But there was no choice about it. If there was going to be trouble, then trouble had to be faced
CHAPTER 4
SEARCH PATROL
At midday a section of twenty men under Captain Monclaire left the barracks and marched towards the native quarter.
They were in light battle order—rifle, bayonet m scabbard, plus leather ammunition pouches. That was all. Deliberately Monclaire had cut their equipment. He wished to avoid a clash if he could, and he knew that nothing was more likely to inflame the Arabs than the sight of Legionnaires dressed as though for a campaign. A touch of informality was needed.
As they approached the narrow streets Monclaire gave an order.
“Repos!”
Lebel straps were slackened and the rifles slung over their shoulders. The patrol marched at ease, talking.
Rex was in the front file with Pete. He said: “It’s going to be one helluva job trying to find her—if she’s still here.”
Pete glanced at him.
“You think she could be dead?”
“Yep, murdered, and the body put away in some nice quiet place. I don’t like to think of that happening, but it wouldn’t surprise me any!”
“It would surprise me,” Pete said firmly. “I’ve an idea the Touaregs could find a better use for Annice than assaulting and murdering her. She could have a big propaganda value.”
Rex did not answer. He was thinking about her. About her flaxen hair, the slimness of her body, the delicate strength of her face. She was, he decided, the sort of woman who staved in a guy’s mind…
Like many Americans, Rex was an immature romantic where women were concerned. He assumed a façade of tough indifference towards them, but it was not a convincing one.
The patrol passed the edge of the cobbled market square and entered Rue St. Jean.
Rue St. Jean was unique in Sadazi.
At one time its twenty spacious western houses had been occupied by French traders. But gradually the prosperous Arabs had moved into them and the French had moved out—taking refuge in the Hotel Afrique. Now the comparatively wide street—modelled on a typical French chemin—was entirely the domain of the East. It was an example of colonisation in reverse. And it was here that the search was to begin.
As they entered the street, a large and rapidly increasing crowd of Arabs were following the patrol. They were the usual hotch-potch. Arrogant young men and shuffling, diseased old beggars. Yattering children and sloe-eyed women.
All curious. All ready to be hostile.
Monclaire halted the patrol. He detached four legionnaires. Two were posted at either end of the street with orders to allow no one in or out.
The others were divided into a couple of parties, one under Monclaire and the other commanded by Sergeant Zatov, a giant-sized Ukranian.
Pete was with Monclaire’s party, which took the north side. Rex went with Zatov.
Zatov had received detailed orders before he left the barracks. He repeated them.
“We have,” he said in a voice which seemed to rumble out of the depth of his belly, “to be careful—careful!”
He repeated the word on an inflexion of astonished contempt. Then, with a darting movement of his left hand, he picked a fly out of his red beard. Thus relieved, he continued: “We are to look for a woman… If any legionnaire smiles, I, Zatov, will squeeze out his eyeballs! What sort of woman you ask? I will tell you. She is white. She is missing. And Legionnaire Tyle knows her—but that’s not why we want to find her…”
Sergeant Zatov twisted up the corners of his mouth. The legionnaires recognised the signal and obeyed it. It meant that they had permission to show appreciation of his humour. All of them laughed briefly. All except Rex. Not that Rex resented the feeble quip. He was thinking about Annice Tovak. And wondering why a nagging worry about her was biting into the recesses of his mind.
The search of the first house was completed within five minutes. The owner—who made a lush living by importing trinket souvenirs for tourists—protested only mildly.
It was much the same in the second house.
The crisis came in the third Arab home.
This was rather larger than most of the others, and it was well known as the property of Tu el Adaa, who owned several of Sadazi’s many wineshops.
The building was surrounded by a small cactus garden. At one time the garden had been well kept. But now, since Adaa had little interest in horticulture, it was little more than a mass of struggling and disillusioned foliage.
A Bormone servant opened the double teak door. Zatov waved a typewritten document in front of him.
“I’ve the commandant’s warrant to search this place,” he announced, and pushed his way in. The others followed, their boots ringing harshly on the tesselated hall flooring.
Here Zatov turned again to the servant.
“I want to see Adaa.”
Before the servant could answer, Adaa appeared.
He was a Touareg. But unlike most Touaregs, there was little of the warrior about his appearance. He was short and he was grossly fat. His robes swathed him like a cloth round a bulging cheese. His face was a circle of brown flesh into which all the features had submerged. All except his eyes. His eyes stood out because of their level intensity. They never moved, they never blinked. They were like the eyes of a dead man.
Adaa rolled rather than walked into the hall from one of the rooms.
“You want to speak with me?”
His voice had a high, almost feminine pitch, which emerged strangely from his obese body.
“I am going to search your house,” Zatov said curtly.
Adaa did not appear perturbed.
“Why?”
Zatov told him. The reaction was unexpected. Adaa made a faintly insolent gesture with his hands.
“There is no need for a search. The lady is here.”
There was a moment of complete silence while Zatov absorbed the words. During that time his bearded chin hung loose and he stared blankly at the Touareg.
He repeated stupidly: “The lady is here…”
“Certainly.” Adaa spoke his French smoothly, confidently.
“Then bring her to me. I have orders to take her to the commanding officer. And I’ll…”
The words faded out. A woman, young and blonde, stood in the doorway from which Adaa had emerged. She stood with a hand on a slender, shapely hip. She was watching them with a cold, almost icy detachment.
Rex took in a sharp breath. And he felt a rush of relief. No harm had come to her…
Zatov stared—as they all stared at her. Almost reluctantly, he eventually turned to Rex.
“Is that her, legionnaire?”
At first Rex did not hear the words. It was when they were repeated in a thunder-like bawl that he nodded.
Zatov jerked a thumb at one of the legionnaires.
“Tell the capitaine.”
There was an interval of no more than a couple of minutes before Monclaire arrived. But it was a period of mounting curiosity for Rex, and of shuffling uncertainty for the others. Annice Tovak remained motionless and silent, framed like a picture by the arch of the doorway. Adaa stood equally still in the centre of the hall. But there was a suggestion of relaxed confidence about him. He did not look like a man who was going to have a lot of explaining to do.
Monclaire looked as if a great load of anxiety had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders as he strode into the hall.
Zatov called his men to attention and saluted.
“This,” he said, indicating Annice, “is the woman. Legionnaire Tyle has identified her, mon capitaine.”
Monclaire moved towards her and saluted. She stared through him. She did not acknowledge the salute by even the smallest movement.
“Madame Tovak?”