He gave one of his old-man laughs.
‘Of course, in the end they did accept him. In the end, money talked loudest. It usually does, doesn’t it? Bossu had the money, so in the end he had the girl.'
He started to laugh again, then stopped.
‘Mind you, it didn’t work that way with the other one. She turned him down. I’ll bet that was a shock! Turned down by a Moroccan! She wouldn’t have anything to do with him.'
‘And the name of this lady was . . .?'
‘Do they have names?’ Ricard laughed.
The laugh turned into a frown.
‘I used to know it once. I forget everything these days. Marie, was it? Something like that. Anyway, I can tell you who she was. The mother of that . . .’ He had to search again. ‘. . . Chantale!’ he shouted triumphantly.
The barracks was on the edge of town. It was surrounded by a perimeter fence and outside the fence was a bare, sandy area where, to judge by the condition of the sand, horses were exercised. Inside the fence was a large square where men might parade and recruits be given foot drill, and, beyond that, a number of low single-storey buildings. Seymour gave his name at the gate and asked to see Captain de Grassac. An orderly was sent off and soon de Grassac himself appeared.
They shook hands.
‘You have come to see the lance? It won’t take long. There’s nothing very special about it, I’m afraid. But then you can come into the Mess and we’ll have something.’
He took Seymour behind the main building and then into another building where the officers had their quarters. He opened a door and led Seymour into a surprisingly comfortable room lined with books.
De Grassac waved a hand at them almost apologetically.
‘One gets into the way of reading out in the outposts,’ he said. ‘There is not a lot else one can do.'
He went through an inner door and emerged carrying a lance, which he gave to Seymour.
Seymour turned it over in his hands.
‘Where do people get lances from?’ he asked.
‘There’s a place in the city you can buy them from. Darquier’s. This was probably bought there, but I don’t know that will help you.'
He took the lance and turned it over almost fondly.
‘This is obviously an Old Faithful,’ he said, ‘and was bought some time ago. I doubt if their records will show anything.'
‘Mind if I keep it for a day or two?'
‘Not at all.'
He looked at his watch.
‘The bar will be open. Would you like to see our Mess?'
He took Seymour into another building where officers were gathering, and then looked at Seymour inquiringly.
‘We usually drink beer at this time,’ he said, ‘to replace the liquid we sweat out during training.'
‘Beer will do fine.'
De Grassac returned with two beers and sat down.
‘How are you getting on with your investigation?'
‘Nearly there, I think.'
De Grassac raised his eyebrows.
‘Really?’ he said. ‘You surprise me.'
‘There are still one or two things to tie up. I’m still learning things about Bossu. As a man. He doesn’t seem to have been very nice. If what Chantale says about him is true.'
‘You’ve been talking to Chantale? No, he was not a nice man.'
‘I can understand Bossu’s animosity towards de Lissac when they were in Casablanca. It was a time when feelings ran high. And Bossu had put a lot into building the railway. Of himself, I mean. It was one of his first projects and he wanted it to succeed. And he felt he hadn’t started too well, either. With all the trouble. And then de Lissac came along and made things worse. I can understand Bossu feeling angry. But what I can’t understand is why his anger should continue afterwards. If it did.'
‘Oh, it did.'
‘Why was that, do you think?'
De Grassac shrugged.
‘Maybe because of the kind of man Bossu was?’ he offered.
‘I wondered if there was some previous history between them?'
‘Not as far as I know.'
‘You were at the wedding, if I remember. Of de Lissac and Chantale’s mother. Was there anything there?'
‘I don’t think so.'
‘Involving Bossu?'
‘It seems unlikely. Wasn’t he in Tangier?'
‘I just wondered if something had come up.'
‘Not as far as I can recall. You remember it was, well, a private wedding. Rather in secret. There weren’t many people there.'
‘No, but I wondered if you had picked something up.’
‘Look,’ said de Grassac, ‘I wasn’t there long enough to pick anything up. I had been in a fort on the other side of Algeria. I had come over especially for the wedding. Because de Lissac asked me to. I had got a leave pass for fifty-six hours and then I had to be back. I spent most of the time travelling.'
‘Okay, but there was something. I wondered if you had picked it up. If not then, perhaps later.’
De Grassac was silent, for quite a long time.
‘Perhaps,’ he said.
‘You see, it might account for the animosity.'
De Grassac said nothing.
‘Did it?’ said Seymour.
De Grassac was silent for quite a while. Then he said:
‘Chantale, at any rate, thought it did. She even – she thought Bossu might have had a hand in her father’s death.'
He looked at Seymour.
‘You know about this?'
‘Only that he had died. In some kind of road accident.'
‘She wondered if it was an accident. She asked me to go down and see. She couldn’t go herself, she was still at school, I think, and, anyway, a woman down there, on her own – it was out of the question. So I got leave and went down there. He had been driving a truck. Full of explosives.’
‘Explosives?'
‘Yes. It was for some contractors building a road. They needed the dynamite to blast rocks. It was quite legitimate. I checked. I talked to the contractor. The thing was, you see, that they needed someone they could rely on to deliver the dynamite. There were bandits down there and explosives are much sought after. You had to have someone you could trust. And the fact that Marcel had been an army officer was a help – he knew about explosives and wouldn’t be stupid. And Marcel, I think, needed the work.'
He shrugged.
‘Well, there was an explosion, and Marcel was killed. It seems to have been a genuine accident. I checked as much as I could. There were no eyewitnesses, unfortunately, or if there were, they made themselves scarce, as eyewitnesses do down there. I checked as much as I could but couldn’t find anything which suggested that it wasn’t an accident. And an accident was quite likely. Bumpy roads, not even a road, actually, just a track. Dynamite is always dangerous to handle. In the end I had to go back and tell Chantale that it was an accident.’
‘Was there anyone else in the truck? Killed with him?'
‘A mechanic, I think.'
‘So where are you off to?’ asked Mrs Macfarlane.
He had met her on the sea front, off, she said, to pick up her husband for lunch.
‘On my way to a tailor’s,’ said Seymour.
‘You are having something made up?'
‘A suit. He’s done one for me already and it was so good that I thought I would have another done while I was here.'
‘You couldn’t do better. The work is always so good. And the prices are very reasonable.’ She hesitated. ‘You, of course, know about prices here. And about God’s door?’
‘God’s door?'
‘Well, you know there is no such thing as a fixed price out here. To put a price on a thing without a human exchange seems to a Moroccan the height of vulgarity. It goes along with the caida, I suppose. So you have to negotiate everything. But even when you do, you always leave a little leeway so that if something doesn’t turn out as you expected, the coat needs more doing to it than you
had thought, for example, you always have room to adjust. That’s God’s door. A way out. And Moroccans always like to leave it open.'
‘What is it this time, then?’ asked Idris, just before they went into the shop. ‘Another suit? Believe me, you couldn’t do better.'
Ali, the tailor, came forward anxiously.
‘There is no problem, I hope? It fits you well, surely?’
‘It fits me perfectly.'
Ali looked relieved.
‘A simple cleaning up? More blood, perhaps?'
‘More blood?’ said Mustapha. ‘What do you take us for? We’re looking after him.'
‘It was your blood last time,’ Ali pointed out.
‘Ah, well, that was different. It was before we were looking after him. And, anyway, it was one of Ali Khadr’s little games.'
‘I thought he was supposed to be coming round again? Last night, was it? Or is it tonight?'
‘He’s not coming,’ said Idris disgustedly.
‘Someone stopped it,’ said Mustapha.
‘Chantale’s mother,’ said Idris.
‘And very sensible of her,’ said Ali. He looked at Seymour. ‘Then what can I do for you, Monsieur?'
‘Another suit, please. Exactly like the other. The same fit. But different material.'
‘Easy!’ said Ali.
‘And some information,’ said Seymour.
‘Information?'
‘I remember that you told me once, the first time I came, I think, that Bossu had been one of your customers.'
‘That is true. But it was a long time ago. A long, long time ago. When he first arrived in Tangier. He was a poor man then. That, perhaps, was why he came to me. Also, he lived here.'
‘Here?'
‘Just around the corner. He was, as I say, a poor man then.'
‘So he knew the neighbourhood?'
‘Yes.'
‘And the people?'
‘Of course.'
‘Including Chantale’s mother?'
‘He knew the family. The father worked in the Mahzen. Not a high post but a respectable one. And the family was a respectable one, too. Well-to-do, decent. So he would not have met Chantale’s mother. Things were different in those days. She was kept hidden. And behind a veil. So he should never have seen her. But somehow he did.
‘The mother used to come to me sometimes when she wanted work done. And once she came with her daughter. Bossu must have seen them because afterwards he came to me and said, “Who is that beautiful girl?” And I said, “I do not know.” Because I had never seen her without a veil. But Bossu said, “She is with her mother.” “Well, yes,” I said, “and she should be.” “What is her mother’s name, then?” Perhaps I should not have told him, but I did.
‘He went away and I thought no more about it. But then one day I heard he had been to the father and asked for his daughter’s hand. By this time Bossu was growing wealthy and it would have been a good match. Except that he was a Frenchman! “Ill will come of this!” said the family, and they refused him.
‘But Bossu had friends in the Mahzen and someone must have spoken to the father, for he was allowed to renew his suit. But this time it was she who refused. The father might now have said, “Peace! The man has powerful friends.” But the mother said, “No, she doesn’t want him.” So they sent her away to relations in Algeria, and that should have been the end of it.
‘And so for a time it was. But then we heard that he had followed her to Algeria and importuned her there. Only things were looser there. The family allowed her to mix with people and show her face. And now there were other men who admired her and sought her hand.
‘One, in particular: a young Frenchman. And her relatives said, “This is getting serious.” And they wrote to her father and told him. And he said, “Send her back.” And she was to have gone. But she knew that she could be returning not just to her family but also to Bossu. And one day we heard that she had fled with her young officer.
‘Her family cast her out. And when she returned to Tangier, it was years later and her parents were dead. And she came as a married woman with a child. Her husband was much away and in another country. But this was where she had friends and so she came back here and lived among us until her husband was sent to Morocco. But by that time Bossu was gone and we heard no more of him.'
Chapter Thirteen
As Seymour came out of the shop he felt his arm seized.
‘Why, Monsieur Seymour!’ cooed the soft voice of Juliette Bossu. ‘Are you out shopping, too?'
‘Well, not exactly.'
‘What is that thing you are carrying? Surely not a lance?'
‘A souvenir of Morocco. To take home to my mother.’
‘A lance?’ said Juliette doubtfully. But then put Seymour’s concerns aside.
‘I made Constant bring me. I always feel safer with a man, you know, especially these days when it is so easy for a lone woman to be attacked. But, do you know what, the wretch has deserted me!'
Juliette sighed theatrically.
‘But when duty calls, I suppose a man has to go. Someone came running up and told him, and the dear man felt he should be there. “But what about me, Constant?” I cried. “Do you not also have a duty to me? Am I to be left alone to be ravished in the street?” Alone, that was, Monsieur Seymour,’ said Madame Bossu fondly, ‘until I met you!'
‘Well, yes, Madame. Thank you. Yes. I’m sure – you will be quite safe with me – although I was going –’
‘Oh, thank you!’ breathed Juliette. ‘And now let us go and have a nice tˆete-`a-tˆete over coffee. Just the two of us, I know the very place!’ She thrust her arm firmly through Seymour’s.
‘Well, thank you. Yes, that would be nice. Very nice. But – what about Monsieur Renaud? Should he return?'
‘Oh, he will know where to find me. Anyway he shouldn’t have abandoned me. Suppose they come down the street and fall upon me?'
‘Indeed. Yes, indeed! But – who, exactly, Madame, might fall upon you?'
‘They, of course! The students!'
‘The students?'
‘Have you not heard? They have risen in revolt. And seized the main madrassa block! And they have closed the classes, and hung dreadful banners from the windows and are shouting the most awful things!'
‘No, I hadn’t –’
But now, in the distance, he could hear shouting and chanting, and he suddenly remembered what Chantale had said about the students planning some ‘stunt’.
‘I don’t think you need to be too alarmed,’ he said.
‘But, Monsieur Seymour, you do not know these people! They are not like us. Excitement goes to their head and they become violent. There is talk of a procession, and it might come down here, and then what will we do?'
‘Well, what we could do, Madame, is follow your excellent suggestion and go for some refreshment.'
‘Well, we could. I suppose . . .'
She led him across the street and into a small salon de thé.
‘And we could watch the procession as it passes!’ said Juliette happily. ‘I do love a procession! A peaceful one, of course. They usually have bands. But –’ Her face clouded over. ‘The way they dress! So drab! There is no style, Monsieur Seymour, no style! If they would just spend a few moments with me, I could – But, perhaps, on second thoughts, that might not be a good idea. They have no respect, that is the problem. That is what I said to Monsieur Renaud. “Too right!” he said. “And that is just what I am going to teach them!” And then he went off and left me –’
‘You are quite safe now, Madame.'
He looked covertly at his watch. A quick cup of tea and then he might get rid of her.
‘Although I would not wish to take you from your shopping –’
‘Oh, you won’t! I have done most of it.'
‘Well, then, we can enjoy our tea.'
Fortunately, they did not have to enjoy it for long. The face of Monsieur Renaud appeared round the door.
�
�Juliette!'
‘Constant!’ said Madame Bossu, not altogether pleased.
‘You are safe?'
‘I am safe. With Monsieur Seymour,’ she said pointedly.
‘Do, please, join us, Monsieur Renaud,’ said Seymour hastily.
‘I may?'
He pulled up a chair.
‘And you, too, are safe, Constant,’ said Juliette, relenting slightly.
‘It was nothing.'
‘I hope you did not risk yourself, Constant. Those sauvages!’
‘It was nothing. I put a picquet on. A few policemen. The students shouted, of course. Jeered.'
‘The brutes!'
‘But you expect that from students these days. Now in my day –’
Juliette cut him short.
‘Have you arrested them?'
‘Well, no –’
‘But why not?'
‘Juliette, there are hundreds of them! And I only have half a dozen policemen!'
‘Why have you not sent for the army?'
‘Well, of course, it could come to that –’
‘You should assert yourself, Constant. Crush them. That way they learn.'
‘Yes, well –’
‘You are too soft. The only language they understand is bullets.'
‘Bullets, Juliette?'
‘Well, why not?'
‘Well, one reason is that the newspapers were there –’
‘The newspapers? But surely Monsieur Lambert can take care of those?'
‘Yes, but –’ Renaud wriggled. ‘Some of them were foreign, Juliette. Spanish, English –’
‘We should expel them!'
‘But even then, Juliette. Word would get out. You have no idea – It is very difficult –’
‘It is always difficult, Constant. For you,’ said Madame Bossu. ‘But you must be resolute. What does it matter if word does get out? They expect you to be firm, Constant. They are only students, after all.'
‘Yes, but – some of the newspaper men were inside the building. Talking to the students.'
‘Well?'
‘Getting their point of view.'
‘So?'
‘Mademoiselle Chantale, for instance –’
‘That woman!’ Juliette cried. ‘But she is a sauvage herself! She attacked a woman in the street. Poor Madame Poiret. She struck her, actually struck her!'
A Dead Man in Tangier Page 18