A Dead Man in Tangier (3 page)

He piloted Seymour over to a corner where the soldiers were standing around a small table on which there were several bottles of wine.

‘A friend!’ he cried. ‘From England.'

‘From England? Welcome, Monsieur!'

Someone handed him a glass.

‘Monsieur Seymour. From Scotland Yard,’ said Renaud proudly.

‘Scotland . . .?'

‘
Yard
,’ said the Chief of Police with emphasis. ‘It is the quarters of the English police.’

‘Headquarters?'

The soldiers were impressed.

But then, recovering, not too impressed.

‘But why, Monsieur, have you come out to this dump?'

‘He is investigating the death of Bossu.'

‘Bossu? Bossu!’ – incredulously. ‘But why?'

‘Why, indeed? said Seymour swiftly. ‘When the investigation is already in the capable hands of Monsieur Renaud!'

‘Ah, Monsieur . . .’ said Renaud, self-deprecatingly.

‘But these things are decided higher up,’ said Seymour, ‘and not always for reasons which are comprehensible.'

‘You can say that again!'

There were general nods.

‘Yes, but – Bossu, though!'

One of the officers laid his finger along his nose.

‘It’s politics.'

‘Ah, politics.'

Shrugs all round.

‘Even so – Bossu! Must have been more important than I thought.'

‘How have you been getting on, Renaud?'

‘With the investigation? Oh, well. Well.'

‘Found out anything yet?’ said someone maliciously.

‘My inquiries are proceeding,’ said the Chief of Police loftily.

‘But are they getting anywhere?'

Renaud ignored this.

‘I am putting up posters,’ he said.

‘That really should make a difference!'

‘Offering a reward. A big one.'

‘Who’s paying for it?’ asked someone sceptically.

‘The community generally. Business leaders.'

‘They would,’ someone muttered.

‘And settlers. I’ve had offers from the farmers.'

‘Phew! He must be important, if they’re willing to part with a few of
their
francs.’

‘Monsieur Bossu was a deeply respected member of the business community of Tangier,’ Renaud said, turning to Seymour. ‘And of Tangier.'

‘Fiddles everywhere,’ muttered someone.

‘You may scoff,’ said the Chief of Police, turning on him, ‘but when you’ve been in the country as long as I have –’

There was a general jeer. Evidently it was a favourite phrase of his.

‘How is Juliette, Renaud?’ asked someone, when it had died down.

‘She’s all right. In a state of shock, of course. But getting over it.'

‘I’ll bet. Getting over it pretty quickly, I expect.'

‘A poor woman!’ said Renaud reprovingly. ‘Alone. In a foreign country.'

‘Well, I don’t expect she’ll be alone for long,’ said someone. ‘Going over to comfort her, are you, Renaud?'

‘I
was
thinking of going over there, as a matter of fact.’

‘Give her my love!'

‘And mine!'

‘And mine!'

‘This is Madame Bossu you’re talking about?’ asked Seymour.

‘That’s right.'

‘I would like to meet her.'

‘Who wouldn’t?'

The Consul was talking to two grey-haired men. He beckoned Seymour over.

‘You might like to have a word with Monsieur Meunier,’ he said. ‘He’s our doctor. He saw Bossu when he was brought in.'

‘Millet’s a doctor, too,’ said Monsieur Meunier, ‘and a more important one.'

‘Ah, no!’ protested the other man, laughing.

‘He sees to the horses. I only see to the men. Horses are more important. They cost more.'

‘Are there many injuries?’ asked Seymour.

‘Many, but minor. Cuts, bruises. The occasional collar bone. Dislocated shoulders.'

‘I’ve just been over there,’ said Seymour. ‘I’m not surprised that people come off.'

‘They come off less than you might think,’ said Millet. ‘Most of them are pretty experienced. And the horses are experienced too.'

‘Was Bossu experienced?’ asked Seymour.

‘Bossu experienced?’ Meunier frowned. ‘Well, was he?’ he said, turning to Millet.

‘He rode a lot. He came over here regularly when the season was on.'

‘Ah, but that was only to impress Monique.'

‘Monique?'

‘His
petite amie
. Little friend. Little
feminine
friend. I didn’t get the feeling, though, that he enjoyed
la chasse
very much.’

‘He always pulled out early.'

‘I think that may have been why he went after that pig. So early, I mean. There was no need to. The main hunt was on ahead. But I think he suddenly saw a chance to stick a pig and then stop.'

‘And get back to the Tent for a drink,’ said Meunier.

‘And to Monique.'

‘Well, that wasn’t stupid!’ They both laughed.

‘So he went off after the pig?’ said Seymour.

‘Yes. It darted off at a tangent and he went after it.'

‘What happened after that? Did anyone see?'

‘No, they were all rushing on. But they said they’d seen him making off to the left.'

‘The ground is very uneven there,’ said Seymour. ‘Do you think he could have come off?'

‘He could, I suppose. He wasn’t that good a horseman.'

‘You saw him when he was brought in, I gather: was there anything that might suggest a fall?'

‘Cuts, bruising, you mean? Well, yes. But then he would have had to have fallen at some point, wouldn’t he? If he was on a horse.'

‘Well, that’s the question, actually. Was he on a horse when he was stabbed? De Grassac thinks he was on the ground. The lance, you see, was pinning him.'

‘It passed right through,’ said Meunier. ‘There were entry and exit wounds.'

‘Monsieur Millet, I turn to you. The horse. You see to any horses which have been injured, if I remember. I wondered if you had seen Monsieur Bossu’s horse when it was brought in? It
was
brought in, I presume?’

‘Oh, yes. Some time later. One of Musa’s men recognized it.'

‘Did you get a chance to take a look at it?'

‘Yes.'

‘And were there any signs of injury?'

‘Not really. No indication of a hobble, which there might have been if it had put a foot wrong, for instance. Easy to on that ground and that might have brought Bossu off. But there was no suggestion of that. Just –’

‘Just!'

‘Prickles. Thorns. Well, there are always plenty of those, of course, especially after they’ve been going through this kind of scrub. But I remember noticing that there were an unusual quantity of thorns in Bossu’s horse. Now, of course, if it had panicked and been crashing around in the bushes that would explain it. But I remember noticing that most of them were in the horse’s flanks, which made me think that it might have backed into a thorn bush, if, say, it had been startled by something in front of it . . . Well, that’s all I can offer, I’m afraid.'

Monsieur Meunier had been toying with his glass.

‘Did you say that de Grassac thought Bossu had been stabbed while he was lying on the ground?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, that’s not very nice, is it? I mean, I never had much time for Bossu, but that makes it sound as if he was stuck like a pig.'

‘That’s not the only thing,’ said Millet. ‘It makes it sound as it he was stuck by, well, one of
us
.’

It was agreed that Renaud would take Seymour with him. Seymour had not wanted to cramp his style, but Renaud seemed quite happy with the arrangement.

‘Juliette will be glad to see you,’ he assured him. ‘It will satisfy her that everything that can be done is being done.'

They set off in one of the soiled, tatty cabs, which Seymour had assumed were mainly used for the transporting of flies. There were several waiting optimistically outside the marquee. Optimistically, but not urgently. They seemed relaxed about time in Tangier.

‘It will wait for us while we’re talking to Juliette,’ the Chief of Police said. ‘Or perhaps’ – having second thoughts – ‘for you if Juliette wants me to stay.'

Seymour thought that quite likely.

The cab took them back the way they had come and then turned up the slope to the rows of bougainvillea villas. It came to a stop outside one of the larger ones, where a woman was on the verandah watering some plants.

‘Constant!'

‘Juliette!'

‘And you have brought a friend with you!'

‘Monsieur Seymour. From London. He has come out here –’

‘To assist Monsieur Renaud,’ said Seymour swiftly.

‘– in the matter of Bossu.'

‘Ah!'

Madame Bossu stepped off the verandah into the sunlight and he saw at once what the officers had meant. If that was your type. Blonde, peaches-and-cream complexion, full, pouting lips.

‘Then I wish you every success, Monsieur, in all your ventures here.'

Spoken in a low, husky voice and giving a hint, surely, that the ventures might not be restricted to
l
’
affaire Bossu
.

‘I am so sorry, Madame, to hear about your misfortune.

’ ‘I loved him,’ she said tragically. ‘And now he is gone. And I am left desolate.'

‘But not alone, Juliette,’ said Monsieur Renaud.

‘Not alone,’ agreed Juliette, permitting herself a tender smile, ‘when I have friends like you.'

‘At your service,’ said Renaud fervently. ‘Always!'

‘Constant is a great support to me,’ she said to Seymour, ‘and at a time like this one needs support. There are so many things to sort out. Wills, banks –’

‘Insurance,’ murmured the Chief of Police.

‘And how is the insurance coming along?'

‘We’re getting there. It takes time. All these things are a little more complicated than you think.'

‘Everything Bossu did was complicated,’ sighed Madame Bossu.

‘He had so many interests! The business ones especially will take some time to sort out.'

‘I know. And all over the country, too! Casablanca, Marrakesh. Fez, Rabat –’

‘And complicated! You wouldn’t believe how complicated they are, Juliette.'

‘But you will sort them out,’ said Madame Bossu con-fidently. ‘I know I can rely on you, Constant. Above all other men.'

‘You can, Juliette, you can. But it all takes time. You must be patient, Juliette. And keep your spirits up. You are too much alone. You need company, Juliette, someone to take you out of yourself.'

‘I have good, kind friends,’ said Juliette, sighing.

‘You have, Juliette. But they may not be enough. There will be times when you are alone at night –’

‘I hope you are not going to suggest anything improper, Constant!'

‘At a time like this? Oh, Juliette, how could you think that! I was thinking of you. Alone in that big house. Thinking sad thoughts. You need someone there when your friends are not there. Someone to stay with you and cheer you up –’

‘Constant, you
are
being improper!’

‘Not at all! I protest, not at all! I was thinking’ – casting around – ‘of a woman.'

‘A woman!’ said Juliette coldly.

‘As a companion for you. At this distressing time.'

‘I hope you were not thinking of Monique.'

‘The last person I would think of!'

‘That bitch!'

‘Come, now, Juliette. Be generous. She shares your loss.

’ ‘She wants to share the money. He’s not left her anything, has he? That apartment –’

‘It does belong to her, Juliette. It is registered in her name.'

‘But it belongs to me! It was bought with Bossu’s money. My money!'

‘But it’s in her name, Juliette. That’s the problem.'

‘Well, you’ll just have to do something about it. Get it off her. You’re looking after my interests, Constant.
My
interests. Not hers. Unless – Oh, Constant! You’re not betraying me with that bitch, are you? Oh, Constant! How could you!’

‘I assure you, I assure you –’

‘Monsieur Seymour, you are not going to stand by and see a poor woman robbed?'

She turned towards him her beautiful tear-stained face.

‘Assuredly not, Madame!’ said Seymour fervently, carried away, for the moment.

‘Juliette –’ began Renaud wretchedly.

‘You cannot imagine, Monsieur,’ she said, looking up at Seymour with blue, tragic eyes, ‘what it is for a woman to lose her husband in such a way. Murdered! Killed by those fanatics!'

‘I’m sorry?'

‘
Les n`egres
. The blacks. They hate us, you know. And they hated him. Even though he had lived in the country for all that time. Thirty years! He gave his life to this damned country. And see how they repay him!’

‘But, Juliette, we do not know –’

‘Of course we do! Who else could it have been? A spear, in the bushes? From behind? That is how they fight. And how they kill!'

Renaud, discomfited, did not, after all, stay behind and he and Seymour drove into Tangier together. As they reached the bottom of the slope and slowed down to turn into Tangier, Seymour felt the carriage tip suddenly at the rear and guessed that they had been joined.

Chapter Three

The city, when they got there, was oddly still. The streets were empty. The peanut sellers, sticky-sweet sellers and dirty postcard sellers with whom they had previously been crowded had all vanished. The beggars, who had been at least as numerous, had retired into the shade. The shops were not exactly closed – their fronts remained open to the world – but no one was in them. It was, he suddenly realized, the hour of siesta.

Renaud shook hands and departed and Seymour, with nothing to do until five o’clock, when he was seeing Macfarlane, went back to his hotel.

That, too, was deserted. He had half hoped to see the receptionist again and was slightly disappointed when he didn’t. She was still probably doubling up as a journalist at the Tent.

The coolness of the hotel, though, was welcome after the heat outside and he climbed up the marble stairs to his room and lay on the bed. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep – he never could during the day – but he felt a need to sort out the jumble of impressions which had crowded in on him in the short forty-eight hours that he had been in Tangier: the variety of peoples – Arab, Berber, French, Jewish, Negroes (from the Sudan? or West Africa?); the exotic, besieging smells of spices and sand and fresh leather and sandalwood – even the bales of cloth in the tailor’s shop had smelt differently from the way they would have done in England; the different perfumes of the women, light, intoxicating in the case of the Frenchwomen, heavy, sensuous in the case of the Moroccans; the bright colours of the long gowns, pink and salmon and hectic green and blue, alongside the blackness of the veiled women, the sounds, the braying of donkeys, the thin wailing of flutes, the distant beating of drums, the babble and chatter of the streets.

Above all, the words. Seymour had an unusually acute ear for language and now he was quite dazed. All morning he had been speaking French. That was all right, he spoke it well; but the suddenness and totality of his immersion in it was rather disorienting.

And then the odd mixture of French and Arabic! The shopkeepers, the people you heard talking as they passed you in the streets – they all spoke French. Even Mustapha and Idris habitually spoke French. But the poorer people, the workmen, the men sweeping up the donkey dung, spoke Arabic. Seymour spoke some Arabic, he had picked it up in Istanbul, but that was a different Arabic from this. Yet he felt its undertone beneath the French, continuously there in the background.

The words continued to dance in his mind now, both Arabic and French, all jumbled together, as he lay there on his bed, watching the ripples of sunlight playing on the ceiling, reflected somehow from the bay, the words, but also the things, all mixed up: the French soldiers wearing Bedouin headdresses, the shopkeepers, with their polite, cultivated French, but sitting on the counters. Everything all jumbled up, all mixed. France and Africa.

Macfarlane came punctually at five. There were some people he should see ‘in order to clear things’. First, as etiquette demanded, the People of the Parasol.

‘You know about the Royal Parasol? No? Well, whenever the Sultan goes out, a slave goes with him holding the Royal Parasol over his head. It is a splendid affair, all blue and green and glittering, like a peacock’s tail. Everything beneath it is, as it were, in the shade conferred by the Sultan. And so a saying has grown up: “Under the Parasol.” What is under the Sultan’s protection. Meaning Morocco. No longer, I’m afraid.'

They were going, he said, to see the Vizier for the Interior, Suleiman Fazi.

‘There are several Viziers: for Foreign Affairs, Trade, War – you remember Sheikh Musa? He was Vizier for War until he resigned in protest over the Sultan’s agreement to the French establishing a Protectorate. The Viziers are like Ministers and they have that standing. Together they form the Mahzen, the Sultan’s Government.'

Suleiman Fazi offered them mint tea – mint tea, Seymour soon learned, was the staple of Moroccan social life – which was served at a low table in the ante-room to his office. He seemed in no hurry to turn to business and Macfarlane was too experienced in Moroccan ways to attempt to press him. For some time the conversation was confined to inquiries about their respective families.

‘And how is Awad?’ asked Macfarlane. ‘He must have finished his law studies now.'

‘He has, yes.'

‘Satisfactorily, I hope?'

‘Oh, yes. No worries on that score. He’s a bright lad.

’ ‘And what is he going to do now?'

‘That, alas, remains to be seen.'

‘Something in the Mahzen?'

‘He’s not keen.'

Macfarlane looked surprised.

‘I would have thought, with his advantages –’

‘Oh, something could be found. Has, indeed, been offered. But – he is thinking of working elsewhere.'

‘Elsewhere?'

‘In another country.'

Suleiman Fazi looked unhappy.

‘Morocco, of course, is not as it was,’ he said quietly. ‘The Sultan keeps his Parasol, but nothing under it remains the same.'

‘And Awad doesn’t like that? He’s not happy about the Protectorate?'

‘He is thinking of leaving.'

‘Of leaving Morocco? But where would he go to?'

‘Ah,’ said Suleiman Fazi, ‘that is the question.'

‘Algeria?'

‘French,’ said Suleiman Fazi.

‘Tunisia? Libya?'

‘French, too.'

‘Egypt?'

‘English. It is a question,’ said Suleiman Fazi, ‘that he has not yet resolved.'

‘It would be a pity if he left,’ said Macfarlane. ‘People like him will be needed here.'

‘That is what I tell him. To be like you, he says? There are worse fates, I say. Oh, he says? Tell me them.'

‘The young are always restive,’ said Macfarlane.

‘There is nothing for him here,’ said Suleiman Fazi. ‘There is nothing for me, either. All the French will let us do,’ he said bitterly, ‘is collect the taxes for them. And you can imagine how popular that makes us! Everything else we have to leave to the French.'

He looked at Seymour.

‘Your concern is with Bossu,’ he said. ‘Our concern is with the hundreds of Bossus that will be coming.'

‘He means: under the Protectorate?’ said Seymour.

‘Yes. He fears that the French will flood in. As they have done in Algeria.'

‘And will they?'

‘The army first. First they have to secure the country. Which, of course, they are presently doing. And that is why I am taking you now to see Monsieur Lambert, the Resident-General Designate.'

‘Ah!’ said Monsieur Lambert. ‘
L
’
affaire Bossu
. And you are Monsieur Seymour. From Scotland Yard. A long way to come, Monsieur Seymour, and I wonder if your visit is strictly necessary.'

‘The committee,’ said Macfarlane softly, ‘is an international one, and other powers beside France need to be satisfied.'

‘The committee!’ said the Resident-General, brushing it aside.

‘Nevertheless, it has to be worked with, Georges,’ said Macfarlane quietly.

Monsieur Lambert seemed about to say something but then thought better.

‘Have the Mahzen been informed?’ he asked.

‘I have taken Mr Seymour to see Suleiman Fazi.'

‘Good.'

He turned to Seymour.

‘The forms have to be preserved,’ he said. ‘We know they are just forms, that the Sultan and his Mahzen have no longer any real power. Nevertheless, we must keep to the forms. Pretend that he has. In the interests of –’

He stopped.

‘International harmony,’ prompted Macfarlane. ‘The other powers wouldn’t like it if the French just said, “Right, we’re taking over Morocco.” It would look bad. But if they say, “Look, we’re just trying to help Morocco along, protect it from other nasty European powers, so we’re declaring it a French Protectorate,” well, that looks much better. It makes it more legitimate, and the international community likes legitimacy.'

Monsieur Lambert shrugged.

‘Well, I don’t mind keeping up appearances,’ he said, ‘if that’s strictly necessary. It’s as well, though, if Monsieur Seymour understands the difference between appearances and reality. And the reality is that a Frenchman has been killed and I am the one who has to answer for that in Paris.'

‘Of course!’ said Macfarlane soothingly. ‘But it is also true that in the present delicate situation Monsieur Bossu was as well a servant of the international community and they too require satisfaction.'

‘They’re not going to make trouble, are they, Alan?’ said Monsieur Lambert.

‘Not if I can help it,’ said Macfarlane.

‘Bossu has caused enough trouble as it is,’ said Lambert.

At the end of the corridor, as they came out, Seymour saw a small group of women about to enter the private quarters of the Residency. One of them was a middle-aged woman, the mother, perhaps, of the two younger women who were with her.

But, hold on! That couldn’t be right, since one of the younger women, he was almost sure, was the receptionist at the hotel.

They disappeared inside.

‘What trouble did Bossu cause?’ asked Seymour, as they walked away.

‘Oh, something in the past,’ said Macfarlane.

‘He’s meeting all the nobs,’ Seymour heard Idris say to Mustapha. ‘That can’t be good, can it?'

‘So where in all this,’ said Seymour, ‘do the police fit in? Do they come under the Mahzen or under the French?'

‘Both,’ said Macfarlane. ‘In principle, they report to the Vizier of the Interior. But in practice it’s more complicated. In much of the interior there aren’t any police at all. The only thing keeping order is the French army. In the more settled parts there will be a Pasha or a Caid – a sort of local governor. And in the big cities, Marrakesh, for instance, or Casablanca, there will be both a Pasha and a French commander.'

‘I see,’ said Seymour. Doubtfully.

‘Remember, though,’ said Macfarlane enthusiastically, ‘that this is a Muslim country and wherever you are, most things will be handled by the local mosque. Disputes about property, say. In fact, most disputes. In so far as there is law in most of the country, it’s Muslim law.'

‘Well, I’m not very up in Muslim law –’

‘Don’t worry about that. You don’t need to be. The local mosque comes in usually when it’s a question not of law but of arbitration. Settling an argument between two parties. As long as you stay on the right side of them, you’ll be all right.'

‘I see,’ said Seymour, even more doubtfully. And then – ‘So where does Renaud fit in?'

‘Ah, well, Tangier is a bit different. There are a lot of businesses here which would like more freedom than either the Sultans or the French would like to give them. International businesses, for instance. So part of the Protectorate deal was that Tangier should become an international zone, a sort of free city. There actually
is
a Chief of Police here. That’s because there are a lot of European businesses and they like things to be done in the European way. Renaud is their man. In more senses than one.’

Seymour was silent for a moment. Then –

‘So who is it exactly that I’m answerable to over investigating Bossu’s death?'

‘Me.’ Macfarlane frowned. ‘Although I have to say that part was left rather vague. Just take it, in practice, that you’re answerable to me.'

‘Oh, good. Well –’

‘As well as to a lot of other people, of course. France, Spain, Italy and Germany will be taking an interest, especially as the committee is their creation and Bossu was, in a sense, their appointee. And, of course, the Mahzen. It would be improper to leave them out. And then the French – Monsieur Lambert should certainly be kept informed. The Muslims I don’t think you need to bother about. You just have to stay on side with them, and that should be easy.'

‘Easy? Ye-e-s . . .'

‘And the same with the settlers. Mind you, they’re trouble-makers, but if you handle them in the right way . . .

‘And the business interests. Large business, that is. They’re very important. They’ve got a voice in Paris. That’s partly what Lambert was talking about . . . Bossu, you know . . . there was a time when he was very close to them. Perhaps he still was . . .

‘Any more? No, I don’t think so. I think that’s about it.'

‘Well, that seems straightforward,’ said Seymour.

By now it was about eight o’clock and the city was just waking up. The streets in the main shopping quarter were crowded and the shops full of people. Up here, where Macfarlane had brought him, the shops were mostly European, spacious, well lit and with counters which were not sat upon but where the goods were displayed in the European way. The goods, too, were European: shoes from Spain, perfumerie and lingerie from France, elegant European dresses from Italy. You could well have been on the other side of the Mediterranean in the towns of Italy or Spain or Greece.

The shoppers, too, seemed European. At least, they were dressed in European styles. Only the occasional dark-veiled, dark-gowned woman lingered along looking in at the windows. The men were bolder, walking along in twos and threes in the middle of the street, their arms around each other in the Arab manner. Many of them, especially the younger ones, had doffed their brightly coloured gowns in favour of shirt and trousers.

Tangier was evidently changing, and it wasn’t just the political change, the coming of the Protectorate, it was social change: the coming of Western ways of shopping, the abandonment of the intimate cubby holes of people like Ali, the tailor, for the bright, public world of the metropolis.

He was just saying this to Macfarlane when down the middle of the street came a file of white horses. On either side of them were Arabs in short white gowns revealing brawny knees pressed tight to the sides of the horses. With them, also on a horse, was Millet, the horse doctor. He put his hand up and the cavalcade stopped.

‘Hello, Millet,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Taking mounts to the barracks?'

‘Just checking them over first,’ said Millet.

He frowned, and then urged his horse out to one side.

‘Will you walk that one for me a bit, Ahmet?’ he called.

One of the white-gowned figures retrieved a horse from the line, swung down and then for a moment walked it up and down in front of Millet.