Seventy-one

At a quarter to twelve Blaine crept from the apartment building, past the Marché Central, to the Hotel Touring. His wallet was weighed down with Ghita’s spending money, his hair gelled back, and his slim frame squeezed into a borrowed tuxedo, sourced at short notice by Saed.

A throwback to the glory days, Hotel Touring was a favourite with working women who appreciated its hourly rate, and with backpackers who were willing to endure the lice in the name of economy.

Saed was waiting inside the door. He led Blaine down a twisted iron staircase into the maze of subterranean tunnels that crisscross old Casablanca.

‘You got the code?’ Blaine asked.

‘Yes. It’s CIGOGNE. The French word for “stork”.’

‘When I’m inside, what do I do?’

‘Order a bottle of Scotch. Something expensive. Don’t ask how much it is. It’s better to seem like you can afford it, whatever it costs. Ask for a table near the bar. Tip the doorman as you go in, and the manager who takes you to your table. And, when you get in there, ask him to introduce you to the commissioner.’

‘Why shall I say I want to meet him?’

Saed stepped around a pair of dead rats.

‘Say you want to check the price of Alphabonds,’ he said.

‘Alphabonds?’

‘Government bonds. The money of the underworld. Untraceable and as good as cash.’

‘What happens if the police commissioner doesn’t turn up?’

The shoeshine boy pushed open a reinforced door at the bottom of the staircase. He seemed anxious.

‘He’ll come,’ he said. ‘He always comes.’

They walked down a slender tunnel, the walls lined in rusted iron sheets. It was illuminated by bare low-watt bulbs, and stank of industrial pesticide.

‘I can’t believe there’s anything down here at all,’ said Blaine.

Saed stuck out his hand.

‘This is as far as I can go,’ he said.

‘You’re leaving me here?’

‘Keep going down there, and turn right at the end.’

‘And what then?’

‘Then you will be at the door.’

Blaine peered down the corridor. He half-wondered whether it was a trap.

‘It doesn’t look safe,’ he said.

Saed didn’t reply. He had gone.

‘Bastard!’ spat Blaine.

He took a deep breath, wiped a hand hard over his face, and quickened his step towards the secret door of Club Souterrain.

A moment before he reached the end of the tunnel, he heard footsteps and conversation. It sounded like a pair of men approaching – deep voices and city shoes.

Panicking, Blaine ducked into a side tunnel and hid in the shadows. Slowing his breathing, he caught a single snapshot of the men as they passed. One was tall, the other short, both well-dressed in suits and ties.

When they were gone, Blaine jumped out, and hurried the last few yards to where he expected the Club’s entrance to be.

But there wasn’t a door, just a dead end.

That’s impossible, he thought. They couldn’t have vanished like that.

He searched the iron-panelled walls for a hidden doorway, but there wasn’t one. Blaine was about to turn back, when he noticed a faint ribbon of light at the edge of one of the panels.

At first he assumed it to be a reflection. But, looking more carefully, he saw that the light was coming from behind. He put his ear to the iron and listened hard. There was a trace of sound, little more than an indistinct whisper of vibration.

He looked for a handle or a catch. But he couldn’t find one. So he knocked gently... once, then again.

A moment passed, and the panel opened inwards very slowly.

Blaine stepped into a small square chamber.

Lit more brightly than the corridor, it smelled of perfume and cigarette smoke. Each of the walls was covered in a full-length mirror, a perpetual reflection.

A hatch in one of the mirrors opened at eye level, and a doorman’s face hung in the shadow behind.

‘Oui, Monsieur?’ he said in a sour tone.

‘The Club,’ Blaine said, faltering. ‘Souterrain.’

‘Oui?’

‘Um, er... CIGOGNE.’

The word was followed by a click, the sound of a lock snapping back, and well-oiled hinges pressing against themselves.

The mirrored door opened. Blaine stepped forward into a small vestibule.

It was dark, hot, and ended in a curtain of crushed black satin. But it was the noise that was most surprising – the wild rollicking noise.

A doorman held a hand in invitation towards the curtain.

‘Bienvenue, Monsieur,’ he said.

Blaine pushed the black satin to the side, and found himself in a realm worthy of his own far-fetched fantasy.

A cavernous salon spread out before him, packed with immaculate waiters and guests. Filled with conversation, with laughter, and with a haze of cigarette smoke, it was lit by a dozen crystal chandeliers.

At one end, the gaming tables were in full swing – roulette, baccarat, poker and blackjack. And, at the other, a group of attendants in white jackets were preparing drinks, a blur of cocktail flasks shaking Martinis at the bar.

In the middle of it all, the outsized hands of a female pianist were gently caressing the keys of a vintage grand. An Argentine from the good side of Buenos Aires, she was big-boned and overly hirsute, and she swaggered boisterously as she played.

Impeccable in a white tuxedo jacket and tie, a manager appeared as if by magic.

‘Bonsoir, Monsieur.’

‘Good evening. I would like a table. A table for two.’

‘At once, Monsieur. Please come with me.’

Blaine followed the white tuxedo as it weaved between the clusters of lounge chairs, upholstered in pink velvet, with gold piping down the sides.

Crossing the room, he thought of Bogart sitting languidly at the bar, head in hands, cigarette screwed into the corner of his mouth. He felt as though he had actually travelled back in time. And, rather than fearing the situation, he was calmed by it.

The manager motioned to a cluster of chairs set around a low table a few yards from the bar. Blaine dug in his pocket and pulled out a large bill, folded small in anticipation of the moment. It disappeared into the manager’s pocket so fast that the American was left wondering whether he had given it at all.

‘I’d like a bottle of Scotch,’ he said. ‘A single malt.’

‘Certainly Monsieur. I can offer you a bottle of Glenlivet, twenty-five years old, with a hint of oak.’

‘That will do fine.’ Blaine paused, then beckoned the manager a little closer. ‘I am hoping to invite the police commissioner to join me for a drink.’

‘Of course, Monsieur. I shall extend the invitation at once.’

The pianist blew a kiss to a haggard man at the bar, and began to play Blue Moon.

A waiter glided up, a silver salver borne high on an upturned palm. He put the whisky, the ice and soda siphon on the table, and waited for instructions.

‘No ice, and a splash of soda, please.’

Blaine took the glass, held it to the light. Touching it to his lips, he tasted the oak.

A woman approached. She was dressed in a long flowing gown, Chinese silk ruched at the sides, with precariously high stilettos.

‘Would you like a little company, Monsieur?’ she said.

‘Er, not right now, I’m expecting a friend.’

As if on cue the manager returned.

Beside him was a uniformed officer – six foot two, broad at the shoulders, with a walrus moustache and the kind of face that prompted small children to scream.

‘I should like to present the commissioner of police.’

In one motion, Blaine introduced himself, invited the officer to sit, and slipped the manager another neatly folded bill.

‘Could I offer you a whisky?’ he asked, pouring a triple.

The officer took the glass, clinked it to Blaine’s, and downed half the liquid. He licked his lips.

‘It’s good,’ he said with a grin. ‘Very good.’

Blaine refilled his glass, replacing small-talk with drink.

Within five minutes, half the bottle was gone, and the commissioner seemed drowsy.

Blaine seized the moment.

‘I’m new in Casablanca,’ he said awkwardly. ‘And I’m interested in getting my hands on some Alphabonds.’

The officer sipped his drink thoughtfully.

‘How many do you want?’

‘It depends on the price.’ He drew breath. ‘How much is the going price?’

‘A thousand dirhams each, more or less. But I am surprised that they would interest a man like you.’

Blaine cocked his head expectantly.

‘Why?’

‘Because you are an American, are you not?’

‘How did you guess?’

The commissioner lit a cigar, inspected the end, and thought for a moment.

‘Because whether he be in Casablanca, Paris, or Timbuktu,’ he said without looking up, ‘an American sticks out. He doesn’t blend in. Why not? Because he can’t.’

Blaine may have debated the point, but he knew there was truth in it. The officer was right – while Americans liked to think they are experts in social camouflage, the only place they are capable of blending in is at home.

A few minutes of silence slipped by.

The commissioner sucked on his cigar, and the hookers paraded, one by one, their gowns brushing the gold piping of the chairs. The pianist began playing an old Edith Piaf number, her large brusque hands vigorous on the keys.

When the number was halfway through, Blaine touched a hand to his jaw.

‘I heard that an Asian tourist was killed at the Hotel Marrakech,’ he said absently.

‘He’s lying in the morgue now,’ the officer replied with equal disinterest. ‘Throat cut clean in two.’

‘I wonder who did it.’

‘A gangster, a lowlife,’ said the commissioner. ‘We caught him. He confessed after a thorough interrogation.’

‘Oh,’ said Blaine timidly, ‘that is good news, isn’t it? What’s your plan for him?’

The commissioner nodded, sucked long and hard, exhaled, then sipped his Scotch.

‘When he’s been tried and found guilty, he will be taken to the most secure prison in the kingdom,’ he said.

‘Will he?’ Blaine asked with interest. ‘And where exactly would that be?’

‘In the mountains. The prison there is reserved for the worst offenders.’

‘Like that Globalcom boss... what was his name? Let me think.’

‘Omary,’ the commissioner said in a flash. ‘Yes, he’s been taken there, too. A lot he has to answer for. He will never get out alive.’

‘Out of interest,’ said Blaine indifferently, ‘where exactly in the mountains is the prison located?’

The commissioner drew a breath to speak a name. The word moved up through his vocal cords and onto his tongue. But, just before it emerged into the world, an immensely large man sidled up and kissed the commissioner on the cheeks.

The two men hugged, and embraced again.

‘This is my old friend Dr. Weisemann from Hamburg,’ said the officer with considerable delight. ‘He has a business making ball-bearings for motor cars.’

Blaine extended his hand, waved to the waiter for another glass and another bottle of single malt. As he did so, Dr. Weisemann’s ample backside made landfall on the pink velvet.

The conversation turned to secret Swiss cabarets, and then to German prostitutes. Blaine glanced at his watch. He tried time and again to steer the conversation back to the subject of remote mountain jails, but without any success. After all, Teutonic whoring was so much more appealing to his audience than the ins and outs of the Moroccan penal system.

At two-fifteen, the commissioner stood up, thanked his American host courteously for the drinks, hugged the German, then staggered away towards the door.

A protracted silence followed, after which Dr. Weisemann fluttered a set of distended fingers at the girls clustered near the bar.

‘Which one are you going to take?’ he asked.

‘Oh, er... I’m really not interested in them,’ said Blaine.

‘How can that be?’ Weisemann’s eyes widened. ‘Is it not ladies you admire?’

‘No... I mean, yes, I do like ladies, just not right now, just not tonight.’