Tangier by William Bayer Page B

myself see no threats. Only imputations, and entreaties to God."
    "It's blasphemy!"
    "Perhaps. I happen to be a Moslem and therefore not all that well acquainted with your faith. But the laws of my country are clearly spelled out. They say nothing about blasphemy in a foreign church."
    "So that's it! The law doesn't apply to us."
    "That's not true, but you may think what you like. I'm simply telling you I cannot help. You British must settle this among yourselves."
    A long pause then, as the Vicar realized that Hamid could not be swayed. "I see," he said finally, standing up. "I see very well that I shall find no justice here. Good day, sir. I thank you for your time. And may I say that I think things have come to a sorry pass when the police refuse to deal with a foreigner's complaint."
    He stalked out then, and when he was far down the hall Hamid and Aziz began to laugh.
    "Another example of the Nasranis' madness, Aziz. Note it well!"
    "I have, Hamid. I have. But please—what is a British duke?"
    "A grand signor. A great lord. But the point is that Mr. Barclay is not a duke, though he would have everyone in Tangier think that he is. And what the note says is absolutely true--he does make love to boys. But enough of this nonsense. There's still work to do. Take care of the ballet dancers—call them up here, interrogate them, and make many thinly veiled threats. I'm going out for a while. I'll see you after lunch."
    Hamid began to drive about the town aimlessly, in an attempt to clear his head. He passed the Emsalah Tennis Club, saw Omar Salah's car parked in the drive. He was tempted to go in then and play Omar a hard, fast set. But he knew he would feel guilty if he played during working hours, and, too, he knew what people would say. "Ah, Hamid Ouazzani is now an inspector of police and has become unbearably corrupt. He plays tennis in the daytime while the criminals roam Tangier. He has forgotten his humble origins, is now as rich and arrogant as Salah, whom he imitates."
    He laughed at the thought, and at all his missed opportunities to become rich—all the bribes offered him, and sternly refused.
    He turned down the road to Dradeb, then drove slowly so that he could look carefully at everything and see if there was something new. He often tested himself this way, believing that if he stared long and hard enough at familiar sights he might begin to understand them in a different way. He passed only one foreigner on the road, Laurence Luscombe, walking with an empty market basket from his home at the far end of the slum. Luscombe's face looked haggard, and there were pink blotches on his cheeks. His white hair was blowing in the breeze—gentle, thanks to Allah: the harsh winds of May had subsided for a time.
    Hamid passed Dr. Radcliffe's car, parked as usual before the house of Deborah Gates. There was no trace of foreigners as he entered the heart of the slum. The shabby buildings, no more than a single brick thick, looked as though they might fall upon the street. Children in ragged clothing ran back and forth, and he thought of his friend Mohammed Achar busy in his clinic, struggling to keep up with the endless flow of the diseased. Often, now, when he drove through here he recalled his childhood and his struggle to get out, the old cherif who'd taken an interest in him, the year he'd spent preparing for the police exam. It had been difficult. He'd passed, and now he was free. Yet he knew that a part of him would always feel at home in this slum. At La Colombe he slowed down, startled by the appearance of a black official car bearing the flag of the United States. It was the limousine of the American Consul General, Daniel Lake. Now he too was frequenting the shop. Hamid tried to look inside but the sun was in his eyes. He glanced at his watch, discovered it was nearly eleven, time for his weekly meeting with his favorite informer, Robin Scott. He turned his car and drove through Dradeb again, then up a