Michael Pearce - A dead man in Tangier

‘I see you’ve caught up with Monique?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you find her?’

‘Interesting. And rather nice.’

‘She is.’ She seemed pleased. ‘She should never have got hooked up with Bossu.’

‘It was Bossu we were talking about.’

‘Of course. And what did she tell you?’

‘A bit about herself. And a lot about Bossu.’

‘What did she tell you about Bossu?’

‘We talked generally,’ he said guardedly.

Chantale laughed.

‘Well, if you find out something particular, come and tell me. I, too, am interested in Bossu. Perhaps we could do a trade? You tell me what you find out and I’ll tell you what I know.’

‘I might take you up on that.’

‘Please do. What you tell me doesn’t have to appear in the newspaper. My interest in Bossu is a private one.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

She smiled and moved away. Afterwards he found himself wondering about her. She had hazel eyes. Or would you call them green?

The heat in the Tent, and the noise, was almost unbearable. He made his way to the back and then out into the enclosure. Millet and Meunier were standing there with drinks in their hands: not lemonade.

‘What’s it been like for you today?’ he asked. ‘Busy?’

‘Quiet. A fall or two, but nothing serious.’

The riders were returning now. De Grassac went past, leading a horse.

‘How is Sybille?’ asked Millet.

‘Oh, fine. Fine.’

‘She always goes very well,’ said Millet.

He had taken them to be referring to de Grassac’s wife, or girlfriend, perhaps; but maybe not.

‘How many did you get?’ asked Meunier.

‘Two. Better than the last time. I got nowhere last time. By the time I got there, there was always someone ahead of me.’

‘How many were killed altogether today?’ asked Seymour.

‘Ten, I think. Including one shot one.’

‘Shot one?’ said de Grassac, puzzled. ‘That can’t be right!’

Meunier’s eyes met Seymour’s neutrally.

‘So two is pretty good,’ said Millet. ‘De Grassac’s an expert.’

‘Boileau is better than me,’ said de Grassac modestly, ‘and Levret is coming along, don’t you think?’

‘He got two today.’

‘That’s good for someone with so little experience. He’s only been out here six months.’

‘I thought he spent all his time hunting women?’

‘Most of it. But he hunts pigs as well.’

Mustapha and Idris arrived at this point, limping.

‘Two more for you,’ Seymour said to Meunier.

‘Oh, I don’t treat pedestrians.’

Seymour took them aside and they sank gratefully to the ground.

‘How did you get on?’

‘No one saw a thing,’ said Mustapha, depressed.

‘No one saw a thing?’

‘They all got there afterwards. When word got round.’

‘No one followed him in? When they saw he’d gone after the pig?’

‘Well, one of them had. He hadn’t wanted to. He had seen at once what the Frenchman was like. From the moment he turned aside. Couldn’t stick a cow, he said. Even if its legs were tied together. So he’d said, “Let’s give this one a miss.” But the man he was with had insisted. Thought they’d get right up close. Not a chance! Complete waste of time!’

‘But he must have seen something.’

‘Not much. When he got there it was all over. There was the Frenchman lying on the ground. He thought at first it was a fall. But then he saw the lance. Didn’t know what to make of it. But the man he was with said it was bad and that they should keep out of it. He’d seen that it was a Frenchman, you see, and worked out that someone would be over pretty soon. And that someone would probably be the French army, and that wouldn’t be good at all. So they kept out of it. Just sat there to see what happened.’

‘Well, what happened?’

‘Nothing. Like I told you. By and by two big blokes came riding up, swords and knives bristling all over. And they told everybody to get back. I mean by this time there was quite a crowd there and they’d all crept in. Well, you can understand it, can’t you? It’s not every day you see a dead Frenchman and they wanted to have a good look. But these two big blokes whipped out their swords and everybody jumped back in a flash. And one of them went off and came back with another Frenchman, and he was a soldier. Just like his mate had said. So they did right to keep out of it.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ve got that bit. But did you talk to people? Had anyone seen anything more than this chap had?’

‘Of course we talked to people! But they’d all got there afterwards. Like I said.’

‘There was that boy, Mustapha,’ said Idris.

‘The beggar boy, you mean? The lame one? The one with the limp.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, he was the bright one. He’d know he couldn’t run, so he’d gone out before. Before the hunt started. He’d gone out and lay down under a thorn bush so that he would see as they went past.’

‘And did he see them?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Including Bossu?’

‘Yes. He’d seen him go after the pig, and he’d thought, he’ll never get anywhere-’

‘Yes, yes. But he did see him? He saw him separate from the others. And then what?’

‘He suddenly disappeared! So he reckoned he’d had a fall. Well, he waited a bit to see if he got up, but when he didn’t, he thought he’d go over. I mean, you never know what you might pick up. A wallet, even.’

‘So he went over there? To the spot where he’d seen Bossu fall? And what did he see?’

‘Just him and the lance.’

‘Did he see anyone? Anyone else?’

‘He didn’t say so.’

‘Look, he must have seen someone else. The person who stuck the lance through him.’

‘He didn’t say-’

‘Riding away?’ suggested Seymour hopefully. ‘Whoever did it would have been on horseback. A horse is big — no?’

‘Look,’ said Mustapha, wearying, ‘why don’t you ask him?’

‘I will. What’s his name?’

‘Name?’

‘He’s got a name, hasn’t he?’

‘No. He’s just a beggar boy.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘I’ve told you. He’s a beggar boy. He doesn’t live anywhere.’

‘How will I find him, then, to talk to him?’

‘Oh, you’ll find him. He’s always around.’

‘Yes, he’s always around,’ said Idris.

As detectives, thought Seymour ruefully, they had their limitations.

He went back into the Tent. It wasn’t quite as densely packed as before but the bar was still doing a roaring — and how! — trade. Suddenly, however, as if some mysterious signal had been given, all the soldiers detached themselves and made for the door at the back of the Tent. That left a number of spaces at the bar and in one of them, left bereft of her admirers, he saw Madame Bossu. She looked round, saw him and brightened.

‘Monsieur Seymour!’

‘Madame!’

‘And how do you like our little games?’

‘I find your little games enchanting, Madame.’

‘That was not what I meant!’ she said, tapping his hand reprovingly.

‘But where have all your admirers gone? Earlier in the afternoon I couldn’t have hoped to get near you.’

‘Ah, those boys! I love the military, you know. I often used to say to Bossu, “Bossu, why aren’t you a soldier?” “If I was one, you’d soon notice the difference,” he would say. “Soldiers don’t make any money.” “You are always thinking about money,” I used to tell him. “It’s just as well one of us is,” he would say. That wasn’t very kind of him, was it?’

‘Indeed not!’

‘And if I spent money, he would encourage me! “Just add it to your account,” he would say. So that’s what I did. Add it to my accounts. All of them.’