The Lighthearted Quest by Ann Bridge

it constantly did, Julia learned—she confided to her good friend Paddy the real reason for her coming to Morocco, and asked if he would do anything he could to trace Colin. (Whatever Geoffrey might say, she had got to find him.)
    â€œHis account’s with the Banque Regié Turque, is it? Is that what you were making eyes at Panoukian about?”
    â€œYes,” said Julia, unruffled. “I made all the eyes I’ve got, but it was no use.”
    â€œNo, I shouldn’t expect it to be. You’d have done better with old Bingham—you really have enslaved him! What did Tony say?”
    â€œTony?”
    â€œTony Panoukian.”
    â€œSaid he’d look up the account. But I saw—I mean I’m practically certain—that he
did
know about Colin, and wasn’t going to tell—his whole face sort of shut up, went dead-pan, at the name.”
    â€œHave you any idea what young Monro really is up to?”
    â€œNo, not a clue.
You
said smuggling, and so did the mate on my boat—but I can’t believe it’s really that, because . . .” here Julia paused, wondering how much to say. RecallingMr. Panoukian’s dictum about perfect frankness, she decided to plunge. . . .
    â€œBecause what?” Mr. Lynch asked, while she hesitated.
    â€œWell, I told a chum in the Treasury about Colin’s account having been transferred here, and he volunteered to find out the reason for permission being given from the Bank of England.”
    â€œA rather
young
man, I deduce,” said Paddy Lynch.
    â€œYes. Well, I got a most totally clottish officialese letter from him this morning, the one he sent via you—
typed,
would you believe it?—telling me to leave it all alone from the banking angle. From which I deduce,” said Julia, fitting another of Mr. Lynch’s cigarettes into a small delicate silver-and-ebony holder, “that not only does the B. of E. know all about his job, and bless it, but that it is something peculiarly hush. Otherwise why the panic? Geoffrey’s letter was panic-stricken.”
    â€œIn the typed officialese?”
    â€œOh, no—the panic was in an MS. P.S.,” said Julia, grinning a little, while a faint and becoming blush stole over her apricot-tinted cheeks.
    â€œH’m. I think I see.”
    â€œAnd your horrible Panoukian person shutting up like a
clam
at the very sound of Colin’s name confirms that, wouldn’t you say? If it was all open and in the clear he’d have said, ‘Oh, yes, of course—I’ll send you his address tomorrow,’ don’t you think?”
    â€œUm. Yes. I daresay you’re onto something. Have you got the letter from your Treasury pal on you?”
    â€œNo, I left it on board, locked up. He said I was on no account to start you snooping,” added Julia, with a giggle.
    â€œThat won’t worry me,” said Mr. Lynch. “I’m an Irish citizen; I’ve no commitments to the Old Lady of Thread-needle Street, certainly none to override those to the
young
lady, Julia my dear! I’ll snoop for all I’m worth. Give me your Tangier address, by the way—and the telephone number.”
    â€œI’ll have to post you that; I don’t know it.”
    â€œThen remember to airmail it. Surface mail from Tangier takes an eternity.”
    â€œAll surface mail takes an eternity since airmail began—I think they put the letters on ox-wagons,” said Julia—and Mr. Lynch laughed.
    He drove her down to the docks himself. Having been fetched and carried by Ali, Julia had not troubled to register exactly where her ship lay, and they had to cruise about under the arc-lights for some time till she spotted the small neat shape of the
Vidago.
    â€œGolly, what a comic little tub!” said Mr. Lynch. “I must say I think you’re pretty devoted, Julia, to have crossed the Bay in winter on that! Who is the devotion to, the missing