment. Then she asked: ‘Did you ever hear of a man called “Moughelti”?’
Rico Moughelti! Of course that was why the name of the villa had seemed famili
ar. I had met him once in Marseilles and another time in Casablanca.
‘I was his wife,’ she went on.
‘Was?’ I asked.
‘Yes. He’s dead.’
I said that I was sorry.
’There’s no need to be sorry for me. I killed Rico myself.’
I said that in that case I was sorry for Rico. But I wasn’t really. Rico hadn’t been a nice man. I had once seen him blind a man with a broken wine glass. Nonetheless I wasn’t too keen on the way that the set-up was developing. I always tried to avoid getting mixed up in murders. For one thing they are messy, and for another thing they are silly. Lastly—and to me the most important—there’s generally no profit in them.
Patsy must have guessed my thoughts, for she said: ‘You don’t know the facts in this case, Harry. I was justified. You’ll have to take my word for that.’
‘I guess I will at that. And now, Mrs. Moughelti, if you don’t mind, why have you brought me all the way to Africa to this empty house?’
She pointed to the rolled-up carpet. ’There’s a fortune in heroin in that rug.’
‘So what?’
‘You know how the drug traffic works. I don’t. It was something new for Rico. Some kind of big haul—he must have had a partner because he wouldn’t have known how to dispose of it. It wasn’t his. line at all.’
‘It isn’t mine either, honey. I’m sorry to have to disappoint you,’ I interjected.
‘I’ve been keeping it in this house for months now,’ she went on. ‘My airline job is perfect for smuggling the stuff, but I don’t know who to take it to. I don’t know what towns pay the best price. I don’t know the names of the agents. Rico kept me away from all that sort of thing, and all I can remember was hearing him talk about you. You’ve got to help me, Harry.’
‘But what about the police?’ I asked.
She replied that they didn’t even know about the house. Tangier apparently was the only place where Rico had a clean record.
The Lives of Harry Lime v1.0 Page 13