Michael Pearce - A dead man in Tangier

He went back inside.

‘So, Fazal…’ began Mustapha.

Fazal, it turned out, was the man Mustapha and Idris had spoken to at the pig-sticking, the man from whom they had got most of their information on that occasion. Dutifully, they secured his name and where he lived. And then, even more surprisingly, they had followed this up by calling on him to ‘invite’ him to come and meet their friend, who, they knew, was anxious to talk to him.

But when they had got to the block where he had said he lived they had been unable to find him. Yes, people in the block assured them, he certainly lived there but no one seemed to have seen him lately. Further inquiries led to a lady who claimed to be his wife. Yes, she said, he hadn’t been around lately. He was a carter who worked irregular hours.

When might they catch him in?

Alas…

Does he not eat, inquired Mustapha, mindful, perhaps, that he was forgoing his own evening meal; and reckoning that after a day such as the carter worked, and after abstaining from food since daylight, one thing he would certainly not be missing was his evening Ramadan meal.

Well, of course…

Then they would see him then.

But when they had come again he was nowhere in sight. Nor was there much evidence of the preparation of a Ramadan meal.

You are mucking us about, said Mustapha severely.

No, no, no, no. That was the last thing she would do. It was just that… well, she had sensed, deep in her heart — she and Fazal were very close, she knew exactly what he would be thinking — and she had suddenly — belatedly, alas — realized that he would not be coming home that night.

Where would he be spending the night, then?

Alas, their closeness did not extend so far…

Mustapha, who did not believe a word of it, was all for cutting her throat. But Idris had had a flash of inspiration.

Could it be, he had asked sternly, that the pair were not actually married? And that Fazal had gone, as all right-thinking men should do, home to his real wife for the Ramadan evening meal?

The lady, flustered, agreed after a while that there could be something in what Idris had said.

So, Mustapha has asked, with rising impatience, where did Fazal and his true wife live?

Alas…

Mustapha had taken out his knife at this point, the lady had shrieked, the block had been aroused, people came swarming, and Mustapha and Idris had been obliged to beat a retreat.

Mustapha had been inclined to abandon their efforts: but Idris had suddenly had another flash of inspiration. He had remembered that the lady had let slip that Fazal was a carter. With a zeal for the chase which threatened to rival even that of the French, he had made a tour of all the carting establishments in the vicinity. Seymour, who realized what the effort must have cost him after the lateness of the day and his fasting, felt a moment’s contrition after his earlier ruminations. Prize bloodhounds Mustapha and Idris might not be but once they got on the trail they stuck to it. And in the end Idris had got his man.

‘So, Fazal…’ said Mustapha.

‘I knew it meant trouble,’ said the carter resignedly, ‘when I heard that you were trying to find me.’

‘Why did you make it difficult for us, then?’ demanded Mustapha.

‘Someone told me who you were,’ said Fazal.

‘Who we were?’

‘That you were in the Business. No offence!’ he added hurriedly. ‘It was just that he thought it would be a good idea if I stayed away from you.’

‘Well, that’s not very friendly.’

‘I would have been all right,’ said the carter gloomily, ‘if it had not been for Fatima.’

‘Well, now we’ve found you,’ said Mustapha, ‘and it’s not all right!’

‘Ten minutes!’ shouted the man who had gone back into the carter’s. ‘That’s all! Then he’s back on the carts!’

‘Start talking!’ ordered Mustapha.

The first part of Fazal’s story Seymour already knew. He and a friend had been following the hunt and had seen Bossu ride off away from the others into the scrub. Fazal, who was evidently a keen student of form, and who had seen Bossu riding on previous occasions, had not wanted to follow him but his friend had persuaded him.

But then ‘Suddenly he wasn’t there! “He’s come off,” I said to my friend. “I knew he was a dead loss. Let’s get back to the others.” “Perhaps he’s broken his neck?” my friend said. “That would be worth seeing! Let’s have a look.” So we ran-’

‘Just stop there for a moment,’ said Seymour. ‘You ran over. At once?’

‘Yes. We guessed he’d come off and-’

‘You got there pretty quickly?’

‘Oh, we weren’t slow.’

‘And what did you see?’

‘Him. With the lance sticking in him. And as soon as I saw that, I said, “Let’s get out of here!” But my friend wanted to have a look. Close up. So-’

‘Hold on. Back to the moment you first saw him. With the lance sticking in. What else did you see?’

‘Well, there was nothing else. Just the bushes. And the sand. And the lance.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ve got that bit. But there must have been other things.’

‘I don’t think so…’

‘A horse, for instance?’

‘Well, of course there was a horse. His.’

‘What was it doing? Standing there?’

‘No, no, it was running away. Bolting.’

‘In which direction was it running?’

‘Away. Straight ahead. Away from…’

‘Away from the hunt? Think. Was it running back to the hunt or away from it?’

‘Away from it.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because someone else I’ve talked to has said that they saw, or heard, a horse going back to the hunt.’

‘If they did, that’s not the horse I saw. The horse I saw was definitely bolting. Away from the hunt. The Frenchman had just come off-’

‘Why? Why do you think he had come off?’

‘Well, I don’t know. Probably because he wasn’t very good. The horse was all right, it was him. He would have had to swerve, you see, in and out of the bushes. They’re very good, these horses, they know just what to do. They stick to the pig. Well, of course, if you’re not much good as a rider, and with all that twisting and turning, it’s no wonder if you come off-’

‘You didn’t see anything that might have made him come off?’

‘Like what?’

‘A snake.’

‘We didn’t see a snake.’

‘Or someone in the bushes.’

‘We didn’t see anyone in the bushes. Of course, plenty of people came along afterwards

‘No, no. At the moment he came off.’

‘We didn’t see anyone.’

‘Because there must have been someone there. Or else how did the lance get stuck in?’

The carter was silent.

‘I see what you mean.’

‘There must have been a man there,’ said Seymour. ‘Very probably on a horse. You were there just afterwards. Are you sure you saw no one?’

The carter thought, but then shook his head.

‘A horse is pretty big,’ he said. ‘We ought to have seen that. But we didn’t.’

‘Let me take you back again,’ said Seymour. ‘To the moment you suddenly realized that he’d come off. How far were you away from him at that point?’

‘A couple of hundred yards. Three hundred, maybe.’

‘Some way, then. And then you had to run, of course. So there would have been time for it all to happen. Time for a man who was following him in to get there and do it and then get away again.’

‘He’d have had to have been quick,’ said Idris.

‘Yes, he certainly would. But now, Fazal, here’s the question: there would have to have been another man following the Frenchman in. You were coming from that direction. Did you see him?’