The Adventure of the Blue Parrot: Chapter 2
By Taz
It was mid-afternoon, by the time I told the ever-patient taxi driver to take me back to the Transatlantique. We were almost there when I changed my mind; if there was anywhere in Casablanca where the phones were more likely to be bugged…
I had him bring me to the Blue Parrot and when I walked in Ferrari was behind the counter with Umar. He called, "George! You're just in time," and pointed to the table where the backgammon board was set up. "We can finish the match, and I want to talk to you."
"May I use your phone?" I said.
"It's in the desk." Ferrari pointed to an alcove with its beaded curtain was tied back, and there was a rolltop desk. "Come talk to me when you're done."
The desk stand was an older style and I had to jiggle the hook a number of times; finally, it connected, and I was able to ring through.
I heard the voice of Ellerman's secretary when it picked up. "Occidental Exports."
"George Armistead here," I said. "I'm calling about that crate for Windward Spices I discussed with Mr. Ellerman. The last one. I wanted to let him know the manifest is complete."
"Excellent news, Mr. Armistead. You'll need to have all five crates on the pier before midnight. Number seven."
"I don't expect that will be a problem."
I put the receiver on the hook and glanced at my watch. It was some hours yet before the time I had arranged to meet Ugarte; a couple of matches of backgammon would pass the time. When I stepped from the alcove, though, the board was on the floor and Ferrari was out in the garden, yelling at someone to leave the bird alone, or he would take a stick to him.
I had started gathering up the scattered counters, when in he strode carrying Blue Peter on his perch.
"Bloody urchins were bothering my bird," he said.
"Pluck my feathers," cried Blue Peter. "Pluck my feathers."
"Sounds like an invitation to mayhem," I said. "Teach him to say something else."
"If you know's a better 'ole, go to it," Blue Peter said.
"You're a dirty bird!" I said. "What regiment did you serve in?"
"Kiss me arse," said Blue Peter.
"I should have roasted him a long time ago," said Ferrari. "He was an indulgence in my youth; if I'd known how long they live…"
Under Blue Peter's beady and malevolent eye, Ferrari and I attempted to settle down to some serious play. We threw the dice and moved the counters, while the bird circled his perch and every so often extended his snake-like neck to make a snatch at a counter. Every time he did, Ferrari pushed his beak away, and I cringed inside. That bird could have cracked a thumb joint as easily as a nut with his beak.
In my long association with Sherlock Holmes, I have stood at his side, watching him confront rogues, villains, and monsters in human form, and have never seen him lose his self-possession. There have, in fact, been times when the stakes were high, and danger imminent, when he seemed to derive pleasure from the experience. I asked him about it once and he admitted it was true at those times when, from the knock on the door to the moment the cuffs were clapped on some rogue's writs, and every step in the case had been the direct result of unassailable logic. At those times, to him, the universe seemed like a great machine of which he was an integral part.
I concluded that being addicted to logic had to be healthier than being addicted to cocaine, even if the affect appeared to be the same. I have never experienced anything like it myself, though, and this occasion was no exception.
Renault was not a monster. He was a nasty piece of work who used his position to prey on the weak and vulnerable—the lowest of the low—and I had done what needed to be done under the circumstances. But now the intuitive certainty that had supported me when I implied knowing for a fact that America that would soon be in the war, was gone. Doubt had snuck in and burst the bubble of hope. In short, I was disheartened. If I had been counting on the game to settle my nerves, they were too disordered, and the bird's antics didn't help.
Ferrari grew quickly tired of my sighs and inept play and I failed to notice that he summoned the khol-eyed waiter, but my thanks were genuine when the glass of Egyptian tea appeared in front of me. I picked it up and permitted myself be beguiled for a moment by the sugar crystals dissolving in the amber liquid.
"What are you waiting for?" said Ferrari. "Drink. Maybe it will improve your game."
I drank—and choked and coughed and sputtered—and nearly dropped the glass. "Thass…"
Ferrari slapped my shoulder. "My apologies."
"G-good God! Why didn't you tell me it was gunpowder?!"
"Again, my apologies. You seemed to need it. Captain Renault can have a most distressing effect a person. Since you walked out of his office, he's thrown his men into the streets; already two dozen have been arrested. What did you do to set him off?"
"How long have you been having me followed?"
"It's for your own protection."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"I'm not the only one. You're a rare bird in these parts, John."
"And I will take my patronage elsewhere if you're going to compare me to Blue Peter." I looked the fat man in the face, and said, "Let's suppose—just suppose—that I manage to arrange transit papers for Kordt, will you let him go, or will I have to buy him from you?"
"Allow me to make you a present of him, wrapped in a big Christmas bow but only if you take his damned entourage, too."
"That's oddly generous of you."
"Not at all." Ferrari brushed away the compliment.
"It will cost you a star."
"There are other dancers, and many stars."
"What's the catch?"
"There is none. The lads have been making a bloody nuisance of themselves; I don't want Renault poking his nose in here."
"Still damned decent of you," I said. "You know, I think you may be the only person in Casablanca who hasn't tried to work an angle on me… Yet."
"That's not necessarily to my credit. All I want is a quiet life and I would have it but, unfortunately, I retain one or two fond memories of Merrie Olde England. Think of it as an indulgence I allow myself, like that damn bird, but don't ever make the mistake of imagining I'd go out of my way or put my business at risk for you."
"Understood," I said, and we carried on with the game.
I can't say anything Ferrari told me improved my play—far from it—but I settled down and was bearing off when Ugarte arrived. He was in a considerable taking.
"Oh, Mr. Armistead, I'm so glad to find you here," he said, making a beeline for the bar.
Arriving at our table with drink in hand, he almost spilled it when Blue Peter lunged at him. "Does this creature need to be here?"
"Feel free to find another place to drink," said Ferrari.
"Kiss me arse," said Blue Peter.
"You're early," I said.
"Yes, I know," Ugarte said.
"A whole hour," I said. "Has something happened?"
"Thank you for asking," Ugarte said. "Captain Renault is what you call a bug up his arse. What do you Americans call that?"
"A bee in your bonnet," I said, and threw the dice.
"That's so much nicer. America must be a pleasant country. You know the police are all over the streets, arresting anyone they can get their hands on. They are wrecking my business."
His purpose—in case I have not been perfectly clear about the nature of Ugarte's business—was to complain the Sûreté had raided one of his house—it was unprecedented—and two of his girls, found to have expired papers, had been arrested and taken to the internment camp at Ayachi. He would have to find replacements for them.
While he drank his Dubonnet, I finished my gunpowder and reflected that I had set out that morning with the sole intention of asking Harold Goold for advice. Like a magician, the Consul General had waved his pen over four of my mice and restored them to British manhood, and then sent me on to Ellerman, who had turned out to be a wizard.
"W-what are you going to do to help those poor girls?" I said.
"Nothing," said he. "There is nothing anyone can do. One of them has no nationality anymore, and the other is Spanish; if she's sent home, Franco will have her executed. Did you have a chance to consider the problem we discussed last night?"
"What problem was that…? Oh. Oh yes," I said. "You said something about a sponsor for Jakov. I did have some thoughts—someone in mind—I'd like to talk to you about. Is it possible for you to meet me at Rick's tonight, say ten o'clock, for dinner?"
"Jakov is going to be dancing again tonight, but I can be there by ten-thirty."
"That will be perfect," I said.
Ugarte did not stay long after finishing off his drink; when he left Ferrari drew his thumb across the edge of his lower lip.
"What is that fishy look you're giving for?"
"I can't see it. Ugarte has all the charm of a garden snail," he said, "and, yet, you're going to have dinner with him."
"I am," I said.
"Dare I ask why?"
"Certainly. But, first, do you know where I could find those four lads you're so anxious to be rid of?"
"Knock on the ceiling. They went on quite a bender after you left last night; they're sleeping it off upstairs." Ferrari looked troubled "Just so you know, someone took the trouble of having Jimsy beaten within an inch of his life. I can't say I blame them, but it was excessive. Again, dare I ask why you're throwing yourself into Ugarte's arms? It seems precipitous."
"I have four Emergency Certificates with stamped exit visas in my pocket. I can get them out of here tonight, but if they're caught… As British soldiers out of uniform, in a country allied with the enemy, they'll be put up against a wall."
Ferrari's turned the information over.
"What about Kordt?"
"I have papers for him, too, but his issues are not as likely to get him shot. I need you to do me a favour."
"What part of 'a quiet life' did you not understand?"
"I need you to put all five of them in a taxi and have them delivered to Pier 7 on the Corniche before midnight tonight."
"No. If you want them, take them yourself."
"A taxi. There's nothing illegal in that."
"Bloody hell! No!" Ferrari raised his hand, and I thought the backgammon board was going to hit the floor again.
"You've lost a lot of hair and put on a bit of weight since we last met, Captain…"
Ferrari's face became a study. It was obvious how he badly wanted to hit something, probably me, but, at last, he said, "I didn't know you'd realized. How long…?"
"Not long. You slipped earlier and called me John."
"God," Ferrari lowered his hand, "I hope Ugarte shoots you!"
"Is that gratitude? And after I saved your leg."
"It was your duty to save the leg. Now it feels as if you're going to leave me sitting in a sanitary trench, holding a hand grenade, while everyone else plays least in sight."
"I doubt it will come to that." I removed the envelope with the papers from my pocket. "You'll to keep this under the till in the cash register until the last minute. The fewer who know anything the better."
"I hope you know what you're doing." Again, Ferrari sighed, as he made the papers disappear. "Ugarte is a stone-cold killer!"
"I know I can keep him busy until midnight. After that, we'll see. Do you want me to have a word with your lads?"
"Suddenly, they're my lads?" Ferrari looked disgusted. "No. I'll take care of that, when the time comes. As you said, the fewer know, the better."
"Thank you, Captain. Sincerely." I stood. "How is your leg, by the way."
"Still attached, as you can see; thank you, very much. Now go away."
"Kiss me arse," said Blue Peter.
"My sentiments exactly," Ferrari chucked the feathers under the bird's hooked beak. As I left, I heard him cooing, Who's Papa's sweet boy, then.
There is a quality to the twilight one only sees in the Maghreb in winter. It was only four-thirty, but a purple curtain was descending, so I let one of the urchins who was begging outside, flag down a taxi, and gave him a coin.
By the time I reached the Transatlantique sunset was a faint gold line in the western sky, and I was all too aware of how much I had drunk on an empty stomach. Rolls and butter, with coffee for breakfast, were all that I'd eaten that day and there were hours before I was to meet Ugarte for dinner. A word with Mr. Aldani solved that problem, at least.
He said that he would have room service bring a powder to my room. I asked for a bit of fruit and a tartine as well. Of course, he said, and Oh, yes! Here's a wire here for you, sir, that came while you were out.
With the telegram in my hand, I climbed into the lift and pushed the button for my floor, but I was too impatient to wait until I got to my room. I tore it open and then leaned against the bars of the cage. The telegram read—ORDER DELAYED STOP EXPECT DELIVERY SOONEST STOP—J HARRIS—PURCHASING—WINDWARD SPICES.
I was so overwhelmed with relief, that once I'd achieved the room, I threw myself on the bed. My stomach was roiling, my head was pounding, and my bruised shoulder ached badly where Jimsy had stuck me with the door, but even with all that, the only thought in my head was that Holmes was alive, and would be here soonest…
Afterwards, I needed a shower, but I needed to compose myself more. Here I was in Casablanca and, in spite of all the promises and all the packets of all the nephews of Mrs. 'Arris, two people had recognized me on the same day. All right, it was true Ferrari had recognized me the moment I walked into the Blue Parrot, but I hadn't known that, until today.
None of it was reassuring but, after thinking it over, I knew that despite his remark about being abandoned in a trench holding a grenade, I had no real fear that Ferrari would fail or sabotage my arrangements for getting the lads out of the country. He had been a competent officer—physically brave and, from what I could remember, no more than moderately corrupt—and hadn't had a rep, as some did, for taking advantage of his young lads, or wasting them to look flash to his superiors. Whatever happened to him after the war had to have been plain hard luck.
Ugarte on the other hand, with his obsession with Kordt, was going to need careful handling.
I must have been fallen briefly asleep and, when the porter knocked, I startled and almost flung myself on the floor. Fortunately, even in that state of confusion I recognized who's voice it was.
When I let him in, he had brought a tray with mineral water, a blue bottle of bicarbonate, and the food that I'd ordered. The bromide worked its magic and I ate the tartine. When I'd finished, I lay back down, slept for three solid hours and woke much improved.
It was almost 9 o'clock. I had time, yet and the porter had left a copy of the Herald Tribune on the tray. The edition was out of Syracuse—Syracuse, New York—and only three days old. I turned to the editorial page. The lead came down hard for American isolation, saying the country's interest would best be served by 'letting Germany conquer England and the Soviet Union', rather than entering the war for the sake of six-hundred thousand Jews who could be resettled. Interestingly enough, the cartoon was a sketch of Charles Lindbergh, patting the head of a snake with Hitler's face, and saying, "'Tis Roosevelt, Not Hitler, that the World Should Really Fear".
The banner informed me that the German Army was pushing closer to the gates of Moscow. Below it, I learned the Japanese had sent assurances to Cordell Hull that troop movements in French Indo-China were merely precautionary, that Senator Greenberg was reiterating his request for a deferment of the draft, and six Senate Republicans were calling FDR changing the date of Thanksgiving a 'high-handed insult to the memory of Lincoln'.
I tried to skim the rest of the paper, but my eyes kept drifting to the advertisements for foods at prices not seen in England for years—comforting to know that somewhere bananas were 10¢ a pound—an ad for soap caught my eye: Hi Soldier! Have you tried the new Lifebuoy? – First with men in Uniform – really stops B.O.!
And, suddenly, I was having a vividly visceral impression of the mud of the Salient as it had been in November of '17. Stinking of decaying bodies, it clung to my boots, encased my body in its clayey grip, and sucked me down. It felt as if I were suffocating. The attack lasted thirty seconds, a minute at the most; I should have timed it.
When it was over, I got up and showered.
Before I left the hotel, I informed Mr. Adani that, if anyone should ask, I could be found at the Café Américain.
I chose to walk. It was a short stroll but, even at that time of night, there was the certainty of being pestered by beggars. It was a bit like running a gauntlet. I was able to ignore most of them. One, though had found a place for his mat by the entrance to the café. He had not yet been chased away. I almost stepped on him.
Suddenly, he was on his knees, thrusting his bowl at me, crying piteously. I dropped a 50-centime piece in the bowl. He felt it and cursed me as the ungenerous son of a poxy camel driver and crying out, did I not know the Prophet, peace be upon him, commends the giving of alms as a pillar of Islam?
I dug into my pockets and let a shower of zinc and aluminum fall into his bowl. The coins might have had the value of an American quarter, but he sifted them with his fingers, blessing me a thousand times for helping one whom Allah had chosen to make blind.
It had been a week since I last stepped inside of Rick's. The pianist was playing Smoke Gets in Your Eye as I entered and Carl, The Maître d' greeted me by name, as if I were an old customer. He asked if I wanted a private table. I said Yes, I expected to be dining with a business associate later but would be having a drink first. I asked him if Captain Renault been in that evening.
A look of almost comical annoyance appeared on Carl's face as he divulged that the captain was, at that moment, in the casino. Did I, too, wish to gamble?
I noticed he caught the eye of the owner, Rick Blaine, who was sitting nearby, and waited for an almost imperceptible nod of the head before making the offer. As I said, Rick's was well managed.
Much as I appreciated the invitation, I declined. I did say that if Carl happened to see Captain Renault and mentioned that I was in the bar I would appreciate it. I slipped him the bill between my fingers. Carl said, Of course, just let him know when I was ready for my table.
I found a place to stand at the bar, wagged my fingers at the barman, and tuned into to the strands of conversation around me, while I waited for my drink.
…wants to sell a diamond necklace, but diamonds are a drug on the market…
…hear the captain of the 'Oracio' sold a berth for eight hundred—same one he sold for six hundred yesterday…
…talk to Captain Renault but wait a day or two; you're a lovely girl and…
…leaving in an hour…tickets on the night train…got to be in Oran…
…you need to avoid the American Consulate at midmorning and the cinemas in the evening when they let out, especially now that Ren…
Even in my brief time in Casablanca, I had learned that the Sûreté had its tracks and ran on them—it was understood; it was how things worked—and now that I had upset Renault's applecart, I needed to see what else I could overturn.
I turned and looked to the man on my right. He was flirting with a young French-Algerian woman, much to the barman's evident disgust. I turned to the man on my left. His was the voice I'd overheard talking about tickets to Oran. He had the snub, squared off practical look of an engineer, and was more than a little the worse for wear. I bumped him, inadvertently.
"Oh, sorry," I said, "Buy you another?"
Whilst I cannot obtain any particular pleasure from ratiocination, as Holmes does, when it comes to risking it all on a throw of the dice…I'm your man.