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Authors: Michael Pearce

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‘I’m sorry, Musa,’ Macfarlane was saying, ‘but there’s not much that I can do.'

‘But there
is
; you’re Chairman of the committee, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but this doesn’t come within the committee’s brief.'

‘Then why are you authorizing it?'

‘We’re
not
authorizing it. We’re just sketching out the kind of arrangements that the Tangier zone will need to put in place for this to happen.’

Musa snorted.

‘That’s just legalistic quibbling!’ he said. ‘You know that once the committee has indicated the nature of the arrangements that will be likely, everyone will be shovelling things that way: money, guns, everything that is making Moulay stronger.'

‘Look, I don’t like it any more than you do. The man is just a bandit. But there’s nothing I can do about it.'

‘He’s getting stronger all the time.'

‘Yes, I know. But he’s outside the projected zone and therefore nothing to do with me or the committee. He doesn’t exist as far as we are concerned.'

‘But that’s ridiculous! If you go ahead with these “arrangements” –’

‘Possibility of. We’re just sketching out the possibilities, that’s all.'

‘– you’ll have to make them
with
somebody. And that will be him.’

‘We’re not making arrangements with anybody. That comes later.'

‘Building a railway line?'

‘Making it possible to build a railway line. Once the zone has been declared. There will
need
to be a railway line, Musa, connecting Tangier with the south. All my committee is doing, Musa, is outlining the legal powers the Tangier council would need to be given for it to be able to conclude arrangements for such a railway to be built.’

‘And make Moulay even stronger!'

‘I agreed with you, Musa, it probably would. But that’s not my concern. I have to look at things narrowly from the point of view of Tangier.'

‘Who’s looking at it from the point of view of Morocco?'

Macfarlane was silent. Then he shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Musa,’ he said. ‘These things go ahead.'

‘The French, I suppose,’ said Musa, answering his own question. ‘The French!'

He saw Seymour and nodded to him. Then he turned back to Macfarlane.

‘Do you know what I think?’ he said. ‘I think the French will do a deal with Moulay. I think they’ll bring him back and make him Sultan in place of that other. Well, that might be no bad thing. The other has been useless. He has already given Morocco away. Moulay could hardly do worse. But you see what that would do? It would cement French control. And then there would be no more Morocco!'

He shook his head.

‘And no one is doing anything about it!’ he said.

He gave Macfarlane a quick embrace and stalked out.

As he went, he nearly collided with Seymour.

‘Ah, the Bossu man!’ he said. ‘Bossu! At least that was a step in the right direction!'

‘Grand old boy!’ said Macfarlane, looking after him. ‘The trouble is, he can’t accept that Morocco is changing.'

‘He seems to me to have a pretty shrewd idea of what’s going on.'

‘Oh, he has that. But he can’t accept – well, he can’t accept that now it’s inevitable. The French have taken over.'

‘And there won’t be a place for the likes of Sheikh Musa?'

‘There would be a place for him. Lambert would be only too willing. But Musa’s heart is with the older order, with the Parasol, you might say. And that has gone for good.

’ He led Seymour into his office. There were the usual small teacups on the low table and a beautiful old teapot. Macfarlane lifted the lid and peered inside.

‘Still some,’ he said. ‘Like some?'

The sharp smell of mint drifted into the room.

He poured some out for Seymour and filled his own cup.

‘Now, what was it you wanted to see me about?'

‘Three men,’ said Seymour. ‘Digoin, Leblanc and Ricard.'

‘I know them, certainly,’ said Macfarlane. ‘But . . .'

He look puzzled.

‘I’d like to talk to them.'

‘Well, that can be arranged. But – laddie, are you sure you’re not barking up the wrong tree?'

‘No, I don’t think so.'

‘Because I know all three of them and the idea that they could have had anything to do with – which is, I take it, what you want to see them for . . . Look, Digoin is a danger on a horse, that is true. Especially with a lance in his hand. But that is because he is so short-sighted. He might stick anybody. Or anything. The idea that he might –’

‘No, I wasn’t thinking that.'

‘And Leblanc is – well, he’s one of the sweetest blokes around. He’s a chemist, an apothecary, as they say here. Lovely chap. But wouldn’t hurt a soul. Finds it hard to hurt even a pig. In fact,
never
hurts a pig. Never hurts anyone. Just rides along for the fun of it. And usually behind everyone so that there’s no chance of being anywhere near at a kill.’

‘That’s just why I want to see him.'

‘Well, you know what you want, I suppose, but –’

‘And Ricard?'

‘Well, Ricard is one of the old settlers. And when I say old, I mean old. He must be in his eighties. He’s still riding but even he recognizes he’s got to watch it. Meunier’s warned him. He’s always warning him. “One fall, Ricard, and it will be the end of you!” But he loves it and won’t give it up. He just rides along steadily behind the others. He’s got a safe old nag, which is nearly as old as he is, and the two of them just keep going. He makes no attempt to keep up with the action these days –’

‘Fine! That’s just what I want.'

‘Really?’ said Macfarlane doubtfully.

‘Yes, really.'

‘Well, I’ll take you over. It’s not far. I’ll take you over now if you like.'

Monsieur Ricard lived with his daughter in one of the villas just outside Tangier which Seymour had passed on his way to the pig-sticking. Her husband was in Customs and worked in the port of Tangier. Monsieur Ricard no longer worked and spent most of his days sitting on the verandah looking out over the bay. From time to time, however, he would rise from his seat and walk out into the garden, where he would find something to do or something to tell the gardener to do.

‘Old habits died hard,’ said his daughter, ‘and he is still a farmer at heart. And he can’t get used to not doing anything physical.'

‘He still rides, though?'

His daughter pulled a face.

‘Despite everything we can do.'

‘What’s that?’ said Monsieur Ricard, whose hearing was not so much hard of as differential: some things he heard, some things he didn’t. ‘What’s that about riding? The hunt’s not been cancelled, has it?'

‘No, Father,’ said his daughter patiently. ‘It’s just that we are talking about it.'

‘We? Who’s we? You’re not talking to that fool, Renaud, again, are you?'

‘No, Father. It is Monsieur Macfarlane. And a friend. They want to talk about the hunt.'

‘Well, bring them here, then. What are you waiting for? Hanging about, talking!
Bonjour
, Monsieur Macfarlane. Suzanne, bring in some coffee. You’ll get some decent coffee here, Monsieur Macfarlane, that’s one thing I will say for her.'

‘Ricard, allow me to present a friend, Monsieur Seymour. From England.'

‘What?'

‘From England,’ said Seymour, and then, shifting rapidly to ground where he thought Monsieur Ricard’s hearing might be better: ‘Allow me to say, Monsieur, that the view from your garden is remarkable!'

‘Not bad, is it?'

‘And the gardens! One could almost,’ he said mischievously, ‘be in England.'

‘You’d do better here!'

Seymour laughed.

‘I compliment you on your skill, Monsieur.'

‘Well, well,’ said Ricard, mollified. ‘I don’t do so badly, it is true. Do I, Macfarlane?'

‘Not badly at all,’ agreed Macfarlane.

‘And you come to talk about the hunt?’ Ricard said to Seymour.

‘About a particular hunt,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Monsieur Seymour is a policeman and he is here to find out what happened to Bossu.'

‘Bossu! Well, there’s a fine fellow!'

‘Monsieur Macfarlane suggested I talk to you, not only as someone who was there, but as someone familiar with the ways of the hunt.'

‘Well, that’s true,’ said Ricard. ‘I am. And that’s more than could be said for Bossu. You know,’ he said, turning to Macfarlane, ‘I shall never understand how a man can ride week after week, year after year, and never learn a thing about hunting!'

‘He wasn’t interested,’ said Macfarlane.

‘No,’ said Ricard, ‘all he was interested in was showing off to Mademoiselle Monique.'

He chuckled maliciously.

‘Not to Juliette, although she was there too. He didn’t care a toss for Juliette, not once he’d married her.'

‘Oh, I don’t know –’ said Macfarlane.

‘It’s true! the old man insisted. ‘Not a toss. It was just a marriage of convenience. And they both got what they wanted. She wanted money, a house, and position. Her parents wanted money. And Bossu? Well, he got what he wanted, too: entry. Entry into the world of the Tangier social elite. For him, it wasn’t the money, it was the social contacts. For them, it wasn’t the contacts, it was the money. So they were all satisfied. Mind you, it nearly didn’t happen. Did you know that?’ he said to Macfarlane.

‘No,’ said Macfarlane, ‘I didn’t.'

‘At the last moment they found out there was someone else. Or had been someone else. Well, Juliette didn’t mind that. It was all over now, and anyway the other woman had turned him down. But there was something else. The other woman was – well, quite unsuitable. So unsuitable as to reflect badly on Bossu. And, of course that meant on Juliette, and on her family, too. As I say, it was all in the past, but even so! Could the family condone this disgraceful, disgusting thing? It turned out, of course, in the end, that they could: for some more money.'

The old man cackled with glee.

‘For more money!’ he repeated. ‘They could condone it then!'

He was convulsed with malicious pleasure.

‘They could condone it then, all right! Mind you, it always rankled with Juliette. You see, the other woman, the one they all looked down on, had turned him down; and she, Juliette, hadn’t!'

He slapped himself on the knee.

‘You’re talking about Monique?'

‘No, no. Monique was after she’d turned him down. Before he knew Juliette. Lives up the hill, you know. Juli-ette. I’ll bet she’s not altogether sorry Bossu has gone.'

His daughter came in with a tray of coffee.

Evidently that needed explanation.

‘Abdul was taking so long!’ she said. ‘So in the end I brought it myself.'

‘Needs a good kick up the backside!’ said Ricard testily.

‘Thanks, Suzanne!’ said Macfarlane. ‘Children well?'

They talked about the children for a while. Monsieur Ricard concentrated on softening a biscuit in his coffee. Then he pushed his cup aside.

‘So,’ he said, looking at Seymour shrewdly, his eyes functioning, for this purpose at any rate, well, ‘what do you want to know?'

Chapter Nine

No – contemptuously – he hadn’t seen Bossu ride off at a tangent. He was already ahead of him at that point. In any case, he was riding on the other side of the course. Concentrating on the hunt. He liked to keep up with them while he could. Of course, in the end they would leave him behind, that was the penalty – with a baleful look at his daughter – of being lumbered with an old nag. If he had had Chestnut he would have kept up with them. Even been in at the kill!

‘Chestnut is dead, Father,’ said Suzanne quietly. ‘He’s been dead for years.'

‘I know that!’ he said impatiently. ‘I’m just saying that with a proper horse I’d have kept up!'

‘Of course, you would, Father, but –’

‘She listens too much to that fool, Meunier!’ Ricard growled.

‘Sure, sure,’ said Suzanne, and took the tray away.

‘Well, there you are, Monsieur. I didn’t see anything. I can’t help you, I’m afraid.'

‘Ah, but you can, Monsieur. It is afterwards that I am interested in. After Bossu had ridden away, and after he had been killed. Can I take you back to that earlier stage of the chase? And, perhaps, after. The riders would be bunched at the start, wouldn’t they, all keeping up. But then they would begin to stretch out. Some of the slowest would be falling behind?'

‘Well, of course! And I can tell you, they wouldn’t have included me. Not if I had had a proper horse!'

‘Not you, Monsieur, but, perhaps, the always slow riders, of whom you would have been aware –’

‘Getting in the way. That fool, Digoin! And Leblanc. Why that man bothers to turn up at all, I cannot think. His head is in the clouds, Monsieur. He rides in a dream. He does not know, Monsieur, that it is a
hunt
. You chase the animal, yes? But not Leblanc. He is chasing rainbows! Or something the rest of us don’t see.’

‘Frustrating, frustrating!’ said Seymour. ‘But, Monsieur, I wondered if there was someone else. Someone, perhaps, who
was
a good rider, and a real huntsman, but who had, perhaps, joined the chase late? Who overtook the slower riders, even yourself –’

‘He wouldn’t have, not if I’d had a proper –’

‘The others, perhaps, would not have been aware of it, but you, Monsieur, with your feel for the hunt and your sense of the chase as a whole, might well have noticed it. Someone coming up fast, and late . . .?'

Ricard thought.

‘I think I was aware of someone doing that,’ he said. ‘Out of the corner of my eye. You understand, Monsieur, that at my age one cannot afford to take one’s eye off – But, yes, I think I did notice someone coming up late.'

But, alas, Monsieur Ricard had few details to add. If he had seen someone, it had been only out of the corner of his eye. And that eye did not, perhaps, see as keenly these days as it once had done.

And Monsieur Digoin, that terror with the lance, although mostly to his own side, whom they called on afterwards, saw things, sadly, even more narrowly. In fact, he confessed shame-facedly, he didn’t see much at all.

‘It is wrong, I know,’ he said, ‘but I do like riding. I have ridden all my life, you see, and it is hard to give up now. I keep at the back. Out of the m
ˆ
el
é
ee. I don’t think I do any harm. The horse takes care of me. We are two old-stagers, fellow travellers, and we know each other. I rely on Agamemnon to bring me back. When he has had enough, then so have I.’

Had Monsieur Digoin been aware of a rider joining late? Alas, he wasn’t aware of
any
other rider. He rode at the back, and his horse helped him from colliding with anyone else, but as for seeing them – well, Monsieur Digoin participated with enthusiasm but saw, as through a glass, darkly.

And Monsieur Leblanc, the over-mild Monsieur Leblanc? He was a sweetie and quite charming. But, alas, the French zeal for the chase, so extolled by Monsieur L’Espinasse, seemed to have gone quite missing in his case. He did, indeed, ride in a cloud, aware of little around him save the pleasant warmth of the sun, the whisper of the wind in his ears, the satisfying surge of the horse beneath him and, far off, the excited cries of the huntsmen.

‘As in
The Seasons
,’ he said.

The Seasons
?

‘Haydn’s piece, you know. I’ve always thought the music very evocative.'

Well, yes. Yes. No doubt. But had Monsieur Leblanc seen –?

Someone joining late? Surely they had all started at the same time? He was always careful, himself,
not
to be late, it was such a nuisance to everyone else – True, true, but possibly someone had unavoidably –?

Monsieur Leblanc, anxious to oblige, thought deep. And, yes, he thought he had been aware of someone coming up fast. Too fast. Going like the wind, that wind that whispered so soothingly in Monsieur Leblanc’s ears, the wind that blew the overtaking rider’s hair so straight behind him –

What?

Hair? Was Monsieur Leblanc saying that the rider was a woman?

Good heavens, no! It was just that as he had passed, Monsieur Leblanc had looked up, surprised, yes, surprised, he hadn’t expected someone to be coming up so fast behind him, and he had seen – well, he might not have seen correctly but this was what had struck him, the rider’s long hair flowing back behind him –

On reflection, yes, it was puzzling. He couldn’t think of anyone in the hunt with such long hair. He himself favoured short back and sides. And certainly the soldiers – well, they had their hair absolutely shaven! Maybe he’d got it wrong. It had all happened so quickly. The rider had come up from behind him, riding very fast. He hadn’t seen him coming and then, suddenly, there he was! Passing him. He had overtaken him ‘in a flash’ and disappeared into the distance. But he had noticed –

Or had he noticed? It had all happened so quickly.

Had he noticed anything else apart from this one, astonishing, feature? Something about the clothes, perhaps? Or the horse? The colour of the horse, say?

It had all happened so quickly! The rider had passed ‘as in a dream’.

As in a dream. Yes, knowing Monsieur Leblanc, Seymour could quite believe that!

The next morning when Seymour left the hotel there was no Mustapha and Idris outside waiting for him. In a way he was relieved, although he was also slightly disappointed. He had grown quite attached to them. But a bodyguard was hardly necessary. True, he had been glad of their aid when that pig had rushed out: but wild pigs were unlikely to be rushing out often, certainly not in the middle of Tangier, and he could see no other pressing need for defence. Their constant presence was, indeed, slightly embarrassing. How would it look to the people back at home if Macfarlane conveyed to them that two small-time crooks and drug dealers had lovingly attached themselves to their Man in Tangiers and devotedly followed him around wherever he went? So perhaps it was best –

But just at that moment Mustapha appeared round the corner.

‘I am sorry, Monsieur, but you have to wait here. Idris has business.'

‘Yes, well, I have business, too –’

‘Idris’s business,’ said Mustapha, ‘is your business.'

‘My business?'

But Mustapha would say no more. They had to wait until Idris either arrived or sent a message. Mustapha sat down in the shade of the wall. Seymour stood around uncertainly for a while and then sat down on the hotel steps. He wondered if he should go inside and find somewhere more comfortable and less conspicuous to sit. Then he wondered why he was waiting, anyway. This, he couldn’t help thinking, was another thing that wouldn’t look good if word got back to the Foreign Office or Scotland Yard; their man hanging around at the behest of a couple of drug dealers!

Chantale came out of the door, saw him, raised an eyebrow, smiled (was it pityingly?) and then went back inside. To write, no doubt. But what was she writing? Her bloody gossip column, probably. Another, alarming, thought struck him. Might he not be about to figure in it? He would imagine all sorts of barbed comments about people out from London. And, meanwhile, ought he not to be getting on with –?

At that point a small boy appeared. He went up to Mustapha and whispered in his ear. Mustapha stood up.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘we’ve got him!'

Exactly who had they got, wondered Seymour with misgiving? And what, in their world, did they mean by ‘got’?

He would see, said Mustapha confidently, and they set off across the city with the small boy.

He led them to a large yard out of which carts were rumbling. A man was sitting glumly in the dust and Idris was standing over him ostentatiously fingering the dagger at his belt.

A man came out of the stables.

‘Idris, I do this for you because you are my friend. But a cart has to be driven and –’

Idris held up a hand.

‘It will be driven. Wait but a moment. My friends will be here and then – and here they are!'

‘Don’t worry, Mohammed!’ said Mustapha soothingly to the man who had come out of the stables. ‘This will not be forgotten.'

‘I shall be out of a job,’ said the man sitting on the ground. ‘And that won’t be forgotten, either.'

‘Ten minutes, no more!’ warned the man who had come out of the stables. ‘No more!'

He went back inside.

‘So, Fazal . . .’ began Mustapha.

Fazal, it turned out, was the man Mustapha and Idris had spoken to at the pig-sticking, the man from whom they had got most of their information on that occasion. Dutifully, they secured his name and where he lived. And then, even more surprisingly, they had followed this up by calling on him to ‘invite’ him to come and meet their friend, who, they knew, was anxious to talk to him.

But when they had got to the block where he had said he lived they had been unable to find him. Yes, people in the block assured them, he certainly lived there but no one seemed to have seen him lately. Further inquiries led to a lady who claimed to be his wife. Yes, she said, he hadn’t been around lately. He was a carter who worked irregular hours.

When might they catch him in?

Alas . . .

Does he not eat, inquired Mustapha, mindful, perhaps, that he was forgoing his own evening meal; and reckoning that after a day such as the carter worked, and after abstaining from food since daylight, one thing he would certainly not be missing was his evening Ramadan meal.

Well, of course . . .

Then they would see him then.

But when they had come again he was nowhere in sight. Nor was there much evidence of the preparation of a Ramadan meal.

You are mucking us about, said Mustapha severely.

No, no, no, no. That was the last thing she would do. It was just that . . . well, she had sensed, deep in her heart – she and Fazal were very close, she knew exactly what he would be thinking – and she had suddenly – belatedly, alas – realized that he would not be coming home that night.

Where would he be spending the night, then?

Alas, their closeness did not extend so far . . .

Mustapha, who did not believe a word of it, was all for cutting her throat. But Idris had had a flash of inspiration.

Could it be, he had asked sternly, that the pair were not actually married? And that Fazal had gone, as all right-thinking men should do, home to his real wife for the Ramadan evening meal?

The lady, flustered, agreed after a while that there could be something in what Idris had said.

So, Mustapha has asked, with rising impatience, where did Fazal and his true wife live?

Alas . . .

Mustapha had taken out his knife at this point, the lady had shrieked, the block had been aroused, people came swarming, and Mustapha and Idris had been obliged to beat a retreat.

Mustapha had been inclined to abandon their efforts: but Idris had suddenly had another flash of inspiration. He had remembered that the lady had let slip that Fazal was a carter. With a zeal for the chase which threatened to rival even that of the French, he had made a tour of all the carting establishments in the vicinity. Seymour, who realized what the effort must have cost him after the lateness of the day and his fasting, felt a moment’s contrition after his earlier ruminations. Prize bloodhounds Mustapha and Idris might not be but once they got on the trail they stuck to it. And in the end Idris had got his man.

‘So, Fazal . . .’ said Mustapha.

‘I knew it meant trouble,’ said the carter resignedly, ‘when I heard that you were trying to find me.'

‘Why did you make it difficult for us, then?’ demanded Mustapha.

‘Someone told me who you were,’ said Fazal.

‘Who we were?'

‘That you were in the Business. No offence!’ he added hurriedly. ‘It was just that he thought it would be a good idea if I stayed away from you.'

‘Well, that’s not very friendly.'

‘I would have been all right,’ said the carter gloomily, ‘if it had not been for Fatima.'

‘Well, now we’ve found you,’ said Mustapha, ‘and it’s not all right!'

‘Ten minutes!’ shouted the man who had gone back into the carter’s. ‘That’s all! Then he’s back on the carts!'

‘Start talking!’ ordered Mustapha.

The first part of Fazal’s story Seymour already knew. He and a friend had been following the hunt and had seen Bossu ride off away from the others into the scrub. Fazal, who was evidently a keen student of form, and who had seen Bossu riding on previous occasions, had not wanted to follow him but his friend had persuaded him.

But then –

‘Suddenly he wasn’t there! “He’s come off,” I said to my friend. “I knew he was a dead loss. Let’s get back to the others.” “Perhaps he’s broken his neck?” my friend said. “That would be worth seeing! Let’s have a look.” So we ran –’

‘Just stop there for a moment,’ said Seymour. ‘You ran over. At once?'

‘Yes. We guessed he’d come off and –’

‘You got there pretty quickly?'

‘Oh, we weren’t slow.'

‘And what did you see?'

‘Him. With the lance sticking in him. And as soon as I saw that, I said, “Let’s get out of here!” But my friend wanted to have a look. Close up. So –’

‘Hold on. Back to the moment you first saw him. With the lance sticking in. What else did you see?'

‘Well, there was nothing else. Just the bushes. And the sand. And the lance.'

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