Moroccan Traffic Read Online Free PDF Page B

to the market. Come on, J.J. Let me ask her if Kingsley’s wouldn’t like to take over a bargain-price middle-range business that uses lots of lovely big washing machines? A hint is all that we ask. You’ve got stocks. She’s got stocks. One of Seb’s little tips might do you a world of good one of these days.’
    I couldn’t have spoken. I sat gazing at Sullivan, and heard Mr. Johnson answer him with impatience. ‘One of Seb’s little tips might blow up the rest of Kingsley’s one of these days, and Miss Helmann with it,’ said my host, the genius, getting rid of his pudding. ‘Right. Enough. Miss Helmann, can I take you downstairs for coffee?’
    I didn’t want coffee. I wanted to get away from Colonel Sullivan, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. I knew there was mileage in him yet. I said, ‘I don’t mind, Mr. Johnson. Everyone tries to pick up information. But if the Colonel’s your friend, maybe he’d help change your mind.’
    ‘His?’ said Sullivan. ‘Darlin’, you’re talking Naval Reserve. If they change their minds, they get bloody dents in them. Change his mind about what?’
    ‘About this painting,’ I said. ‘It’s really got to be finished, and it only needs two or three sittings. Sir Robert will follow him anywhere.’
    Sullivan grinned. Sullivan said, ‘Anywhere? Australia, for example? Where are you travelling to, my dear two-timing pal? I hope it’s nowhere sordidly cheap.’
    ‘It doesn’t arise,’ said Mr. Johnson. His voice was dry, but he didn’t seem unduly offended. ‘I shan’t have time for Sir Robert.’
    ‘Won’t you?’ said Sullivan. He lay back. ‘Come off it. I’ve known you take four clients a day.’
    Mr. Johnson said, ‘I’ve got four clients a day.’ He and Sullivan stared at one another.
    Then Sullivan said, ‘Well, go on, Leonardo. I take it you’re painting a group. Or wait a minute—’ He stopped. He said, ‘I know where you’re going.’
    ‘I doubt it,’ said Mr. Johnson. He said to me, ‘Are you ready?’
    I was, but I took a long time to collect my handbag and put down my napkin and begin to get to my feet. Ellwood Pymm watched me with interest. Seb Sullivan continued to gaze with a knowing expression at Johnson. He said, ‘I heard you were off to join Dolly. So that’s your game.’
    ‘If you say so,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘These days, I’ll paint anything. Now, do you think we could find our coffee in peace? Miss Helmann’s to get back to her bomb site. If you’re all that keen, I’ll join you down at the bar in a minute.’
    You could see some kind of chain reaction taking place in the Irishman’s mind. He brightened. ‘That’s what I came over to tell you. I’m rallying,’ said Colonel Sullivan. ‘Not in the bar, on the Continent. Gerry’s co-driving the Sunbeam.’ He waved to his rear. I had forgotten Gerry. Gerry, his head on the table, was sleeping. The Colonel said, ‘That’s how I knew about Essaouira.’
    ‘Good,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘Out. Till later.’
    The Colonel looked offended, then enlightenment spread over his bronzed and regular features. He said, ‘You’re not going there to paint, not a bit of it. You’re slipping over there for some sleaze on the side, and I’ve gone and buggered it up. Will you accept me apologies?’
    ‘Willingly,’ said Mr. Johnson. He offered no contradiction. ‘Make them from the other side of the room. Goodbye, Sebastian.’ He watched the booted figure stagger away in a miasma of alcohol. He said, ‘I’ve heard of passive smoking, but passive drinking is something again. He’s almost civilised, when he’s sober.’
    I said, ‘He’s very young to be a Colonel.’ Mr. Pymm, after hesitating, was picking his way back to his table.
    ‘He’s very young for almost everything,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘He used to race cars for a living. You must, I’m afraid, have a very poor impression of this club. Perhaps you don’t really want coffee.’
    I didn’t. I was