"Yes, indeed," said Miss Hetherington.
She added rather wistfully, "And, of course, one can't really spare the money for souvenirs. These money restrictions are so worrying."
Chapter 7
Hilary hoped to avoid having to see the old city of Fez in the depressing company of Miss Hetherington. Fortunately the latter was invited by Mrs. Baker to come with her on an expedition by car. Since Mrs. Baker made it clear that she was going to pay for the car, Miss Hetherington, whose travelling allowance was dwindling in an alarming manner, accepted with avidity. Hilary, after inquiry at the desk, was supplied with a guide, and set forth to see the city of Fez.
They started from the terrace, going down through the succession of terraced gardens until they reached an enormous door in the wall at the bottom. The guide produced a key of mammoth proportions, unlocked the door which swung slowly open, and motioned Hilary to pass through.
It was like stepping into another world. All about her were the walls of Old Fez. Narrow winding streets, high walls, and occasionally, through a doorway, a glimpse of an interior or a courtyard, and moving all around her were laden donkeys, men with their burdens, boys, women veiled and unveiled, the whole busy secret life of this Moorish city. Wandering through the narrow streets she forgot everything else, her mission, the past tragedy of her life, even herself.
She was all eyes and ears, living and walking in a dream world. The only annoyance was the guide who talked unceasingly, and urged her into various establishments into which she had no particular wish to go.
"You look, lady. This man have very nice things, very cheap, really old, really Moorish. He have gowns and silks. You like very nice beads?"
The eternal commerce of East selling to West went on, but it hardly disturbed the charm for Hilary. She soon lost all sense of place or direction. Here within this walled city she had little idea of whether she was walking north or south or whether she were retracing her steps over the same streets through which she had already passed. She was quite exhausted when the guide made his final suggestion, which was evidently part of the routine.
"I take you very nice house, now, very superior. Friends of mine. You have mint tea there and they show you plenty lovely things."
Hilary recognised the well-known gambit which Mrs. Calvin Baker had described. However, she was willing to see, or be taken to see, anything that was suggested. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would come into the Old City alone and wander around without a guide chattering by her elbow. So she allowed herself to be guided through a gateway and up a winding path climbing up more or less outside the city walls. They arrived at last at a garden surrounding an attractive house built in native style.
Here in a big room with a fine view out over the city, she was urged to sit down at a small coffee table.
In due course glasses of mint tea were brought. To Hilary who did not like sugar with her tea, it was somewhat of an ordeal to drink it. But by banishing the idea of tea from her mind, and merely thinking of it as a new kind of lemonade, she managed almost to enjoy it. She enjoyed, too, being shown rugs and beads and draperies, embroideries and various other things. She made one or two small purchases more out of good manners than for any other reason. The indefatigable guide then said,
"I have car ready now and take you very nice short drive. One hour, not more, see very beautiful scenery and country. And then back to hotel." He added, assuming a suitably discreet expression, "This girl here, she take you first to very nice ladies' toilet."
The girl who had served the tea was standing by them smiling, and said at once in careful English,
"Yes, yes, Madame. You come with me. We have very fine toilet, oh very fine. Just like the Ritz Hotel. Same as in New York or Chicago. You see!"
Smiling a little, Hilary followed the girl. The toilet hardly rose to the heights claimed for it, but it did at least have running water. There was a wash basin and a small cracked mirror which had such distorting proportions that Hilary almost shrank back in alarm at the sight of her own face. When she had washed and dried her hands, which she did on her own handkerchief, not much caring for the appearance of the towel, she turned to leave.
In some way, however, the door of the toilet appeared to have stuck. She turned and rattled the handle unavailingly. It would not move. Hilary wondered whether it had been bolted or locked from the outside. She grew angry. What was the idea of shutting her in there? Then she noticed that there was another door in a corner of the room. Going to it she turned the handle. This time the door opened easily enough. She passed through.
She found herself in a small eastern looking room with light that came only from slits high in the wall. Sitting there on a low divan, smoking, was the little Frenchman she had met in the train, M. Henri Laurier.
II
He did not rise to greet her. He merely said, and the timbre of his voice was slightly changed,
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Betterton."
For a moment Hilary stood motionless. Astonishment held her in its grip. So this - was it! She pulled herself together. "This is what you've been expecting. Act as you think she would act." She came forward and said eagerly,
"You have news for me? You can help me?"
He nodded, then said reproachfully:
"I found you. Madame, somewhat obtuse upon the train. Perhaps you are too well accustomed to talk of the weather."
"The weather?" She stared at him, bewildered.
What had he said about weather on the train? Cold? Fog? Snow?
Snow. That was what Olive Betterton had whispered as she lay dying. And she had quoted a silly little jingle - what was it?
Snow, snow, beautiful snow.
You slip on a lump and over you go.
Hilary repeated it falteringly now.
"Exactly - why did you not respond with that immediately as ordered?"
"You don't understand. I have been ill. I was in a plane crash and afterwards in hospital with concussion. It's affected my memory in all sorts of ways. Everything long ago is clear enough, but there are terrible blanks - great gaps." She let her hands rise to her head. She found it easy enough to go on with a real tremor in her voice. "You can't understand how frightening that is. I keep feeling that I've forgotten important things - really important things. The more I try to get them back, the less they will come."
"Yes," said Laurier, "the airplane crash was unfortunate." He spoke in a cold businesslike way. "It is going to be a question of whether you have the necessary stamina and courage to continue your journey."
"Of course I'm going to continue my journey," cried Hilary. "My husband -" her voice broke.
He smiled, but not a very pleasant smile. Faintly catlike.
"Your husband," he said, "is, I understand, awaiting you with eagerness."
Hilary's voice broke.
"You have no idea," she said. "no idea what it's been like these months since he went away."
"Do you think the British authorities came to a definite conclusion as to what you did or did not know?"
Hilary stretched out her hands with a wide gesture.
"How do I know - how can I tell? They seemed satisfied."
"All the same..." he stopped.
"I think it quite possible," said Hilary slowly, "that I have been followed here. I can't pick out any one particular person but I have had the feeling ever since I left England that I am under observation."
"Naturally," said Laurier, coldly. "We expected no less."
"I thought I ought to warn you."
"My dear Mrs. Betterton, we are not children. We understand what we are doing."
"I'm sorry," said Hilary, humbly. "I'm afraid I'm very ignorant."
"It does not matter if you are ignorant so long as you are obedient."
"I shall be obedient," said Hilary in a low voice.
"You were closely watched in England, I have no doubt, ever since the day of your husband's departure. Nevertheless, the message came to you, did it not?"
"Yes," said Hilary.
"Now," said Laurier in a businesslike manner, "I will give you your instructions, Madame."
"Please do."
"From here you will proceed to Marrakesh the day after tomorrow. That is as you planned and in accordance with your reservations."
"Yes."
"The day after you arrive there you will receive a telegram from England. What it will say I do not know, but it will be sufficient for you to make plans immediately to return to England."
"I am to return to England?"
"Please listen. I have not finished. You will book a seat on a plane leaving Casablanca the following day."
"Supposing I cannot get reservations - supposing the seats are all booked?"
"They will not be all booked. Everything is arranged for. Now, you understand your instructions?"
"I understand."
"Then please return to where your guide is waiting. You have been long enough in this ladies,' toilet. By the way, you have become friendly with an American woman and an English woman who are now staying at the Palais Jamail?"
"Yes. Has that been a mistake? It has been difficult to avoid."
"Not at all. It suits our plans admirably. If you can persuade one or other of them to accompany you to Marrakesh, so much the better. Goodbye, Madame."
"Au revoir, Monsieur."
"It is unlikely," Monsieur Laurier told her with a complete lack of interest, "that I shall meet you again."
Hilary retraced her steps to the ladies' toilet. This time she found the other door unfastened. A few minutes later she had rejoined the guide in the tea room.
"I got very nice car waiting," said the guide. "I take you now for very pleasant instructive drive."
The expedition proceeded according to plan.
III
"So you're leaving for Marrakesh tomorrow," said Miss Hetherington. "You haven't made a very long stay in Fez, have you? Wouldn't it have been much easier to go to Marrakesh first and then to Fez, returning to Casablanca afterwards?"
"I suppose it would really," said Hilary, "but reservations are rather difficult to obtain. It's pretty crowded here."
"Not with English people," said Miss Hetherington, rather disconsolately. "It really seems dreadful nowadays the way one meets hardly any of one's fellow countrymen." She looked round her disparagingly and said, "It's all the French."
Hilary smiled faintly. The fact that Morocco was a French colonial possession did not seem to count much with Miss Hetherington. Hotels anywhere abroad she regarded as the prerogative of the English travelling public.
"The French and the Germans and the Greeks," said Mrs. Calvin Baker, with a little cackle of laughter. "That scruffy little old man is a Greek, I believe."
"I was told he was Greek," said Hilary.
"Looks like a person of importance," said Mrs. Baker. "You see how the waiters fly about for him."
"They give the English hardly any attention nowadays," said Miss Hetherington, gloomily. "They always give them the most terrible back bedrooms - the ones maids and valets used to have in the old days."
"Well, I can't say I've found any fault with the accommodation I've had since I came to Morocco," said Mrs. Calvin Baker. "I've managed to get a most comfortable room and bath every time."
"You're an American," said Miss Hetherington, sharply, and with some venom in her voice. She clicked her knitting needles furiously.
"I wish I could persuade you two to come to Marrakesh with me," said Hilary. "It's been so pleasant meeting you and talking to you here. Really, it's very lonely travelling all by oneself."
"I've been to Marrakesh," said Miss Hetherington in a shocked voice.
Mrs. Calvin Baker, however, appeared to be somewhat sold on the idea.
"Well, it certainly is an idea," she said. "It's over a month since I was in Marrakesh. I'd be glad to go there again for a spell, and I could show you around, too, Mrs. Betterton and prevent you being imposed upon. It's not until you've been to a place and looked around it that you learn the ropes. I wonder now. I'll go to the office and see what I can fix up."
Miss Hetherington said acidly, when she had departed,
"That's exactly like these American women. Rushing from place to place, never settling down anywhere. Egypt one day, Palestine the next. Sometimes I really don't think they know what country they're in."
She shut her lips with a snap and rising and gathering up her knitting carefully, she left the Turkish room with a little nod to Hilary as she went. Hilary glanced down at her watch. She felt inclined not to change this evening for dinner, as she usually did. She sat on there alone in the low, rather dark room with its Oriental hangings. A waiter looked in, then went away after turning on two lamps. They did not give out very much light and the room seemed pleasantly dim. It had an Eastern sort of serenity. Hilary sat back on the low divan, thinking of the future.
Only yesterday she had been wondering if the whole business upon which she had been engaged was a mare's nest. And now - now she was on the point of starting on her real journey. She must be careful, very careful. She must make no slip. She must be Olive Betterton, moderately well educated, inartistic, conventional but with definite Left Wing sympathies, and a woman who was devoted to her husband.
"I must make no mistake," said Hilary to herself, under her breath.
How strange it felt to be sitting here alone in Morocco. She felt as though she had got into a land of mystery and enchantment. That dim lamp beside her! If she were to take the carved brass between her hands and rub, would a Djin of the Lamp appear? As the thought came to her, she started. Materialising quite suddenly from beyond the lamp, she saw the small wrinkled face and pointed beard of M. Aristides. He bowed politely before sitting down beside her, saying;
