A flash of movement, the strap of a shoulder bag, a figure elbowing through the crowd towards the Grand Socco. Sam had no breath to shout, could only fight his way to the edge of the market, clinging to the writing case. I’ll never smoke again, he swore as he staggered into a run, lungs heaving. The figure was nearing the edge of the socco and the old city gates, the entrances to the maze of the casbah. If whoever it was stepped through there, he’d be screwed, he’d never find them.

At the mouth of the Bab el-Fahs the figure glanced back over their shoulder. Sam had no breath to call out, but he raised his hand, and the case in it, holding it up like a plea. He must have looked absurd, but for a moment, the figure seemed to hesitate—

‘Hackett!’

Hands were slapping his arms, a face filling his view, white and red and shiny with sweat. Norton.

‘What a lucky meet,’ the journalist was saying, ‘I’m just on my way to lunch. Care to join?’

Sam shrugged out of Norton’s grip and stepped around him, peering into the crowd; too late. The space by the gate was empty. The figure was gone.

Fedora

Take a pony each of brandy and Curaçao. Add to this half a pony of good Jamaica rum and half a pony of Bourbon. Stir into this half a teaspoon of powdered sugar and a slice of lemon. Shake with ice and serve ornamented.

The devil knows how I fell asleep. Perhaps it was the exhaustion or the pain, the heat of the brandy in my empty belly or the assault of so many new things upon my senses that made my mind close the shutters for a while, sending me into nothingness.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the hat. It was sitting upon the table before me, quiet and elegant, the colour of cream with a dark brown band. A piece of paper was resting beneath.

I hoisted myself on to an elbow. Only then did I realize that the room was empty. For a moment, I stayed very still. Someone had half closed the shutters to keep out the heat. A clock ticked, a fly droned and the tock of croquet balls floated up from the hotel’s lawn.