Michael Pearce - A dead man in Tangier

‘Yes, indeed!’ said Seymour enthusiastically. It was wonderful to see the true French spirit carried across the sea in this way. And unfortunate that the Moroccans, with the exception of Sheikh Musa, did not appear to have taken it up with the zest of the French. But that was probably because they lacked that natural affinity the Secretary had spoken of.

From what he had seen, however, there was no shortage of devotees in Tangier. He asked what sort of backgrounds they came from.

“The members, you mean? Mostly settlers. People on the farms locally, although some come from quite a distance, fifty kilometres or more. The farms are all in the coastal strip. It’s not very deep, twenty kilometres at most, but, of course, it goes right along the coast. It includes what will be the Spanish Zone under the new treaty, and that is a source of worry to some of the settlers. I mean, they’re French, not Spanish. But will they still be eligible for the pig-sticking? That’s important because it gets them off the farm for a bit and they can forget for a while how much money they’re not making. I speak from experience. I’m a settler myself.

‘And then there are the soldiers, of course. There’s usually a big contingent of those. I would say they’re the keenest members. Goes with the job, I suppose. If you’re cavalry, and a lot of them are. And then, of course, they’ve the time to practise. Some of them are really rather good.’

‘Businessmen?’ asked Seymour.

‘A few. Like Bossu. But not many. They’re all too busy making money. More, people in professional jobs, doctors, lawyers, that sort of thing. Like Meunier and Millet. Though those two don’t actually hunt.’

‘ Fonctionnaires?’

Officials? There weren’t many of those at the moment, although doubtless that would change when the Protectorate was more established. At the moment most officials, in fact practically all of them, except when they were French army officers, were Moroccan and worked in the old Ministries under the Mahzen.

‘Under the shade of the Parasol,’ said L’Espinasse with a smile, ‘where they can doze in peace.’ No, they weren’t much interested.

‘Not even in Musa’s old Ministry?’

‘The Ministry of War? No, they’re either old soldiers like Musa but who believe in killing people not pigs; or young men who are interested only in the latest armaments and pooh-pooh the whole idea of pig-sticking. And, besides…’

‘Yes?’

The Secretary frowned.

‘There is a question about them; how far are they really committed to the Protectorate? Some of them are — well, a little difficult. A little too political, if you know what I mean. They have ideas — ideas which are not always ours. They keep their distance. Well, I can understand that. But it is unfortunate because we don’t develop a shared — well, I don’t know what it is we share, but it is something. Or could be. No, it’s rather sad that the young keep their distance. And, of course, that means that they don’t become members of the hunt.’

‘So all French, then?’

‘Nearly all. Except, of course, Musa and one or two of his friends.’

Most interesting. Seymour would not be here long but he would like to get to know people. The members of the hunt, for instance. They seemed a nice bunch. Monsieur L’Espinasse had spoken of affinity and he, Seymour, certainly felt…

He wondered if the Secretary could even let him have a list of members. Monsieur L’Espinasse certainly could. In fact, he had in his pocket at this very moment the membership booklet and if Monsieur would like…

The bank was a modern one, European in style, with glassed-in counters and besuited men all over the place. Not entirely European, though: the men were wearing fezzes and great fans were whirring overhead. The manager was Moroccan but you would have taken him for French. He spoke French naturally and fluently and looked French with his natty dark suit and carefully cut hair. He had Macfarlane’s letter of introduction on the desk in front of him.

‘Monsieur Seymour?’ They shook hands. ‘And what can I do for you?’

Seymour explained why he was in Tangier and said that the investigation was of some importance to the international community and in particular the international financial community and that he hoped therefore that the bank would be able to help him. The manager said that it certainly would.

‘We knew Bossu, of course.’

‘I gather he banked with you?’

‘That is true, yes.’

Seymour put a piece of paper in front of him.

‘I wonder if you would mind checking if these sums were paid from his account?’

The manager summoned a minion and gave the paper to him. The man went off.

‘They may well not have been,’ said Seymour, ‘since I think it quite likely that the payments were made to people in the interior.’

‘I doubt if they would have been made by cheque then. Unless the cheques were going to be brought back here. There are no banks in the south and I doubt if the moneylenders down there would accept cheques.’

‘That is what I thought. I gather that in the interior payment is usually made in hard form.’

‘They even still use Maria Theresa dollars!’

‘So even if he had originally drawn the money from here, he would probably have changed it into coin or bullion?’

‘Very probably.’

‘I wonder if you could tell me how he would go about doing that?’

‘He would probably have gone to one of the big moneylenders in the medina.’

Monsieur Seymour must understand that the Moroccan economy was, well, a mixed one, a mixture of old and new. Many people, particularly those in the countryside, preferred the traditional ways and still went to the moneylender in the souk rather than to a modern bank. And in some ways that suited the banks. They didn’t want to be bothered with handing out often small sums to people they didn’t know and — probably wisely — didn’t trust. Whereas the moneylenders had their own contacts and so their own ways of assessing creditworthiness. They were used to such transactions and kept their own reserves of hard form money. So if you were planning a business venture to the interior, say, to buy salt, the moneylender was the man to go to.

And did the manager have any idea of the moneylender that Monsieur Bossu might have gone to?

The manager thought. The sums Monsieur Seymour had mentioned were quite large so it would have been one of the big ones. He would give Monsieur Seymour three names…

The minion returned. There was no record, he said, of the sums mentioned being paid from Monsieur Bossu’s account. In any case, the balance in Monsieur Bossu’s account would have been far too small.

In the medina, like businesses were gathered together. Here, for example, was the leather-making quarter, consisting of little box-like shops where the proprietor sat on the usual counter with his wares spread around him. Behind him in dark inner rooms squatting figures traced intricate designs on saddles and bags and slippers, and the strong smell of leather spread out into the street. Here, now, were the copper workers and from inside came the sounds of hammering and beating and sometimes the hot breath of a fire. And here were the herbalists, their shops heralded by subtle and pungent odours, and often with huge pyramids of fresh green mint on the ground outside.

So it was no surprise to find the moneylenders grouped together, too. No counters in the shops here. Customers sat against the walls, on worn leather cushions if it looked as if their business might be worth it, and in the space in the middle were sets of scales. Some were small and into their cups coins were counted out in two and threes. Others were large and into their bowls were put heavy bags. The bags were always opened before being weighed and often borrowers would thrust their hands in and feel deep. Everything had to be seen; if possible, touched.