Casablanca Blues

by Tahir Shah

‘And how do you do that?’

  ‘He said the key was to fully understand the situation you are in.’

  ‘So what is your situation?’

  ‘Well, my father’s in jail, and a complete crook called Harass is trying to break up his business empire and sell it off. Our family home is going to go up for auction any minute, to pay for fines supposedly now owing to the state.’ Ghita took a sip of her coffee, then pushed the glass away. ‘That’s my situation,’ she said.

  ‘There must be someone who can help. Who’s got the power?’

  ‘Well I haven’t,’ said Ghita.

  ‘So who does?’

  ‘The Falcon.’

  ‘And what do we know about him?’

  ‘That he controls the system.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And that he holds all the cards.’

  ‘So we need to get to him...’

  ‘And then pressure him to turn things around.’

  ‘But how do we put pressure on someone that we know nothing about?’

  Ghita reached under the table and touched Blaine’s hand again.

  ‘By using the influence of someone else.’

  ‘Great... but who?’

  Ghita smiled, a feminine vindictive smile.

  ‘I have an idea,’ she said.

  One hundred and seven

  Clinique Mogador smelled of cut-price disinfectant, the kind bought wholesale down near the port. There was a coldness inside, a sense of detachment, as though no one who worked in its fusty wards was trying very hard at all.

  Monsieur Raffi was lying in bed on the fifth floor, his head partly bandaged, his arm in a sling. He shared the room with four other men, each one suffering a considerable wound.

  His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep, his mind daydreaming of an afternoon half a lifetime ago – an afternoon spent up in a grotto shielded from the Mediterranean shore.

  Through a great deal of hustling, Blaine had tracked the old shopkeeper to the fifth floor of Clinique Mogador.

  With no one on duty, he showed himself in, a box of Turkish pralines in his hand.

  At first Blaine didn’t recognize Raffi with the bandages on. But, as he drew closer, he noticed something familiar on the nightstand – the black and white studio shot of Humphrey Bogart.

  It was resting against a small blue vase in which a dying rose was poised. Blaine stood there, his shadow looming over the bed, half-wondering whether to take the last step.

  A draught swept through the room and Monsieur Raffi opened his eyes. He saw the American, frowned, then blinked in slow motion.

  ‘My dear friend,’ he said very gently, as if too fatigued to speak.

  ‘I brought you some chocolates. I was very sorry to hear...’

  ‘That I had been attacked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, the world isn’t as safe as it was. Or that’s what they say. I don’t believe them of course, because we don’t have world wars any longer, just muggings like this.’

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘Find me a man as old as I am who isn’t in pain.’

  ‘Do you know who did it?’

  ‘A thug.’

  ‘What was he after?’

  The old man let out a cough.

  ‘You... it would seem.’

  ‘Me?’

  Raffi nodded.

  ‘He smashed up the shop. Maybe it was a sign – a sign to pack it all in.’

  Blaine took a seat on a fragile chair positioned at the end of the bed.

  ‘I’m so extremely sorry,’ he said. ‘But if it makes it any better, they came after me as well.’

  Monsieur Raffi sat upright as much as he could manage.

  ‘How terrible!’

  Getting to his feet, Blaine walked over to the nightstand and picked up the photograph.

  ‘I found it,’ he said.

  ‘Found what?’

  ‘The postcard.’

  He took it out of his jacket pocket and held it up, turning it to the light.

  ‘That’s Villa Mirador.’

  ‘So I was told.’

  ‘Did you go over there?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Then what are you waiting for?’

  One hundred and eight

  A voluptuous woman with ample cleavage was lying in a marble bath, swathed in bubbles. Clusters of scented candles were burning around the edge, throwing shadows over the crimson curtains and the stucco walls.

  She was smoking an Egyptian cigarette in a long holder, while a pedigree Chow Chow licked the perspiration from her face.

  All of a sudden there was the sound of music, Edith Piaf’s Non, je ne regrette rien.

  The woman, whose name was Samira, but who was known as Mimi by her friends, reached out for her iPhone. Her eyes widened at seeing the name on the display.

  ‘Hello my darling,’ she cooed. ‘I want to see you! Can we meet tonight?’

  On the other end, a man’s voice grunted flattery, then excuses.

  Stubbing out her cigarette with one hand, Mimi used the other to toss the iPhone onto a loveseat on the other side of the bathroom.

  ‘Men!’ she exclaimed in the direction of the Chow Chow. ‘They are the real dogs of this world!’

  One hundred and nine

  The red petit taxi rattled up past the lighthouse and took a left and then a right just before the Corniche.

  The driver forced his foot down hard so as to climb the palm-lined avenue, which led up to the crest of the Anfa hill. He turned again and steered gently round past a series of villas, each one a little grander than the last.

  A few feet short of the most magnificent one of all, he drew the battered vehicle to a halt. A moment later, a pair of security guards wearing dark blue baseball caps stepped into the road. They were waiting for a name, or an explanation.

  ‘I’m kind of on a mission,’ said Blaine.

  ‘A mission?’

  ‘It’s gonna sound a little strange. You see it concerns Humphrey Bogart and this postcard.’ He paused, stepped up onto the kerb and held up the picture of Villa Mirador. ‘Is there someone I could speak to, an official or someone like that?’

  One of the guards spat a handful of words into his walkie-talkie. Then he disappeared into the security booth and got on the phone. Fifteen minutes passed and he called out:

  ‘Your identification, Monsieur.’

  Blaine slipped his passport through. It was examined, photocopied, examined again, and then returned.

  The second guard waved a hand at a solid steel door. It opened electronically.

  ‘You can go in,’ he said.

  Stepping through an airport style detector frame, Blaine found himself in a sprawling garden, a lovely bow-fronted villa set back a short distance from the gates. He walked up to the building slowly, his eyes taking in the Art Deco details, the wrought ironwork and the building’s gently curving lines.

  It was the house from the postcard.

  As he approached the front door, an American man stepped out. He was middle aged and bespectacled, and had an engaging face, the kind that puts others instantly at ease.

  ‘I am George Sanderson,’ he said amiably, ‘the American consul here in Casablanca. I understand you showed an old postcard of Villa Mirador to the guard.’

  Blaine extended his hand, got eye contact, and strained to appear sane.

  ‘I was thinking this moment through on the cab ride,’ he said, ‘going over my opening gambit. And, heck, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t think of anything that would sound plausible. So I’ll just run with it.’

  The consul touched a fingertip to his chin.

  ‘You’d better come inside,’ he said.

  They went through into a small room on the left of the main door. The walls were hung with formal black and white portraits, a number of them featuring Churchill and Roosevelt. The Stars and Stripes stood on a stand to the right of a desk.

  Sanderson took a deep breath.
<
br />   ‘Here’s your chance,’ he said. ‘Hit me with what you’ve got.’

  Blaine took out the postcard and held it in his right hand.

  ‘I was drawn to Casablanca by my love for the movie,’ he said. ‘And through my appreciation of all things Bogart,’ he paused, held up the card. ‘I have followed a treasure trail of clues the great man laid down, clues in the form of postcards like this.’

  The consul took the postcard and examined the reverse.

  ‘Do you know what this number – 07698 – signifies?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I don’t. Do you?’

  A maid shuffled in with mint tea, poured it, and then shuffled out.

  Sanderson held the glass of tea and breathed in the steam. Then, slowly, his focus moved towards the window and the gardens beyond.

  ‘When I became consul here,’ he said, ‘I was given all the usual briefings about the city and about this house. It’s quite an extraordinary place. As you may know, the Anfa Summit was held here back in ’43. Churchill and Roosevelt ran the Allied War effort from this very room. It’s a great chunk of history.’

  He stood up, and stepped into a shaft of yellow sunlight near the window.

  ‘And the thing is,’ he went on, ‘with houses like this, there are all sorts of marvels. You may not realize it but your postcard is one of them.’

  ‘One of what?’

  ‘Of the marvels.’

  The maid shuffled in again, this time with a plate of gingerbread. She laid it on the desk without a word, and was gone.

  ‘One of the stranger fragments of information entrusted to me,’ Sanderson said, ‘concerned Humphrey Bogart. I am sure you know better than I that he was here in North Africa entertaining the troops.’

  ‘That’s right. He was with his wife, Mayo. They fought like cats and dogs.’

  The consul nodded.

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘What was the fragment of information... the one entrusted to you?’

  ‘That one day, someone might turn up and claim the lost treasure of Humphrey Bogart.’

  Blaine broke into a grin.

  ‘What is it, a bottle of Scotch?’

  The consul shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. But I have a sense that we are about to find out.’

  One hundred and ten

  The boots echoed down the stone corridor, waking Hicham Omary from a light sleep. He recognized the feet inside them instantly as those of his nemesis, Bruiser.

  Following Ghita’s break-in, Omary had fallen into a gloom of terrible despondency. He was losing weight fast, and his bones ached. Were he not so stubborn, he might have regretted ever taking on the system.

  Standing in the darkness, he coaxed himself to be strong.

  First came the keys rattling on their chain, then the sound of the lock mechanism turning, and hinges creaking open.

  And then a tidal wave of blinding light.

  ‘Turn around!’ ordered Bruiser, striking Omary’s shoulder with his cane. ‘Hands behind your back.’

  The prisoner crossed his wrists, and waited for the nickel-plated handcuffs. But they didn’t come. Instead, a pair of rusted old D-lock cuffs were slammed over his wrists and locked twice.

  Omary may not have seen them, but he could feel the difference. They were colder, tighter, and somehow far more fearful than simple self-locking handcuffs.

  Then came the fetters and a blindfold made from extra-thick hessian. Like the cuffs, they were different, too.

  By the time he was led out from his cell, it was clear that Omary was not en route to the interrogation cell.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘You’re being moved,’ said Bruiser.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Do you want me to ruin the surprise?’ he said.

  One hundred and eleven

  George Sanderson disappeared into the back office and was gone a long time.

  When finally he reappeared, he was clutching a tan-coloured dossier. It looked extremely old, the faded binding covered in dust and speckled with damp.

  In small neat script on the front was the number: 07698.

  The consul placed the folder on the table, blew away the dust, then opened it slowly.

  Inside were a series of letters and photographs, most of them showing Bogart and his wife performing for the troops. The consul shuffled through the papers, his forehead knotted in concentration.

  ‘What is it you’re looking for?’ asked Blaine.

  Sanderson didn’t reply, not at first.

  Then, after a minute or two, he pulled out an envelope. It was labelled 07698, and was pasted shut, Bogart’s signature scrawled over the seal.

  ‘The plot thickens,’ he said, as he drew the blade of a letter-opener down the side.

  Blaine leaned closer to get a better look.

  ‘Is it a letter?’

  The consul removed the single sheet of paper, the crest of the United States embossed on the top. Holding it between his hands, he rotated it clockwise.

  ‘It’s a map,’ he said.

  ‘To the Scotch?’

  As before, Sanderson didn’t reply.

  Instead, he paced out of the room and gave an inaudible instruction to the maid. A few minutes later, one of the guards from the front gate was standing in the doorway of the room. He was holding a shovel.

  ‘Let’s go outside,’ said the consul.

  ‘You think it’s buried here somewhere?’

  ‘Look at the map. The house is here, and the terrace there. This line is the curve of the garden wall, and that’s the tall palm there. It just wasn’t quite so tall when this plan was drawn.’

  ‘And that?’ asked Blaine, pointing to a circle bisected with a line.

  ‘That’s what we’re searching for, I guess.’

  Counting fifteen paces from the edge of the terrace, and twenty-two from the wall, they found themselves at the sundial.

  ‘It must be under here,’ said Blaine.

  Using all his strength, the guard pulled away the dial and began to dig.

  Ten minutes later there was a little mound of dark brown soil, and a hole two feet deep beside it.

  Suddenly, the shovel hit something hard.

  ‘It sounds like wood,’ said Sanderson.

  The guard speeded up, his face streaming with sweat. Carefully, he dug around the sides of what appeared to be a casket.

  He lifted it out onto the lawn.

  Fastened with a pair of rusted iron padlocks, the wood was overlaid with curious metallic motifs.

  The guard brushed off the dirt and, when instructed to do so, knocked off the locks with the shovel.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Sanderson asked.

  ‘Couldn’t be more so,’ replied Blaine.

  The curved lid was pulled back, the hinges so rusted that they needed force to part them.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said the consul.

  ‘It looks like another box.’

  ‘It’s made of metal.’

  ‘I think it’s lead.’

  They lifted it out, and unfastened its clasp.

  Inside it was a third box, also made from lead, but this time reinforced with a thin layer of wood.

  Blaine opened it, to find a package the size and weight of a telephone directory.

  ‘The treasure?’

  ‘Not whisky after all.’

  Sanderson carried it inside and led the way through to the main reception room.

  On one side there was an antique Érard grand. Across from it was a fireplace, and a group of formal chairs.

  The packet was put on the coffee table and opened up.

  It contained something wrapped in a long strand of discoloured muslin.

  Blaine unwound it inch by inch.

  Inside was a book, handwritten Arabic in the elegant Maghrebi style of centuries ago. It was not bound, but rather enveloped in a sheet of coarse goatskin.

  Turning it over in his hands so that the spine was on the rig
ht, Blaine pulled the covers apart. His eyes focused on the now familiar script of Humphrey Bogart, a line or two of text inserted on a loose sheet.

  ‘Can you read his writing?’

  Blaine held it to the light.

  ‘I was presented this down in the desert by a fellow chess player, who made sure I couldn’t read it before he passed it on. I leave African shores shortly and have decided that it belongs here on the Dark Continent, a prize for the man who can make sense of my trail – Humphrey Bogart.’

  The consul flicked through the pages. A great many were inscribed with mathematical diagrams and symbols.

  ‘It looks like witchcraft,’ he said. Getting to his feet, he tramped through to the kitchen.

  A moment later he returned, followed by the maid. He tapped a finger towards Bogart’s treasure.

  ‘Zeinab, can you read any of this?’

  The maid opened the book at the title page. Her face froze and she began to whimper, a whimper that quickly turned into a high-pitched scream.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Blaine urgently. ‘What’s so frightening?’

  ‘You must bury this book and never think of it again!’ Zeinab exclaimed, hyperventilating.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because it is a pact with the Devil!’ she said.

  One hundred and twelve

  Ghita took a taxi to C.I.L., one of the old French quarters patronized by the city’s bourgeoisie.

  There were no designer clothes shops there or little boutiques selling jewellery or shoes, but there was something far more in demand by the jet-set ladies from Anfa – Chez Louche.

  An extrovert of the most sensual nature, coutured from neck to toe in pink satin, Laurent Louche was the most sought-after man in town. His clients booked weeks and, sometimes, months in advance, to be pampered and pored over in his salon. An appointment at Louche was an entrance ticket into the most exclusive of sororities. Merely being seen in the salon was in itself a mark that one had arrived.

  Laurent Louche specialized in obscure beauty treatments, the kinds that only ladies with abundant free time and extraordinary wealth could afford. These included caviar facials, and gold leaf face masks, bull semen hair treatments and even snake massage.

  The more extreme, the higher the price, and the more the clientele demanded them.