The Casbah Killers

Ransom for a prisoner, one of the most ancient and time-honored devices in the Moslem lands. Chiefs ransomed their important prisoners. Kings ransomed opposing princes. Thieves held rich men for ransom. I hadn’t figured anybody was expecting me, and now I was certain my assumptions were right. These two were nothing but crafty opportunists who had seen me arrive and were going to make the most of it.

I tossed out another denial to reconfirm my cover.

“I’m just an artist,” I said. “An American painter.”

“A poor artist does not arrive by the dark of the night in stealth on a raft from the sea and then erase his footsteps by fire,” the one-eyed one answered craftily.

I met his cunning stare grimly. There was no doubt in my mind any longer. These two were nothing but the Moroccan version of a couple of muggers who happened to be at the right spot at the right time.

“It was unfortunate for you that you chose to come ashore right across from this little place where we happen to be staying,” the one-eyed one said. He smiled, pleased with himself.

I had some bad news for him. Maybe it had been a bit of rotten luck for me, but it would turn out to be fatal for him and his cohort. I couldn’t afford to leave anyone around to tell stories of the man they’d seen arriving by sea in a raft.

These two miserable creatures, in their own scurrilous desire for the fast buck, had just committed a form of suicide. They had sealed their own fate. Wilhelmina still nestled in the shoulder holster and Hugo was still securely strapped to my arm. Like most third-class thieves, they weren’t even good at their own profession. The one with the grapes came over to stand in front of me.

I watched him draw back his foot, take careful aim and kick out, the blow catching me in the pit of the stomach. Waves of nauseous pain swept over me and I doubled forward. I stayed that way, letting the waves of pain slowly recede. The bastard. The stupid bastard. If I’d had any qualms about what I had to do they’d just disappeared. I felt his hands pulling me back upright.

“Who is expecting you, son of a sow?” he asked.

I reminded myself that both hands were still firmly behind my back. Taking on both of them from this position would be a little much.

“In the sand at the beach,” I gasped out. “Where I landed. There is a tube pressed down there, a small tube. Get it. It will tell you what you want to know.”

The one-eyed one spoke quickly to the other in Arabic. The taller one dashed out, the djellaba flying behind him, his thin legs churning.

I watched till he disappeared behind the sand ridge beyond the doorway. As soon as he was out of sight, I spoke to the other one, putting urgency and stealth in my voice.

“Let me go and I’ll tell you where I’ve money hidden,” I said. “You can say I surprised you and got away.”

“Tell me where you have this money and I’ll let you go,” he answered at once. I could see the cunning smugness creep into his eyes as I seemed to innocently grab at his offer.

“Here, inside my shirt,” I said. “A special pouch strapped under my left armpit.” As I’d figured, he grabbed at the chance.

Falling to one knee, he leaned forward to reach inside my shirt, his breath stinking of fish and garlic. As his arm reached inside my shirt, I kicked out with my foot. The kick caught him right in the groin. His mouth flew open in a gasp of pain, and as he fell backwards he clutched at himself with both hands.

I was on my feet, bringing one shoe down hard on the side of his neck. His body stiffened, jerked twice and lay still. I saw the burst veins of his neck already coloring the skin of his jaw. I rolled him against the far wall with my foot and started for the door and the rusted hinge. Pressing the wrist bonds against it, I rubbed them along the jagged edge and felt them give in moments. My hands came apart, and I dived out of the doorway just as the other one came racing up from the beach.

I waited at the side of the doorway as he came bursting in, yelling in combined Arabic and French. I caught him with a fist to the stomach which doubled him up. A hard right uppercut deposited him across the room. I picked up one of the broken-down chairs and smashed it to pieces on his head. He lay crumpled, his skull bashed in, waiting for death to take over.

I picked up my paint box and checked the contents. Everything was there. I walked into the sunshine and down the road toward Casablanca. Glen Travis, painter of pictures, was on his way again but the momentary interruption had had its educational side. He had learned that it was wise, in this land, never to get too far away from Nick Carter, Killmaster, Agent N3.

The road ran along the shore and, though hot, was scenic and direct. I saw turbaned men and veiled women, farmers herding their small herds of goats and sheep. At a village I passed through it was obviously souk, market day.