Mahmoud thought this over. Then he said: “Of course it adds to it when they’re foreign. I sometimes feel quite pleased when something like this happens.”
“A kidnapping?”
“When a Moulin gets kidnapped.”
“You’ve got to take action.”
“Oh, I know that. And I do.” He suddenly cheered up. “Though not in the hottest part of the day. There’s no point in going back now. I’ll go back about four. He’ll be up from his siesta then.”
“He?”
“Mr. Colthorpe Hartley. He came out on the terrace later, remember. He may have seen something.”
“Fellow with long moustaches and sticks?” said Mr. Colthorpe Hartley. “Yes, I saw him. Always sitting there. Same table, same time. Looking as if he’s growing there.”
“You’re sure it was yesterday?”
Mr. Colthorpe Hartley considered a moment.
“Yes. Definitely. Saw him when I came out of the hotel. I was a bit behind the others, you know. Had a longer shower than usual. Bit damned hot just at the moment, isn’t it? You need a shower even when you’ve just been lying down.”
“And you definitely saw him?”
“Oh yes. Exchanged nods. Don’t know the chap, of course, but you sort of know him when you see him every day. We pass the time of day. I say something, he says something back. Nothing much. I don’t think he speaks much English. And I certainly don’t speak French.”
“He didn’t say anything yesterday? I mean, nothing particular.”
“No. Hardly noticed me. Seemed a bit preoccupied. Mind on other things. Didn’t stay there long.”
“Did you see him go?”
“Did I see him go? Let me think. No. I don’t think I saw him go. Saw he’d gone, but that’s not the same thing.”
“Can you pinpoint when that was? About how long after you’d got to the terrace?”
“Well, I must have got to the terrace about four. Saw him then. Nodded to him. Sat down. Had tea. Noticed he was a bit fidgety. Then when I next looked up he had gone. Say about twenty minutes. Between twenty past four and half past four.”
“But you didn’t actually see him go?”
“No.”
“You didn’t see him go down the steps, for instance?”
“No. Don’t think he would have gone down the steps. Not by himself. A bit too shaky on his pins.”
“With someone helping him?”
“Oh, he could have managed it then, all right.”
“But you didn’t see anyone?”
“Helping him? No.”
Mr. Colthorpe Hartley rubbed his chin and stared thoughtfully into space. A suffragi hurried past with a tray of coffee. The aroma came strongly across the room.
“Saw someone else, though,” he said suddenly. “One of those chaps. Or not one of those chaps, one of the others. He was speaking to the Frenchman. Then he went across to the railings. Spoke to someone. As if he was on an errand for the Frenchman. Buying something for him.”
“Did he buy anything?”
“No. Just came straight back.”
“To the Frenchman?”
“Yes.”
“Spoke to him?”
Mr. Colthorpe Hartley hesitated.
“Think so. Stopped looking. Can’t go on watching a chap forever, you know. Bad form.”
“So you looked away.”
“Yes.”
“And when you looked again, the Frenchman had gone?”
“That’s right.”
“Just one thing more, Mr. Colthorpe Hartley,” said Owen. “You spoke of seeing a suffragi. Or one of the others. One of the others?”
“One of the other chaps from the hotel. The ones who go out with parties. Take you to the bazaar.”
“A dragoman?”
“That’s right. A dragoman.”
“Would you be able to identify him if we paraded the hotel dragomans before you?”
“These chaps all look alike to me,” said Mr. Colthorpe Hartley.
Mahmoud established with Reception the name of Monsieur Moulin’s petite amie and sent a note up asking if she could see him. Madame Chevenement replied that she was still indisposed but would make an effort to see him on the following morning at eleven o’clock.
Nikos was going through Owen’s engagements for the week. He had not included the Moulin affair. When Owen drew attention to this he shrugged his shoulders and said: “You’re not going to be spending much time on this, surely?”
“Garvin wants me to. He says it’s political.”
“It will all be over by next week. They’ll pay, won’t they?”
“Probably. Though whether we ought to let it go at that’s a different matter.”
“There’s not much else you can do, is there? They won’t want you interfering.”
“Yes, but it’s the principle of the thing. If you let Zawia get away with it once, they’ll try it again. And again. Until they’re caught.”
“In the end they’ll make a mistake and then we’ll catch them. Until then there’s no sense in bothering about them.”
“If we don’t work on the case how will we know about the mistake?”
“Your friend El Zaki is working on the case, isn’t he?” Nikos disapproved of too warm relationships with other departments. “Why don’t you leave it to him?”
“It could blow up in our face. That’s what Garvin’s worried about.”
“The French are quite efficient at this sort of thing.”
“They’re the ones who are on to me.”
“Well, obviously they’re not going to miss a chance to make trouble. Anyway, if they can take it out on you they won’t feel so bad about paying.”
“We don’t know they will pay yet.”
“Of course they’ll pay. Incidentally, has the follow-up message got through yet?”
“About paying? No, I don’t think so.”
“It probably has. They’ll keep quiet about it.”
“I think I’d have heard. They’d have warned me off.”
“Perhaps it hasn’t, then.” Nikos considered. “If you’re so worried about it,” he said, “I could ask our man at the hotel to keep an eye open for it.”
“ Have we got a man at the hotel?”
“We’ve got a man at all the hotels. The main ones. It doesn’t cost much,” he assured Owen, thinking he detected a shade of concern and assuming, naturally, that the concern was financial and not moral.
On becoming Mamur Zapt Owen had inherited a huge information network, which Nikos administered with pride. What was striking about it was not its size, since a highly developed political secret service was normal in the Ottoman Empire and the British had merely taken it over, nor its ability to find informers, since people came cheap in Cairo: rather, it was its efficiency, which was not at all characteristic of the Ottoman Empire. It was, however, characteristic of Nikos, who brought the pure passion of the born bureaucrat to his work.
“Where is he?”
“At Reception.”
“That might be useful.”
“It was where the first message was left.”
Owen thought about it. “If we could get a look at it-”
Nikos nodded. “That’s what I thought. Note the contents and pass it on.”
“It could all go ahead.”
“They would pay.”
“Moulin would be released.”
“And with any luck,” said Nikos, “we would be watching and could follow it up.”
“I’d go along with that,” said Owen, “I’d go along with that.”
Later in the morning, Nikos came into Owen’s room just as he was about to go out to keep his appointment with Mahmoud and Madame Chevenement.
“I’ve been checking through the files to see if I could find anything on Zawia. There’s nothing on any group of that name.”
“It’s a new group,” said Owen.
“Yes. But often new groups are re-forming from members of old groups, so I looked
through to see if there were any references to groups with associated names.”
“And did you find any?”
Nikos hesitated.
“Well,” he said, “this kind of stuff is just conjecture. But what about the Wekils?”
“The Wekils?”
“Came on the scene last year. Two known kidnappings. One, a Syrian, notified to us in June. Case went dead, family left the country. My guess is they paid and got out. No point in us going back over that case. But we might look at the other. A Greek shopkeeper, taken about six months ago. Again the case went dead, so they probably paid. But I think the family is still here, so we might be able to find out something.”
“Why is ‘Wekil’ an associated name?”
“It’s a Senussi name. The Wekils are those Brothers who take charge of business matters and so are permitted to have dealings with Christians. As I said, it’s just conjecture.”
Mahmoud was waiting for him at Reception.
“Room 216,” he said.
They climbed the stairs together. The door of 216 was open and suffragis were coming out carrying suitcases. Mahmoud and Owen went straight in. A row of already packed suitcases stood by the bed. The doors of the wardrobe were hanging open. It was quite empty. A man was bending over the suitcases. He turned as they came in. It was the French Charge d’Affaires.
“Madame Chevenement?” asked Mahmoud.
The Charge spread his hands apologetically.
Chapter 3
"But she’s a material witness,” said Mahmoud.
“Sorry!” said the Charge.
“You can’t do this!”
The Charge shrugged.
“I–I shall protest!”
“We will receive your protest. If it’s made through the proper diplomatic channels.”
Mahmoud looked ready to explode.
“She’s not really a material witness,” said the Charge. “She doesn’t know a thing.”
“Then why are you removing her?” asked Owen.
The Charge looked at his watch.
“Look,” he said, “perhaps I owe you something. How about an aperitif downstairs?”
Mahmoud, furious, and strict a Moslem anyway, refused. Owen accepted. The Charge ordered two cognacs.
“And a coffee for my friend,” he added.
He led them over to an alcove.
“Sorry about this,” he said. “I can assure you it was necessary. Absolutely necessary.”
“Why?” asked Owen.
The Charge hesitated.
“Well,” he said, “it’s like this. We heard the wife was coming. The old lady. Madame Moulin. I ask you: would it be proper for her to find…? Well, you know.”
“You did this out of a sense of propriety?”
The Charge looked at him seriously.
“Yes,” he said. “We French are very proper people.”
“Monsieur Moulin too?”
“Sex doesn’t come into it. That’s quite separate.”
“Well, where have you put her? Can we talk to her?”
“I’m afraid not,” said the Charge. “She’s on her way home. With a diplomatic passport.”
“For reasons of propriety?”
“For reasons of state.”
“Reasons of state?”
“Madame Moulin’s a cousin of the President’s wife. That’s quite a reason of state.”
“Come on!” said Owen. “Why did you do it?”
“That’s why we did it. I’ve just told you. We couldn’t have the French President’s wife’s cousin coming out and finding some floozie in her husband’s bed. It wouldn’t be decent. The President would get to hear about it and we’d all get our asses kicked. The last thing I need just now, I can tell you, is a posting to the Gabon. I’ve a little friend of my own here.” Mahmoud fumed.
The Charge patted him on the knee “Don’t worry about it! These things happen.”
“That’s why I worry about it,” said Mahmoud sullenly. The Charge signaled to the waiter. “Another two cognacs,” he said. He looked at Mahmoud’s coffee. “I wish I could put something in that.”
“No, thanks,” said Mahmoud.
The Charge sipped his cognac and put it down.
“Didn’t I know your father?” he said. “Ahmed el Zaki? A lawyer?”
“Yes,” said Mahmoud, surprised. “That’s my father.”
“I met him in a case we had when I first came out here. He acted for us.”
Owen was surprised too. Mahmoud had never spoken about his father.
“How is he?” asked the Charge.
“He died three years ago.”
“Ah. Pardon. These things happen.” The Charge shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man. You’re very like him in some ways.” He finished his cognac.
“I’ve got to go. Look, I’m sorry about all this. We’re thinking of the family. That’s all. Reasons of the heart, you might say.”
“You might,” said Owen.
The shop was in the Khan-el-Khalil, the part of the bazaar area most familiar to tourists. Some of Cairo’s best-known shops were there, places like Andalaft’s or Cohen’s. The Greek’s shop, however, was not in their class. It was one of dozens of smaller shops all catering in their different ways for the tourist trade. Most of them sold a mixture of old brassware, harem embroideries, lacework, enamels and pottery. In the height of the season the Khan-el-Khalil would be packed with tourists, though the extent to which they made their way to a particular shop would depend on the extent to which the proprietor had greased the palms of the dragomans with piastres. It was now past the peak of the season but there were still plenty of small parties of tourists, each guided by a knowing dragoman. Traffic was growing less now, though, and this was the time when greasing was all important. Some of the shops were almost deserted while others still hummed with business.
The Greek’s shop was one of the latter. As Owen ducked through the bead curtain he almost collided with an English couple, a mother and daughter, who were just emerging.
“Why, it’s Captain Owen!” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley delightedly.
Her mother looked at Owen with less pleasure and would have gone on if Lucy had not firmly stopped.
“Look what I’ve bought!” she said, and showed Owen her purchase. It was a small heap of turquoise stones. “Aren’t they lovely? I’m going to have them made up when I get back. Or would I do better to have them made up here?”
“Here, but not in one of these shops. Get Andalaft to advise you.”
“I like them because they’re such a beautiful Cambridge blue. Daddy went to Cambridge. Did you, Captain Owen?”
“No.”
“Gerald didn’t, either. He’s rather sore about it.”
“Lucy, dear, we must not detain Captain Owen. He has business, I am sure.”
“Business among the bazaars. What is your business, Captain Owen? It’s obviously something to do with the police, but Daddy says you’re not a proper policeman. Gerald says you’re not a proper soldier either. So what are you, Captain Owen?”
“Obviously not proper.”
“He is the Mamur Zapt,” said the dragoman, who had just followed them out of the shop.
“So I gathered,” said Lucy. “But what exactly, or who exactly, is the Mamur Zapt?”
Owen hesitated.
“I see,” she said. “You don’t want to tell me.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just that it would take some time.”
“Which just now you haven’t got.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then you must tell me some other time,” she said. “This evening, perhaps?”
Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley turned determinedly away and Lucy was obliged to follow her. She gave Owen a parting wave over the dragoman’s shoulder.
“Tonight at six,” she called.
The shop was dark and cool and full of subtle smells from the lacquered boxes, the sandalwood c
arvings, heavy embroideries and spangled Assiut shawls which lined its walls. As Owen’s eyes became used to the light they picked out more objects: flat, heart-shaped gold and silver boxes set with large turquoises and used to hold verses from the Koran, old Persian arm amulets, Persian boxes with portraits of the famous beauties of Ispahan and Shiraz, old illuminated Korans. The precious stones and jewelry were kept in an inner room, better lighted and down a step. A gentle-faced Copt looked up as Owen entered.
“ Ou est le propietaire?”
“ Elle est en dedans. ”
Elle? A silver-haired woman came out of an inner recess. “Madame Tsakatellis?”
“ Oui. ”
“Are you the owner?”
“Yes.”
“I was expecting to speak to your husband.”
“He is dead.”
“Dead? I am sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
Light began to dawn.
“Of course! You are the elder Mrs. Tsakatellis. I am so sorry. I think the person I am trying to see is your son.”
“My son is dead too.”
“The Monsieur Tsakatellis who owned the shop?”
“Both have owned the shop.”
“The second one stopped owning the shop only a short time ago?”
“That is correct.”
“I am the Mamur Zapt. I have come about your son.”
“It is a little late.”
Owen acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head.
“I am sorry. I did not know. Did not the police come?”
“They came,” said the woman dismissively, “and did nothing.”
“I am sorry.
“Now you have come,” said the woman. “What is it you wish to know?”
“I want to know what happened.”
“Why do you want to know? It is not,” said the woman bitterly, “for Tsakatellis’s sake.”
“It has happened again. And it may be the same people.”
“So now you take an interest. How many people have to be taken,” the woman asked scornfully, “before the Mamur Zapt shows an interest?”
“There are, alas, many such cases in Cairo. I cannot follow them all. I had thought Tsakatellis might have been restored to you.”
“Why should he have been restored?”
The Donkey-Vous mz-3 Page 4