His eye fell on Mustapha and Idris.
‘Listen,’ he said.
‘Hello!’ said Macfarlane. ‘Given up the chase?'
‘I’ve seen what I need.'
‘Already? But you’ll have missed the exciting bit at the end!'
‘So did Bossu,’ said Seymour.
At the far end of the bar he saw Madame Bossu, surrounded by men all anxious to help her make up for her loss. He had no wish to add to their numbers but the sight of her put into his mind another of Bossu’s women, the petite amie who lived in town. Monique, was that her name?
He saw Millet, the horse doctor, and went up to him.
‘Monique? Yes, I expect she’s here. Would you like me to introduce you?'
She was another blonde, not, this time, pouting and fluffy but thin-faced and harder, as if the sun and the wind had worn her youth away.
‘Monique, can I present Monsieur Seymour? He is from England and has come here to look into Bossu’s death.’
‘He is more likely to get somewhere than Renaud is.’ She extended her hand. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur.'
‘You have been in the country long?'
‘All my life.'
‘You will know it well, then. And, of course, you knew Bossu.'
‘Of course.'
‘Could you tell me something about him?'
‘I don’t know that I can tell you anything that will help you on this –’
‘In general, then. Tell me about him as a man.'
She laughed.
‘As a man? Well, there I could tell you a lot!'
‘I have no wish to pry, Madame, but it would help me if I could get a picture of him. As a person. I know nothing about him, you see.'
‘Where to begin!’ She thought. ‘Well, why not! Everyone else knows, so why shouldn’t you? I will begin with me. Let me tell you the story of my life. It is a very ordinary story, the old story of a rich man and a poor girl.
‘My parents were settlers. They came out here to farm. And, like most settlers, they struggled. We were poor. We came out here to make our fortune but instead we lost it. So you can understand that my parents did not dissuade a rich neighbour when he began to pay attention to me. I was beautiful then.
‘No, don’t say I am beautiful still. That is the sort of thing all men say. And it is not true. This country is hard on women. But I was beautiful then and I caught Bossu’s eye. He had bought some property nearby. He began to pay attention to me and I was flattered. No, more; I was bowled over. I was, after all, only fifteen.
‘And my parents did not dissuade him. Even when they learned that he was already married. They were poor, you understand? Desperate. And he was a rich man. Very rich, for Tangier. So they did not dissuade him. And they didn’t say anything after he bought me an apartment in Tangier and I moved into it.
‘Well, that’s it. You asked me about Bossu, Bossu, the man. Does that tell you something about Bossu, the man?’
‘Yes, it does.'
‘Since he died, I have had time to think things over. And I realize that to him I was never more than a possession. Like the farm he bought next to my parents’ farm. He liked possessions. But he never did anything with them. He never built on them. I had hoped, when he put me in that flat, that one day we might build something together. But we never did. He wasn’t that kind of man. He never built anything. Not even in business.'
‘Not even in business?'
‘He wasn’t that kind of businessman. What he did was to bring people together. He knew everybody, not just in Tangier but all over the country. If you were a business which wanted to develop the interior, build railways, say, or roads, he knew who to put you in touch with. The local Caid, local contractors, local sheikhs. Bossu would always know someone who could help you. That is important in a country like this where everything is personal. If you wanted to do something, Bossu could make it possible. He became also indispensable.
‘But, of course, things could go wrong. He worked with a lot of people, and some of them weren’t very nice people. There were people in the interior who were little better than bandits. And there were developers from the city who were ruthless. He put them together and that could lead to – as in Casablanca. You know about Casablanca?'
‘No.'
‘There was trouble there. Big trouble. About five or six years ago. It was to do with a quarry and a railway. Bossu had put the two together in some project. Things went wrong and there were riots. It was very bad. The army was sent in and they killed a lot of people.
‘But some say that that was the idea. To get the city to explode, so that the army would have to step in, and then France could take over the whole country. I don’t know if that is true, but that is what people say. And the Moroccans believe it.
‘So Casablanca and what happened there is very big to Moroccans. And Bossu was right in the middle of it. I don’t know exactly how he was involved but I know that he was involved. This was six years ago and I was still young. I did not understand these things. But I remember him coming home and saying, “This will either make me or break me.” Afterwards, he thought it had made him.'
She laughed.
‘They all trusted him, you see, after that. Trust! Bossu!'
She laughed again.
‘They used him more and more. All over the country. Whenever there was something big. Because they thought they could rely on him to look after their interests.'
‘Was that why he was put on the committee?'
‘Of course! The big businessmen all knew him and they wanted someone like him in a big position on the committee so that he could look after their interests. And the settlers, too. They thought: he is one of us, he will see that things don’t go wrong.
‘But perhaps – perhaps something did go wrong. And perhaps . . . Perhaps he was right. On both counts. It did make him, yes; but in the end it broke him. I don’t know. I don’t know about these things.'
She looked at him over the top of her glass, weighing it, considering.
‘But, shall I tell you something? I liked being possessed. Women do. And now that I am no longer possessed, I feel . . . disoriented. Not bereft. He never loved me and I never loved him. Just disoriented. But free.'
Chantale was over on the other side of the Tent talking to Sheikh Musa. Seymour was a little surprised. He didn’t know how it was in Morocco, or how Sheikh Musa was, but you wouldn’t have seen this in Istanbul, nor, he suspected, in many other Muslim countries. A woman talking so familiarly to a man. But, of course, she was half French, too. Perhaps it was the French half that Musa was addressing. And yet . . . and yet they were both drinking lemonade. That was a Muslim thing to do. Curious. Not just curious: intriguing.
She saw him looking at her and waved a hand. Shortly afterwards she detached herself from Sheikh Musa and came across to him.
‘I see you’ve caught up with Monique?'
‘Yes.'
‘How did you find her?'
‘Interesting. And rather nice.'
‘She is.’ She seemed pleased. ‘She should never have got hooked up with Bossu.’
‘It was Bossu we were talking about.'
‘Of course. And what did she tell you?'
‘A bit about herself. And a lot about Bossu.'
‘What did she tell you about Bossu?'
‘We talked generally,’ he said guardedly.
Chantale laughed.
‘Well, if you find out something particular, come and tell me. I, too, am interested in Bossu. Perhaps we could do a trade? You tell me what you find out and I’ll tell you what I know.'
‘I might take you up on that.'
‘Please do. What you tell me doesn’t have to appear in the newspaper. My interest in Bossu is a private one.'
‘I’ll bear that in mind.'
She smiled and moved away. Afterwards he found himself wondering about her. She had hazel eyes. Or would you call them green?
The heat in the Tent,
and the noise, was almost unbearable. He made his way to the back and then out into the enclo- sure. Millet and Meunier were standing there with drinks in their hands: not lemonade.
‘What’s it been like for you today?’ he asked. ‘Busy?'
‘Quiet. A fall or two, but nothing serious.'
The riders were returning now. De Grassac went past, leading a horse.
‘How is Sybille?’ asked Millet.
‘Oh, fine. Fine.'
‘She always goes very well,’ said Millet.
He had taken them to be referring to de Grassac’s wife, or girlfriend, perhaps; but maybe not.
‘How many did you get?’ asked Meunier.
‘Two. Better than the last time. I got nowhere last time. By the time I got there, there was always someone ahead of me.'
‘How many were killed altogether today?’ asked Seymour.
‘Ten, I think. Including one shot one.'
‘Shot one?’ said de Grassac, puzzled. ‘That can’t be right!'
Meunier’s eyes met Seymour’s neutrally.
‘So two is pretty good,’ said Millet. ‘De Grassac’s an expert.'
‘Boileau is better than me,’ said de Grassac modestly, ‘and Levret is coming along, don’t you think?'
‘He got two today.'
‘That’s good for someone with so little experience. He’s only been out here six months.'
‘I thought he spent all his time hunting women?'
‘Most of it. But he hunts pigs as well.'
Mustapha and Idris arrived at this point, limping.
‘Two more for you,’ Seymour said to Meunier.
‘Oh, I don’t treat pedestrians.'
Seymour took them aside and they sank gratefully to the ground.
‘How did you get on?'
‘No one saw a thing,’ said Mustapha, depressed.
‘No one saw a thing?'
‘They all got there afterwards. When word got round.’
‘No one followed him in? When they saw he’d gone after the pig?'
‘Well, one of them had. He hadn’t wanted to. He had seen at once what the Frenchman was like. From the moment he turned aside. Couldn’t stick a cow, he said. Even if its legs were tied together. So he’d said, “Let’s give this one a miss.” But the man he was with had insisted. Thought they’d get right up close. Not a chance! Complete waste of time!'
‘But he must have seen something.'
‘Not much. When he got there it was all over. There was the Frenchman lying on the ground. He thought at first it was a fall. But then he saw the lance. Didn’t know what to make of it. But the man he was with said it was bad and that they should keep out of it. He’d seen that it was a Frenchman, you see, and worked out that someone would be over pretty soon. And that someone would probably be the French army, and that wouldn’t be good at all. So they kept out of it. Just sat there to see what happened.'
‘Well, what happened?'
‘Nothing. Like I told you. By and by two big blokes came riding up, swords and knives bristling all over. And they told everybody to get back. I mean by this time there was quite a crowd there and they’d all crept in. Well, you can understand it, can’t you? It’s not every day you see a dead Frenchman and they wanted to have a good look. But these two big blokes whipped out their swords and everybody jumped back in a flash. And one of them went off and came back with another Frenchman, and he was a soldier. Just like his mate had said. So they did right to keep out of it.'
‘Yes, yes, I’ve got that bit. But did you talk to people? Had anyone seen anything more than this chap had?'
‘Of course we talked to people! But they’d all got there afterwards. Like I said.'
‘There was that boy, Mustapha,’ said Idris.
‘The beggar boy, you mean? The lame one? The one with the limp.'
‘That’s right.'
‘Well, he was the bright one. He’d know he couldn’t run, so he’d gone out before. Before the hunt started. He’d gone out and lay down under a thorn bush so that he would see as they went past.’
‘And did he see them?'
‘Oh, yes.'
‘Including Bossu?'
‘Yes. He’d seen him go after the pig, and he’d thought, he’ll never get anywhere –’
‘Yes, yes. But he did see him? He saw him separate from the others. And then what?'
‘He suddenly disappeared! So he reckoned he’d had a fall. Well, he waited a bit to see if he got up, but when he didn’t, he thought he’d go over. I mean, you never know what you might pick up. A wallet, even.'
‘So he went over there? To the spot where he’d seen Bossu fall? And what did he see?'
‘Just him and the lance.'
‘Did he see anyone? Anyone else?'
‘He didn’t say so.'
‘Look, he must have seen someone else. The person who stuck the lance through him.’
‘He didn’t say –’
‘Riding away?’ suggested Seymour hopefully. ‘Whoever did it would have been on horseback. A horse is big – no?'
‘Look,’ said Mustapha, wearying, ‘why don’t you ask him?’
‘I will. What’s his name?'
‘Name?'
‘He’s got a name, hasn’t he?'
‘No. He’s just a beggar boy.'
‘Where does he live?'
‘I’ve told you. He’s a beggar boy. He doesn’t live anywhere.’
‘How will I find him, then, to talk to him?'
‘Oh, you’ll find him. He’s always around.'
‘Yes, he’s always around,’ said Idris.
As detectives, thought Seymour ruefully, they had their limitations.
He went back into the Tent. It wasn’t quite as densely packed as before but the bar was still doing a roaring – and how! – trade. Suddenly, however, as if some mysterious signal had been given, all the soldiers detached themselves and made for the door at the back of the Tent. That left a number of spaces at the bar and in one of them, left bereft of her admirers, he saw Madame Bossu. She looked round, saw him and brightened.
‘Monsieur Seymour!'
‘Madame!'
‘And how do you like our little games?'
‘I find your little games enchanting, Madame.'
‘That was not what I meant!’ she said, tapping his hand reprovingly.
‘But where have all your admirers gone? Earlier in the afternoon I couldn’t have hoped to get near you.'
‘Ah, those boys! I love the military, you know. I often used to say to Bossu, “Bossu, why aren’t you a soldier?” “If I was one, you’d soon notice the difference,” he would say. “Soldiers don’t make any money.” “You are always thinking about money,” I used to tell him. “It’s just as well one of us is,” he would say. That wasn’t very kind of him, was it?'
‘Indeed not!'
‘And if I spent money, he would encourage me! “Just add it to your account,” he would say. So that’s what I did. Add it to my accounts. All of them.'
‘All of them?'
‘Well, I didn’t just use one dressmaker. I liked to use several. One mustn’t let oneself fall into a groove.'
‘Certainly not! And – and Bossu encouraged you in this?'
‘He was always very generous in that way. “Don’t bother your pretty little head,” he would say. “Just give me the bills.” So I did.'
‘And he would settle them?'
‘I imagine so. I never heard any more about it.'
‘He would write a cheque, I imagine.'
‘Cheque?'
‘A little bit of paper. It’s usually got a bank’s name on it.'
Juliette wasn’t sure about that. He certainly had a lot of little bits of paper. And, yes, he used to write on them sometimes.
‘You don’t remember the name on the bit of paper, do you? The bank’s name?'
Juliette’s smooth forehead wrinkled.
‘There were a lot of names,’ she said doubtfully.
�
�One in particular?'
Juliette couldn’t recall.
‘I think he used a lot of banks,’ she said. And then, helpfully: ‘Like me, dressmakers.'
‘And when he wanted cash, to give to you, say, what did he do?'
‘Do you know,’ said Juliette, ‘I’ve never asked myself that. I would just ask and he would always give me some.'
‘Where did he keep it?'
‘Keep it?'
‘Did he have a safe or something? A drawer, perhaps? in his desk?'
‘Not that I’ve found,’ said Juliette. ‘And I’ve looked.'
Her eyes widened.
‘My God!’ she said. ‘You don’t think . . .'
‘What?'
‘That he kept it at Monique’s! That bitch! She must have it all!'
‘No, no, no! Not necessarily. He may have kept it somewhere else. And his papers, too. Did he have an office somewhere, perhaps? Apart from the one at the committee?'
‘No, I don’t think so.'
‘You see, what I’m trying to do is track down any transactions he might have been engaged in. In case they throw any light, you know, on his death. I’ve been through his office at the committee and there didn’t seem much there. Did he bring stuff like that home?'
‘He brought some things home, certainly.'
‘Papers?'
Juliette couldn’t remember.
‘Bank statements?'
What were they?
‘Well . . .'
Juliette wasn’t sure. She didn’t think so.
‘I wonder, perhaps, if you would allow me to go through his things?'
‘Of course! Come round and see me,’ said Juliette, brightening. ‘Sometime.'
‘It’s just the papers,’ said Seymour hastily. ‘If I could.
’ ‘I will show you everything!'
‘Thank you. Yes, thank you.'
She frowned.
‘Of course . . .'
‘Yes?'
‘Renaud has them. He’s been helping me, you see. With all the – you know, the horrid stuff that has to be gone into when someone dies. He took everything away with him.'
‘The papers?'
A Dead Man in Tangier Page 6
