The car stopped along the Front de Mer twenty yards from the hotel. Anne-Marie got out. There were troops in steel helmets lounging up the street watching. A crushed cigarette carton came bouncing down the pavement towards her. The Citroën drove away. She turned and hurried past a splashing fountain, under palm-fronds that scraped together in the wind like scales.
Inside the hotel the silver-haired receptionist paused over a ledger, his eyes pale as glass. She spoke to him, and he murmured something without expression. Behind him an elderly policeman sat under the key-rack with a machine-pistol over his knees.
She walked across the foyer to the downstairs bar. From the ceilings fans moved sluggishly as though churning water. The bar was almost empty. She stood in the doorway looking round, then turned and walked back across the foyer to the lifts.
A Moslem in a blue uniform bowed and pulled back the gates, grinning at her with gold teeth: ‘Quel étage, m’dame?’
‘Salon de jeu.’
The lift began to click up the well of the marble staircase, past the first floor — rooms 1 to 100. The casino, with its restaurant and bar, was on the second floor. The Moslem bowed her out, still grinning, murmuring, ‘Bin’soir m’dame!’ She strode past him, the heavy bag swinging from her shoulder.
Just beyond the lifts she almost collided with two men coming from the salon de jeu. They were both very drunk. One of them giggled and tried to clutch her arm. He looked like a rabbit, small and white-faced with floppy ears. She pushed past him and he called after her, in a wheedling voice, ‘Salut coco!’
She walked briskly down the passage, across a deserted hall the size of a tennis-court lined with blown-up photographs of French film stars. In the corner an old woman with blue hair sat outside the toilets, knitting behind a saucer of coins. As Anne-Marie reached her she heard the two drunks turn and come up behind her, laughing.
She went into the toilet, put her handbag on the floor and stared into the mirror. Her eyes were huge and black, her face hollow in the bleak lighting above the basin. She realized that her heart was beating hard. She looked at her hands: they were quite still. She ran her fingers down her cheeks and dabbed cold water to her temples. She could hear the two drunks jabbering outside the door. She felt angry and nervous; but whatever happened she must avoid causing a scene. Somehow she would have to get rid of them. She picked up her handbag and turned to the door.
They were outside waiting for her. The rabbit-faced one came squirming up to her, calling her ‘Ma p’tite coco!’ She tried to pass, but they stood across the passage leading into the casino. She looked helplessly at the old woman who went on knitting behind her saucer of coins.
The rabbit-faced one plucked at her sleeve; she flinched away and cried, ‘Fous le camp!’ The old woman looked up and stared at them. The little drunk simpered at Anne-Marie, shaking his head and saying, ‘Pas poli, mademoiselle!’
She thrust her way between them, shook off the little man’s hand and hurried down the passage into the salon de jeu. There was another policeman inside the door near the caisse. He stood with a blunt-muzzled machine-pistol strapped to his hip, looking down the long room where about a dozen Europeans crowded round one roulette table. The rest of the room was empty, its chandeliers hanging in darkness high above tables shrouded with dust-sheets.
To the left, behind the balcony that looked across the gaming-tables, lay the restaurant and bar. Here was a frenzied gaiety: men in tuxedos and women in cocktail dresses laughing and yelling at the overworked Moslem waiters, and Army officers in biscuit-coloured uniforms talking noisily over champagne. On the far side of the room great uncurtained windows looked out across the darkened bay.
Anne-Marie examined the people round the roulette table. The man she was looking for was not there. She turned towards the restaurant and the two drunks appeared at her side, laughing and winking at each other. The policeman looked at them all without interest. A fat-necked man with a silver-topped cane was being paid out 100 Nouveaux-Franc notes at the caisse. The little drunk was trying to talk to Anne-Marie, to grab her by the arm and pull her back. She thought quickly, with anger turning to alarm: I mustn’t do anything to attract attention. I must keep calm. I must go to the bar, order a drink, ignore them.
The man she was looking for was not in the restaurant. She went over to the bar. The two drunks stayed behind her, the little one giggling and mewing, ‘Ah, elle est bien, elle est jolie, la coco!’
The barman flashed an enamel smile at her and asked what she wanted. There was a lot of drinking going on at the bar. She hesitated, glancing down the row of faces. Beside her a journalist had his head down, one hand over his ear, bawling into a telephone. The man she was looking for was not here either. She said to the barman, ‘Un Scotch!’
‘Blackanvite, mademoiselle?’
She nodded.
‘Trois blackanvite!’ a voice called behind her. It was the rabbit-faced drunk. He was smiling up at her with a look of malevolent, cock-eyed cunning. The barman turned to pour the drinks. The second drunk pressed beside her against the bar. He was a large man with curly hair and a flushed, damp face; he grinned at her, showing teeth the colour of dirty wax. She could smell his breath, and tried to draw back, but the rabbit-faced man was behind, wedging her
