The next morning Seymour went to see Mr Bahnini. He showed him the membership list of the hunt that Monsieur L’Espinasse had given him.
‘Do you know any of these men?’
Mr Bahnini studied the list.
‘I know quite a few of them.’
‘Did any of them use to come here? To see Bossu?’
‘One or two, yes.’
He gave Seymour their names.
‘Do you know what they wanted to see him about?’
‘They probably wished to make some representation. On a point of interest concerning their business usually.’
‘Can you tell me what their business was?’
Mr Bahnini looked at the names again.
‘Something to do with the railway. They all work for contracting firms.’
‘In Tangier?’
‘All over the place.’
‘In Casablanca?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Wasn’t there some question of a railway in Casablanca? A few years ago?’
‘It was just a local railway. Connecting a quarry with a building project on the sea front.’
‘And were these men by any chance something to do with that?’
‘Yes. Yes, I think they were. I remember their names. I did some of the contracts. I had just started working for Monsieur Bossu at the time and remember being surprised.’
‘Surprised?’
‘At how big they were. In relation to the project, the railway, that is, for it was just a small one. But I think the contracts took in a number of other things as well.’
‘There was nothing odd about them?’
‘No, no. People raised questions about them at the time but they always do. In my experience ordinary people don’t understand contracts. Because they don’t understand them, and because they’re suspicious of lawyers, they think they’re all part of some conspiracy by the rich. But usually they’re just straightforward arrangements for the conduct of business. The rich like to tie things down in case they lose money.’
‘And you were working at the time for Monsieur Bossu?’
‘Yes, he had lured me out of the Ministry.’
‘Which Ministry was that?’
‘The Ministry of War.’
‘Under Sheikh Musa, would that have been?’
‘A long way under. I was in the Accounts section. That was, actually, quite a good place to be in Morocco. You were safe there. Under the Parasol. No one could get at you. And under Musa you weren’t asked to do wrong things. They gave you a good training, too. It was always easy to get a good job after you’d worked for them. That may have been why Monsieur Bossu wanted me. If ever a man needed a good accountant, he did.’
‘Because he was often doing things that were questionable?’
Mr Bahnini considered.
‘Perhaps a little,’ he conceded. ‘They seemed so to me. We would never have done them in the Ministry. But, I thought, maybe that was the way things were done in business? But I wouldn’t say they were ever more than questionable. Not downright dishonest.’
He smiled.
‘That wasn’t the way he made his money, if that was what you were thinking. He earned it through fees, usually for negotiating something. He was very good at that.’
‘And this railway that you mentioned, did he have a hand in negotiating that?’
‘Yes. It was one of his earlier jobs. And I don’t think he did it very well, not as well as he would have done later. The route of the railway led through a Muslim cemetery and that caused all sorts of trouble. People said afterwards that he ought to have foreseen it and bought them off.’
‘It was thought to have sparked off the trouble, I gather?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘There was a lot of feeling about it?’
‘Oh, there was. Even in my own family. Sadiq was very difficult at the time. He was still at school and the students got very worked up about it. For weeks he wouldn’t even speak to me. It was a relief when he went away to university. The strain on my wife…! So when Monsieur Bossu moved back to Tangier and asked me to go with him I was only too glad to go.
‘Of course, you never escape from these things. Afterwards I was always known as Bossu’s man. So you can understand that when he died, I was — well, I won’t say pleased, that would be a nasty thing to say, and he had always treated me fairly, but — I felt as if a load had been lifted off me. I saw a chance to start again. I could even go back to Casablanca, which is where I came from originally, although it would not be easy.
‘That is why, when Mr Macfarlane asked me to stay on, I refused. I just couldn’t. I feel that I couldn’t, any longer.’
When he went out, the group of young men were sitting again in the cafe across the street. He could see Sadiq, and also the other one, who had been involved in the altercation with Chantale the day before, Awad. When they saw him, Awad said something to Sadiq and they both jumped up and came across to him.
‘I would like to express my thanks for your intervention yesterday, Monsieur. At the time I wasn’t sure whether I should accept your suggestion — I wanted to make a stand! But, on reflection, I see that you were right.’
Seymour said that was very generous of him, and that he had been talking to Chantale, and that she was taking more or less the same line. It ended with Awad and Sadiq inviting him across the road to join the group at the table.
They were mostly drinking tea, although some were having fruit juice. At first they were rather shy but then, led by Awad and Sadiq, they began to question him eagerly: about England, certainly, but also about Istanbul. They were all radical but also, it seemed to him, very naive. They took as their pattern the recent revolution in Istanbul which had led to the ousting of the Sultan. It was what they had hoped for in Morocco: but then the French had stepped in!
What, now, in the new circumstances, should they do? Leave the country or stand up for a new Morocco here? He had the feeling that it was something they discussed endlessly. Probably it was what they spent their days doing.
Exile or resolution? Twist, or bust? He could see it was a very exciting thing to discuss. But would it ever issue in anything? Would it stay at just talk?
Or not?
Another conversation was going on, apparently endlessly, behind him.
‘Mustapha, I told you it was a mistake to warn Chantale!’
‘Well, I had to, didn’t I? After what happened that other time.’
‘Yes, but we’ll be over there this time.’
‘She still won’t like it.’
There was a pause. Then Idris said: ‘Suppose we hit them at their place? Before they’ve even started?’
‘We could do that,’ Mustapha conceded.
‘Well, then…’
‘But it would make no difference. If she’s already been to the mosque.’
‘Maybe it wouldn’t.’ It was Idris who conceded this time. ‘But I still don’t like it!’ he said.
‘Well, I don’t, either.’
‘They’ve got to be taught a lesson. That’s what I said, Mustapha, if you remember. That’s what I said to you at the time. “They’ve got to be taught a lesson.” There are rules in this game and they’ve got to follow them. Otherwise, things get bloody lawless!’
‘I was waiting, Idris.’
‘We shouldn’t have waited. We should have hit them hard straightaway. Because if we don’t, they’ll do it again.’
‘I hear what you are saying, Idris.’
‘It’s our territory, isn’t it? And they invaded it. Came right in. If we let them get away with it, they’ll be over here again. And again. And then it won’t be our territory any more, will it? It’ll be theirs!’
‘I know exactly what you mean, Idris.’
‘Well, then…’
‘I was waiting. Shall I tell you why? Because I wanted to find out who was behind it. Look, I know Ali Khadr. He wouldn’t have done this on his own. It would never have entered his thick head. Someone must have put him up to it. Put him up to it, and maybe even paid him a bit, because he wouldn’t have done a thing like that for nothing. Someone must have put him up to it. And what I was doing, Idris, was waiting to find who it was, and then bloody hammer them.’
‘That’s smart, Mustapha!’ said Idris reluctantly. ‘That’s smart. But…’
‘Yes, Idris?’
‘Are you sure? About someone putting him up to it?’
‘Look, Idris, it’s not his territory, is it? He came from outside. So how did he know about it? A new hotel that wasn’t even on his territory? The day after they moved in? Someone tipped him off, Idris, and I want to find out who it was.’
‘Well, I’m with you there, Mustapha. But — couldn’t it have been the police who tipped them off? Someone said it was the police.’
‘But, Idris, again: it was our territory. The police know that as well as we do. Would they have let anyone else in on it? Would they?’
‘Well, no…’
‘And look at another thing: everyone in the quarter knows Chantale and her mother. You could say they were our people. Everyone knows that. Everyone here, that is. And they wouldn’t like it. Our people! So they had to go outside the quarter to get someone to do it. Get someone like Ali Khadr, who wouldn’t know any better. People here wouldn’t like it. The police know that as well as anybody. I’m not saying that someone in the police might not have tipped them off, maybe told them that they’d moved in, that the moment was ripe. Although if they did, they’d do well to keep quiet about it. So you see, Idris, I’m not so stupid after all. There’s someone behind this, and I want to find out who it is. That’s why I was waiting!’
‘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. Juliette. I’ll bet she’s not altogether sorry Bossu has gone.’
His daughter came 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?’