Eighty-eight

The Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost ran alongside the ancient crenellated ramparts of the Marrakech medina. Coral pink and crumbling, the city walls were straight out of the Arabian Nights. Their entire surface was peppered with little square holes, used from time to time for scaffolding – and always by swallows for their nests.

Turning left through an arched gateway, Blaine took a sharp right into the forecourt of La Mamounia.

Ghita may have spent her life being chauffeured about, but the precise location of La Grande Dame was one she could describe with her eyes closed.

‘My father always says this is where his heart lies,’ she said quietly, as the zigzag shadows of palm fronds tumbled over the car.

Cloaked head to toe in white robes, a pair of towering guards swept forwards, opened the doors, and bestowed greetings.

Climbing the mosaic steps, the guests were showered in pink rose petals. And, once they were inside, a retinue of bearers offered moist towels, mint tea and fresh desert dates.

‘I guess it helps if you turn up in a Rolls-Royce,’ said Blaine in a whisper.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a suave man in a hand-tailored suit hurried up. His hair was smoothed back, grey like a turtle dove, his complexion lightly tanned. The personification of sophistication, he was like a Hollywood leading man playing a hotel manager.

Without wasting a moment he embraced Ghita.

‘What a wonderful surprise, ma chérie!’ he declared. ‘How are you, my dearest, dearest Ghita?’ His expression faltering, he breathed in sharply. ‘But how awful what we have heard about Monsieur Omary. My prayers and those of the entire staff go out to him.’

Ghita gave thanks, and then presented Blaine.

The general manager shook the American’s hand firmly, the signet ring on his little finger catching the light.

‘Will you be requiring your usual suite, Mademoiselle?’

‘That would be wonderful, thank you Laurent,’ Ghita said, ‘and a single room as well for my friend.’ She paused, glanced up at the crystal chandelier, as it caught the afternoon light. ‘We are here on something of a treasure hunt. I believe that a former guest may have left an envelope for us.’

‘Would it be in your name, Mademoiselle?’

Blaine held up a hand.

‘No, not exactly. It would have been left in the name of a Mr. Bogart... a Humphrey Bogart.’

The general manager beckoned the duty manager from the shadows and whispered something into his right ear.

‘We will look into the matter,’ he said in a reassuring voice. ‘Now I must insist that you are my guests for lunch. I know that your father has a fondness for Don Alfonso’s cuisine.’

He led the way through the main body of the hotel, recently refurbished by Jacques Garcia, the celebrated French décoriste. There was a solemnity about the place, a sense of power. The ambience had been achieved through dim lighting, miles and miles of silk, and meticulous understatement.

At lunch, the menus were brought forward by a maître d’hôtel, but were waved away by Don Alfonso, who was horrified by the thought of Ghita Omary being offered anything available to any ordinary guest. Exclaiming his joy, he hurried into the kitchen to prepare a special meal, one that might satisfy the discerning taste of Mr. Omary himself.

Against the gentle sound of birdsong on the terrace, Blaine asked about Bogart.

‘Hollywood has had a long love affair with La Mamounia,’ the general manager replied, twisting his rings as he spoke. ‘Hitchcock filmed scenes in The Man Who Knew Too Much here. And we have hosted almost every star you can think of, from Charlie Chaplin to Humphrey Bogart.’

As if waiting for his cue, the duty manager stepped forward, bowed, and offered a silver salver to Blaine.

‘This was found in the archive, Monsieur.’

Squared on the salver’s burnished surface lay an antique envelope in ivory white. The words ‘To Be Collected’ were written in large black script over the front, and were complemented by Bogart’s signature.

‘That’s it!’ said Blaine quickly. ‘Thank you!’

Sliding the blade of a butter knife along the top edge, he removed a fourth postcard.

It showed a fine villa set amid ample gardens.

As before, he began to peel away the back. But, unlike the previous postcards, this one didn’t appear to have a secret message, just Bogart’s signature and a number – 07698.

‘Would you mind?’ said the manager, motioning for the card.

Blaine handed it to him.

‘Villa Mirador,’ he said.

‘Where is it?’

‘In Anfa, Casablanca’s quartier majestique. It was there that the Allied Summit was held early in 1943. When it ended, Churchill brought Roosevelt down here to stay at La Grande Dame, and to paint the snows of the Atlas, as viewed from the balcony of his suite.’

‘Villa Mirador,’ said Ghita absently. ‘I’ve been to receptions there. It’s the residence of the American consul, even now. Quite a house, one soaked in history.’

The general manager propped up the postcard on the silver pepper mill.

‘What are your plans, Mademoiselle?’ he asked.

‘We’re going to the mountains to...’ She fell short of finishing the sentence, and touched a finger to her cheek. ‘To see an old friend,’ she said.