The Donkey-Vous

by Michael Pearce

  “A man like Izkat Bey needs a grand house in the city. This is too far out.”

  “Then what does he intend?”

  “In this he speaks for others.”

  “What do they intend? To build and sell?”

  “No. I asked him that. They wish to build and keep.”

  “And you have no idea what they wish to build and keep?”

  “I know only that it is good that it is by the river.”

  “Why is that?” asked Owen. “I could understand if they were going to keep and farm. But to keep and build!”

  Sidky hesitated.

  “They spoke of coming and going by water. They said it would be more secret that way.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Nor I,” said Sidky, “but I do understand the money they have offered.”

  When Sidky had left, Nikos came back into the room.

  “I do not understand,” he said. “Are they going to build a brothel? Someone like Izkat Bey? With the Khedive behind him?”

  “The Khedive is not interested in brothels,” said Owen, as the glimmerings of an idea came to him.

  ***

  It was still early in the morning and the stonework of the terrace was deliciously cool to touch. In another twenty minutes or so the sun would come creeping over it and then the stone would warm very quickly until by midday it would give your hand quite a burn if you touched it. Just now, though, the sun was on the other side of the Street of the Camel, warming up the inferior donkey-boys opposite.

  There was, of course, no one on the terrace but from inside the hotel came wafts of coffee as breakfast was served to the early risers. There were few street-vendors in evidence yet—the snake charmer had arrived but had not yet let the snake out of its basket—and the arabeah-drivers were still asleep in their cabs, but the donkey-boys, the superior ones on this side of the street, were already stirring.

  A heavily laden forage camel came along the street and stopped beside them. Two of the donkey-boys helped the driver to release its load and then, as the berseem fell to the ground, took forks and spread it for the donkeys.

  One of them looked up at Owen standing on top of the steps.

  “I wouldn’t stand there if I were you,” he said. “You might disappear!”

  The donkey-boys fell about laughing.

  Lucy Colthorpe Hartley came out of the front door of the hotel.

  “Hello,” she said. “You do start early!”

  “So do you, Miss Colthorpe Hartley.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping too well,” she said.

  “How is your mother?”

  Lucy made a grimace. “She’s rather shattered, poor dear. The doctor gave her some pills last night to help her to sleep but they didn’t work, not for a long time. She was tossing and turning half the night. I thought she’d never get to sleep. I knew there wasn’t much point in me trying to go to sleep so I did get up.”

  The smell of fried onions drifted up to them. It didn’t come from the hotel but from further along the terrace where, squatted in a circle down in the street, the donkey-boys were having their breakfast.

  Lucy turned and faced him.

  “Are you getting anywhere?” she asked.

  “No,” he answered honestly.

  She sighed.

  “I’m not blaming you,” she said. “I know it’s hard. Still it’s puzzling. Is there anything in this Senussi business?”

  “There may be.”

  “You wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s the thought of—well, that they may not be amenable to reason.”

  “I don’t think you need assume that.”

  “If they were terribly fanatical—”

  “They may not be Senussi. And even if they were, that doesn’t mean they’re not amenable to reason.”

  “It’s the way they’ve played with poor Monsieur Moulin, first agreeing, then not agreeing.”

  “There could be a lot of reasons for that.”

  “Yes.”

  She looked along the terrace. The vendors were beginning to appear. Some of them, noticing her interest, showed their goods half-heartedly in her direction.

  “I come out here every morning,” she said, “while I’m waiting for Mummy to come down to breakfast. Of course Daddy gets down about an hour later. I like to come out here, though, while it’s still fresh and cool. It’s one of the nicest times of the day in Egypt. That and the evening. It doesn’t feel the same now, though. I keep telling myself that when Daddy gets back it will be the same again, but I don’t think it will. I don’t think it ever will.”

  She turned to go back into the hotel. Owen went in with her, looking for Mahmoud. He was anxious to make things up. He didn’t feel himself to blame, not in the least, but he knew from experience that he would have to make the first move. It was harder for Mahmoud to unbend, perhaps because his Arab pride was involved, than it was for Owen. He knew he would only have to make a conciliatory sign and Mahmoud would come down at once from his high horse.

  Mahmoud, however, was nowhere to be found. It was unlike him. Usually he arrived at the job early and stayed late. Perhaps he was working somewhere else.

  Owen needed to talk to him anyway. He had become convinced that a possible key at least to Moulin’s disappearance and perhaps to Colthorpe Hartley’s, too, lay in the unidentified dragoman. He had felt, especially in the conversation with the strawberry-seller and the flower-seller, that he was on the verge of getting somewhere. There was already a difference between their account of what happened on the terrace and that of the filthy-postcard-seller, and he felt that given a little more time he might be able to expose it and drive the postcard-seller into a corner. However, he didn’t want to go in too hard, as that would confuse the strawberry-seller and flower-seller and scare the filthy-postcard-seller; but nor did he want to go in too soft as, judging by the previous conversation, it would be only too easy to get lost in the labyrinthine confusion and vagueness of the vendors’ responses. What he needed was some guidance from Mahmoud and Mahmoud was nowhere to be found.

  He went back to his office and tried ringing Mahmoud in his. Mahmoud was “out.” There was something funny about the reply. Owen hoped that didn’t mean the Parquet was getting uptight about the situation.

  On the whole the Parquet got on fairly well with the British Administration, but it was more independent than the other Departments and Ministries. Since the law was essentially French and based on the Napoleonic Code there was less opportunity for the British Adviser to exercise influence and the Minister in charge, an Egyptian, had correspondingly more autonomy.

  The Minister of Justice was, therefore, a politically sensitive appointment. The Khedive used it to test out the limits to which the British intended to use their power and the more extreme British saw it as an organizational anomaly which needed removing. Something like the kidnapping could easily bring things to a head.

  The kidnappings could easily bring a lot of things to a head. The Army, for instance, was eager to challenge the authority of the civil administration. A Senussi threat, with its suggestion of military danger, could provide the pretext for the exchange of a military for a civil administration. Owen didn’t think there was a Senussi threat, not on that scale, anyway, but that’s not how it would be seen either among the British community in Egypt or in Whitehall. The civil administration would have to show that it was on top of things.

  He, the Mamur Zapt, would have to show that he was on top of things. And he bloody wasn’t. He was far from being on top of things. In fact, he couldn’t even think how to start so far as these damned kidnappings were concerned. What was it Mahmoud had said? That usually there was some loose thread. You could pull it and out would come all sorts of other things which you could follow up. I
n the end one of them would lead to a solution.

  But where were the loose ends here? That bloody dragoman.

  Where the hell was Mahmoud? He needed to talk to him.

  The telephone rang.

  “What are you doing?” asked Paul. “Stewing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too. We had the Sirdar here the whole of yesterday morning. And then the Khedive rang saying he wanted to give the Old Man an audience that evening! Evening! The Khedive doesn’t normally give audiences in the evening. He doesn’t do anything in the evening, very sensibly, and nor do we. The Old Man was very cut up about it. Still, he thought he’d better go. It was the same thing. Something must be done.”

  “Look—”

  “I know, I know,” said Paul soothingly. “It’s a hot day and you’ve been working bloody hard and the fact that you haven’t got anywhere isn’t your fault, etc., etc. Anyway, I wasn’t talking about that. Well, not directly. The point is, the Army must be fobbed off. Otherwise we’ll all be kicked out and that wouldn’t do at all. So—you’re not going to like this, but it had to be done, and I’m just ringing up to tell you it’s being done—we have to offer up a sacrifice.”

  “Me?”

  “No. Well, not yet. Mahmoud.”

  “It’s not his fault.”

  “Of course it’s not. He’s an amiable, hardworking soul who does his best for us, which is more than we deserve. We’ll make it up to him later. But the Army’s got to have blood. Well, you’d expect that of the Army, wouldn’t you? Heads must roll. And what better head to roll than that of an Egyptian—the Egyptian in charge of an investigation which is getting nowhere. There would,” said Paul, “be a case for putting someone else on it anyway.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

  “You’re bloody right I wouldn’t.”

  “I,” said Paul, “am not exactly happy about it.”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t matter so much to you as it does to Mahmoud.”

  “The important thing,” said Paul, “is not to let the Army take over. If they take over the Administration it would be a disaster. Not just for me, although naturally that is a consideration. For Egypt. For, well, rationality, which is, really, the only thing in the end which can keep the world ticking over without blowing itself apart.”

  “What about Mahmoud?”

  “He’s got a job. He’ll still have a job. He’s just being taken off this one case. It will probably do him no end of good in his career. Someone who’s been victimized by the British! His bosses will like him, the Minister will smile on him. He will certainly be promoted. He’ll do much better than if he goes on working along happily with you. It is the way of the world, my friend. Just thought I’d let you know.”

  Shortly afterward, Garvin called Owen in.

  “Mahmoud’s been taken off the case,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You know?”

  “Yes. Who’s replacing him?”

  “No one from the Parquet. They’re out of it. This is no longer an ordinary criminal matter. It’s a question of public law and order. Order.”

  “You mean—”

  “You’re responsible for order in Cairo, aren’t you? Then you’re responsible for this. Formally, I mean. From now on it’s all yours.”

  ***

  Owen sat in his office, too numb to think. He wasn’t bothered about the responsibility, in a way he’d accepted that already. All Garvin was doing was landing him with it formally, making bloody sure that he himself was covered. Well, Owen didn’t mind that, it was the kind of thing you expected. Owen didn’t like being landed with formal responsibility, he supposed no one did. What he preferred to do was work behind the scenes, take responsibility, yes, but in an indirect, shared kind of way. Yes, that was it, shared. He liked to share it with Mahmoud. Mahmoud took over responsibility for running the case, Owen chipped in where he could. That worked well. It had worked well in the past.

  He couldn’t evade the thought, though, that what he had just told himself was a cop-out. What he was saying was that Mahmoud was the one who really carried the can. Had carried it this time.

  ***

  Georgiades came into the office. He stopped when he saw Owen’s face.

  “OK?”

  Owen nodded.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve done what I said I would,” said Georgiades, “had a look at the Tsakatellis business. Talked to the family. Not just to the old woman. My God, she terrifies me. Reminds me of my mother.”

  “Do all Greek women get like that?”

  “Yes. It’s what stopped me from getting married.”

  “I felt sorry for the daughter-in-law.”

  “Feel sorry for all Greek daughters-in-law. This one particularly.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Yes. And to her daughter. That’s quite an experience. Fourteen years old and already shaping up to be like her grandmother. She’s the one who’s putting stiffening into her mother. Though her mother, in her timid way, is pretty game. Unbeknown to the old lady, they’ve been negotiating with the gang. All by themselves.”

  “Negotiating?” said Owen. “What about? What are you saying?”

  “Tsakatellis isn’t dead.”

  Chapter Ten

  Not dead?”

  “That’s right. Or so his wife believes.”

  “Well, yes, but surely—”

  “She’s deluding herself? She doesn’t think so. And I’m not sure I think so either.”

  “Then how—”

  “They got the note, remember? Which the old woman showed to the police. The second note, the one with the demand for paying the ransom, never came. The old woman thought that meant they’d found out, about her going to the police, I mean. She thought she’d killed her son.”

  “Hadn’t she?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. You see, the second note did come, only this time it was the wife who intercepted it. Or her daughter, that sharp little Rosa. They didn’t show it to the old grandmother. They thought she’d say no. So they decided to handle it themselves.”

  “You mean they paid?”

  “Have been paying. Are paying. They couldn’t do it in one go. They haven’t the money. It’s tied up in the business and the old woman keeps a tight hold on that. So they had to do it a bit at a time. Sell off some of the wife’s jewels each week. They’re down to the clothes now.”

  “Christ! What do they do when the money runs out?”

  “You don’t ask that kind of question. In the end they’ll have to go to the old mother. That’s what the girl wants to do. The wife can’t bring herself to just yet. There’s such a lot riding on the outcome that she wants to put off bringing it to a head. She’d rather live in uncertainty than be certain the wrong way. The girl says there’s no question about it going the wrong way. She’ll kill the old lady herself—yes, Christ, and she means it, too! You don’t know these Greek families. What with damping her down and being terrified of the old lady and yet being determined to do what she can for her husband, the wife’s falling to bits.”

  “Bloody hell!”

  “I thought you might like to meet them.”

  “Well, yes, I would.”

  “OK. I’ll set it up.”

  They met in a public gardens by the river where the Greek girls were practicing their dancing. They were rehearsing for Easter Monday when they would be joined in the traditional national dances by the young men, at present rehearsing elsewhere, and the older young women, who didn’t need to practice because they knew the dances so well already.

  Georgiades pointed out Rosa to Owen. She was one of the oldest and tallest of the girls, imperious with the littler girls, demanding equality with the adult young women assis
ting the teacher. There was a slight gawkiness about her which showed up in the dance they were presently performing, which involved them ebbing and flowing in a long line and required a girlish gracefulness. The teacher pulled her out and made her dance the part of the boy, which suited her better, demanding assertion and retreat against the withdrawal and advance of the line of girls.

  The pattern of the dance suddenly changed and now the initiative came from the boys. The music became staccato, fiery. Rosa responded at once. Gracefulness was clearly a strain; of fire she had plenty.

  When the dance ended she rejoined her mother, who was clapping her hands rhythmically in the shade of a bougainvillaea bright with flowers. Owen could tell at once that she was the girl’s mother. Both were tall and thin and had the special fairness of the Greeks. As he came up to them he saw that both had gray eyes. The mother was beautiful, the girl showed promise of it.

  Georgiades introduced them. There was a general break for picnic. Mothers and daughters sat down on the grass and opened baskets with lemonade and sweet cakes. The littlest children ran off and played games among the bamboos. The dance had been accompanied by a bass viol and two fiddles played by men in national costume, who sat down under a cabbage tree and thankfully pulled off their boots.

  The mother could hardly bring herself to look at Owen. She stared down into the basket and played nervously with the contents. She had long, thin, pale fingers which were never still.

  “It is a long time now,” said Owen gently.

  “Yes.”

  “During that time, have they ever shown you your husband?”

  “No.” She knew what he was thinking. “But I know he lives,” she said defiantly.

  “I wondered if by chance they held him in the place to which you take the money.”

  “I do not think so,” she said softly.

  “Could you ask to see him? It is just that if they agreed to bring him, he might be freed.”

  “No!” she caught her breath. “It’s too risky! He might be killed!”

  “It is a long time and growing longer.”

  “They would not bring him,” said the daughter definitely.