“I shall make every attempt, if it is in my ability.”
We sat down and ‘Father Bąkiewicz’ took out his pipe to give his attention to my narrative.
“I see that you have just visited the police station. And you have postponed your meetings with your clients. The matter must be quite pressing.”
I was utterly amazed. “Absolutely right! But how did you guess? I never told you!”
“I do not guess, sir. It is an irrational vanity. It is too early in the day for the court to have opened, yet you are formally dressed and have come in holding files. The pen I see on your breast pocket is at an angle suggesting you must have already used it this morning; you have not screwed the cap well suggesting recent, hurried use. I deduce that you have met someone at the police station, interviewed him, and then arrived here. Further, most lawyers would meet their clients at this time, but you are here instead of your chambers. Ergo, you must have requested your clients to come again.”
“Ah, yes, a simple deduction. You are quite right.”
“Logic is always considered simple,” observed Father Bąkiewicz with a thin smile. “Please proceed.”
“A most peculiar case. I am a lawyer and represent the man who you saw being dragged along the road outside the café where we were. I am unable to prove his innocence, though I am convinced of it. I thought of you since you had seen this man.”
“Ah, the Tuareg man. I wondered what happened to him.”
“Here are the facts, as my client has told me.
“About ten days ago, a Frenchman, Jacques Pétain, was reported to have assaulted a Tuareg man near Rabat. He had too much to drink and possibly misbehaved with some Tuareg women, too. He was accompanied by two other Frenchmen who behaved similarly, except that they did not touch any woman.
“This man, Jacques Pétain, had a colourful past. I have checked and found that he already had a reputation for violence and general debauchery. The other two, Alain Beaumier and Henri Toussaint had no such reputation.
“Pétain snatched away the Tuareg’s takouba—his dagger—and threatened the people assembled there. Then he went away. On a complaint by the people, however, he was apprehended by the gendarmeries and brought before a magistrate. The magistrate, also a Frenchman, gave him a warning and let him off.
“A day later, he was found dead in a ditch. The takouba he had stolen the previous evening was in his back—he had been stabbed. There was considerable commotion and the two Frenchmen who had been seen with him earlier brought in the gendarmeries. They insisted that one of the Tuareg onlookers—Hasso—had possibly killed him. It was essentially their word—as Frenchmen—against a Tuareg. Hasso denied it, and in the melee, he escaped on a horse that, unfortunately, had been used previously by Pétain.
“Hasso was followed over the course of a chase of a couple of days, to Hasso Ag Akotey’s camp east of Tangier. Unfortunately, there is a slight physical resemblance, too, and the wrong Hasso was apprehended for a crime that the other Hasso had been falsely accused of.”
“And how can you be so sure that the first Hasso did not commit the crime?” Father Bąkiewicz asked.
“At the moment, it is his word and he insists. His story does not vary. He avers that he was merely passing by when the commotion broke out over the discovered body. He admits that he knew Pétain but only as someone who lived in the neighbourhood. He had no dealings with him.
“Now we come to the strange part of the story. First, tucked in Pétain’s pocket was a slip of paper. I was able to persuade the inspector to let me borrow it for a while. I wanted to show it to you. Please take a look.”
I showed Father Bąkiewicz the slip of paper.
He held the slip of paper very carefully at the edges. Then he looked at it against the light for a few minutes, and nodded.
“Very interesting. Now what do these symbols mean?”
“This script is Tifinagh, used often by Tuaregs for their language Tamasheq. The word is shimar, which means rebellion.”
“The police infer that this was placed in Pétain’s pocket by a Tuareg—Hasso—as a message to the French. There is a political crisis here, as you know.”
“I see something more,” observed Father Bąkiewicz. “But pray continue.”
I hesitated. “There was a crucifix in the other pocket.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow.
I continued. “Not unusual, true, and may be irrelevant. But what was unusual was the type of crucifix. Here is a drawing.
Now I am a Mussalman, and cannot claim to know much about crucifixes, but I had never seen this before. Since you are here as a Father at a Catholic church for some reason, I felt you were likely to know. Again, it may have no significance.”
“Well, we do not know yet, but it is good to look at everything.”
“I have sought a meeting with the magistrate to discuss the matter. He is to decide when the court will formally proceed. They are currently framing charges.”
“When is this meeting? What is his name?” asked Father Bąkiewicz.
“His name is Alain Favreau. We have to meet him the day after tomorrow at nine in the morning.”
“Hmm. That does not give us much time. But let us think carefully.”
Father Bąkiewicz walked about in his room for several minutes, frowning, his head bent. He suddenly halted in mid-stride. He asked for the scrap of paper again. “Do you think I can keep this till the evening?”
“It will be difficult. Can you try to return it by the late afternoon? I shall come again.”
“There is a strong possibility that I would have made significant progress by then. Four o’clock is fine.”
I then left.
The issue of the occupation of my country by the French and Spanish is a matter of deep despair and anger for us. Our own selfish countrymen are to be blamed for not being united enough. We worry more about our tribes’ interests than our country. The outsiders exploit our weaknesses, set us against each other, and finally treat us like dirt. It was obvious to me that the missing Hasso was framed while Hasso Ag Akotey, who had nothing to do with the matter, was caught.
I was hopeful that this man, Sherlock Holmes, would help. But I could not see how. I have not yet understood why he calls himself Father Bąkiewicz. But that is his business.
I returned at four p.m. after attending to my work. Father Bąkiewicz was waiting.
“I think I am on the verge of coming to a conclusion. But I needed two matters sorted out. I visited the library of this church and I know now what the unusual crucifix means. However, I cannot determine its meaning to this case until we do a background check. This is what I want you to find out from your sources.”
He handed over a piece of paper on which he had scribbled a few words. I looked at it, glanced up at Father Bąkiewicz, and nodded. “I may be able to get this information.”
“I also went to the market earlier and was able to find something of great interest,” Father Bąkiewicz said. “The case may close rapidly if we meet the magistrate.”
Two days later, we reached the office of the magistrate where we had been given an audience for about twenty minutes. In the meanwhile, I had been able to extract the information that Father Bąkiewicz sought. He was very pleased with what I had discovered, and nodded.
“Though I would otherwise have preferred not to meet the magistrate and call attention upon myself, I have no choice. Justice must be done,” he said.
We entered the magistrate’s chambers at precisely nine a.m. I had asked the gendarme inspector friend I knew to accompany us. The respected magistrate was seated and he waved us down to the chairs across the table. He was busy writing.
“Good morning. Please sit. Let me finish writing these last couple of lines,” he said curtly.
He was a handsome man, perhaps in his late fifties, but clearly fit and a
lert.
Father Bąkiewicz sat quietly in his chair.
The magistrate was finally done. He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair, surveying us with expressionless eyes.
“Yes, gentlemen, how may I help you? Father, a great honour to have you here. You are at the prefecture, are you not? I think I have seen you there on my rare Sunday visits. How is it that you are with this man? And you are Inspector Lachapelle, if my memory serves me right.”
“I happened to meet him at a café and became acquainted. He has promised to show me some old manuscripts. I am just accompanying him at the moment.”
“Ah, I see. And the inspector?”
“I am here because Said aṣ-Ṣabār requested me to come. He is Hasso Ag Akotey’s lawyer and the accused is in the jail of my police station.”
Favreu was satisfied.
Father Bąkiewicz spoke. “A fine poster, Monsieur Favreu,” he said, gesturing to the far wall. “One of the principles I so admire about France.”
Favreu looked puzzled and turned his head. “What do you refer to? Ah, you mean Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité. Yes. A constant reminder that we are all equal in the eyes of the law.”
“Most commendable, and a principle most worthy of emulation by all. Where are you from, Monsieur Favreu?” Father Bąkiewicz asked with a gentle smile.
Favreu was surprised by the unexpected question. “What? Oh, from the south of France.”
“Specifically where?”
“The village of Béziers in the Languedoc region.”
“Lang—?”
“Languedoc. It is a small province. Not many people know of it.”
“I am very interested in geography. Could you write down the name?”
“Certainly.” Favreu scribbled the name on a sheet of paper and handed it over to Father Bąkiewicz, who examined it.
“Ah, LANG-uedoc! I see!” exclaimed Father Bąkiewicz. “The land of the Cathars!”
Favreu was suddenly on guard. He sat upright.
“It once was, true. Few know this.” His eyes were wary.
“Well?” Favreu raised a quizzical eyebrow at me.
“We would like to discuss the case of my client Hasso Ag Akotey,” I said. “We believe he is innocent.”
“Yes, yes, they are all innocent! Poor Tuaregs, misunderstood heroes of the desert!” sneered the magistrate, a representative of the grand majesty of France. “Please come up with something original. The police appear to have made a clear case! Yes?” He looked at the Inspector, who nodded briefly in assent.
“If I may ask, what is the case?” asked Father Bąkiewicz mildly.
“A Tuareg dagger was used.”
“Anyone could have used it,” observed Father Bąkiewicz. “Was it seen being used?”
“A slip of paper was found with threatening words in Tifinagh.”
“Incriminating, but not serious. It could have been placed there by persons unknown. Is it in the handwriting of the suspect?”
“The suspect fled the scene, stealing the horse of the victim. An innocent man does not flee!”
“Running away is not a crime. He may have panicked. Stealing is a crime, yes. But you are charging him with murder. Did anyone actually see him commit the murder?”
Alain Favreu stared long and hard at Father Bąkiewicz.
“Why are you so interested in this man?” he asked.
“As a matter of principle, I believe in the goodness of men. I have not heard anything incriminating yet. May I ask when you first met Pétain?”
“What? That was a few weeks ago, when he was brought before me for disorderly behaviour.”
“Yet, that is odd. He, too, was from Béziers, was he not? I would have thought that everyone knew each other from such a small village.”
The colour drained from Alain Favreu’s face.
He brought himself back to his former self with some effort. “Gentlemen, I have an appointment now. Please excuse me.”
Father Bąkiewicz did not stir, and spoke in a low and cold voice. “Pétain was a Cathar, an Albigensian, was he not? Yes, he was. And you belong to a secret Cistercian denomination that still hunts down the Cathars, six hundred years after their massacre. When will this hatred cease, I wonder.”
“This—this is an—an outrage!” sputtered the magistrate, sitting back in his chair.
“Not really. This was not a perfect murder. It is a clumsy one committed by someone who believes his power will help him get away with anything. A magistrate retains a strong leaning toward the loathsome objective of his secret Cistercian society. He spots a Cathar from his village in France brought before him for the minor misdemeanour of drunkenness. He—or someone he assigns—kills him with a Tuareg dagger, leaves a slip of paper with Tifinagh writing in the victim’s pocket—really, not very clever, but a classic red herring, nevertheless—and gets a passing Tuareg blamed, counting on the fact that the police would be glad to believe the story, given the current political situation here, and his own personal standing. But you did not notice the Cathar cross, which was mistaken for a crucifix by everyone, in his other pocket. It is actually the Cross of Toulouse, and very few people are likely to have known that. Were you saying to yourself, like your Cistercian abbot hero, Arnaud Amaury, “Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius!”12
“You cannot prove this! This is calumny!” Favreu’s voice was hoarse.
“Indeed? It will be difficult for you to throw a respectable Catholic priest in Tangier in jail on a whim. I have more than enough evidence to have you arrested. It was rather careless of you to write that Tifinagh message on expensive Ibérico watermarked paper, a sample of which you just gave me and which is identical to the other paper. I checked with the purveyor of stationery goods in Tangier and he confirmed that this specific kind of paper was recently purchased by you. Overconfidence, my dear sir, overconfidence! I recommend you issue an order for the immediate release of Monsieur Hasso Ag Akotey. He is quite innocent. Was it you? Or did you ask one of the other Frenchmen to act on your behalf? Will you arrest yourself on suspicion, perhaps, given the poster you proudly put on your wall?”
Father Bąkiewicz stood up. “I say this often, my dear sir: Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Good day.”
He walked out of the office, leaving me and the inspector with the magistrate.
I looked at both of them. They did not look at me in the eye.
“I would like to have my client released,” I said.
The strong and energetic magistrate had been reduced to a mere shell of a man in less than fifteen minutes by the words of a priest sitting across the table. I could never have imagined such a situation.
Inspector Lachapelle stood up silently. We both left the magistrate’s office. Soon we reached the police station. And about half an hour later, Hasso Ag Akotey was a free man.
I told Hasso Ag Akotey what had happened, though he did not fully understand the nuances of the Catholic currents of southern France. But he understood that Father Bąkiewicz had saved his life and challenged a magistrate. As far as he was concerned, he was in eternal debt to the Father.13 14 15
***
Once again, in the words of Hasso Ag Akotey, as related to me.
My life was saved by a brave man who had never met me and who was responsible for putting a French magistrate in jail. Had I not been witness to what happened, I would have dismissed such a story as being ridiculous. Someone told me that, many months later, the magistrate was actually arrested and sent away to a French colony called Suriname where convicts live in the most deplorable conditions and finally die an agonizing death from fever, starvation, and exhaustion. A magistrate being sent to jail!
After my release, I went to the prefecture church to meet this Father. I was not allowed inside by the
guard because I am a Tuareg. Such insults are nothing new, so I was not disheartened. Luckily Father Bąkiewicz came outside and allowed me to come in. He even served me tea. He is indeed a man of God, though somehow different. He does not talk about the value of virtue. He demonstrates it in quiet ways.
Rarely have I met a man of such intelligence and compassion. I made it my duty to be of service to him in any capacity. I invited him to visit us and he promised to do so.
The next day, Father Bąkiewicz did visit us and we had a grand celebration. We sang and danced in happiness. Several goats and even a camel were slaughtered in his honour, but I observed that he ate meat sparingly and was really more interested in our music. Though he had no knowledge of Tamasheq, he expressed a desire to learn. Many visitors say that out of respect, but few actually take the time to learn our language.
But Father Bąkiewicz was different. The very next day, he came to see me again and reiterated a desire to learn our language and our music.
I was willing to begin the process. But as we stood in a circle, laughing and talking, an old woman pushed her way in. We respectfully gave way. She peered at Father Bąkiewicz carefully and suddenly smiled. She insisted on becoming his teacher instead. And very soon, we saw the strange sight of a Catholic priest sitting on the sand practising words and phrases, taught directly from the old woman. He picked up simple words and sentences rapidly, and through some games and puzzles, learned our Tifinagh script. In a few weeks, he could speak easily without halting, though of course, he is unfamiliar with our customs and traditions and made many unintentional, amusing errors.
After several weeks, Father Bąkiewicz asked me for my help in travelling to Timbuktu very soon, saying that his life was in great danger and he was being pursued. He spoke to me about a strange gang of bandits, whose name I had never heard. He wished to pay me for my efforts, though I refused. He did pay for many things quietly, without telling me. He is a man of great honour.
“It will be very hot and you will suffer since you have never travelled before,” I warned him.
“I must travel in the Tinariwen. Much is at stake,” he said. “A dear friend is due any day now from Europe. I would like to leave very shortly after he arrives. I have quietly arranged for him to land at Tangier and then travel here.”
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 12
