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Authors: Agatha Christie
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making some necessary purchases of clothes and underclothing, Hilary left by train for Fez.
Destination Unknown
III
It was on the day of Hilary's departure that Mrs. Calvin Baker coming into the hotel in her usual brisk fashion, was accosted by Miss Hetherington whose long thin nose was quivering with excitement.
“I've remembered about the name Betterton - the disappearing scientist. It was in all the papers. About two months ago.”
“Why, now I do remember something. A British scientist - yes - he'd been at some conference in Paris.”
“Yes - that's it. Now I wonder, do you think - this could possibly be his wife. I looked in the register and I see her address is Harwell - Harwell, you know, is the Atom Station. I do think all these atom bombs are very wrong. And Cobalt. Such a lovely colour in one's paint-box and I used it a lot as a child; the worst of all, I understand nobody can survive. We weren't meant to do these experiments. Somebody told me the other day that her cousin who is a very shrewd man, said the whole world might go radio-active.”
“My, my,” said Mrs. Calvin Baker.
Destination Unknown
Chapter 6
Casablanca had vaguely disappointed Hilary by being such a prosperous-looking French town with no hint of the orient or mystery about it, except for the crowds in the streets.
The weather was still perfect, sunny and clear, and she enjoyed looking out of the train at the passing landscape as they journeyed northward. A small Frenchman who looked like a commercial traveller sat opposite to her, in the far corner was a somewhat disapproving-looking nun telling her beads, and two Moorish ladies with a great many packages who conversed gaily with one another, completed the complement of the carriage. Offering a light for her cigarette, the little Frenchman opposite soon entered into conversation. He pointed out things of interest as they passed, and gave her various information about the country. She found him interesting and intelligent.
“You should go to Rabat, Madame. It is a great mistake not to go to Rabat.”
“I shall try to do so. But I have not very much time. Besides,” she smiled. “Money is short. We can only take so much with us abroad, you know.”
“But that is simple. One arranges with a friend here.”
“I'm afraid I haven't got a convenient friend in Morocco.”
“Next time you travel, Madame, send me a little word. I will give you my card. And I arrange everything. I travel often in England on business and you repay me there. It is all quite simple.”
“That's very kind of you, and I hope I shall pay a second visit to Morocco.”
“It must be a change for you, Madame, to come here from England. So cold, so foggy, so disagreeable.”
“Yes, it's a great change.”
“I, too, I travelled from Paris three weeks ago. It was then fog, rain and all of the most disgusting. I arrive here and all is sunshine. Though, mind you, the air is cold. But it is pure. Good pure air. How was the weather in England when you left?”
“Much as you say,” said Hilary. “Fog.”
“Ah yes, it is the foggy season. Snow - you have had snow this year?”
“No,” said Hilary, “there has been no snow.” She wondered to herself, amusedly, if this much-travelled little Frenchman was following what he considered to be the correct trend of English conversation, dealing principally with the weather. She asked him a question or two about the political situation in Morocco and in Algiers, and he responded willingly, showing himself to be well informed.
Glancing across at the far corner, Hilary observed the nun's eyes fixed disapprovingly on her. The Moroccan ladies got out and other travellers got in. It was evening when they arrived at Fez.
“Permit me to assist you, Madame.”
Hilary was standing, rather bewildered at the bustle and noise of the station. Arab porters were seizing her luggage from her hands, shouting, yelling, calling, recommending different hotels. She turned
Destination Unknown
III
It was on the day of Hilary's departure that Mrs. Calvin Baker coming into the hotel in her usual brisk fashion, was accosted by Miss Hetherington whose long thin nose was quivering with excitement.
“I've remembered about the name Betterton - the disappearing scientist. It was in all the papers. About two months ago.”
“Why, now I do remember something. A British scientist - yes - he'd been at some conference in Paris.”
“Yes - that's it. Now I wonder, do you think - this could possibly be his wife. I looked in the register and I see her address is Harwell - Harwell, you know, is the Atom Station. I do think all these atom bombs are very wrong. And Cobalt. Such a lovely colour in one's paint-box and I used it a lot as a child; the worst of all, I understand nobody can survive. We weren't meant to do these experiments. Somebody told me the other day that her cousin who is a very shrewd man, said the whole world might go radio-active.”
“My, my,” said Mrs. Calvin Baker.
Destination Unknown
Chapter 6
Casablanca had vaguely disappointed Hilary by being such a prosperous-looking French town with no hint of the orient or mystery about it, except for the crowds in the streets.
The weather was still perfect, sunny and clear, and she enjoyed looking out of the train at the passing landscape as they journeyed northward. A small Frenchman who looked like a commercial traveller sat opposite to her, in the far corner was a somewhat disapproving-looking nun telling her beads, and two Moorish ladies with a great many packages who conversed gaily with one another, completed the complement of the carriage. Offering a light for her cigarette, the little Frenchman opposite soon entered into conversation. He pointed out things of interest as they passed, and gave her various information about the country. She found him interesting and intelligent.
“You should go to Rabat, Madame. It is a great mistake not to go to Rabat.”
“I shall try to do so. But I have not very much time. Besides,” she smiled. “Money is short. We can only take so much with us abroad, you know.”
“But that is simple. One arranges with a friend here.”
“I'm afraid I haven't got a convenient friend in Morocco.”
“Next time you travel, Madame, send me a little word. I will give you my card. And I arrange everything. I travel often in England on business and you repay me there. It is all quite simple.”
“That's very kind of you, and I hope I shall pay a second visit to Morocco.”
“It must be a change for you, Madame, to come here from England. So cold, so foggy, so disagreeable.”
“Yes, it's a great change.”
“I, too, I travelled from Paris three weeks ago. It was then fog, rain and all of the most disgusting. I arrive here and all is sunshine. Though, mind you, the air is cold. But it is pure. Good pure air. How was the weather in England when you left?”
“Much as you say,” said Hilary. “Fog.”
“Ah yes, it is the foggy season. Snow - you have had snow this year?”
“No,” said Hilary, “there has been no snow.” She wondered to herself, amusedly, if this much-travelled little Frenchman was following what he considered to be the correct trend of English conversation, dealing principally with the weather. She asked him a question or two about the political situation in Morocco and in Algiers, and he responded willingly, showing himself to be well informed.
Glancing across at the far corner, Hilary observed the nun's eyes fixed disapprovingly on her. The Moroccan ladies got out and other travellers got in. It was evening when they arrived at Fez.
“Permit me to assist you, Madame.”
Hilary was standing, rather bewildered at the bustle and noise of the station. Arab porters were seizing her luggage from her hands, shouting, yelling, calling, recommending different hotels. She turned
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