A Dead Man in Tangier (5 page)

‘But perhaps – perhaps something
did
go wrong. And perhaps . . . Perhaps he was right. On both counts. It did make him, yes; but in the end it broke him. I don’t know. I don’t know about these things.'

She looked at him over the top of her glass, weighing it, considering.

‘But, shall I tell you something? I liked being possessed. Women do. And now that I am no longer possessed, I feel . . . disoriented. Not bereft. He never loved me and I never loved him. Just disoriented. But free.'

Chantale was over on the other side of the Tent talking to Sheikh Musa. Seymour was a little surprised. He didn’t know how it was in Morocco, or how Sheikh Musa was, but you wouldn’t have seen this in Istanbul, nor, he suspected, in many other Muslim countries. A woman talking so familiarly to a man. But, of course, she was half French, too. Perhaps it was the French half that Musa was addressing. And yet . . . and yet they were both drinking lemonade. That was a Muslim thing to do. Curious. Not just curious: intriguing.

She saw him looking at her and waved a hand. Shortly afterwards she detached herself from Sheikh Musa and came across to him.

‘I see you’ve caught up with Monique?'

‘Yes.'

‘How did you find her?'

‘Interesting. And rather nice.'

‘She
is
.’ She seemed pleased. ‘She should never have got hooked up with Bossu.’

‘It was Bossu we were talking about.'

‘Of course. And what did she tell you?'

‘A bit about herself. And a lot about Bossu.'

‘What did she tell you about Bossu?'

‘We talked generally,’ he said guardedly.

Chantale laughed.

‘Well, if you find out something particular, come and tell me. I, too, am interested in Bossu. Perhaps we could do a trade? You tell me what you find out and I’ll tell you what I know.'

‘I might take you up on that.'

‘Please do. What you tell me doesn’t have to appear in the newspaper. My interest in Bossu is a private one.'

‘I’ll bear that in mind.'

She smiled and moved away. Afterwards he found himself wondering about her. She had hazel eyes. Or would you call them green?

The heat in the Tent, and the noise, was almost unbearable. He made his way to the back and then out into the enclo- sure. Millet and Meunier were standing there with drinks in their hands: not lemonade.

‘What’s it been like for you today?’ he asked. ‘Busy?'

‘Quiet. A fall or two, but nothing serious.'

The riders were returning now. De Grassac went past, leading a horse.

‘How is Sybille?’ asked Millet.

‘Oh, fine. Fine.'

‘She always goes very well,’ said Millet.

He had taken them to be referring to de Grassac’s wife, or girlfriend, perhaps; but maybe not.

‘How many did you get?’ asked Meunier.

‘Two. Better than the last time. I got nowhere last time. By the time I got there, there was always someone ahead of me.'

‘How many were killed altogether today?’ asked Seymour.

‘Ten, I think. Including one shot one.'

‘Shot one?’ said de Grassac, puzzled. ‘That can’t be right!'

Meunier’s eyes met Seymour’s neutrally.

‘So two is pretty good,’ said Millet. ‘De Grassac’s an expert.'

‘Boileau is better than me,’ said de Grassac modestly, ‘and Levret is coming along, don’t you think?'

‘He got two today.'

‘That’s good for someone with so little experience. He’s only been out here six months.'

‘I thought he spent all his time hunting women?'

‘Most of it. But he hunts pigs as well.'

Mustapha and Idris arrived at this point, limping.

‘Two more for you,’ Seymour said to Meunier.

‘Oh, I don’t treat pedestrians.'

Seymour took them aside and they sank gratefully to the ground.

‘How did you get on?'

‘No one saw a thing,’ said Mustapha, depressed.

‘No one saw a thing?'

‘They all got there afterwards. When word got round.’

‘No one followed him in? When they saw he’d gone after the pig?'

‘Well, one of them had. He hadn’t wanted to. He had seen at once what the Frenchman was like. From the moment he turned aside. Couldn’t stick a cow, he said. Even if its legs were tied together. So he’d said, “Let’s give this one a miss.” But the man he was with had insisted. Thought they’d get right up close. Not a chance! Complete waste of time!'

‘But he must have seen something.'

‘Not much. When he got there it was all over. There was the Frenchman lying on the ground. He thought at first it was a fall. But then he saw the lance. Didn’t know what to make of it. But the man he was with said it was bad and that they should keep out of it. He’d seen that it was a Frenchman, you see, and worked out that someone would be over pretty soon. And that someone would probably be the French army, and that wouldn’t be good at all. So they kept out of it. Just sat there to see what happened.'

‘Well, what happened?'

‘Nothing. Like I told you. By and by two big blokes came riding up, swords and knives bristling all over. And they told everybody to get back. I mean by this time there was quite a crowd there and they’d all crept in. Well, you can understand it, can’t you? It’s not every day you see a dead Frenchman and they wanted to have a good look. But these two big blokes whipped out their swords and everybody jumped back in a flash. And one of them went off and came back with another Frenchman, and he was a soldier. Just like his mate had said. So they did right to keep out of it.'

‘Yes, yes, I’ve got that bit. But did you talk to people? Had anyone seen anything more than this chap had?'

‘Of course we talked to people! But they’d all got there afterwards. Like I said.'

‘There was that boy, Mustapha,’ said Idris.

‘The beggar boy, you mean? The lame one? The one with the limp.'

‘That’s right.'

‘Well, he was the bright one. He’d know he couldn’t run, so he’d gone out
before
. Before the hunt started. He’d gone out and lay down under a thorn bush so that he would see as they went past.’

‘And did he see them?'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘Including Bossu?'

‘Yes. He’d seen him go after the pig, and he’d thought, he’ll never get anywhere –’

‘Yes, yes. But he did see him? He saw him separate from the others. And then what?'

‘He suddenly disappeared! So he reckoned he’d had a fall. Well, he waited a bit to see if he got up, but when he didn’t, he thought he’d go over. I mean, you never know what you might pick up. A wallet, even.'

‘So he went over there? To the spot where he’d seen Bossu fall? And what did he see?'

‘Just him and the lance.'

‘Did he see anyone? Anyone else?'

‘He didn’t say so.'

‘Look, he
must
have seen someone else. The person who stuck the lance through him.’

‘He didn’t say –’

‘Riding away?’ suggested Seymour hopefully. ‘Whoever did it would have been on horseback. A horse is big – no?'

‘Look,’ said Mustapha, wearying, ‘why don’t
you
ask him?’

‘I will. What’s his name?'

‘Name?'

‘He’s got a name, hasn’t he?'

‘No. He’s just a beggar boy.'

‘Where does he live?'

‘I’ve
told
you. He’s a beggar boy. He doesn’t live anywhere.’

‘How will I find him, then, to talk to him?'

‘Oh, you’ll find him. He’s always around.'

‘Yes, he’s always around,’ said Idris.

As detectives, thought Seymour ruefully, they had their limitations.

He went back into the Tent. It wasn’t quite as densely packed as before but the bar was still doing a roaring – and how! – trade. Suddenly, however, as if some mysterious signal had been given, all the soldiers detached themselves and made for the door at the back of the Tent. That left a number of spaces at the bar and in one of them, left bereft of her admirers, he saw Madame Bossu. She looked round, saw him and brightened.

‘Monsieur Seymour!'

‘Madame!'

‘And how do you like our little games?'

‘I find your little games enchanting, Madame.'

‘That was
not
what I meant!’ she said, tapping his hand reprovingly.

‘But where have all your admirers gone? Earlier in the afternoon I couldn’t have hoped to get near you.'

‘Ah, those boys! I love the military, you know. I often used to say to Bossu, “Bossu, why aren’t you a soldier?” “If I was one, you’d soon notice the difference,” he would say. “Soldiers don’t make any money.” “You are always thinking about money,” I used to tell him. “It’s just as well one of us is,” he would say. That wasn’t very kind of him, was it?'

‘Indeed not!'

‘And if I spent money, he would encourage me! “Just add it to your account,” he would say. So that’s what I did. Add it to my accounts. All of them.'

‘All of them?'

‘Well, I didn’t just use one dressmaker. I liked to use several. One mustn’t let oneself fall into a groove.'

‘Certainly not! And – and Bossu encouraged you in this?'

‘He was always very generous in that way. “Don’t bother your pretty little head,” he would say. “Just give me the bills.” So I did.'

‘And he would settle them?'

‘I imagine so. I never heard any more about it.'

‘He would write a cheque, I imagine.'

‘Cheque?'

‘A little bit of paper. It’s usually got a bank’s name on it.'

Juliette wasn’t sure about that. He certainly had a lot of little bits of paper. And, yes, he used to write on them sometimes.

‘You don’t remember the name on the bit of paper, do you? The bank’s name?'

Juliette’s smooth forehead wrinkled.

‘There were a lot of names,’ she said doubtfully.

‘One in particular?'

Juliette couldn’t recall.

‘I think he used a lot of banks,’ she said. And then, helpfully: ‘Like me, dressmakers.'

‘And when he wanted cash, to give to you, say, what did he do?'

‘Do you know,’ said Juliette, ‘I’ve never asked myself that. I would just ask and he would always give me some.'

‘Where did he keep it?'

‘Keep it?'

‘Did he have a safe or something? A drawer, perhaps? in his desk?'

‘Not that I’ve found,’ said Juliette. ‘And I’ve looked.'

Her eyes widened.

‘My God!’ she said. ‘You don’t think . . .'

‘What?'

‘That he kept it at Monique’s! That bitch! She must have it all!'

‘No, no, no! Not necessarily. He may have kept it somewhere else. And his papers, too. Did he have an office somewhere, perhaps? Apart from the one at the committee?'

‘No, I don’t think so.'

‘You see, what I’m trying to do is track down any transactions he might have been engaged in. In case they throw any light, you know, on his death. I’ve been through his office at the committee and there didn’t seem much there. Did he bring stuff like that home?'

‘He brought some things home, certainly.'

‘Papers?'

Juliette couldn’t remember.

‘Bank statements?'

What were they?

‘Well . . .'

Juliette wasn’t sure. She didn’t think so.

‘I wonder, perhaps, if you would allow me to go through his things?'

‘Of course! Come round and see me,’ said Juliette, brightening. ‘Sometime.'

‘It’s just the papers,’ said Seymour hastily. ‘If I could.

’ ‘I will show you everything!'

‘Thank you. Yes, thank you.'

She frowned.

‘Of course . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘Renaud has them. He’s been helping me, you see. With all the – you know, the horrid stuff that has to be gone into when someone dies. He took everything away with him.'

‘The papers?'

‘And the bank statements,’ said Juliette. ‘I remember them now.'

Chapter Five

The next morning Seymour went up to the committee’s offices, where he found Mr Bahnini, head down, already at work.

He took out the scraps of paper he had found in Bossu’s filing cabinet and laid them on the desk in front of him.

‘Could you tell me, Mr Bahnini, to what these refer?'

‘They are names of places. Azrou, Immauzer and Tafilalet. And, of course, Casablanca.'

‘Anything special about them?'

‘The first three are in the south. They are small towns in the interior.'

‘Anything else about them?'

Mr Bahnini shook his head.

‘I would say there is very little to distinguish them. Apart from being the only towns in miles and miles of desert.'

‘Beside them are some numbers. And dates. Azrou, for instance: 5000, 2nd April. Immauzer, 7000, 20th May. What do the numbers refer to? Could they be sums of money?'

‘They could.'

‘There wouldn’t be any reference to these sums, if they are sums, in the minutes of the committee? I was just wondering if they were authorized expenditure.'

Mr Bahnini shook his head.

‘They would not be,’ he said definitely. ‘The committee is not authorized to disburse funds. It has a few for expenses, of course. For stationery, my salary, and so on, but there are all minor and do not correspond to any of these sums.'

‘Perhaps they’re not money, then.'

Mr Bahnini studied them.

‘Although what else could they be?’ he said.

‘Take a look at the dates. Do they correspond to anything in Bossu’s diary?'

‘He didn’t keep one,’ said Mr Bahnini. ‘But I did.'

He produced a desk diary and began to go through it.

‘He was certainly away from the office on those dates,’ he said.

‘So they could be dates of meetings?'

‘But why would he have been having meetings in places like that? Casablanca, I could understand. But Tafilalet! Mr Bossu had business dealings all over the place, it is true, but – Tafilalet! It’s just an oasis.'

‘No record here, then?'

‘No. Of course . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘He had business dealings of his own. He only worked for the committee part time. The sums might relate to them.'

‘Where would I find out about them? Did he have another office somewhere?'

‘I don’t think so, sir.'

‘His bank, perhaps, might have a record of cash transactions. Do you know which bank he used?'

‘I am afraid not, sir. His wife, perhaps . . .'

‘Doesn’t know a thing. And Renaud has taken all his papers away. I could ask him, I suppose.'

Mr Bahnini was hesitating. He cleared his throat deferentially.

‘I wonder, sir . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘I am not sure, sir, that, given the location of the places, he would have made much use of his bank. In the south they usually prefer money in physical form.'

‘Coin, you mean?'

‘Or bullion. Silver is much in use.'

‘And if Bossu was making payments there, that is what he would have used?'

‘There are no banks there, sir. The south is a very backward place. Not to say lawless.'

‘Hmm. So if he wanted money in hard form, where could he have gone to get it?'

‘I suspect the big moneylenders in the souk, sir. But a bank here would be able to advise you.'

‘Thank you. I’ll try them.'

‘There is one other thing, sir.'

‘Yes?'

‘Money in that form is heavy. The first part of the journey could be done by truck, but after that he would have had to use camels. And porters. Also . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘Almost certainly he would have needed bodyguards. The south is, as I have said, a lawless place.'

Seymour asked if he could see the committee’s minutes. He settled himself at Bossu’s desk and Mr Bahnini brought them to him. Then he ploughed systematically through them. There was no mention of any of the places on the slips of paper, nor any reference to the dates or sums. He began to get, however, a sense of the committee’s preoccupations. Impressed by his display of clerical adhesiveness, Mr Bahnini warmed to him and dropped in from time to time to explain particular points.

Much of the most recent discussion referred to a venture at Marrakesh. Mr Bahnini said that this was to do with a project to build a railway, which, it was hoped, would open up the interior. Of course, Marrakesh was a long way inland and since it did not fall within the area of the proposed Tangier zone it was, strictly speaking, nothing to do with the committee. Tangier interests would, however, be providing the money and for that reason were interested in the legal powers that the committee would be recommending. Strongly interested, judging by the frequency of the committee’s returns to the subject.

‘They are interested, of course, in the likely route the railway would take.'

‘Is that the responsibility of the committee to decide?’

‘No, but what they decide – the scope and nature of the legal powers they decide on – could have a considerable bearing on the route. That is terribly important, of course, because once the route has been decided on, businesses will be jostling to take appropriate action.'

‘Appropriate?'

‘Well, they would be able to plan ahead.'

‘Buy land, you mean?'

‘That sort of thing, yes, sir.'

‘And Bossu being close to the committee’s deliberations . . .'

‘I must insist, sir, that anything he did would be separate from his work on the committee. The Chairman is a stickler for propriety. But, of course, outside the committee room –’

‘And close as he was not just to the committee’s working but also to the interests of other parties –’

‘He would be well placed,’ said Mr Bahnini.

‘Thank you, Mr Bahnini. I think I understand what you are telling me.'

At one point Seymour heard Mr Bahnini talking to someone in his office. They kept their voices down and he couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they appeared to be having an argument. The other person seemed to be a young man. After a time he went away.

When Mr Bahnini next came in to see how Seymour was getting on, he appeared vexed.

‘An awkward customer?'

‘Very. My son.'

‘The one you were talking about with Macfarlane?'

‘The same.'

‘The one who has just finished his studies and is uncertain what to do?'

‘It is not that he is uncertain. He doesn’t appear to want to do
anything
. He just sits in the café all day with his friends listening to music.’

‘He probably finds it hard to put student life behind him.'

‘They all do. But it’s time they did. They can’t sit around for ever.'

‘You couldn’t tempt him to take up Macfarlane’s offer? As a temporary expedient?'

‘That’s just what I’ve been trying to do. But he will have none of it. The committee is just a cover for the French, he says, and he refuses to have anything to do with it. He won’t work for the Mahzen because he says it’s too corrupt. All right, what about business, then, I say? There are plenty of jobs there if only you could be bothered to look for them. That would be working for foreigners, he says, and he doesn’t want to do that.'

‘What does he want to do?'

‘Sit around in the caf
é
e and chat. And his friends are just the same. They say they will only work for Morocco. Look, this
is
Morocco, I say: here! No, it’s not, they say. It’s France or Spain or some other rich country.

‘“It’s all very well for you to talk,” I say to him, “but before you start taking a high-and-mighty line about principle, you’ve got to find a way to live. At the moment you’re living on me!”

‘That always makes him angry, and my wife says I mustn’t say things like that. But it’s true. And it’s true for the others, too.

‘Take young Awad. He spends all his time lolling about in the café, too, but he can do it only because his father is rich – his father is a Minister in the Mahzen, Suleiman Fazi. Did you say you had been to see him? I met him once, he’s a nice man and he’s just as worried about Awad as I am about Sadiq.

‘I don’t know what’s come over the young. They have chances we never had. And what do they do? Loll about and complain! Say the world’s all wrong and that it needs to change before they’ll get their hands dirty by working in it!'

Seymour laughed.

‘The young have always been like that,’ he said.

‘But it’s different now. Here. And with the Protectorate being imposed, it’s become worse. They say such wild things!'

‘It’s just talk.'

‘So long as it stops at just talk,’ said Mr Bahnini darkly.

When Seymour left, he saw just such a group of young men as they had been discussing sitting in a café across the road. In fact, they
were
the young men they had been talking about, or some of them were, for as he and Mr Bahnini came out of the bank one of them looked up and saw them and then came running across the road towards them.

‘Your pardon, Father,’ he said. ‘I spoke too warmly.'

‘Like father, like son,’ said Mr Bahnini. ‘I spoke too warmly, too.'

The young man fell in alongside them.

‘This is Monsieur Seymour,’ said Mr Bahnini. ‘From England.'

‘Oh, from England?'

He asked Seymour, as they all did, how he found Morocco: but he asked in a different way from the others. He asked with a fierce interest, as if the answer really mattered. Seymour, who found the question difficult to answer at any depth, replied as best he could. The young man pondered and then said:

‘Do you find us backward?'

‘Different,’ said Seymour. ‘Not backward.'

‘Yes, we are different,’ said the young man. He appeared relieved.

Seymour said that he found Tangier different, too, from other places around the Mediterranean that he had been in; from Istanbul, for example, where he had been the previous year.

‘You have been in Istanbul?'

‘Briefly.'

‘That is somewhere where things are happening!’ said the young man enviously.

There had been a revolution there and the Sultan had been deposed.

‘And how do you think it is working out?’ he asked anxiously.

‘It’s too early to say. Things are changing, certainly. But I have a feeling that the Sultanate is not finished yet.'

‘They won’t go back?’ said the young man, aghast.

‘They might. But if they do it won’t be to quite the way things were before.'

‘Once change starts,’ said Mr Bahnini, ‘it is hard to stop it.'

‘I hope that’s true,’ his son said. ‘For Turkey’s sake, at least.’ He looked at Seymour. ‘We have a strange situation here,’ he said. ‘When the revolution started in Istanbul we all said, “Yes, yes! It is a pattern for what should happen here.” But it hasn’t worked out like that. The French have stepped in and brought all that change to a stop.'

‘Not
all
that change,’ objected his father. ‘Some of it will continue to go on.’

‘Instead of the Sultan we have the French. That isn’t much of an improvement.'

Seymour called in to see Renaud but he wasn’t in his office. This was the third time Seymour had tried without success and he mentioned it to Chantale when he got back to the hotel.

‘Oh, he won’t be in his office!’ she said.

‘Where will he be, then?'

She looked at his watch.

‘There’s a little bar in the Place Concorde . . .'

And there indeed was Monsieur Renaud, perched on a stool and chatting to the
patronne
.

‘
Coll`egue!
’

He jumped up.

‘
Cher coll`egue!
’

They embraced.

‘
Un apéritif?
’

‘Allow me . . .'

And, a little later, ‘Forgive me,
cher coll`egue
, for coming to you. It is an imposition, I know.’

‘An imposition? But not at all! A pleasure! A pleasure!’ Renaud repeated. He looked along the bar. The
patronne
, without saying anything, brought another two Pernods.

They exchanged toasts again.

‘You know,’ said Seymour, as they settled back on their stools, ‘there is one thing in which I regard myself as fortunate. It is to find myself working with you.'

‘Ah, Monsieur –’

‘No, I mean it. It is not always that one finds oneself working with people who are so
sympathique
. Colleagues who put people first. As you so evidently do. Your solicitude for Madame Bossu! Can I say that I find it admirable? Yes, admirable. Caring, thoughtful, sensitive. One does not always find that in one’s colleagues. I consider myself fortunate.'

‘Ah, Monsieur, you are too kind! But you are right. For me, the human touch is all. It is not so with everybody, but for me, for me it comes first. We must not lose sight of the pain in the one who has suffered. And we must do what we can to alleviate it.'

‘Just so! A man dies, and it is our job as policemen to find out who has killed him. But we must remember, too, the ones he leaves behind. The man dies and so often the woman is left alone. It is then that support is needed and, thank goodness, it is exactly that you are providing for Madame Bossu.'

‘Poor Juliette!'

‘She should be grateful. And I’m sure she will be. It may take a little time to show –’

‘She doesn’t realize all the work I am doing for her.'

‘Oh, she will, she will.'

‘You think so?’ said Renaud, pleased.

‘I am sure of it. And when she does, I am sure she will be truly grateful.'

‘Well, well, that would be nice. All I want, you know, is a little appreciation.'

‘And, perhaps, some time later, as she begins to recover from this terrible experience, something more? A man is a man, after all.'

‘Well, yes, there is that,’ said Renaud, smiling.

‘Well, I wish you success! But, meanwhile there is work to be done. And a lot of it. No one knows that better than I do. Bossu was a man of so many interests. With those, there is always much to sort out.'

‘There is, there is!'

‘Business interests, too. Complex ones. That makes it particularly difficult.'

‘It does. It does.'

‘Especially as he seems to have had business interests everywhere.'