I went up through the timber and into the lodge, and Cindy was in the living room with a glass in her hand. She was still wearing the brown velvet pajamas, and when I looked at her, there was still in my heart, in spite of everything, the pain of my love and the sadness of a great loss.
“It’s late, Tony. You’ve been gone a long time.”
“I went around to the other side of the lake,” I said. “I called on Evan Lane.”
The glass moved sharply in her hand. “Why, Tony? Why?”
“He wasn’t home when I got there,” I said, “and I sat on the veranda until he came. I learned something while I was sitting there, honey. I learned that you can’t see our beach or the raft at all from his place. He never used a telescope, as he said he did. He never saw me drown the old man. I kept trying to think how he could have known, and the only thing I could think was that you told him.”
I waited a few seconds, and she tried to speak, but no sound could pass through her constricted throat. After a while, I went on talking in a quiet kind of way with no anger in my voice, because there was really no anger in me.
“Yes, honey. You told him. You told him because you were hot for each other, and he could move in with a new kind of blackmail, and there would be nothing I could do about it because he knew I was a murderer. You talked about the big dream. The dream was there, all right, but I was never in it. When the time came, you’d have gone away, all right, but never with me. He was the one, honey. He was the one from the beginning, but first you had to have Grandfather dead. You had to have him dead for his money, because you wanted his money in addition to Evan’s. He didn’t have the guts to do his own killing. He didn’t have the guts, and you didn’t have the strength. So you drafted me. Well, the old man’s dead now, as you wanted him, and Evan Lane is dead, too. He’s lying on the slope in front of his lodge, and he’s dead forever.”
She tried again to speak, but nothing came from her throat except a dry sob.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ll never know how sorry.”
I took out the gun, and the glass fell from her hand, and her voice came at last with a hot rush.
“I don’t care if he’s dead, Tony. Honest to God, I don’t. We can still go away together. We can still have the dream.”
“Yes,” I said. “We’ll go away together, honey. I’ve got our tickets right here in the gun. One way and a long way.”
“No, Tony. For God’s sake, no.”
I pulled the trigger then, and there was only a little bang that wasn’t very loud at all, and a black spot appeared as if by magic in the golden area of skin just below the place where her heart lay hidden. Her legs folded slowly, lowering her to her knees, and she pressed one hand, with the fingers spread, over the black spot. A thin trickle of blood seeped out brightly between two of the fingers. The gold-flecked eyes were wide with shock and terrible supplication.
“Please, Tony. Please, please…”
Then she lay quietly on the floor, and I turned and walked out onto the veranda. I leaned against the railing, looking off into the timber where night had come, and from one of the trees came the crying of a crazy-voiced loon. I put the barrel of the gun into my mouth until the sharp sight was digging into the roof, and even then, when there was no reasonable alternative, I was a little surprised to realize I was actually going to do it.
RENDEZVOUS, by H. Bedford-Jones
Originally published in Short Stories, May 1933.
CHAPTER I
Burke was collecting his bets on the fourth race. It was a cleanup, an enormous cleanup. All around swarmed the money-mad throng—Arabs, civilians, soldiers, women. His hands filled with bundles of thousand-franc notes, Burke turned.
He collided sharply with Captain Crepin, who was of course in mufti.
A simultaneous word of apology broke from the two men. Burke’s lean, incisive features broke into a whimsical smile as he met the eyes of the Intelligence officer. Crepin did not return the smile. His thin, mustached, severe countenance was menacing.
“A word with you, M. Burke,” he said.
“Faith, my dear Crepin, I’m at your service!” returned Burke gaily, stuffing the sheaves of notes into his pockets: “You’re always full of the most charming surprises!”
The other grunted sardonically, as they worked a way through the crowd.
The sun hung in the west, glittering on the snowy peaks of the Atlas that rise above Marrakesh. Nearby showed the new French city, lively, naked, spick-and-span. Off to the right, amid its glorious date-palm groves, lifted the savage red walls of old Marrakesh.
“I congratulate you,” said Crepin acidly, “on picking the right horse.”
Burke chuckled. “Congratulate me, rather, on having the right friends, my dear fellow! If you didn’t make such a nuisance of yourself, I might let you in on something good tomorrow.”
Crepin merely sniffed. Presently they were clear of the throng, and Crepin halted. He lit a cigarette and handed Burke one, surveying the trim, hard figure with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor at its lapel. Burke held a match to both cigarettes.
“M. Burke, I have a certain respect for you,” said Crepin bluntly. “You’re a rascal. A scoundrel. You’ve run guns to dissident chiefs. I intend to land you in jail or have you expelled from Morocco. None the less, you have a certain sense of honor which I appreciate.”
Denis Burke bowed, and his blue eyes danced gaily.
“I may return the compliment,” he said whimsically. “You’re a bitter hard devil. You are devoted to your duty. You’ve no more human feeling than a snake, apparently. At the same time, you’re a gentleman. Your mere word on any subject would be good with me.”
Crepin inclined his head. “Thank you. In that case, M. Burke, I give you my word that I know your business here in Marrakesh. I know whom you expect to meet, what you expect to do. You’ve run your last gun, and your number is up. I advise you to leave here, leave Morocco, immediately.”
Burke’s brows lifted. “I like Morocco,” he answered. “It likes me. I’ve been here for three years—”
“Raising hell.”
“Making trouble, if you like. Well, expel me if you can! You’ve tried hard enough to get something on me. You’ve failed. You’re too much of a gentleman to frame me.”
“This time,” said Crepin stiffly, “there will be no failure. Au revoir!”
He strode away. Burke directed his steps toward the French town, at first in sober thought. His lips twisted in a grimace.
“A devilish unpleasant fellow, that!” he reflected. “Does he really know, indeed? Has somebody babbled that I’m here to meet El Hanech? In that case—but no, it’s impossible! El Hanech sent me word to meet him at a certain time and place. His brother carried the message, was caught and killed an hour afterward. No one else could have spoken. Yet Crepin seemed damned sure of himself! Well, I’ll chance it.”
He swung along with his lithe, clean stride, nodding to acquaintances, exchanging occasional cheery greetings with cloaked Arab figures. He had cast his lot here in Morocco, and loved the country.
A certain part of Morocco, however, did not love Denis Burke.
Presently he was seated before a table, on the shaded terrace of a cafe. Across the railroad tracks on the far side of the square was a glorious outspread view of Marrakesh and the palm groves. From this thronged square radiated all life and activity between the huge native city on the one side, and the enormous semi-circle of the French town, aviation camp and forts on the other side.
A short, bearded Arab, nearly black in complexion but wearing beautiful snowy garments, passed among the tables, saluted Burke, and pulled out the chair beside him. “Peace be upon you, sidi,” he grunted. “And upon you, Si’ Dris,” said Burke in Arabic, then broke into a laugh. “How the devil you worked it, I don’t know! But Fanchon romped home and paid twenty
to one. I got your money and mine down. I’ve a bale of notes here—”
“Keep them until later; bring them to my office in the morning,” said Sidi Idris, and crooked a finger at the nearest waiter. He accepted a cigarette from Burke, and smiled faintly beneath his white hood. “Not so bad for the first day of your visit in our charming city, eh? But there is better to come, by Allah! We have not seen you here for two months. There is work to do.”
“You and I work together all right, Si’ Dris,” said Burke. “We can trust each other, and that’s more than I can say for most! What kind of work?”
The Arab did not reply until the waiter had brought his mint tea and departed. He sipped the tea, his eyes stabbing about the place, then spoke softly.
“I have four boxes, small enough to be inconspicuous in the rear end of an automobile. Three of ammunition, one containing automatic rifles taken apart. We split thirty thousand francs for their delivery. A day’s run from here.”
Burke’s eyes lighted up, then narrowed.
“To whom?”
“El Mekhnezi; he’ll meet you on the highway near Jeb el Saghro.”
“No,” snapped Burke, and his gaze hardened. “That fellow’s a blackguard, an outright murderer. He and his gang are lice on the face of the earth! To supply a fellow of that sort with automatic rifles would be criminal.”
“Does it matter?” asked Sidi Idris gently. “You have taken guns to others—”
“That was different, and you know it,” cut in Burke, his eyes glinting dangerously. “With El Mekhnezi, no! I’ll help the right sort, but not the wrong sort at any price!”
“Allah i samah!” murmured Sidi Idris, and so dismissed the matter with the proverbial “God will pardon!” which his people apply to anything and everything. Presently he finished his tea and pushed back his chair.
“You are leaving?”
“Not yet, my friend,” said Burke. “I have an appointment.”
The other nodded comprehension, and took his departure.
* * * *
Denis Burke lit a fresh cigarette, sipped his drink, and let his thoughts drift back to Captain Crepin. He had no hesitation in risking French anger, for he had potent friends among French, Arabs and Berbers also. Now that military rule was superseded by civil government, Crepin must needs step softly.
True, Burke lived by his wits, was an adventurer. He risked his neck by running guns with the same gay laughter that accompanied a big haul on a fixed horserace; but he sold his help to those who needed it. There was plenty of oppression in Morocco. The native chiefs, the great caids and pashas, were supported by the French; the feudal system still prevailed; slavery, even, was still in existence.
El Hanech was a typical case. That chieftain of a little Berber hill tribe was a doomed man. The French wanted to hang him, the powerful pasha who had taken his lands wanted to shoot him—chiefly because he had resisted oppression. El Hanech, “the serpent,” could command money enough, but was too fiercely proud, too independent, too dangerous, not to be doomed. And Burke had come here to meet this man.
Precisely to the minute of the appointment made two weeks earlier, El Hanech came.
Burke had expected to see the man he knew, a wild blond savage from the hills, bearded, clad in arrogant Berber garments of filth and tatters. He was astonished to see a slim figure with a pure white sulmah flung over European clothes. Under the white hood showed a clean-shaven, hard-jawed face as white as his own, blue eyes as reckless as his own, a thin-lipped smile tinged with bitterness.
“Greeting, my friend!” said El Hanech in French, “So you would not recognize me, eh? Excellent. Neither will anyone else.”
“You’re a fool to come here,” said Burke. The other took the opposite chair and threw back the white hood to display red hair. A strong man, vigorous, virile.
“No; it is safe enough. My shaven face is unknown. Well, the pasha has taken the last of my lands, all my cattle and sheep. It is the end. The French support him.”
“And you dare to come to Marrakesh?”
“This is only the French city. No, I’m not going into the pasha’s den yonder!” and El Hanech flung a glance over his shoulder toward the ancient city—of hatred.
“You are my one hope,” went on El Hanech softly, looking back to Burke. “Behind the pasha are the French; to resist were utter folly. If you had not kept this appointment, I would have gone into the city, sought out the pasha, and put my knife into his liver. My people have scattered with their possessions, among other tribes. For me there is no refuge. The pasha has put a price upon my head.”
“And it’s a damned shame,” said Burke hotly. “Your family?”
“You have it. Three wives, two sons; no more. Six of us. As you know, my cousin Moussa lives in Larache, in the Spanish zone to the north, far beyond the power of this dog of a pasha. He is wealthy, a great man, with much land. He offers me an asylum.”
“But how the devil will you get there?” exclaimed Burke, astonished. “By train, you’d be pinched in no time, even if you had forged papers. You can’t cross the frontier—”
El Hanech grinned.
“The frontier is nothing; Moussa will arrange that. You will arrange all else.”
“Oh, will I?”
“Assuredly. Three days ago I killed the pasha’s steward and took the year’s taxes he had collected. Here is twenty thousand francs,” and into Burke’s hands he passed a fat roll of notes. “Get me an automobile. Have it at a certain place tomorrow night. Yes?”
Burke pocketed the money.
“Yes. Where?”
“On the Casablanca road. Once through the palm groves, you know the bridge across the Tinsift river? Just beyond is a fork, one highway branching off to Safi. At that fork, I’ll be waiting. I’ll send back the car from the frontier. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Burke. “At eight tomorrow night.”
“May Allah recompense you!” For an instant the Berber’s hard face softened. Then he drew up his hood. “One thing more. My family lie out in the hills, a few miles away. They are starving. I will take back some food today, but we will need more, both food and water. Put some in the car. We have no luggage except rifles, so there’ll be room enough.”
“Very well,” said Burke. “Do you think that Captain Crepin has any word of this?”
“Crepin?” The white teeth of El Hanech showed in a snarl that was like a wolf’s snap. “That dog? No. Only I knew and my brother, who is now dead. And you.”
“Then perhaps he guessed, for he gave me a warning.” Burke shrugged and laughed. “No matter! I’ll bring the car. Eight tomorrow night; be ready for anything.”
CHAPTER II
By nine o’clock that evening, Denis Burke found that he was unable to rent a car in Marrakesh. December had come, the tourist season was on full blast, and every available car was out. The few other private cars he might have obtained were only diminutive Citroens.
Burke was not worried, however. The huge Transatlantique system of hotels, spread over the whole of northern Africa, was at his service. In the morning he could go to the “Transat” and get anything from a sedan to an autobus at five minutes’ notice. So, with a shrug, he returned to his pension in the French city.
With morning, he passed by the office of Sidi Idris—who was a lawyer, with up to date offices in the French town—and left the other’s share of the racing spoils. Then he went his way toward the savage red Marrakesh whose legions had poured forth to the conquest of Spain.
Coming in by the Dukala gate, he had only a few steps to go before reaching the charming old palace that had been transformed into the Transat hotel. Burke passed the gaily clad group of native guides clustered inside the entrance, and strode on to the desk, with a cheery nod to the French manager.
“Good morning, M. Dufresne! How are you off for automobiles th
is morning?”
“Ah, M. Burke! How goes it? Automobiles? Mon Dieu! I never knew such a season! It is terrible!”
“Good! I’ll have no trouble getting a closed car, then?”
Dufresne spread his hands wide. “You misunderstand! The courrier that reached Casablanca yesterday morning from Marseille, flooded us with tourists. Trippers, season visitors, artists, Americans—name of a dog! It is terrific, it is formidable! Every company car from here to Fez has been engaged; every private car we could rent has been taken.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Burke. “Look here, Dufresne. You have a Fiat sedan yourself. Rent it to me for three days and I’ll pay any price you ask.”
The other looked sorrowful.
“Monsieur, I am desolated. But five minutes ago it, too, was engaged.”
“By whom?” snapped Burke. Dufresne pointed across at the writing room.
“By that species of a camel in there. An Englishwoman—what a woman! One who walks like a man, and writes a book on politics.”
“Her name?”
“Madame Stillwater.”
Burke turned and strode across the glorious lobby, whose thick Berber rugs and old cut plaster decorations formed a riot of color. In the little writing room sat a woman of perhaps fifty, severely clad. At Burke’s bow, she lifted frigid eyes.
“My card, Mrs. Stillwater; permit me,” said Burke. For once that charming smile of his had no effect.
“I am not aware that I have your acquaintance, sir,” said the woman brusquely.
“Faith, you are now!” and Burke laughed. Then he sobered. “Madame, I am in the most urgent need of a car for a couple of days. It is, I assure you, a matter of life and death. I find that you’ve hired the last car to be obtained in Marrakesh, that of the hotel manager.”
“Certainly I have,” she broke in coldly, without glancing at his card. “If you mean to ask that I let you use it, you’re wasting your time and mine. I need that automobile myself.”
The Mystery & Suspense Novella Page 3