A dead man in Tangier sosb-4

by Michael Pearce

  ‘Actually, I-’

  ‘That’s where I got the idea from, you know,’ Musa said to the Secretary. ‘From the English. In India. I went over there with a delegation. The British wanted to show us their army. Impress us. At the time they had designs on Morocco themselves but then, of course, they came to an agreement with the French whereby they would let France have Morocco if the French would let them have Egypt. But at the time I went they were still interested in Morocco and they wanted to soften us up. So they invited us over to India to see their army. Well, I wasn’t too impressed by the army. But the pig-sticking! That really was something!’

  The marquee was filling up. All sorts of people had drifted in, soldiers, officials of various kinds, often in uniforms, too, as well as what seemed to Seymour ordinary businessmen in suits, drawn, Seymour suspected from the beeline they made for the bar, chiefly by the promise of a free drink. Or maybe, since there were so many Frenchmen here, it was just aperitif time.

  Among the newcomers, he was slightly surprised to see, was the receptionist from his hotel, as in command of the situation as always, moving round from one group to another, recognized, apparently by everybody, and chatting to everyone. She noticed Seymour and came across to him.

  ‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Have you had a fruitful morning?’

  ‘Interesting, certainly. I don’t know about fruitful.’

  ‘And have you found out anything?’

  ‘Found out anything?’

  ‘About Bossu.’

  ‘You know what I’m here for, then?’

  ‘Of course. In Tangier everyone knows everything. And I have a particular interest in Bossu.’

  Macfarlane suddenly appeared beside them.

  ‘Be careful, Seymour!’ he warned. ‘Anything you say could be in the newspaper.’

  ‘Only if it’s scandalous,’ said the receptionist. ‘And Monsieur Seymour has hardly been here long enough to learn about our scandals. Or, indeed, contribute to them.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ promised Seymour.

  ‘What’s the latest, Chantale?’ asked Macfarlane.

  ‘It’s all very quiet. Juliette is being her usual self but people feel it’s a bit indecent so soon.’

  ‘Mademoiselle is a journalist as well as a receptionist?’ asked Seymour.

  ‘Chantale is a gossip columnist,’ said Macfarlane. ‘And what better place for a gossip columnist than the reception desk of an important hotel?’

  ‘I am not just a gossip columnist,’ said Chantale. ‘I am an investigative journalist too.’

  ‘If I were you,’ said Macfarlane. ‘I’d stick to the gossip. There’s more money in it.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Chantale, ‘but less excitement.’

  A short, plump man with enormous waxed moustaches came up to Seymour and threw his arms around him.

  ‘ Cher collegue!’ he cried.

  ‘ Collegue!’ cried Seymour, returning the embrace but a little surprised.

  The little man stepped back, drew himself together and bowed.

  ‘Renaud,’ he said. ‘Chief of Police.’

  ‘Ah! Seymour-’

  ‘I know, I know. Monsieur Macfarlane has told me. Welcome to Tangier, Monsieur. An aperitif, to welcome your arrival!’

  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 confidently. ‘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 sta
nd 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 negres. 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.