Donkey-Vous (21 page)

“The person who came out of the hotel: they saw the camels. Did they see anything else?”

“A little group of people, that’s all. No struggle, no one being held or supported. No bundle that they can remember.”

“Were they able to identify any of the people?”

“They wore masks. Jesters’ masks.”

“Did you get the person in the incoming arabeah?”

“Yes. They didn’t see anything. The crowd was pretty thick. They think they might have seen a camel. They confirm, though, that the arabeah had to wait.”

“What about when Moulin was taken?”

“That’s harder to get information on. It’s too long ago. Several people thought they might have seen something. But then again, they might not have. There was a strawberry-seller and a flower-seller—”

“Oh God!” said Owen with feeling.

“You know them? I didn’t get a great deal out of them—”

“No,” said Owen, “you wouldn’t.”

“—but there was someone else who was a bit more forthcoming.”

“Not a filthy-postcard-seller?”

“No,” said Georgiades. “What made you think of that?”

“Someone else who’s got a pitch there. I’m looking for him.”

“This was a Turkish Delight seller. He had a tray which he had put down just for a moment—just for a moment, effendi!—and one of the camels in the wedding procession stepped in it and spilled all his stuff in the dust. It was so bad he had to go to a pump and wash it. That must have been bad. Anyway, when he got back from the pump the place was in turmoil because Moulin was missing. The Turkish Delight seller was really fed up, I can tell you. Not only had his Delight been messed up but he had missed most of the excitement. That’s why it stuck in his mind. Or perhaps he’s inventing it all to compensate.”

“Any corroboration?”

“Oh, lots. He’s told his story a lot of times now and everyone in the street can repeat it word for word. What is less clear is whether they’re remembering the event or just the story.”

“You got nothing, then?”

“By the time you get this far,” said Georgiades, “the facts have gone forever and these are just stories.”

“Well, OK, you’ve got something. Did you get anything on the palanquins?” he asked Nikos.

“Thirty-eight palanquins were hired for weddings that day,” said Nikos.

“Which day? Which one are we talking about?”

“The day Colthorpe Hartley disappeared. In addition to that, there would of course be private palanquins. I’ve assumed that it was a hired one, not a private one. I also assumed it would be one of the cheaper ones. That cut the number down. I’ll check them all but I thought I would start on the basis of probability.”

Nikos liked not only to have a system but to explain the system to those less fortunate, which, in his view, generally included Owen and Georgiades.

“OK, OK,” said Owen. “So what did you find?”

“Well, I’ve got a list of names.”

“Some of them would have been hired anonymously, surely?”

“No. Under false names, perhaps, but never anonymously. Not often under false names, either, since you’re expected to give a friend’s name when you go along. ”I’m a friend of Mustapha,” or something like that, and Mustapha will be a mutual acquaintance. A palanquin represents a substantial sum of money, especially if it’s ordered with camels and the owner is careful about hiring. He generally knows who he’s hiring to, even with poorest customers.”

“So the names might be real.”

“They’d have to be real.”

“Couldn’t you hire under someone else’s name?”

“You’d run the risk of the person being asked, “I’m Mustapha, I’m a friend of Ali.” Well, they might ask Ali, and he’d say, ‘Which Mustapha?’ and that way they’d check. The whole business is very personal.”

“Of course, if Ali genuinely was a friend, they might get him to borrow it for them.”

“Yes.”

“Have you checked for that possibility?”

“Look,” said Nikos, exasperated, “it takes time to do all this checking. I’m only bringing you my first findings. There’s a lot more work to do. I’m coming to you before I’m really ready because you told me it was urgent and I thought you’d like to know.”

“I would. You’re quite right. It is urgent,” said Owen soothingly: and then, tentatively: “Was there anything particular you thought I’d like to know?”

“One of the names on the list is a name you’ll recognize.”

“Yes?”

“Daouad.”

“Daouad?”

“One of the names on the list is a name you ought to recognize,” Nikos amended.

“Who the hell is Daouad?”

“One of the donkey-boys,” said Nikos. “Remember?”

“Greetings to you, Daouad,” said Owen.

“And to you, greetings,” the donkey-boy returned politely, making to get up.

Owen motioned him down and dropped into a squat beside him.

“Greetings and congratulations,” he said.

“Thank you. But why the congratulations?”

“Are you not now a married man?”

“No,” said Daouad, looking surprised.

“Your friends spoke of you as one about to be married. And was it not to be to Ali’s sister?”

“And yes, but that hasn’t happened yet. In fact, it may never happen.”

“The dowry may not be big enough for someone like you, Daouad?”

“That is it,” said Daouad modestly, but with a faint touch of pride. “The girl herself is pleasing, but the family, alas, is poor.”

“Whereas you are rich, Daouad.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” said Daouad, flushing, however, with pleasure.

“Or going to be.”

“So I hope.”

“Soon?”

Daouad looked startled.

“I shouldn’t think so,” he said.

“What you say surprises me, Daouad,” said Owen, settling more comfortably on his heels.

“I am expanding,” said Daouad. “I have an extra donkey in mind. But—”

“I was not thinking of that. I was thinking of your wedding. Are you not already a married man?”

“No, no. Fatima will be the First. If I marry her.”

“That is odd. I thought you had already married. Was not the wedding last week?”

“No, no. What makes you think that?”

“Did you not order the bridal palanquin?”

Daouad froze.

“That was for my sister.”

“I did not know you had a sister.”

“She is a distant sister. I mean,” said Daouad hastily, “that she lives at a distance. In a village.”

“That is strange. For the palanquin was ordered here in the city.”

“On second thoughts,” said Daouad unhappily, “it was not for a sister. It was for a friend.”

“The name of your friend?”

“Alas,” said Daouad, “I have sworn to keep it a secret.”

“It was a very private wedding, I expect.”

“It was indeed,” Daouad agreed.

“You went to it yourself, of course?”

“Of course.”

“Was it a big wedding?”

“Not very big.”

“Just a few friends?”

“That is correct.”

“To carry the mirrors and act as jesters? Not many minstrels, I expect.”

“No,” said Daouad unhappily. “There weren’t many minstrels.”

“They cost money, don’t they? Even for one as rich as yourself, Daouad, they cost money. Fortunately, Daouad, you are a man with friends. I expect that helped, didn’t it?”

“It did.”

“Just a few friends. Were your friends here among them?” The other donkey-boys were playing their stick game in a patch of shadow further along the terrace. Owen waved a hand in greeting. They waved back.

“Why!” said Owen. “There are your friends! Shall we go and sit with them?”

The donkey-boys looked up beaming as he approached. “Hello!” they said. “You haven’t been to see us for a long time. We feel neglected!”

“I don’t think you’ll need to feel that any more. How are you, anyway?”

“Oh, we’re fine,” they assured him.

“Business prospering?”

“You could say that.”

“Time passes and Allah blesses the fortunate. Here is Daouad, for instance, now a married man.”

“Married?”

“Weren’t you telling me that he was to be married? You made a joke of it.”

“Ah yes, but—”

“It is not till later that Daouad gets married.”

“Oh, of course. I was forgetting. It was the wedding that confused me.”

“Wedding?”

“Well, let us say wedding procession. You must have seen it. It passed right by here. Right by the foot of the steps.” There was a stunned silence.

“I don’t remember it,” said one of the brighter donkey-boys, pulling himself together.

“Don’t you? I thought you carried one of the mirrors?” The donkey-boy looked shaken.

“No,” he said, “that was someone else.”

“Ah! You were one of the jesters, perhaps!” Owen turned to Daouad. “What good friends you have, Daouad! I expect they all rallied around to help you. But who did you leave with the donkeys? Oh, of course, I was forgetting. You wouldn’t have had to have left them for long. Once the camels were moving again, most of you could have come straight back.” One of the donkey-boys began to get to his feet hurriedly but stopped when he saw the constable behind him.

“Do not be in such a hurry to leave us. It is good to sit here and talk. More pleasant than to sit where you will shortly be sitting.”

“It is the end,” said one of the donkey-boys bitterly. Owen nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “it is the end. For you.”

“How did you find out?”

The donkey-boys looked at Daouad.

“It wasn’t me!” he said.

“Nor was it,” said Owen. He quite liked Daouad.

The smallest donkey-boy began to whimper.

“He will take us to the caracol,” he whispered to the boy next to him. “My father will beat me.”

“That will be the least of thy worries.”

“There must be punishment,” said Owen, “But the punishment need not fall equally on everybody.”

“Let him go, then,” said Daouad, “for he but followed us.”

“I might,” said Owen, “for you are big and he is small. But it would depend on several things. First, are those you took still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Have they been harmed?”

“The Englishman is well,” said one of the boys. “I saw him this morning.”

“Good. I would need them to be returned to me. Second, I would need to know the names of all involved.”

“We were not many.”

“Then it should be easy for you to tell me then.”

“You know them.”

“But I would like to hear them. In fact,” said Owen, “you had better tell me the whole story. Begin at the beginning. With the Englishman on the terrace.”

“But that is not the beginning,” one of the donkey-boys objected.

“There are several tales you have to tell. The Englishman on the terrace is the beginning of one of them.”

Owen was not going to have another strawberry-seller/ flower-seller kind of tale.

“Begin with the Englishman on the terrace,” he said firmly. “He was up there and you were down here. And then he came down. Why did he come down?”

“We said we had brought him something from the young Sitt. She had directed us to show it him.”

“Why could you not show him it on the terrace?”

“Because it was too big. And because one would not allow us on the terrace.”

“And he believed you?”

“Yes.”

“And came down?”

“Yes.”

“And at the foot of the steps?”

“We were waiting for him.”

“We were worried,” put in one of the other donkey-boys, “for he did not understand us at first and came down slowly. The procession had to wait. We were afraid that would make people look.”

“The palanquin was already at the steps when he came down?”

“Yes. There was an arabeah beyond it wanting to come in.”

“The palanquin was waiting and the Englishman came down. What then?”

There was a general shrug.

“Daouad put a cloak over his head.”

“I thrust him in.”

“With my help,” said another boy, not wishing to see his part discounted.

“Yussuf stayed with him.”

“I tied him,” Yussuf explained. “It was like tying a donkey.”

“The camels moved on.”

“And we took off our masks and went back to the donkeys.”

“I had been minding the donkeys,” said the smallest boy, not wishing to be left out.

The others shushed him.

“You see,” Daouad pointed out. “He was not even with us.”

“Was anyone else with you? Anyone who is not here now?”

“No. For then we would have had to share.”

“Are you sure? For the procession would have been small indeed if you were all waiting at the steps.”

“We weren’t all waiting at the steps.”

“Only two of us were waiting at the steps,” said Yussuf, “the two who spoke to the Englishman, I and Daouad.”

“The rest were with the procession,” said Daouad.

“I held the mirror,” said one of the boys proudly.

“He held one of the mirrors, I held the other.”

“We all put on the jesters’ masks,” said one of the other boys eagerly. “It was a good wedding.”

Owen sighed. They reminded him of children. Indeed, they were children. But then, so were some of the worst terrorist gangs he had had to deal with. Being children did not stop them from garrotting or stabbing. Or kidnapping. “Most of you were with the camels, then?”

“Yes. When Abdul called to us that the camels were approaching, we left our donkeys and donned our masks and went along the street to meet them.”

“Who is Abdul?”

“My brother,” said Yussuf.

“He is not here?”

“Oh no!” said Yussuf, shocked. “He is too small to be a donkey-boy!”

“He was with the camels?”

“Yes.”

“Who else was with the camels?”

“Hassan.”

“Who is Hassan? Is he here?”

“My cousin,” said Daouad. “No. He is not here.”

“He is a camel-driver,” someone else said. “He works for Sidky.”

“Sidky?”

“You know Sidky? He is a big contractor. His camels take loads to Rhoda Island.”

“I know Sidky.”

“It was his camels,” Yussuf explained. “Hassan borrowed two of them.”

“Did Sidky know?”

“Sidky would not have minded. Hassan is a good driver.”

“He would have looked after the camels,” they all assured Owen.