The Mamur Zapt and the return of the Carpet mz-1

by Michael Pearce

  "Thank you,” said the tea-seller, “for your kind wishes.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Owen had arranged for the sergeant to be brought to the Kasr el Nil barracks and the following morning he went down to interrogate him.

  He met Mahmoud at the bridge and they walked into the barracks together.

  The guards at the main gate eyed the Egyptian curiously but noncommittally and pointed out the administration block, a large, old-fashioned building with lattices and sentry-boxes.

  Their way to it took them past a vast, sanded parade ground on which soldiers were drilling. A squad approached them along the edge of the square. As it passed, the drilling sergeant gave them an eyes-right. Owen, who was in Army uniform, acknowledged with a salute. His eye took in their hot, strained faces. New from England, he thought; and fairly new to the Army, too, judging by their awkwardness.

  The sentry-boxes and lattices were touched up with white, but inside the administration block everything was a darker, more restful green. A huge three-bladed fan rotated above the heads of the clerks bent at their desks in the orderly room.

  One of the clerks collected the passes from Owen and disappeared into an inner room. A moment or two later a corporal came out with them in his hand, greeted Owen and called to a bearer squatting on the floor by the door. The man hurried out.

  “It’s all laid on, sir,” said the corporal. “The escort got in about half an hour ago and is waiting in the guard-room. They’ll bring him over directly.”

  “Fine,” said Owen. “Have you got a suitable room?”

  “There’s one we normally use for this sort of thing,” said the corporal. “I’ll take you, sir.”

  He registered Mahmoud’s presence.

  “Mr. el Zaki,” said Owen. “From the Parquet.”

  “Good morning, sir,” said the corporal politely.

  “I’d like him to listen in.”

  “Oh,” said the corporal, and hesitated. “A bit difficult, sir,” he said, after a moment.

  “I don’t want anything too special,” said Owen. “Is there a room next door? Yes? Well, stick a chair in that and leave the door open. That should be enough.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the corporal, but looked unhappy. His eyes sent desperate signals to Owen, which Owen refused to read. He knew very well what the trouble was. The Army guarded its privileges jealously. One of those was that its soldiers were subject to no legal processes but its own. It would not allow its men to be brought before any civilians, much less Egyptian civilians.

  “Mr. el Zaki will not be actually present,” he pointed out helpfully.

  “I–I know, sir,” said the corporal, thinking hard.

  “You have the passes.”

  “Yes, sir.” The corporal glanced at them uncomfortably. “They- they don’t actually say, sir-” he began with a rush and then stopped.

  “They wouldn’t,” said Owen. He was on tricky ground. He could not insist. “But they do authorize Mr. el Zaki to come with me. And the reason for that is plain, Corporal,” he added, with just a little amount of stress, pulling his rank.

  “Yes, sir,” the corporal responded automatically to the inflection, “of course sir.”

  “Then-?”

  The corporal made up his mind.

  “I’ll have to check, sir,” he said. “Sorry, sir,” he added apologetically.

  He went off along the corridor. Because of the heat all the rooms had their doors open, and so Owen was able to hear very clearly the explosion at the far end of the building.

  “A bloody Gyppy? Certainly not!”

  Heavy footsteps hurried down the corridor and a flushed major burst into the room.

  “What the-” he began, and then, seeing Mahmoud, stopped.

  Even the Army had to make some effort to keep up appearances.

  “Would you step this way, Captain?” he said stiffly, and stalked off up the corridor.

  In his room he wheeled on Owen.

  “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’d like el Zaki to listen in.” “He can’t. I’m not having one of our men questioned by a bloody native.”

  “He’s a member of the Parquet, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Still a bloody native as far as I’m concerned,” said the major, “and I’m not having him question one of our men.”

  “Who the hell said anything about him questioning anybody? I’m questioning. He’s listening.”

  “Same thing.”

  “It’s not the same thing. He’ll be in a separate room. All I want is the doors open.”

  “Can’t be done,” said the major flatly.

  “I’d like it done.”

  The major’s cheeks tightened.

  “Would you, now,” he said sarcastically. “And just who the hell are you?”

  “I’m the Mamur Zapt,” said Owen. “And I’ve got authorization to interrogate, and I’d like to bloody get on with it.”

  The major looked at him hard. Then he went across to his desk and sat down.

  “You’re the Mamur Zapt, are you?” He spoke with distaste. "That’s right,” said Owen. “OK?”

  “You can question him,” said the major, with a stress on the “you.” “He can’t.”

  “I don’t want him to question. I want him to listen.”

  “He can’t.”

  “I want facilities made available for him to listen in.”

  The major looked at the papers on his desk.

  “It doesn’t say anything about that here,” he said.

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  “For something like this,” said the major, “I’d need authorization.” “You don’t usually.”

  “I do this time,” said the major. He thought for a moment and then smiled. “Yes,” he said, “that’s right. For something like this I’d need special authorization. In writing.”

  “That would be too late. The man’s coming out on Thursday.” “Pity!”

  Owen considered going over the major’s head, directly to the commander-in-chief. He knew one of the Sirdar’s aides-de-camp.

  The major must have seen him look at the telephone, for he said: “I’d need it in writing. From the Sirdar. Personally.”

  It would take too long. Even if he got through to John, John would need time to clear it.

  The major was watching him. “OK?” he said.

  “Not OK,” said Owen.

  “Dear, dear!”

  “There’s a certain amount of rush on.”

  “Difficult.”

  “Could be,” said Owen. “For you.”

  “Why me?” The major raised eyebrows.

  “If things go wrong.”

  “Why should they?”

  Owen carried on as if he hadn’t heard.

  “Especially if it came out why they went wrong.”

  “I’ll risk that.”

  All the same the major must have felt a little uneasy, for he said: “You won’t get anything out of him. Not if he’s coming out on Thursday.”

  “I’ll risk that,” said Owen. “It’s just that I’d like el Zaki to listen in.”

  “Didn’t you hear?” asked the major. “In writing. From the Sirdar. Personally.”

  Owen sighed.

  “Anything else I can do for you?” asked the major.

  "No,” said Owen. “Not yet.”

  He turned to go, then stopped.

  “Oh, just one thing-”

  “Yes?”

  “Major…?”

  “Brooker,” said the major. “Major Brooker.”

  “Thank you,” said Owen. “That was it.”

  “It wasn’t my fault, sir,” the ex-sergeant said. “I trusted those bloody Gyppies. That bloody ’Assan. He’d got it all figured out. He had his mates outside. ’Course, I was wrong to trust him. That was my mistake.”

  Ingenuous blue eyes met Owen’s. Owen, who did not believe a word of it, decided to play along.

  “Tell m
e about this Hassan,” he said.

  “Bloody orderly, sir. Used to run messages. ’Ere, there and everywhere. Kept his eyes open. Didn’t miss much.”

  “You think he tipped somebody off?”

  “Or let them in, sir. There was a skylight found open. You know, I’d been looking at that bloody skylight a couple of days before. There was only a simple catch on it and I thought to myself: Anyone could open that. But I didn’t bother much because it was so small. I thought: Nobody can get in there. But do you know what I think, sir? The way it was done?”

  He leaned forward confidentially.

  “They slipped in one of those walads. A boy. Probably stripped him naked and greased him all over. Seen it done. At Ismailia. Bloody gang of kids. Went all through the mess. Watches, cash, even your bloody handkerchief. The little bastards. But they got too cocky and the guards caught one of them. Brought the little bugger to me. I caught hold of him and was going to teach him a thing or two but he slipped through my hands. That’s how I knew he was greased. Didn’t do him much good. The guard caught him with the rifle butt.”

  “And you think that’s what may have happened here?”

  “Can’t swear to it, sir. But the skylight was open the morning after, and it was only big enough for a kid.”

  “Could be,” Owen agreed.

  “ ’Course, it was my fault, sir,” said the man. “I admit that. I should have kept my eyes open. I made a mistake. But I’ve paid for it.”

  The weathered, experienced face, which retained a sunburn despite nearly a year’s confinement, assumed a virtuous expression.

  An old hand at the game, thought Owen. Twenty-five years in the Army, fifteen of them in India. There was not much he didn’t know. Three times reduced, each time made up again. Crafty, plausible, he would know how to make himself useful. How willing would he be to be useful now?

  “Pity to get into trouble just because of a Gyppy,” he said aloud. “I know, sir,” said the ex-sergeant, as if ruefully. “I could have kicked myself.”

  “It’s easy done,” said Owen.

  “My mistake was to trust the bleeders. I treated them decent. That ’Assan was a useful bloke. Smart. He did me a favour or two, and I did him a few. Used to give him fags. And not say nothing if I caught him smoking in the armoury.” He grimaced. “Should have. That was my mistake.”

  “In the armoury?”

  “I know, sir. I dare say that’s what gave him the idea.”

  Thin trickles of sweat ran down on either side of the man’s nose.

  There was no fan in the room and it was very hot. The one window, high up in the wall, was shuttered. The door was closed.

  “Did he ever talk?”

  “ ’Assan? He went missing that night.”

  Very convenient, thought Owen. And part of it might even be true. They might well have used the skylight, might even have slipped a boy in, as the man had said. Only, of course, he knew more about it than he had let on. How much did he know? Not much, if it was just a matter of money passing and agreement to turn a blind eye. Hassan could even have been the go-between. In which case the ex-sergeant would not know anyone else.

  Owen looked through the file in front of him. One of the times the ex-sergeant had been reduced was for selling Army equipment. Not weaponry-the Army took that seriously. Odds and ends from the stores. At least, that was all they had caught him for. The chances were that he had flogged quite a lot more. And once a seller… The idea might have come to him again. He had been running a woman in Ismailia and had needed the cash. He might have approached somebody. There was always a ready market for weapons. He might have known someone. Worth a try.

  Owen studied the face opposite him. Shrewd, Army-wise, hard. A drinker’s face. Little red veins beneath the tan, tell-tale puffiness below the eyes. In certain circumstances, thought Owen, I could crack this man.

  But not easily. Not here, and probably not now. He was sitting there at ease. He knew he was coming out on Thursday. All he had to do was to sit tight and say nothing. There was no way of putting him under pressure.

  Outside in the corridor he heard the guards’ feet shuffling. It would take too long to break the man, and before then he would have been interrupted.

  He had to find a way of getting the man to cooperate. He might be willing if he thought there was something in it for him.

  “You’ve been reduced before,” said Owen. “Three times.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the man equably.

  “Gets harder.”

  The man gave a little shrug.

  Used to it, thought Owen.

  “How much longer have you got?” he asked.

  The man looked slightly surprised.

  “To serve, sir? Four years.” “Time enough to get made up again,” said Owen. “It would be nice to go out with a bit of money in your pocket.”

  The man looked at him cautiously, but his interest was aroused. “Help me,” said Owen, “and I might help you.”

  He waited.

  After a moment, the man responded.

  “Exactly how could I help you, sir?”

  “A name. All I want is a name.”

  The man rubbed his chin. There was a faint rasp. In the heat it was never possible to shave closely.

  “ ’Assan is the only name I can think of, sir.”

  “Sure?”

  The blue eyes met his blandly.

  “Yes, sir. Afraid so, sir.”

  “I’m not really interested in your case,” said Owen. “I’m interested in another. And if I got a name, that could be really helpful.”

  “I’d like to help, sir,” said the man. “But ’Assan is the only name I can think of.”

  “Go on thinking,” said Owen, “and let me know if another name comes into your head.”

  He turned through the papers in the file.

  “After all,” he said casually, without looking up, “it’s only a Gyppy.”

  He went on turning through the papers. No reply came. He had not really expected one.

  He took a card from his pocket.

  “If you want to get in touch with me,” he said, “later-and, remember, one word will do-that’s where you’ll find me.”

  The man took the card and fingered it gingerly.

  “Mamur Zapt,” he said, stumbling a little. He raised his head. “What’s that, sir? Civilian?”

  “No,” said Owen. “Special.”

  “Sorry, sir. No offence.”

  After a moment he said: “ ’Course, it couldn’t be, you being in uniform. It was just that ‘Mamur’ bit.”

  Owen closed the file and sat back. He had done what he could. Whether the seed he had planted would bear fruit remained to be seen.

  “A mamur is just a district officer,” he said. “Not the same thing at all.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  Judging that the interrogation was over he became relaxed, even garrulous.

  “I know, sir. I ran into one of them once, at Ismailia. We’d gone off for the day, a few of us. Filled a boat with bottles of beer and set out along the coast. We come to this place, and the bloody boatman hops over the side. We thought he was just doing something to do with the boat, but the bugger never came back. We just sat there, waiting and drinking. We’d had a few already by this time. Anyway, after a bit we runs out of bottles so we gets out of the boat to go looking for some more when we runs into this mamur. One of my mates hits him, but we’re all so bloody pissed by then we can’t really hit anyone, and suddenly they’re all around us and we’re in the local caracol.”

  Owen laughed.

  The man nodded in acknowledgement and pulled a face.

  “Christ!” he said. “That was something, I can tell you. A real hole. The place was stuffed full of dirty Arabs, about twenty of them in a space that would do eight, and then us as well. The pong! Jesus! Shit everywhere. You were standing in it. Pitch black. No bloody windows, just a wooden grating for a door. No air. Hot as hell. All th
em bodies packed together. Christ! I’ve been in some rough places, but that scared the shit out of me. We were in there for a day and half. Bloody Military didn’t get there till the next morning. And then, do you know what they did? Those bastards just came and looked at us through the grating and went away laughing! Didn’t come back till they’d had a drink. “That’ll bloody teach you!” they said. It did too, and all. Wouldn’t want to go through that again.”

  The cafe stood at the corner of the Ataba el Khadra, just at the point where Muski Street, coming up from the old quarter, emerged on the squares and gardens of the European part of Cairo.

  Owen had chosen a table out on the pavement, from where he could see both down Muski Street, with its open-fronted shops and goods spilling out into the road, and across the Ataba.

  At this time in the evening the Ataba was lit by scores of lamps, which hung from the trees, from the railings, from shop-signs and from house-fronts, even, incongruously, from the street-lights themselves. In their soft light, round the edges of the square, the donkey-boys and cab-men gambled, drank tea and talked, forming little conversation groups which drew in passers-by and drove pedestrians into the middle of the Place, where they competed with the arabeahs and buses and trams and carts and camels and donkeys and brought traffic to a standstill.

  Everywhere, even out in the middle of the thoroughfare, were street-stalls: stalls for nougat, for Turkish delight, for Arab sugar, for small cucumbers and oranges, for spectacles, leather boots and slippers, for cheap turquoises, for roses, for carnations, for Sudanese beads made in England, for sandalwood workboxes and Smyrna figs, for tea, for coffee, for the chestnuts being roasted around the foot of the trees.

  And everywhere, too, were people. The women, in the shapeless dark gowns and black veils, were going home. But the men were appearing in all their finery to stroll around the streets and sit in the cafes. Here and there were desert Arabs in beautiful robes of spotless white and black, and a rather larger number of blue-gowned country Arabs from Der el Bahari. But for the most part the men were dressed in European style, apart from their handsome tarbooshes. All, however, had magnificent boots, which the shoe-brown boys fought to shine whenever an owner sat down in a cafe.