Tangier by William Bayer

when you particularly caught my eye. You were sitting in your car outside Peter Zvegintzov's shop. Nothing wrong with that, of course. No crime. But I began to wonder. You seemed to be waiting for someone, though your wife wasn't in sight. Being a curious sort of fellow, I began to ask myself: Now why, why would a young man from the American Consulate be watching outside this particular store? And I never did figure it out."
    Hamid fastened his eyes on Knowles, until the American finally looked back. He'd become extremely nervous—so much so that Hamid decided to change the subject.
    "None of my business," he said. "You're your own man here. But forgive me if I give you some advice. Try to be helpful to the prisoners if you can. I know you're only required to give them a list of lawyers and a little counseling on our local laws, but your predecessor did a lot more. He was friendly to them, even used his own money to buy them soap and cigarettes. It's not very pleasant, you know, downstairs."
    "I know." Knowles nodded his head. "But I don't want to get involved. Better to keep everything official—that's what our handbook says."
    "Well, perhaps you're right. Still I admired the last vice-consul very much. He may not have liked the people he had to see, but he understood their pain."
    When Knowles was gone Hamid waited a moment, then went to the window to watch him enter his car. It was driven by a Moroccan chauffeur who for years had been one of his informants-without-pay.
    He returned to his desk, lit another cigarette, and tried to clear his mind. Then he heard noises coming from the street and moved back to the window again. A middle-aged lady, a Riffian in a red-and-white-striped skirt, was struggling with two policemen and screaming for her son. A small crowd had gathered to watch the scene, and Hamid saw other inspectors watching from their windows too.
    Why do we watch? he wondered. Why are we all voyeurs? When he returned to his desk Aziz was waiting by the door.
    "The Vicar's cooling his heels. You ready for him now?"
    Hamid nodded, then began a shopping list in Arabic which he continued after the Vicar was shown in. When he was finished he turned the paper over and looked up at the Englishman with a smile. "Well, Vicar Wick," he said. "This is the first time you've been here, I think."
    "Yes, Inspector Ouazzani. And I confess I'm not happy about it at all. A most unpleasant matter has forced me to come. As I explained to your assistant, I had to see you and no one else."
    Hamid folded his hands and placed them on the desk. "Very well. You're here. Please tell us what we can do."
    Vicar Wick, a short, stout, nervous man whose hair was slicked back with some sort of oil or cream, turned to look at Aziz. "It's most confidential, Inspector. I prefer to speak to you alone."
    "Mr. Jaouhari is my homme de confiance . I promise you he's totally discreet."
    "Still I'd prefer—"
    Hamid shook his head. "Many people come into this room and say the most amazing things. It's necessary for me to always have a witness. Then if there's a misunderstanding later on—but I'm sure you understand."
    "Hmmp! I see! Yes, yes." He turned back to Hamid. "Oh, very well." He was fidgeting. "This is a most delicate matter. Most delicate, indeed."
    Hamid was becoming impatient. "Yes, Vicar, now please tell us what it is. We have lots of work this morning. A number of your fellow countrymen have been arrested with Moroccan boys."
    The Vicar's eyes began to flutter. Hamid studied him. The man chewed his fingernails. Another high-strung Englishman, he thought.
    "You've heard of Mr. Peter Barclay, I presume?"
    "I know him, of course."
    "Good. Then you know the kind of man he is. And his importance to us British here. I needn't tell you that Mr. Barclay is from one of the greatest families in the British Isles—that his cousin is a duke and that he is related to Her Majesty in six different ways. He is, in short, a most distinguished