Tangier

Kranker, then watched Fufu try to put the make on Florence Beaumont and Baldeschi work on the hopelessly cool Tessa Hawkins. Heidi Steigmuller was still wearing her De Gaulle mask. It was amusing to watch her talking to General Bresson, no doubt about military 'maneuvers and affairs.' Percy Bainbridge in his Mary Poppins costume was chatting away with Jack Whyte. Perhaps, Robin speculated, he was retaining Jack to build a prototype of his 'three-cornered kiss.'

Between the elevation of the Knowles' and the collapse of the Kelly coup, Robin felt he had enough material for a column. What he needed now were some details about the Perry party, things he could use to put it down. He was in the process of extracting information from Vanessa Bolton, who was happily telling him all about the little boats in Perry's tub, when Kranker rushed over out of breath and grasped Robin by the arm.

'Come quick,' he said. 'It's finally happening. Wax and Barclay are having it out.'

Robin grabbed hold of Vanessa, dragged her with him as he followed Kranker to another room. When they arrived they found a quiet little crowd in a circle around Barclay and Wax, who were standing apart facing each other like gunslingers in a Western town.

Wax was still in his costume, holding his 'beanstalk' like a staff. Barclay, legs apart, arms folded confidently across his chest, wore a somewhat frayed and dated smoking jacket and clutched a silver-headed cane.

'What's going on?' someone whispered.

'Shush,' said Robin, craning forward so as not to miss a precious word.

'Just the sort of comment we'd expect,' he heard Barclay say, 'from the son of a chimney sweep.'

'Ha!' said Wax. 'Everyone in Tangier knows about you, how you tried to force Camilla Weltonwhist to buy that worthless property below your house so you could plant trees on it and pretty up your view.'

'That's a damn lie,' said Barclay, beginning, Robin thought, to look unnerved. 'But then we all know your history, that you're nothing but a liar and a thief.'

'You're right. I've never pretended to be anything else. The trouble with you, Mother Barclay, is that you don't know what you are. But I do. I see right through you. For all your fancy lineage you're just like an Arab boy who spreads his ass for half a crown.'

It was a terrible insult, terribly unfair, Robin thought, and Barclay didn't take it well. Ho grew red in the face, and the veins in his forehead began to throb. Suddenly he pursed his lips and let fly with a glob of spit. It landed on the carpet, a little short of Wax.

'Oh, you are angry, dear,' said Wax, regarding Barclay with utter scorn. He raised his 'beanstalk' and started toward him, would have bashed him on the head with it, Robin thought, if Barclay hadn't managed to deflect it with his cane.

Immediately their friends dragged them apart, and into separate rooms. There were huddles then, cliques and factions formed, while the whole party turned into a debate about which one had bested the other and what had started the argument off. Robin, uninterested in either of these things, was busy writing their dialogue down. He'd have to ask his editor for double his usual amount of space. He had enough now for a delicious column.

Hamid was relieved. He'd done his duty well, protected the princes and princesses who were finally all safely bedded down. He was relaxing with his men in the kitchen of 'Castlemaine,' dining on leftover food which Henderson Perry had graciously offered, when Aziz Jaouhari suddenly burst in.

'Something terrible, Hamid,' he said. 'There's been a murder at Villa Chapultepec.'

Hamid jumped up from the table, and together they ran out to his jeep. As they drove down the Mountain toward the Beaumonts' house, he shot questions at Aziz.

'The victim?'

'All I have is that it's a European. The body's been disfigured. Supposedly it's a mess.'

'Who reported it?'

'The resident caretaker down there. He heard some noises, then saw someone running across the grounds. He couldn't make out who it was, but decided to check the villa. He found the body in the salon.'

'How could this happen, Aziz? We've had patrols on the Mountain all night.'

Aziz shrugged. 'There're no lights on the road. If someone knows the estates up here, he can cross the walls at will.'

When they arrived at Chapultepec a truckload of police were already there. Hamid nodded to the cringing caretaker and walked straight through the house. It was a gruesome sight he found, the walls of the salon covered with blood, the nude body of a young European male lying on the marble floor. He'd been castrated, his stomach, chest, and face punctured numerous times. There was a trail of bloody footprints leading out through the glass French doors.

Aziz raised his hand to cover his mouth. 'Do you know who he is, Hamid?'

The Last Column

'Really, you look terrible,' said Hamid. 'Worse than I've ever seen you.'

It was eleven o'clock in the morning, two days after the murder of Herve Beaumont. They were sitting in Haifa Cafe, Robin with his back to the Straits of Gibraltar, Hamid facing the coast of Spain, cut off from sight by haze. A pregnant cat under the little iron table licked softly at Hamid's moccasins. Ramadan was due to end in one more day; then the new moon would come, and the feast of Aid es Seghir.

'Actually,' said Hamid, still appalled by Robin's bloodshot eyes and the drained pallor of his face, 'he was passive when we caught him. He made no attempt to struggle, and within five minutes he confessed. He took us to the place where he'd hidden the knife, under a rock in a cliff on the way to Cap Spartel. He was going to hide out in the mountains and then try to slip over the frontier. Inigo came around last night and asked to visit him in his cell. I refused, with mixed feelings I admit. There's something likable about the boy, though of course he's dangerous and mad.'

Robin nodded. 'I knew he was both those things. Inigo called him 'schizophrenic.' Last year he nearly cut off my balls. '

'You're still blaming yourself-'

'Of course, Hamid. I introduced them, encouraged Herve. Told him it would be good for him, would clear up his confusion and straighten out his head.'

'Well, Robin, you couldn't have known-'

'I did know. If I'd thought about it, just taken a minute and thought, I might have predicted the whole thing. I certainly knew that Herve was in trouble, and that Pumpkin Pie was violent. I'm responsible, Hamid. I feel that I am. I knew what I was doing. Subconsciously I knew.'

Robin thrust his head down on the table and began silently to sob. His body quivered and made the table shake. Hamid watched for a moment, then reached out and placed his hand on Robin's hair.

'Really, Robin, there's no point in assigning blame. I had this boy in my office on a vice charge last month. I could have locked him up. But I didn't. I was tired and let him go. Does that make me an accomplice? I really don't think it does.'

Hamid wanted very much to comfort Robin, relieve his terrible distress. He didn't think he was responsible for the Beaumont murder-he put the blame on something else.

'It's not you, Robin,' he said. 'You're judging yourself too harshly now. This comes from something a lot deeper than your little immoralities, something sick, even evil, that exists in the expatriate milieu. People using people. Europeans and Moroccans competing for advantage. That sort of thing breeds rage, and when unstable personalities are involved we get violence just like this.'

Robin calmed down after a while, stopped his weeping and raised his head. 'I hate myself, Hamid. I detest what I've become. Ridiculous hustler. Phony poet. Trashy gossip. Despicable queer. The only thing I don't regret is that I've been your snitch all these years.'

'Yes, that's something to be proud of-'

'I've been helpful to you, haven't I, Hamid? Devoted? I even helped you crack this case. I fingered Pie the moment that I heard.'

'Oh, yes, you've been helpful from time to time. Certainly you're my favorite informer, though perhaps not the