She was careful to give him the money casually. “Be careful,” she warned him.
He touched his fingers to his forehead, then bowed. As soon as he left, Colleen decided that she’d made a grave mistake. But it was too late to do anything. She paid the check and felt her exhaustion cover her like a blanket as she made her way to the elevator. Upstairs she locked her door, felt the cool breeze from the humming air conditioner and pitched onto the bed fully clothed.
She didn’t have any dreams about Bret. She was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
* * *
The phone must have rung at least ten times before it penetrated the depths of her sleep. But when it did, Colleen’s eyes flew wide open, her body tensed, and she jumped like a rabbit to catch it.
“Hello?”
“I found him!” Ben’s voice was both triumphant and a little amazed, as if he hadn’t really believed he could do it himself.
“MacHowell?” Colleen said.
“No, no. Eli. But I’ve made arrangements for you to see MacHowell. And I did it very well!” Ben said proudly. “I said it must be in the open, that people must be all around.”
“Good, good,” Colleen murmured. “When do I get to see him?”
“At dusk, at the souk in the East Medina.”
“The souk in the East Medina?”
He laughed with nervous excitement. “Medinas are Moorish-Arabian sections of the city. And the souk is an open-air market. Like a bazaar. It is fun; it is crowded. There are people everywhere. You cannot be hurt there, Colleen. I will be with you. I will protect you—with my life, if need be!”
Colleen was touched by his gallant, if dramatic, concern. “I hope that won’t be necessary, but thanks,” she murmured. “Okay, I’ll be right down.”
She hurried into the bathroom to wash her face, adrenaline rushing through her system from both fear and excitement. She was about to see MacHowell. She was almost three-quarters of the way through a four-part mystery. And MacHowell might well know where Holfer was.
She paused at her door, suddenly shaking. What was the matter with her? She was forgetting that someone had viciously murdered Rutger. And that his death had almost undoubtedly come at the command of one of the very people she was seeking.
Holfer or MacHowell.
Her fingers were trembling as she wrapped them around her shoulder bag. She was crazy to be doing this.
She swallowed, feeling a little dizzy. She couldn’t turn back; she was so close. And thanks to Ben, no danger could come to her. She was to meet the man in public. As long as she acted with good sense she would be all right. She would be careful to stay in full view of dozens of people at all times.
She squared her shoulders, then smiled slowly because excitement was rushing through her again. The forty-year-old mystery had intrigued the world, but she had the chance to come up with the solution, to find the truth.
Colleen paused just outside her room and rested her head against the door as she locked it. Wasn’t it also true that she was trying to prove something else? To Carly, yes, but mostly to Bret. She needed to prove that she was totally competent, that Bret had no right to question her ability to do her job. But wasn’t she also trying to prove it to herself?
She’d never questioned her life so deeply until now. Until the last few days. Bret had walked out after she’d warned him that their marriage would be over if he did. He had never protested, never tried to see her, because it hadn’t mattered to him. He was cold about his objectives. He would step on anyone, even her, to reach them.
Then what had the other night been? She swallowed, bitterly deciding that he was a healthy, virile man who had never pretended to be a saint. They had been together…so why not? He’d been involved with other women before their marriage; he’d probably been involved with others since they’d split. But she had walked straight into his arms, and he wasn’t the type of man to turn down an open invitation. He’d never been adverse to a little episode of romance before he moved on to the next adventure.
There was a burning warmth against her eyelids, and she slammed a sneakered toe against the door while she whispered, “Damn him!” Then she spun around, determined to be competent, just like Bret. Wary, eyes open and always competent.
Ben was waiting for her at the bar. His dark eyes were bright with excitement as he sipped Turkish coffee. He stood when he saw her, almost knocking over the pretty little whitewashed cocktail table. “I’m going with you, yes?” he asked her.
Colleen smiled as she sank into the chair across from him. “Yes, I suppose. I don’t even know where I’m going without you.”
He sat down, too, drawing a finger around the rim of his cup. “You will like the souk. All visitors like the souk.” He stared at her, still excited. “What is this? What is going on here? When you write your story, will you mention my name?”
Colleen laughed. “If I get this thing solved, I’ll mention your name all you like!” He was still looking at her eagerly. She ordered American coffee, and when it arrived, told him a bit of the story.
“Diamonds!” he said eagerly.
“Yes, it’s all over diamonds.”
“Well, this MacHowell will certainly not hand you a load of diamonds.”
“I’m not expecting him to, nor would the diamonds be mine if he did. They would be returned to the French government.”
Ben shook his head, a little bewildered. “All those diamonds… You could be rich. You could be set for life.”
She lowered her head, hiding her smile. “I have nothing against money, Ben. But I like to work.” She glanced at her watch. It was almost seven. “Shouldn’t we get going?”
“Darkness will come between eight and nine. Yes, we might as well head for the souk.”
A twenty-minute drive in Ben’s cab brought them to the souk. As Ben had promised, she loved it. Tables and counters were spread along the edges of the narrow streets, flanking clay and adobe shops. The evening sky had turned a beautiful pink and crimson; men shouted out their wares and chanted in alluring singsong tones. Chickens squawked and squabbled, and there was the occasional bleat of a lamb. Craftsmen carved beautiful designs on natural leather; smiths tinkered with copper and silver, and ivory workers carved delicate figures from tusks that had been brought north from southern Africa. Incense hung in the air. Candles and lamps were for sale, along with washbasins and intricately woven prayer rugs. People watched Colleen; the shopkeepers gave her flashing white smiles, and she knew that they saw her as an American, a lady with money, one to charm.
“Blouses, miss! The finest silk!”
“Great bargains on copper!”
Ben stood at her side like a friendly watchdog, and she admitted that she was very glad of his presence. Although the customers in the souk were often French, Spanish, Europeans of other sorts, and even Americans, she granted that this was a largely Arabian and Islamic country, and women had been given a place in the background. Their purpose here was to do laundry, cook, have babies and entertain the men.
They passed beneath an enchanting Moorish archway. The sun was setting, casting glorious beams of light against a tinker’s assortment of copper. For a moment pain stabbed her heart. Once it would have been so much fun to be here with Bret. They would have enjoyed it together, felt the magic like one, the fascination….
But would any of it have been real?
“Down this street,” Ben said.
They passed under another arch. There was no traffic here and fewer hawkers. It was a long adobe hallway, filled with beautiful arches and tile mosaics and shadows.
“Here?” Colleen asked a little uneasily.
Ben pointed to an old man selling prayer rugs. “Yes, he is Mohammed Kenezer. I was told that we should come here.”
It was all right, Colleen decided. The hallway was an overhang flanking a mosque. And the street was just beyond it. A street with a slow but steady flow of traffic.
The only bad point was the lingerin
g shadows beneath the arches. Yet even as Colleen warily eyed the pillars that cast the shadows, a man stepped from behind one of them.
He looked typically Moroccan. He wore the red brimless hat, the tarboosh that she had seen so frequently. He was very dark—swarthy, she decided. Dark eyes, dark hair, a thin and narrow face, just as in all the mummy movies, she thought. There was a strange gleam in his eyes; he might have been an attractive man, except that he seemed…evil.
Nonsense, she assured herself. You couldn’t tell whether someone was evil, not at first glance, anyway. It was just the incense and the aura of the setting sun, the arches and the shadows….
“That’s him,” Ben whispered tensely. “Eli.”
“I thought I was to meet MacHowell,” Colleen said irritably.
“I thought so, too.”
The Moroccan approached them. He was very tall and slim.
“Where is General MacHowell?” Colleen asked sharply.
The Moroccan bowed to her and gave her a full flashing white smile. “Surely, miss, you will see him. But the general has been leading a quiet life for many years now. You will understand if I ask your business first.”
“I will tell you,” Colleen hedged, as wary of Eli as he seemed to be of her, “that I have no intention of harming the general. I must speak with him about the past. It could concern his life.”
“Please!” The Moroccan lowered his head with a pained expression, then glanced at Ben. “We will discuss this alone!”
“I won’t leave her alone!” Ben insisted like a young tiger.
Eli smiled condescendingly. “I understand. We will just step a few feet away. We will stand by the arch and go no farther.”
Ben looked at Colleen. She nodded. They wouldn’t be more than twenty feet away from one another.
Eli grabbed her arm and led her to the archway. “You must understand that the general is frightened,” he told her.
Colleen realized that she was standing in shadow. “If he is frightened, then he must help me.”
“How can I be assured you have no wish to hurt him?”
Some instinct of danger began to alert her. Colleen glanced over at Ben. He wasn’t far away, but a silversmith had pushed a cart between them. Uneasily she started to turn back to Eli. “All I can give you is my sincere promise that—”
She broke off, inhaling to scream. The pleasant smile was gone from his swarthy face, and his hand, covered in a soaking wet rag, was nearing her mouth from the rear.
She never had a chance to scream; instead of air she inhaled a sickly-sweet odor that seemed to instantly paralyze her limbs. Vaguely she felt his arms, strong and wiry, as he caught her falling form. She saw a huge blanket, clutched in his other hand, bringing darkness over her.
As the world faded she caught one last glimpse of Ben. The silversmith’s cart had turned over. Things were rolling everywhere, and Ben was caught in the midst of the confusion.
She saw his eyes briefly, but she could not tell if he stared at her with horror or satisfaction. Had she been set up?
She was swept off her feet and carried along the hallway. The last sound she heard was a car’s motor, and she smelled exhaust mingled with incense.
Her last thought was of Bret.
Bret. Oh, God. Even if he didn’t really love her, he would never have let her come to this.
Her senses dimmed; her mind went totally black. She swirled into a vortex of darkness….
* * *
Bret didn’t waste any time when they reached Marrakech; he, Carly and Sandy Tyrell headed straight for the B;afete Noire. He didn’t notice the streets; he didn’t notice anything. All he wanted to do was reach the damned place—and Colleen. His nerves were so jangled that he thought he would explode if he didn’t see her soon. The god-awful long trip hadn’t helped much, either; Sandy Tyrell was very beautiful and very sweet, but she was like a clinging vine. She was terrified of flying, terrified of what they would find, terrified of every stranger that passed by, even thousands of feet up in the air. He’d been obliged to spend hours telling her soothing things, assuring her that the pilot knew his business, that the stewardesses were smiling because they were happy, that they actually loved to fly. Sandy had described the puzzle pieces to a T for him; she had talked about the past, about her mother—with a bitter poignancy—about the misery of living down her grandfather’s reputation. He’d learned things, a number of things, and yet none of them had seemed to matter much. Not when he was on fire with worry over Colleen. It would have been better if he’d been able to enjoy a few drinks and knock himself out a little.
Like Carly. Damn Carly. He’d managed to sleep for the majority of the trip. [cf1]“Ici—voil;aga,”[cf1] the cabbie said. He didn’t speak English, but he did speak French, and he’d been the first available driver.
“Oh, my God! We’re getting out here?” Sandy moaned. Her long-nailed, elegant fingers wound around his arm.
“I can have the driver take you on to a good hotel…” Bret began.
“No, no! I don’t want to be alone!” Bret took a deep breath. He owed her his patience. Without her, he wouldn’t even have begun to know where to look for Colleen.
“We’ll both be with you,” Carly said reassuringly.
Bret took her hand and squeezed it. “We’ll get the driver to wait,” he told her and quickly made the arrangements in his adequate, if not entirely fluent, French.
“Come on,” he told the others.
“What do you think you’re going to be able to do in there?” Carly asked him.
“Well, I’ll ask some questions. And if I don’t get any answers, I’ll try shouting and stirring up some trouble.”
“Wonderful plan,” Carly muttered.
And then they were standing before the B;afete Noire. It was an ancient building, made of clay, with an arched facade covered in chipping, faded paint. There was no door, just a short flight of steps to some kind of public room.
It looked like a den of thieves. There were no women inside, only groups of men, drinking at scattered tables. Sandy hung behind with Carly. Bret approached the long serving bar. The place was very dark and filled with smoke.
Bret set his hands on the bar. A thin man with rotting teeth eyed him warily as he dried a glass with a filthy rag.
“I’m looking for a man,” Bret said in English.
The barkeep shrugged. “There are many men here. Look.”
Bret’s fingers itched to grip the bartender’s neck. He smiled. “You have beer?”
The man served him a warm brown beer. Bret wondered what disease he would get from it. It seemed that all the conversation from the men sitting at the tables had ceased. Shivers tracked along his spine; he didn’t like having his back to the others.
“This man I’m looking for is called Eli,” Bret said loudly, turning around to survey the room. “He knows an Englishman named MacHowell—”
He broke off, ready to reach for the small pistol concealed beneath his jacket, when Sandy gave him a forceful, warning jab in the ribs. But there was no one touching her; she was just staring into the shadows at the back of the room.
And then Bret realized why. There was an old man coming toward him, an old man with snow-white hair and a drawn and weathered face. He wore a European business suit, and his eyes were as green as a summer field.
“I’m MacHowell,” he said simply. “What do you want with me?”
Bret didn’t get to speak because suddenly there was a scream followed by a streak of movement. A Moroccan youth came hurtling up from a table, flying at MacHowell like a flash of lightning.
“Where is she?” the youth shrieked.
“What the devil?” MacHowell began.
Stunned, Bret flung himself between the two. He caught the young Moroccan before the boy could hit MacHowell; it took all his strength to subdue the man.
“He took her! He took Ms. McAllistair!” the youth cried out. “She was to meet him at the souk. Eli was there instead. He’s d
one something with her.”
“What…?” Bret began.
“Young man, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about!” MacHowell said in confusion. “I haven’t seen Eli in weeks, and he’s a scurvy sort at best. I never trusted the man. He’d do anything for a few pounds.”
“Eli took her where?” Bret thundered out.
Before the old man could answer, there was another commotion, this time near the door. Another man had risen from a table to run for the arched doorway. He crashed into Sandy, who screamed. The man pushed her aside and kept running.
“Get him!” MacHowell shouted. “He’s one of Eli’s friends!”
Bret didn’t need to hear more. He forgot all about being exhausted and tore after the man, pausing at the entranceway only to get his bearings. He heard the sound of sandals flopping against the dirt and started to run again. He turned down an alley, and the man was right in front of him.
A flying leap brought him down on the frightened Moroccan, who immediately began to writhe and moan in Arabic.
“Where is she? Where is my wife?” Bret demanded. The man kept moaning in Arabic. Straddled over him, Bret caught his shoulders and began to shake him. “My wife. Where is she?”
He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, but MacHowell’s words finally registered in his mind. “He doesn’t speak a word of English, young man. Let me.”
Bret clenched his teeth and swallowed miserably, releasing his hold on the culprit. MacHowell knelt down beside the man with an agility that was surprising in a man so old.
He began to ask questions in Arabic. The sullen Moroccan didn’t answer. Bret, incensed, raised a fist. The Moroccan threw out his hands in protest and began to jabber away.
At last MacHowell turned to Bret. “We must let him go.”
“Let him go?” Bret repeated incredulously.
“Hmm. Yes. If you want your wife back, we’ve got to start moving quickly.”
“Where is she?”
MacHowell hesitated, then spoke quickly. “If we’re lucky, she’s still in a little village on the side of the mountains in the custody of a petty emir, the local dirty old man.”
Double Entendre Page 13