‘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!’