‘I know about the committee,’ he said. ‘You know what they say about it? That everything has already been decided and that it’s just there to dress things up.’
He spoke perfect French.
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Seymour. ‘I am concerned only with Bossu’s death.’
‘Ah, but they say that this is to do with Bossu’s death.’
‘Why do they say that?’
‘Bossu was the clerk. Some say he was put there to fix it. So that the French could get what they want.’
‘Now, Sheikh Musa,’ began the Secretary, ‘you’re being provocative-’
‘But that he didn’t fix it. And so they decided to get rid of him.’
‘Sheikh Musa-’
‘But I don’t believe that. They could have got rid of him without killing him. And, anyway, Bossu would always have done what he was told. So it must be something else. Others say that he was killed for just the opposite reason. So that the French — in the French Government, that is, there are different sorts of French out here — shouldn’t get what they wanted.’
‘Who would take that view?’
‘The settlers. They’ve been having things their way for a long time. And they’d like that to continue.’
‘Sheikh Musa, I really must protest. The settlers — the business community as a whole — want only what is best for the country.’
‘Yes,’ said Sheikh Musa, eyes glinting wickedly, ‘but which country?’
The Consul joined them at that point.
‘Are you having a go at him, Musa?’ he asked.
‘It’s the only thing I can do now,’ growled the Sheikh. ‘Now that there are French soldiers all over the place.’
‘Now, come on, Musa,’ said the Consul, ‘you know you’ve got to go along with it. Now that the Sultan has signed the agreement.’
‘It should never have been signed!’
‘Maybe. But it has been signed and now we’ve got to move on.’
‘The Sultan should go!’
‘And probably will,’ said the Consul cheerfully. ‘But, then, who will replace him?’
‘Some French ass-licker,’ growled Musa.
‘It’s no good, Musa. You’ll have to hang up your sword. And stick to your lance in future. Work it off on the pigs.’
‘I could do that,’ said Sheikh Musa, brightening. He turned to Seymour.
‘We’re having a sticking tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come?’
‘Monsieur L’Espinasse has already invited me. Thank you, I would. Yes. Very much.’
‘Have you a horse? No? No, of course you wouldn’t have. Never mind, I’ll lend you one. Two, if you like! I’ve got lots of horses.’
‘Well, that’s very kind of you, but-’
‘The English are good at hunting.’
‘Actually, I-’
‘That’s where I got the idea from, you know,’ Musa said to the Secretary. ‘From the English. In India. I went over there with a delegation. The British wanted to show us their army. Impress us. At the time they had designs on Morocco themselves but then, of course, they came to an agreement with the French whereby they would let France have Morocco if the French would let them have Egypt. But at the time I went they were still interested in Morocco and they wanted to soften us up. So they invited us over to India to see their army. Well, I wasn’t too impressed by the army. But the pig-sticking! That really was something!’
The marquee was filling up. All sorts of people had drifted in, soldiers, officials of various kinds, often in uniforms, too, as well as what seemed to Seymour ordinary businessmen in suits, drawn, Seymour suspected from the beeline they made for the bar, chiefly by the promise of a free drink. Or maybe, since there were so many Frenchmen here, it was just aperitif time.
Among the newcomers, he was slightly surprised to see, was the receptionist from his hotel, as in command of the situation as always, moving round from one group to another, recognized, apparently by everybody, and chatting to everyone. She noticed Seymour and came across to him.
‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Have you had a fruitful morning?’
‘Interesting, certainly. I don’t know about fruitful.’
‘And have you found out anything?’
‘Found out anything?’
‘About Bossu.’
‘You know what I’m here for, then?’
‘Of course. In Tangier everyone knows everything. And I have a particular interest in Bossu.’
Macfarlane suddenly appeared beside them.
‘Be careful, Seymour!’ he warned. ‘Anything you say could be in the newspaper.’
‘Only if it’s scandalous,’ said the receptionist. ‘And Monsieur Seymour has hardly been here long enough to learn about our scandals. Or, indeed, contribute to them.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ promised Seymour.
‘What’s the latest, Chantale?’ asked Macfarlane.
‘It’s all very quiet. Juliette is being her usual self but people feel it’s a bit indecent so soon.’
‘Mademoiselle is a journalist as well as a receptionist?’ asked Seymour.
‘Chantale is a gossip columnist,’ said Macfarlane. ‘And what better place for a gossip columnist than the reception desk of an important hotel?’
‘I am not just a gossip columnist,’ said Chantale. ‘I am an investigative journalist too.’
‘If I were you,’ said Macfarlane. ‘I’d stick to the gossip. There’s more money in it.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Chantale, ‘but less excitement.’
A short, plump man with enormous waxed moustaches came up to Seymour and threw his arms around him.
‘ Cher collegue!’ he cried.
‘ Collegue!’ cried Seymour, returning the embrace but a little surprised.
The little man stepped back, drew himself together and bowed.
‘Renaud,’ he said. ‘Chief of Police.’
‘Ah! Seymour-’
‘I know, I know. Monsieur Macfarlane has told me. Welcome to Tangier, Monsieur. An aperitif, to welcome your arrival!’
He piloted Seymour over to a corner where the soldiers were standing around a small table on which there were several bottles of wine.
‘A friend!’ he cried. ‘From England.’
‘From England? Welcome, Monsieur!’
Someone handed him a glass.
‘Monsieur Seymour. From Scotland Yard,’ said Renaud proudly.
‘Scotland…?’
‘ Yard,’ said the Chief of Police with emphasis. ‘It is the quarters of the English police.’
‘Headquarters?’
The soldiers were impressed.
But then, recovering, not too impressed.
‘But why, Monsieur, have you come out to this dump?’
‘He is investigating the death of Bossu.’
‘Bossu? Bossu!’ — incredulously. ‘But why?’
‘Why, indeed? said Seymour swiftly. ‘When the investigation is already in the capable hands of Monsieur Renaud!’
‘Ah, Monsieur…’ said Renaud, self-deprecatingly.
‘But these things are decided higher up,’ said Seymour, ‘and not always for reasons which are comprehensible.’
‘You can say that again!’
There were general nods.
‘Yes, but — Bossu, though!’
One of the officers laid his finger along his nose.
‘It’s politics.’
‘Ah, politics.’
Shrugs all round.
‘Even so — Bossu! Must have been more important than I thought.’
‘How have you been getting on, Renaud?’
‘With the investigation? Oh, well. Well.’
‘Found out anything yet?’ said someone maliciously.
‘My inquiries are proceeding,’ said the Chief of Police loftily.
‘But are they getting anywhere?’
Renaud ignored this.
‘I am putting up posters,’ he said.
‘That really should make a difference!’
‘Offering a reward. A big one.’
‘Who’s paying for it?’ asked someone sceptically.
‘The community generally. Business leaders.’
‘They would,’ someone muttered.
‘And settlers. I’ve had offers from the farmers.’
‘Phew! He must be important, if they’re willing to part with a few of their francs.’
‘Monsieur Bossu was a deeply respected member of the business community of Tangier,’ Renaud said, turning to Seymour. ‘And of Tangier.’