Читать книгу The Stars are Dark - Peter Cheyney - Страница 10

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Foden came out of the scrub and stood on the track that ran down the hill, widening as it went, presently turning itself into the dirt road to Suera. After a moment he began to walk again. He was limping and so he walked slowly. He stopped suddenly, sat down and began to curse. His language was terrible. He explored the uttermost recesses of blasphemy, but very quietly and with a certain concentration, giving due attention to the pronunciation of each word.

Although the humidity of the evening had turned into the coolness of a Moroccan night, Foden was covered with sweat. His drill trousers were torn and filthy. His shirt stuck to his body. His face and arms were burnt almost black. His fair tousled hair stuck to the sides of his head. The dust on his face was streaked where the sweat had run from his forehead into his eyes and down his cheeks.

He took off the offending shoe; found the tiny projection of leather which had rubbed a blister on his heel; bit it off with his teeth. There was a large hole in the back of his sock. He removed the other shoe, took off his socks, rolled them into a ball, threw them away. He put on his shoes. He got up; began to walk towards Suera.

A lousy, stinking country, thought Foden—more lousy, more stinking than he had ever known it to be. In the old days you had known what to expect in Morocco. Now whatever you expected it was a goddam sight worse. People, women, climate and drink were lousy—especially the climate and the women. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his hand; then fumbled in his trouser pocket; produced a broken piece of cigarette. He lit the stub.

On the edge of the foothills about four or five miles from Suera, or Mogador if you like to give it that name, three palm trees stood together. Foden saw them. He began to walk in that direction. He slowed down his pace, thinking.

He was wondering about Suera. He was wondering just what the situation was going to be like there. After a few minutes he came to the conclusion that wondering never got anyone anywhere. He gave it up.

Foden was very tough. He was five feet eleven inches in height, with broad shoulders, muscular arms. The palms of his hands were large, his fingers short. They were the hands of a practical man, and very strong. In spite of the blistered heel, when he put his feet on the ground he did it in a definite and practical manner. His face was thin, with a good jaw line, his eyes blue and steady. A tough proposition was Foden, as many people on the Moroccan coast had discovered.

Because he had not eaten for some time the cigarette tasted bitter on his tongue. He would have liked to have spat, but his mouth was too dry. Now and again he looked casually towards the three palm trees. Most men would have looked hopefully in that direction; but odd things like hope and luck and circumstances—good, bad or indifferent—were not allowed to enter into Foden’s calculations. He believed essentially in Foden. If this or that happened that was good so much the better. If it didn’t, well, you played in differently—that was all.

Women liked Foden—very often in spite of themselves. There was something cruel—something sadistic—in his attitude. Yet he could be very nice if he wanted to be. He could be very coarse or he could present a picture of almost refinement. He was no fool. If, most of the time, he had not got what he wanted, that had not been his fault and he did not complain, but this time ...

A figure detached itself from the three palm trees; had come out into the dusty roadway and stood looking towards Foden; then it went back and leaned against one of the trees. Foden saw the match as he lit a cigarette. When he arrived at the palm trees he saw the man.

The man was leaning up against the tree in an indolent attitude, the cigarette—a Turkish cigarette, Foden smelt—hanging from the corner of his mouth. He wore a fez and Foden thought his face reminded him of a chameleon. Beyond this he was merely filthy.

Foden said: “My name’s Foden. I take it you’re Aked?”

The man said: “Oh, yes. I am Aked.” His voice was rather high, strangely sibilant, and Foden wondered if he were a eunuch. He thought it might be possible. Anything was possible.

Foden sat down by the side of the road. He said: “Have you got any cigarettes?”

The man produced a tin. He took the lid off. He did it with a certain flourish. Foden had a fleeting mental picture of, people being shown round bazaars or being sold dirty post cards. He took the cigarette and lit it. It was a good one.

Aked said: “I am ver’ glad to see you. I expect you yesterday. I was sorry when you did not arrive. Eet was mos’ inconvenient.”

Foden drew the cigarette smoke into his lungs.

“Blast you ...” he said. “So it was inconvenient. I suppose it would be still more inconvenient if I was to get up, hold you against that tree trunk and paste your face into a jelly, you son-of-a-bitch.”

Aked grinned. He said: “I am sorry eef I have offended.”

“Don’t you worry about offending,” said Foden. “Any time I want to stop you offending I’m going to do it. I hate your guts.”

Aked said: “That ees perhaps unfortunate.”

“It just doesn’t matter,” said Foden. “But you might get it into that dirty head of yours that I’ve travelled a hundred and thirty miles in seven days—most of it on foot—from Marrakesh. You got that—most of it on foot through this goddam country?”

Aked said: “That ees almos’ unbelievable. With all thees Army lorries—French, American, British—maybe you could ’ave got a ride.”

Foden said: “Maybe—but I’m not quite certain who this goddam country belongs to yet. I don’t know whether it’s Vichy French, German, American or British. I’ve taken enough chances. Well ... ?”

Aked said: “Please ... eet ees not good to be rude. I find you rude. Eet ees good to be rude when you don’ want somethings. But you want somethings. You should be polite.”

Foden said: “Fine! I should be polite. All right. I’ll be polite. What have you got to tell me, you bastard? Is that polite enough for you?”

Aked said: “I was told that you would have some monies. I am a good business mans. First of all I require some monies.”

Foden said: “Don’t worry about the money. I wasn’t taking a chance when I came down here. My haversack is up on the hillside there in the scrub. The money’s there. You know damn’ well I’ve got it. I haven’t had anything to spend it on, have I?”

“No,” said Aked, “I don’ suppose you have.” He looked at Foden. Foden’s lips were cracked.

Aked smiled suddenly. He said: “You would like some drink. I bet you don’ have some good drink for days. I’ve got some drink for you.”

“Bloody civil of you,” said Foden. “What’s that going to cost me?”

“Nothings,” said Aked. “I give eet to you.” He dived into his filthy shirt, produced a bottle. He handed it to Foden.

Foden pulled the cork out with his teeth. He smelt it. It was brandy. He put the neck of the bottle into his mouth and drank the lot. He waited a minute; then he began to feel very good inside. The brandy was working quickly on his empty stomach.

Aked said: “I trust you like anything. I trust you because I always trust everybodies.”

Foden said: “Like hell! That’s how you’ve made such a success of life, isn’t it? So you’re going to trust me. All right. Go ahead.”

Aked said: “What you do ees thees: Suera ees in a ver’ funny condition jus’ now. Nobody knows who’s what. You know the Americans landed on the coast ten days ago. Nobody’s quite certain if they’d better be polite to Vichy or the Germans or the Americans.”

Foden raised his eyebrows. “Germans?” he said. “You’re not telling me there are any Germans in Suera with Eisenhower’s army about?”

Aked laughed. “My good fren’,” he said, “you take it from Aked that there are Germans everywhere. Of course they do not always tell they are Germans. They say they are everythings else. They are Norwegians and Poles and Americans and English. They are Moors and Ethiopians, Jews—but they are never Germans.”

Foden said: “Don’t they have to have passports? Even people in Suera have to have papers, don’t they?”

Aked smiled patiently. “There ees a lovely trade in papers and passports in Suera,” he said. “I have made a lot of moneys. I have a fren’ who had made a fortune. His trade was quite disreputable—he was a pickpocket. He made a lot of moneys stealing passports and selling them to other people. He ees quite rich. He was quite happy until somebody killed him.”

Foden said: “What has all this got to do with me?”

Aked said: “Listen, my fren’. You must listen to me. The advice I give you is ver’, ver’ good advice. Suera ees not a healthy place at thees moment for an Englishmans. It ees not a healthy place for any mans at all, but for Englishmens especially it ees unhealthy. There ees a certain amount of business goes on—funny business. People disappear. Odd things happen everywhere. There are German spies and Intelligence people. I tell you Suera ees not healthy for an Englishmans.”

“I heard you,” said Foden. “Well, do you think I want to stay in the goddam place? I want to get out of it. Incidentally I think it was your business to arrange that.”

Aked said: “Always I carry out my part of the bargain. First of all, what I do get?”

“What you were promised,” said Foden, “and not a penny more. You get a thousand dollars American. And don’t think you’re going to raise the ante because you’re not. I’ve got three thousand dollars in that haversack up in the scrub. You get a thousand—no more.”

Aked said: “That ees all right. That suits me well.” He flicked his cigarette end away artistically. “You walk down the road to Suera. There’s a street there—the street of the Two Fish. You go down the second street past the old British Consulate, and when it gets narrow you turn down the alley on the left. That ees the street of the Two Fish. At the bottom of that there ees a night club.” He sighed. Something in the thought of the night club seemed to touch Aked. He continued: “Thees place belongs to a womans—Mrs. Ferry. Mrs. Ferry ees supposed to be an American. She’s not. She ees English. Between you and me,” said Aked with a leer, “I don’ think Mrs. Ferry has been a nice womans in any country she has been in except Morocco. She ees a nice woman in Suera because everybody else is so God-awful that it makes her look damn’ good. See?”

Foden said: “I see.”

“All right,” said Aked. “Mrs. Ferry ees English. Thees club is called Persimmon Club, and the drink ees terrible. Eet’s lousy. But I expect Mrs. Ferry will give you some good drink. The bad drink ees only for the customers. You tell her who you are. You tell her you’ve seen me. She’ll look after you. You’ll be all right.”

Foden said: “What has she fixed—if she’s fixed anything?”

Aked said: “I don’ know. It ees not my business. When the mans come to me and tells me you’re coming he tells me to see you. I get a thousand dollars to fix up with Mrs. Ferry about you. So I fix it. After that I don’ do anything and I don’ know any more. What about the moneys?”

Foden said: “All right. Let’s go and get it.” He got up. He said: “Give me another of those cigarettes, will you?”

Aked produced the tin. Foden began to walk up the road towards the scrub on the hillside. He was drawing deep breaths of tobacco into his lungs. He felt good. He swung along the road almost with a certain joy of living. In spite of the night cold which he was now beginning to feel; in spite of everything, he didn’t mind life. He thought the feeling was due to the brandy, but behind this thought he knew that he felt good because he could see his way ahead. There were one or two small things to be done of course, but what the hell! Behind him, almost running in his efforts to keep abreast with Foden, came the diminutive Aked.

They turned into the scrub. After a moment Foden stopped in a little clearing. The sand was soft. The moon shining brightly, made it glisten.

Aked said: “I don’ see the haversack. You wouldn’t tell me some lies?”

Foden said: “I wouldn’t tell you a lie.”

He put out his left hand. His fingers closed round Aked’s throat before the scream that was generated could issue through the dirty teeth. Foden squeezed with his left hand. The muscles on the upper part of his arm stood out. Aked clawed at the wrist and arm in front of his face, kicked and lashed out with his feet. Foden never even moved. It was not even necessary for him to use his right hand. After a little while he let go. Aked subsided in a crumpled heap. Foden turned him over with his feet. He reached down for the tin of cigarettes. He put them in his pocket; then he walked out of the scrub down the hill towards Suera.