East of Algiers

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘I have a feeling we may be over-staying our welcome,’ I whispered to Steve. ‘Let’s get away from here while we still can.’

  We had to walk some distance before we came to a main road, and I had ample time to tell Steve all that had happened from the moment we had separated.

  ‘If Constantin’s telephone call saved your life, then I’m sorry that he’s dead,’ she declared. ‘However much of a crook he may have been.’

  ‘But it can’t have been he who telephoned,’ I pointed out. ‘He must have been dead already when that call was made.’

  ‘Then presumably whoever killed him also telephoned Rostand. And that person will be at the El Passaro.’

  ‘Which is exactly why you and I are going to pay the place a visit. Constantin’s murderer can’t know that I was at the Villa when he telephoned.’

  ‘But wait a minute, Paul.’ Steve slowed down a little. ‘What’s the point of arranging a meeting when he hasn’t got the spectacles to sell? They are in your pocket.’

  ‘He may have had a similar pair made, and be counting on hood-winking Rostand. As far as I can see, Steve, these spectacles have no special distinguishing feature.’

  I grabbed her arm and hurried her into a run.

  ‘Come on. There’s a bus heading for the centre of the city. We can just catch it.’

  Chapter Four

  IT WAS eleven o’clock by the time we regained the Aletti Hotel and we still had not dined. My stomach was beginning to make empty rattling noises and Steve was having to stifle frequent yawns.

  Even in the throes of this hectic crisis she was anxious to change into the appropriate clothes and put on her evening make-up before facing the public gaze at the El Passaro. I told her to go on up to our room while I went to have a talk with the receptionist. I was relieved to see it was the same man as had been on duty earlier that evening.

  He answered my question before I asked it.

  ‘Mr. Constantin found you, monsieur?’ I stopped with one hand on the counter, startled at the way the answer to one of the night’s mysteries had fallen into my lap.

  ‘He was here, was he?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur. He said it was very important that he should find you. I said that you had gone out to the Villa Negra.’

  ‘That must have been pretty soon after we left.’

  ‘Yes, monsieur. Hardly five minutes. I hope he found you all right.’

  ‘Well, not exactly. It was rather a case of my finding him. But thanks, all the same.’

  ‘You are welcome, monsieur.’

  The clerk had already returned to his desk as I walked to the lift. The doors hissed across and the steel box moved imperceptibly upwards. So Constantin had followed us to the Villa Negra. And in that case someone else could equally well have followed Constantin – someone who stuck a knife under his ribs and hid him in the bedroom above the boat-house…

  ‘Quatrième, monsieur.’

  The tiny lift boy grinned as he announced my floor and stepped back to bow me out. Steve was already in her dressing-gown, and the sound of rushing water came from the bathroom. She took her evening dress in with her, closed the doors to keep out the sounds of bathing, and left me to place my call through to the police. The night duty inspector at the office of the Police Judiciare turned out to be one Flambeau, who, when I introduced myself, recognized my name.

  It appeared that he had met Sir Graham Forbes, and even gone so far as to read a book of mine in order, he said optimistically, to improve his English. I gave him a brief summary of the situation and informed him that if his men were quick they would find one and perhaps two bodies at the Villa Negra.

  ‘You might find it worthwhile to send a motor-boat with a searchlight round to the bay below Villa Negra. I have a feeling that you may find a boat drifting off-shore. I doubt whether you’ll see much of Rostand or Leyland. But warn your men to watch out for a hunchback Arab. He’s dangerous.’

  ‘We will do our best,’ Flambeau said with elaborate care. ‘I know Rostand from your description. We have been watching him since ’e rented the Villa Negra. ’E is a known international criminal, but we did not know of what ’e was occupying ’imself thees time. You will come down to Police ’Eadquarters now, pleese?’

  ‘I think it would be more profitable to meet at the El Passaro. Would it be possible for you to come there?’

  ‘Très bien, since it is my Ministry which will pay. That is the most expensive place in Algiers.’

  This time our instructions gave the French taxi-driver no cause for doubt.

  ‘El Passaro?’ he echoed, and clicked his meter on.

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘But naturally I know it. Up at Le Bardo.’

  I handed Steve into the back and the taxi accelerated rapidly away. In a minute or two we were whistling up the road that climbs the hill at the back of Algiers. The lights of the harbour gradually fell away on our right. The rows of houses gave way to luxurious villas standing behind high railings in their own grounds.

  I leaned forward to speak to the driver. There was no partition in the Ford Versailles.

  ‘The El Passaro’s a good place, I hear?’

  ‘The hottest place in Algiers,’ the driver said. ‘This fellow Schultz has really made something of it. One thing you’ve got to give the Germans. When they do a thing they do it thoroughly.’

  ‘Schultz. He’s the proprietor, is he?’

  ‘Yes. He was taken prisoner in the desert during the war, they tell me, and escaped – went and lived with the Arabs for several years. Now he has four of these places – here, Oran, Constantin, Tunis. Must make a packet out of it. This one’s only been open six months, and as far as the smart set are concerned there is nowhere else in Algiers.’

  ‘I hope you can eat there,’ Steve interrupted with feeling.

  The El Passaro Club was housed in what had till lately been the residence of a rich Arab merchant. The building was surrounded by magnificently kept gardens which Schultz had artistically flood-lit. The line of cars drawn up near the entrance gave testimony to the wealth of his clientele – Delahayes, Mercedes-Benz, an Alfa-Romeo and a number of the most recent American models. As soon as the taxi stopped outside the brilliantly illuminated entrance our door was opened by a boy with jet-black skin and gleaming white teeth. He wore a white silk turban and sky-blue, three-quarter length satin coat.

  Once inside Steve was spirited away into what might have been a harem.

  I caught a glimpse of veiled female attendants with billowing trousers and bare tummies. My own hat was taken by a magnificent brute in the traditional costume of a Touareg. Schultz had really gone to town on his Arabian Nights atmosphere.

  Rich Kairouan carpets cushioned the steps that led down to the room where a tango orchestra was dreamily playing. Whereas outside the emphasis was on bright lights, the interior was almost as dark as a cinema. Veiled red electric bulbs, a few naked flames in ornate brass lamps, and here and there the orange flame of a waiter’s chafing dish, showed the tightly packed tables and the mass of swaying couples on the dance-floor. The guests spoke in hushed voices. To say that the atmosphere was intimate is putting it mildly.

  The maître d’hôtel standing at the top of the short flight of steps wore the bow-tie and tails which are traditional for his office. He greeted me with a smile, but shook his head regretfully when I asked him about a table for two.

  ‘Je regrette, monsieur. All tables are already retained. There is nothing I can do for you.’

  ‘Has Monsieur Constantin reserved a table? Perhaps he would not mind if we shared his.’

  ‘Monsieur Constantin? You are a friend of his?’ The maître d’hôtel was scrutinizing me more closely, trying to make out if he had seen me before. ‘Wait one moment please.’

  He darted away quickly, weaving a path between the tables like a snipe. He approached a man who was standing watching the dancers with a contented smile. They exchanged a few words, then both turned to move in my
direction. I guessed by the deferential way in which the maître d’hôtel took second place that this was Schultz himself. My surmise was confirmed when he came near enough to speak.

  He was a big, fair-haired man who carried himself like an athlete. His eyes were blue, his skin sun-burned and clear. I thought he was probably a good deal older than he looked. His clothes were immaculate and very well cut, and he wore them with considerable poise. He exuded confidence and force of character.

  His smile came readily, yet he could not mask the faint suspicion of sneer which took the sincerity out of it. He had already made up his mind that I was English.

  ‘You asked about a Monsieur Constantin, sir? I am afraid no one of that name has booked a table. I would like to help you, but as you can see we are very full up.’

  His English was remarkably good, with just that faint stiffness which often characterizes the German who speaks our language.

  ‘Perhaps there is a bar where we could have a drink? I arranged to meet a friend here.’

  Instead of answering, Schultz half turned from me and executed a graceful bow. The maître d’hôtel did likewise. Steve had emerged from the ladies’ room. I was forced to agree now that the time she had spent in changing her clothes had not been wasted. With her dangling ear-rings, the diamond brooch flashing on her bosom, and the swishing, tight-waisted taffeta dress, she looked both youthful and distinguished.

  ‘Madame,’ Schultz said in a slightly changed voice. ‘I am sorry that I must keep you waiting for a moment, till we can find a table.’

  Steve smiled forgivingly on him, and then glanced over my shoulder. Her eye had been caught by a man seated at one of the tables, who was waving at us.

  ‘Isn’t it Tony Wyse?’ she said. ‘I believe he’s asking us to join him.’

  Wyse it was, and a moment or two later the waiters had brought up two extra chairs and we were seated at his table. The fourth chair, I noticed, remained empty.

  ‘What a fortuitous coincidence!’ Wyse beamed on us happily. ‘But, of course, everyone comes to the El Passaro. But everyone! I heard about it as far away as Paris. Waiter! Encore une bouteille de champagne.’

  ‘It was kind of you to rescue us,’ Steve said. ‘I hope we’re not intruding on your party.’

  ‘Far from it,’ Wyse said, and glanced at his watch. ‘I was beginning to feel a trace of loneliness. My partner doesn’t seem to be going to turn up.’

  The tango orchestra finished its number with a long chord and the dancers began to move reluctantly off the floor. The drummer executed a roll, a spot-light blazed down, and Schultz stepped into the middle of the empty space.

  ‘Messieurs, Mesdames, Mesdemoiselles – I present to you Yatisha – Queen of the Ouled Nails.’

  There was a burst of mild masculine applause. The French business men at the back of the room clambered on to their chairs for a better view. An unseen four-man band began to play Arab music. On to the dance-floor whirled a dark-skinned girl. Her face was veiled and she wore gauze trousers, fastened at waist and ankles. For ten minutes she whirled and twisted, her hips and shoulders vibrating at unbelievable speed. It was an odd mixture of crudeness and art, strangely exciting. When at last she sank writhing to the floor, three middle-aged gentlemen at the back of the room fell off their chairs in their efforts to see better.

  The applause was dying away when I saw that the waiter was pulling back the empty chair. A girl in a white dress with a wispy veil floating round her shoulders was picking her way gracefully between the tables. I saw Wyse scramble to his feet and I instinctively did the same. The girl raised her head and the reflection of the spot-light gleamed on her ash-blonde hair. She extended a hand to Wyse, who put his head over it and kissed it.

  ‘Simone,’ he said. ‘I think you already know Mr. and Mrs. Temple.’

  Simone Lalange was a little disconcerted to find that she was not going to have Wyse all to herself. There was an awkward little silence when we all sat down again. More to fill it than for any other reason, Steve said: ‘I didn’t know you two were so well acquainted.’

  ‘It’s a new friendship,’ Wyse said in his curiously pedantic way, ‘but a rapidly ripening one. Mademoiselle Lalange and I find we have a lot of interests in common.’

  They smiled warmly at each other. I was about to ask Steve to dance, so that the other two could hold hands in peace, but at that moment a voice spoke in my ear.

  ‘You are Mr. Temple, sir?’

  It was Schultz. I said: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Monsieur Flambeau is here and would like a word with you.’

  I excused myself and followed Schultz across the room and up a small flight of stairs. It led to a bar which looked down on to the restaurant, like a minstrel’s gallery. There were several heavily curtained little cubicles where intimate conversations could be held. In one of these Flambeau was waiting for me.

  Before Schultz left us I asked him if he would do me a favour.

  ‘Always ready to be of service, sir.’

  ‘Would you try and find out if there is anyone of the name of Constantin dining here?’

  ‘I will do what I can, sir.’

  He bowed himself out with mock servility, and I turned to shake hands with the man from the Police Judiciare.

  ‘I regret you are waiting since a long time, Mr. Temple. I ’ave thought it best to go with the party to the Villa Negra.’

  I liked Flambeau from the start. He was young and clearly highly intelligent. He might easily have been an army officer and not a police detective. Tall, quietly dressed and clean-shaven, he seemed to regard the world with a slightly amused tolerance.

  I said: ‘Did you have any luck?’

  ‘So-so. It was a good idea to send the boat. They found a canoe drifting at a little distance from the beach. There was a – what do you call cadavre?’

  ‘A body.’

  ‘There was a body in it. It is to be supposed that it is the man called Thompson, but ’e ’as not been identified.’

  ‘What about the other one? The fully-dressed man in the bed.’

  ‘Yes. We found ’im. ’E is not known to us, but I ’ave sent the description to Interpol in Paris. Perhaps they can inform us something about ’im.’

  ‘I can tell you one of his aliases. On the aircraft coming over he was calling himself Constantin.’

  ‘’E was on the aircraft with you?’ Flambeau said quickly. ‘Did you see ’im at Nice? Was ’e in the ’otel there?’

  ‘Ah, Inspecteur. I see you have been checking up on my documents. Or has Inspecteur Mirabel sent you some advance information?’

  Flambeau reddened a little, and I liked him better when I saw that he was genuinely embarrassed.

  ‘We are constantly in communication,’ he said quietly. ‘Especially now that there is all this trouble with the indigènes.’

  He drummed with his nails on the table top to reassert his authority, and switched the conversation back.

  ‘I am afraid that we did not capture Rostand or his two accomplices. They ’ad vanished from the Villa. There were no traces of them.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. I had the impression that they were merely camping in the Villa. I’m interested to hear that you already had your eye on Rostand.’

  ‘We ’ave been watching ’im since ’e turned up ’ere a few weeks ago and rented the Villa. This is the first evidence we ’ave ’ad of ’is criminal activities. Now, please, you will be good enough to tell me why you went to the Villa Negra in the first place. What is this histoire of the spectacles?’

  I gave Flambeau a rapid but comprehensive outline of the events as they had occurred so far. When I came to my visit to the Villa Negra he asked me for detailed descriptions of the persons I had met. He made careful notes and I tried to stick to the accepted police formula for descriptions.

  ‘This will be a considerable ’elp,’ he said, and I wished that I could tell him about his aitches. As he admitted to reading one of my books I felt somehow respon
sible for his English. It would have been quite good if he could have eradicated that one mistake. ‘I do not think we will ’ave difficulty in arresting the malefactors—’

  He broke off and touched my knee in warning. Schultz had mounted the stairs again and was coming towards us.

  ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, sir. There is no one called Constantin in the restaurant as far as I can ascertain.’

  ‘Well, thank you all the same.’

  ‘Not at all, sir.’

  Schultz was turning away when Flambeau called to him. ‘One moment, please, Monsieur Schultz. I understand that you are acquainted with Colonel Rostand.’

  I glanced at Flambeau and then turned to watch Schultz’s face. Flambeau had not told me about this. The German was still smiling, but there was a wariness about his expression.

  ‘He has invited me to the Villa Negra on one or two occasions. He is a very good customer of mine.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  Schultz thought for a moment.

  ‘Perhaps a week ago.’

  ‘You have not seen him this evening?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Or received any messages?’

  ‘Excuse me, Inspecteur. May I know the reason for all these interrogations about Colonel Rostand?’

  ‘He is wanted by the police,’ Flambeau said shortly. ‘And I warn you that if he comes here you must immediately inform the authorities.’

  ‘But of course,’ Schultz appeared to be deeply shocked and surprised at the news. ‘What crime is the Colonel accused of?’

  ‘Murder,’ said Flambeau curtly.

  Schultz regarded him with more humour than astonishment.

  ‘Come, Inspecteur! You are pulling my leg. You cannot expect me to believe this of Colonel Rostand.’

  ‘Believe it or not,’ retorted Flambeau, ‘but remember anyone who suppresses information about him will be considered an accomplice.’

  He nodded to show that the interview was over. Still with that slightly sneering smile on his face, Schultz withdrew.