Chapter 5 chapter Five

In the small drawing room of the St. Louis Hotel sat three ladies, each engaged in his own business.Mrs. Calvin Baker, a short, plump woman with blue-dyed hair, was writing letters with the exuberant energy with which she engages in any activity.Mrs Calvin Baker was a traveling American, no one could have mistaken that.She lives well, eager to know everything in the world accurately. Miss Hetherington sat in an uncomfortable Empire chair.She was a traveling Englishman, and no one could have mistaken that.She was knitting one of those ugly sweaters that many English women always seem to be knitting.She was tall and thin, with a bony neck, disheveled hair, and an expression that seemed spiritually disappointed with all of humanity.

Mademoiselle Jeanne Marico sat pompously on a raised chair and yawned looking out the window.She was a woman with black hair dyed blond, with an ugly face, but she was very attractively dressed.She was well dressed and had no interest in the people in the living room.She despised them from the bottom of her heart, thinking they were nothing more than thrill-seeking tourists.At the moment she was contemplating an important change in her sex life and had no time for these brute tourists. Miss Hetherington and Mrs. Calvin Baker had spent two nights at the St. Louis Hotel, and were well acquainted with each other.Mrs. Calvin Baker, the gregarious American, gets along with everyone.Miss Hetherington, though equally eager for friendship, conversed only with Englishmen and Americans of what she considered to be of a certain social standing.As for the French, she did not associate with anyone but the decent family folk who dined at the dining-room table with their children.

A Frenchman, who looked like a well-to-do businessman, glanced into the drawing-room, was startled by the solidarity of the women, and walked away with a look of nostalgia and regret for Mademoiselle Jeanne Marico. Miss Hetherington began counting stitches in a low voice: "Twenty-eight stitches, twenty-nine staples—what did I do—oh, I see." A tall woman with red hair peered into the living room and hesitated before continuing down the corridor to the dining room. Mrs Calvin Baker and Miss Hetherington immediately came alive.Mrs. Baker turned from her desk and said in an excited voice:

"Miss Hetherington, did you notice that red-haired woman peering into the drawing room? They say she was the only survivor of that terrible plane crash last week." "I saw her arrive here this afternoon," said Miss Hetherington, missing another stitch in her excitement. "Come in an ambulance." "The hotel manager said she came straight from the hospital. I don't know if it was wise for her to leave the hospital so quickly. It is understood she has a concussion." "She still had bandages on her face - maybe, that was cut by the glass. Fortunately, she didn't get burned. The burns caused by the plane crash are said to be terrible."

"It's unbelievable. The poor young woman wonders if her husband is with her, and is he dead?" "It is said that her husband was not with her," said Miss Hetherington, shaking her sallow head. "There is only one woman passenger mentioned in the papers." "Yes, her name is in the paper. A Mrs. Beverly—no, Mrs. Betterton." "Betterton," said Miss Hetherington thoughtfully, "what does that name remind me of? Betterton. By the way, I've seen it in the papers. Oh, dear, I'm sure it is." That name." "To hell with Pierre," Marico said to himself in French, "he's a pain in the ass. But little Jules, he's lovely. And his father has a place in society. I end up Decided."

Then Miss Marico walked out of the drawing room with graceful strides and disappeared from our story. Mrs Thomas Betterton left hospital on the afternoon of the fifth day after the crash.An ambulance took her to the St. Louis Hotel. She looked pale and sickly, with plasters and bandages on her face.She was immediately shown to the room reserved for her, with the sympathetic manager closely surrounding her and attending to her. "Madame, what pain you have suffered!" said the manager, after kindly inquiring whether the room reserved for her was to her liking, and having unnecessarily switched on all the lights: What a dangerous escape! What a miracle! How lucky! It is said that there are only three survivors, and one of them is still in danger!"

Hilary sank sleepily into a chair. "Yes, indeed," she muttered, "I can hardly believe it myself. I can't remember anything even now. The twenty-four hours before the crash are very vague to me now." .” "Oh, yes. It was the result of a concussion. One of my sisters had a concussion too. She was in London during the war. A bomb fell and knocked her out. up. She was wandering around London and caught a train at Euston station. You see, when she woke up in Liverpool, she couldn't remember anything about the bombs, and she couldn't remember anything about London. I don't remember anything about the train or how I got to Liverpool. The only thing she can remember is that she hung her dress in the wardrobe in London, and those things are very strange, aren't they?"

Hilary agrees with the manager that these are indeed strange.The manager bowed and left.Hilary got up from her chair and went to the mirror to take a look at herself.She was now so imbued with the spirit of her rookie that she felt a limp in her extremities, which was quite natural for someone fresh out of the hospital after a severe ordeal. She had checked at the hotel desk, but there were no telegrams or letters from her there.It seemed that her first few steps in this new role had to be taken without knowing it.Olive Betterton might be told that in Casablanca she should dial such-and-such a phone number or contact such-and-such a person.However, there is no clue about this.The only things she could act on at the moment were Olive Betterton's passport, credit card, and Cooks travel agency ticket book.On these tickets it was stated that she had spent two days in Casablanca, six days in Fez, and five days in Marrakesh.Of course, these scheduled dates are now outdated and need to be dealt with.Passports, credit cards and identification letters to carry with you have all been taken care of.The passport has now been replaced with Hillary's photo, and the signature on the credit card is also the words Olive Betterton written by Hillary herself.In short, her credentials are complete.Her immediate task is to play the role appropriately and wait for instructions.The trump card in her hands is the plane crash and the resulting memory loss and confusion.

The plane crash was real, and Olive Betterton was actually on the plane.And the concussion aptly overshadowed her failure to do anything to get directions.So bewildered, bewildered, and feeble Olive Betterton waited for orders. The thing to do right now is of course rest.So she lay on the bed.For two hours she went over in her head what the people had taught her.Olive's luggage had been burned on the plane, and Hilary was carrying only the few things she had been supplied with at the hospital.She combed her hair, dabbed some lipstick on her lips, and went downstairs to the hotel restaurant for dinner.

She noticed that certain people looked at her with a certain curiosity.At several tables sat businessmen who hardly looked at Hillary.But at several other tables, apparently occupied by tourists, she became aware of whispers. "Which woman, the red-haired woman, is a survivor of this plane crash, dear. She came in the ambulance from the hospital. I saw her when she arrived. She still looked very weak. I don't know , Is it too early for them to let her out of the hospital so quickly. What a horrible experience! How lucky to be able to escape!" After dinner, Hilary sat for a while in the small living room.She wondered if someone would somehow approach Earth.There were only one or two people sitting scattered in the living room.Suddenly a small, plump, middle-aged woman with gray hair dyed blue moved to a chair next to Hilary.She said in a lively and pleasant American accent:

"I hope you will forgive me. I feel compelled to say a word or two. Are you the man who miraculously escaped from that plane that crashed the other day?" Hilary put down the magazine she was reading. "Yes," she said. "Oops! How horrible! I mean the crash. They said. Only three survivors, right?" "There were only two," Hillary said, "and one of the three died in the hospital." "My God! Is that so! Now, Miss—Ma'am, your last name is..." "My name is Betterton." "Hey, if you have no objection to my question, please tell me, where are you sitting in the plane? Are you sitting at the nose or the tail?" Hillary knew how to answer the question, so she responded right away: "Sit on the tail." "People always say that's the safest place, don't they? I always insist on getting a seat near the back door every time I fly. Do you hear that, Miss Hetherington?" She turned her head to the other middle. Ms. Years.He was a very stiff Englishman with a long, horse-like face. "I said that a few days ago. Every time you fly, don't let the flight attendant take you to the nose of the plane." "But someone has to sit at the nose of the plane," Hillary said. "Yes, but I don't sit." The American said firmly. "By the way, my name is Mrs. Calvin Baker." Hillary expressed willingness to get to know each other.Then Mrs. Baker fell into conversation, and easily monopolized the conversation. "I have just arrived from Morgador, and Miss Hetherington from Tangier. We met here. Are you going to visit Marrakech, Mrs. Betterton?" "I've already made plans to visit," Hilary said. "Of course, this plane crash messed up all our plans." "Of course, I understand that. But you must never miss Marrakech. Miss Hetherington, don't you?" "Visiting Marrakech costs too much money," said Miss Hetherington, "and the meager travel allowance makes everything difficult." "There's a very fine hotel there called the Hotel Mamounia," continued Mrs. Baker. "That hotel is very expensive," said Miss Hetherington. "I'm sorry, but of course it's different for you, Mrs Baker, you have plenty of dollars. Someone wrote me the name of a small hotel there .The hotel is nice and clean, and it is said that the food is pretty good.” "And where else do you plan to go, Mrs. Betterton?" asked Mrs. Calvin Baker. "I still want to visit Fez," Hilary said cautiously. "Of course, I have to rebook the hotel room." "Yes, and you certainly shouldn't stop visiting Fez or Rabat." "Have you ever been there?" "Not yet. I plan to be there soon, and so is Miss Hetherington." "It is said that the view of the Old Town is not spoiled at all," said Miss Hetherington. The conversation continued for some time in a rambling manner.Hilary went upstairs to the bedroom with the excuse that she was a little tired after coming out of the hospital. No decision was made that night.The two women she was talking to were such familiar tourists that she could hardly imagine that they could be anything else.She decided that if she didn't receive any calls or texts tomorrow, she would go to Kux Travel Agency in person and offer to rebook hotel rooms in Fez and Marrakech. Nor did she receive any letters, telegrams or phone calls the next morning.At about eleven o'clock, she left for the travel agency.There were already some people in line to check in, and when she finally got to the counter and started talking to the clerk, someone interrupted their conversation.A senior clerk with spectacles elbowed the young man aside.He looked at Hillary through his glasses and said with a grin: "Are you Mrs. Betterton? I have made all your reservations." "I'm afraid," Hilary said, "those reservations are out of date. I've been in the hospital and..." "Yes, I know that. Let me congratulate you on your survival, ma'am. But I got your call to rebook your hotel room. We've got you covered." Hilary felt her pulse beat faster.As far as she knew, no one called the travel agency.This is certainly a sign that Olive Betterton's travel arrangements have been monitored.she says: "I'm not sure if they called or not?" "But someone did call, ma'am. I'll show you." He produced the train ticket and the hotel room reservation receipt.After a few minutes, the formalities were completed.Hillary will leave for Fez the next day. Mrs. Calvin Baker ate neither lunch nor supper at the hotel.Miss Hetherington ate lunch and dinner at the hotel.When Hilary passed her table and nodded to her, she returned the salute, but didn't want to talk to her.The next day, after buying some necessary clothes and underwear, Hillary took the train to Fez. On the day Hillary left Casablanca, when Mrs. Calvin Baker entered the hotel with her usual sprightliness, Miss Hetherington came forward to talk to her.Miss Hetherington's slender nose quivered slightly with excitement, and she said: "I've got the name of Betterton--he's the missing scientist. All the papers are about it. Disappeared about two months ago." "Oh, I'm thinking of something now, too. He's an English scientist—yes. He's going to Paris for a conference or something." "Well, that's the thing. I don't know, do you think, this woman can't possibly be his wife. I checked the register, and her mailing address is Javier—you know Javier's The site of the atomic testing station. All atomic bombs are, I think, very evil. And cobalt,—how beautiful is cobalt on a paint box! I used to use this color when I was a child. Worst of all, it is said, there is no One survives. We're not supposed to be doing experiments like that. I was told the other day that a cousin of hers—a very shrewd fellow—had said that the whole world could be radioactive." "Ah, ah," cried Mrs. Calvin Baker.