Tangier by William Bayer Read Free Book Online

and as usual there was much coming and going at the Sûreté. Civilians and police mingled on the bottom floor, and the basement was filled with people arrested over the weekend.
    "Well, Aziz, what have we got this morning?" Hamid hung up his leather jacket and sat down at his desk.
    Aziz was looking at his list. "Six tourists in the jug, Inspector—five of them members of a British ballet. They played Rabat, then came up here for fun. We caught them with little boys on Saturday night having an orgy at the Oriental Hotel."
    "Robin, of course."
    Aziz nodded. "He turned them in. They demanded to see the British Consul, but Mrs. Whittle told me he was out of town. Actually I think he was here but didn't want to be disturbed."
    "Doesn't surprise me. He hates the queers." Hamid lit a cigarette.
    "Then there's an American, brought in late last night. He picked up a whore at Heidi's Bar. They were walking back to her place when she began to scream. That's his version, of course. She says he was going to break her arm. Anyway, a cop named Mustapha Barrada came along and found a kilo of hash in his jeans. There was a scuffle, and Mustapha beat him up. Doctor saw him early this morning, and I've been in touch with Knowles."
    "Good, Aziz. Very good."
    "There's more. The hustler they call 'Pumpkin Pie' wracked up Inigo's Mercedes on the Tetuan Road. In the process he hit an old man and crushed his legs. What concerns us is that Inigo reported the car stolen a couple of hours before, so we're holding the boy, whose name is Mohammed Seraj, until he comes in here and swears out a complaint."
    "How's the old man?"
    Aziz shrugged. "In pain. This Seraj is a wild one. Maybe he didn't even blow the horn."
    "Right. Anything else?" Hamid felt weary already and wished he was back home in bed.
    "The Prefect wants to see you this afternoon. And Vicar Wick, the one who runs St. Thomas Church, has an urgent matter that he will only discuss with you."
    "Tell him to come in."
    "You want the Vicar to come in here?"
    "He's not a diplomat. I don't have to call on him."
    Aziz beamed. "You interested in the ballet dancers?"
    "Depends on who they are. If they're nobody special we'll expel them all tonight."
    When Aziz finally left, Hamid turned to the window and groaned. It was like this on a Monday—people in jail, incidents from the weekend, trivial details that took up his time. Now he was concerned about Kalinka and found it difficult to concentrate on work. She'd always been strange—that was the secret of her attractiveness—but lately, it seemed to him, her strangeness had increased. She'd smoked the whole weekend, disappearing into a haze of incomplete sentences, utterances in Vietnamese he couldn't understand. It was as if she was trying to tell him something. So many times he had asked her, "Who are you, Kalinka?", and now, it seemed, she wanted to answer but couldn't find the words. She was such a puzzle. Often Hamid would pause to wrestle with her mystery. So far with no result, but still he hoped to find the key.
    Aziz came back into the office. "Vicar Wick's on his way over now. The Prefect will see you at six. Inigo is here to make his complaint, and Knowles is with the American downstairs."
    "Good. I'll start with Inigo. Then Knowles. Keep the Vicar waiting—half an hour at least."
    Aziz gave him an admiring glance, then showed Inigo in. The Paraguayan painter was an extremely handsome young man, with the face of a Mexican saint.
    "So, Inspector, you've got my little Pumpkin Pie. He's been a naughty boy. Good thing you locked him up."
    Hamid smiled. He liked the artist, was a great admirer of his work. His paintings, all highly realistic, glowed with a translucent sheen. There'd been a time, when Hamid was a boy, when he'd thought a painter was someone who whitewashed a house.
    "Yes, we have him, and since you're the owner of the car, the responsibility would normally fall on you. You reported it stolen so you seem to be