A Dead Man in Tangier

by Michael Pearce

  ‘Look, I know he’s your friend now. He’s a friend of mine, too. But –’

  ‘Everyone in the bilad knows he’s my friend. Or soon will.'

  ‘I know, I know. But –’

  ‘It would look bad,’ said Mustapha, ‘if something happened to him. A friend of mine and I let something bad happen to him! What would people say! I could never show my face again.’

  ‘Well, I know. I couldn’t, either. A friend of yours is a friend of mine. It would look bad.'

  ‘I could never hold up my head in public again.'

  ‘Well, I know. But –’ He turned to Seymour. ‘Look, how long are you likely to be in Tangier for?'

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps three weeks. But –’

  ‘We could look after him,’ said Idris tentatively. ‘For that long. Three weeks is nothing.’

  ‘Nothing!’ agreed Mustapha, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. ‘Easy!'

  ‘Look, thank you very much but I don’t really need anyone to look after me –’

  The two men caught each other’s eye and nodded.

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ said Idris. ‘Where are you going today, then?'

  ‘To the British Consul’s. But –’

  ‘The British Consul?’ said Mustapha significantly.

  ‘That’s right. But –’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Idris, ‘wasn’t that bloke who got taken out something to do with him? A Frenchman. What was his name?'

  ‘Bossu!’ said Ali. ‘He used to come to my shop. Here.’ ‘Bossu!’ said Idris.

  ‘That’s right.'

  ‘Then you certainly do need our protection,’ said Mustapha, turning to Seymour.

  When Seymour set out for the British Consulate a little later, his two new friends, despite everything he could do, swaggered along behind him.

  ‘So you’re Seymour?’ said the Consul unenthusiastically.

  ‘That’s right.'

  ‘From Scotland Yard. Well, you’ll find things a bit different here.'

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Seymour. ‘I worked in the East End.’ ‘Where’s that?'

  Seymour looked at him to see if he was joking; then decided to make allowance for him being in the Foreign Office.

  ‘The East End of London. It’s a rough area. There are a lot of immigrants. Italians, Greeks, Jews, Poles – Central Europeans of all kind.'

  ‘It’s a bit of a mixture here, too. But not immigrants. They belong here. And they all think they own the place.'

  ‘Who does it belong to?'

  ‘Aye, that’s the problem. What languages do you speak?’

  ‘French, German, Italian – most of the European ones. And some Arabic.'

  ‘Just because they’re Moroccan, that doesn’t mean that they speak Arabic. A lot of them speak Berber. But French will be useful. They’re the ones who currently think they own the place.'

  ‘Well, don’t they?'

  ‘They’ve just established a Protectorate here. That doesn’t mean to say that they own the place. As I think they’ll very shortly find. But, yes, they’re the ones we currently have to deal with.'

  ‘And Monsieur Bossu was the man you had to deal with most?'

  ‘No. He was there to deal with me.’

  He looked out of the window.

  ‘What are those two hooligans doing there?'

  Mustapha and Idris were squatting on the verandah outside.

  ‘They’re . . . acquaintances of mine.'

  ‘They’re drug dealers!'

  ‘Very probably.'

  The Consul looked at him hard.

  ‘You’re not –?'

  ‘No.’ He told the Consul how he had come to meet them. ‘What sort of drugs do they deal in?'

  ‘Kif. It’s like marijuana. Everyone takes kif around here. It’s so normal that nobody thinks about it. But it’s profitable to people to deal in it.’ He looked out of the window again. ‘Although not, I would think, for those two.'

  He came back and sat down.

  ‘Tell me about Bossu,’ said Seymour.

  ‘He was clerk to a committee I’m Chairman of. The committee was set up following a complex series of international negotiations which led first to France’s declaration of a Protectorate over Morocco – that was in March – and then to an agreement between France and Spain broadly to the effect that Spain would keep out of it in return for a Spanish-owned zone along the coast. The status of Tangier and the land around it, which is of interest to a lot of countries, including ourselves, was left out of it but there was broad agreement that it should be given a special character, roughly, that it should become a free city supervised by a committee which includes representatives of all the Great Powers. The working details were left to this committee: of which I am Chairman.'

  ‘And Bossu was clerk?'

  ‘Yes.'

  ‘Put in by France to see that the committee did not stray too far from France’s interests?'

  ‘Not quite. Or, rather, not just. There are other interests as well, commercial ones, which are very strong in Tangier. Most are French but not all. Bossu was there to keep them happy as well – their interests may well be different from those of the French Government and through their own contacts they have a strong voice in Paris. Bossu, you could say, was a Tangierian, and that’s not quite the same as a Frenchman, and not at all the same as a Moroccan.’

  ‘And these conflicting interests may have had something to do with his death?'

  ‘That is what I want you to find out.'

  ‘So tell me about the pig-sticking. Which was where, I gather, he met his end.'

  ‘You know about pig-stickings? They’re a bit like an English hunt. Or so they tell me – I’ve never been to one myself,’ he said, with the disdain of a Scot for his savage English neighbours.

  ‘They meet on horses . . .?'

  ‘Aye. With lances, to stick the pigs.'

  ‘The pigs . . .?'

  ‘Are wild. You find them in the scrub outside Tangier. There’s woodland nearby where they can feed. Well, the huntsmen meet at a special place. A local worthy puts up a tent and they have a splendid feast afterwards, which is half the point of the exercise. Some pigs are rounded up and set loose and then off they go.

  ‘Well, Bossu was among the huntsmen – it’s a popular sport among the settlers – and was seen chasing after a boar which had darted off at a tangent into the bushes. Bossu had followed him, apparently alone – and it was only some time later that they found him lying face down in the sand with a lance stuck between his shoulders.'

  ‘And no one saw –?'

  ‘That’s what they claim.'

  ‘But surely someone – I mean, there were clearly a lot of people around.'

  ‘Aye, but the hunt was moving on. Everyone was watching the pigs, and the pigs were running hard, and you didn’t want to lose sight of them –’

  ‘Weren’t there people behind, on foot?'

  ‘Oh, aye; half Morocco.'

  ‘Then –?'

  ‘They were watching the pigs, too.'

  ‘But surely someone must have seen something. He was on a horse, wasn’t he? High up. Above the scrub. How high is the scrub there?'

  ‘Five feet, six feet.'

  ‘Then –’

  ‘No one saw anything. All two hundred of them rushed past. They say. To be fair, there were probably lots of other exciting things going on.'

  ‘Okay. So no one saw anything and the hunt moved on?'

  ‘And eventually came to a stop several miles away. The stickers then made their way slowly back to the Tent and it was only quite some time later that someone noticed that Bossu wasn’t there. And some time after that when someone was sent back to see if he had fallen.'

  ‘Who was sent back?'

  ‘The Sheikh sent two of his men.'

  ‘The Sheikh?'

  ‘Sheikh Musa. The one who organizes the feast. A fine old boy. Used to be Minister of War. He walked out in disgust when the Sul
tan signed the treaty establishing the French Protectorate.'

  ‘And the two men found the body?'

  ‘Lying face down. With a lance stuck between his shoulders. It was still there, apparently. Standing straight up, the men said. Like a flagpole.'

  He smiled wryly.

  ‘A good stick, I think pig-stickers would say.'

  Chapter Two

  ‘I suppose,’ said the Consul, after they had taken tea, ‘that you would like to visit the scene of the crime? Isn’t that what you fellows usually do?'

  Seymour allowed that it was: and they took one of the little fly-blown cabs waiting beneath the palm trees and headed out of town. Their way took them first along a wide boulevard fringed with vivid clumps of bougainvillea and then, leaving behind them the white, crowded streets of the Old City, they entered a completely different area. Rising up a slope to their right were rows of low European-style villas, each in a patch of green with bright bursts of oleander and bougainvillea.

  ‘The European quarter,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Bossu had a house here, where he lived with Mrs Bossu. And an apartment in town where he lived with someone who wasn’t Mrs Bossu.'

  Beyond the villas were cultivated fields and small farms, which gave way to stony desert scattered with thin, thorny scrub; and then, rising incongruously out of the scrub, was a large black and white marquee which reminded Seymour of an English County Show which he had once mistakenly visited.

  ‘The Tent,’ said Macfarlane, with pride.

  In front of the marquee were wagons and blue-gowned figures unloading barrels, which they were taking inside. As each barrel was carried through the entrance it was ticked off on a list by a harassed-looking Frenchman.

  ‘Monsieur L’Espinasse,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Our Secretary.'

  He came across to greet them.

  ‘Monsieur L’Espinasse, Monsieur Seymour.’ Macfarlane spoke in French. ‘Seymour has just arrived from England. He’s come to look into the Bossu business.'

  A shade of discomfort crossed the Secretary’s face.

  ‘Ah, Bossu!’ He looked at Macfarlane. ‘Some people have suggested we ought to cancel,’ he said. ‘As a mark of respect. But others have said that they didn’t feel much respect for Bossu and that it ought to go ahead.'

  ‘You can’t cancel for every little thing,’ said the Consul.

  ‘My thought exactly,’ said the Secretary, relieved. ‘Are you coming tomorrow?’ he said to Seymour. ‘You’d be very welcome. Come as my guest.'

  ‘There’s a pig-sticking tomorrow?'

  ‘Yes. Most Saturdays during the season.'

  ‘I would very much like to.'

  Out of the corner of his eye Seymour saw Idris and Mustapha detach themselves from the rear of the cab, where they had been riding on the axle.

  ‘De Grassac here?’ asked Macfarlane.

  ‘Out the back,’ said the Secretary.

  They went round to the back of the marquee, where they found a group of men who had just been practising. Their lances were stuck in the ground beside their horses, which were still breathing heavily. The men were in military overalls and seemed to be soldiers. Instead of a cap or a helmet they wore a kind of Bedouin headdress.

  ‘Ah, de Grassac! Captain de Grassac,’ he said to Seymour, ‘was the man who was sent out to see to the body when word came in.'

  De Grassac nodded. He was a tall, fiercely moustached man with a deeply suntanned, open face and sharp blue eyes.

  ‘This is Monsieur Seymour. He’s come out to look into this Bossu business. I wonder if you would mind showing him the spot?'

  ‘Not at all,’ said de Grassac. ‘Shall we go now?'

  He hesitated.

  ‘Do you ride? No? Then you’d better come up behind me.'

  As they rode away Seymour saw Idris and Mustapha standing nearby and looking, for the moment, distinctly perplexed.

  De Grassac threaded his way confidently through the thorn. At first the sand was heavily scuffed up where the main hunt had passed, but then he turned away and went off through patches of thick scrub where they soon lost sight of the main track.

  And where, presumably, the people on the main track would have lost sight of them. Seymour began to understand how it was that no one appeared to have seen Bossu.

  The ground rose and fell in little hillocks and valleys and in the hollows, although the scrub was usually only shoulder height, it would be easy to lose sight of a man, even a horseman.

  De Grassac came to a stop and jumped down. For a moment he walked his horse round scrutinizing the ground. Then he pointed. Looking closely, Seymour fancied that the sand was slightly discoloured.

  He slid unskilfully from the horse’s back.

  There ought to be some signs. If he had been a Boy Scout perhaps he would have detected them. But Seymour was not a Boy Scout and so far in his career in the East End of London he had not been called on to display any of those skills at tracking and reading spoor that that madman, Baden Powell, who still regularly occupied the newspapers, seemed so keen on. Today, however, he could have done with them.

  ‘How was he lying?'

  The Captain spread his arms.

  ‘Face down?'

  De Grassac nodded.

  ‘And with the lance in his back,’ he said.

  ‘Pinning him?'

  ‘It had gone right through and the point was embedded in the ground. I had difficulty in pulling it out. I had to pull it out so that they could move him.'

  ‘That suggests considerable force.'

  De Grassac nodded.

  ‘It’s the way you’re taught to stick,’ he said. ‘Thrust hard and thrust down.'

  ‘You think he was killed by someone in the hunt?'

  ‘It was a huntsman’s lance, wasn’t it?'

  Seymour tried to visualize it. It was not the kind of thing that he was used to visualizing.

  ‘You are assuming, then, that he was already lying on the ground when he was stabbed?'

  ‘It’s not easy to stick someone on a horse,’ said de Grassac. ‘I know. I’ve tried it.'

  ‘As a soldier?'

  ‘As a soldier, yes. We sometimes use lances against the tribesmen.'

  ‘But it’s not easy?'

  ‘The tribesmen are usually on foot. But I have tried it against horsemen. No, it’s not easy. The target is moving all the time. So are the pigs, of course. But the thing is, with a pig you can strike down. If a man’s on a horse, you have to strike parallel with the ground and get your lance to steady. And the ground’s going up and down, and the horse in front is, too. And, besides, there’s the question of force. It’s difficult to strike hard enough if you’re striking forward. Whereas when you’re striking down –’

  ‘So you think he was already on the ground?'

  ‘Yes.'

  ‘He must have fallen, then.'

  De Grassac spread his hands.

  ‘Something in the bushes,’ he said. ‘A snake, perhaps.

  ’ ‘Or a man?'

  ‘Or a man.'

  ‘You’re the expert on this. Might he have been stabbed by a man on the ground?'

  ‘No,’ said de Grassac shortly.

  If he had fallen there ought to be some signs of this. A Boy Scout would have picked them out. Seymour, however, could see nothing at all.

  This kind of thing was not for him. He felt like a fish out of water. Sand, scrub, space . . . He was used to the tight little confines of built-up, urban London. Out here, with the huge sky, sand going on for ever, not a building or a person in sight, nor a sound, only the wind oozing thin through the thorn bushes, he was entirely out of his natural element.

  ‘What happened to the lance?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ said de Grassac, surprisingly.

  ‘You’ve got it?'

  ‘Lances cost money. You don’t leave them lying around. You do not, perhaps, understand how things are here, Monsieur. You have to watch over things or else they will be taken. Anything. They wo
uld have stripped the body. In fact, I was surprised when I got here to find that they hadn’t done that already. Of course, Musa had sent back two of his men as soon as it became clear that Bossu hadn’t come in, and after that one of them had always stayed with the body. But that all took time, and, as I say, I was surprised that the body had not already been stripped. This is not England, Monsieur.'

  No, thought Seymour, it certainly was not.

  Back at the Tent the Secretary was talking to a short, wiry Moroccan dressed in a kind of cavalry tunic and riding breeches and boots. He spotted Seymour and waved to him to join them.

  ‘Monsieur Seymour, may I present you to our patron? Sheikh Musa. Monsieur Seymour,’ he explained to the Sheikh, ‘has come out from London to investigate Bossu’s death.'

  ‘From London? An Englishman?'

  They shook hands.

  ‘An Englishman to investigate a Frenchman’s death? Now why is that?'

  Seymour started to explain about the international committee but Musa cut him short.

  ‘I know about the committee,’ he said. ‘You know what they say about it? That everything has already been decided and that it’s just there to dress things up.'

  He spoke perfect French.

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Seymour. ‘I am concerned only with Bossu’s death.'

  ‘Ah, but they say that this is to do with Bossu’s death.’

  ‘Why do they say that?'

  ‘Bossu was the clerk. Some say he was put there to fix it. So that the French could get what they want.'

  ‘Now, Sheikh Musa,’ began the Secretary, ‘you’re being provocative –’

  ‘But that he didn’t fix it. And so they decided to get rid of him.'

  ‘Sheikh Musa –’

  ‘But I don’t believe that. They could have got rid of him without killing him. And, anyway, Bossu would always have done what he was told. So it must be something else. Others say that he was killed for just the opposite reason. So that the French – in the French Government, that is, there are different sorts of French out here – shouldn’t get what they wanted.’

  ‘Who would take that view?'

  ‘The settlers. They’ve been having things their way for a long time. And they’d like that to continue.'