sins.
Tom’s story had been that Bernard had left his duffelbag with Tom while he, Bernard, went off to look for a hotel room, as he wanted to change his hotel; and Bernard had never come back. In truth, Tom had followed Bernard, who had jumped off a cliff. And Tom had cremated the body the next day as best he could, and claimed that the body had been that of Derwatt. And Tom had been believed.
Funny, if Cynthia nourished a smoldering resentment, asking herself: Where is Bernard’s body, after all? And Tom knew that she hated him and the Buckmaster Gallery boys.
Chapter 7
The plane began its descent with a dramatic dip of its right wing, and Tom was on his feet, as much as his seatbelt would permit. Heloise had the window seat, Tom had insisted on that, and there it was—the dramatic two prongs, curved inward, of the port of Tangier, reaching out into the Strait as if wanting to capture something.
“Remember the map? There it is!” Tom said.
“Oui, mon cheri.” Heloise seemed not as excited as he, but she did not take her eyes from the round window either.
Unfortunately the window was dirty, and the view not clear. Tom stooped, trying to see Gibraltar. He couldn’t, but he did see the southern tip of Spain, where sat Algeciras. It all looked so small.
The plane straightened, bent the other way and turned left. No view. But again the right wing dipped, and Tom and Heloise were given a prospect, closer now, of white, jammed-together houses on a rise of land, chalky-white little houses with tiny squares of windows. On the ground, the plane taxied for ten minutes, people unfastened seatbelts, and grew too impatient to keep their seats.
They walked into a passport control room with a high ceiling, where sunlight poured down through high closed windows. Warm, Tom removed his summer jacket and put it over his arm. The people on the two slowly moving lines seemed to be French tourists, and there were Moroccan natives also, Tom thought, some wearing djellabas.
In the next room, where Tom claimed their luggage from the floor—a most informal arrangement—he changed one thousand French francs into dirhams, then inquired of a dark-haired woman sitting at the Information Desk the best way to get to the center of town. Taxi. And the price? About fifty dirhams, she replied in French.
Heloise had been “reasonable” and the two of them could manage their few suitcases without a porter. Tom had reminded Heloise that she could buy things in Morocco, and even another suitcase to carry them in.
“Fifty to the city, all right?” Tom said in French to the taxi driver who opened his car door. “Hotel Minzah?” Tom knew there were no taxi meters.
“Get in,” was the brusque reply in French.
Tom and the driver did the loading.
Off they went like a rocket, Tom felt, but the sensation was due to the somewhat bumpy road plus the wind through the open windows. Heloise was holding on to her seat and a strap. Dust came in through the driver’s window. But at least the road was straight, and they seemed to be heading for the cluster of white houses that Tom had seen from the airplane.
Houses rose on either side, rather crude-looking redbrick dwellings, four and six stories high. They rolled into a main street of some sort, with sandaled men and women walking on the pavements, a sidewalk cafe or two, and small children dashing recklessly across the street, causing the driver to brake suddenly. This was undoubtedly the city proper, dusty, grayish, busy with shoppers and strollers. The driver turned left and stopped after a few yards.
Hotel El Minzah. Tom got out and paid, adding another ten dirhams, and a bellhop in red came out to assist them.
Tom registered in the rather formal and high-ceilinged lobby. At least it looked clean, and had a predominance of red and dark red in its colors, although the walls were creamy white.
A few minutes later, Tom and Heloise were in their “suite,” a term Tom always found
Tom’s story had been that Bernard had left his duffelbag with Tom while he, Bernard, went off to look for a hotel room, as he wanted to change his hotel; and Bernard had never come back. In truth, Tom had followed Bernard, who had jumped off a cliff. And Tom had cremated the body the next day as best he could, and claimed that the body had been that of Derwatt. And Tom had been believed.
Funny, if Cynthia nourished a smoldering resentment, asking herself: Where is Bernard’s body, after all? And Tom knew that she hated him and the Buckmaster Gallery boys.
Chapter 7
The plane began its descent with a dramatic dip of its right wing, and Tom was on his feet, as much as his seatbelt would permit. Heloise had the window seat, Tom had insisted on that, and there it was—the dramatic two prongs, curved inward, of the port of Tangier, reaching out into the Strait as if wanting to capture something.
“Remember the map? There it is!” Tom said.
“Oui, mon cheri.” Heloise seemed not as excited as he, but she did not take her eyes from the round window either.
Unfortunately the window was dirty, and the view not clear. Tom stooped, trying to see Gibraltar. He couldn’t, but he did see the southern tip of Spain, where sat Algeciras. It all looked so small.
The plane straightened, bent the other way and turned left. No view. But again the right wing dipped, and Tom and Heloise were given a prospect, closer now, of white, jammed-together houses on a rise of land, chalky-white little houses with tiny squares of windows. On the ground, the plane taxied for ten minutes, people unfastened seatbelts, and grew too impatient to keep their seats.
They walked into a passport control room with a high ceiling, where sunlight poured down through high closed windows. Warm, Tom removed his summer jacket and put it over his arm. The people on the two slowly moving lines seemed to be French tourists, and there were Moroccan natives also, Tom thought, some wearing djellabas.
In the next room, where Tom claimed their luggage from the floor—a most informal arrangement—he changed one thousand French francs into dirhams, then inquired of a dark-haired woman sitting at the Information Desk the best way to get to the center of town. Taxi. And the price? About fifty dirhams, she replied in French.
Heloise had been “reasonable” and the two of them could manage their few suitcases without a porter. Tom had reminded Heloise that she could buy things in Morocco, and even another suitcase to carry them in.
“Fifty to the city, all right?” Tom said in French to the taxi driver who opened his car door. “Hotel Minzah?” Tom knew there were no taxi meters.
“Get in,” was the brusque reply in French.
Tom and the driver did the loading.
Off they went like a rocket, Tom felt, but the sensation was due to the somewhat bumpy road plus the wind through the open windows. Heloise was holding on to her seat and a strap. Dust came in through the driver’s window. But at least the road was straight, and they seemed to be heading for the cluster of white houses that Tom had seen from the airplane.
Houses rose on either side, rather crude-looking redbrick dwellings, four and six stories high. They rolled into a main street of some sort, with sandaled men and women walking on the pavements, a sidewalk cafe or two, and small children dashing recklessly across the street, causing the driver to brake suddenly. This was undoubtedly the city proper, dusty, grayish, busy with shoppers and strollers. The driver turned left and stopped after a few yards.
Hotel El Minzah. Tom got out and paid, adding another ten dirhams, and a bellhop in red came out to assist them.
Tom registered in the rather formal and high-ceilinged lobby. At least it looked clean, and had a predominance of red and dark red in its colors, although the walls were creamy white.
A few minutes later, Tom and Heloise were in their “suite,” a term Tom always found
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