One hundred and nine

The red petit taxi rattled up past the lighthouse and took a left and then a right just before the Corniche.

The driver forced his foot down hard so as to climb the palm-lined avenue, which led up to the crest of the Anfa hill. He turned again and steered gently round past a series of villas, each one a little grander than the last.

A few feet short of the most magnificent one of all, he drew the battered vehicle to a halt. A moment later, a pair of security guards wearing dark blue baseball caps stepped into the road. They were waiting for a name, or an explanation.

‘I’m kind of on a mission,’ said Blaine.

‘A mission?’

‘It’s gonna sound a little strange. You see it concerns Humphrey Bogart and this postcard.’ He paused, stepped up onto the kerb and held up the picture of Villa Mirador. ‘Is there someone I could speak to, an official or someone like that?’

One of the guards spat a handful of words into his walkie-talkie. Then he disappeared into the security booth and got on the phone. Fifteen minutes passed and he called out:

‘Your identification, Monsieur.’

Blaine slipped his passport through. It was examined, photocopied, examined again, and then returned.

The second guard waved a hand at a solid steel door. It opened electronically.

‘You can go in,’ he said.

Stepping through an airport style detector frame, Blaine found himself in a sprawling garden, a lovely bow-fronted villa set back a short distance from the gates. He walked up to the building slowly, his eyes taking in the Art Deco details, the wrought ironwork and the building’s gently curving lines.

It was the house from the postcard.

As he approached the front door, an American man stepped out. He was middle aged and bespectacled, and had an engaging face, the kind that puts others instantly at ease.

‘I am George Sanderson,’ he said amiably, ‘the American consul here in Casablanca. I understand you showed an old postcard of Villa Mirador to the guard.’

Blaine extended his hand, got eye contact, and strained to appear sane.

‘I was thinking this moment through on the cab ride,’ he said, ‘going over my opening gambit. And, heck, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t think of anything that would sound plausible. So I’ll just run with it.’

The consul touched a fingertip to his chin.

‘You’d better come inside,’ he said.

They went through into a small room on the left of the main door. The walls were hung with formal black and white portraits, a number of them featuring Churchill and Roosevelt. The Stars and Stripes stood on a stand to the right of a desk.

Sanderson took a deep breath.

‘Here’s your chance,’ he said. ‘Hit me with what you’ve got.’

Blaine took out the postcard and held it in his right hand.

‘I was drawn to Casablanca by my love for the movie,’ he said. ‘And through my appreciation of all things Bogart,’ he paused, held up the card. ‘I have followed a treasure trail of clues the great man laid down, clues in the form of postcards like this.’

The consul took the postcard and examined the reverse.

‘Do you know what this number – 07698 – signifies?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t. Do you?’

A maid shuffled in with mint tea, poured it, and then shuffled out.

Sanderson held the glass of tea and breathed in the steam. Then, slowly, his focus moved towards the window and the gardens beyond.

‘When I became consul here,’ he said, ‘I was given all the usual briefings about the city and about this house. It’s quite an extraordinary place. As you may know, the Anfa Summit was held here back in ’43. Churchill and Roosevelt ran the Allied War effort from this very room. It’s a great chunk of history.’

He stood up, and stepped into a shaft of yellow sunlight near the window.

‘And the thing is,’ he went on, ‘with houses like this, there are all sorts of marvels. You may not realize it but your postcard is one of them.’

‘One of what?’

‘Of the marvels.’

The maid shuffled in again, this time with a plate of gingerbread. She laid it on the desk without a word, and was gone.

‘One of the stranger fragments of information entrusted to me,’ Sanderson said, ‘concerned Humphrey Bogart. I am sure you know better than I that he was here in North Africa entertaining the troops.’

‘That’s right. He was with his wife, Mayo. They fought like cats and dogs.’

The consul nodded.

‘So I understand.’

‘What was the fragment of information... the one entrusted to you?’

‘That one day, someone might turn up and claim the lost treasure of Humphrey Bogart.’

Blaine broke into a grin.

‘What is it, a bottle of Scotch?’

The consul shrugged.

‘I don’t know. But I have a sense that we are about to find out.’