Tangier was evidently changing, and it wasn’t just the political change, the coming of the Protectorate, it was social change: the coming of Western ways of shopping, the abandonment of the intimate cubby holes of people like Ali, the tailor, for the bright, public world of the metropolis.
He was just saying this to Macfarlane when down the middle of the street came a file of white horses. On either side of them were Arabs in short white gowns revealing brawny knees pressed tight to the sides of the horses. With them, also on a horse, was Millet, the horse doctor. He put his hand up and the cavalcade stopped.
‘Hello, Millet,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Taking mounts to the barracks?’
‘Just checking them over first,’ said Millet.
He frowned, and then urged his horse out to one side.
‘Will you walk that one for me a bit, Ahmet?’ he called.
One of the white-gowned figures retrieved a horse from the line, swung down and then for a moment walked it up and down in front of Millet.
‘There! See it? I don’t like that for one moment.’
The Arab nodded.
‘I will tell Sheikh Musa,’ he said.
‘He won’t like that! Someone must have missed it. Musa’s mounts are usually pretty good,’ he said to Seymour. ‘We don’t usually have any trouble. The old man’s got an eye like a hawk.’
The Arab said something.
‘He says Musa will be angry. The man at the paddock should have spotted this.’
‘Will you see to it, Ahmet? And explain to Sheikh Musa? He’ll take your word for it. Ahmet knows nearly as much about horses as Musa does,’ he said to Seymour.
The Arab obviously understood some French for there was a flash of white teeth as he grinned.
‘Musa’s right-hand man. We rely on him, absolutely rely on him, for the pig-sticking. He gets the pigs in position and then, once the chase has started, rides outrider on one side to check things keep all right. See if anyone’s fallen off.’
‘Did he see Bossu fall off?’
‘He saw he had fallen off and sent someone back for the horse. But that was later. Okay. Ahmet, let’s get moving again!’
The file of horses continued on their way. No one took any notice of them. Sights like this were evidently not uncommon in the middle of Tangier.
Macfarlane was taking him to the committee’s offices, which were in one of the big banks. A committee like the Consular Committee would normally have met in the rooms of its Chairman. The British Consulate, however, Macfarlane explained, was too small — its size an accurate reflection of the extent of Britain’s interest in Morocco — and so alternative accommodation had had to be found. The French had offered a temptingly palatial suite in the offices of the Resident-General but this was felt, reluctantly, to compromise too obviously the committee’s independence. The Germans, seeking to ingratiate themselves with the Sultan, had proposed somewhere within the Mahzen, but the Sultan did not recognize the committee and refused to have anything to do with it. In the end, the committee had had to settle for some rooms in the offices of one of the big foreign banks, which, so far as sending out signals was concerned, was probably the worst of all possible worlds.
Macfarlane took him up to the third floor and through a door marked Joint Inter-Consular Committee. Inside were three rooms: a large committee room, an even larger office (Bossu’s) and a rather smaller one which accommodated the committee’s papers and also an elderly man who rose politely from his desk when they entered.
‘Hello, Mr Bahnini,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Still here, then?’
‘I’m just sorting out the papers for the meeting tomorrow. You recall, I hope…?’
‘Ten o’clock,’ said Macfarlane. ‘I’ll be here. What we would do without Mr Bahnini, I don’t know,’ he said to Seymour. ‘Mr Bahnini, can I introduce Monsieur Seymour? You remember, I said I would be bringing him round. Seymour, this is Mr Bahnini, the mainstay of our committee. Especially now that Bossu has gone. He ran the office for him. Clerk to the clerk, you might say.’
Mr Bahnini smiled faintly.
‘And we all know what that means. The man who does all the work.’
Mr Bahnini bowed slightly in polite acknowledgement.
‘And now, for all intents and purposes, clerk. At least for the time being.’
‘Actually, sir, I wished to speak to you about that.’
‘Naturally, your extra duties will be remunerated.’
‘No, no, sir, it wasn’t that. The fact is, I was hoping to relinquish them.’
‘Well, we’re rather hoping that the committee won’t go on for too long-’
‘I was hoping to relinquish them immediately, sir.’
‘That would be a shame, Robert. Just when we need continuity.’
‘I am sorry, sir.’
‘Got something else to go to?’
‘Not exactly, sir. I was hoping to return to Casablanca.’
‘Couldn’t you delay your return? It will only be for a few months. We’d make it worth your while.’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘It would make a difference to your pension. You do have a pension, don’t you?’
‘A small one. From the Ministry. I worked there before joining Mr Bossu.’
‘A small one. There you are! We’d step it up, you know. I’m sure you could do with some more money coming in. How’s that boy of yours? Has he finished yet? Still an expense, I’ll be bound.’
‘He has just finished at university, sir.’
‘Got anything to go to? No? Well, look here, we might even be able to find something for him. He could assist you in the office. After all, you’re taking on Bossu’s work, so someone will have to take on yours.’
Mr Bahnini shook his head.
‘I don’t think he would be interested, sir.’
‘Just while he was looking around?’ said Macfarlane temptingly.
‘I’m afraid, sir, that for him it’s a matter of principle.’
‘I see. Ah, the young! Not a matter of principle for you, too, I trust?’
‘No, sir. I compromised my principles long ago,’ said Mr Bahnini quietly.
‘Haven’t we all?’ said Macfarlane, sighing. ‘Well, if you’re really sure about this-’
‘I am, sir.’
‘In that case, we’ll have to accept it. Give it another day or two to think it over, remembering what I said about the pension. And then if you still want it, I’ll take the necessary action.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Although how we shall manage without you, I don’t know. You’ve been here right from the start. Bossu brought you with him, didn’t he? We’ve always thought of you as Bossu’s man.’
‘That is just the trouble, sir,’ said Mr Bahnini.
‘Mind if I have a quick look?’ said Seymour.
Mr Bahnini showed him into Bossu’s office. It was full of potted palms. They were everywhere. There were two by the window, as if Bossu couldn’t stand the harsh daylight, two either side of his desk, and others scattered around the room. Two were hanging over a long divan, two more stood beside easy chairs, and there was one near a low coffee table.
Seymour went over to the desk and tried it. The drawers were open but there was little of interest in them. Few papers of any kind. No desk diary, as far as he could see.
‘You kept his diary?’
‘In so far as one was kept. Mr Bossu didn’t work by journal appointments. He liked to drop in on people, meet them in hotels over a drink. It was very hard to tie him down, sir.’
Beside the desk was a filing cabinet. Seymour tried it but it was locked.
‘I have the key, sir,’ said Mr Bahnini.
He went out of the office and returned with a small brown envelope.
‘The keys were on his person, sir, when he was found. Mr Macfarlane took charge of all his private belongings. The keys were among them. He brought them back and deposited them with me. The envelope has not been opened.’
When Seymour opened the filing cabinet he found it largely empty. There were just a few scraps of paper, leaves torn from a pad, with some notes scribbled on them. Seymour looked at them and then, for the moment, put them in his pocket.