Death of an Effendi

by Michael Pearce

  They jumped down and ran to the row of waiting cabs.

  ‘Who is the fastest among you?’

  They all opened their mouths.

  ‘Point,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Do not speak.’

  They climbed in. The driver whipped his horses and the cab shot away. At any time the road would have been rough; taken at speed, it threw the cab about wildly. As long as it did not break down!

  They drove through orchards heavy with fruit, between fields ripe with corn, giant heads through which the faces of small boys peeped thunderstruck, then beside a stretch of canal along the edge of which the cab skeetered crazily. And then ahead of them they saw the blue streak of the lake.

  ***

  A few of the guests were still sitting at table. Savinkov and Natasha, latecomers, were halfway through their meal. Zeinab was sitting solitary at another table, her back turned pointedly on proceedings and especially on Natasha. Prince Fuad, lingering over coffee and obviously finding the taste bitter, looked up in surprise. Waiters were scurrying to and fro.

  Mahmoud ran across to the maître d’hôtel.

  ‘Where is Fazal?’ he said urgently.

  At that moment the waiter came out of the kitchen carrying a tray.

  ‘Get into the house!’ said Mahmoud. ‘Stay there! Lock him in,’ he said to the maître d’hôtel, ‘and see that no one gets to him. Where is the boy?’ he said to Fazal.

  ‘The boy?’ The waiter looked bewildered.

  ‘Your nephew. Has he got here yet?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s—he went for a walk. Down there.’ He pointed down to the lake. ‘I told him to go and play there until I was free—’

  ‘Where is he?’

  The boy was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Fuad, getting up from the table.

  ‘The boy—they’re after him!’

  ‘Who are?’ said Fuad.

  ‘The men who killed Tvardovsky,’ said Mahmoud over his shoulder as he ran down towards the reeds.

  ***

  And then, in Owen’s racing perceptions, events seemed suddenly to lurch.

  ‘Killed Tvardovsky?’ said Savinkov, springing up and putting his hand inside his jacket. He set off after Mahmoud.

  ‘Shooting, eh,’ said Prince Fuad interestedly. He plunged into a nearby tent and emerged with a rifle. ‘How many?’

  ‘Two,’ said Owen. ‘Fellahin. And perhaps one foreigner, if Tobin is with them. But—’

  Fuad raced off.

  ‘Tobin?’ said Natasha. ‘The Okhrana?’

  She pulled out a gun and set off.

  Owen started after her.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ said Zeinab, jumping up.

  ***

  Down on the foreshore things stabilized for a moment. Mahmoud, surrounded by a crowd of agitated boatmen, was scanning the reeds.

  ‘He’s out there somewhere. He was watching the boat coming in and when he saw the men he ran into the reeds.’

  ‘Where are the men?’

  ‘They’re in there too.’

  ***

  And then they lurched again.

  ‘The men who killed Tvardovsky?’ said Savinkov, his face set and now with a gun in his hand. He stepped into the water and waded in among the head-high reeds. In a second he had disappeared from sight.

  Owen took out his revolver.

  ‘How many men?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Tobin!’ said Natasha, splashing into the lake. The reeds closed behind her.

  Owen reached out to stop her. The next moment the gun was snatched from his hand and he found himself sprawling in the water, pushed there by Zeinab.

  ‘If you think you’re going into the reeds with her—!’ said Zeinab.

  She pushed the reeds apart with Owen’s gun and slid in among them.

  ‘I’ll get that bitch!’ she swore.

  ‘Do you know?’ said Fuad, looking at the rifle he held in his hands, ‘I think they’re right. This kind of thing is no good for close-quarters work. Still—’

  He shrugged and went off; at first along the shore side of the reeds, then plunging in at a tangent.

  ***

  Things stabilized once more; roughly.

  Mahmoud, gunless, entered the reeds too, moving through them systematically and calling out:

  ‘Ibrahim! This is the Parquet. Stay where you are. We are searching for those men. Stay hidden until I shout!’

  Owen, also gunless now, picked himself up out of the water. Taller than the rest, he was able to look out over the sea of reeds. Far off, in the middle of the patch, he thought he saw some bulrush heads moving, and set off towards them.

  Almost at once he lost his sense of direction. His feet sank into the ooze and pulled him down so that he could no longer see over the tops of the reeds. Little insects rose in swarms from the reeds and the tangles of convolvulus among them. They settled on his face, his arms, his neck. Looking down, he saw his jacket front black with them. The smell of stagnant mud was everywhere, made worse as his feet disturbed the ooze. The reeds closed about him and it was as it had been on that day when he and Tvardovsky had pushed off in their low, half-submerged boats and seen the birds flying above them.

  He realized suddenly that this was a pointless exercise. In this morass of reeds, where there were no signposts, no paths, no distinguishing features, just reeds and more reeds, and the water and mud beneath and the sky above, you would never find anyone except by accident. How had they found Tvardovsky that day? They must have waited in the reeds by the shore and then followed his boat in.

  Over to his right he could hear someone blundering and wondered for a moment whether to go over to them. Then he thought how he might be received, coming at them out of the reeds, and stopped still. If they heard him moving they might still fire. He wondered whether to call out.

  Then, suddenly, over to his left, he heard a shot. It echoed and re-echoed across the lake and birds rose in their hundreds.

  He knew at once whose gun it was and set out stumbling towards it. It was the big service revolver, the one Zeinab had taken from him.

  ‘Zeinab!’ he cried. ‘Zeinab!’

  He pushed through the reeds and there she was sitting in the water.

  ‘Zeinab!’

  ‘I’ve broken my arm!’ she said stupidly, looking at her right forearm.

  He knelt down in the mud beside her.

  ‘It was when I fired! It just—broke my arm.’

  ‘You stupid idiot!’ he cursed. He fished in the water and found the gun. ‘You don’t know how to use these things!’

  ‘I’ll use a knife next time!’ Zeinab promised grimly.

  She got to her feet.

  It was the recoil, and probably just a sprain.

  ‘What were you firing at?’

  ‘A man.’

  She pointed.

  ‘Right, now get the hell out of here and leave it to me!’

  ‘Which way?’ said Zeinab contritely, nursing her arm.

  Owen tried to work it out and couldn’t.

  ‘You’d better stay here,’ he said. ‘Stay here until I shout!’

  He took the gun and waded off in the direction she had pointed in. The gun, after its immersion, would be useless, but he had a vague feeling that he might threaten with it, or club with it.

  Ahead of him he heard a shot, and then a cry.

  And then another cry.

  ‘Where is he?’ shouted Natasha.

  He blundered towards her.

  The gun fired again and this time he heard the whistle of the bullet.

  ‘It’s me, you damned fool! Stop firing!’

  He came out of the reeds into a little shallow pool, in the middle of which Natasha was standing.

/>   ‘Where is he?’ she cried.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tobin. I saw him.’

  ‘Did you hit him?’

  ‘He cried out, and then I lost him.’

  ‘Did you hit him?’

  ‘I think so.’

  She had hit him. There, when he pushed cautiously through the reeds, were fresh drops of blood.

  ‘Keep out of it!’ he said, pushing her behind him. A moment later, however, he found her following him.

  They moved carefully forward. Natasha suddenly pointed. There was another drop of blood.

  They followed the trail slowly. It became easier to follow. The reeds were bent down as if he had rushed away in a panic. Some of the reeds were spiked with blood and in one place there was a little puddle of it.

  Then, suddenly, ahead of them was a voice.

  ‘Don’t!’ it pleaded. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Where are they?’ said another voice. It was Savinkov’s.

  Owen and Natasha came out from the reeds. Tobin was half sitting, half kneeling in the water. He was holding a great red patch that ran all the way down his side.

  Natasha pointed her gun.

  ‘No!’ said Owen, and knocked it out of her hand.

  It fell into the water, and Natasha scrabbled for it.

  ‘Leave him!’ said Owen.

  ‘It’s not him I want,’ said Savinkov.

  ‘Leave the others to me. You stay here. See she doesn’t do anything to him.’

  Savinkov hesitated, then lowered his gun.

  ‘Which way?’ said Owen.

  Tobin pointed dumbly.

  Natasha brought the gun up out of the water, aimed it at Tobin and pressed the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Natasha swore and pressed it again. Savinkov came across and took the gun from her.

  ‘Enough!’ he said.

  Owen set off through the reeds. There was nothing to guide him this time and as soon as he had gone a few steps he stopped, then proceeded more slowly, letting his ears, not his eyes, be his guide.

  The birds were still making alarmed cries overhead but he was able to shut out those and listen only to the noises of the reeds, the rustles made by the wind, the gentle plopping of the water, even, eventually, the humming of the insects. What he was listening for was the sucking of footsteps, of feet drawing themselves out of the mud, of the faint splash and plop as they were put down again.

  He moved a little way forward, stopped and listened; then moved forward again and listened again.

  Everything had become suddenly very quiet. There were no cries, no further shots. Even Mahmoud’s voice had died away. They had all heard the shots; he guessed that they would all be doing what he was doing: waiting.

  Although it was very quiet, the reeds themselves were not quiet. The rustling of the wind, the lapping of the water, continued. The whines and hums of the insects seemed to be rising to a crescendo.

  And then he heard, very soft, the sounds he had been waiting for.

  He moved towards them.

  His own feet, he knew, would be making the same sounds. He tried to lift them and put them down as noiselessly as he could but every so often there would be an extra loud splash or plop, after which, each time, he held his breath, balancing precariously, sometimes on one leg, until he felt that the silence had resumed.

  In the reeds the heat was intense. Sweat was running down his face. He could feel his jacket sticking to his back. At times, when there was a little open patch of water, the sunlight, flashing in it, was almost blinding.

  He stopped, after one such moment, to rub the sweat out of his eyes, and was just about to move forward again when he heard, as distinct as a fish plopping, the suck of mud.

  He froze where he was and crouched down.

  The reeds in front of him parted suddenly and a face appeared, a turbaned dark face with scars running down the cheeks.

  The man’s eyes widened and Owen saw the gun come up.

  He hurled himself forward.

  But, as the reeds broke apart, he saw that there was not one man but two, and both held guns, and he could never reach them, and the shots cracked out—

  And then, miraculously, he was lying in the mud looking up at them, and one man was already crumpling and the other man was standing there very still; he seemed to stand there for an eternity, and then the gun slipped from his hands and fell into the water, and then he fell on to his knees and bent forward and continued falling until he, too, slid into the water.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Got the brace, I think,’ said Prince Fuad with satisfaction.

  He reached down, gave Owen a hand and hauled him up.

  ‘But wasn’t there another?’ he said enthusiastically.

  ‘The Russian woman’s got him.’

  Less definitely than Prince Fuad. Owen found Tobin sitting in the water with his back against a clump of reeds, his face very pale, his hand clasped to his side. Beside him crouched Savinkov, talking earnestly to Natasha. He looked up at Owen.

  ‘I have been telling her,’ he said, ‘that she must forget about the others. They will get their desserts.’

  ‘They already have,’ said Owen.

  Natasha seemed to relax, although she looked at Tobin in a way that made him flinch.

  ‘Him, too,’ said Savinkov.

  ‘I didn’t kill Tvardovsky,’ whispered Tobin. ‘I wasn’t even with them that time.’

  ‘You set it up,’ said Owen. ‘You told them about the shooting party. You may even have arranged for the shooting party in the first place.’

  ‘It would have happened anyway,’ whimpered Tobin. ‘They had made up their minds.’

  From across the reeds came a shout.

  ‘Have you got him?’

  It was Mahmoud.

  ‘He’s here with Savinkov!’

  Mahmoud came splashing through the reeds. He looked down at Tobin. Then he turned away, cupped his hands round his lips, and shouted:

  ‘Ya Ibrahim! It is I, Mahmoud, who speak. We have the men. You can come out now!’

  He waited.

  ‘Ya Ibrahim! It is all over. The Parquet is here, and the Mamur Zapt. You can come out now. Shout, if you hear me!’

  After a moment, surprisingly near, there came a rather quavery cry.

  ‘Good! Come this way. You are safe. The men cannot harm you.’

  They heard the reeds move and the mud sucking and then there was the sound of footsteps stumbling towards them. A moment later, the boy appeared.

  Mahmoud embraced him.

  ‘All is well, little brother,’ he said.

  The boy hid his head against Mahmoud’s jacket.

  ‘I lay in the mud,’ he said. ‘They would have found me only if they’d walked on me.’

  ‘It is well,’ said Mahmoud. ‘It is well.’

  He glanced down at Tobin.

  ‘Let’s get them out. I left Fuad with the bodies.’ He raised his voice. ‘O, Prince! I am going out now. I will send men. Wait but a while!’

  Fuad shouted in acknowledgement. Then, with Owen and Mah-moud supporting Tobin, they made their way back through the reeds.

  They laid Tobin down in the shade of a boat and Mahmoud sent boatmen to fetch the bodies. Owen went back into the reeds to find Zeinab. Able to shout now, he found her without difficulty.

  ‘So,’ she said, looking at him with her fierce possessiveness, ‘you are all right; and they are not.’

  Owen nodded.

  ‘I took your gun,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I should have waited until she came out and then used a knife.’

  ‘You don’t need to use either. She loved Tvardovsky. And now she is Savinkov’s.’

  ‘Not yours?’

  ‘As
far as I am concerned,’ said Owen, ‘she is almost eighty!’

  ***

  There was no doctor at the hotel and they sent to Medinet for one. They thought it was better to do that than to move him, although Prince Fuad, examining the wound, pronounced it a mere scratch. It was more than that. The bullet had ploughed a furrow round Tobin’s left side, narrowly missing the heart.

  Fuad was impressed.

  ‘Another two inches and she’d have done it,’ he confided to Owen. ‘Good shooting—if she meant it!’

  ‘Oh, I think she meant it,’ said Owen.

  Tobin thought so, too, and eyed Natasha anxiously as he lay beside the boat.

  ***

  Mahmoud was standing looking out across the lake. The sunlight was so bright on the water it was almost blinding. Owen went down and stood beside him. He knew what he was thinking.

  ‘He’ll go for a Consular Court,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Under the Capitulations, any foreign national accused of a crime had a right to be tried in a court arranged by his own Consul. Often the case was heard not in Egypt but in the national’s own country. Thus an Italian accused of a crime would go to Ancona, in Italy, to be tried, along with all witnesses; a Greek, to Athens, and so on. And, of course, the cases would be heard not under Egyptian law but under the law of that country. The scope for evasion and delay was immense.

  ‘We won’t even be able to get him to give evidence against the Kfouris,’ said Owen.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A written statement, perhaps?’

  ‘If he’ll give it.’

  ‘If he’ll give it!’ said Owen bitterly.

  Mahmoud looked at him.

  ‘Now you know what the Capitulations feel like to an Egyptian,’ he said.

  ***

  Owen went back up the shore and sat down beside Tobin.

  ‘When is the doctor coming?’ whispered Tobin.

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘I need to speak to my Consul,’ said the Russian fretfully.

  ‘You’ll be able to. Actually,’ said Owen, ‘I need to speak to him too. There are some things I want to ask him.’

  ‘He knows nothing.’

  ‘That, as a matter of fact, was what I wanted to ask him. How much did he know about all this? Take that time when you searched Tvardovsky’s rooms: you had policemen with you. That must have been at his request. But did he know what you were searching for?’