A Dead Man in Tangier (12 page)

‘It’s a newspaper office!’ protested Sadiq indignantly.

‘Oh, yes!'

They walked on a little way in silence. Then – ‘What’s your newspaper like, then?’ asked Idris.

‘It’s sort of . . . political.'

‘Political!'

‘Then he
has
been taking you to the wrong sort of place!’ said Idris. ‘You want to keep away from anything like that.'

‘Have you no shame?’ cried Sadiq, touched nearly and aroused despite himself. ‘Keep away from politics? At a time like this!'

‘What’s this about the time?'

‘When the French have imposed a Protectorate on us?’

‘What’s that?'

‘Protectorate. You know about the Protectorate. Don’t you?'

‘I think I’ve heard something,’ said Mustapha vaguely.

‘They’re taking over Morocco!'

‘The French?'

‘Yes.'

‘I thought they
had
taken over Morocco?’

‘Look, it’ll make no difference to us,’ said Idris.

‘Oh, yes, it will. There’ll be soldiers everywhere.'

‘There are now,’ said Mustapha.

‘There’ll be more!’ promised Sadiq. ‘And police.'

‘Police?'

‘Real police. French police!'

‘That could be a problem,’ admitted Mustapha.

‘Naow,’ said Idris. ‘Just offer them more.'

‘You don’t understand!’ cried Sadiq. ‘It will be different. The French will be running everything. Everything!'

‘Good luck to them.'

‘They’ll be in control!'

‘Not a chance!’ said Idris dismissively.

‘We’ll be all right,’ said Mustapha.

‘Is that all you think of?’ said Sadiq hotly. ‘Have you no pride? Have you no thought for Morocco?'

‘Morocco?'

‘You’re a Moroccan, aren’t you?'

‘Not me,’ said Mustapha. ‘I’m from the Rif.'

‘But that
is
–’

‘And I’m a Berber,’ said Idris.

‘We’re
all
Moroccans!’ cried Sadiq desperately. ‘And we must stand together and fight the French.’

‘Fight the . . .?'

‘French, yes.'

‘Soldiers?'

‘If necessary.'

‘He’s mad!’ said Mustapha.

There was a silence. Then – ‘Is that what this newspaper of yours is all about?'

‘Well, yes.'

‘Stand up against the French? And get your heads blown off? Thank you very much!'

‘If we don’t fight now, we’ll never –’

‘Listen, laddie: do you know what fighting
is
?’

‘Well –’

‘Me,’ said Idris virtuously, ‘I don’t want to fight anybody. I just want to get on with my work.'

‘Well, of course, everyone – But . . . What is your work?'

‘Well, we do a bit in kif –’

‘Kif!'

‘Yes. Run the occasional load. Spread it around. That sort of thing.'

Sadiq was silenced for a moment. Then, as they walked on, he whispered to Seymour:

‘These are not good people, Mr Seymour. I feel I should tell you.'

They were going through a particularly squalid part of the city, a warren of narrow little twisting streets, and for the first time Seymour was glad that he had Mustapha and Idris with him. They closed in on him so that they stood touching shoulder to shoulder. Sadiq was plainly uneasy and pressed in on them too.

It soon became apparent, however, that his uneasiness was prompted by a different cause than theirs. The houses in this part of the city were old and decaying. Their walls were crumbling and scarred as if attacked by leprosy and they had no windows. They had doors, however, and in the doorways people were standing. More precisely, and this was the source of Sadiq’s discomfort, women were standing.

These, too, were not ‘good people’. They moved forward as the three men passed and muttered something presumably inviting but from which Sadiq shrank back. He kept his eyes fixed straight before him as if a look or a touch or even a listen was polluting.

From behind the women in the open doorways came the fumes of cooking fat. Even here, thought Seymour, they were preparing the end-of-fast Ramadan meal. The smell of the burning fat blended with the strong smell of excrement which assailed him whenever they went past one of the putrid alleyways, strewn with refuse and rotting vegetables, which went off the street at irregular intervals.

Yet you could get it wrong. Sometimes when you looked up the alleyway you caught a glimpse of a beautiful old façade, a piece of exquisite wood carving, or even a tiny, perfect Moorish patio with delicate balconies and colonnades.

Some of the doorways had quaint inscriptions painted above them. Several of them, for instance, had printed the words: ‘
Maison honnˆete
’, a decent house. Strange, that people should so feel the need to proclaim their virtue. And in French, too!

They were going through a warren of particularly filthy, dark, narrow, twisting streets when suddenly, high above them, something flashed. He looked up and saw to his surprise the glinting, coloured tiles of the minaret of a mosque catching the sun and realized that they were just behind the Kasbah.

Sadiq saw his surprise and misinterpreted it.

‘It is wrong,’ he said indignantly, ‘that such people should be allowed to be so near the Kasbah! We have complained about it but nothing has been done. We went to the Pr
é
efet again only last week demanding that those dreadful women be removed. Perhaps they should be put in a reserved quarter near the barracks, not near a holy place. But every day another house is turned over to one of those places where they work. It is disgraceful! Think how it must be for the children, and how humiliating it is for decent people to have such neighbours.’

And now Seymour understood the significance of the inscriptions he had seen above the doors: ‘
Maison honnˆete
’, a valiant attempt by the ‘decent people’ to distinguish themselves from their indecent neighbours!

The puritanical Sadiq compressed his lips and walked on, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead.

He brought Seymour dutifully back to the spot from which they had set out and then hung around for a moment.

‘I hope you found Benchennouf interesting,’ he said awkwardly.

‘Oh, I did. Thank you for taking me.'

‘He’s not – not to everyone’s liking. But he’s different, don’t you think? He stands out against opinion. We need people like him in Morocco today.'

‘Indeed, yes. Perhaps, yes.'

‘I count myself fortunate to be among his friends. And he’s given me my chance, you know. A start. As a journalist.'

‘I wish you every success.'

‘Some say that
New Dawn
is nothing much –’ he looked daggers at Mustapha and Idris – ‘but I think it is a good place to be. It is not like the other newspapers. They’re all prisoners, prisoners of the French.
New Dawn
stands out against them. Against the French, and against the Sultan. And for Morocco. My father thinks that
New Dawn
is just a joke. But he doesn’t understand. We need papers like that if Morocco is to survive. And journalists like Benchennouf. I hope to be one,’ he confided.

‘A small newspaper is a good place to learn the ropes,’ said Seymour.

‘Yes, it is. I think so. That’s just what I said to my father. And what is so good, what is so useful, is that Ben-chennouf brings wider perspectives. He worked on a paper in France, you know. After he had finished at university. He went to a university in France, you know. A lot of people who do that don’t come back here. But he did, and all credit to him. I’ve thought about going to a university in France. To do something post-graduate. But if I did, I would come back here afterwards. Morocco must not be abandoned.'

‘No, indeed.'

Sadiq seemed pleased by Seymour’s encouragement.

‘That’s what Benchennouf always says. “Morocco must not be abandoned.” Awad sometimes talks about going abroad but Benchennouf says he shouldn’t. “Your place is here,” he says. And he’s got a right to say that because he came back himself.

‘“If you’re here,” he says, “you can respond at once when you’re needed.” As he was in Casablanca. That was an awful time. The French were all screaming at us. Only Benchennouf stood up against them. I used to read every number of his paper as soon as it came out. I was at school at the time. And when they arrested the man who was selling
New Dawn
just outside the school, I took over. I was so angry, so angry at what they were doing, that I wanted to do something. And did until Benchennouf was chased out.'

‘Tell me about Casablanca at the time.'

‘It was horrible. They weren’t just beating people, they were shooting them! I saw two people once and they were dead! They had called the army in and they were
shooting
. And no one said anything! Apart from Benchennouf.'

‘And Chantale’s father, I gather.'

‘Captain de Lissac. Oh, he was wonderful. I so admired him! In fact, for a time I hero-worshipped him. We all did, at school. We thought he was so brave. To stand up like that! Even though he was a Frenchman and a soldier. But then they hounded him out, too.'

‘Well, I can understand that,’ said Seymour. ‘He was, after all, a soldier and soldiers have to do what they’re told. Or else you don’t have an army.'

‘Yes, but you can’t just do what you’re told. Sometimes you have to go by, well, bigger things. Well, I think that, anyway,’ he said, suddenly overcome by embarrassment.

‘I think it does you credit,’ said Seymour.

‘Thank you. Well, thank you . . .'

Sadiq lapsed into tongue-tied silence.

But then he burst out again.

‘But what I can’t see is why they had to be so nasty to him. You ought to be able to disagree without being nasty. But they couldn’t. And it went on and on. They couldn’t leave him alone. Even after he had stopped speaking out. “Come on,” some people said. “That’s enough!” And the army began to say that, too. At least, that’s what people said. People began to say that there must be something more in it, something personal. Something personal between de Lissac and Bossu.'

‘Why did Bossu come into it?'

‘Well, he had been organizing things on the company side. I don’t really understand that bit, you’d have to ask Benchennouf. But I suppose that brought them up against each other and maybe that was enough. But it seemed to go further than that. There was a sort of campaign against Captain de Lissac, and people said that Bossu was organizing it. We tried to organize a counter-campaign, but, of course, we were just schoolboys . . .

‘The headmaster spoke to our parents, and my father said it had to stop. I didn’t want to but my mother said it would only make things worse for Captain de Lissac.

‘It was a terrible time in our household, too. My mother was strongly in favour of Captain de Lissac. All Moroccans were. But, of course, my father worked for Bossu! Our friends, neighbours, stopped speaking to us. I realize now that it was very hard for my father. I suppose that, deep down, he admired Captain de Lissac as much as anybody. But he couldn’t say anything, he had to remain loyal to Bossu. Or, at least, quiet. And I don’t suppose I made things any easier for him.

‘But it wasn’t just Moroccans who objected to this campaign against him. A lot of the French did, too. This is going too far, they said. That’s when people began to mutter that there must be something personal in it. “There’s more in this than meets the eye,” they said. Because Bossu seemed almost demented. People said that it was because Bossu liked to have his own way and the Captain had tried to put a spoke in his wheel. But others said no, that there was bad blood between the two, that there was a history of this.

‘Well, I don’t know about that. All I know is that I thought the Captain was a hero. And Benchennouf, too. He was willing to stand up for Morocco. Unlike some,’ said Sadiq with a baleful glance at Mustapha and Idris.

Chapter Eleven

‘Well!’ said Monique. ‘This
is
a surprise! A pleasant surprise, I must add. But, nevertheless, a surprise. I took it for granted that you, like everyone else, were putting me up on the shelf. Where, to be fair, I probably belong.’

‘I couldn’t resist taking you down again.'

‘Thanks! I was just getting used to independence. But independence is a strange thing, isn’t it? All my life I’ve pursued independence, it was the first thing I wanted, to get away from my parents. Then I wanted to be a woman on her own, a real free spirit. Then I wanted to get away from a man because, tied up with him, there was no independence. Every decision I’ve made I’ve tried to go for independence. And where do I finish up? Less free than half the boring married women of Tangier!'

Seymour laughed.

‘It’s coming,’ he said. ‘It’s coming. I can feel it.'

‘Oh, good. Would you like a drink? Come out on to the balcony. Then we can talk. That is what you’ve come for, I presume. It’s not for my worn face and jaded eyes.'

‘You’re quite right. It is what I have come for. And I’d like a whisky, please. And, actually, it is your worn face and jaded eyes that have brought me here. Because they speak of experience, a woman’s experience, and that’s just what I need.'

‘Good gracious! Your plight must be desperate indeed. I’ll bring the whisky quickly.'

She brought the whisky, two glasses, and sat down beside him. The sun had moved round her little balcony so that they were unable to sit in the shade but it was already losing its heat. Out in the bay the glitter had gone off the sea.

‘Now tell me,’ she said, ‘because I’m all agog to know what, in this country of men, leads you to think that a woman could have anything valuable to contribute.'

‘Almost everyone I’ve talked to,’ said Seymour, ‘has taken it for granted that Bossu’s death was tied up with politics. That it had nothing to do with his personal history. Now why is that?'

‘Morocco is a very political country. Especially just at the moment.'

‘Sure. I can see that. And the temptation is to say, since he was so much bound up with these politics, that he died because of it. But might it not be something more personal?'

‘Like what?'

‘Love.'

‘Jesus! The things you say! Love? What’s that? Tell me about it.'

‘Bossu had a complicated love life.'

‘Not very. I was in a separate compartment. In all senses. And his wife was a simple soul.'

‘Maybe. But I’ve heard the officers. They were all after her. And I’ll bet there were others.'

‘She liked it like that.'

‘I’m sure.'

‘She had a thing about officers. It used to drive Bossu mad.'

‘In general? Or was there one in particular?'

‘Not that I know of. The point is, though, that they were admirers not lovers – Juliette is a great tease.'

‘Perhaps there
was
a note of disillusion in what they said.’

‘She liked to lead them on and have them panting. And then withdraw.'

‘How unsatisfactory! You don’t think, then, that in the tangled tease life there was an affair so serious as to . . .?'

‘I don’t think there was anything serious in Juliette’s life, love or otherwise. Perhaps money. Oh, and certainly vanity. But perhaps you shouldn’t ask me. Is a spurned mistress an objective source of information?'

‘Were you spurned?'

‘Not really. Except that he didn’t marry me.'

‘She sees you as a rival.'

‘And I, her.'

‘That, actually, is why I’ve come to you. You are likely to know anything to her discredit. And more than likely to be willing to tell me about it.'

Monique laughed.

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she admitted. ‘But, even with all these advantages as a source of information, I am going to disappoint you. I know of no private affair which might have had a bearing on Bossu’s death. If that is what you are asking.'

‘No one, you see, has ever mentioned that as a possibility.'

‘That, in a place like Tangier, is telling. But if you have doubts, why don’t you ask Renaud? This, at least, is one part of the investigation which he will have researched thoroughly.'

She went away for a moment to refill their glasses and Seymour sat thinking.

‘All right, then,’ he said, when she came back. ‘Let me try another thing on you. It is about Bossu himself. You told me, when I talked to you before, about Casablanca, and I realize now how important that was in the recent history of Morocco. And how important it was to Bossu.

But there was another person to whom it was important too: Chantale’s father, Captain de Lissac. And between the two there was considerable animosity.'

‘No,’ said Monique.

‘No?'

‘On Bossu’s part, yes, perhaps. But on de Lissac’s part, no. I think initially he might not even have been aware of Bossu’s existence.'

‘You surprise me.'

‘Bossu always stayed in the background. He was active, yes, but behind the scenes. I think it quite likely that it was only afterwards that the Captain realized who he had been up against. Remember, he had never been to Casablanca before. He knew nothing about Casablanca people or politics, and probably didn’t want to. He was a soldier, and he saw things in clear-cut terms, right or wrong. To him it was a moral issue and not a political one. It was never as complicated as politics.'

‘And so he went straight ahead?'

‘That’s right.'

‘And crossed Bossu. And didn’t even know he had done it. Is that what you are telling me?'

‘Yes. I think so.'

‘Why, then, the animosity? Because from what I have been told there was animosity, and a lot of it.'

‘Yes, there was animosity. Bossu hated him. I don’t know why. It surprised me at the time. Why all this venom, I asked him? Because I quite liked de Lissac. He seemed a decent man. But Bossu nearly bit my head off. He shouted at me – something he did very rarely – and told me I didn’t understand these things, that I didn’t know anything about it. So after that I shut up. But I was surprised, yes, at the intensity of his feelings. I thought it was perhaps because he had slipped up and was angry with himself. But, yes, it was more than that.'

‘I wondered, you see, if there was some past history.'

‘Not that I know of. But there could have been. Look, why don’t you ask old Ricard. You know Ricard? He’s a –’

‘Yes, I know him.'

‘Well, he’s an old gossip but he’s been around a long time and there’s little about Tangier that he doesn’t know. Why don’t you have a word with him?'

But first there was something else he had to do. He tried the barracks but they told him that de Grassac, along with most of the officers, was out training. Seymour was impressed by this but then learned that what the training was was for the pig-sticking that Saturday. So he went over to the Tent.

The soldiers had just got back from their training and were seeing to their horses. Most of them were watching a long line of horses that were going past the Tent, escorted by some of Musa’s white-gowned riders and by Musa himself.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ said Millet, who was standing beside Seymour. ‘I will say this for Musa, he breeds some of the best.'

‘They’re mounts for the army, are they?'

‘I wish they were. But I don’t think so.'

Instead of entering the roped-off enclosure at the back of the Tent, the horses went on past and stopped at a point some distance away.

‘They’re for someone else,’ said Millet. He laughed. ‘Who is probably paying more.'

Several of the officers had left their horses to study them. One of the officers strode across to Musa.

‘Who are those for, Sheikh Musa? I don’t suppose we could persuade you to think of the army?'

‘I’m delivering some to you tomorrow.'

‘They won’t be as good as these, though, will they?'

Musa looked the horses over.

‘These
are
good,’ he said with pride.

‘A special price, too, I’ll bet!’ said someone.

‘Sheikh Musa, I’d pay a special price. I’d be prepared to go over the odds for one of these. Privately, never mind the army.'

Sheikh Musa patted him on the arm.

‘I’ll look one out for you. Next week, when I’m over. But these are all bespoke.'

He patted the officer again.

‘You’ve got an eye for a horse, Vibert, I know that,’ he said. ‘I’ll look one out for you.'

‘Where are they going?’ asked Seymour.

‘Down south, probably,’ said Millet. ‘Moulay would give his right arm for some of these.'

Sheikh Musa overheard and turned on him fiercely.

‘They’re
not
going to Moulay!’ he said furiously.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, Sheikh Musa!’ said Millet hastily.

‘You only give a good horse to a good man!’ said Musa severely.

‘Right!’ said Millet. ‘I’m with you all the way on that. You know that.'

‘Well, I suppose I do,’ said Musa. ‘I just don’t like it to be thought –’

‘We don’t!’ said Millet quickly. ‘We really don’t. When I said south, I wasn’t thinking of Moulay.’ He turned to Seymour, anxious to deflect Musa’s wrath. ‘You’ve heard about Moulay, have you?'

‘The Sultan’s half-brother?'

‘By a slave girl!’ grunted Musa. ‘Not by a wife. And it shows.'

‘Causing trouble, I hear.'

‘It’s not the trouble he’s causing now,’ said Millet. ‘The army can contain that. It’s the trouble he might cause in the future. Isn’t that right, Sheikh Musa?'

‘If the French have their way.'

‘Oh, come, Sheikh Musa! I don’t think they like him any more than we do.'

‘Then why are they cosying up to him?'

‘But are they?'

‘Yes,’ said Musa shortly. ‘They are.'

‘Ah, well,’ said Millet, backing off hastily. ‘I wouldn’t know about that.'

‘The mistake they’re making,’ said Musa, ‘is changing the man they’re backing. They ought to stick with the one they’ve got. He’s no good, I agree, but you can’t be changing all the time. There’s got to be some consistency somewhere.'

‘You don’t supply mounts to caravans going down south, Sheikh Musa, do you?’ asked Seymour.

‘I used to. But not since Moulay got down there. Why do you ask?'

Seymour decided to risk it.

‘I’m still on Bossu,’ he said. ‘And I think Bossu made several trips to the south. Taking money. For which he would need mounts.'

‘Camels,’ said Sheikh Musa. ‘Not horses.'

‘He would have needed a bodyguard, too.'

He found Sheikh Musa studying him.

‘Taking money,’ said Sheikh Musa, ‘to Moulay. Is that right?'

‘I suspect so.'

‘Well, not on my horses.’ He was quiet for a moment or two. Then he said: ‘You’ve found that out, have you?'

‘I think so. I’m trying to confirm it.'

‘You don’t need to confirm it,’ said Sheikh Musa. ‘I’m telling you.'

‘If you say so, Sheikh Musa,’ said Seymour, ‘that has weight for me.'

Musa continued to study him, then grunted.

‘I would have tried to see he didn’t get horses,’ he said. ‘Or camels, for that matter. But there are too many people in the game. Everyone’s running things down south. He would have got them somehow or other. The only way to stop someone like Bossu is the way someone did stop him.'

He laughed.

‘You’re still looking for the person who did it, are you? Well, don’t look too hard. Whoever did it, did a good job.'

Among Musa’s white-gowned men was the tall Arab, Ahmet, whom he had seen convoying horses through the middle of Tangier with Millet. He went across to him.

‘Are you going to be busy again on Saturday, Ahmet?'

There was a flash of white teeth.

‘As always when there is a pig-sticking.'

‘First, the pigs, and then the hunt. Is that right?'

‘That’s right,’ Ahmet agreed.

‘When you ride beside the hunt, keeping an eye open for those who fall, is there somebody doing the same on the other side of the hunt?'

‘Oh, yes. For sometimes a horse or a pig can run off in that direction.'

‘When the Frenchman came off, you were riding on the north side of the hunt, is that not so?'

‘That is so.'

‘Do you remember who were the outriders on the south side on that occasion?'

‘I do. Ibrahim and Riyad.'

‘Are they here?'

Ahmet looked around.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Will they be here at the pig-sticking on Saturday?'

‘Oh, yes. They are good men. I like to use them.'

‘I will speak to them then.'

De Grassac came out of the Tent.

‘Good practice?'

‘Yes, thank you.’ De Grassac looked around. ‘Just the day for it,’ he said. ‘Fresh. Not much wind.'

‘That makes a difference, does it?'

‘Blows the sand up into your eyes. That doesn’t matter much. But sometimes it affects the horses.'

‘Do you think I could have a look at your lance?'

De Grassac looked surprised but passed it to him.

‘Can you tell one lance from another?'

‘They’re all pretty much the same. Some are heavier.'

‘I remember you said that you’d got the lance that was used to kill Bossu?'

‘Yes,’ said de Grassac. ‘That’s right.'

‘Have you still got it?'

‘Yes. Of course. I’m keeping it in case anyone wants to look at it. Renaud, for instance, although so far he hasn’t bothered. But I don’t think it will help the investigation much. One lance is very like another. But if you would like to see it, why don’t you come up to the barracks? Tomorrow morning, say?'

‘Monsieur Seymour!'

‘
Cher coll`egue!
’

‘Again you find me here!'

‘And what better place to find you?’ said Seymour. ‘A Pernod, perhaps?'

Several Pernods later:

‘And so, Monsieur Renaud, I come to you. Puzzled.'

‘Puzzled?'

‘If this had happened in England, that would have been the first thing I thought. A pretty woman, admirers, a husband in the way. The husband gets removed. Wrong, no doubt. But surprising? Not at all. What could be more natural?'

‘Ah, yes, Monsieur, but –’

‘A pretty woman, yes?'

‘Oh, yes!’ said Renaud fervently.

‘Admirers?'