‘Mustapha, you are a deep thinker!’ said Idris in admiration.
‘I am. And when I find out who set up the attack on the hotel, I’m going to cut their bloody balls off!'
‘Just a minute,’ said Seymour. ‘What’s this about a hotel?'
‘The Miramar. The one Chantale and her mother run.’
‘And what’s this about an attack on it?'
‘The day they moved in. The first day! Wrecked the place. Really did it over. It was shocking. My wife went round to give a hand in cleaning it up, and when she got back to me, she was going through the roof. “Call yourself a man?” she said. “And you let this sort of thing go on? In our quarter? Chantale and her mother. What sort of man are you?” I tell you, Idris, the beans weren’t exactly good that night!'
‘There was an attack on the Hotel Miramar? The night Chantale and her mother moved in?'
‘That’s right.'
‘It sounds like a welcome party,’ said Seymour.
‘You know about welcome parties?'
‘We have that sort of thing in England, too.'
‘In England!'
Mustapha was impressed.
‘They do it there, too?'
‘Yes.'
Mustapha turned to Idris.
‘There you are! It goes on all over the world. I’ve always said that. It’s going global, I’ve always said.'
‘Yes,’ said Seymour, ‘you’d be all right in England.'
(What was he saying?)
‘But I think you’d better stay here,’ he said hurriedly.
Ahead of him he saw a face he recognized.
‘Dr Meunier!'
‘Monsieur Seymour!'
Meunier stopped, and removed his hat, then mopped his brow.
‘Hot today, isn’t it? And getting hotter!'
‘You’ve been on an errand of mercy?'
‘You could call it that. I’ve been seeing old Ricard. You know Ricard? You may have seen him at the pig-sticking. Although you shouldn’t have. One of these days he’ll fall off and kill himself. Probably soon. Which would be a mercy for Suzanne.'
‘His wife?'
‘His daughter. Who looks after him lovingly. And with more patience than I could manage.'
He looked around.
‘Fancy a drink?'
They went into a bar.
‘A pastis, I think. With plenty of cold water. One for you, too?'
They sat down at a little table in the corner and sipped their drinks. Seymour had been going to go for beer but this was a less heavy alternative.
‘So how are you getting on with your particular chasse?’ asked Meunier.
‘Less exciting than the pig-sticking,’ said Seymour, ‘and proceeding more slowly.'
‘A lot of bother,’ said Meunier, ‘and to what purpose? People come and go, often quite quickly out here. Does it make a lot of difference in the end? Of course, as a doctor, I’m biased. I see too much of it.'
‘Do you treat the military casualties, too?'
‘Not in the field. They have their own doctors. But back here in Tangier. Usually for venereal diseases.'
‘I should think that’s likely to be a long job. Maybe like my job?'
‘At least we both get paid for the work we do,’ said Meunier.
They drank to that.
‘Tell me,’ said Seymour, putting down his glass, ‘are you a pig-sticker yourself?'
‘I was once,’ said Meunier, ‘but gave it up while the going was still manageable. Before I got too old. Unlike that old idiot, Ricard.'
‘A veteran of the cause, is he?'
‘You could say that. Rides every meet. And, actually, he’s not too bad. Or, at least, he wasn’t in his time. Now, of course, he’s rather slower. But that’s partly because Suzanne will only let him ride on a sensible old horse, which keeps him out of trouble. Fortunately it also keeps him out of the way of everyone else. “It’s not you I’m bothered about, Ricard,” I say. “It’s everyone else.” But, he says, they’d be all right if only he had a better horse! “Don’t, for God’s sake, let him get one,” I say to Suzanne. Just been saying it, in fact.'
‘You know,’ said Seymour, ‘I’ve been wondering about that. About the way the hunt goes. From what I could see, it spreads out a lot.'
‘Oh, yes.'
‘The better riders push on, the weaker drop behind.'
‘Inevitably.'
‘And, presumably, the same ones are always lagging behind?'
‘I don’t think they mind that too much. People like Leblanc and Digoin are just there for the ride. And there’s nothing wrong with that. You get the benefit of the exercise, enjoy the air, the desert, sand, if you like that sort of thing.'
‘So you find the same people taking up the rear each time? People like Digoin and Leblanc – oh, and, presumably Monsieur Ricard, too?'
‘Yes. The same old stragglers. I won’t mind confessing, though, that it’s with a certain sense of relief that I see them come in each time. But they do!'
Seymour went to call on Macfarlane. He arrived just as Sheikh Musa was coming out of the Consul’s office.
‘I’m sorry, Musa,’ Macfarlane was saying, ‘but there’s not much that I can do.'
‘But there is; you’re Chairman of the committee, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but this doesn’t come within the committee’s brief.'
‘Then why are you authorizing it?'
‘We’re not authorizing it. We’re just sketching out the kind of arrangements that the Tangier zone will need to put in place for this to happen.’
Musa snorted.
‘That’s just legalistic quibbling!’ he said. ‘You know that once the committee has indicated the nature of the arrangements that will be likely, everyone will be shovelling things that way: money, guns, everything that is making Moulay stronger.'
‘Look, I don’t like it any more than you do. The man is just a bandit. But there’s nothing I can do about it.'
‘He’s getting stronger all the time.'
‘Yes, I know. But he’s outside the projected zone and therefore nothing to do with me or the committee. He doesn’t exist as far as we are concerned.'
‘But that’s ridiculous! If you go ahead with these “arrangements” –’
‘Possibility of. We’re just sketching out the possibilities, that’s all.'
‘– you’ll have to make them with somebody. And that will be him.’
‘We’re not making arrangements with anybody. That comes later.'
‘Building a railway line?'
‘Making it possible to build a railway line. Once the zone has been declared. There will need to be a railway line, Musa, connecting Tangier with the south. All my committee is doing, Musa, is outlining the legal powers the Tangier council would need to be given for it to be able to conclude arrangements for such a railway to be built.’
‘And make Moulay even stronger!'
‘I agreed with you, Musa, it probably would. But that’s not my concern. I have to look at things narrowly from the point of view of Tangier.'
‘Who’s looking at it from the point of view of Morocco?'
Macfarlane was silent. Then he shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, Musa,’ he said. ‘These things go ahead.'
‘The French, I suppose,’ said Musa, answering his own question. ‘The French!'
He saw Seymour and nodded to him. Then he turned back to Macfarlane.
‘Do you know what I think?’ he said. ‘I think the French will do a deal with Moulay. I think they’ll bring him back and make him Sultan in place of that other. Well, that might be no bad thing. The other has been useless. He has already given Morocco away. Moulay could hardly do worse. But you see what that would do? It would cement French control. And then there would be no more Morocco!'
He shook his head.
‘And no one is doing anything about it!’ he said.
He gave Macfarlane a quick embrace and stalked out.
/> As he went, he nearly collided with Seymour.
‘Ah, the Bossu man!’ he said. ‘Bossu! At least that was a step in the right direction!'
‘Grand old boy!’ said Macfarlane, looking after him. ‘The trouble is, he can’t accept that Morocco is changing.'
‘He seems to me to have a pretty shrewd idea of what’s going on.'
‘Oh, he has that. But he can’t accept – well, he can’t accept that now it’s inevitable. The French have taken over.'
‘And there won’t be a place for the likes of Sheikh Musa?'
‘There would be a place for him. Lambert would be only too willing. But Musa’s heart is with the older order, with the Parasol, you might say. And that has gone for good.
’ He led Seymour into his office. There were the usual small teacups on the low table and a beautiful old teapot. Macfarlane lifted the lid and peered inside.
‘Still some,’ he said. ‘Like some?'
The sharp smell of mint drifted into the room.
He poured some out for Seymour and filled his own cup.
‘Now, what was it you wanted to see me about?'
‘Three men,’ said Seymour. ‘Digoin, Leblanc and Ricard.'
‘I know them, certainly,’ said Macfarlane. ‘But . . .'
He look puzzled.
‘I’d like to talk to them.'
‘Well, that can be arranged. But – laddie, are you sure you’re not barking up the wrong tree?'
‘No, I don’t think so.'
‘Because I know all three of them and the idea that they could have had anything to do with – which is, I take it, what you want to see them for . . . Look, Digoin is a danger on a horse, that is true. Especially with a lance in his hand. But that is because he is so short-sighted. He might stick anybody. Or anything. The idea that he might –’
‘No, I wasn’t thinking that.'
‘And Leblanc is – well, he’s one of the sweetest blokes around. He’s a chemist, an apothecary, as they say here. Lovely chap. But wouldn’t hurt a soul. Finds it hard to hurt even a pig. In fact, never hurts a pig. Never hurts anyone. Just rides along for the fun of it. And usually behind everyone so that there’s no chance of being anywhere near at a kill.’
‘That’s just why I want to see him.'
‘Well, you know what you want, I suppose, but –’
‘And Ricard?'
‘Well, Ricard is one of the old settlers. And when I say old, I mean old. He must be in his eighties. He’s still riding but even he recognizes he’s got to watch it. Meunier’s warned him. He’s always warning him. “One fall, Ricard, and it will be the end of you!” But he loves it and won’t give it up. He just rides along steadily behind the others. He’s got a safe old nag, which is nearly as old as he is, and the two of them just keep going. He makes no attempt to keep up with the action these days –’
‘Fine! That’s just what I want.'
‘Really?’ said Macfarlane doubtfully.
‘Yes, really.'
‘Well, I’ll take you over. It’s not far. I’ll take you over now if you like.'
Monsieur Ricard lived with his daughter in one of the villas just outside Tangier which Seymour had passed on his way to the pig-sticking. Her husband was in Customs and worked in the port of Tangier. Monsieur Ricard no longer worked and spent most of his days sitting on the verandah looking out over the bay. From time to time, however, he would rise from his seat and walk out into the garden, where he would find something to do or something to tell the gardener to do.
‘Old habits died hard,’ said his daughter, ‘and he is still a farmer at heart. And he can’t get used to not doing anything physical.'
‘He still rides, though?'
His daughter pulled a face.
‘Despite everything we can do.'
‘What’s that?’ said Monsieur Ricard, whose hearing was not so much hard of as differential: some things he heard, some things he didn’t. ‘What’s that about riding? The hunt’s not been cancelled, has it?'
‘No, Father,’ said his daughter patiently. ‘It’s just that we are talking about it.'
‘We? Who’s we? You’re not talking to that fool, Renaud, again, are you?'
‘No, Father. It is Monsieur Macfarlane. And a friend. They want to talk about the hunt.'
‘Well, bring them here, then. What are you waiting for? Hanging about, talking! Bonjour, Monsieur Macfarlane. Suzanne, bring in some coffee. You’ll get some decent coffee here, Monsieur Macfarlane, that’s one thing I will say for her.'
‘Ricard, allow me to present a friend, Monsieur Seymour. From England.'
‘What?'
‘From England,’ said Seymour, and then, shifting rapidly to ground where he thought Monsieur Ricard’s hearing might be better: ‘Allow me to say, Monsieur, that the view from your garden is remarkable!'
‘Not bad, is it?'
‘And the gardens! One could almost,’ he said mischievously, ‘be in England.'
‘You’d do better here!'
Seymour laughed.
‘I compliment you on your skill, Monsieur.'
‘Well, well,’ said Ricard, mollified. ‘I don’t do so badly, it is true. Do I, Macfarlane?'
‘Not badly at all,’ agreed Macfarlane.
‘And you come to talk about the hunt?’ Ricard said to Seymour.
‘About a particular hunt,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Monsieur Seymour is a policeman and he is here to find out what happened to Bossu.'
‘Bossu! Well, there’s a fine fellow!'
‘Monsieur Macfarlane suggested I talk to you, not only as someone who was there, but as someone familiar with the ways of the hunt.'
‘Well, that’s true,’ said Ricard. ‘I am. And that’s more than could be said for Bossu. You know,’ he said, turning to Macfarlane, ‘I shall never understand how a man can ride week after week, year after year, and never learn a thing about hunting!'
‘He wasn’t interested,’ said Macfarlane.
‘No,’ said Ricard, ‘all he was interested in was showing off to Mademoiselle Monique.'
He chuckled maliciously.
‘Not to Juliette, although she was there too. He didn’t care a toss for Juliette, not once he’d married her.'
‘Oh, I don’t know –’ said Macfarlane.
‘It’s true! the old man insisted. ‘Not a toss. It was just a marriage of convenience. And they both got what they wanted. She wanted money, a house, and position. Her parents wanted money. And Bossu? Well, he got what he wanted, too: entry. Entry into the world of the Tangier social elite. For him, it wasn’t the money, it was the social contacts. For them, it wasn’t the contacts, it was the money. So they were all satisfied. Mind you, it nearly didn’t happen. Did you know that?’ he said to Macfarlane.
‘No,’ said Macfarlane, ‘I didn’t.'
‘At the last moment they found out there was someone else. Or had been someone else. Well, Juliette didn’t mind that. It was all over now, and anyway the other woman had turned him down. But there was something else. The other woman was – well, quite unsuitable. So unsuitable as to reflect badly on Bossu. And, of course that meant on Juliette, and on her family, too. As I say, it was all in the past, but even so! Could the family condone this disgraceful, disgusting thing? It turned out, of course, in the end, that they could: for some more money.'
The old man cackled with glee.
‘For more money!’ he repeated. ‘They could condone it then!'
He was convulsed with malicious pleasure.
‘They could condone it then, all right! Mind you, it always rankled with Juliette. You see, the other woman, the one they all looked down on, had turned him down; and she, Juliette, hadn’t!'
He slapped himself on the knee.
‘You’re talking about Monique?'
‘No, no. Monique was after she’d turned him down. Before he knew Juliette. Lives up the hill, you know. Juli-ette. I’ll bet she’s not altogether sorry Bossu has gone.'
His daughter c
ame in with a tray of coffee.
Evidently that needed explanation.
‘Abdul was taking so long!’ she said. ‘So in the end I brought it myself.'
‘Needs a good kick up the backside!’ said Ricard testily.
‘Thanks, Suzanne!’ said Macfarlane. ‘Children well?'
They talked about the children for a while. Monsieur Ricard concentrated on softening a biscuit in his coffee. Then he pushed his cup aside.
‘So,’ he said, looking at Seymour shrewdly, his eyes functioning, for this purpose at any rate, well, ‘what do you want to know?'
Chapter Nine
No – contemptuously – he hadn’t seen Bossu ride off at a tangent. He was already ahead of him at that point. In any case, he was riding on the other side of the course. Concentrating on the hunt. He liked to keep up with them while he could. Of course, in the end they would leave him behind, that was the penalty – with a baleful look at his daughter – of being lumbered with an old nag. If he had had Chestnut he would have kept up with them. Even been in at the kill!
‘Chestnut is dead, Father,’ said Suzanne quietly. ‘He’s been dead for years.'
‘I know that!’ he said impatiently. ‘I’m just saying that with a proper horse I’d have kept up!'
‘Of course, you would, Father, but –’
‘She listens too much to that fool, Meunier!’ Ricard growled.
‘Sure, sure,’ said Suzanne, and took the tray away.
‘Well, there you are, Monsieur. I didn’t see anything. I can’t help you, I’m afraid.'
‘Ah, but you can, Monsieur. It is afterwards that I am interested in. After Bossu had ridden away, and after he had been killed. Can I take you back to that earlier stage of the chase? And, perhaps, after. The riders would be bunched at the start, wouldn’t they, all keeping up. But then they would begin to stretch out. Some of the slowest would be falling behind?'
‘Well, of course! And I can tell you, they wouldn’t have included me. Not if I had had a proper horse!'
A Dead Man in Tangier Page 12