Read Online A Dead Man in Tangier by Michael Pearce - Free Book Online Page A

talking to Sheikh Musa. Seymour was a little surprised. He didn’t know how it was in Morocco, or how Sheikh Musa was, but you wouldn’t have seen this in Istanbul, nor, he suspected, in many other Muslim countries. A woman talking so familiarly to a man. But, of course, she was half French, too. Perhaps it was the French half that Musa was addressing. And yet . . . and yet they were both drinking lemonade. That was a Muslim thing to do. Curious. Not just curious: intriguing.
    She saw him looking at her and waved a hand. Shortly afterwards she detached herself from Sheikh Musa and came across to him.
    ‘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 enclo- sure. 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