Donkey-Vous (3 page)

“At least we could try the ones on the tables nearest him.”

“If we could find out who they were.”

“The waiters will have a good idea. They’ll be intelligent in place like this. I’ve got them making a list.”

“Even if we knew,” said Owen, “would it help much? I mean, it might have been just a casual thing. Somebody saw him trying to get down the steps and helped him out of kindness.”

“We’d know definitely that he came down the steps. It would confirm the charmer’s story.”

“And challenge the donkey-boys.”

“Yes. We would be back to the donkey-boys.”

“But they’re not talking. Why aren’t they talking?”

“Why should they help the authorities? Especially if they’re not their authorities.”

“Well, hell, they’re the only authorities they’ve got.”

“The one thing Egyptians have learned over the centuries,” said Mahmoud, “if they’ve learned anything over the centuries, is to keep clear of the authorities, never mind who they are. Anyway,” he added, “there’s probably another explanation.”

“Which is?”

“They’ve been paid to keep their mouths shut.”

“Like the charmer?”

“No. He’s not been paid. He’s just frightened.”

“You think someone’s frightened him?”

“Possibly.”

“And paid the donkey-boys?”

“Possibly.”

“So you think it was a kidnapping, then?”

“I haven’t got that far yet. I’m waiting for the note.”

It came just before midnight. McPhee emerged from the hotel and walked slowly across to them. He was carrying a slip of paper in his hand which he laid on the table in front of them. Owen read it by the light of one of the standard lamps. It was in the ornate script of the bazaar letter writer.

Mr. Yves Berthelot,

Greetings. This letter is from the Zawia Group.

We have taken your esteemed uncle. If you want to see him again you must pay the sum of 100,000 piastres which we know you will do as you are a generous person and will want to see your uncle again. If you do not pay, your uncle will be killed. We will tell you later how to get the money to us.

Meanwhile, I remain, Sir, your humble and obedient servant.

The Leader of the Zawia Group

“Zawia?” said Mahmoud. “Have you heard of them?”

“No,” said Owen, “they’re new.”

“Taking tourists is new, too,” said McPhee.

“Yes. It doesn’t look like the usual kind of group.”

“I take it you’ll have nothing in the files?” said Mahmoud.

“I’ll get Nikos to check. I don’t recognize the name but maybe he will.”

“How did it come?”

“It appeared in Moulin’s pigeonhole. Berthelot found it when he went to check the mail. I’ve had him checking it at regular intervals.”

“Presumably it was just handed in?”

“Left on the counter when the receptionist was busy.”

“He didn’t notice who left it?”

“No.”

Mahmoud sighed.

Owen looked along the terrace. The conviviality at the far end had developed into quite a party. Corks were popping, people laughing, suffragis bustling with new bottles. The general gaiety spread far out into the night. At the intervening tables people were sitting more quietly. They were mostly in evening dress, having come out into the cool air after dinner. They looked relaxed, confident, immune. But from somewhere out in the darkness something had struck at these bright, impervious people: struck once and could strike again.

Even if it is a kidnapping,” said Owen, “there’s no need for me to be involved.”

“Oh?” said Garvin. “Why not?”

Garvin was the Commandant of the Cairo Police. It was an indication of something special that he was taking an interest in the case. Normally he left such matters to his deputy, the Assistant Commander, McPhee.

“It’s not political.”

“If it’s a Frenchman,” said Garvin, “then it
is
political.”

“Zawia?” said Nikos. “That’s a new one. It’s not the usual sort of name, either.”

Most of the kidnappings in Cairo were carried out by political “clubs,” extremist in character and therefore banned, therefore secret. It was a standard way of raising money for political purposes. The “clubs” tended to have names like “The Black Hand,” “The Cobra Group,” or “The Red Dagger.” Owen sometimes found the political underworld of Cairo disconcertingly similar to the pages of the
Boy’s Own Paper
. There was in fact a reason for the similarity. Many of the “clubs” were based on the great El Azhar university, where the students tended to be younger than in European universities. In England, indeed, they would have been still at school, a fact which did not stop them from kidnapping, garrotting, and demanding money with menaces but which led them to express their demands in a luridly melodramatic way.

“Zawia?” said Owen. “I don’t know that word. What does it mean?”

“A place for disciples. A—I think you would call it—a convent.”

“A place for women?”

“Certainly not!” said Nikos, astonished yet again at the ignorance of his masters. Nikos was the Mamur Zapt’s Official Secretary, a post of considerable power, which Nikos relished, and much potential for patronage, which Nikos had so far, to the best of Owen’s knowledge, not thought fit to use. “It is a Senussi term.”

The Senussi were an Islamic order, not strong in Egypt, but strong everywhere else in North Africa.

“It also means corner, junction, turning point.”

“Turning point?” said Owen, alert to all the shades of significance of revolutionary rhetoric. “I’m not sure I like that.”

“I’m not sure I like it if it’s a convent,” said Nikos. “Particularly if it’s a Senussi one.”

Midway through the morning Nikos put a phone call through to him. It was one of the Consul-General’s aides. Since the British Consul-General was the man who really ran Egypt Owen paid attention. Anyway, the aide was a friend of his. “It’s about Octave Moulin,” his friend said.

“Moulin?”

“The one who was kidnapped. I take it you’re involved?”

“On the fringe.”

“If I were you I’d move off the fringe pretty quickly and get into the center.”

“Because he’s a Frenchman?”

“Because of the sort of Frenchman he is. His wife is a cousin of the French President’s wife.”

“The French Chargé was ’round pretty quickly.”

“He would be. They know Moulin at the Consulate, of course.”

“Because of his wife?”

“And other things. You know what he’s doing here, don’t you?”

“Business interests?”

“The Aswan Dam. He represents a consortium of French interests who are tendering for the next phase.”

“I thought it had gone to Aird and Co.?”

“Well, it has, and the French are not too happy about that. They say that all the contracts have gone to British firms and they wonder why.”

“Cheaper?”

“Dearer, actually.”

“Better engineers?”

“We say so, naturally. The French have a different view. They say it’s to do with who awards the contracts.”

“The Ministry of Public Works. Egyptians.”

“And with a British Adviser at the head.”

Most of the great ministries had British Advisers. It was one of the ways in which the Consul-General’s power was exercised. In theory Egypt was still a province of the Ottoman Empire and the Khedive, its nominal ruler, owed allegiance to the Sultan at Istanbul. Earlier in the last century, however, a strong Khedive had effectively declared himself independent of Istanbul. Weaker successors had run the country into debt and exchanged dependence on Turkey for dependence on European bankers. In order to retrieve the tottering Khédivial finances, and recover their loans, the British had moved in; and had not moved out. For twenty-five years Egypt had been “guided” by the British Consul-General: first by Cromer’s strong hand, more recently by the less certain Gorst. “There’s a lot of money involved.”

“That’s what the French think. They’ve made a Diplomatic protest.”

“And got nowhere, I presume.”

“It’s a bit embarrassing all the same. So we might give them something to shut them up. There’s a subcontract to go out for constructing a masonry apron downstream of the dam sluices to protect the rock. We might let them have that. That’s where Moulin comes in. At least we think so. There are a lot of French interests jostling for the contract.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Find him.”

“That’s a bit of a tall order.”

“And quickly. Before the contract is awarded. You see, the French think we might have had a hand in it!”

“In what?”

“The kidnapping.”

“They think we kidnapped him? That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s too well organized for us to be behind it, you mean? I tried that argument on the Old Man but he doesn’t like it.”

“Why would we want to kidnap him?”

“To affect the bidding. The French think we are still determined to influence the result. They have an inflated regard for our duplicity.”

“That’s because they are so duplicitous themselves they can’t believe anyone else would act straight.”

“I’ll try that one on him too.”

“However,” said Owen, “I wasn’t really planning to get involved in this one.”

“I think you ought to revise your plans. The French are holding us responsible for Moulin’s safety.”

“In a general way, of course…”

“In a particular way. They say that the Mamur Zapt is responsible for law and order in Cairo. The kidnapping of a French citizen is a matter of law and order. Therefore the Mamur Zapt is responsible for Monsieur Moulin. Personally responsible.”

“Ridiculous!”

“They think you’ve got you, boyo. If I were you I wouldn’t stay on the fringe.”

The Press had asked for a conference.

“They’ll just be wanting a briefing. You handle it,” Garvin had said.

Owen, whose duties included Press censorship, was used to the Press. But that was the Egyptian Press. The conference included representatives of the European Press and he was not used to them.

“Would the Mamur Zapt show the same lack of urgency if Monsieur Moulin were a British subject?” asked the man from
Paris-Soir
.

“I am not showing a lack of urgency. I am treating the matter with extreme seriousness.”

“Then why haven’t you been to the Hotel today? Surely the investigation is not complete?”

“The investigation is being carried out, as is usual in Egypt, by the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, the Parquet. It is in the capable hands of my colleague, Mr. El Zaki, who, I am sure, is giving it all his attention.”

“Are you treating this as a routine criminal investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Is it routine for someone to be kidnapped from the terrace at Shepheard’s?”

“No.”

“Would the Mamur Zapt agree that security is lax when a prominent foreign visitor is kidnapped from the terrace of one of the world’s most famous hotels?”

No, the Mamur Zapt would not agree.

“Are you worried about the effect on tourism?” asked an American correspondent.

“No. Tourists are quite safe provided that they don’t do anything stupidly reckless.”

“Like having tea on the terrace at Shepheard’s?” asked the man from
Paris-Soir
.

Owen saw Garvin standing at the back of the room. When the conference was over he came forward.

“Political enough for you?” he asked unkindly.

The waiters had provided a list of guests who had been in that part of the terrace at the time Monsieur Moulin disappeared and Mahmoud had spent the whole morning working through it. He had just reached an English family when Owen arrived. It consisted of a mother and daughter, and a young man with straight back and ultra-smart clothes whom Owen at once identified as an army officer.

“An elderly gentleman?” the mother was saying. “No, I don’t think so.”

“He always sat at the same table, the one at the top of the stairs.”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Of course you do, Mummy!” the daughter said sharply. “You pointed him out to me yourself. An old man with droopy moustaches and sticks.”

“ ‘A gentleman’ I think Mr.—ahem, the Inspector, said.”

“Well, he was a gentleman of sorts. Foreign, of course.”

“Not much of one,” the young man put in heavily. “It’s my belief that he took that table so that he could ogle all the girls as they went in and out.”

“Oh, come on, Gerald!” the girl said, laughing. “He’s about ninety-five! Mind you,” she added, “that didn’t stop him pressing up against me in the foyer the other evening.”

“Did he really?” The young man’s neck turned red with anger.

“I was encouraging him, of course.”

“Lucy! That is quite enough! I think Mr.—ahem, Inspector, you have had your answer. We have no knowledge of this, ah, person. Gentleman or not.”

“But, Madame, your daughter—”

“Thank you. And now, Lucy, I am afraid it is time for us to prepare for lunch.” She gathered her things and began to get up.

Mahmoud half rose and then sat down again determinedly. “I am afraid I have not quite finished, Madame. A moment or two longer,
je vous en prie
.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said the young man, jutting his jaw.

Mahmoud looked at him coldly.

“This is a criminal investigation, Mr. Naylor. Would you mind leaving us?”

The young man stared at him unbelievingly. “What did you say?”

“I said would you mind leaving us.”

The young man’s face flushed crimson.

“Gerald!” said the mother warningly.

Gerald leaped to his feet. “I’m not putting up with this,” he said. “Not from a bloody Egyptian!”

“Gerald!” said the woman very sharply.

The young man turned to her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley,” he said, “but there’s really no reason why you should be exposed to this sort of thing. This fellow—”

“Excuse me,” said Owen.

The woman looked up. He addressed himself to her rather than to the man.

“Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley?” He put out his hand. “Captain Owen.” He seemed to be always using his rank these days. Perhaps it was something to do with Shepheard’s. “I am afraid Mr. El Zaki is quite right. It
is
rather important. Although—” he smiled—“perhaps not so important as to risk sacrificing your lunch. I wonder, though, whether your daughter could spare us a moment? It won’t be longer, I promise you. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind, would you, Miss Colthorpe Hartley?”

“Well, no, of course,” said the girl, slightly flustered. “I haven’t met you at any of the balls, have I?” she asked, recovering.

“Not yet,” said Owen, piloting her firmly away into another alcove and leaving mother and young man floundering. He sat her down on a divan and pulled up a chair for himself leaving the one opposite for Mahmoud.

“Mr. El Zaki is an old friend of mine.”

“Is he? You speak English jolly well,” she said to Mahmoud. “And French too,” said Owen.

“I wish I could,” said Lucy. “The people here speak French, don’t they? As much as English, I mean.”

“It’s a great mixture.”

“Have you been in Egypt long?” she asked Owen.

“Two or three years.”

“You look so brown!”

“I was in India before that.”

“Were you? Gosh, I’d like to go to India. Only Daddy says it is too expensive.”

“Where is your father?” said Owen, looking ’round.

“Having a drink, I expect. He can’t bear to come shopping with us.”

“Was he on the terrace too?” asked Mahmoud.

“He joined us out there.”

“About what time was that?”

“Four o’clockish. Mummy always likes her tea about then.”

“That was when your father joined you?”

“Yes. He was a bit behind us, as usual. He always takes ages over his shower.”

“When you came out on to the terrace was Monsieur Moulin already there?”

“You mean that old man with sticks?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I sort of noticed him, I think, though I couldn’t swear to it. Wait a minute, yes, I did notice him. He was looking around. I thought perhaps he’d lost that girl of his.”

“What girl of his?”

“You know, that girl who’s always hanging around him. His bit of fluff.”

“Bit of fluff?” said Mahmoud, completely lost.

“Yes.” Lucy frowned in concentration. “His
petite amie
. That’s what you would say, isn’t it?” She smiled at Mahmoud.

“Well, maybe,” said Owen. “That would depend on the circumstances. Can you tell us about this lady, Miss Colthorpe Hartley?”

“Well, she’s—well, first of all, I think my mother would say she’s not a lady. Not just foreign, I mean, but definitely not a lady.”

“She’s French, is she?”

“Yes, I think so. She’s blonde, not dark like they usually are, and it’s real blonde too, not dyed. Although she’s common, she’s also quite sophisticated, if you know what I mean, at least that’s how she strikes me. She’s terribly well dressed. It must have cost a fortune. If only Daddy would let
me
spend that amount of money! That’s sugar-daddy sort of money, not daddy sort of money. I say, that’s pretty good, isn’t it! I must tell Gerald that.”

“Would he understand?” asked Owen.

Lucy laughed merrily. “He’s not as stupid as all that,” she protested. “Well, not quite as stupid. You don’t like Gerald much, do you, Captain Owen?”

“Not much.”

Why was he saying that? This was supposed to be a formal investigation, not party chit-chat. He must have caught it from her.

“But are you sure she’s Monsieur Moulin’s
petite amie
and not Monsieur Berthelot’s?” Mahmoud intervened.