"Ah. Then you're a student of human nature, a man much like myself. Still I'm glad I've told you this. Better for you to understand me than to think me mad for what I'm going to do. I want Pumpkin Pie released. I won't press charges, and I withdraw everything I've said. He didn't steal my car-I handed him the keys."
Hamid studied him a moment. "You realize, of course, that you'll have to pay damages, settle with the injured man? A Moroccan judge, knowing that you're rich, will want to teach you a lesson. It'll be extremely expensive-you can be sure of that."
"Yes, yes." Inigo waved his hands. "I understand. And I'm resigned. Money means nothing in the end. I simply want to return to my house, face my easel, and paint." He was quiet for a moment, then lowered his voice. "Tell me, Inspector. When will you let him go?"
"An hour or so. Aziz will show you where to post the bond."
"I brought my checkbook just in case."
"No guarantee, of course, that he'll return to your house."
"Oh, I know that. But he will. Sooner or later he will. He needs me, in his way, as much as I need him."
They both rose then, and Hamid shook his hand.
"I accept your decision, though I think you're making a mistake."
"Of course," said Inigo. "I'll pay for it later. I know that. But there's nothing I can do. It's my flaw-the flaw in my character, you see."
When Aziz came back Hamid asked him what he thought. "The Nasranis are all mad," he said.
"Perhaps, Aziz. Perhaps. Now give me a few minutes to smoke a cigarette. Then bring in Vice-Consul Knowles."
The session with the Americans was quick. The prisoner was brought up, sat numb in his chair while Aziz read aloud from his dossier. When that was finished Hamid asked him if he agreed with the reported facts. The American shook his head and stared down at the floor.
"Listen here," Hamid said, "you'd do much better to confess. It's your word against a man of the police. Tell us who sold you the hash, sign a confession, and maybe the judge will go easy on you. But make us prove our case and the sentence will certainly be harsh." When he saw that this had no effect, he signaled Aziz to take him back to his cell. "Think about it," he shouted when the American was passing through the door.
He looked at Knowles, who seemed anxious and stiff. Hamid didn't particularly like him, though he wasn't certain exactly why. Sometimes in the mornings, driving to work, he saw the Vice-Consul and his wife jogging parallel to Vasco de Gama, appearing and disappearing among the trees and mists. He passed over the prisoner's passport, watched while Knowles copied the number down.
"Well, Mr. Knowles, what do you think?"
"You're asking me?"
"Why not?"
Knowles squinted, then shook his head. "A hippie. I think he's a hippie." He ran his fingers through his hair.
"But he denies everything-now why does he do that?"
"I don't know why you ask me, Inspector. I know nothing about the case."
"You know as much as I do. You're his fellow countryman. I was hoping you'd help me understand the processes of his mind."
Knowles shrugged. Hamid studied him for a moment, then decided to make a leap. "I have the feeling," he said, "that you don't much like this work."
"The work's all right. It's just, well-"
"Aren't you happy in our little town?"
"Yeah. Of course. Tangier's great."
"What is it then? Every time I see you you look disturbed. I know it's not pleasant to come into a police station, but I wonder if there's something more than that."
"I guess I'm a little nervous-"
"You know I've been observing you, Mr. Knowles."
"You have?"
"Oh, yes. Not you especially. But I watch everything, and I've seen you too."
Knowles turned away.
"A week ago, for instance, there were several occasions when you particularly caught my eye. You were sitting in your car outside Peter Zvegintzov's shop. Nothing wrong with that, of course. No crime. But I began to wonder. You seemed to be waiting for someone, though your wife wasn't in sight. Being a curious sort of fellow, I began to ask myself: Now why, why would a young man from the American Consulate be watching outside this particular store? And I never did figure it out."
Hamid fastened his eyes on Knowles, until the American finally looked back. He'd become extremely nervous-so much so that Hamid decided to change the subject.
"None of my business," he said. "You're your own man here. But forgive me if I give you some advice. Try to be helpful to the prisoners if you can. I know you're only required to give them a list of lawyers and a little counseling on our local laws, but your predecessor did a lot more. He was friendly to them, even used his own money to buy them soap and cigarettes. It's not very pleasant, you know, downstairs."
"I know." Knowles nodded his head. "But I don't want to get involved. Better to keep everything official-that's what our handbook says."
"Well, perhaps you're right. Still I admired the last vice-consul very much. He may not have liked the people he had to see, but he understood their pain."
When Knowles was gone Hamid waited a moment, then went to the window to watch him enter his car. It was driven by a Moroccan chauffeur who for years had been one of his informants-without-pay.
He returned to his desk, lit another cigarette, and tried to clear his mind. Then he heard noises coming from the street and moved back to the window again. A middle-aged lady, a Riffian in a red-and-white-striped skirt, was struggling with two policemen and screaming for her son. A small crowd had gathered to watch the scene, and Hamid saw other inspectors watching from their windows too.
Why do we watch? he wondered. Why are we all voyeurs? When he returned to his desk Aziz was waiting by the door.
"The Vicar's cooling his heels. You ready for him now?"
Hamid nodded, then began a shopping list in Arabic which he continued after the Vicar was shown in. When he was finished he turned the paper over and looked up at the Englishman with a smile. "Well, Vicar Wick," he said. "This is the first time you've been here, I think."
"Yes, Inspector Ouazzani. And I confess I'm not happy about it at all. A most unpleasant matter has forced me to come. As I explained to your assistant, I had to see you and no one else."
Hamid folded his hands and placed them on the desk. "Very well. You're here. Please tell us what we can do."
Vicar Wick, a short, stout, nervous man whose hair was slicked back with some sort of oil or cream, turned to look at Aziz. "It's most confidential, Inspector. I prefer to speak to you alone."
"Mr. Jaouhari is my homme de confiance. I promise you he's totally discreet."
"Still I'd prefer-"
Hamid shook his head. "Many people come into this room and say the most amazing things. It's necessary for me to always have a witness. Then if there's a misunderstanding later on-but I'm sure you understand."
"Hmmp! I see! Yes, yes." He turned back to Hamid. "Oh, very well." He was fidgeting. "This is a most delicate matter. Most delicate, indeed."
Hamid was becoming impatient. "Yes, Vicar, now please tell us what it is. We have lots of work this morning. A number of your fellow countrymen have been arrested with Moroccan boys."
The Vicar's eyes began to flutter. Hamid studied him. The man chewed his fingernails. Another high-strung Englishman, he thought.
"You've heard of Mr. Peter Barclay, I presume?"
"I know him, of course."
"Good. Then you know the kind of man he is. And his importance to us British here. I needn't tell you that Mr. Barclay is from one of the greatest families in the British Isles-that his cousin is a duke and that he is related to Her Majesty in six different ways. He is, in short, a most distinguished person, and we count ourselves fortunate that he is a member of our little church."