The Wrong People by Robin Maugham

Author:Robin Maugham
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Published: 2019-09-08T00:00:00+00:00

It had been raining. The streets that led off the Zocco Chico reflected the lights of the cafés. Ewing led Arnold past the Ciné Américain and turned up a narrow winding passage between close-­packed dingy houses with peeling façades. A Moor shuffled towards them along the gleaming cobbles, looking like a decrepit monk in the long cloak and hood of his djellaba, his feet splayed out as he pushed his toes into his slippers. He was followed by a prostitute clicking down the passage with brisk little steps on spiked high-­heeled shoes, her antimonied eyes peering anxiously between the fold of her blue haik and her black veil.

At a dark bend ahead was a two-­storeyed house with charred-­looking walls. A single window fixed half-­way up the house commanded a view down the passage. Outside the house Ewing hesitated and looked round quickly to make certain they had not been followed. As he turned, the door of the house was opened by a round-­faced Spanish boy. Ewing walked quickly inside and beckoned to Arnold to follow.

Together they passed into a murky hall lit faintly by two red-­shaded angle-­lamps and glazed with worn tiles to the height of three feet. The walls above were painted a dull ochre and decorated with advertisements for American cigarettes and Spanish beer. The plump Spanish boy gestured to them to be silent. Cautiously he pulled out a couple of the four wicker chairs that were grouped around a stained wooden table. A staircase and two doors led out of the little hall. On the landing above the staircase the red end of a cigarette butt glowed in the hand of the silent watcher by the window.

Presently, from the door on the left, they were joined by a slim Spaniard of about sixty who swayed delicately towards them. His face was powdered and rouged, and he reeked of lavender water.

‘This is Diego,’ Ewing whispered.

Diego’s thin lips stretched into a smile as he shook Arnold’s hand limply. His shrewd black eyes examined Arnold’s face as if it were a map to be glanced at quickly and memorized.

‘Any friend of Señor Ewing is a friend of mine,’ he murmured. ‘I’m glad he has a companion to share his amusement. Come now, and I will show you the way.’

Silently they followed Diego into a narrow windowless room. An advertisement for Fundador brandy hung on the scabrous green walls above a table and two chairs. A large faded print of the King’s palace in Rabat covered the wall opposite.

Diego put his finger to his mouth.

‘We no speak too much loud,’ he said.

Then he moved quietly across the room and took down the print and propped it against a chair. In the space of wall covered by the print were two eyepieces set a yard apart.

Diego turned to Arnold. ‘You stand here,’ he said. ‘And you watch. You look into the other room. Come and see.’

Arnold stood in front of the nearest eyepiece and looked through it. Immediately he recoiled. In the

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