‘Of course, his family back in France did not like it and I think there was a rupture. He never spoke of his family afterwards.
‘And the army didn’t like it, either. They posted him all over the place, to the wildest parts, where there was always fighting. But it did give him the chance to excel. He was promoted and promoted. But all the time there was my mother. And then me. You have heard about all this, perhaps? People talk, I know.’
‘I have heard something, yes,’ said Seymour.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I have grown used to it. But let me move on to Casablanca. And to Bossu. There came a time when French troops were sent to Morocco, and my father went with them. He was pleased because he thought he would be able to spend more time with my mother. And he hardly knew me.
‘One day he was sent to Casablanca. There had been trouble there. You probably know about this. They were developing the sea front and for the new buildings they required stone. There was a suitable quarry not far away and some businessmen built a railway line from it to where the building was going on. Unfortunately, they ran it through a Muslim cemetery. It didn’t matter to them, I suppose they thought they could buy their way out of it. But the Muslims erupted. They attacked the men working on the railway line and killed some of them.
‘The authorities sent in troops to put down what they saw as a riot. Some of the Muslims were killed and that, of course, led to more riots. The disorder spread, and more troops were sent in. Among them was my father.
‘The soldiers suppressed the rioting. Very bloodily. And one day my father objected. He said he was a soldier and that his job was to fight soldiers and not massacre civilians.
Quite a lot of the soldiers felt as he did and there was, for a time, for a day or two, a pause.
‘But then the city authorities and the businessmen complained. They asked what was the army doing? And, of course, they had influence back in Tangier, and back in France, too, so the fighting resumed.
‘But my father refused. He said that the orders were wrong and that he would not obey them. The Casablanca authorities wanted him tried for mutiny. But the army knew it couldn’t do that because so many of the officers agreed with him. And even if they didn’t agree, they respected him. He was a very good soldier and popular throughout the army.
‘In the end he was persuaded that the honourable thing to do was to resign his commission. He left the army and tried to make a life as a civilian. That wasn’t easy. He tried being a farmer but that didn’t work out. Nothing seemed to work out. And it was only slowly that we understood why.
‘The settlers hadn’t forgotten what he had done and were hostile. But it went further than that. There seemed to be some sort of campaign against him. Wherever he went, whatever he tried, things went wrong. And gradually we realized that this wasn’t an accident. Somebody was organizing it.
‘As first we couldn’t believe it. But then one day someone told us.
‘The person who was organizing it was Bossu. Again we couldn’t believe it. My father had come up against him in Casablanca and, yes, he had sensed his hostility. But he couldn’t believe that he would carry it so far. Carry it on after he had left Casablanca and so long after he had left Casablanca. But so it appeared to be.
‘And it went on. It began to colour everything we did. We realized that they wanted us out — out of Morocco altogether. But my mother was Moroccan! And my father was not the man to give in. He said that he had made up his mind to make a life here and make a life he would.
‘Well, in the end he was killed in a road accident. That was terrible. I was very young at the time and I thought the world had fallen apart. It was very hard for us, for my mother, perhaps, especially. We had to make our way alone. But we thought that at least the relentless persecution would stop.
‘But it didn’t. It seemed to pursue us, whatever we did. We tried various things and again they did not work out. And, again, people told us it was not by accident.
‘So we decided to move back to here, where we were known, and where perhaps people would protect us. Friends helped us buy the hotel. And then, the first day, the hotel was broken up! It may have been chance but, with our experience, we thought it unlikely. Friends told us that it was Bossu.
‘Well, then it stopped, and we thought that perhaps he had finally decided to make an end of it. But I did not forget it. And when he was appointed Secretary to the committee, I thought the chance had come to get my own back. I put into Benchennouf’s head the idea that now was the time to stir old memories, to remind people about Casablanca and what Bossu had done there. I even wrote some of the articles. And if it worked, if it did stir old feelings, and if, because of that, someone killed Bossu, then I am glad.’
When Seymour left the hotel to go out to dinner, usually either Mustapha or Idris was waiting there to accompany him. This time they both were, and with them were two other men who had plainly just arrived.
‘Mustapha,’ one of them said, ‘I don’t know why I come to you.’
Mustapha looked surprised.
‘Hello, Fazal,’ said Idris.
And now Seymour remembered the man. It was the elusive carter. The man with the shifting apartment and the shifting wife, whom Idris had so industriously finally tracked down to the stables.
‘Hello, Fazal,’ said Seymour.
The man gave a slight bow of acknowledgement and then looked him straight in the face.
‘It is chiefly for you, Monsieur, that I have come. For I think you are an honest man. Unlike these two.’
‘Here, watch it-’ began Mustapha and Idris together.
‘Why you should be so interested in the death of the fat Frenchman I do not know. It is said that you are a policeman. But in my experience policemen do not usually concern themselves greatly with such matters. At least in Morocco. Perhaps it is because you do not come from Tangier and do not know the way things are done.
‘And how you should have met up with Mustapha and Idris I do not know, either. It seems unexpected to me. It is said they are your bodyguard, and certainly you need one if you go on like this. But to choose Mustapha and Idris! Monsieur, let me counsel you. You could do better.’
‘Fazal, are you trying to make trouble?’
‘I am not afraid of your knife, Mustapha. At least, not when there are witnesses about. It is just that I am puzzled. Takings, I can see, must have dropped off, but-’
‘This, Fazal, is a question of honour!’
‘Oh, I see-’
‘No, you don’t, Fazal. It is not a matter of money. Our friend stood up for me when Ali Khadr came. Should I not stand for him?’
‘Unquestionably you should. But-’
‘I am hurt, Fazal, that you should question me on a point of honour.’
‘Fazal-’ began Fazal’s companion nervously.
‘And offended.’
‘Fazal-’
‘Oh, I am not questioning,’ said Fazal hastily. ‘Not on a point of honour. Not in any way. I am just surprised, that’s all.’
‘Well, just contain your surprise,’ said Idris.
‘Who is this bloke, anyway?’ demanded Mustapha, looking at Fazal’s companion.
‘He is my friend. Fuad, his name is. And I bring him to the Monsieur because I said I would. I, too, Mustapha, have a sense of honour!’
‘Ah!’ said Seymour. ‘This is the friend who was with you on the day of the pig-sticking. The day the Frenchman was killed?’
‘That is so, yes, Monsieur. I said that perhaps there were things that his eye had seen and that mine had missed.’
‘That is always possible. Thank you, Fazal, for bringing me your friend. And thank you, Fuad, for agreeing to come.’
‘I wouldn’t have come,’ said Fuad, ‘had Fazal not pressed me.’
‘I am glad that he did. And was it so? Did your eye see something that his had missed?’
The first part of the story was familiar ground but Seymour took him through it.