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the left hand. It was an old scar.
    “Does anyone recognize him?” he barked at the boys.
    They shook their heads. He grabbed a flashlight and leaned into the backseat to look at the young, slightly bearded face that could have been peacefully sleeping. It was a boy of about twenty, slender and quite tall. A handsome boy, with a tattoo on his right hand.
    “He is from the south,” Hamid said at his elbow.
    “Un chien sauvage,” someone said.
    They looked at his feet, with the sandals still attached to them though the bones had been broken, and at the robe torn in places and speckled with dried blood. The hands were white with dust. Blood had leaked all over the seat and the back of the front seats, too; a pool of it had formed on the car’s floor. With no idea who to call, lost in a foreign country, the Hennigers had simply taken the victim with them and brought him here. It was the logical thing to have done. And yet it was incredibly awkward. He told the boys to take the body from the car and lay it out somewhere. Perhaps the garages, where none of the guests would wander.
    “Shall we clean the car, Monsieur?”
    “No. We have to call the police in Taza.”
    Their faces fell and there was a moment’s silence. It would take the police an hour to get there, if not more, so there was time for him to talk to the Hennigers. He took Hamid aside as the body was rolled out of the car and laid on a blanket. The hands flopped into the dust, and Richard and Hamid found themselves staring at them uncontrollably. Hamid seemed ashamed of something. He didn’t want to be involved in this remarkable disaster.
    “Hamid, did you believe their story?”
    “But they are your guests. How am I not to believe them?”
    “But did you, in fact, believe them?”
    “I think they are very scared. They told the truth.”
    Hamid’s eyes turned away. There were times when discretion was not what Richard wanted from him, but the relation of employer to servant was impossible to surmount. The English were the master’s guests. They must be respected. This attitude could not be penetrated.
    “Go to the house and tell Monsieur Dally. Whisper in his ear and don’t make a fuss. Tell him to meet me in the garage.”
    “Yes, Monsieur.”
    RICHARD WENT BACK TO THE CAR AND LOOKED IT OVER . The massive dent on the left fender was unmistakable enough. The headlight had been shattered and the fender almost detached. So the boy had crossed the road from the left and been hit. They must have been going at a fair clip. He looked up at the moon and thought it a clear night. He walked through the gate onto the dirt road and looked down at the highway snaking around the bottom of the hill. One could see everything. One could see the formations of lignite on the mountains by the far side of the road, a distance of miles. The moon was full, and nothing escaped it. He’d be interested to hear what their story really was. He hadn’t asked Hamid, because he wanted to hear it himself from their own lips. People change their stories rapidly. He opened the phone and lingered among the high roadside weeds for a fewmoments, wondering if he should explain anything to the police, and then decided not to think about it too much. Every minute of delay was incriminating.
    “It is Richard Duddy here. At Ksour Azna.”
    The voice at the other end was sluggish and slightly hostile, its French clogged with uncertainties.
    “Good evening, Monsieur Galloway. Have you been burgled?”
    They laughed. “No, Yassine, I have an unfortunate situation. You will have to come over at once. A man has been hit by a car.”
    “Is it one of your guests?”
    “No, we don’t know him. He might be local.”
    “Is he dead?”
    “He was dead when he came in.”
    “Was the car belonging to a foreigner?”
    “It was.”
    “It is a shame.”
    There was a dragging irritation in the voice.
    “Monsieur Richard, keep everyone there, please. Put the body somewhere cool.”
    “The