Love Is Dangerous Read online

  Bing drew out a couple of number plates and with an expert hand detached those that were already on the car and replaced them with the others, while Melina stood watching him.

  “What is going to be our story now?” she enquired.

  “I have a feeling that we may be a step ahead of our enemies,” he replied. “They may not have caught up with the idea that we have come to Fez. I may be wrong, but something in my bones tells me that the man in the tree was there by chance. He was not expecting us, but was only posted as a kind of sentry.”

  He stood by to admire his handiwork.

  “The opposition do that sort of thing,” he went on. “Half the slumberers at the street corners or the beggars hanging round the fountains are there for a purpose, although one has no idea what it is until something happens.”

  “In which case,” Melina said slowly, “they – whoever they may be – do not know that we have come to Fez.”

  “That is something we have to take a chance on.”

  He pulled an old and battered suitcase out of the secret partition in the boot. It was covered with labels of a dozen different countries. He opened it and taking off his coat, shirt and tie, put on an American shirt worn outside his trousers with an open neck and short sleeves. It was screamingly vulgar with bright coloured flowers on a yellow ground.

  He next produced a white cap of the type that Midwest Americans usually affect while they are in Europe and put a pair of dark glasses on his nose. He looked so completely American – and a rather inferior brand at that – that Melina stood laughing at him.

  “I only hope your accent matches the get-up,” she commented.

  “It will,” he answered a little grimly.

  “And me? What about me!” she asked.

  “No disguise for you,” he said, firmly shutting up his suitcase. “You’re my English wife. Don’t forget that there may have been people who have seen you in Tangier. By the way, does anybody over here know that you are Sir Frederick Lindsay’s daughter?”

  “I told Mrs. Schuster when she engaged me,” Melina said. “But she had never heard of my father. She wasn’t in the least interested.”

  “She wouldn’t be,” Bing said. “And for once let’s be glad that it seemed of no consequence to her. But it may be a tremendous asset to us later on. One never knows. In this game one learns that every card one holds may prove an ace or a joker sooner or later.”

  He climbed back into the car having first helped Melina into her seat.

  “Now we have to be absolutely ready with our story,” he said, as they drove off towards Fez.

  “Is anyone likely to question us about it?” Melina enquired.

  “You never know,” he answered. “You, Melina Lindsay, came out to Tangier with Mrs. Schuster as her secretary because we had had a tiff. We had been married only a short while and after a row I walked out on you and went back to the States. So you reverted to your maiden name and took a job. Fortunately I had a change of heart and arrived just as Mrs. Schuster had sacked you, to carry you off on a second honeymoon. OK?”

  “It sounds all right,” Melina said doubtfully. “I’ve never been to America, of course.”

  “Well, I have,” he answered. “I lived there for over a year so that part is easy. What we have to do now is to choose is a nice name. What do you fancy? Don’t choose anything so difficult that you won’t remember it.”

  “The only American I ever knew well,” Melina said reflectively, “was a girl in the office where I learned to type. Her name was Cutter.”

  “Fine! That will do,” Bing exclaimed. “Mr. and Mrs. Cutter! Not very distinguished, but then we don’t want to be obtrusive, do we?”

  Melina was looking ahead down the darkening road and did not answer him for the moment. And then, as the outline of Fez came in sight against the evening sky, she said,

  “Bing, I am frightened!”

  “So am I,” he answered. “But I keep thinking of that little boy and wondering how petrified he must be.”

  Melina gave herself a shake. Yet the fears that lay at the back of her mind came crowding in on her as they passed quickly through the French part of the town and now at last she saw the huge walls of the native citadel.

  They passed one gateway into it and then came to another, around which was seething an enormous number of people. Now the fluorescent lighting of the modern Fez was left behind and there were flares on the sides of the streets, the lighted windows of tall ancient houses and the noise, dust and stench of the Arab quarter.

  In any other circumstances Melina would have been thrilled and excited.

  As it was she stared wide-eyed at the chattering, shouting crowds, at the veiled women, at the men with their turbans, fezzes and hooded burnous.

  Bing was too intent on driving carefully through the crowds to notice anything but the figures that kept running in front of him, the laden donkeys that blocked his way or the bicycles that refused to let him pass.

  Dark eyes turned to stare at them, but they were by no means the only tourists to be seen. There were Americans, fat Germans with expensive cameras hung round their necks, Italians joining in the noise and the laughter, Spaniards looking gloomy and even a number of middle-aged English women who had obviously come on a bus tour accompanied by a courier who pointed out places of interest to them in a strident voice.

  The road, with its colourful stalls and shops, seemed endless.

  Finally it widened and Bing parked the car beside two or three others and permitted a small boy to look after it.

  “Come along, honey,” he said with a nasal twang. “We’ve just got to buy a few souvenirs to take home with us.”

  Melina repressed a desire to giggle at his accent and let him lead her back into the street down which they had just driven. There was the smell of mint and onions, the tang of leather, of horses, sheep and goats, and over it all the indescribable mysterious smell of the East which Melina felt, though she had never smelt it before, was exactly what she had expected.

  Figures rushed by them, dark eyes stared at them from behind yashmaks. A big man, shouting angrily, pushed them to one side to allow a herd of bleating lambs to pass.

  “It’s market day tomorrow,” Bing said quietly.

  They stopped outside one of the shops and Bing allowed the shopkeeper to show him some native shoes embroidered with gold thread, hesitated over them, turned them over and asked the price and finally said,

  “We cannot make up our minds for the moment. We’ll come back later.”

  They crossed the road to do much the same performance in a shop that sold brocades, muslins and cottons, all dyed the brilliant colours of the rainbow and which were exciting the interest of a number of Moslem women.

  Then they walked on again and stopped beside a stall covered with cheap jewellery. There were bangles, glass and brass, there were necklaces of multi-coloured paste and dozens of long gilt chains from which hung the Hand of Fatima.

  Everyone in the Eastern countries knows the Hand of Fatima, which is considered lucky. Nearly every Moslem child wears one round its neck. But Melina had never seen one until now and she stared at them with interest.

  “I know you’d like one of those,” Bing said, “but these aren’t good enough.”

  He turned to the shopkeeper.

  “Have you got a Hand with real stones?” he enquired.

  “What stones would you like, sir?” the shopkeeper asked.

  “Rubies, if possible, although, of course, red means danger.”

  “There is no danger in the Hand of Fatima,” the shopkeeper answered. “Only good fortune for you, sir, and for your lady.”

  “Of course, I was but joking,” Bing told him.

  “I will see what I can find you, sir, if you will step inside.”

  Melina had a quick impression that Bing’s questions and the shopkeeper’s replies had a special meaning and when they crossed into the small, cell-like shop, which was piled high with leather goods, carpet
s and embroidered slippers, her suspicion was confirmed.

  “Come this way, sir, I have something that will be of great interest to you,” the shopkeeper was saying. And then swiftly he had pulled aside a hanging carpet and revealed a small door behind it.

  Bing went ahead and Melina followed. The other side of the door was in darkness and for a moment she stood there, uncertain and afraid to go forward.

  Then she felt Bing search for her hand and he was pulling her up a narrow rickety staircase onto the first floor.

  “Open the door at the top, sir, and you will be able to see your way,” she heard the shopkeeper say behind them.

  They reached the top, Bing turned the handle of a door and they were stepping into a room lit by an oil lamp on a small table in the centre. There was no furniture, only cushions on the floor, and the window veiled by lace curtains looked out over the crowded busy street they had just left.

  Bing turned and held out his hand to the shopkeeper.

  “Did you recognise me, Rasmin, you old rascal?” he asked.

  “Not for a moment, Mr. Ward. Your accent deceived me and your glasses. Then, when you spoke, when you made the sign, I was sure it was you.”

  “You were expecting me?” Bing asked.

  “There was a telephone call earlier this afternoon,” Rasmin replied.

  He indicated the cushions on the floor and then, going to the door, he clapped his hands. A woman appeared, veiled and wearing the shapeless, flowing white robes which made it difficult to tell whether she was young or old.

  “Tea for two good customers,” Rasmin said to her.

  He waited until she had gone and then turned with a smile towards Bing and Melina, who were already seated on the leather cushions.

  “Your daughter?” Bing asked.

  “My niece,” Rasmin replied. “My daughter has taken a position in Marrakesh. She might be useful to you.”

  “Shall we be going there?” Bing enquired meaningfully.

  “The answer lies in the Hand of Fatima,” Rasmin replied.

  “You are doing well here?” Bing asked him.

  For a moment Melina was surprised at his conversational tone and the sudden lack of urgency in the way that he sat, comfortably cross-legged on the cushion and Rasmin sat down with care opposite him.

  Then she remembered how her father had said that one could never hurry in the East. It was etiquette to be polite, to drink the tea of friendship and then finally, when a European would be seething with impatience, to come to the point.

  “Rasmin is an old friend of mine,” Bing said, turning to Melina. “Rasmin, this is my wife.”

  Rasmin bowed and touched his forehead in salute.

  “May good fortune and happiness come to both of you,” he said.

  The mint tea was brought by the Moslem girl and set down on the table. It was hot and sweet in handleless cups of beaten brass and Melina burned her mouth before she remembered to sip it slowly.

  Finally, after what seemed to her an interminable time, the courtesies had been observed.

  “How much do you know, Rasmin?” Bing asked.

  “I learned why you were coming here,” he replied.

  “The child! Is he here in Fez?”

  Rasmin spread out his hands with an eloquent gesture.

  “I think so,” he answered, “but only Allah can be sure.”

  “How much is known of this?”

  “Those who have taken him know and have made much talk of it with their supporters,” Rasmin said.

  “That, we expected,” Bing answered. “Are they surprised that there has been no public statement and no publicity?”

  “Very surprised. They expected a great outcry, headlines in the papers, Police and troops searching everywhere.”

  “It is the one thing that must be avoided,”

  “I think I understand why,” Rasmin nodded.

  “How many of them are in Fez?” Bing asked.

  Again Rasmin made the wide gesture with his arms.

  “Who can count the grains of sand?” he questioned. “And yet there are many, like myself, who are loyal, but might be too afraid to say so in such a situation.”

  “That is what I expected,” Bing said. “But they will help if necessary?”

  “They will help, those who carry the Hand of Fatima,” Rasmin answered.

  He drew from the folds of his robe a small object, which he held out to Bing on the palm of his hand. Melina leaned forward to look at it curiously.

  It was the Hand of Fatima she saw, just the same shape as those on sale outside hanging from their cheap chains. But this one was different. It was of bright blue enamel in which were set small rubies surrounded by tiny diamonds.

  Bing took it from Rasmin’s with something like reverence.

  “There are only three of these in the whole of Morocco,” he said. “Do you trust me with this one?”

  “It is not I who give it to you,” Rasmin replied.

  “That I understand, but I am grateful, very grateful.”

  “Don’t let it be seen,” Rasmin said. “Should they know that you have it, your life will be forfeit.”

  “My life is already forfeit on a number of other counts,” Bing smiled. “But I agree with you, this might prove a more serious way of dying.”

  He slipped his hand inside his shirt and Melina saw that he had a leather belt round his waist. He put the tiny emblem somewhere inside it and buttoned up his shirt again.

  “Where do you think the child is?” he asked Rasmin.

  “That is not known as yet, but I have my suspicions.”

  “He is here in the native town?”

  Rasmin shook his head.

  “No, I think he is at the house of Moulay Ibrahim.”

  “Moulay Ibrahim!” Bing ejaculated. “You mean that he is in this?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” Rasmin answered. “But there is a story that came from Tangier that one of the men who spirited away the boy had a deep scar at the corner of his left eye. There is such a man staying at this very moment with Moulay Ibrahim, He arrived here yesterday.”

  “Who is he? What do we know about him?”

  “He is a Russian,” Rasmin said quietly.

  Bing suddenly clapped his clenched fist down on the table, making the cups clatter.

  “Then it is what I suspected all along,” he cried. “A Communist plot! I said only a few weeks ago that I felt there was infiltration, that the Communists were busy fomenting trouble. But no one would listen to me.”

  “My information may be incorrect,” Rasmin said. “I am only a poor shopkeeper. How could I know what goes on in the minds of the Nobility? But the man is there.”

  “I understood Moulay Ibrahim has always been thought to be loyal.”

  “Moulay Ibrahim is a law unto himself,” Rasmin said. “He is rich, he has his own tribe, he spends a great deal of time in Europe. Why should he worry about other matters? Unless, maybe, he seeks further power!”

  “By God! I believe you have got it!” Bing said “Moulay Ibrahim wants to rule Morocco!”

  He had raised his voice a little in the excitement of the moment. Rasmin put his fingers to his lips.

  “Take care,” he said. “Even the walls have ears! And now you have stayed here long enough to have made what purchases are necessary.”

  “How can I get to see him?” Bing asked.

  Rasmin bent towards him.

  “There is a party at his house tomorrow night,” he said. “A big dance. The son of my brother, who works there, tells me of an orchestra brought from Casablanca, of champagne from France and caviar from Russia.”

  “I have to be there,” Bing asserted.

  “That is agreed.”

  “Very well,” Bing went on. “I shall need an evening suit, a white tuxedo, and see that it has the mark of an American tailor in it and dancing shoes, also marked as if they were from New York.”

  Rasmin nodded.

  “I will tell t
he hotel that I am expecting further baggage to arrive at the station. You will see it is left there?”

  “Everything shall be as you desire,” Rasmin said.

  “And the invitations?”

  “The son of my brother will see to those. They lie in great piles in the room of Moulay Ibrahim’s secretary. It will be easy to extract two of them.”

  “That is excellent,” Bing said. “And now for tonight. If we are to stay at a hotel, which would be best? I shall need a passport. My wife can use her own as she is English. Give it to me, Melina.”

  Melina did as she was told, taking her passport out of her handbag and holding it out to him. He took it and slipped it into his pocket.

  “Our name is Cutter – Mrs. and Mrs. Cutter,” he said to Rasmin.

  “An American passport for you,” the shopkeeper said reflectively. “I think that will be quite easy.”

  “How long?” Bing enquired.

  “An hour, three-quarters. These things should not be hurried.”

  “Right,” Bing said. “My car is parked in the Square of the Serpent. Tell your boy to meet us here with the purchases we have made in thirty minutes. There is a café, if I remember rightly, a little further along the street. We will go there and eat.”

  “You will eat well so long as you don’t touch the salads forbidden to Europeans,” Rasmin smiled.

  “You forget nothing, do you, Rasmin?” Bing said affectionately.

  He clapped the older man on the back and then asked him,

  “Look at me! Is there anything wrong?”

  Rasmin looked him up and down.

  “Your hair,” he said at length. “It is a little long and they know that a fair-haired man was staying in a certain house in Tangier.”

  “All right then,” Bing said impatiently. “Dye it! But for God’s sake use one of the new tints from Europe and not some of your hellish Eastern muck. The last time you dyed my hair it took me months to get rid of the stain at the roots!”

  “We are more experienced now,” Rasmin said. “Come quickly, the time passes.”

  Bing turned to Melina.

  “You will be all right here,” he said. “I won’t be long, I promise you.”

  He went from the room with Rasmin and Melina heard the door shut behind them.