17
Moustafa watched with a mixture of wonder and horror as the two ladies—the woman Mr. Wall didn’t want and the woman he couldn’t have—dueled it out with words sharper than razors. While he didn’t understand the motivations of either woman, he realized it had stopped being about his boss after the second or third insult.
But what was far more interesting was how Russell Pasha, whom all native Cairenes feared and hated in equal measure, seemed incapable of controlling his younger sister. Yes, the Europeans were definitely weak when it came to women.
Just when Moustafa was looking forward to one of the women throwing her drink in the other’s face, Mr. Wall stood.
“If you’ll excuse me, we must make that telephone call, Zehra,” he said. “You have the number, yes?”
Zehra didn’t skip a beat. “Why yes. Do excuse us, important business.”
The last two words were directed at Cordelia, and seemed to imply that a silly little English girl like her would never have important business, and that whatever business she ever did have, would most certainly not have anything to do with Mr. Wall. She rose and put a hand on Mr. Wall’s wrist.
“Don’t run off again,” Cordelia said with a weak smile. The words came out halfway between a plea and an order. Mr. Wall’s face turned into a mask on both sides. With long strides he crossed the room and was gone. Zehra could barely keep up with him. Cordelia and her brother turned to each other and began to chat about trivial matters. Moustafa found himself cut out of the conversation, not that he had ever been a part of it in the first place.
Moustafa didn’t say anything. He had spent enough time with Europeans to know that every African had a secret magical power—the power to turn invisible. All he had to do was sit still and remain quiet and they would start ignoring him. After a time, they would forget he understood their language. Eventually they would forget he was even there. Then he would hear their true thoughts.
After a few minutes listening to their small talk, he did.
“I don’t like that Turkish woman,” Cordelia said with a frown.
“I don’t have to be a policeman to notice that. She was perfectly pleasant until you started in on her. I thought you liked the exotic.”
“I think she’s far too forward. I know she’s just a Turk, but one of her station should have learned some of the social graces.”
Russell Pasha took a sip from his drink. “I daresay she’s not lacking in graces.”
Cordelia scoffed. “Men!”
Russell Pasha changed the subject.
“I’ve arranged dinner with the Ambersons. They have a son in the Royal Engineers. A couple of his friends will come too.”
“Oh Thomas, why do you volunteer me for these dreary social events?” Cordelia asked. “I’m here to have fun.”
“You’re here to plan for your future. You don’t want to end up like Aunt Pearl.”
“Better a spinster than the wife of some dull colonial officer.”
“There’s some wheat among the chaff; you just have to keep looking. You’ll find an interesting man.”
A slow smile spread across Cordelia’s lips. “I think I may have already found one.”
Russell Pasha looked surprised, glanced in the direction that Mr. Wall had gone, and looked back at her.
“You don’t mean …”
Cordelia blushed.
“Cordelia, you can’t mean it! He’s a good sort, but he’s an ill-humored recluse and he’s, well he’s …”
Moustafa was astounded. Her interest had been perfectly obvious to him. Was Russell Pasha really that dim-witted?
“He’s ill-humored because he doesn’t have someone to share his life with,” Cordelia said. “As for the other matter, a decent woman can overlook these things. Didn’t Alicia have a child after Charles came back from the war missing both legs?”
“They were already married.”
“What difference does that make? Unless you know something you’re not telling me.” At this point Cordelia’s blush deepened. “He’s not injured in … any other way, is he?”
“Good Lord! How should I know?”
There was a pause. Cordelia hid herself behind her glass of lemonade, and Russell Pasha kept glancing in the direction Mr. Wall had gone, as if checking for, or hoping for, his return. Russell Pasha broke the silence first.
“You’re being impulsive. You hardly know the man.”
“I’m not saying he’s the one. I’m only saying I’m interested in spending more time with him. Do you know he’s taken a little street urchin under his tutelage? He has a good heart. More than I can say for some of those officers you’ve introduced me to.”
Russell Pasha shook his head. “This is my fault. I should have foreseen it. You were always taking on charity cases. Every bird with a broken wing ended up in our conservatory. Your pocket money always ended up in the grubby hands of local beggar children. At least you put your soft heart to good use during the war with your nursing, but this isn’t the war and Augustus doesn’t need any nursing, nor does he want it.”
“I think a woman can sense these things better than a man,” Cordelia objected.
Russell Pasha leaned over and put his hand on hers. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“How could I get hurt?”
“By giving your heart to a man who doesn’t want it.”
“Who’s to say he doesn’t want it? I don’t think he knows what he wants.”
Russell Pasha laughed. “That man knows exactly what he wants. And it’s far, far different than what you want.”
“Oh, what would you know? He’s—”
Mr. Wall appeared without Zehra, and Cordelia changed the subject.
“Zehra was called away on urgent business,” Mr. Wall said. “She says she hopes you have a fine time here in Cairo. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be off.”
Cordelia looked crestfallen. “So soon?” Suspicion flickered across her features and she glanced at the door, as if expecting to spot Zehra waiting for him.
“Yes, urgent business myself, you see. The antiquities trade has been rather, um, dramatic of late. Moustafa, let’s go.”
Moustafa gladly rose.
Russell Pasha gave Mr. Wall a piercing look. “I hope things go well in your shop. I’ll pop by later and see how you’re doing.”
Moustafa wondered what the policeman’s reaction would be when he didn’t find them there. It didn’t matter. It was Mr. Wall who would have to deal with the ensuing trouble. Meanwhile, Moustafa felt his pulse quicken. From his boss’s eager attitude, he knew they would soon be on the hunt.
And then he knew why he followed this strange, selfish man into danger. He knew why he endured Nur’s constant complaints. He had to tell her everything, of course. He couldn’t hide the bruises or the bullet wounds and no lie he could think of would be more palatable than the truth. And the truth was he, like Mr. Wall, had become addicted to the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction of showing up the grand Sir Thomas Russell Pasha, friend of nobility and appointed personally by King George himself.
He also knew that if he didn’t follow Mr. Wall, that maniac would get himself killed.
They were already heading out the door, out into the busy afternoon traffic of Cairo.
“Did you get the footman’s physical description, boss?”
“Yes, Zehra was most obliging,” Mr. Wall said with smug smile.
Not as obliging as you’d like her to be, Moustafa thought. How much did you spend on her fake antiquities today? And all for a flirt and a smile?
Moustafa made a mental shrug. That was none of his business. The fake antiques sold just as well as the real ones.
“First thing’s first, my man,” Mr. Wall said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them with glee. “To the arsenal. We must get kitted out for the night’s fun. And then to interview a few diamond merchants. By then it will be time for the good Idris Wakil to get off work. That’s when we’ll p
ounce.”
“But how do you know the Apaches are involved?”
“I don’t. Just a feeling. There hasn’t been a heist like this in Cairo in years. The Apaches are settling in and beginning to make a name for themselves. You hear what Sir Thomas said? It’s not just Aziz the Pimp who has turned up dead or missing, but several criminal leaders all across town.”
“They certainly work fast,” Moustafa said as they got into a hansom cab waiting in front of the restaurant. Mr. Wall told the driver to take them to Ibn al-Nafis Street.
“Perhaps not so fast as all that. They may have been working this game for quite some time before they came to our notice.”
“But why come to your notice at all?”
He saw Mr. Wall stiffen. “To revisit the past, and put it in the past.”
“But surely that could have been done without endangering their operation. Yves Savatier could have contacted you privately, and not made his association with the Apaches known. Why would they challenge you to stop them? Why run the risk?”
Mr. Wall turned his face to look out the window, and all Moustafa could see was the half with the mask.
“They don’t want me to stop them, Moustafa.”
“Then why reveal themselves?”
“Because they want me to join them.”
“That’s ridiculous! Why would you help them?”
After a long pause, Mr. Wall murmured, “I have before.”
Their meetings with the diamond merchants turned up nothing. All had heard of the robbery, because no one gossips more than those who serve the rich, but no amount of verbal entrapment or browbeating wrung a confession of involvement out of any of them. Moustafa suspected they were actually innocent. The Apaches were too clever to fence goods through known merchants. More than likely the stones would be shipped abroad and sold safely in some other city.
Now they waited in the shadow of a palm tree, hidden from view of the mansion where Idris Wakil worked. The night was well advanced before the servant strolled out from the service entrance and headed down the street. They waited until he was almost out of sight before following. Moustafa crossed the street to walk a little behind Mr. Wall. Idris Wakil turned a corner and they hurried to catch up before they lost him.
They followed him for a good twenty minutes before he turned down an alley between two closed shops. At the entrance Moustafa caught the rich smell of hashish.
“He’s gone for an evening smoke,” Moustafa said. “Wait at that café across the street, boss. You would stand out too much in such a place.”
After a pause, Mr. Wall nodded and headed across the street. Moustafa checked the revolver in his pocket and entered the alley.
It was as he suspected. The narrow lane had been filled with chairs and tables, one of Cairo’s countless cafés that appeared nightly and disappeared like stars with the dawn. Men sat alone or in small groups sucking on hookahs. None smelled of the flavored tobacco that Moustafa liked. Apple and pomegranate were his favorite. But these men weren’t after the relaxing buzz of a good dose of tobacco. These men were all smoking hashish.
Moustafa tried to hide his distaste. Some Muslims claimed that since the holy Koran didn’t specifically forbid hashish that it wasn’t haram. What nonsense. The Koran said only wine was forbidden, but every Muslim agreed that beer and spirits were also haram, and therefore it stood to reason that all intoxicants were forbidden to the practicing Muslim as substances that took one further from God. Tobacco wasn’t an intoxicant. All it did was lift one’s spirits and momentarily take the weight of the world off one’s shoulders. Tobacco was a blessing from God.
He spotted Idris Wakil easily enough. He had taken an empty table near the far end of the lane. The waiter had already brought him a hookah and was coming from the oven with the ladle full of coals, spinning them around to keep them bright red. Moustafa let out a contented sigh. That sight always cheered him. It meant that relief was on its way.
The waiter used a pair of tongs to place some coals on the top of the hookah. Idris Wakil puffed on it a couple of times and nodded to show that the draw was clean, and the waiter turned to Moustafa, who was just sitting down at the only other spare table, the one right next to the footman’s.
“A tea,” Moustafa ordered, and when he saw the waiter expected more added, “and some apple-flavored tobacco.”
“We have some good Lebanese in just this week,” the waiter said.
“I don’t smoke the good stuff until after I’ve had a few draws of tobacco.”
The waiter shrugged and went to fetch the hookah.
Soon tea and the hookah came and Moustafa settled in. He kept an eye on the footman, waiting to see what he would do. He doubted the fellow planned to meet any Apaches here. The robbery had probably been his only involvement with the gang. But it was best to wait and spring the trap at the opportune moment.
Moustafa imagined Mr. Wall sitting at the other café seething with impatience. Europeans were always impatient, obsessed with the clock. They never understood that some things took time.
Getting a man thoroughly off his head on hashish took time, for example, especially a regular smoker like Idris Wakil obviously was.
Moustafa nursed his tea and tobacco pipe, ignoring the occasional look from the waiter. After Idris had taken a third brazier for his hookah, the waiter gave Moustafa a frank scowl of impatience.
“Another apple tobacco, please,” Moustafa said.
“There are plenty of places to smoke tobacco. You’re holding up a place for the regulars.”
Moustafa glared at him and puffed out his chest. “Get me a new brazier before I pull your entrails out and let my daughters skip rope with them.”
That got some good service. Luckily, Idris at the next table hadn’t noticed the disturbance. It didn’t look like he was noticing much at all. The footman gazed up at the thin strip of stars visible between the two buildings that formed the alley, a stupid look of awe on his face.
At last Idris set aside the hookah, wavered a little as he stood, and paid. He turned and went further down the alley. Moustafa called the waiter over, paid for his drink and smoke, and followed.
The alley connected with another street, this one quieter and darker. Idris hadn’t gotten far. He was barely fifty paces in front of him, shuffling along and humming contentedly to himself.
Moustafa caught up with him.
“Diamonds,” he said.
Idris stopped. Turned. His face had regained some sobriety.
“What did you say, brother?”
“I said diamonds. Who told you to steal the diamonds?”
“I don’t know what—”
His protestation of innocence got cut short by Moustafa grabbing him by the neck and shaking him.
“None of that. Tell me!”
The man got a look of terror on his face and began to shake like a palm frond in the desert wind. A stuttering babble came from his mouth as he shook his head over and over again. Moustafa realized his roughness had made the paranoia set in. He gave Idris a slap to clear his head.
It worked to a point. The man still trembled, but at least now he could form a coherent sentence.
“Some Europeans. They call themselves Apaches. They gave me a hundred piastres and a promise of more once they sold the diamonds.”
“How did they know about them? You must have told them.”
“No, I swear! They came to me. The lady of the house recently bought a new necklace. Her picture was in the society page when she wore it to a ball. That must have been how they found out. They said I could either help them and get paid or they’d cut me up.”
“How did you get the diamonds out of the house? The witnesses said you didn’t leave before it was noticed they were gone.”
“I didn’t leave. A boy climbed up the wall and took the bag.”
“A boy? A European boy?”
“He—”
There was a sickening thump and Idris jerked, his back arching. A
knife had embedded itself into his spine.
Moustafa ducked to one side as another knife whistled out of the shadows.
Drawing his pistol, he rushed toward the entrance to a courtyard. He couldn’t see the attacker, but he had come from there.
Moustafa pressed himself against the wall, then popped around the corner, his gun at the ready.
Not ready enough. A figure rose from the darkness and struck his hand with a blow that felt like an iron bar. The pistol clattered to the ground.
Moustafa backed off. The figure emerged from the shadow and into the faint moonlight.
Vincent.
Moustafa struck at that smug, sneering face, only to have the man duck back while at the same time delivering a painful blow to his shin.
That put Moustafa off-balance. Trying to ignore the pain, he went after him, swinging a heavy fist at the center of Vincent’s chest, figuring that he would have a harder time dodging that than a blow to the head.
But he didn’t even try to dodge. He landed another kick on Moustafa’s shin that knocked him onto the ground as if he’d been poleaxed. His punch fell short, only hitting air.
A rush of air and an explosion in his head was all he knew of Vincent’s final kick.
He lay on the ground, barely able to see. Vincent laughed.
“You have spirit, Nubian, I’ll give you that. It’s a pity you serve a foreign master. Your people could use someone like you. Cross my path again and you’ll regret it.”
Vincent walked off into the night.
After a minute, Moustafa picked himself up and limped through the alley, ignoring the stares of the smokers at the hashish café, and made his way to where Mr. Wall sat in a more respectable venue across the street.
“What happened?” Mr. Wall said, standing up and putting his hand in the pocket where he kept his pistol. “Are you badly hurt?”
“Not badly sir, no. It was Vincent again. He killed Idris before I got a chance to get anything useful out of him.”
“Blast! We’re no closer than before.”
“Hopefully Faisal will have found out something,” Moustafa said.
Hopefully he has had better luck than me and didn’t run into Vincent.
The Case of the Shifting Sarcophagus Page 19