“He does you well,” Sally commented, after the servant had left them. “The meal looks most appetizing.”
“He was trained at the Mirador,” replied Tony complacently. “Kitchen-boy, who was very observant Help yourself.”
They had left the table and were drinking coffee in the armchairs, when Sally decided it was time she gave Tony the various pieces of news. She began with Lucette, but omitted mention of Mike and Cécile. Tony’s mouth fell wide as he listened, but he was silent till she had ended with, “So Lucette went back to Tangier with her husband. I hope she’ll forget it all and be happy.”
“But what a fool she was,” he exclaimed. “She couldn’t have been so sophisticated, after all. How did her husband know where to find her?”
Sally sipped her coffee. “Someone informed him—apparently a tip from Shiran.”
“It must have been a bit of a knock for Dane.”
“Yes, I think it was,” she said quietly, “but he’ll get over it. He may even marry Cécile.”
Tony said sympathetically, “It hurt you a little, didn’t it? You’re not looking so merry as you used to. Are you still working hard on Mike?”
“That’s another thing I have to tell you. Mike’s consented to have treatment in England.”
“The deuce he has! You are a fast worker. When is he going?”
“Fairly soon—and I’m leaving Morocco myself in a couple of days.”
Tony lost his smile. “Dam it, I wish you wouldn’t go yet. Just knowing you’re not far away in Shiran gives me a boost; I’m still a bit weak on self-assurance. Will you come back some time?”
“I doubt it. Don’t let’s talk about it.” She put down her cup. “I brought some magazines with illustrations of kitchens in them. They’re in the car.”
“I’ll get them. We’ve a very good carpenter on the job—he’s working on the back windows at this moment—and there’s plenty of wood, so you can choose any design you like. I want a really good kitchen, because I may hitch up one day—you never know.”
“Of course you will.”
But left alone for a few minutes, Sally became aware that her heart was heavy and slack. She could imagine a woman in this place, teaching the servant new dishes, arranging and re-arranging the furniture throughout the house till she was quite satisfied, making a flower-box for the veranda, singing to herself while she sewed, and laughing at life with Tony. He wasn’t a dream-man by any means, but a girl who loved him could be gaily happy with Tony de Chalain.”
Sally wondered about the balcony upstairs, thought it must have been repaired, or she would have noticed it as she arrived. Tony would have been surprised to learn that, in the days to come, the balcony of his house would provide one of her most vivid memories of Morocco. Even at that moment, when his returning footsteps sounded on the tiles in the hall, Sally could feel herself back up there, sprawled over the floor with Dane’s arm like a vice about her ribs, while his other hand bled thickly from the graze. She could see the fury in the sea-green eyes, hear the rasp of his breath as he let her go.
She got up quickly and went to meet Tony. “Let’s go into the kitchen and plan it,” she begged.
Tony looked at her curiously. “I’ll get some sketching paper and we’ll do it properly.”
In the kitchen they talked, sketched and made decisions for nearly two hours. Then Sally thought she must leave; as she was driving the car, she wanted to get back to Shiran before dark. Tony shoved a kettle on the stove, found some rubbery biscuits and fresh sweet cakes concocted by his gem of a cook. Sally made tea, English fashion, and it was just after four-thirty when they both came out to the car.
Tony patted the bonnet. “She irritates me, but bless her for bringing you. Eats up the petrol, though, doesn’t she?”
“I don’t know—I didn’t look.”
Tony peered in at the dashboard, switched on the ignition and peered again. “The tank is less than a quarter full. That won’t get you home.”
“Won’t it? What shall I do?”
“Did you fill up before you came?”
“Your father told someone to fill the tank, but I didn’t see it done, and I’m afraid I didn’t check the indicator, either. Don’t you have any petrol here?”
“I’ve a little in a can. I use a spot to start up the tractor, but after that it runs on paraffin.” He paused and meditated. “With what you have left and my gallon you can do about forty miles. It’s seventy-eight to Shiran.”
“And not a petrol pump on the way!”
“There’s one due west of here—about thirty miles away. I could take you there and fill right up, but you’d have to drop me back here and travel on in the dark. Somehow I think it would be better for you to go straight towards Shiran.”
“What about the other plantations? Doesn’t anyone run a car?”
“The roads are not tempting. In this district they use horses.” He nodded suddenly. “I’ve just thought of something. You remember the olive orchards about halfway here? A Frenchman owns them and I know he has a lorry. I’ll go with you that far and see him for you, then send you on your way tanked up. I can get back here under my own steam.”
“Thank heaven you thought of that. Sorry, Tony.”
“That’s all right. It means I don’t have to say goodbye to you yet'!”
The sun was already well down when they left the plantation. Gold dust lay over the miles of arching green branches and the distant mountains were a blur of purple and yellow outlined in flame. Plantation workers straggled to their grubby stone dwellings, a desert coolness came on the breeze and plumes of smoke began to rise into the sunset. Sally, sitting beside Tony, knew a wrenching sadness, a desperate premonition of loneliness. A few weeks ago she would have said it was impossible to feel part of this country and the people she had known a comparatively short time, but now she had to admit a need to belong here that was frightening in its violence. It was unbearable.
* * *
At about this time, in Shiran, Pierre de Chalain was looking at his watch, and wondering. Ten-thirty in the morning till six at night covered rather more hours than were appropriate for a young woman to be alone at the house of a young man. Of course, these English were extraordinary; indeed, it was known that a couple could be friendly for weeks without even attempting the most casual embrace. But Tony wasn’t all English, and that made this particular couple slightly different. He would be glad when Miss Yorke returned.
From his office he spoke over the telephone to the reception desk. “The Caid has left?”
“An hour ago, monsieur.”
“And Monsieur Ryland has returned from the airport?”
“He is here now.”
“Bien. You will tell him that the samples have arrived from the mine—that they are here in my office.”
Pierre rang off, clipped a cigar and poured an aperitif. He was in the act of lighting the cigar when Dane came in.
“A drink, mon ami?”
“Thanks. Make it whisky.” Dane cast a jaded eye over the half-dozen tightly-wrapped rock samples. “I’ll get someone to call for them, for analysis. Do you mind having them in here till tomorrow?”
“Not at all. Soda?”
“A splash.” Dane tried the drink, put it down and shoved his hands into his pockets. He walked over to the window and looked out at an angle of dark garden. “Sometimes, Pierre, I feel as if I’ll get out of this hotel, for good.”
Pierre showed consternation. “But no! While you remain unmarried you are part of the Mirador.” Then he smiled. “Drink up, my friend. It will help you to feel less lonely, now that Cécile has gone. The plane was late to leave, it seems.”
“Engine trouble. We had to kick around for a couple of hours. It was wearing.”
“Naturally. Cécile would have arrived in Casablanca as quickly by road. She has made the usual new contract with Le Perroquet?”
“No, she hasn’t.”
The uncompromising negative left Pierre a little
dazed, but he nodded agreeably. “She could have it if she wished, I am sure. She sings like a nightingale, that one.”
“That’s a little trite and not exactly true, but you mean well.” Dane finished his drink and turned towards the door; there, he paused and said in non-committal tones, “They told me at the desk that Miss Yorke telephoned the travel agent—twice. Know anything about it?”
“Mademoiselle said nothing to me. I know she is leaving, of course, but no details.”
Dane went oddly still. “Leaving? She actually said so—to you?”
Pierre said quickly, “It was only this morning. You cannot have seen her since then.”
“No, I’ve been out most of the day.”
Dane moved suddenly towards the door, and Pierre hastened to ask, “You go up there now—to see her?”
The reply came through tight lips. “I’ve more right than anyone else to know what she’s up to. It’s bad enough being chased up by the Caid and having to spend futile hours at the airport, but I’m damned if I’ll let...”
“Just a moment!” Pierre was anxious. “Miss Yorke is not in her room. She is out. This morning I gave her permission to use my car. She left for the date plantation to say goodbye to Tony.”
Dane said something that Pierre thought it wiser to ignore, and demanded swiftly, “And she’s not back? What time did she leave?”
“Mid-morning.”
“Did she say when she’d return?”
“No, but it was agreed that she would stay with him for lunch. You need have no concern about the car, Dane. It may be old, but always I keep it in first-class condition. Miss Yorke is not a careless one. She would not drive too fast.”
“But she’s alone?”
“Yes. I must confess I feel she should have arrived here while it was still light, but you know how it is with the young. They will wait and talk and miscalculate...”
“You shouldn’t have let her have the car! I haven’t allowed her to drive in Morocco.”
“But she can drive, so why not in Morocco? She asked me, because it was the only way she could see Tony.”
“Damn Tony,” said Dane, unforgivably, and he swung open the door and went out.
But Pierre was not affronted; he was concerned and puzzled. Always, during their association, Dane had been friendly, if sometimes abrupt. Never had he looked as he had a moment ago, pale with anger ... and something else. Assuredly, the imperturbable and masterful Dane was involved in something catastrophic. Being a Frenchman, Pierre drew but one conclusion.
Dane, meanwhile, had stalked out to the blue and silver car and got back into his seat. He seemed to have been driving and trying to hang on to his temper all day, but now he let go, started the car and swung it out on to the esplanade, accelerated up to a cool sixty, even within the city limits. And naturally, it was not long before he left Shiran behind him. There was little traffic on the road, and that little consisted chiefly of donkey carts and an occasional small military car heading for the lights of Shiran. He would know Pierre’s car a mile away by its gargantuan headlights. Pierre maintained that the bigger the beams, the more likely it was that other cars would be well out of his way before he reached them. He could be right.
Dane’s right foot went down hard, the car touched eighty, eighty-five. It held the road at that speed for twenty minutes and then, fortunately, the surface undulated for a stretch and he had to lose speed; otherwise he would have shot past the car on the verge without noticing that it' was Pierre’s. But he did notice; he braked and reversed, slipped out to examine the vehicle. The lights were off but the bonnet was still warm; on the front seat lay a white straw hat that he recognized. Dane slammed the car door, stood back and looked about him. Wild thicket and olive trees beyond; certainly no place for a girl to explore alone. She had taken the car keys with her ... or maybe—a sweat dewed his temples—she had been stopped by someone. Not that highway violence of any kind had ever been heard of in these parts, but there always had to be a first time.
He sounded the klaxon of his own car, waited a minute and did it again. No response of any kind. But wasn’t there a small light bobbing away among the trees? He made for it along a narrow, thorn-strewn footpath, came face to face with a small brown man in a soiled djellabah who carried something in each hand, as well as the torch.
Dane spoke at once in French. “Have you seen a white mademoiselle?”
The bewildered peasant stared up at the big Englishman. “Yes, monsieur. She is at the house of the olive farmer.”
“Unhurt?”
“Yes, monsieur. The car had no petrol—it stopped just there on the road. Monsieur will see that I carry two cans of petrol.”
Dane muttered automatic thanks, patted his shoulder and got into his own car. He drove slowly, looking for the turn, took it and saw the small farmhouse in the distance. She had walked this, he thought grimly, walked it in the darkness. But how had she known a house existed among the trees? It wasn’t visible from the road.
By the time he reached the cottage the burning anger and anxiety had become transmuted into something less easily definable. He stood on the path, was on the point of taking the last pace to the door when he paused, to look into the simple room illuminated by a paraffin lamp. The swarthy little farmer was in there, nodding and waving his pipe as he talked. Sally sat in a wooden rocking chair, drinking something from a large mug, and right next to her, with his elbows on the table, lounged Tony de Chalain. Taut as steel, Dane gave one terrific thud on the door and flung it open.
For an endless moment the three inside the room stared at him as he stood there, big, lean and almost threatening, in the doorway. Then, very carefully, Sally put her cup on the table and Tony stood up.
“Hi, Dane,” he said awkwardly, and with a weak attempt at flippancy. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Yes, fancy.” Dane sounded as if he could hardly trust himself to say more, but he went on, “I understand you ran out of petrol.”
“Yes, that’s right. I was going to see Sally on her way from here and hang about till I could hitch a ride back towards the plantation.”
“You needn’t hang about,” Dane said curtly. “Use your father’s car, and come up to Shiran in it at the weekend. I’ll take Sally.” He turned to the olive farmer. “Very many thanks for all you have done, monsieur. I’ll see that you’re paid.”
“But it was nothing, Monsieur Ryland. I was happy to be of assistance.”
“We’re very grateful.”
Without another word he got Sally outside, took her arm and marched her to the car. They were on their way within a minute, Sally having uttered no word since his sudden arrival. Dane didn’t look at Pierre’s car as they shot past it, and Sally didn’t dare to mention her hat.
At last she did say, “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Monsieur de Chalain told someone to fill the tank, but they could only have put in a few gallons. If Tony hadn’t looked at the indicator, I’d have been stranded on my own. When he saw how low the fuel was, he wouldn’t let me go alone. We actually made for the olive farmer’s place, but the petrol ran out about a mile off.”
“Leave it,” he said brusquely.
“You can’t blame anyone.”
“I’m not blaming anyone.”
“Back at the cottage you looked as if you thought Tony was at fault. He wasn’t.”
“All right, you’ve put Tony in the clear. Now be quiet!”
And she was. In any case, you can’t argue with a man while he’s driving like a maniac. They swept down into Shiran, pulled up in the courtyard of the Hotel Mirador. Dane was opening her door before Sally had realized they had arrived, and the next moment he was propelling her through the vestibule and into the lift. Oddly, she wasn’t a bit surprised to be pushed along the corridor and into his sitting room. He was in a mood to do almost anything.
Luckily the telephone rang and gave her a minute’s respite. It was Pierre, apparently; he must have seen them come in.
Dan
e said, “Yes, it’s all right—tell you about it later. Tony has your car till the weekend, by the way. No, nothing’s wrong with it. Right.” He rang off, picked up the phone again and ordered drinks.
Then he took off his jacket and tossed it on to a chair, turned about and stared at Sally. She withstood the scrutiny for what seemed a long time, then looked away.
“Do you mind if I go now?” she asked politely.
“I’ve a few things to say to you. Take a seat.”
Sally remained standing. “I suppose Monsieur de Chalain told you I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. I was going to let you know myself this evening.”
“That would have been nice—to have you actually coming along to give me the news. Or were you going to write me a little note?”
Sally didn’t answer that; the sarcastic remark was too perceptive. “My work here is finished. It was obvious I’d be leaving soon.”
“But I brought you here, and it was up to me to book your passage home. You were due to remain here at least until Mike goes.”
“There was no reason for it, and I didn’t want to.”
“Not even to be near Tony for a bit longer? I seem to recall that when I asked you if you were yearning for him you said that when you began to yearn you’d go down and see him.”
“Oh, stop it, Dane.” For the first time her voice shook. “I went to the plantation to say goodbye.”
“It took you a long time.”
“I stayed because I liked it there! Tony was restful, which is more than you can say about anyone here. Even Pierre is often infected with the Hotel Mirador unrest.”
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