‘I don’t know what’s come over the young. They have chances we never had. And what do they do? Loll about and complain! Say the world’s all wrong and that it needs to change before they’ll get their hands dirty by working in it!’
Seymour laughed.
‘The young have always been like that,’ he said.
‘But it’s different now. Here. And with the Protectorate being imposed, it’s become worse. They say such wild things!’
‘It’s just talk.’
‘So long as it stops at just talk,’ said Mr Bahnini darkly.
When Seymour left, he saw just such a group of young men as they had been discussing sitting in a cafe across the road. In fact, they were the young men they had been talking about, or some of them were, for as he and Mr Bahnini came out of the bank one of them looked up and saw them and then came running across the road towards them.
‘Your pardon, Father,’ he said. ‘I spoke too warmly.’
‘Like father, like son,’ said Mr Bahnini. ‘I spoke too warmly, too.’
The young man fell in alongside them.
‘This is Monsieur Seymour,’ said Mr Bahnini. ‘From England.’
‘Oh, from England?’
He asked Seymour, as they all did, how he found Morocco: but he asked in a different way from the others. He asked with a fierce interest, as if the answer really mattered. Seymour, who found the question difficult to answer at any depth, replied as best he could. The young man pondered and then said:
‘Do you find us backward?’
‘Different,’ said Seymour. ‘Not backward.’
‘Yes, we are different,’ said the young man. He appeared relieved.
Seymour said that he found Tangier different, too, from other places around the Mediterranean that he had been in; from Istanbul, for example, where he had been the previous year.
‘You have been in Istanbul?’
‘Briefly.’
‘That is somewhere where things are happening!’ said the young man enviously.
There had been a revolution there and the Sultan had been deposed.
‘And how do you think it is working out?’ he asked anxiously.
‘It’s too early to say. Things are changing, certainly. But I have a feeling that the Sultanate is not finished yet.’
‘They won’t go back?’ said the young man, aghast.
‘They might. But if they do it won’t be to quite the way things were before.’
‘Once change starts,’ said Mr Bahnini, ‘it is hard to stop it.’
‘I hope that’s true,’ his son said. ‘For Turkey’s sake, at least.’ He looked at Seymour. ‘We have a strange situation here,’ he said. ‘When the revolution started in Istanbul we all said, “Yes, yes! It is a pattern for what should happen here.” But it hasn’t worked out like that. The French have stepped in and brought all that change to a stop.’
‘Not all that change,’ objected his father. ‘Some of it will continue to go on.’
‘Instead of the Sultan we have the French. That isn’t much of an improvement.’
Seymour called in to see Renaud but he wasn’t in his office. This was the third time Seymour had tried without success and he mentioned it to Chantale when he got back to the hotel.
‘Oh, he won’t be in his office!’ she said.
‘Where will he be, then?’
She looked at his watch.
‘There’s a little bar in the Place Concorde…’
And there indeed was Monsieur Renaud, perched on a stool and chatting to the patronne.
‘Collegue!’
He jumped up.
‘Cher collegue!’
They embraced.
‘Un aperitif?’
‘Allow me…’
And, a little later, ‘Forgive me, cher collegue, for coming to you. It is an imposition, I know.’
‘An imposition? But not at all! A pleasure! A pleasure!’ Renaud repeated. He looked along the bar. The patronne, without saying anything, brought another two Pernods.
They exchanged toasts again.
‘You know,’ said Seymour, as they settled back on their stools, ‘there is one thing in which I regard myself as fortunate. It is to find myself working with you.’
‘Ah, Monsieur-’
‘No, I mean it. It is not always that one finds oneself working with people who are so sympathique. Colleagues who put people first. As you so evidently do. Your solicitude for Madame Bossu! Can I say that I find it admirable? Yes, admirable. Caring, thoughtful, sensitive. One does not always find that in one’s colleagues. I consider myself fortunate.’
‘Ah, Monsieur, you are too kind! But you are right. For me, the human touch is all. It is not so with everybody, but for me, for me it comes first. We must not lose sight of the pain in the one who has suffered. And we must do what we can to alleviate it.’
‘Just so! A man dies, and it is our job as policemen to find out who has killed him. But we must remember, too, the ones he leaves behind. The man dies and so often the woman is left alone. It is then that support is needed and, thank goodness, it is exactly that you are providing for Madame Bossu.’
‘Poor Juliette!’
‘She should be grateful. And I’m sure she will be. It may take a little time to show-’
‘She doesn’t realize all the work I am doing for her.’
‘Oh, she will, she will.’
‘You think so?’ said Renaud, pleased.
‘I am sure of it. And when she does, I am sure she will be truly grateful.’
‘Well, well, that would be nice. All I want, you know, is a little appreciation.’
‘And, perhaps, some time later, as she begins to recover from this terrible experience, something more? A man is a man, after all.’
‘Well, yes, there is that,’ said Renaud, smiling.
‘Well, I wish you success! But, meanwhile there is work to be done. And a lot of it. No one knows that better than I do. Bossu was a man of so many interests. With those, there is always much to sort out.’
‘There is, there is!’
‘Business interests, too. Complex ones. That makes it particularly difficult.’
‘It does. It does.’
‘Especially as he seems to have had business interests everywhere.’
‘That is what I keep saying to Juliette. It’s not as if his affairs were confined to Tangier, I say.’
‘The business trips alone-’
‘Exactly! “I have a job,” I say to Juliette. “I can’t be always going off to places like Marrakesh. I have responsibilities here.” But she does not understand!’
‘Ah, women!’
‘Exactly, Monsieur: women!’
‘But perhaps I can help?’
‘Help?’ said Renaud, disconcerted.
‘Over the business trips at least. I have some information on them.’
‘You do?’
‘Dates, for instance.’
‘Dates?’
‘And places.’
‘Places?’
‘And sums. Do you have sums?’
‘Well…’
‘Perhaps we could compare notes. You show me your information and I’ll show you mine. I gather you have his papers?’
‘Some, yes. Well, most-’
‘Then we could go through them together.’
‘Um, ah — They are not — not all to hand.’
‘You do have them still?’
‘Oh, yes. But — some are still to be sorted.’
‘We can do that together.’
‘Um. Ah. Yes.’
Renaud pulled himself together.
‘But before I could do that, I would have to… They are Juliette’s papers, after all. Private papers. Yes, that’s it. Private papers. I feel I ought not to
‘Naturally, I would not wish to pry into Madame Bossu’s private papers. But Bossu’s papers… Surely Bossu’s papers are within the scope of the public investigation?’
‘Um. Ah. Yes. But..
Seymour could see that he was not going to let Seymour anywhere near them.
That evening he went to see Monique.
‘Well, this is a pleasure,’ she said.
Her apartment was tucked away from the sea front but close enough to it and high up enough for him to be able to see the sea. She took him out on to a little balcony which overlooked the bay. It was dark now and the harbour was alive with lights. From the cheap Arab cafes over to their left came the throbbing and wailing of Arab music. They sat down.