East of Algiers

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘I just don’t understand your attitude, Paul.’ Steve’s tone showed that she had mis-read my thoughts. ‘You aren’t even prepared to take this seriously.’

  I turned to her and put my hands on her shoulders.

  ‘I do take this seriously, Steve. I’m quite prepared to believe that there’s some sinister, perhaps deadly secret attached to them. But I gave my word to a girl who is now dead that I would deliver them. My object is to do so as quickly as possible and wash my hands of the whole business. Then you and I can carry on with our holiday as planned.’

  Steve did not respond to my smile. Her eyes were clouded and there were three little lines across her brow.

  ‘Suppose Constantin is right and you don’t succeed in finding David Foster. There may not be any such person.’

  ‘In that case I’ll take the glasses back to France and hand them over to the police. All the same I think David Foster exists – though he may well be known by another name. It’s even possible that we’ve met him already.’

  ‘You think he might be Tony Wyse? In that case why does he not ask you outright to hand over his property? But I don’t think that theory holds water. I can’t believe there’s much wrong with Mr. Wyse’s eyesight.’

  It was significant of our feelings that when the telephone rang my first action was to tuck the glasses safely away in my breast pocket and arrange my handkerchief to cover them. Only when that was done to the satisfaction of both of us did I cross to the bedside table and lift the receiver.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Is that Mr. Temple?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s that speaking?’

  ‘It’s David Foster here. I understand you have my spectacles. I thought I’d ring up and arrange to collect them from you.’

  ‘Oh, Mr. Foster?’ I echoed the name, looking at Steve as I did so. She immediately came and stood with her ear close to the other side of the receiver, straining to catch both sides of the conversation. ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you till we reached Tunis.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Well I had to come over to Algiers for a few days on business. I had a cable from Judy and she told me you would be coming this way. I thought it would save you further trouble if I relieved you of the glasses right away.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I expect you find life rather complicated without them.’

  ‘Oh?’ The voice sounded suspicious. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I expect it’s difficult for you to read and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ The caller laughed nervously. ‘Yes, I keep tripping over things and taking the wrong bus and so on. It’s an awful nuisance. Will you be in if I come round right away?’

  ‘Yes. About how long will you be?’

  ‘Oh, not long. I’m at the Villa Negra—’ The voice suddenly broke off. I put my hand over the receiver and turned to Steve.

  ‘We seem to have been cut off.’

  Steve said: ‘It sounded to me more as if he had done just what you have – put his hand over the mouthpiece—’

  I held my finger up to silence her. The voice on the telephone was speaking again.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes. Still here.’

  ‘I’ll call in about twenty minutes. Can you wait for me in the hotel lounge?’

  ‘Yes. Ask the reception clerk and he’ll show you where we’re sitting.’

  ‘Good. By the way, how is Judy?’

  ‘Judy Wincott? I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, but it had better keep till we meet.’

  ‘Bad news?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. See you in about twenty minutes.’

  It was twenty-two minutes past seven when I put the receiver down. Steve and I were in the lounge by half-past seven, and had briefed the reception clerk to show our visitor where we were sitting. At half-past eight I checked with the desk for the third time, but no one had asked for Temple.

  ‘Nothing doing,’ I told Steve as I joined her again. ‘I’m afraid our bird is not going to turn up.’

  ‘I thought there was something fishy about that conversation. Could it have been your friend Constantin?’

  ‘No. I’d have recognized that voice, even on the telephone. Perhaps he’s taken the wrong bus again.’

  ‘I suppose there’s no way of tracing the call?’

  ‘He did mention the Villa Negra, though it seemed to me that the name slipped out unintentionally. Perhaps the staff behind the reception desk would help us. There are enough of them.’

  The chief clerk was distant and doubtful, but when I said I would have to call in the police he changed his tune. Directories were produced, and at the end of ten minutes he beckoned me over and showed me a map of Algiers.

  The Villa Negra was a large house overlooking a small private bay to the West of Algiers. It was about a quarter of an hour away by car or taxi.

  ‘Can you get a taxi for us?’ I asked the clerk.

  ‘There’s no need, monsieur. Always there is at least one taxi waiting outside the hotel.’

  He snapped his fingers at a chasseur who, scenting a tip, rushed forward with alacrity.

  ‘Show monsieur to a taxi.’

  ‘Dinner?’ Steve enquired when I told her that we were going. ‘I must say I’m ready for it.’

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid. First, the Villa Negra. I think I’d eat with a better appetite if I can find Mr. Foster and hand his glasses over to him.’

  The taxi-driver did not know this suburb of Algiers well enough to take us direct to the Villa Negra. He had to ask his way several times, and at last stopped within sight of a white but rather neglected building which stood on a steep slope some way from the road.

  The entrance gate which he had found was too narrow to admit a car, and the track beyond was little more than a path.

  ‘Ça alors,’ the driver muttered, and pushed his cap back on his head. ‘After all that it is a back entrance!’

  ‘That’ll do,’ I told him, and opened the door. ‘We’ll walk from here. How much do I owe you?’

  The first part of the walk was easy. The ascent was only slight, though the path was overgrown with grass; brambles growing out from the bushes clawed at our clothes. Night had fallen long ago, but the windows on the ground floor of the Villa Negra were blazing and their reflected light illuminated the grounds.

  As we came nearer we could see that the Villa had been a fine residence. It had a wonderful view out to sea and a magnificent terrace running along the whole front of the house. The ascent became steeper here, and the path weaved its way upwards in a series of little hairpin bends.

  ‘It seems an odd way to call on strangers,’ Steve whispered as we neared the top of the path. ‘I can’t help hoping that the genuine David Foster really is staying here.’

  We both stopped short at the sudden burst of angry shouting which came from the front room of the house above us. At first the voices were muffled by the French windows which had been tightly closed. Then, as we stood staring upwards, we saw the shape of a man come hurtling through the glass, his arms held above his head in self-protection. A split second later the sound of a crash hit our ears, followed almost at once by the sharp bark of an automatic. The first shot was followed quickly by a second. From the man who had come through the window came a scream of agony.

  We could see his shape outlined against the illuminated window. He was doubled up now, clutching at his stomach, running and stumbling towards the short flight of steps that led off the terrace on to the path which we were following. For a second he stood on the top step, fighting for breath, his body twisted with pain. Then he came plunging and slithering down. Without the light behind him we could no longer see him, but we could hear his sobbing gasps as he came nearer and nearer. Back at the house the French windows of the front room had been wrenched open and two men had stepped carefully out. But they seemed at a momentary loss in the darkness, and at first went casting off towards the wrong side of the terrace.

 
The fleeing man was on us before he saw us. So doubled up was he that he had no inkling of our presence till he saw our feet. Then he stopped and with great difficulty half straightened himself up. His head and hands had been viciously cut by the splintered glass. Blood was pouring down his face and from the tips of his fingers. But the real damage was being done by the lead bullet lodged in his stomach.

  He swayed as he stood looking at us trying to make out whether we were friend or foe. I took hold of his arm to steady him. I thought his only chance of survival was to lie still and wait for medical help.

  ‘Take it easy,’ I said.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man said suspiciously. ‘What are you doing here?’

  There was something familiar about his way of speech.

  I said: ‘You’re the man who telephoned me earlier this evening, aren’t you? Is your name David Foster?’

  He wiped a sleeve across his face to keep the blood out of his eyes. Had I not been holding on to him he would have fallen over. He was losing strength fast.

  ‘You’re Temple,’ he gasped. I had to stoop as he sank down on one knee. ‘I wish I could have got to you…’

  His voice failed and he made a sudden grimace of pain. Steve was standing up staring towards the house.

  ‘Watch out, Paul. They’re heading back this way.’

  I said urgently to the wounded man: ‘Are you David Foster?’

  ‘No. But it was me who telephoned you. He made me do it.’

  He went down on the other knee and grabbed my arm as a shout sounded from the terrace above. Two forms in silhouette were at the top of the steps. One very tall, the other short and squat and somehow ape-like.

  ‘Oh, God!’ the man whispered hoarsely. ‘Don’t let them get me again.’

  I looked down and saw with horror that a pool of blood was forming on the path where he knelt. He was losing blood terribly fast from some hidden wound.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘We’re going to take care of you.’

  ‘Paul!’ Steve hissed from close beside me. ‘They’re coming down the steps. What are you going to do?’

  The wounded man heard her words. He made a supreme effort and half rose to his feet.

  ‘Temple, whatever you do…’ His voice was choking over the words. ‘Whatever you do, don’t let them have those spectacles.’

  It was a final effort. He slumped, a dead weight on my hands.

  I lowered him gently to the ground. Feet were already pounding on the path above, but we were screened by a bank of shrubs. I took the spectacles from my pocket and handed them to Steve.

  ‘Steve. Take these and go back to the gate where we came in. Wait for me there. If I don’t come within an hour go to the police and tell them everything.’

  ‘Paul…’ she began. ‘I’m not going to leave you…’

  ‘Go on,’ I growled at her. ‘Can’t you see you’re the only insurance policy I’ve got?’

  I touched her arm, trying to speak less harshly. ‘Please do as I ask.’

  ‘God keep you,’ she whispered as she took the glasses. A second later she had vanished into the bushes beside the pat. I knelt down quickly beside the wounded man. I thought that if I could do something to prevent him losing more blood he might still be saved. He was wearing no coat, just a thin shirt and a pair of trousers. Even his feet were bare. There was no sign of a shot wound on his front. Disregarding the approaching sound of feet and voices I rolled him over on his face. There was no resistance in him and he made no sound.

  His back was matted with blood and the shirt was already stuck to his flesh in several places. I found it hard to account for the state of his shoulders unless he had been beaten or clubbed. I ripped the shirt apart and saw the hole where the blood was welling. I was making a pad with my handkerchief when the beam of a torch found and focused on me. The approaching footsteps stopped dead. For a moment the silence was heavy with menace. ‘Qui êtes vous? Qu’est ce que vous foutez ici?’ The voice was harsh, the intonation and phraseology undeniably French.

  ‘This man needs medical attention at once,’ I said in English. ‘Have you a telephone in the house?’

  ‘I asked you who the hell you were,’ the same voice said. This time he spoke in English, but with a trace of an American accent. ‘What are you doing on my property? Is this guy a friend of yours or…’

  The torch beam flicked down on to the wounded man. He was terribly still now. I put my finger on his pulse. There wasn’t even a flutter.

  ‘He isn’t a friend of anyone now,’ I said. ‘He’s dead.’ I stood up wiping my hands clean on my handkerchief. The smaller of the two men came forward into the beam of the torchlight. He was a hunchback Arab with unnaturally long arms and huge hands. He turned the dead man on to his back without apparent effort and stared at his eyes.

  ‘C’est vrai,’ he muttered to the man holding the torch. ‘II est mort.’

  I had somehow sensed, though I could not see it, that ever since the torch had found me I had been covered by the same automatic as had killed the man on the ground. I knew that I was a very unwelcome witness of the scene which had just taken place, and that the easiest solution for the man with the gun would be to shoot and dispose of me in the same way. I decided it was time I introduced myself. ‘My name’s Temple,’ I began. ‘I came here because this address was given me by a Mr. David Foster—’

  ‘You are Temple?’ The beam of light immediately moved from my hands up to my face. ‘I am Colonel Rostand, the owner of this house. I am sorry that you have been given such an inhospitable welcome. This man broke into my house, but luckily we caught him red-handed. He managed to wriggle free and I took a pot shot at him more to frighten him than anything. I certainly never intended to hit him.’

  ‘Two pot shots,’ I corrected him. ‘And I’m surprised to hear he wriggled free. To judge by his back he’s been pretty thoroughly beaten up.’

  ‘Well,’ Rostand said. ‘I’m afraid my man here is a little impulsive at times.’

  The hunchback was watching me in a hungry kind of way, his great hands hanging limply by his thighs. He was turned half into the torchlight, and I could see that his forehead was unnaturally shallow and that his upper teeth protruded over his lower lip. I found myself thinking of Prospero and his creature Caliban.

  The torch was abruptly switched away from me. Rostand had directed its light on to the path and turned back towards the house.

  ‘I suppose I shall have to telephone the police and tell them that I’ve accidently shot a man. You’d better come up with me. I can introduce you to David Foster.’

  ‘Then he is here?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Rostand said. ‘He has been waiting for you to bring him his spectacles.’

  As I moved to follow Rostand the Arab fell into place behind me. Like a sheep dog who senses his master’s wishes he had guessed that I was not to be allowed to escape.

  We passed into the house through the shattered French windows. The first room was a ‘salon’ furnished in a rather archaic style, like a room in a public museum. The chairs and tables were obviously genuine period pieces, but they were in a dilapidated condition. Rostand led the way through into a smaller room, the walls of which were lined with dusty books.

  ‘If you will excuse me for a moment I will telephone the police. Sandro will attend to your needs.’

  He gave the hunchback a significant nod, went back through the door and closed it.

  Sandro’s idea of attending to my needs was to stand, back to the door, with dangling arms and unblinking eyes fixed on my face. To avoid his scrutiny I turned to the shelves and picked out a book at random. It was Marivaux’s Les Fausses Confidences.

  I had time to read the first scene before Rostand returned. He was all affability now and had resumed the veneer of militarized good-breeding. He was tall and spare, very upright in his carriage, with a straggly brown moustache and perfectly round but very small steel-rimmed spectacles. His Adam’s app
le was noticeably pronounced; it jumped up and down when he talked. His hands were very restless, the fingers ceaselessly moving even when he was not using them.

  ‘The police are coming,’ he assured me with a smile. ‘They say they recognize the man from my description. He’s a notorious burglar whom they have been hunting for some time. I told Foster you were here. He’ll be down in a minute.’

  He turned to the Arab and spoke curtly in French.

  ‘Ça va, Sandro. Tu peux partir maintenant.’

  Without a word Sandro turned on his heels and went out through the door. He was about to close it when he stopped and pushed it back to allow another man to enter.

  Rostand turned with an affable smile. ‘Ah, Foster,’ he said. ‘This is your long-awaited friend, Mr. Temple.’

  The newcomer stopped dead and stood frozen in the doorway, the hand he had already stretched out poised in mid-air. We stood contemplating each other for a few seconds.

  ‘So this is David Foster?’ I said to Rostand.

  ‘Haven’t I already told you so?’ Rostand spoke impatiently, but he was puzzled by the attitude of both of us.

  ‘You should have introduced yourself in Nice, Mr. Foster,’ I said politely. ‘But perhaps you did not feel the need of your glasses then. Your eyesight seemed to be functioning particularly well.’

  The man who had introduced himself as Sam Leyland shrugged his shoulders heavily and glanced accusingly at Rostand.

  ‘You should have warned me,’ he said.

  ‘Warned you of what?’

  ‘That this was the same bloke as I met in Nice. We were both in the same hotel there.’

  Rostand made one last attempt to take a grip on the situation.

  ‘I don’t know what he was calling himself in Nice, Mr. Temple, or why he did not introduce himself to you by his proper name. But I assure you that this is David Foster. Now if you will kindly hand over his spectacles I will have Sandro drive you home and you need not be involved in these tiresome formalities with the police.’

  Sam Leyland was looking at me entreatingly, as if begging me silently to do as Rostand said and get out of the place. I shook my head.