Tangerine(63)

I came to a sudden stop.

Lucy was there, sitting on the sofa—but she was not alone. Two policemen stood, one on either side of her, clothed in the familiar tan uniform and peculiar hat, the one that sat on top of, rather than on, their heads. Their rifles, I noticed, were balanced against one of the bookshelves. I blinked, wondering if they were truly there, wondering whether I had only imagined them.

“Alice,” Lucy began, her voice filled with concern. “The police have come to ask about John, about his disappearance. They wanted to speak with you, but I told them I wasn’t sure where you were. At the market, I supposed.”

I must look mad, I realized, clutching at the bookcase beside me, desperate, in that moment, to feel something real beneath my fingers. “I’m sorry,” I murmured, not knowing to whom I had even addressed the apology.

One of the policemen stood. “Est-ce que tout va bien, madame?”

“Oui,” I struggled to answer. My breath, I noticed, was short and raspy.

“Elle a l’air malade,” the other policeman observed.

He made as if to start toward me, but I held up my hand. “Non,” I declared firmly. “I’m not ill.”

There was a silence, during which the policemen both eyed me with something that was not quite concern. “We received your telephone call, Madame Shipley,” one of them eventually said.

“Telephone call?” I looked around the room, at the expectant faces watching me. “But I didn’t ring anyone.”

The same officer frowned, consulting the notebook he held between his hands. “We were informed, earlier this morning, by a Madame Alice Shipley, that her husband was missing.” He paused. “That is not you?”

“No,” I said, my gaze sliding over to where Lucy sat, wondering how long the policemen had been there, and just what she might have said to them in the interval. My thoughts flickered to the man with the scar then, and his insistence that the local police not be contacted.

“So your husband isn’t missing?”

“What?” I asked, turning my attention back to the officer. “No—I mean, yes, yes, he is.”

“Your husband is missing, but you didn’t call to report him?”

I nodded, cheeks blushing. “Yes, yes, that’s right.”

There was a silence as both the officers frowned, and then Lucy said, “I was thinking,” sounding as though she were resuming a conversation that I had interrupted with my entrance. Her eyes scanned the room, resting, eventually, on me. It was only for a fraction of a second—one, two, three—I didn’t know how long exactly, but I could see, already, what it was that she was doing. I knew her as well as I knew myself—knew the way her mouth curved into an O when she was embarrassed, knew the sound she made when startled, or the way her pupils dilated when she was pleased. I knew her. And I knew in that instance that whatever thoughts were turning in her mind, they had arrived upon some sort of conclusion when she had glanced my way.

“There was a man,” she said. “Youssef.”

I frowned, feeling something begin to prickle at the back of my neck.

“Youssef?” The policeman paused, scrolling through his notepad. “Who is this?”

Lucy shrugged. “He’s just a local. A grifter, really. He also goes by the name of Joseph.” She shook her head, as if to clear her thoughts. “I don’t even know why I mentioned him.”

It was a lie, I thought.

She turned to me. “I think Alice knew him. I seem to remember her mentioning him when I first moved here. I always thought it was strange, that she would know someone like him, but now, I realize that Tangier is a small city. It’s quite easy to know everyone.” She stopped, and then added: “He wears a fedora, with a purple ribbon. That’s how most people know him—he never goes anywhere without it.”

There was no accusation in her voice. She was smarter than that. But the policeman—I could see the light behind his eyes flash, just dimly, but enough such that I knew his interest had been piqued. I could see it in the way his body seemed to expand, to fill the room.

I could also see what she had done—made a connection, a link, between Youssef and me. A trail, scattering the bread crumbs.

“Merci beaucoup,” the officer said, making a slight nod with his head. “We will look into this and let you know whether anything more has been found. Chances are, he is where most Tangerines end up—drunk somewhere, sleeping it off, or . . .” He let his words trail.

“Or what?” I asked, my voice not quite the challenge I intended.

He only shrugged. “In the meantime, madame, let us know if you hear from your husband.”

I nodded, ignoring the way the words sounded like a reprimand, as if I were the one to blame for John’s disappearance. I tried to think of the other reasons he had left unspoken. A fight with a local gambler gone wrong, a stabbing perhaps. A disagreement at one of the nightclubs, with one of the men in charge of the women there. I shook my head; they were wrong. But before I could tell them, they were gone, a jostling of thick fabric and heavy boots.

“Where have you been?” Lucy asked, her voice cutting through the silence.

I watched as she stood from the sofa, as she moved to perch on the ledge of the window. She was dressed in dark trousers and a plain light blouse and I was struck with the thought: this is her, watching as she brought a lit cigarette to her mouth. The long, elegant lines, the absence of frills and bows. She was still the most beautiful woman that I had ever met—but in a way that made me shiver with fear.