“How long will your feeling last?” he asked. “How long can I trust you?”
“You will have to take your chances with that. I am not lying to you now. You want to know where the money is?”
“Do you know?”
“Of course. It is in a well somewhere in the vicinity of the house of the parents of Hadji el-Abri.”
Durell stared at her. “They live in Baroumi. I know that. But I don’t believe el-Abri is in on the scheme of those who want to use the money to prolong the war here.”
“He is not. He knows nothing about it. He may suspect the money is in Baroumi, but Charley fooled him by putting the money so close to his own home. You’ll find the money there. You can be sure of that.”
Durell looked up at Jane and Chet Larkin. Chet had strapped the knapsack of food to his back, and Jane was carrying the water thermos. They were ready to move out.
He ordered L’Heureux to walk about ten paces ahead. The prisoner objected that it was too difficult for him to walk with his hands tied behind his back, but Durell did not change the arrangement.
They followed the main road bearing away to the right. It was ten o’clock when they set out, and the sun was already intolerable. Durell ordered them all oil the road for a distance of about a hundred yards and they walked parallel to it. Sometimes it was in sight, but most often not. Nothing stirred or seemed to live in the rocky wilderness.
There was no talking among them. Just the effort to keep breathing and walking took all their concentration. The air was like the exhaust from a blast furnace. The heat scorched their mouths and lips and throats and left their lungs gasping for coolness. Thirst came quickly. Durell kept his eyes on L’Heureux. The prisoners massive figure moved with a long, awkward stride, his hands behind his back. L'Heureux seemed to be totally unaware of the heat and the wasteland they crossed.
The terrain dipped and rose, dipped and rose again.
They were climbing gradually. Here and there were patches of blinding sand, like shimmering pools caught in the arms of wind-hewn rock. The highway was empty every time Durell glimpsed it. It reached from horizon to horizon, the long line of telephone poles marching parallel to it, going nowhere, coming from nowhere.
It came to him that this was the way the end of the world might look. A scorched, lifeless, rocky emptiness, with only a few straggling, hopeless survivors wandering aimlessly in search of something that would never be again. He shook off the image.
They walked on. Once he paused when he saw the copper lines dangling uselessly from the insulators on the power poles. They saw two more places where communications had been cut by the rebels. In some stretches, the wire itself had been totally removed.
After half an hour, Durell called a ten-minute halt. L’Heureux leaned easily against the rocky face of a small cliff that offered some dubious shade. His heavy face was sardonic, his pale eyes fixed on Durell.
“They won’t ever make it, chum. Just look at ’em.”
Durell saw that Jane Larkin was already in unpromising shape. Her hair was disheveled and her face looked sunken, shining and pale. Her mouth was open as she breathed tumultuously. She sank down to the ground as if she never intended to get up again.
Madeleine was only a little better. Chet sat leaning forward, the carbine between his knees, the muzzle pointed at the brassy sky. His eyes were fixed on his wife with a curious mixture of hunger and rejection.
“They’ll make it,” Durell said.
“We’ve only covered about two kilometers.”
“We have all day.”
“We walk into Baroumi like this, and we’re just meat for the buzzards, you know that?”
“We’ll see.”
Durell passed the thermos of water around. He kept the container of water, slinging it over his shoulder by the canvas straps. It already weighed too much for Jane Larkin to continue to carry it.
When the ten minutes were up, he ordered them to their feet. They stood in a straggling, silent, and reluctant group. He knew that at the next stop it would be more difficult to get them going again, and the one after that might prove impossible.
He walked beside the prisoner for a short time.
“Durell, you’re a fool,” L’Heureux said. “You should have stayed with the truck.”
“And let Talek bring your murdering friends down on us.
“I don’t know anything about that gook.”
“On the other hand,” Durell said, “he might be one of el-Abri’s men. In that case, you ought to be glad to get away from that spot.”
“I’ve got nothing to worry about,” L’Heureux said. His glance was bold. “I told you, I'm an innocent man. You’re the lad who’s in a tough spot. You took on the responsibility of them two babes in the wood from the States. They’re both helpless and hopeless. They’ll only hold you back. And Madeleine is on my side. I know she’s sore at me, but don’t count on that to help you. She’ll do what I tell her, when I get around to it.’
“I doubt that.”
L’Heureux laughed softly. “You hate my guts, huh?”
“Yes, I do.”
“But you’ve got to take care of me, Durell. You’ve got to make sure I get back home alive, huh?”
“I’ll get you there.”
“But all the odds are on my side.” The prisoner moved his head in a gesture that encompassed the bleak, sun-blasted landscape. “You can’t kill me, but I’ve got nothing holding me back when it comes to taking care of you.”
“Do you still think you’ve got a chance to get away with that money?” Durell asked suddenly.
L’Heureux broke his long, rhythmic stride momentarily. He laughed. “Did Madeleine tell you about that?”
“I knew about it from other sources, as well.”
“Did she tell you where it is?”
“Yes. How did you get into that game?”
The prisoner shrugged. “It’s my business. I'm for hire.”
“Who hired you?”
“Some pretty big people.”
“In Paris?”
“And Algiers.”
They want to make it look as if the United States, or American oil interests, is financing the rebels. Sure. That’s all they need to make the average Frenchie blow his top and go all-out in this war. That’s what they want."
“And you’re willing to go along with that?”
L’Heureux laughed again. “I told you, I’m for hire. But I had my own ideas. It seemed a shame to waste all that money just tor a propaganda gesture. I had my own ideas, like I said. I’m going to keep that cash for myself.”
“How many names do you know in the clique behind this scheme?”
“Practically all of them.”
“Who are they?”
L’Heureux looked sidewise at him. “I’ll write you a letter about it, chum, from South America. When I get there with the dough. Only trouble is, you won't be able to read it. You’ll be dead. You’ll be meat for the buzzards.”
Chapter Fourteen
EACH STEP became an increasing torment for Jane. She was aware of muscles in her legs and body she had forgotten about long ago. Back in Texas, she had been considered reasonably athletic. She was good at tennis, she rode often, she never knew exhaustion. But for the last two months she had done little except sit passively in the heat and boredom of North Africa. There had been no tennis or riding in Marbruk. She had gone soft, but the lack of means to keep fit hadn’t been the only reason for the way she had let herself go.
Every muscle in her legs was a tiny flame of torment. Dust burned in her throat. Her chest ached and there was an uncomfortable little cramp in her stomach. She knew she must look a perfect fright, with sweat running down her face, rivulets streaking through the dust that gritted her skin. A giggle lifted in her as she thought of what her friends at the country club would say if they could see her now. The giggle was silent at first, and then she heard the sound of it and it frightened her and she clamped her lips shut. Chet ha
d looked quickly at her, glowering and yet alarmed.
Poor Chet.
He didn’t know her at all. Not a bit. She was still a stranger to him, even after the year of their marriage, even after the night of their reunion in Algiers.
Don’t think about that night, she told herself. That’s the cause of all your trouble.
She had almost told him about it this morning, but some perverse streak in her had checked her tongue. It was impossible now. Not after what had happened with Charley. Men were so stupidly jealous. And Chet was worse than most. He said he loved her, but he didn’t trust her. He was only too willing to jump to the wrong conclusions about her. If he’d only listened to Daddy and kept the job in the Houston office, none of this would have happened. Everything would have been fine. But no, he had to come here to this god-forsaken, sun-blasted country peopled by maniacs, just to prove something to himself. It was only words, Jane told herself. This business of standing on his own two feet. Being independent. A man. Accepting no charity. Proving he could support her without help from Daddy.
It was all so sad and stupid.
She looked up and the horizon reeled drunkenly around her. How long had they been walking this time? She looked at the delicate Swiss watch on her wrist. It had stopped. Sand must have gotten into it somehow. Or the heat had expanded something inside. How long would it be before she stopped, too? She couldn’t walk much more. She was thirsty again, too. The whole thing had been stupid. Why hadn't they stayed by the truck? The French soldiers would have come along sooner or later and rescued them. And why hadn't Durell been more careful about the driver? She knew the answer to that one, but her mind shied away from the responsibility. If she hadn’t gone for that walk with Charley and even encouraged him to attack her, Durell wouldn’t have left the truck to the mercy of Talek.
Well, she couldn’t help that. She looked up again, seeing L’Heureux’ tall figure striding along with his hands behind his back. They were traversing a narrow gully that paralleled the road. It was Chet’s fault, really. She had tried to explain, but now he wouldn’t listen. It just goes to show you. Charley could have escaped easily. He could have walked off as easy as pie. He might even have taken her with him as a sort of hostage. But he had thrown away his chance to escape because of her, because he couldn’t wait to have her. . . .
The thought made a strange heat rise in her. He had just looked at her and wanted her. If he hadn’t lost his head over her, he could have escaped. But he hadn’t been able to control himself. She felt smug about that.
She wondered if Chet would have done the same.
No. Chet was too sensible. Too prudish. Even now, whenever Charley looked at her, it was plain to see that he hadn’t given up. It was flattering to know she could do that to a man like Charley. A man who was dangerous, reckless, strong. If Chet didn’t want her, she would certainly be all right, anyway. Besides, there was no real danger. L’Heureux was tied up again, and Durell seemed able to take care that he wouldn’t step out of line again. It was too bad, in a way. But it was fun to know you had such power over a man, to know he was still a prisoner, maybe facing a death sentence, because he hadn’t been able to resist her.
Suddenly Jane stumbled and fell. It came so unexpectedly that she was shocked and stunned. For several moments she didn’t know what had happened. She felt herself falling and sliding, while stones and sand went roaring around her. Her cry was involuntary. The sun went spinning overhead, an awesome, blazing ball of fire that blinded her. Pain shot through her leg, and then there came a prompt repetition of that queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Chet was beside her, kneeling. His tanned, square face looked young and concerned.
“Jane, Jane, honey. Are you okay?”
She looked at him blankly. “I fell.”
“Let me help you up.”
“No, I’m all right. Let me stay here a minute.”
The others were walking, not running, back to where they waited. The highway was visible through a narrow cleft in the rock to her right. It shimmered like a wet ribbon in the sunlight. Jane caught her breath and rubbed her leg. It was all right, actually. She hadn’t sprained or broken anything. It just hurt like the devil for the moment. She looked at Chet. She felt nausea rise like acid in her throat.
“You're awfully solicitous all of a sudden,” she said.
“Jane, I’ve been thinking. Of course I was jealous. You and that man—I’m sure I was wrong in thinking you encouraged—”
“Oh, shut up,” she said. “You're an idiot, Chet.”
He looked as if she had slapped him.
Then she threw up.
It was awful. She had been fighting it for hours, and it was the first time Chet ever caught her at it. He had no idea what it meant.
She hadn’t told him yet about the baby. And she wasn’t going to, either.
Durell and Madeleine came up to her. Durell ordered Chet to move her into the shade of the tree and announced a second rest period. Madeleine knelt beside her. “Are you all right, cherie?”
The French girl’s eyes were thoughtful, studying her. “Is it the heat?”
“I don’t think so.”
”Then this is not the thing you should be doing, cherie.”
”Please,” she said. “It's nothing. I’m just tired.”
Madeleine looked quickly at Chet. “If you wish it to be that way, of course.”
”Yes, please. Maybe it is the heat, and the walking . . .”
“Naturally. But you must rest a little now.”
‘Only for a little time. A few moments.”
‘I understand, Mrs. Larkin.”
But Jane didn’t think the redheaded girl really understood. How could she? It was her own carelessness, her own thoughtless passion, that had brought her to this stupid state. Her mind went spinning back into the past, to the night two months ago when Chet had greeted her at the Maison Blanche airport outside of Algiers.
She remembered how it was that night only too well. She had really been looking forward to their reunion eagerly. She had missed Chet more than she had been willing to admit. And Algiers had looked like fun. It was like Paris and it was like San Francisco, with its terraces and hills and funny little streetcars and narrow streets and bright shops on the Rue d’Isly and the Rue Michelet. She remembered her first glimpse of the city as the plane had circled, the Sahel hills hugging the coast, lifting behind the buildings, so that the town looked suspended between mountain and sea. And the war didn’t seem so terrible, with all the uniforms on the streets, the paratroopers in their cute green berets. . . .
There had been no restraint and no inhibitions in their reunion. They had gone directly to the hotel overlooking the semicircular harbor, and from the balcony they could look north at the darkening Mediterranean. They’d had a wonderful French dinner in the room, sharing a muted, breathless excitement every time they just looked at each other.
When she came out of the shower, she hadn’t bothered to put on any clothes again. The room was filled with a kind of electric violet light, the dusky air was warm, the sea wind brought with it the tang of salt and all the exciting scents and strangeness of North Africa.
She remembered the look on Chet’s face when she had walked toward him that way, with no clothes on. She had never done that before. His voice caught in his throat in such a funny way when he spoke her name. And then he took her with a crazy strength that was unusual to his gentle nature. Right there on the balcony, in the dusk, on the floor.
They had giggled crazily afterward. She accused him of raping her. But those heated moments had been repeated again and again that night, in an abandonment of mutual rediscovery.
The next day had brought quick disillusionment when they drove to Marbruk and Chet left her at Felix’ hotel for a solid week while he worked at some emergency thing in the oil exploratory fields much farther to the south. By the time he returned, expecting a renewal of that night in the Algiers hotel, everything was dif
ferent.
They hadn’t slept together since. . . .
Chet’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Jane, can you go on?”
Durell spoke above her. “She has to. Ten minutes are up. Everybody on their feet.” ’
Chet said angrily, “Look, she’s hurt her leg—"
“Then she’ll have to be carried. We can’t stay here. One way or the other, we go on.”
“We can rest a little longer, can’t we?”
“Not in this sun. Not here.”
Jane hadn’t heard that tone in Durell’s voice before. It was like the crack of a whip. She stood up. Her leg was all right. It hurt a little, but not too much. She ached all over, but her stomach had settled down, thank God, and it things went according to schedule, she’d be all right for the rest of the day.
She looked at Charley L’Heureux. He was always watching, she thought. His eyes were inviting.
Why not? she thought. At least, he really wants me.
Chapter Fifteen
AT NOON, less than an hour later, Durell called a definite halt. It was too hot to go on, whatever the urgency. They ate dry sandwiches and sipped water sparingly, seated in the shade of huge boulders strewn on a slope above the Baroumi road. Not that the shade offered much relief. The landscape was scorched by the sun, shimmering with heat waves that distorted the vision and created crazy delusions wherever one looked. Durell allowed L’Heureux to join them while they ate.
The way ahead was over a long, flat stretch where no escape from the sun was possible. Moreover, Durell thought, their toiling progress would be visible to anyone tor miles around. For that reason alone, it was impossible to go on. But it would have been murder for the two women, anyway. Of the two, Madeleine looked much better equipped for survival. She was sparing of any wasted motion, calm and withdrawn, as if her whole being was quietly concentrated on the simple problem of breathing the scorched air. Jane had deteriorated more than ever. She was limping now, too, and there was a pallor under her skin that indicated the near approach of exhaustion.
Chet kept his eyes on L’Heureux. He looked as if he wanted to kill the prisoner, the way he kept fingering his carbine. L'Heureux looked amused when he met Chet’s hot, angry stare.
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