Roger laughed, and went to deliver the drinks. Sam shifted on the bar stool and took another long gulp of beer. He couldn’t escape a nagging feeling of guilt, telling other people about the suitcase, about A, whoever he was. A fifty-year secret wasn’t something to be thrown about a bar like tittle-tattle. And yet, he’d felt off balance ever since he’d received the first note. It was as if the fiction he’d been writing had come to life; as if he’d conjured ‘A’ into being using only his imagination. He had to tell someone, if only to make sure it was all real, that he wasn’t going insane.

‘He must live in Tangier,’ he said, after a silence. ‘Or the notes wouldn’t arrive so fast.’

‘They all come through Khalid, at the Gran Café?’ Bet asked.

Sam nodded. ‘There was another one waiting when I went in yesterday. I tried to grill Khalid, but he’s not saying a word. I sat there for three hours, waiting to see if anyone came to collect my response. Nothing.’

Bet gave a half-laugh and sucked on her cigar.

‘Then there’s the passport I found in the suitcase, belonging to this del Potro character.’ Sam kept his voice low. For some reason, saying the name aloud made his neck prickle. ‘Do you think he stole A. L.’s case? Maybe—’ He swallowed. A person rarely abandoned an entire suitcase, especially one containing their passport. ‘Maybe something happened to this del Potro. Maybe he was a thief and he was arrested, or died, and that’s why he never returned?’

He looked up hopefully, only to find Bet staring at him, a strange expression on her face.

‘What did you say that name was?’ she asked, her voice husky.

‘Del Potro. Alejandro del Potro.’ He sat up straighter. ‘Why? Have you heard of him?’

Bet was silent, working her lips. Finally, she shook her head. ‘Before my time. It sounded familiar, that’s all.’

He looked over at Roger, but the bartender just turned away, depositing some empty glasses in the sink.

‘Are there any people left here from that time?’ Sam asked, frustrated. ‘There was a date I found in the writing case, July nineteen twenty-eight. Is there anyone who might remember what Tangier was like back then? If nothing else, it’d be great to get some more material. I think I might be on to something with this … whatever it is I’m writing.’

Roger smiled. ‘Good for you, lad.’ He rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. ‘There are a few. But you have to understand, a lot of stuff happened when Tangier was the International Zone. Not much of it legal. Folk tend to keep their pasts to themselves, even now. Only person I can think of who might talk is old Lil Simcox. What d’you reckon, Bet?’