Redfalcon, page 12
A most improbable waiter approached us with a deferential bow. Plump and grey-haired, he peered at us through his thick spectacles like an absent-minded academic who has mislaid his books. Gesturing us forward, he led us across a floor tiled with yellow hexagons to a table that afforded us a clear view of the entire room. In a thick Austrian accent he asked for our order, then set off to fetch a Scotch for me and a brandy cocktail for Karrie. En route to the bar I saw him pause occasionally as if he had forgotten the way.
‘This is quite a place,’ I said, taking in the décor and the exuberant company.
‘Did you not think I would treat you to so good a time?’ Karrie enquired teasingly.
Shortly the waiter returned with our drinks. When he had set them down, Karrie drew him in close and spoke confidentially in his ear. ‘Please tell Mr Kalimi that Callisto wishes to speak to him.’
Flustered by this very forward behaviour, the elderly waiter adjusted his spectacles, which had almost slipped from his nose. ‘Callisto, you say?’
‘That’s right, Callisto,’ Karrie affirmed. ‘Tell him it is very important.’
The waiter scurried off and, after halting momentarily to take his bearings, disappeared up a corner stairway to an upper floor.
With her message dispatched, I saw Karrie turn her attention to the band, whose presence it was difficult to ignore. It was a five-piece group and a placard hanging over their heads proclaimed them to be The Louisiana Cats, though I doubted that any of them had ever been within a thousand miles of Louisiana.
They sported a wild variety of facial hair, from the straggly goatee of the clarinetist, via the drooping bandit moustache of the drummer, to the massive bushy beard that rendered the trombonist’s features practically invisible. I guessed his anonymity might be deliberate, for I was aware that there were many men in Casablanca who preferred that their faces not be recognised. At that moment they were making a violent assault on a melody normally associated with the more sedate tempos of Glenn Miller and his orchestra. The few couples who attempted to dance to this fevered accompaniment quickly gave up in despair and returned to their tables.
Karrie took a sip of her drink and smiled. ‘What is it Shakespeare said about music soothing the savage breast?’
I shook my head in wonderment. ‘Frankly, I’ve endured artillery bombardments that were more soothing. To be fair, though, I can’t fault their enthusiasm.’
Karrie grinned at me. ‘If you think this is loud, you must let me take you to a Greek wedding sometime.’
Her remark reminded me that I had as yet learned very little about my companion. ‘I’d be interested to know how you came to be an archaeologist,’ I ventured. ‘I assume that you come from a family of academics.’
‘Not at all,’ she responded with a shake of her head. ‘You may be surprised to learn that my father was a mining engineer.’
I was indeed surprised, and pleasantly so. ‘Really? That used to be my line too, before I got drawn into matters even more dangerous.’
‘Well then, perhaps you will understand what it was like for me growing up around explosives. Even when I was a child, my father would let me come along to watch him work. I treated it all as my own personal fireworks display and my nerves were hardened by the boom and blast of dynamite. I even considered making the profession my own until one day something changed me.’
I frowned in concern. ‘Not a bad accident, I hope.’
‘No, nothing like that,’ Karrie assured me. ‘He was blasting in a quarry, and when the smoke and dust of the detonation cleared I beheld something wondrous. Cleared of the earth that had covered them for centuries, there lay the broken columns of an ancient temple. I ran to it as though summoned by the deity, even with my father calling me back. The inscription I read upon the stonework declared it to be a shrine to Hera, the queen of the gods.’
‘That must have been quite a find,’ I commented.
‘It was for me a moment of revelation. I realised then that beneath our feet lies a world of wonders if we will only look for them.’
‘So rather than go in for the family business of blowing things up . . .’
‘I have been uncovering and preserving the treasure of ages past, something in which my own country is especially rich.’
Just then Dougal and Jaikie entered, arriving a few minutes after us as we had planned. The young Scots sauntered over to the bar and seated themselves on a pair of stools fringed with gold tassels. I saw Dougal lick his lips as he contemplated the multicoloured ranks of bottled spirits that lined the mirrored shelves.
I had judged it best to split our party in two so as not to draw too much attention to ourselves. While Karrie and I dealt with our business here, the two Die-Hards would keep a discreet distance and watch our backs in case of trouble.
With a touch on my arm Karrie alerted me to the fact that our stout waiter had returned downstairs and resumed his duties, shuffling back and forth between the bar, the kitchen and the crowded tables. A minute or so after, a very different figure descended: a tall, thin man in a fez. He stopped at the foot of the steps to survey the room before strolling towards our table, acknowledging the compliments of his customers with a brief nod and a polite smile as he came.
When he arrived before us, he greeted us with a short bow.
‘You are Mr Kalimi, the owner of this establishment?’ Karrie asked him.
‘Such is my burden,’ he confirmed, placing one hand on the back of an empty chair. ‘May I join you?’
‘Of course,’ I answered. ‘This is your place after all, isn’t it?’
He smoothed down his yellow blazer and loosened his blue ascot before sliding into the seat and studying us with dark, half-lidded eyes. Beneath the fez his head appeared to be completely bald, which, along with his sallow features and sharp cheekbones, gave him the appearance of an ascetic.
He fitted a cigarette to an ivory holder and lit it from a book of matches emblazoned with the name of his club. Fixing his gaze upon Karrie, he asked, ‘You are the young woman who wishes so urgently to speak with me? You are Callisto?’
‘That is the name by which I was told to identify myself. My name is Karissa Adriatis and I believe you can put me in contact with a mutual friend, a one-time colleague of mine.’
Kalimi took a deep draw on his cigarette and let the smoke drift out in thin streamers from his nostrils.
‘And your gentleman companion, who is he?’ He turned to me. ‘Zeus, perhaps? Or Vulcan?’
I found the man hard to read and that made me wary. ‘I won’t insult you by giving a false name, Mr Kalimi, but I think it will be wiser all round if I keep my identity to myself.’
‘What is one more secret,’ said Kalimi, with an open-handed gesture of acceptance, ‘in a city that is already home to so many?’
He glanced over at the band and waved his cigarette in their direction. ‘They make quite an impression, do they not?’
The combo were currently in the middle of a crazed rendition of what might once have been ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’, but that was only a guess.
‘Yes, quite an impression,’ Karrie agreed noncommittally.
‘They’re certainly putting their backs into it,’ was the nearest I could come to a compliment.
‘Every one of them is from a different country,’ Kalimi informed us proudly. ‘Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Russia, and so on. They have only been playing together for a short time.’
‘I find that easy to believe,’ said Karrie, rubbing her thumb around the edge of her glass to produce a squeaking sound that expressed her irritation with this small talk.
I knew she was impatient for Kalimi to put her in contact with Lasalle, but he was clearly giving himself plenty of time to take our measure. To rush him would be to risk losing his trust. I couldn’t help wincing when the drummer began thrashing his cymbal as though it had spat in his face.
‘I suppose we all have our own taste in music,’ I said.
A thin smile touched Kalimi’s lips. ‘You must appreciate, Monsieur Zeus, that in a city of many secrets, some of my customers do not wish there to be any risk of their conversations being overheard, which makes a band such as this a vital necessity.’
At this point, mercifully, the quintet took a break. They sprawled or hunched in their chairs, sharing cigarettes, downing glasses of wine and chatting in their native tongues. Their rapid speech and expressive gestures felt like a continuation of their frenetic musical performance.
Dropping his voice, Kalimi continued, ‘My previous band was somewhat more harmonious, but they broke up when their most musically competent members, the trumpet player and the pianist, managed to obtain travel visas. They are now on their way to Lisbon with high hopes of reaching the United States.’
‘Mr Kalimi,’ Karrie interrupted in a voice of unaccustomed sweetness, ‘your club is very beautiful and the entertainment undeniably stimulating.’
Kalimi briefly doffed his fez. ‘I thank you for the compliment, madame.’
‘But you are a businessman,’ Karrie persisted, ‘and you will appreciate the importance of getting to the point.’
Kalimi arched an eyebrow. ‘Which is to say, dear lady?’
‘My friend assured me in his letter that if I were to present myself to you under the code name of Callisto you would be able to put me in contact with him.’
Kalimi gently tapped his finger on his cigarette holder. ‘You must understand that your friend is fearful of those who wish to wrest his secrets from him.’
‘He’s right to be afraid,’ I said. ‘We’ve met those men and they’re not to be taken lightly.’
‘Which is why you must take me to him now.’ Karrie leaned forward insistently. ‘Before our enemies catch up with us.’
Kalimi stared at her with the intensity of a jeweller assessing a precious gem. Rising to his feet, he stubbed out his cigarette and slipped the holder into his pocket. ‘Very well, dear lady. Please excuse me while I make a brief telephone call.’ With a small bow of farewell he returned to his upstairs office.
‘Are you sure we can trust him?’ I wondered.
Karrie threw back the last of her cocktail. ‘Armand’s instructions were that I should contact him through Kalimi at the Blue Paradise. It’s the only course open to us.’
As we awaited the proprietor’s return, I became aware of two men at a table tucked into a shadowy corner who were observing us with some interest. One of them stood and strolled towards us with an air that was too casual to be convincing. He was dressed in a plain dark suit with a thin black tie and his demeanour was one I recognised all too easily. Prussians have a way of carrying themselves that makes them stand out from less arrogant people like thistles in a flower bed.
When he reached our table he greeted us stiffly. ‘Sir, madame, allow me to introduce myself. I am Herr Gerber of the Armistice Commission.’
Even if I had not been forewarned by Ellery Willis, I would have been in no doubt that we were being addressed by a member of the Gestapo.
20
ANTIQUES AND CURIOS
The Gestapo man was standing close enough to enable me to smell the oil on his close-cropped hair and see that his eyes were that cold blue supposedly favoured by the Führer.
‘Yeah, I heard about you guys,’ I responded affably. ‘You’re here to smooth along your peace deal, or something.’
Gerber’s clean-shaven features, freshly scrubbed to a pink flush, creased into an expression of pained concern. ‘Yes, to ensure that there is no violation of the terms of the armistice. You will understand, then, that when strangers come to Casablanca I am most concerned that they should not provoke an unfortunate incident which might disturb the delicate balance of peace. Might I enquire as to your name and business?’
Adopting a bluff manner to mask my true feelings of hostile suspicion, I answered with hearty good humour. ‘Why sure – it’s no secret. I’m Hank Brewster of the Socony-Vacuum Oil Company. I’m just prospecting for some business opportunities, that’s all.’
I was no stranger to assuming a false identity, but I had never before tried to pass myself off as an American. I could only hope that my efforts to imitate the cadences of Willis’s speech would allow me to pass muster with this curious German. A quick glance out of the corner of my eyes assured me that Jaikie and Dougal were keeping watch over us from the bar, even while they put on a lively show of joking and drinking.
‘There have been worrying rumours,’ noted Gerber with unpleasant emphasis, ‘that the American consulate has been associating itself with certain dissident elements here in Morocco. I sincerely hope these rumours are untrue.’
I feigned a snort of laughter. ‘If you want to talk diplomacy, you’ll have to find somebody else. All I know is oil, son.’
The Gestapo man raised a warning finger. ‘I advise you, Mr Brewster, to tread very carefully here in Casablanca, especially in view of the fact that our nations are now at odds.’
I decided I’d had enough of the German’s hectoring manner. ‘Herr Gerber, if I recall correctly,’ I retorted in a harder tone, ‘your Führer was the one who decided to pick a fight.’
I’d raised my voice sufficiently to turn a few heads at the neighbouring tables. Clearly discomfited, Gerber shifted his ground. ‘Let us turn to more pleasant things, shall we? Such as your lovely companion.’ He regarded Karrie with an appreciative gaze. ‘And you, madame, are . . . ?’
Karrie glared at him coldly. ‘I am Greek, Herr Gerber, so you will forgive me if I choose not to indulge in pleasantries.’
Gerber curled his lip. ‘There are more than a few here who bear us ill will,’ he conceded, ‘but the French, ever a practical people, have shown that a friendly accommodation can be reached between former adversaries. I am sure it will be so in future.’
There was no mistaking the flash of bitter anger in Karrie’s large grey eyes. ‘I assure you, Herr Gerber, that an accommodation will be reached when Berlin is in flames.’
Whatever response the German was about to utter was interrupted by a cacophonous outburst from the band, who had received a signal to resume their set. Gerber scowled at them, as though wishing he had the authority to arrest them all.
‘Pah! This American jungle music!’ he spat sourly.
‘Not entirely American, I think,’ said Karrie.
Puzzled as to her meaning, I turned my ear to the wild combo. Somewhere amid the din, almost strangled by the squeal of the clarinet, the braying of the trombone, and the frenzied beat of the drums, a familiar melody was struggling against the odds to make its presence felt. It took a few moments before I realised that, warped and mangled as it was, the tune they were playing was the Marseillaise.
The other customers rapidly came to the same recognition and began clapping along to the beat. Before long some were even singing the words, difficult as it was to keep in step with the group’s frantic tempo. Even Dougal and Jaikie were clapping and stamping their feet with an almost Gallic enthusiasm.
Gerber glowered at the revelling customers, many of whom were openly pointing at him and jeering. With a curt gesture he summoned his companion from his table and they marched sullenly out of the door. There was a ragged cheer at their departure and when the Louisiana Cats finished their number they were rewarded with extended and raucous applause.
While she was clapping, Karrie addressed me with an arched eyebrow. ‘I must say, you make a very convincing American.’
I eyed her suspiciously. ‘I do hope that’s supposed to be a compliment.’
Kalimi rejoined us as the noise died away. He tilted his head in the direction of the band. ‘Officially that revolutionary anthem is banned in Vichy territory, but with musicians’ – he shrugged his bony shoulders – ‘what can one do?’
I had my suspicions that he had passed an instruction to the combo to play exactly that tune with the full intention of driving the Gestapo men from his club. He was perhaps more closely allied to our cause than I had first expected.
Meanwhile four members of the band had retired to the wings for a smoke and a drink, leaving the pianist alone on the stage. Throwing back his unruly mop of black hair, he commenced a version of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ that was surprisingly close to what the composer had intended.
As the music rippled in the background, Karrie turned to Kalimi. ‘And now, Mr Kalimi?’ she prompted.
‘Ah, yes, the business,’ Kalimi acknowledged. He pulled a small scrap of paper from his pocket and passed it to her; I caught the merest glimpse of an address scrawled in a spidery hand. Karrie read the note and passed it back with a nod. Striking a match, Kalimi set the paper corner alight and dropped it into the ashtray.
‘And now that our business is concluded,’ he said, ‘I plead that you will not make yourselves the object of any further attention in my establishment.’
I took his meaning and rose from my seat. ‘It’s been a lovely evening, but you’re probably right. We really should be going.’
‘Yes, and thank you for your help, Mr Kalimi,’ said Karrie, standing up beside me. ‘I’m really very grateful.’
The proprietor regarded her gravely through half-lidded eyes. ‘I must caution you, dear lady, to beware of the many dangers that lurk in Casablanca. I should hate for one so beautiful to come to any harm.’
Karrie tossed back her glorious mane of black hair. ‘You shouldn’t worry about me. My ancestors were Spartans.’
Once outside, we waited on the corner for Dougal and Jaikie to join us before proceeding down the street.
‘So who was that sleekit-looking German that was gabbing with you?’ Dougal asked.
‘That was Herr Gerber of the Armistice Commission,’ said Karrie, her voice dripping with distaste.
