‘So a copy travels with the case?’
‘Yes, and is matched up against the one we send direct to the Mudir.’
‘What happens if there is no valuation statement?’
‘You’d better ask the Mudir.’
On the way out they went by a different route so that the under-keeper could check that the Cow was safely in position.
‘One of our most popular exhibits,’ said the under-keeper fondly.
Owen lingered to look.
‘Nice, isn’t it? One of the best things we’ve ever had from Der el Bahari.’
***
‘Why don’t we got to Alexandria for a couple of days?’ suggested Owen.
‘What for?’ asked Zeinab.
‘The sea air. Escape from the heat.’
‘Half of Cairo will be doing that,’ said Zeinab. ‘Not me.’
‘Oh, come on. I thought I’d take a look at the Customs arrangements down there.’
‘Customs arrangements?’ said Zeinab incredulously. ‘Well, that does sound tempting!’
‘We could,’ said Owen, who had anticipated this response and done his homework, ‘go to the Zizinia in the evening. They’re doing I Maestri Cantori di Norimberga, which we’ve not seen yet. And we might be able to fit in La Bohème as well.’
‘That’s different,’ said Zeinab.
***
And so two mornings later Owen arrived at the office of the Directeur Local des Douanes d’Alexandrie.
‘But, my dear fellow,’ cried the Mudir of Customs, ‘why did you not come on a donkey?’
Why not, indeed? To get to the Customs House he had been obliged to walk along nearly two miles of quays. The quays were paved and the stone was so hot that even with shoes on Owen stepped gingerly. The sea to his left reflected the sunlight so dazzlingly that he was almost blinded; and immediately to his right had rumbled an almost continuous train of mule carts which threw up such a cloud of dust that by the time he arrived at the Customs House his tarboosh was quite white.
The Mudir tut-tutted and wiped him down and ordered a lemonade.
‘Now, my dear chap,’ he said, ‘what is it this time? Hashish, guns or dirty postcards?’
‘Antiquities.’
‘Antiquities?’ The Mudir was surprised. ‘But they’re straightforward. Relatively!’ he added hurriedly.
‘All the same…’
The Mudir led him into a long shed. There was a large door at one end, beyond which Owen could see a queue of waiting vehicles.
‘Goods Arrival,’ said the Mudir.
Porters were bringing packing cases in through the door in a steady stream. They carried the cases high up on their shoulders, one man to a case, irrespective, it seemed, of the dimensions of the case. As each one came through the door, an official seized him, turned him round, read the label on the case and directed him to one or other part of the shed.
Sometimes the porters came clutching documents in their hands. Usually, however, the paperwork was handled separately by an effendi, besuited and be-tarbooshed, who fussed around chivvying the porters and generally taking responsibility for the consignment.
‘They’re the Agency people,’ said the Mudir. ‘We get to know them quite well.’
‘What do they do?’ asked Owen.
‘Well, suppose you had brought some antiquities and you wanted to send them back to England: you could do it yourself or you could ask an Agency to handle it for you. Most people use an Agency. It saves a lot of work. You see, if it’s antiquities you have to send them to the Museum to be valued—’
‘Yes,’ said Owen. ‘I know about that.’
‘You do? Well, you can see it’s much simpler if an Agency does it all for you. They pick up the antiquities, pack them, send them to the Museum, collect them, despatch them to Alexandria and see them through the Customs here. Much simpler.’
Among the effendis was a young woman in a long green coat.
‘Is she an Agency person, too?’
The Mudir frowned.
‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’
The woman seemed, however, to be taking responsibility for a consignment. She accosted a Sous-Inspecteur, led him over to a small pile of cases and gave him some papers.
‘It’s unusual,’ said the Mudir. ‘I’ve never known—’
It was unusual for a woman to be engaged in business of any kind, much less in public, unless she was the lowest of the low, an orange-seller in a market, say. But this woman was well dressed and European, or if not European, a Levan-tine of some sort.
‘I think I’ve seen her before, though,’ said the Mudir.
The Sous-Inspecteur was counting the cases. The woman took one of the documents back from him and went off with a look of determination. The Sous-Inspecteur began scrutinizing the cases.
‘Is he going to open them?’ asked Owen.
‘That depends. If the paperwork is in order he might not. You know about the paperwork? The Museum sends us a copy of its valuation direct. The other copy goes with the case. The copies don’t come together again until the case gets here, so there is no possibility of tampering with the list.’
‘Adding something?’
‘Altering a value, perhaps.’
‘Perhaps something could be added to the case but not to the list?’
‘The Mudir shook his head.’
‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘The cases are sealed at the Museum.’
‘Still—’
The Sous-Inspecteur pounced on a case and began opening it.
‘Like to have a look?’ asked the Mudir. He took Owen by the arm and led him across to the Sous-Inspecteur. ‘Why that one?’ he asked.
‘The seal looks as if it could have been tampered with,’ said the Sous-Inspecteur.
‘That’s the first thing we check,’ explained the Mudir. ‘Of course, if you’re clever, it’s always possible to open the case without breaking the seal.’
‘You’d have to be very clever, though, to do it without leaving a mark,’ said the Sous-Inspecteur. ‘We look for that, too.’
He began to unpack the case carefully, checking each item against the list: rather beautiful Canopic jars and two delicate figurines.
‘Seems all right,’ said the Sous-Inspecteur, signalling to a workman to come and put the lid back on. As it was hammered into a position he bent over the case and marked it carefully.
‘Two marks,’ said the Mudir. ‘One to show it’s been passed, the other to show it’s been opened.’
‘What’s this one?’ said the Sous-Inspecteur, pointing to a case which stood a little apart from the others.
The workman shook his head.
‘I’ll have a look at it.’
It was a large, flat case, taller than the others but less wide. The workman prised one side off. As it came away it revealed a stone figure carefully padded with straw and wrapped in thick folds of green beige. The Sous-Inspecteur pulled the cloth away. The figure was that of a marvellously-carved dog-headed ape.
‘What’s the value?’ said the Sous-Inspecteur to himself, consulting his list. ‘Thirty thousand piastres? Is that all? Still, it’s what the Museum says. Now, two and a half per cent of thirty thousand—’
‘Seven hundred and fifty piastres,’ said Owen. ‘Seventy-five pounds. It doesn’t seem much.’
‘What are you doing with my Thoth?’ said a cool voice beside him.
It was the girl in the green coat.
‘Is it yours?’ said the Sous-Inspecteur. ‘It was a bit apart from the others.’
‘I didn’t see it. I’ve been looking all over the place for it. I thought for a moment they must have left it behind. Well,’ she said to Owen, ‘what do you think of it?’
‘Very fine,’ he said genuinely.
‘It is, i
sn’t it?’ she said, stroking its ears. ‘I shall be sorry to part with this one.’
‘Aren’t you parting with it a little too cheaply?’
She looked startled.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I hope not.’
‘Thirty thousand piastres?’
‘It’s the going price. We’ve got a shop in Milan.’
Ah. Not, probably, Levantine, then. One of the enormous colony of Italians in Alexandria.
‘That’s pretty low, surely, for an original statuette of this quality?’
‘I don’t know about this quality, but it would be pretty low, certainly, for an original statuette. If it were one.’
‘It’s—it’s not genuine?’
‘It’s perfectly genuine,’ said the girl, rather put out. ‘It just happens to be an imitation.’
Feeling rather foolish, Owen bent over the ape-god and examined it.
‘It’s not always easy to tell,’ the girl said, taking pity on him. ‘If it’s well done, often the only way you know is by the buff of the stone.’
She took his hand and placed his fingers on the ape-god’s backside.
‘You see? Too smooth, too regular. Our tools are better than theirs. There are always roughnesses in an original.’
She released his hand and stood up with a laugh.
‘So you see,’ she said, ‘thirty thousand piastres is not unreasonable.’
‘It’s a very good imitation.’
‘We deal in quality,’ said the girl.
‘Ta’ib,’ said the Sous-Inspecteur. ‘It is well.’ The workman came forward and replaced the side on the box.
‘What would you like to see now?’ asked the Mudir. ‘The paperwork? Or shall I tell you about Security?’
Afterwards, they went back to the Mudir’s office for coffee. As Owen raised his cup to his mouth, he caught the slight smell of perfume on his hand.
***
The Opera House was small and gracious, the audience large and enthusiastic. But largely Italian: and therefore not at all sure of The Mastersingers, which was their first experience of Wagner.
Zeinab wasn’t sure either. When she went to the opera she always identified strongly with the heroines but in this case felt there was not a lot to identify with.
‘She is too passive,’ she complained to Owen at the interval.
Passive was something Zeinab was not. She had all the emotional volatility—and some of the dramatic self-centredness—of an operatic diva.
‘The men have all the best parts,’ she said darkly. ‘I am not sure I like this Wagner. He is too cold, too stiff. Like an Englishman.’
Taking this personally, Owen pointed out that he was Welsh.
‘Deceptive, as always,’ said Zeinab, tucking her arm beneath his.
‘Oh, hallo!’
It was Carmichael, from Customs, recognizing Owen but uncertain how to take his lady, obviously on intimate terms with him but not, surely—an Arab?—his wife.
‘Miss Al Nuri,’ said Owen.
‘Oh, hallo!’ said Carmichael awkwardly. It was very rarely that one met an Egyptian woman, even in relatively westernized contexts such as the opera. One did not often meet women at all—the Mediterranean peoples were very jealous of their women—but Egyptians, never.
The Mamur Zapt, he supposed, was different.
Zeinab, enjoying his discomfort, flashed her eyes at him over her veil. Carmichael went pink.
‘Up for a visit?’ he said hurriedly to Owen.
‘Taking a look at Customs.’
‘Oh, you’ll find that very interesting,’ said Carmichael enthusiastically. ‘Hamdi Pasha runs a tight ship. One of Chitty Bey’s men.’
Chitty Bey, the remarkable man who had set up the Customs Administration in its present form, was a legend in the land.
‘He certainly seemed on top of things,’ said Owen.
A bell rang and they went back into the cream and gilt splendour of the auditorium, with its enclosed harem boxes to left and right.
The opera came to an end with its last long bit which Owen dismissed as merely praise of the Fatherland. The audience, too, was uncertain how to take it. At last some of them made up their minds to reinterpret it in terms of Egyptian nationhood and applauded vigorously.
‘Bloody Nationalists!’ said Carmichael, pink again. ‘Spoil everything!’
They emerged into the foyer.
‘Want a lift?’
There was a huge rush for arabeahs as everyone came out of the theatre and they were glad to share the one he had previously booked.
As they drove round the bay they passed the Customs area.
‘Tight ship,’ said Carmichael with satisfaction. ‘Not the way it used to be. See that house?’ He jerked his thumb at a sumptuous villa set deep in magnificent shrubs and trees. ‘Built by the chap in charge of valuing the cotton piece goods. Before Chitty Bey’s time, of course. Manchester House, we call it.’
‘Perhaps there’s one like it for antiquities,’ said Owen.
***
There was a message from Garvin waiting for him at the hotel. It said: ‘Get down to Der el Bahari quick. Something’s happened to Miss Skinner.’
Chapter Four
Getting down to Der al Bahari was not as straightforward as might appear. It was, to start with, over four hundred miles from Cairo and the last part of the journey would have to be by mule. The first part, however, need not be made by boat, as Miss Skinner had done. It could be covered by train; more particularly, in the splendid new Wagons-Lits which had just come into service.
Owen boarded the train just before it departed and was relieved to see that no one was occupying the other berth. He opened the window and once the train began to move there was a pleasantly cooling draught. He would have to shut it later on when it became dark, not just because of the thieves but because of the mosquitoes. The windows were tinted to reduce the glare but anyway at this point in the day, late in the afternoon, the sun was beginning to soften.
He sat for some time watching the fields go by with the fellahin at work in them coaxing the water along the furrows. Every so often there was a high mudbank behind which was a canal and on this high ground there was frequently someone standing; a boy with a buffalo, a woman with a water-jar, Biblical shepherds with their flocks.
After a while, though, the fields gave way to desert and the buffalo to the occasional camel. He got up and went along to the club car for a drink and then, since there were too many people smoking, carried the drink on through to the restaurant-car.
It was not yet time for dinner and the place was deserted except for a young Egyptian, Moslem and therefore non-smoking and non-drinking, sitting alone at a table.
‘Mahmoud!’
The young man sprang up.
‘Cher ami!’
They embraced, Arab-style.
‘But what are you doing here?’
‘I’m on my way to Luxor,’ said Owen, ‘and then to Der el Bahari. Something’s happened to a woman there.’
‘Der el Bahari? But this is extraordinary! I am on my way to Der el Bahari, too. Though not for the same reason. Tell me about this woman.’
He listened engrossed.
‘It sounds as if it may be coming our way,’ he said.
Mahmoud el Zaki was a member of the Parquet, the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice. The legal system in Egypt followed French rather than English tradition. The law itself was based upon the Code Napoléon and investigation of a potential crime was the responsibility not of the police, as in England, but of an independent prosecution service, as in France.
When a potential crime was reported, the Parquet would appoint an officer to the case, a lawyer, like Mahmoud, who would assume responsibility not just for the investigation but also for
bringing the case to the courts. He would conduct the case in the court, acting as what in England would be known as prosecuting counsel.
Owen had worked with Mahmoud before and the two got on very well. The young Egyptian had the political skill to operate in a country where the Government was not the Government, where there were four competing systems of jurisdiction and criminals could dodge easily between them, and where religious and ethnic differences continually threatened to pervert the frail legal process. Mahmoud was, not surprisingly, one of the Parquet’s rising stars.
But what was he doing here?
‘I thought you kept to Cairo?’
Mahmoud grimaced.
‘Well, it’s hot,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to get out of the city.’
‘It’s a lot hotter in Der el Bahari.’
‘That’s probably why they’re sending me there!’ said Mahmoud. ‘The courts are in recess for the summer and they’re fed up of me hanging about the office!’
‘Oh yes!’
‘Several people are away on holiday,’ Mahmoud explained, ‘so they’ve sent me down to handle this one.’
‘What is this one?’
‘It’s an industrial case, actually. A workman. Killed in an accident.’
‘I didn’t know you got involved in those?’
‘We don’t, usually. But this one is different. It’s the second one in the same place.’
‘Oh, I see. Criminal neglect on the part of the employer. Something like that?’
Mahmoud nodded.
‘Something like that.’
The waiters began to serve dinner. Owen chose ful Sudani for the soup. Mahmoud went for bouillon.
‘I didn’t know there was any industry at Der el Bahari,’ said Owen. ‘Apart from the fabrication of antiquities, of course.’
‘It’s an excavation site.’
‘An excavation?’ said Owen, sitting up.
‘You think it might have something to do with your case?’
‘Two deaths? And then Miss Skinner? I’m beginning to wonder.’
***
‘Really, Captain Owen,’ said Miss Skinner calmly, ‘I don’t think there was any need for you to come all this way. It was just a little accident and, fortunately, not at all serious.’
The Spoils of Egypt Page 5