Seymour explained why he was in Tangier and said that the investigation was of some importance to the international community and in particular the international financial community and that he hoped therefore that the bank would be able to help him. The manager said that it certainly would.
‘We knew Bossu, of course.’
‘I gather he banked with you?’
‘That is true, yes.’
Seymour put a piece of paper in front of him.
‘I wonder if you would mind checking if these sums were paid from his account?’
The manager summoned a minion and gave the paper to him. The man went off.
‘They may well not have been,’ said Seymour, ‘since I think it quite likely that the payments were made to people in the interior.’
‘I doubt if they would have been made by cheque then. Unless the cheques were going to be brought back here. There are no banks in the south and I doubt if the moneylenders down there would accept cheques.’
‘That is what I thought. I gather that in the interior payment is usually made in hard form.’
‘They even still use Maria Theresa dollars!’
‘So even if he had originally drawn the money from here, he would probably have changed it into coin or bullion?’
‘Very probably.’
‘I wonder if you could tell me how he would go about doing that?’
‘He would probably have gone to one of the big moneylenders in the medina.’
Monsieur Seymour must understand that the Moroccan economy was, well, a mixed one, a mixture of old and new. Many people, particularly those in the countryside, preferred the traditional ways and still went to the moneylender in the souk rather than to a modern bank. And in some ways that suited the banks. They didn’t want to be bothered with handing out often small sums to people they didn’t know and — probably wisely — didn’t trust. Whereas the moneylenders had their own contacts and so their own ways of assessing creditworthiness. They were used to such transactions and kept their own reserves of hard form money. So if you were planning a business venture to the interior, say, to buy salt, the moneylender was the man to go to.
And did the manager have any idea of the moneylender that Monsieur Bossu might have gone to?
The manager thought. The sums Monsieur Seymour had mentioned were quite large so it would have been one of the big ones. He would give Monsieur Seymour three names…
The minion returned. There was no record, he said, of the sums mentioned being paid from Monsieur Bossu’s account. In any case, the balance in Monsieur Bossu’s account would have been far too small.
In the medina, like businesses were gathered together. Here, for example, was the leather-making quarter, consisting of little box-like shops where the proprietor sat on the usual counter with his wares spread around him. Behind him in dark inner rooms squatting figures traced intricate designs on saddles and bags and slippers, and the strong smell of leather spread out into the street. Here, now, were the copper workers and from inside came the sounds of hammering and beating and sometimes the hot breath of a fire. And here were the herbalists, their shops heralded by subtle and pungent odours, and often with huge pyramids of fresh green mint on the ground outside.
So it was no surprise to find the moneylenders grouped together, too. No counters in the shops here. Customers sat against the walls, on worn leather cushions if it looked as if their business might be worth it, and in the space in the middle were sets of scales. Some were small and into their cups coins were counted out in two and threes. Others were large and into their bowls were put heavy bags. The bags were always opened before being weighed and often borrowers would thrust their hands in and feel deep. Everything had to be seen; if possible, touched.
Mustapha and Idris, listless from their Ramadan fasting, brightened up when they came to the Street of the Moneylenders. The sight of the coins had a stimulating effect on them and they were inclined to linger outside the shops, looking in, drooling.
‘All right for some,’ said Idris wistfully.
They stopped outside a small, exceptionally dirty shop.
‘This is the one to go to!’ they said firmly.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Seymour.
‘Babikar’s all right!’ they insisted.
‘No, I want a big one.’
‘It’ll cost you!’ they warned.
‘I want-’ he consulted the list the bank manager had given him — ‘Mohammed Noor.’
‘Mohammed Noor!’ They reeled back. ‘Well, if you say so…’
They found the shop and went in. Mohammed Noor, seeing a European and deducing therefore that he was wealthy, came forward. Mustapha and Idris slipped back against the wall.
‘I come on behalf of a friend,’ said Seymour.
‘Of course!’ said Mohammed smoothly, and clapped his hands.
An attendant brought tea.
None was offered to Mustapha and Idris. However, their presence was accepted; as if the kind of people Mohammed Noor sometimes dealt with were the kind of people who naturally brought their own bodyguards.
Mohammed Noor did not force the pace. They talked of this and that, how long Seymour had been in the country, how he found Tangier. The moneylender spoke French, with the same fluency and ease as the bank manager and, indeed, many of the Moroccans Seymour had met. It transpired, from something he said to Idris, that he also spoke Berber; and, probably, English and Italian and Senussi and a dozen other languages as well.
Gradually they got round to business. Seymour explained that he was acting on behalf of a friend who wanted to make a trading expedition into the interior. The price of salt was rising in Algeria and his friend wished to buy a lot of it; for that, of course, he would need a lot of money, and in appropriate form. Might Mohammed Noor be able to accommodate him?
Mohammed Noor, who, of course, believed none of it, spread his hands and said that nothing could be easier.
Seymour named a sum. Mustapha and Idris, who might have fallen over if the wall had not been behind them, gasped. Mohammed Noor did not turn a hair.
There would be no difficulty, he said.
And what might be the interest charged, asked Seymour.
This time it was Seymour who gasped.
Mohammed Noor spread his hands apologetically.
Of course, he didn’t like to impose such charges, he said, and normally wouldn’t. But things were deteriorating in the interior, there were rumours of war. The local tribes were unreliable, there were bandits…
He could come down just a little, perhaps, in view of the extra security that someone like a friend of Monsieur Seymour would be able, he was sure, to offer. But…
And so it went on. And on. In the end Seymour said he would have to consult his friend.
Mohammed Noor, who had not expected otherwise, smiled and said he was always there.
As they were going out, Seymour said that Mohammed Noor’s name had been mentioned to him by an acquaintance, a Frenchman, a Monsieur Bossu, who had himself made use of Mohammed’s services not long ago. Did Mohammed Noor recall him, he wondered?
Mohammed Noor pondered, but shook his head.
And Seymour moved on to the next one.
Mustapha and Idris had cottoned on by this time and restrained their gasps, although they continued to look slightly alarmed. Even the distant contemplation of such sums disturbed them.
The third moneylender they went to was Abdulla Latif. By this time Seymour had drunk so much mint tea that he was feeling a strain on the system. Abdulla Latif was as prepared to be obliging as the others; so much so that Seymour asked a supplementary question, whether by chance Abdulla knew of any sturdy men who might be willing to accompany his friend into the south. Abdulla Latif said that there were always such men around but that he could supply Seymour with some names if he wished.
As they left, Seymour stopped and turned. Did Abdulla Latif by any chance recall a Frenchman…?