Fifty-four

At seven forty-five Blaine left the Rialto.

He was still glowing from the final sequence, and was mumbling the dialogue as he went. Drifting through the empty streets on his way to Baba Cool, he noticed a light in Monsieur Raffi’s shop, and the shutters drawn up.

Without thinking, he crossed the street and rapped gently on the window.

Raffi unbolted the door.

‘Come on in my American friend,’ he said. ‘I have been sitting here waiting for you.’

‘But we hadn’t planned to meet.’

The shopkeeper locked the door once Blaine was inside.

‘Of course we had, but you just didn’t know it,’ he said, slumping down in his tattered satin chair. ‘Now, tell me, how are you getting on with the clue?’

Blaine pulled out the postcard.

‘I’ve spent the afternoon staring at it.’

‘And what have you seen?’

‘Old Casablanca in a time before the rot set in.’

‘That’s good,’ Raffi said, ‘but you are missing the details. And the world depends on details.’

‘Believe me, I’ve seen them all.’

Monsieur Raffi shuddered.

‘Seeing is not the same as understanding,’ he said.

‘Seeing what?’

‘The real picture.’

The American frowned. He held the card up to the light and turned it slowly.

‘What am I missing?’

‘Everything.’

Again, Blaine turned it, slower this time. And, as he turned, he noticed the edge gleam very slightly, as if it had been glued flat. He assumed it was part of the printing process. But, as he turned it again, he saw that the glue had been added later.

With great care, he pushed his thumbnail into the space where the picture was pasted onto the card. The two sheets separated easily, as if they were supposed to be pulled apart.

Working his way around the entire edge, Blaine found himself staring at the side of the card that had been glued to the image.

The left side was covered in writing, made in a small neat hand. It looked like a series of directions – directions through Casablanca. The right side was devoted to a very rough hand-sketched map. It featured what appeared to be a main street, with bars, cafés and cinemas, all of them crudely marked.

Blaine’s mouth opened but no words came out at first. Then, as if in a daze, he said:

‘This is Bogart’s handwriting. I’d know it anywhere.’

Monsieur Raffi coughed hard, then blew his nose.

‘Now you have the clue, you can begin to unlock the secret,’ he said.