Читать книгу Paul Temple: East of Algiers - Francis Durbridge, Francis Durbridge - Страница 6

THERE was little sleep in store for Steve and me that night. At my suggestion Mirabel was summoned and a cold-looking dawn was lightening the sky before we had made our statements and been given permission to withdraw.

We were awakened by a buzz on the house telephone at ten o’clock. A quarter of an hour later our petit déjeuner was brought up on a nice big tray. We had barely finished our coffee and croissants when the ’phone buzzed once more. Mirabel was in the hall below and wanted to see me again.

‘I’m just going to have a bath,’ Steve said. ‘You can tell him to come up here.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not dressed yet,’ I told the telephone. ‘Would you mind coming up to room number thirteen? Or if you’d rather I’ll get dressed and be down in about ten minutes.’

Mirabel decided to come up. Within a minute he was at the door. He had found time to shave and change his collar. Spick and span as he was, he looked very out of place in our chaotic bedroom. I pulled him up a chair and offered him a cigarette, which he refused. I thought, however, that his manner was more friendly than the previous night.

‘Are you any further on?’ I asked, trying to show the right amount of polite interest.

‘I have had time to communicate with our English colleagues and obtain some information about you, Mr. Temple. They tell me that though you have a gift for attracting trouble towards you, you are not usually the prime cause of it.’

I laughed, imagining Vosper’s wording of such a message.

‘Then I’m off your list of suspects?’

‘I think so,’ Mirabel said and smiled. ‘You will be interested to hear that we have solved the mystery of the same woman being murdered twice. It now appears that the girl found in the dustbin behind your flat was not Judy Wincott at all, though she was half American too and her name was Diana Simmonds. Our mistake was a natural one, since a letter found in her bag bore the name Judy Wincott and the murdered woman resembled her enough for the concierge to mistake her for the Miss Judy Wincott who had enquired for you the previous evening.’

Mirabel seemed prepared to dismiss the subject at that. I expected him to ask me a great many more questions and there were several that I would like to have put myself. But the Inspector limited himself to feeling in his breast pocket and producing a small object wrapped in tissue paper.

‘I am returning the glasses to you as I promised,’ he said. ‘Without the case, though. Our people soon reduced that to its elemental components.’

‘Did you find anything?’

Mirabel shook his head.

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Did you have the spectacles checked?’

‘Yes, of course. There is nothing unusual about them. They are a perfectly ordinary pair of spectacles.’

He unwrapped them from their tissue paper and inspected them casually before handing them across to me.

‘Genuine tortoiseshell, too clear to conceal anything. And the lenses – well, there is nothing, is there?’

I took the glasses reluctantly.

‘I can’t help wondering. All the trouble seemed to begin from the moment these spectacles came into my life…’

‘You can rest assured, Mr. Temple. If there were anything abnormal about those spectacles our experts would have found out about it.’

The Inspector rose to his feet and pulled his jacket down.

‘I am sorry that your holiday has been interrupted in such an unpleasant way, and grateful to you for your co-operation.’

He held out his hand.

‘Give my homage to madame, your wife. I hope you will have a pleasant journey to Tunis.’

‘We are free to carry on?’ I said, still surprised that Mirabel was letting us off so lightly. ‘You won’t require us to give evidence at the inquest?’

‘It will not be necessary,’ Mirabel assured me. ‘You can continue your journey and Mr. David Foster can recover his spectacles – which I feel he must be missing very badly.’

I had risen to my feet at the same time as Mirabel but I still felt reluctant to let him go.

‘Will you forgive me, Inspecteur, if I ask you something?’

Mirabel shrugged non-committally, but he waited for my question.

‘This woman who was murdered in the Avenue Georges V – do you know who she was?’

‘We have found that out,’ Mirabel said readily enough. ‘She had several names but the one she used the most of the time was Lydia Maresse. She was known to Interpol as an international criminal.’

‘Any idea of the motive for her murder?’

‘None at all.’

I hesitated for a moment while Mirabel studied me quizzically.

‘Inspecteur – it surely does not escape you that there must be some connection between the two crimes, since Judy Wincott’s handbag was planted on the body found in Paris. Nor can it have failed to strike you as odd that my wife and I should have been so close at hand on each occasion.’

Mirabel raised his eyebrows and studied his immaculate nails.

‘These facts had not escaped us, Mr. Temple. But we are satisfied none the less that you had nothing to do with either crime.’

He suddenly smiled, offered me his hand again and turned to the door. It had almost closed on him when his head was poked in again.

‘If by any chance I need to contact you again I can always be sure of finding you. Thanks to Interpol we can reach the people who interest us in almost any country in the world.’

Steve and I had half a day to kill. We were again booked for the afternoon flight, this time to Algiers. I felt that what she most wanted was a breath of honest fresh air, as far away from that accursed hotel as possible. Enquiries at the hotel desk revealed that it was quite feasible to hire a small yacht. Sailing is a sport both Steve and I are addicted to and by half-past eleven we were well out from the shore in a neat little dinghy with racy lines.

For an hour we enjoyed the illusion that no inquisitive or prying eyes were watching us. From out at sea Nice, with its long promenade of white buildings, gay sun shades and the hills rising in tiers behind it, looked even more attractive than from land. A number of other craft were out on the water. Several speed-boats were towing water ski-ers at speed across the bay and there were a dozen other yachts of various sizes about. The water was not rough, but there was enough of a breeze to make sailing an energetic job that occupied most of our attention. Every now and then an aircraft taking off from the Nice airport skimmed low over our heads.

The wind was whipping the hair away from Steve’s ears, and I could see the colour returning to her pallid cheeks. We had just gone about for the twentieth time and were sitting on the gunwale to counterbalance the dinghy when she pointed to one of the speed-boats which had been cruising in our vicinity for some time.

‘He seems very interested in us,’ she called to me above the noise of the spray and the water swishing under our bows. ‘I think he’s watching us through binoculars.’

I glanced at the launch and then turned to laugh at Steve. She is a very attractive woman, but unusually modest, and she can never bring herself to attribute the attention and interest of other gentlemen to the very apparent attractiveness of her person. In the blue trousers and scarlet shirt she was wearing this morning she was likely to be the target for more than one pair of eyes.

A sudden gust of wind made the dinghy tip over dangerously, and we had to lean right back to keep her sails up out of the water. It was quite a tricky moment, and several hectic minutes passed before we had things under control again. Our canvas hid the cruising speedboat from us until I brought the dinghy’s head round to work her back to the shore. The noise of wind and water was so high that we had been unable to hear the sound of the engine. Even when I did hear the powerful roar I thought that it was just another aircraft taking off.

Steve’s shout switched my attention to our starboard beam.

‘Alter course, Paul. He’s coming straight for us!’

I looked up and saw the speed-boat no more than twenty yards away. Her engines must have been at full power, for her bows were well clear of the surface. A cliff of water seemed to be sheering away from either side of her steeply sloping sides. Every time she hit a wave the white foam went hissing outwards.

She must have been doing thirty or forty knots. On her present course she must surely ram us.

It was hopeless to shout and attract the attention of the pilot. He wouldn’t have heard us, and anyway his bows were riding so high that I doubted whether he could see us.

I slammed the tiller over and ducked as the boom came across. The dinghy yawed. She had lost all momentum and wallowed in a trough of water, a helpless and motionless prey for the oncoming speed-boat. She bore down on us like a swooping hawk.

When she was twenty yards away I shouted to Steve: ‘Jump for it!’

Hand in hand we leapt into the sea, as far from the path of the speed-boat as we could. Even as we rose to the surface we heard the crash behind us and the splinter of wood. The big speed-boat had cut the flimsy dinghy clean in two. Next instant a wall of creamy water hit us, filling our eyes and noses, thrusting us deep under the water. All the time I kept Steve’s hand clutched in mine.

When we got our heads above water and recovered our breath the hum of the speed-boat was quite distant. A wave lifted me up and I saw his wake disappearing in the direction of Monte Carlo.

The biggest piece of wreckage left was a section of the mast, which had a life-belt attached to it. Dragging Steve, I paddled towards it and we each grabbed hold of one side.

‘Well,’ Steve remarked to me bitterly, between gasping breaths. ‘Do you still maintain that the man in that boat was only interested in my elegant torso?’

As we bobbed aimlessly up and down, the coast seemed to be as far away as the Antipodes. None of the other craft in the neighbourhood had noticed the accident, and there was not enough of our dinghy left to attract attention. Luckily the water was not unbearably cold. I thought we could hold on till darkness at least. During that time someone must surely come near enough to spot us.

In the end it was less than ten minutes before we were found. A rather slow but obviously safe fishing-boat came chugging out straight towards us. As it drew near I began to wonder if there was going to be room on board, since half the population of Nice’s old quarter seemed to have thumbed a ride out to watch the rescue.

So many willing helpers reached down to haul us out of the water that our arms were nearly pulled out of their sockets. There were even some especially keen rescuers who would have been only too willing to apply artificial respiration to Steve.

‘Doucement, doucement! Faîtes place pour Madame.’

The accent was pretty good, but there was still that slight broadness of speech which betrays the Englishman. I looked round and saw the young man who had shared our discovery of Judy Wincott’s body. His name, as I knew all too well by now, was Tony Wyse. He seemed to have been accepted by the crew and passengers as the leader of the salvage operations, and in answer to his instructions room was made for us while dry pullovers and jackets were pressed on our soaked bodies.

‘It was a bit of luck I saw it all happen,’ Wyse told us, as he held his lighter to the cigarettes we had accepted. ‘I’m interested in sailing myself, and I was watching your yacht through one of those penny-in-the-slot telescopes they have on the front.’

Steve and I exchanged an amused glance. We had been speculating that morning on the convenience of those same telescopes for gentlemen who are keen on bird watching.

‘Did you see what happened?’ I asked him. ‘I’d like to lay my hands on the owner of that speed-boat. For one thing the dinghy’s a total loss and someone will have to pay for her.’

‘You needn’t worry about that,’ Wyse assured me airily. ‘They all have pretty comprehensive insurance.’

His day attire was as colourful as his night wear. He sported a pair of fawn flannel trousers which were as innocent of wrinkle as of spot, intermesh shoes, one of those Spanish-cut shirts with horizontal stripes and sailor neck, which you wear outside your trousers, and a silk neckerchief tied round his throat – more for beauty than for warmth. ‘Killer’ was written all over him, but strictly a lady-killer. He was not a man’s man.

‘He did it on purpose,’ Steve stated rather wildly. ‘I knew he was watching us in a malice aforethought kind of way. If we hadn’t jumped into the sea we would have been killed. I tell you, Paul, it’s all because of those confounded—’

‘It certainly was a freak accident,’ I interrupted quickly, and turned to Wyse. ‘How did it seem to you?’

Wyse raised a shoulder elegantly.

‘It’s hard to say whether he saw your boat or not. But you can’t seriously be suggesting that he ran you down on purpose, can you? I mean, you don’t even know who it was, do you?’

Wyse’s tone was that of an elder soothing the fears of children who have just awakened from a nightmare.

‘Then why—’ Steve began.

‘No, of course not,’ I said, and tried to quell Steve’s protestations with a wink. ‘It was just one of those million to one chances. We’re none the less grateful to you for coming so promptly to the rescue. It looks as if we may still catch this afternoon’s plane to Algiers.’

‘You’re flying to Algiers to-day?’ Wyse queried. He smiled broadly and his eyes rested comfortably on Steve’s face. ‘But this is going to be delightful. I shall be on the Algiers plane myself.’

We caught the Algiers plane with only a minute to spare. It had taken me a long time to come to terms with the owner of the dinghy. We were forced to fling our things into the suitcases and bolt our lunch before careering out to the airport in a taxi. The other passengers had already been escorted to the big Air France machine. Luckily there were no customs or immigration formalities to be observed, and a smartly uniformed young woman marched us rapidly out to the aircraft, just before the steps were wheeled away.

Our seats were half-way along the aircraft. At our own request we each had a seat next to the window, and so were sitting opposite to each other. By no means all the available space in the aircraft had been booked, but the seat next to Steve’s was occupied by a vision whose age I put at somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-seven. That she was French seemed obvious from the start. She drew her legs demurely aside to let Steve squeeze past and, under the guise of a friendly smile, the two women exchanged a wary, appraising glance.

The contrast between them was very marked. Whereas Steve was dark and did not have recourse to much makeup, this girl was an ash-blonde. Her hair was so immaculately dressed and glistening that I felt certain she must have been to the coiffeur that morning. Her eye-lashes were too long to be all her own, her nails were varnished and her lips were tinted by a faintly mauve lipstick. Yet there was nothing flashy or cheap about her appearance. You felt rather that she was a very lovely woman who took the maximum care to present herself well.

She must have been a novice at air travel, for when the illuminated sign was switched on she fumbled helplessly with her seat belt and got her own straps mixed up with Steve’s. Steve showed her how to fasten herself in.

The French girl smiled charmingly and groped in her mind for words.

‘Sank you very mush,’ she said, and gave a shy laugh.

‘Not at all,’ Steve said. ‘You’re not very accustomed to air travel?’

‘Please?’

‘I said: you have not travelled by air-o-plane much before?’

The French girl shook her head a little, but not so much as to disturb the ash-blonde hair.

‘Yes, sometimes already but not since several years.’

The aircraft was turning on the tarmac, preparing to lumber out to the end of the runway. The stewardess, a reassuring smile on her face, was moving up the aisle, asking passengers to put their cigarettes out, making sure their belts were properly fastened. The French girl was leaning forward, looking out of the window rather nervously at the rapidly passing ground. I knew that Steve was trying to keep her mind from the take-off when she resumed the conversation.

‘You are staying in Algiers or going further on?’

‘I go to Tunis. But of course I must first stop at Algiers and catch the airplane to Tunis the next day.’

‘That’s what we are doing. We shall be fellow passengers again to-morrow then.’

‘Yes. I shall begin to know you very well. I saw you in the hotel last night when the police were questioning all the guests.’

‘Oh, you were staying there too, were you?’

‘It must have been terribly désagréable for you to find that poor girl like that.’

‘Yes,’ Steve agreed. ‘It was.’

‘How horrible to think that you were in the very next room while an assassin was committing his crime!’

Now that she was warming to the conversation the French girl’s English was improving. She seemed very interested indeed in all the circumstances of Judy Wincott’s murder and began to ply Steve with questions.

‘Do you believe it was an attempt to make the police believe you and your husband had committed the crime?’

Steve shot me a startled glance.

‘Good gracious, I don’t think so.’

‘But it is a fact that if the other monsieur had not been there you would have been in a situation – très embarassante.’

‘Well, perhaps we would—’ Steve began.

‘Though myself I think that she was murdered before she was brought to the room next to yours.’

‘Oh?’ Steve said. ‘Then why did the murderer make such a noise about placing her body in the cupboard?’

‘Well,’ the French girl said thoughtfully. ‘He may have wanted that you should do précisément that which you did – precipitate yourselves into the room where the body was finding itself.’

The aircraft had reached the end of the runway and the roar of the engines as the pilot tested them precluded further conversation. The stewardess had strapped herself into her own seat at the rear end. After a momentary hush the engines roared again and the machine began to rush over the ground at rapidly increasing speed. The French girl leant her head back against the seat cushion and I saw her throat move as she swallowed. It was the only sign she gave that she was nervous.

In a few moments our wheels were clear, the flight became smooth and the sea was below us, dropping away rapidly as the aircraft banked and turned southwards towards the North African coast. The sign enjoining passengers to desist from smoking went out, and from all around came the clinking of clasps as people released themselves from their safety belts.

As soon as her buckle was undone the French girl picked up her handbag, and her long, shapely fingers groped for a tiny gold cigarette-case. She took a cigarette, placed it carefully in a holder and put it in her mouth. Then she handed the case to Steve, who smiled and accepted one of the Egyptian cigarettes. The French girl felt in her bag again and produced a new container of book matches. The cover was plain blue, stamped in gilt with the initials S.L.

She struck a match and held it for Steve. I saw my wife staring in a very curious wav at the book matches. Then she collected herself and puffed at her light.

‘You like my matches?’ The French girl had also noticed Steve’s expression and was smiling. ‘These are my initials. Simone Lalange. It is quite charming, is it not?’

I thought Steve’s assent a little forced, and I was disappointed in her when she broke off the conversation. I began to wonder if she was feeling air-sick, for her expression had altered and she was watching me in an expectant kind of way.

I leaned across the table.

‘Feeling all right, Steve?’

‘Yes, thanks. More or less. I could use a brandy to steady my tummy though. We must have eaten that meal in record time.’

‘There’s a bar in the tail of this machine. Shall we go and have a drink?’

No one else had yet thought of visiting the bar, so we had the little compartment to ourselves.

‘Paul!’ Steve said excitedly as soon as the steward had moved behind his tiny counter. ‘You remember when we were standing outside that bedroom last night – just before we discovered the body?’

‘I do. Most emphatically.’

‘Well, I noticed something on the floor and picked it up. It was an empty box of book matches.’

‘Yes, I noticed you stooping and wondered what you’d dropped. I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘So had I. But I distinctly remember now. It had a blue cover with the initials S.L. on it.’

I shot an instinctive glance towards the seats we had just vacated.

‘You saw the book matches that French girl had,’ Steve pursued. ‘They were an exact replica.’

‘Did you tell the police about your find? It’s rather important.’

‘No. I’d forgotten all about it until now. The thing is still in the pocket of my dressing-gown. You know the way a shock drives everything that’s happened previously out of your mind?’

‘Perhaps it’s not so very important,’ I reassured her. ‘Mademoiselle Lalange may have been shown the room before it was allotted to Mr. Sam Leyland, or she may have thrown it away at any time when she was passing by.’

‘Maybe,’ Steve said doubtfully. ‘But did you hear what she had to say about the murder? She seemed to have more theories than anyone else.’

‘Well, if you really do regard her with suspicion, I suggest you behave in a more friendly way to her. She’s more likely to open up if you don’t give her the cold shoulder.’

‘Did I give her the cold shoulder?’

‘Yes. You closed up like a clam the moment she’d lit your cigarette for you. I can’t really bring myself to believe she’s mixed up in this, but I think you should cultivate her. In any case she’d make a very interesting friend for the family.’

Steve’s glance had the glint of a dagger in it.

‘I know you think my theories are all very amusing,’ she said. ‘But I’m convinced that some very monkey business is going on, and equally convinced that it has to do with those spectacles. It was because of them that Judy Wincott was murdered, and because of them that we were run down by that launch this morning. Someone is prepared to stop at nothing to prevent us delivering them to David Foster.’

‘Whereas you are not prepared to let anything stop you doing so?’

‘Right first time,’ Steve answered belligerently, and her mouth set in the firm line which indicates that she really means business.

The aircraft had gained its cruising height now and had levelled off. I set my drink down on the low bar table and watched Steve with amusement.

‘If the glasses are so vitally important I’m glad you took charge of them, Steve. By the way I suppose you still have them?’

‘Of course I have. They’re in my handbag.’

She opened her handbag to prove the point to me, and a second later was groping about feverishly among the collection of assorted and mysterious objects she keeps in there. Then she withdrew her hand and closed the bag deliberately.

‘They’re gone! Someone must have taken them from my bag since we got on the plane. They were there when we showed our tickets. That French girl! I knew she—’

Steve was already rising when I put a hand to stop her. I patted my handkerchief pocket where the glasses were safely reposing.

‘I thought it wise to relieve you of the responsibility. Have you forgotten that since we’ve been married you’ve lost three of the handbags I gave you?’

Steve looked at me with undisguised repugnance as she rose to her feet.

‘You are not fit to command the loyalty of a decent woman,’ she said in her most regal tone, and marched out of the bar.

I was not left alone in the bar for long. Either by chance or because he had seen Steve leave, Tony Wyse appeared within a few moments. He greeted me enthusiastically, and after ordering a brandy and soda sat down beside me. He had changed for the journey into a dark grey suit, suède bootees and a striped tie. After the events of the previous night and the rescue operations that morning he was prepared to regard me as a long-lost brother.

‘One thing puzzles me about that business last night, Temple. When you opened the cupboard door and disclosed the simply ghastly spectacle of that slaughtered girl, your wife gave vent to a comment which has made me ponder more than somewhat. She seemed to know at once who it was.’

Wyse raised his glass, but he was studying me closely as he put his question.

‘Was she a friend of yours?’

‘Not exactly a friend. We’d met her briefly in Paris. That’s all.’

‘In Paris?’

The information seemed to surprise Wyse.

‘Yes. It was a chance encounter. She was very kind to my wife and we invited her to have a drink with us.’

‘You told the police this?’

‘Yes, of course. Did you imagine I was trying to hide something?’

‘No, indeed.’ Wyse hurriedly took a sip of his brandy and switched on the charm, which just for a moment had worn thin. ‘I’m sorry to appear to be so inquisitive, but one can’t help wondering about a murder, especially when one stumbles on the victim before she’s even cold.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t enlighten you,’ I said.

Wyse seemed prepared to take the hint implied in my tone of voice and changed the subject.

‘This is your first trip to French North Africa?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Perhaps I can be of some service to you? I know both Algiers and Tunis pretty well. I would esteem it a privilege if you would permit me to conduct your wife and yourself round some of the curiosities.’

I thought that a whole day of Wyse’s roundabout brand of conversation would send me out of my mind.

I said: ‘It’s very kind of you, but we are hoping to meet friends there. Does your business bring you out here?’

‘Yes. I work for Freeman & Bailey – the engineering firm, you know. We have a good deal of business with Trans-Africa Petroleum.’

‘Trans-Africa Petroleum? Perhaps you know a slight acquaintance of mine who’s in that firm? His name is David Foster.’

‘David Foster?’ Wyse echoed the words with judicious thoughtfulness. ‘No. I can’t say I know him. Of course, I’m constantly on the move, so I miss meeting everyone.’

‘You are an engineer yourself?’

‘No. Not really an engineer. I am in the liaison department, as you might say – I hold a roving brief.’

He smiled broadly, but I felt that where questions were concerned, he did not relish being at the receiving end. He excused himself, signalled to the steward and made his exit.

The bar was becoming fuller, and I decided it was time I made way for someone else. I was already rising when the gentle pressure of a hand on my shoulder stopped me. I looked down at the hand. It was podgy and very white. Little dimples smiled at the backs of the fingers. Beyond snow-white silk cuffs was the black material of a very expensive suit. My eyes travelled upwards till they had taken in the appearance of the man who had sat down beside me.

I disliked him at once. He was too reminiscent of a white slug. That sickly sweet perfume which he exhaled suggested that his own odour must be strong and unpleasant. His eyes were small, his mouth lascivious. He was growing bald on top but allowed his back hair to curl upwards over the back of his collar.

‘One moment, please. You are Mr. Temple, are you not?’

He spoke with his mouth offensively close to my face, more in a whisper than in a normal speaking voice.

‘I am. I don’t think I have the pleasure of knowing you.’

‘Maybe not,’ the plump man said. ‘My name is Constantin. Blanys Constantin. You, I think, are Mr. Paul Temple?’

I did not answer. The steward came to enquire what Constantin wanted to drink, but he waved him away impatiently.

‘You were in Nice last night, Mr. Temple, staying at the hotel where a girl named Judy Wincott was murdered.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘The newspapers made a good story of it.’

‘Not a complete story. They did not say that you had met Miss Wincott in Paris.’

‘Perhaps they did not consider it a very important piece of news.’

‘Other people might consider it interesting, though, might they not, Mr. Temple? Especially if they knew the reason for her visit to your flat in the Avenue Georges V.’

The man had edged even closer, and his voice had dropped. As I was at the end of the couch I had no means of escape unless I was prepared to use violence on him.

‘You did not tell the police that she had entrusted you with a certain very valuable document, did you, Mr. Temple?’

My anger was beginning to rise, but I continued to keep my voice down.

‘I did not tell them so because it would have been quite untrue.’

‘Come, come,’ Constantin said. ‘You and I know better than that.’

‘If you want the truth, Miss Wincott simply asked me to return a pair of spectacles to a Mr. David Foster who lives in Tunis – where my wife and I happen to be going.’

Constantin blinked rapidly several times. For a moment he seemed floored, then returned rapidly to the attack.

‘You are being made a fool of, Mr. Temple. There is no such person as Mr. David Foster, and those spectacles will only bring difficulties for you.’

‘I think it is you who are being a fool, Mr. Constantin. The spectacles are a perfectly ordinary pair – there’s nothing mystic or magic about them, and there’s no possibility that they are connected in any way with the murder of Miss Wincott.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Constantin’s eyes flickered rapidly round to make sure that no one was taking an interest in our conversation. ‘Nevertheless, I will give you a thousand pounds if you will hand those spectacles over to me.’

I began to laugh and shake my head, but Constantin pressed me back into my seat.

‘Five thousand pounds,’ he said with intensity, and then almost without a pause: ‘Ten thousand! Do not think that I cannot pay so much, because I can. You can collect the money as soon as we arrive in Algiers.’

‘You are wasting your time,’ I said bluntly, and this time I did push him out of my way so that I could get up.

‘No,’ he called after me quite loudly as I left the bar. ‘It is you who are wasting time. I tell you, you will never find your David Foster!’