Michael Pearce - A dead man in Tangier

‘Ah, politics.’

Shrugs all round.

‘Even so — Bossu! Must have been more important than I thought.’

‘How have you been getting on, Renaud?’

‘With the investigation? Oh, well. Well.’

‘Found out anything yet?’ said someone maliciously.

‘My inquiries are proceeding,’ said the Chief of Police loftily.

‘But are they getting anywhere?’

Renaud ignored this.

‘I am putting up posters,’ he said.

‘That really should make a difference!’

‘Offering a reward. A big one.’

‘Who’s paying for it?’ asked someone sceptically.

‘The community generally. Business leaders.’

‘They would,’ someone muttered.

‘And settlers. I’ve had offers from the farmers.’

‘Phew! He must be important, if they’re willing to part with a few of their francs.’

‘Monsieur Bossu was a deeply respected member of the business community of Tangier,’ Renaud said, turning to Seymour. ‘And of Tangier.’

‘Fiddles everywhere,’ muttered someone.

‘You may scoff,’ said the Chief of Police, turning on him, ‘but when you’ve been in the country as long as I have-’

There was a general jeer. Evidently it was a favourite phrase of his.

‘How is Juliette, Renaud?’ asked someone, when it had died down.

‘She’s all right. In a state of shock, of course. But getting over it.’

‘I’ll bet. Getting over it pretty quickly, I expect.’

‘A poor woman!’ said Renaud reprovingly. ‘Alone. In a foreign country.’

‘Well, I don’t expect she’ll be alone for long,’ said someone. ‘Going over to comfort her, are you, Renaud?’

‘I was thinking of going over there, as a matter of fact.’

‘Give her my love!’

‘And mine!’

‘And mine!’

‘This is Madame Bossu you’re talking about?’ asked Seymour.

‘That’s right.’

‘I would like to meet her.’

‘Who wouldn’t?’

The Consul was talking to two grey-haired men. He beckoned Seymour over.

‘You might like to have a word with Monsieur Meunier,’ he said. ‘He’s our doctor. He saw Bossu when he was brought in.’

‘Millet’s a doctor, too,’ said Monsieur Meunier, ‘and a more important one.’

‘Ah, no!’ protested the other man, laughing.

‘He sees to the horses. I only see to the men. Horses are more important. They cost more.’

‘Are there many injuries?’ asked Seymour.

‘Many, but minor. Cuts, bruises. The occasional collar bone. Dislocated shoulders.’

‘I’ve just been over there,’ said Seymour. ‘I’m not surprised that people come off.’

‘They come off less than you might think,’ said Millet.

‘Most of them are pretty experienced. And the horses are experienced too.’

‘Was Bossu experienced?’ asked Seymour.

‘Bossu experienced?’ Meunier frowned. ‘Well, was he?’ he said, turning to Millet.

‘He rode a lot. He came over here regularly when the season was on.’

‘Ah, but that was only to impress Monique.’

‘Monique?’

‘His petite amie. Little friend. Little feminine friend. I didn’t get the feeling, though, that he enjoyed la chasse very much.’

‘He always pulled out early.’

‘I think that may have been why he went after that pig. So early, I mean. There was no need to. The main hunt was on ahead. But I think he suddenly saw a chance to stick a pig and then stop.’

‘And get back to the Tent for a drink,’ said Meunier.

‘And to Monique.’

‘Well, that wasn’t stupid!’ They both laughed.

‘So he went off after the pig?’ said Seymour.

‘Yes. It darted off at a tangent and he went after it.’

‘What happened after that? Did anyone see?’

‘No, they were all rushing on. But they said they’d seen him making off to the left.’

‘The ground is very uneven there,’ said Seymour. ‘Do you think he could have come off?’

‘He could, I suppose. He wasn’t that good a horseman.’

‘You saw him when he was brought in, I gather: was there anything that might suggest a fall?’

‘Cuts, bruising, you mean? Well, yes. But then he would have had to have fallen at some point, wouldn’t he? If he was on a horse.’

‘Well, that’s the question, actually. Was he on a horse when he was stabbed? De Grassac thinks he was on the ground. The lance, you see, was pinning him.’

‘It passed right through,’ said Meunier. ‘There were entry and exit wounds.’

‘Monsieur Millet, I turn to you. The horse. You see to any horses which have been injured, if I remember. I wondered if you had seen Monsieur Bossu’s horse when it was brought in? It was brought in, I presume?’

‘Oh, yes. Some time later. One of Musa’s men recognized it.’

‘Did you get a chance to take a look at it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And were there any signs of injury?’

‘Not really. No indication of a hobble, which there might have been if it had put a foot wrong, for instance. Easy to on that ground and that might have brought Bossu off. But there was no suggestion of that. Just-’

‘Just!’

‘Prickles. Thorns. Well, there are always plenty of those, of course, especially after they’ve been going through this kind of scrub. But I remember noticing that there were an unusual quantity of thorns in Bossu’s horse. Now, of course, if it had panicked and been crashing around in the bushes that would explain it. But I remember noticing that most of them were in the horse’s flanks, which made me think that it might have backed into a thorn bush, if, say, it had been startled by something in front of it… Well, that’s all I can offer, I’m afraid.’

Monsieur Meunier had been toying with his glass.

‘Did you say that de Grassac thought Bossu had been stabbed while he was lying on the ground?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s not very nice, is it? I mean, I never had much time for Bossu, but that makes it sound as if he was stuck like a pig.’

‘That’s not the only thing,’ said Millet. ‘It makes it sound as it he was stuck by, well, one of us.’

It was agreed that Renaud would take Seymour with him. Seymour had not wanted to cramp his style, but Renaud seemed quite happy with the arrangement.

‘Juliette will be glad to see you,’ he assured him. ‘It will satisfy her that everything that can be done is being done.’

They set off in one of the soiled, tatty cabs, which Seymour had assumed were mainly used for the transporting of flies. There were several waiting optimistically outside the marquee. Optimistically, but not urgently. They seemed relaxed about time in Tangier.

‘It will wait for us while we’re talking to Juliette,’ the Chief of Police said. ‘Or perhaps’ — having second thoughts — ‘for you if Juliette wants me to stay.’

Seymour thought that quite likely.

The cab took them back the way they had come and then turned up the slope to the rows of bougainvillea villas. It came to a stop outside one of the larger ones, where a woman was on the verandah watering some plants.

‘Constant!’

‘Juliette!’

‘And you have brought a friend with you!’

‘Monsieur Seymour. From London. He has come out here-’

‘To assist Monsieur Renaud,’ said Seymour swiftly.

‘-in the matter of Bossu.’

‘Ah!’

Madame Bossu stepped off the verandah into the sunlight and he saw at once what the officers had meant. If that was your type. Blonde, peaches-and-cream complexion, full, pouting lips.

‘Then I wish you every success, Monsieur, in all your ventures here.’

Spoken in a low, husky voice and giving a hint, surely, that the ventures might not be restricted to l’affaire Bossu.