Free The Lighthearted Quest by Ann Bridge Page A

thinking. Geoffrey was of course a complete clot to imagine that she wouldn’t try to make Paddy Lynch find out all he could;
he
wasn’t the Bank of England, and nor was she—her job was to find Colin. But the whole business about the B. of E. was most peculiar. Whatever Colin’s present occupation was it probably wasn’t smuggling—Reeder must have been wrong about that—since it had official sanction; indeed someone at the Bank must know a good deal about it if they could put Geoffrey in a position to hint to her, in the privacy of his P.S., that Colin probably wouldn’t come home at once. What could it be?
    Anyhow, she decided, glancing at her watch, she had better take some steps about contacting Paddy, even if she did in the end decide to use a certain discretion in tackling him; and also find out from the Captain how long they would have in “Casa”.
    At that point there was a tap on her door, and Andrews, as he frequently did, entered without waiting for any “Come in”.
    â€œCar’s come for you, Miss,” he said.
    â€œWhat car?”
    â€œCouldn’t say, I’m sure. I was just told to tell you that the car’s waiting for you on the dockside.”
    â€œThank you, Andrews. Say I’ll be there in five minutes.”
    She stepped out on deck for a moment, to make up her mind about the temperature. It was not yet ten, and there was a light breeze off the sea, but it was already getting gently warm; by midday, in a city, it would probably be hot. She exchanged her woolly for a blouse, her brown shoes for green sandals, matching her broad-brimmed felt hat—that most useful of travelling companions, which had crossed the Bay rolled up into a green cone among her stockings; throwing her pale tweed overcoat across her arm, she went on deck in search of Captain Blyth.
    She found him still in conversation with the agent, leaning on the rail watching the cars and tractors being unloaded.
    â€œOh, Captain dear, someone’s sent a car for me. That probably means hospitality—so how long have we got here?”
    â€œWell, we shan’t be sailing till tomorrow, anyhow.”
    â€œOh, grand—a night ashore! What fun.”
    â€œThat’s what the crew always think at Cahssa,” said the Captain. “And they come aboard again at three in the morning as green as grass, and plucked clean as chickens!—and all they say is that they had
fun”
He spoke in his usual gentle accents of this aspect of human folly in his crew.
    Mr. Harris, the Chief Steward, whom Julia had hardly seen since her first evening on board, when he pinched the bottle of Mr. Reeder’s soda for her, now came bustling up rather pompously, holding out a note to the Captain.
    â€œThis has come for Miss Probyn, Sir,” he said.
    â€œWell, give it to her, then,” said Captain Blyth flatly—Harris, looking foolishly formal, handed the envelope to Julia.
    â€œOh, will you excuse me?”
    The note was from Mr. Lynch. He would be busy at the bank till one, but was sending his car and chauffeur to show her the sights of Casablanca during the morning, and to bring her to his house for lunch. “Ali speaks tolerable French. TheLibrairie Farrère is the best place for picture post-cards. It will be uncommonly nice to see you again.”
    Julia said to the Captain—
    â€œI’m going ashore for lunch. I’ll be back before tomorrow morning, anyhow.”
    â€œO.K. Don’t get shot up!” replied Captain Blyth tranquilly.
    â€œWhich is Mr. Lynch’s car?” Julia asked Harris. There were two cars near the foot of the gangway, a small black Ford and a beige one considerably larger than the sea-green saloons which were continually being swung up out of the bowels of the ship.
    â€œOh, the black one’s mine,” said the agent, hearing her question. So Julia ran down the gangway and got into the beige car, the