KHÉRÉDINE is not far from Tunis straight across the lagoon as the crow flies, or as the railway runs. If you go by car you have to describe a half-circle, which takes you out to El Aouina airport on the road to Sidi bou Saïd. Khérédine is a curious quarter, part bathing beach, part luxury residential district, part dock area. My driver knew the Hotel du Port and took me unhesitatingly to a grimy street with houses on one side and an indeterminate waterfront on the other. This was the part where boat repairs were carried out, house-boats moored, and private motor-launches tied up. The Hôtel du Port was an old-fashioned café made more unappetizing by its yellowy strip lighting. I could see dockers in the bar at the front grouped round a billiard table. The strains of accordion music floated out through the open door.
When my taxi had driven away I felt that I was alone in a very foreign part of the world. The sun had gone down and been followed very swiftly by darkness. The moon was not yet up. The glow of Tunis seemed to be reflected down from the sky, and only beyond its halo did the stars seem bright. I could hear the small Mediterranean waves feeling their way in among the boats, slopping against the pylons of the wharf and gurgling up on to isolated little patches of sand.
I had omitted to ask O’Halloran on which side of the café Durant’s house stood, but since the café was on a street corner the information was not necessary. The house was clearly used partly as residence and partly as offices. Durant’s business sign had been painted across one of the ground-floor windows, and upstairs there were frilly lace curtains. I went up the steps and rang the bell, wondering whether this time I was really going to meet the elusive David Foster – and if not whom O’Halloran would produce to impersonate him.
The bell was answered by a slatternly woman with an apron tied round her middle and her sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Her hands were wet with soapy water and she had to push the hair out of her eyes with the back side of her wrist.
‘The office is closed, monsieur.’
‘I arranged to meet a Mr. O’Halloran here at seven o’clock. Has he arrived yet?’
‘What name?’
‘O’Halloran,’ I said again, knowing full well that to French ears it must sound more Arabic than Irish.
She shook her head and pursed her lips.
‘No one of that name here.’
‘This is the house of Monsieur Durant?’
‘Yes, this is Monsieur Durant’s house.’
‘Will you tell him that Mr. Temple is here? I think he is probably expecting me.’
‘Tem-pel. Well he has gone out a little time ago. Is it urgent?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is very urgent indeed.’
She shrugged her shoulders and sniffed resignedly.
‘I will try and find him for you. You can wait here.’
She wiped her hands on a corner of her apron and opened the door of one of the ground floor rooms. She snapped on the light and left. I heard her close the front door and hurry down the steps. Durant’s office was a litter of papers, files and blueprints. Dust lay thick on the shelves and floor. All the ash-trays were full to overflowing. The single bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling shed a defeatist light over this scene of disorder. I realized that I must be fully visible to anyone outside, so I sat down in one of the chairs and lit one of my own cigarettes. I hoped that it might do something to dispel the odour of stale Gauloise smoke.
After ten minutes the conviction grew on me that I was being made a fool of and that O’Halloran had never had any intention of turning up. Here I was sitting inactive in a fly-blown office in Khérédine when at this very minute some message about Steve might be coming in to the hotel. I had been pretty sure at Zoltan Gupte’s shop that neither he nor O’Halloran knew about her abduction. Why then was I wasting time out here?
I was about to pack the whole thing up when I heard footsteps in the street outside, and recognized the voice of the woman with the apron. She was with a man. They were squabbling violently.
Durant burst into the room, brimming over with apologies. He had been called over to the Port Office, he had explained, and had lost count of the time. He was one of those Frenchmen on whom the North African climate has a bad effect. He had run to flesh and the muscles of his face had gone slack. His colour was unnaturally high and I suspected that he drank too much. He looked about sixty, though he may not have been more than forty-seven.
‘You were expecting me, then?’
‘Yes, I had a message from Monsieur Zoltan Gupte, I hope you will overlook my being late, monsieur. I would not like Monsieur Zoltan Gupte to think that I had not done my best. Now if you will come with me down to the landing-stage I will take you out to the yacht.’
‘The yacht? Is that where O’Halloran and Zoltan Gupte are?’
Durant was shepherding me out of the house. He seemed in a great hurry to make up for lost time.
‘I do not know if Monsieur Zoltan Gupte is there, monsieur. I do not ask questions. I do as he tells me, that is all.’
‘How long will it take to row out to the yacht?’
‘Not long, monsieur. Maybe five minutes.’
Now that I was here I might as well carry through to the end.
I said: ‘Make it as quick as you can. I haven’t much time to spare.’
I found it rather remarkable that this Frenchman should adopt such a servile attitude towards a mere antique dealer from the Arab quarter. He was hurrying me through a maze of sheds and piles of timber at such a pace that I had no chance to ask him any questions. Presently our feet resounded on a small wooden jetty to which a number of rowing-boats were attached. Durant selected one of the smaller ones and put out a hand to steady me as I stepped aboard.
‘This is not a work I usually do myself,’ he explained, as he pushed off. ‘But my employees have all gone home. Still, since it is for Monsieur Zoltan Gupte…’
‘He is a man of considerable influence?’ I observed.
‘Monsieur Zoltan Gupte? You did not know that he is one of the richest men in Tunis? Some say he is a millionaire.’
‘He has other irons in the fire besides his antique shop, then?’
‘I do not enquire about that, monsieur. I ask no questions. He pays me well and that is enough.’
We were clear of the other boats now. After a glance over his shoulder Durant was heading at an oblique angle away from the shore. I could detect the dim outline of a large yacht moored some way out.
‘Do you know a Mr. David Foster?’
‘That is an English name, monsieur? No, I do not know of such a person.’
‘Have you taken anyone else out to the yacht this evening?’
‘No, monsieur. It is too early. Usually the gentlemen who visit the yacht come at ten, eleven – maybe midnight.’
‘But you do know Mr. O’Halloran – he is a friend of Zoltan Gupte. A small Irishman with a couple of teeth missing.’
‘Yes, I remember him, monsieur. Only four days ago I took him out to the yacht in this boat. Very sad. You saw about his death in the papers? These killings are becoming all too frequent in Tunis.’
The shore line had slid back into the darkness behind us. The surface of the sea was inky black and as smooth as if oil had been poured on it. The lights from the port installations sent reflexions wriggling across the water towards us. As we moved further out I could see the lights of the Arab quarter climbing the hill away behind Khérédine. Further to the right the gaunt heights of Hammam Lif rose like black-draped phantoms against an only slightly less dark sky. Curiously magnified sounds drifted out from the shore, seeming to slide across the water to us as easily as stones across a curling rink – the blaring radio from the Hôtel du Port, the honk of a car moving along the water-front, a sudden human cry, and behind it all the vague bustling ant-heap rumble of a big city. Somewhere not far off I could hear the rushing swish of a bow wave as a motor-boat moved fast towards the land.
After five minutes more of rowing the yacht loomed up ahead of us, her outlines clarifying with uncanny swiftness. She was carrying no lights and there was no sign of anyone on board.
Durant lifted his oars and hailed her as we drifted closer. There was no answer.
‘I think we are too early,’ he said. ‘There is no one here yet. We’d better turn back.’
‘There’s a flight of steps on the port side. Pull alongside and I’ll have a look on board.’
‘Oh, I never go on board,’ Durant said quickly.
‘I’m not asking you to. But since we’ve come all this way don’t you think I’d better make sure Zoltan Gupte is not waiting for me?’
Durant’s expression was doubtful, but with the air of a man who does not accept any responsibility for what he is doing, he edged the boat close enough to the boarding steps for me to jump on to the yacht.
It was a fair-sized craft, about fifty feet long. Though it had originally been built to go to sea, it was obvious that recent alterations had turned it into more of an elaborate house-boat. The whole length of the deck had been built up, leaving only a narrow promenade round the outside.
I found a doorway which was unlocked. With the help of my pen torch I located the light switches and turned them all on. Most of the upper deck appeared to be taken up by a kind of club room. There was a bar at one end, a great many sofas and arm-chairs and a series of plush-covered snuggeries round the walls. The lighting was discreet and low. A few seconds after I had switched it on the radiogram emitted several mechanical clicks and then began to play a tango.
A proper staircase had been built to connect this room with the lower deck. Pressing switches down as I went I descended the steps. Ahead of me was a corridor with cabin doors opening to right and left. I began systematically to inspect them. Each one contained a comfortable couch, a dressing-table and mirror, wash-basin and bidet. Only the cabin at the far end of the corridor showed signs of permanent occupation. It was much larger than the others, and furnished as a bed-sitting-room. Several obvious signs showed that it was a man’s, but that he was equipped to receive female visitors.
The smell of cigarette smoke was still quite fresh in the air and a faint perfume which reminded me of someone I had met recently.
A straight-backed chair had been placed in the middle of the room and several unfinished cigarette stubs lay on the carpet near it. One of the supports on the back of the chair had been broken. On the table lay a short length of stout cord which had been knotted and then cut with a knife. A man’s dressing-gown had been thrown untidily on the bunk. The silk cord which should have been attached to it lay on the floor some distance away. I rolled it up and put it in my pocket.
A quick search of the cabin gave no indication of its occupant’s identity, but under the lid of a complicated table which could be used as a desk I found a detailed plan of Tunis. Someone had drawn a circle round the Hôtel François Premier, and a red line showed the route which Steve and I had followed on each of our outings. Also encircled in red were the House of Shoni, a street corner in the Rue de Rome, and several other points which meant nothing to me.
I folded it up and put it in my pocket.
The brutal scene which had taken place so recently in the cabin had left its unsavoury impression on the atmosphere as clearly as a picture stamps itself on the negative of a film. I had a feeling that time was running short. Snapping the lights off as I went I regained the deck and climbed quickly down into Durant’s boat.
Durant seemed glad to get away from the yacht, and pushed off with enthusiasm.
‘What time was it when Zoltan Gupte gave you your instructions?’ I asked him.
‘About two o’clock this afternoon.’
‘Don’t you think it rather odd that he should have made these elaborate arrangements and then failed to turn up?’
‘I don’t know,’ Durant said, putting his full weight on to the oars. ‘All I know is I was told to bring a Monsieur Tem-pel out to the yacht at seven this evening.’
The oar struck something in the water which threw Durant out of his rhythm. He pulled his oar in to clear he obstacle. The boat glided on under its own impetus and he swung forward to make the next stroke.
‘Hold on a second,’ I said. ‘Did you see what that was in the water?’
‘No.’
‘I think it was a body. A woman’s body.’
Time went into low gear, while Durant manœuvred his boat round. Every detail of the scene stamped itself on my mind. I had only caught a glimpse of the dark shape in the water, but I had been left with no doubt that it was a human form.
‘There it is over there,’ Durant called, and began to row with one oar and backpedal with the other.
A dark bundle, which seemed to be part of the sea itself, was breaking the surface and then sinking just below it again.
I leaned over the side towards it. I could see a head and long hair drifting out from it.
‘Look out or you’ll capsize the boat!’ Durant shouted. ‘Just keep still till I can get nearer.’
He had probably found bodies in the water before, and had no idea what I was going through. He edged the boat a little closer, then shipped his oars and made a grab over the side.
‘I have a hold of it. Goodness knows how long it’s been in the water. You haven’t a torch, have you?’
Durant had been struggling to lift the head of the drowned person. My stomach was coming up into my mouth, but I forced myself to direct my torch down towards the water.
The boat gave a great rock. Durant gasped: ‘I can’t do it.’
He relinquished his hold and the form slipped down into the black waters again. Just for a moment a darkened face was turned up towards my torch beam and I recognized the features of Audry Bryce.
Less time had elapsed than I had imagined, and it was only ten past eight when once again I entered the Hôtel François Premier. Although it was now inevitable that I would be very late for my appointment with Tony Wyse, I was determined to check in there before doing anything else.
By the time Durant had rowed me back to the landing-stage I had recovered from the dreadful shock of finding the body in the water, and managed to prevent him from seeing that I had recognized Audry Bryce. He had undertaken to inform the police and agreed to leave me out of his report. I had come back from Khérédine on one of the frequent trains, and found that just as quick as using a taxi.
‘Mrs. Temple has not returned,’ the receptionist informed me, anticipating my question before I had time to ask it. ‘She has been gone a long time, monsieur. Have you thought of notifying the police?’
‘I’ve done that already. They’re doing all they can. Listen, I shall be dining at the Hôtel Tunisie in Sidi bou Saïd. Will you make yourself personally responsible for telephoning me there if there is any news?’
‘I will do that with pleasure, monsieur.’
This receptionist was more sympathique than his predecessor, and his manner showed genuine concern.
I had noticed one of the assistant clerks answering the telephone at the back of the office. She came now to the desk.
‘Someone from Police Headquarters to speak to Monsieur Temple.’
‘Put it through to box number one,’ the receptionist said. ‘You can take it in the first box, Mr. Temple.’
My hopes had soared unreasonably during the few seconds that it took me to reach the telephone booth. I pushed the door shut and put the instrument to my ear.
‘Temple speaking.’
‘Allo. It is Monsieur Temple who is speaking? One moment, please.’
I waited impatiently, knocking with my knuckles on the glass partition.
‘Hallo, Temple. That you?’
There was no mistaking the voice which I had heard addressing me so frequently across a desk in Scotland Yard.
‘Sir Graham! Thank God you’ve arrived.’
‘Just got in about half an hour ago. I’m at the Commissariat de Police with Renouk. Temple, I’m very sorry to hear this news about Steve.’
‘It’s not too good, is it?’
‘No. But the police are really on the war path. It’s only a question of time till they find her.’
‘I hope you’re right, Sir Graham. But I confess I’m worried. Any chance of you coming over here right away?’
‘Afraid not. I have some very urgent business here first. But I want to see you later this evening. Will you be there if I come along at eleven?’
‘Yes, I’ll be here. And, by the way, Sir Graham…’
‘Yes?’
‘How do you come to turn up in Tunis at this particular moment?’
I heard Forbes chuckle.
‘Shall we just say that I’m here on account of a very special pair of spectacles?’
Before I could question him he had rung off.
It was significant of my change of attitude that I did not take Renouk the map which I had found on board the yacht. Instead, I asked the receptionist for an envelope, sealed the map inside it, and asked him to put it in his cash safe so that I could pick it up whenever I wanted.
If I had had to submit my expense account for that day to an auditor, he would undoubtedly have made objections to the vast sums I was spending on taxis. I chartered yet another one for the trip out to Sidi bou Saïd.
Wyse, I reflected, as I was borne rapidly northwards, was about the last string to my bow. For some reason Zoltan Gupte and O’Halloran had been scared off meeting me as arranged. I had a feeling that even if I went to the House of Shoni I would find it locked and shuttered. Perhaps the idea had occurred to Renouk that Steve’s disappearance was a sequel to our meeting with him, and the attentions of the police had decided the pair to lie low. If only I could have followed up my conversation with Audry Bryce more swiftly. Her promise to come to my room at midnight might have been the bait for a trap, but I was more inclined to believe that I really had thrown her into a scare, and that she had decided to take my advice and line herself up with the right side. Someone had sensed that she was cracking and had made sure that she could tell no tales out of school.
The Hôtel Tunisie occupied a beautiful site on a high promontory which jutted out into the sea. Beyond the buildings the ground fell away steeply to a beach far below, and a terrace had been built out from which guests could command a magnificent view along the coast past Carthage to Tunis itself. Beyond that the eye followed the curve of the land right round to the Cap Bon peninsula.
A corridor led past the dining-room entrance towards the floodlit terrace, on which I could already see a number of people sitting round their apéritifs. My way through was momentarily barred by a fair-haired man who was talking to the head waiter. The latter was showing him the greatest deference.
‘Maitre d’hôtel,’ I heard the fair-haired man say in French. ‘You will have a table for two for me? I am dining with an American friend this evening. Do you know if a Mr. Vandenberg has arrived yet?’
‘Mais oui, monsieur,’ the head waiter gesticulated towards the terrace with the evening’s menu card. ‘Mr. Vandenberg is already arrived. He awaits you on the terrace.’
‘Good. I will join him as soon as I have given my orders to the wine waiter.’
I waited for Schultz to move on out of my way. He had been quite unaware that I had been standing at his elbow.
‘Has Mr. Wyse come yet?’ I asked the head waiter.
‘Is it Mr. Temple? Mr. Wyse asked me to tell you that he is in the terrace bar. Outside and to your left, monsieur.’
I made a mental note that when this was over and Steve and I were together again, we would come and spend some time at the Hôtel Tunisie. It was an almost perfect setting. The terrace seemed to be poised in the velvet darkness, a little oasis of luxury created by the genius of man working in perfect harmony with what nature had supplied. Just at this moment my mind could not take in its beauty. I was too preoccupied with grim realities.
I was crossing the terrace towards the bar built at the end when my attention was attracted by a solitary figure sitting at one of the tables. His eyes had been on the doorway when I emerged, and he had looked away with peculiar abruptness. As I passed him I noticed how his ears were set and the distinctive shape of the back of his head. The disguise was good, but those two features were familiar. He had long, wispy, grey hair and the lined, sallow complexion of the American business man who is suffering from ulcers. He wore octagonal spectacles. A light-grey, broad-brimmed hat lay on the table. His suit was of obviously American cut.
I checked in my stride and laid a hand on the back of his chair.
‘Good evening, Colonel Rostand. How nice to see you again!’
The old gentleman turned his sad, worry-ridden expression towards me, and eyed me with tolerant disapproval. It was very well done.
‘I’m afraid you’re making a mistake, young man. My name is Vandenberg. Henry O. Vandenberg.’
The accent was American, and the intonation not unlike that of the unseen Pierre whom I had overheard in conclave with Audry Bryce. I was amused to note that he lisped his s’s. A tongue split by a blow on the chin could account for that.
‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ I apologized. ‘It was a silly mistake. It’s just that I have something which I very badly wanted to return to this Colonel Rostand.’
‘Oh?’
There was a flicker of interest behind the glinting spectacles.
‘Yes, I’m sure he’ll be very distressed when he finds he hasn’t got it.’
‘Say, that’s too bad. What was this you found?’
Rostand had been unable to suppress his curiosity. I put my hand in my pocket and brought out the rolled up silk dressing-gown cord.
‘This piece of cord was used to strangle a woman on a yacht lying off Khérédine this evening. Her name was Audry Bryce. After she had been murdered her body was thrown into the sea.’
Perhaps I should not have said anything, just shown him the cord. He appeared to shrink a little when I first produced it, but my short speech gave him time to recover. He pushed his chair back and stood up.
‘Young man,’ he declared, ‘I don’t know who you are, but if this is your idea of a wisecrack then you’ve chosen the wrong man to pull it on.’
He turned his back on me and marched towards the hotel entrance. Though he affected a slight stoop he was unable to mask his considerable height. I was still standing with the cord in my hand when Schultz emerged from the separate door which led to the dining-room from the terrace.
He saw me at once and his eyes narrowed. Yet by the time he reached me he was smiling.
‘Good evening, Mr. Temple.’ There still seemed to be that ironic undercurrent in his words. ‘Your charming wife is not with you?’
‘Not this evening,’ I said shortly. ‘I’m surprised that you’re not at Le Trou du Diable.’
‘I was invited to dinner, Mr. Temple. That happens even to us restaurateurs, you know.’
‘By the rich American, Mr. Vandenberg?’
‘That is so. How did you know?’
‘Should we not give him his real name and call him Colonel Rostand?’
Schultz assumed a bewildered expression and spread out his hands appealingly.
‘Always this talk of Colonel Rostand, Mr. Temple. I think you have some complex about him. I assure you Mr. Vandenberg is very well known here.’
‘I’m glad of that for your sake, Mr. Schultz. Colonel Rostand is still being sought by the police.’
‘By the way’ – Schultz took a gold cigarette-case from his breast pocket, offered me one, and then lit his own – ‘talking of the police. Inspector Flambeau told me an extraordinary thing: that you had been asked to deliver a pair of spectacles to a man named David Foster, and that Monsieur Constantin had offered you ten thousand pounds for them. Is that story true?’
‘It is quite true.’
‘But have you any idea,’ Schultz persisted, ‘why a pair of spectacles should have such a disproportionate value and attract the interest of so many people?’
‘I have an idea. And as so many people are interested, Mr. Schultz, I wondered if you could be one of them?’
Schultz shook his head and the corners of his mouth twitched in a smile.
‘Why should I be interested, Mr. Temple? My eyesight is perfect. Now, if you will excuse me, I must find my guest.’
When he had gone I continued my progress towards the bar, and found Wyse staring moodily at the bubbles in his champagne cocktail, as if he’d abandoned all hope of my ever appearing. He brightened up when he saw me, but showed concern on noting that I had come alone.
‘Still no news of your wife? This is terrible, terrible.’
He was so genuinely distressed that my heart warmed to him.
‘Why should anyone want to harm Mrs. Temple?’
I decided at that moment to take a chance and let Wyse into my confidence. I was getting nowhere with the kind of shadow boxing I had indulged in with Rostand and Schultz.
‘Let’s find a table where we can talk,’ I suggested. ‘I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘I’ve booked a table for dinner. We can go in straight away if you like.’
I was not really interested in food, but Wyse insisted on my ordering a decent meal, which was certainly a good thing in the end. I was going to need every calorie before that long night ended.
While we ate I told him almost the whole story: how we had met Judy Wincott in Paris, my promise to deliver the spectacles, the series of murders which had dogged us in Nice, Algiers and now Tunis. He listened with concentrated attention, only interrupting me with an occasional brief question. He seemed a good deal less the empty-headed playboy than before.
‘It’s a most extraordinary story,’ he said when I had finished. ‘Obviously you’ve run into something very big indeed. But how on earth can a pair of spectacles have enough value to justify five murders?’
‘I would be very glad if you could tell me.’
‘By the sound of it there are several separate gangs. I mean, Rostand and Schultz must be hand in glove with Leyland and the late lamented Audry Bryce. Constantin seems to have been a lone wolf – unless he was connected with Zoltan Gupte and O’Halloran. The important thing from your point of view is to know which group have kidnapped Steve – I mean Mrs. Temple.’
‘You’ve left one person out.’
‘Oh? Who’s that?’
‘Simone Lalange. She has a way of turning up every now and again which cannot be accidental. Where do you fit her in?’
‘Simone?’ Wyse was looking very youthful and worried. ‘You don’t seriously believe she’s involved in all this?’
‘I forgot to tell you that on the evening when we discovered Judy Wincott’s body in that room, Steve picked up an empty book of matches outside the door. It was the replica of the ones Simone carries.’
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ Wyse exclaimed with relief. ‘She told me herself that she’d turned the room down because it hadn’t a bathroom. She must have dropped the book of matches when she was being shown the room.’
‘None the less,’ I said, ‘I’m sure there’s more to Mademoiselle Lalange than meets the eye.’
‘No, you’re quite off the rails there, Temple.’
He stubbed his cigarette out a little too forcibly in his coffee saucer.
‘I wish I could help you. There’s nothing more that you haven’t told me? I’m very sorry you have not brought those spectacles with you. I’d give anything to have a look at them.’
‘Would you? What about lunching with my wife and me at the François Premier to-morrow? I’ll show them to you then. We could invite Simone Lalange too.’
‘That’s rather a good idea…’ Wyse began enthusiastically. Then he stopped. ‘But you said with your wife and you. Supposing Mrs. Temple—’
‘Supposing I have not found her by then? In that case I will not be able to show you the spectacles. If the people have made no proposal by to-morrow morning I’m going to smash those glasses to smithereens. Now, if you don’t mind, I must be getting back to the hotel.’
‘I have a car outside,’ Wyse said, rousing himself out of his reverie and signalling to the waiter. ‘I’ll run you into Tunis.’
I could probably have picked Wyse’s car out from among those standing in the park even if he had not been there to guide me. It was a two-seater M.G., of a rather hideous green colour. He unzipped the tonneau cover which protected the two small seats.
‘You don’t mind a bit of air? I can put the hood up if you like.’
‘I shall be all right,’ I said, and inserted my legs into the narrow tunnel provided for them.
The gravel of the car park was sent flying as we accelerated out on to the road. The rear tyres screamed as soon as they were on the tarmac. Wyse caned his engine mercilessly, and the car jerked at each successive gear change. The noise of the wind made conversation impossible. I grasped the alarming handle fixed to the dashboard and tried to appreciate the beauties of the landscape.
We swept down the hill from Sidi bou Saïd, leaving behind us the luxurious villas of the rich Arab merchants of Tunis. Soon we were screaming past Carthage, the headlights sending long warning beams down the road ahead of us.
Wyse seemed anxious to show me his car’s cornering powers, and as we rushed towards a fast left-hand bend he pulled well over to the wrong side of the road so as to cut the corner. I grasped the chromium-plated handle more firmly and tried to assume an Arabic attitude of fatalism.
Wyse spun the steering-wheel, and I felt as if my elbow was about to break through the side of the car. The tail began to slide outwards. Wyse rapidly put on the opposite lock in an attempt to correct the skid. But his move had no effect on the behaviour of the car. I saw him juggling madly with a steering-wheel which had suddenly gone slack. The car was gyrating wildly, and all the time its impetus was carrying us towards the ditch and bank that bordered the road. The tail was pointing backwards as we hit the grass verge with a bump that nearly shook us out of our seats. The car had time to spin through a hundred and eighty degrees before we slammed into the bank. I saw the bonnet go up in the air and instinctively crouched down in my seat. For an agonizing instant the car stood on its tail, then with apparent slowness it toppled back on top of us.
It was the ditch which prevented us from being crushed underneath it. The car lay straddling the slight dip, depositing Wyse and me on our heads in a dried-up water course. Close to me I could hear the trickle of petrol escaping from the filler cap. The car could catch fire at any moment. There was just room to crawl out under the door beside me. I squeezed through and stood up, to find Wyse standing on the other side.
‘Phew! That was a near one!’
He stared back at the skid marks corkscrewing across the road towards us.
‘I wasn’t going too fast, you know. I could have corrected that skid easily, only the steering went dead on me.’
He seemed more concerned about disclaiming responsibility for the accident than about the fact that he had only just failed to kill us both. I suppose the passenger, who can do nothing except watch helplessly, always has the worse time on these occasions.
I went far enough away from the wrecked car to strike a light in safety. I put a cigarette in my mouth and lit it. Wyse had managed to reach into his glove compartment and find a torch. I saw him examining the front axle of the M.G. After several minutes he came towards me, looking very thoughtful.
‘Somebody is not very kindly disposed towards yours truly. That was a piece of deliberate sabotage.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The drag link had been forced out of its socket and was only held by a piece of wire. It was bound to snap as soon as any strain was put on it.’
We were lucky to stop an empty cab returning from Sidi bou Saïd. Wyse dropped me at my hotel before going on to a garage to arrange for the salvage of his car.
‘Don’t forget,’ he called through the window just before the taxi drove off. ‘We have a date for lunch to-morrow. You haven’t forgotten your promise?’
I said: ‘I always keep my promises.’