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He nodded, then slapped his hands together. ‘Now you’re all staying with me at my place; I’ve got room enough for an army.’
I said hesitantly, ‘What about the boat?’
He smiled. ‘I see you’ve heard stories about the Tangier dock thieves. Well, let me tell you they’re all true. But that doesn’t matter; I’ll put one of my men on board. Nobody steals from my men – or me.’
He rowed back across the harbour and presently returned with a scar-faced Moroccan, to whom he spoke in quick and guttural Arabic. Then he said, ‘That’s all fixed. I’ll have the word passed round the docks that you’re friends of mine. Your boat’s safe enough, as safe as though it lay in your own yard.’
I believed him. I could believe he had a lot of pull in a place like Tangier.
‘Let’s go ashore,’ he said. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘So am I,’ said Coertze.
‘It’ll be a relief not to do any more cooking for a while, won’t it?’ I said.
‘Man,’ said Coertze, ‘I wouldn’t mind if I never saw a frypan again.’
‘That’s a pity,’ said Metcalfe. ‘I was looking forward to you making me some koeksusters; I always liked South African grub.’ He roared with laughter and slapped Coertze on the back.
Metcalfe had a big apartment on the Avenida de España, and he gave me a room to myself while Coertze and Walker shared a room. He stayed and chatted while I unpacked my bag.
‘South Africa too quiet for you?’ he asked.
I went into my carefully prepared standard talk on the reasons I had left. I had no reason to trust Metcalfe more than anyone else – probably less – judging by the kind of man he was. I don’t know whether he believed me or not, but he agreed that there was scope in the Mediterranean for a good boatyard.
‘You may not get as many commissions to build,’ he said. ‘But there certainly is room for a good servicing and maintenance yard. I’d go east, towards Greece, if I were you. The yards in the islands cater mostly for the local fishermen; there’s room for someone who understands yachts and yachtsmen.’
‘What have you got a boat for?’ I asked banteringly. ‘Hiring it out for charter cruises?’
He grinned. ‘Aw, you know me. I carry all sorts of cargoes; anything except narcotics.’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m a bad bastard, I know, but I draw the line at drugs. Anything else I’m game for.’
‘Including guns to Algeria,’ I hazarded.
He laughed. ‘The French in Algiers hate my guts – they tried to do me down a couple of months ago. I’d unloaded a cargo into some fishing boats and then I ran into Algiers to refuel. I was clean, see! they couldn’t touch me – my papers were in order and everything.’
‘I let the crew go ashore for a drink and I turned in and had a zizz. Then something woke me up – I heard a thump and then a queer noise that seemed to come from underneath the boat. So I got up and had a look around. When I got on deck I saw a boat pulling away and there seemed to be a man in the water, swimming alongside it.’
He grinned. ‘Well, I’m a careful and cautious man, so I got my snorkel and my swim-fins and went over the side to have a look-see. What do you think those French Security bastards had done to me?’
I shook my head. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘They’d put a limpet mine on my stern gear. They must have reckoned that if they couldn’t nail me down legally they’d do it illegally. If that thing went off it would blow the bottom out of my stern. Well, I got it off the boat and did a bit of heavy thinking. I knew they wouldn’t have timed it to blow up in harbour – it wouldn’t have looked nice – so I reckoned it was set to blow after I left.
‘I slung it round my neck by the cord and swam across the harbour to where the police patrol boat was lying and stuck it under their stern. Let them have the trouble of buying a new boat.
‘Next day we left early as planned and, as we moved out, I heard the police boat revving up. They followed us a long way while I was taking it nice and easy, cruising at about ten knots so they wouldn’t lose me. They hung on to my tail for about thirty miles, waiting for the bang and laughing to themselves fit to bust, I suppose. But they didn’t laugh when the bang came and blew the arse off their own boat.
‘I turned and picked them up. It was all good clean fun – no one was hurt. When I’d got them out of the water I took them back to Algiers – the noble rescuer. You ought to have seen the faces of the Security boys when I pitched up. Of course, they had to go through the motions of thanking me for rescuing those lousy, shipwrecked mariners. I kept a straight face and said I thought it must have been one of the antisubmarine depth charges in the stern that had gone off. They said it couldn’t have been that because police boats don’t carry depth charges. And that was that.’
He chuckled. ‘No, they don’t like me in Algiers.’
I laughed with him. It was a good story and he had told it well.
I was in two minds about Metcalfe; he had his advantages and his disadvantages. On the one hand, he could give us a lot of help in Tangier; he knew the ropes and had the contacts. On the other hand, we had to be careful he didn’t get wind of what we were doing. He was a hell of a good chap and all that, but if he knew we were going to show up with four tons of gold he would hijack us without a second thought. We were his kind of meat.
Yes, we had to be very careful in our dealings with Mr Metcalfe. I made a mental note to tell the others not to let anything drop in his presence.
I said, ‘What kind of boat have you got?’
‘A Fairmile,’ he said. ‘I’ve re-engined it, of course.’
I knew of the Fairmiles, but I had never seen one close up. They had been built in the hundreds during the war for harbour defence. The story was that they were built by the mile and cut off as needed. They were 112 feet overall with powerful engines and could work up over twenty knots easily, but they had the reputation of being bad rollers in a cross sea. They were not armoured or anything like that, being built of wood, and when a few of them went into St Nazaire with the Campbelltown they got shot up very badly.
After the war you could buy a surplus Fairmile for about five thousand quid and they had become a favourite with the smugglers of Tangier. If Metcalfe had re-engined his Fairmile, he had probably gone for power to outrun the revenue cutters and his boat would be capable of at least twenty-six knots in an emergency. Sanford would have no chance of outrunning a boat like that if it came to the push.
‘I’d like to see her sometime,’ I said. There was no harm in looking over a potential enemy.
‘Sure,’ said Metcalfe expansively. ‘But not just yet. I’m going out tomorrow night.’
That was good news – with Metcalfe out of the way we might be able to go about our business undisturbed. ‘When are you coming back?’ I asked.
‘Some time next week,’ he said. ‘Depending on the wind and the rain and suchlike things.’
‘Such as those French Security bastards?’
‘That’s right,’ he said carelessly. ‘Let’s eat.’
II
Metcalfe made us free of his flat and said we could live there in his absence – the servants would look after us. That afternoon he took me round town and introduced me to several people. Some were obviously good contacts to have, such as a ship’s chandler and a boat builder. Others were not so obviously good; there was a villainous-looking café proprietor, a Greek with no discernible occupation and a Hungarian who explained volubly that he was a ‘Freedom Fighter’ who had escaped from Hungary after the abortive revolution of 1956. I was particularly cynical about him.
I think that Metcalfe was unobtrusively passing the word that we were friends of his, and so immune to any of the usual tricks played on passing yachtsmen. Metcalfe was not a bad man to have around if he was your friend and you were a yachtsman. But I was not a yachtsman and that made Metcalfe a potential bomb.
Before we left the flat I had the chance to talk to Coertze and Walker privately. I said, ‘Here’s where we keep our mouths shut and stick to our cover story. We don’t do a damn’ thing until Metcalfe has pushed off – and we try to finish before he gets back.’
Walker said, ‘Why, is he dangerous?’
‘Don’t you know about Metcalfe?’ I explained who he was. They had both heard of him; he had made quite a splash in the South African Press – the reporters loved to write about such a colourful character.
‘Oh, that Metcalfe,’ said Walker, impressed.
Coertze said, ‘He doesn’t look much to me. He won’t be any trouble.’
‘It’s not Metcalfe alone,’ I said. ‘He’s got an organization and he’s on his own territory. Let’s face it; he’s a professional and we’re amateurs. Steer clear of Metcalfe.’
I felt like adding ‘and that’s an order,’ but I didn’t. Coertze might have taken me up on it and I didn’t want to force a showdown with him yet. It would come of its own accord soon enough.
So for a day and a half we were tourists in Tangier, rubbernecking our way about the town. If we hadn’t had so much on our minds it might have been interesting, but as it was, it was a waste of time.
Luckily, Metcalfe was preoccupied by his own mysterious business and we saw little of him. However, I did instruct Walker to ask one crucial question before Metcalfe left.
Over breakfast, he said, ‘You know – I like Tangier. It might be nice to stay here for a few months. Is the climate always like this?’
‘Most of the time,’ answered Metcalfe. ‘It’s a good, equable climate. There’s lots of people retire here, you know.’
Walker smiled. ‘Oh, I’m not thinking of retiring. I’ve nothing to retire from.’ He was proving to be a better actor than I had expected – that touch was perfect. He said, ‘No, what I thought was that I might like to buy a house here. Somewhere I could live a part of the year.’
‘I should have thought the Med. would be your best bet,’ said Metcalfe. ‘The Riviera, or somewhere like that.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Walker. ‘This seems to be as good a place as any, and the Riviera is so crowded these days.’ He paused as though struck by a sudden thought. ‘I’d want a boat, of course. Could you design one for me? I’d have it built in England.’
‘Sure I could,’ I said. ‘All you have to do is pay me enough.’
‘Yes,’ said Walker. ‘You can’t do without the old boat, can you?’
He was laying it on a bit too thick and I could see that Metcalfe was regarding him with amused contempt, so I said quickly, ‘He’s a damned good sailor. He nearly ran off with the Cape Dinghy Championship last year.’
That drew Metcalfe as I knew it would. ‘Oh,’ he said with more respect, and for a few minutes he and Walker talked boats. At last Walker came out with it. ‘You know, what would be really perfect would be a house on the coast somewhere with its own anchorage and boat-shed. Everything self-contained, as it were.’
‘Thinking of joining us?’ asked Metcalfe with a grin.
‘Oh, no,’ said Walker, horrified. ‘I wouldn’t have the nerve. I’ve got enough money, and besides, I don’t like your smelly Fairmiles with their stinking diesel oil. No, I was thinking about a real boat, a sailing boat.’
He turned to me. ‘You know, the more I think about it the better I like it. You could design a 10-tonner for me, something I could handle myself, and this place is a perfect jumping-off place for the Caribbean. A transatlantic crossing might be fun.’
He confided in Metcalfe. ‘You know, these ocean-crossing johnnies are all very well, but most of them are broke and they have to live on their boats. Why should I do that? Think how much better it would be if I had a house here with a boat-shed at the bottom of the garden, as it were, where I could tune the boat for the trip instead of lying in that stinking harbour.’
It was a damned good idea if you were a wealthy playboy with a yen to do a single-handed Atlantic crossing. I gave Walker full credit for his inventive powers.
Metcalfe didn’t find it unreasonable, either. He said, ‘Not a bad idea if you can afford it. I tell you what; go and see Aristide, a friend of mine. He’ll try to rent you a flat, he’s got dozens empty, but tell him that I sent you and he’ll be more reasonable.’ He scribbled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Walker.
‘Oh, thanks awfully,’ said Walker. ‘It’s really very kind of you.’
Metcalfe finished his coffee. ‘I’ve got to go now; see you tonight before I leave.’
When he had gone Coertze, who had sat through all this with no expression at all on his face, said, ‘I’ve been thinking about the go …’
I kicked his ankle and jerked my head at the Moroccan servant who had just come into the room. ‘Tula,’ I said. ‘Moenie hier praat nie.’ Then in English, ‘Let’s go out and have a look round.’
We left the flat and sat at a table of a nearby café. I said to Coertze, ‘We don’t know if Metcalfe’s servants speak English or not, but I’m taking no chances. Now, what did you want to say?’
He said, ‘I’ve been thinking about bringing the gold in here. How are we going to do it? You said yesterday that bullion has to be declared at Customs. We can’t come in and say, ‘Listen, man; I’ve got a golden keel on this boat and I think it weighs about four tons.’
‘I’ve been thinking of that myself,’ I said. ‘It looks as though we’ll have to smuggle it in, recast it into standard bars, smuggle it out again a few bars at a time, then bring the bars in openly and declare them at Customs.’
‘That’s going to take time,’ objected Coertze. ‘We haven’t got the time.’
I sighed. ‘All right; let’s take a good look at this time factor. Today is 12th January and Tangier shuts up shop as far as gold is concerned on 19th April – that’s – let me see, er – ninety-seven days – say fourteen weeks.’
I began to calculate and to allocate this time. It would be a week before we left Tangier and another fortnight to get to Italy. That meant another fortnight coming back, too, and I would like a week spare in case of bad weather. That disposed of six weeks. Two weeks for making preparations and for getting the gold out, and three weeks for casting the keel – eleven weeks altogether, leaving a margin of three weeks. We were cutting it fine.
I said, ‘We’ll have to see what the score is when we get back here with the gold. Surely to God someone will buy it, even if it is in one lump. But we don’t say anything until we’ve got it.’
I began to have some visions of sailing back to Egypt or even India like some sort of modern Flying Dutchman condemned to sail the seas in a million pound yacht.
Walker did not go much for these planning sessions. He was content to leave that to Coertze and me. He had been sitting listening with half an ear, studying the address which Metcalfe had given him.
Suddenly he said, ‘I thought old Aristide would have been an estate agent, but he’s not.’ He read the address from the slip of paper. ‘“Aristide Theotopopoulis, Tangier Mercantile Bank, Boulevard Pasteur.” Maybe we could ask him something about it.’
‘Not a chance,’ I said derisively. ‘He’s a friend of Metcalfe.’ I looked at Walker. ‘And another thing,’ I said. ‘You did very well with Metcalfe this morning, but for God’s sake, don’t put on that phoney Oxford accent, and less of that “thanks awfully” stuff. Metcalfe’s a hard man to fool; besides, he’s been to South Africa and knows the score. You’d have done better to put on a Malmesbury accent, but it’s too late to change now. But tone it down a bit, will you?’
Walker grinned and said, ‘O.K, old chappie.’
I said, ‘Now we’ll go and see Aristide Theoto-whatever-it-is. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if we hired a car, too. It’ll help us get around and it adds to the cover. We are supposed to be rich tourists, you know.’
III
Aristide Theotopopoulis was a round man. His girth was roughly equal to his height, and as he sat down he creased in the middle like a half-inflated football bladder. Rolls of fat flowed over his collar from his jowls and the back of his neck. Even his hands were round – pudgy balls of fat with the glint of gold shining from deeply embedded rings.
‘Ah, yes, Mr Walker; you want a house,’ he said. ‘I received a phone call from Mr Metcalfe this morning. I believe I have the very thing.’ His English was fluent and colloquial.
‘You mean you have such a house?’ inquired Walker.
‘Of course! Why do you suppose Mr Metcalfe sent you to me? He knows the Casa Saeta.’ He paused. ‘You don’t mind if it’s an old house?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Not at all,’ replied Walker easily. ‘I can afford any alterations provided the house suits me.’ He caught my eye, then said, hastily, ‘But I would like to suggest that I rent it for six months with an option to buy.’
Aristide’s face lengthened from a circle to an ellipse. ‘Very well, if that is what you wish,’ he said dubiously.
He took us up the north coast in a Cadillac with Coertze following in our hired car. The house looked like something from a Charles Addams’ cartoon and I expected to see Boris Karloff peering from a window. There was no Moorish influence at all; it was the most hideous Victorian Gothic in the worst possible taste. But that didn’t matter if it could give us what we wanted.
We went into the house and looked cursorily over the worm-eaten panelling and viewed the lack of sanitation. The kitchen was primitive and there was a shaggy garden at the back of the house. Beyond was the sea and we looked over a low cliff to the beach.
It was perfect. There was a boat-house big enough to take Sanford once we unstepped the mast, and there was a crude slip badly in need of repair. There was even a lean-to shed where we could set up our foundry.
I looked at everything, estimating how long it would take to put in order, then I took Coertze on one side while Aristide extolled the beauties of the house to Walker.
‘What do you think?’ I asked.
‘Man, I think we should take it. There can’t be another place like this in the whole of North Africa.’
‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ I said. ‘I hope we can find something like this in Italy. We can get local people to fix up the slip, and with a bit of push we should be finished in a week. We’ll have to do some token work on the house, but the bulk of the money must go on essentials – there’ll be time to make the house livable when we come back. I’ll tip Walker off about that; he’s good at thinking up wacky reasons for doing the damnedest things.’
We drifted back to Walker and Aristide who were still going at it hammer and tongs, and I gave Walker an imperceptible nod. He smiles dazzlingly at Aristide, and said, ‘It’s no use, Mr Theotopopoulis, you can’t talk me out of taking this house. I’m determined to have it at once – on a six months’ rental, of course.’
Aristide, who hadn’t any intention of talking anyone out of anything, was taken aback, but making a game recovery, said, ‘You understand, Mr Walker, I can give no guarantees …’ His voice tailed off, giving the impression that he was doing Walker a favour.
‘That’s all right, old man,’ said Walker gaily. ‘But I must have a six months’ option on the house, too. Remember that.’
