Page 32 of The Last Postcard

Roger laughed, and went to deliver the drinks. Sam shifted on the bar stool and took another long gulp of beer. He couldn’t escape a nagging feeling of guilt, telling other people about the suitcase, about A, whoever he was. A fifty-year secret wasn’t something to be thrown about a bar like tittle-tattle. And yet, he’d felt off balance ever since he’d received the first note. It was as if the fiction he’d been writing had come to life; as if he’d conjured ‘A’ into being using only his imagination. He had to tell someone, if only to make sure it was all real, that he wasn’t going insane.

‘He must live in Tangier,’ he said, after a silence. ‘Or the notes wouldn’t arrive so fast.’

‘They all come through Khalid, at the Gran Café?’ Bet asked.

Sam nodded. ‘There was another one waiting when I went in yesterday. I tried to grill Khalid, but he’s not saying a word. I sat there for three hours, waiting to see if anyone came to collect my response. Nothing.’

Bet gave a half-laugh and sucked on her cigar.

‘Then there’s the passport I found in the suitcase, belonging to this del Potro character.’ Sam kept his voice low. For some reason, saying the name aloud made his neck prickle. ‘Do you think he stole A. L.’s case? Maybe—’ He swallowed. A person rarely abandoned an entire suitcase, especially one containing their passport. ‘Maybe something happened to this del Potro. Maybe he was a thief and he was arrested, or died, and that’s why he never returned?’

He looked up hopefully, only to find Bet staring at him, a strange expression on her face.

‘What did you say that name was?’ she asked, her voice husky.

‘Del Potro. Alejandro del Potro.’ He sat up straighter. ‘Why? Have you heard of him?’

Bet was silent, working her lips. Finally, she shook her head. ‘Before my time. It sounded familiar, that’s all.’

He looked over at Roger, but the bartender just turned away, depositing some empty glasses in the sink.

‘Are there any people left here from that time?’ Sam asked, frustrated. ‘There was a date I found in the writing case, July nineteen twenty-eight. Is there anyone who might remember what Tangier was like back then? If nothing else, it’d be great to get some more material. I think I might be on to something with this … whatever it is I’m writing.’

Roger smiled. ‘Good for you, lad.’ He rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. ‘There are a few. But you have to understand, a lot of stuff happened when Tangier was the International Zone. Not much of it legal. Folk tend to keep their pasts to themselves, even now. Only person I can think of who might talk is old Lil Simcox. What d’you reckon, Bet?’

Sam couldn’t read the expression on her face. ‘Lil was born here,’ she said. ‘Die here too, if she’s got any say in it.’

‘Do you think I could talk to her?’

Roger and Bet exchanged a look.

‘You can talk,’ Roger said eventually, ‘as long as you don’t expect much of a response. Poor old girl is losing it.’

‘Hardly surprising, after her life,’ Bet muttered, and pointed to Sam’s glass. ‘Another?’

Norton didn’t turn up at The Hold that night, something Sam was strangely thankful for. He’d already spilled A’s secrets to two people; any more and it would be halfway around Tangier before he made it home to bed. Anyway, it was his story. Telling Roger and Bet was one thing, but confiding in a journalist was quite another.

He was up and out early the next day, despite having written until late. Yawning, he hurried down the Rue d’Italie with the writing case in hand. The Gran Café de Paris smelled of bleach and stale smoke and the coolness of night, punctured by the first hot coffees of the day. Khalid was there, setting out chairs. He rolled his eyes when he saw Sam and reached into his apron.

Another envelope.

‘When did this arrive?’ Sam demanded, tearing at the paper. The café had been open all of ten minutes. Whoever delivered the letters had beaten him to it. ‘Was it him again, the old man?’

Khalid shrugged. ‘I cannot say, Monsieur Hackett. I was in the kitchen.’

14.7.78

I do not care for evasiveness. If you are trying to blackmail or bribe me, then get on and do it.

A

Sam stared at the letter, stunned. What had he written to cause that kind of reaction? He thought back to his previous note.

What if I said ‘Hotel Continental’ and ‘15’ to you?

His face flared with embarrassment. Of course. He thought he’d been clever, witty, dangling what he knew in front of A without an explanation. But he’d misjudged the situation, caught up as he was in his writing. The case belonged to A’s past, his real past, not Sam’s fantasy. No wonder the man was pissed off.

But still – blackmail? It seemed extreme. Why would A bring that up, apropos of nothing? Unless he had something to hide … Sam smoothed out one of the last sheets of the old paper, and began to scrawl a reply.