The Girl in the Nile (19 page)

“My memory?” said the tailor, surprised.

“I need to know about the men who have visited this place.”

“Effendi,” said the man hesitantly, “I would help you. I have no wish to go to prison. I do not own this shop, I rent it, and if I went to prison I would not be able to keep up with the payments. I would lose all I have. I will help you if I can. But, effendi, there have been so many people coming and going, especially in the last few days, that I cannot remember them all.”

“No matter. If you do your best, that is enough. Go with this man”—he indicated one of the plainclothes men—“the Bab el Khalk. As for Nikos. Tell him all you know. And I shall be content.”

The tailor bowed his head in acknowledgment and left the room with the plainclothes man.

Owen waited until the room had been cleared. As the last pamphlets were being removed, one of the policemen said: “We’ve got this lot, anyway.”

“It’s too late,” said Owen, slipping the handwritten copy into his pocket, “they’re all over the place already.”

They were. Zeinab handed him a copy when he went to her flat that evening.

“Read it,” she said with satisfaction.

“I have already,” he said, handing it back. “Where did you get hold of that?”

“Hargazy gave it me,” she said.

“Hargazy?”

“That friend of Gamal’s who knew Leila. We met him after the play, remember. The one who probably wrote that article for
Al-Liwa

“Yes, I remember. Hates us.”

“He doesn’t hate you particularly,” said Zeinab. “Or the British. It’s Narouz he hates, Narouz, the Khedive, the whole lot of them.”

“The Pashas? Your father?”

“My father is different.”

“You’re different, too, evidently. He doesn’t hate you.”

“I told him I would help him. To tell the world about Leila.”

“And this is part of it, is it?” said Owen, looking at the pamphlet she still held in her hand. “Telling the world?”

“It’s a good start,” said Zeinab with satisfaction.

“Do you know how I have been spending the morning? I’ve been raiding the printer who produced this.”

“You’re a confused man,” said Zeinab, “who doesn’t know right from wrong.”

“Closed him down, too. He won’t be producing any more of this sort of stuff for a while,” he said, tapping the pamphlet with his finger.

Zeinab got herself up on the divan, curled her legs up under her, and began to smolder.

“If you wish to be my enemy,” she said, “so be it.”

“I don’t wish to be your enemy. I am as anxious as you are to see whoever killed Leila caught.”

“In that case,” said Zeinab, “why don’t you arrest Narouz?”

“Because—” said Owen, and stopped.

He had been about to say that the evidence was as yet insufficient, that there was still room for doubt, that until a person was proved guilty he must be treated as innocent. But then he stopped.

“Because?” asked Zeinab.

“Because it’s—it’s not yet the right moment,” he finished lamely.

“I know why it’s not the right moment,” said Zeinab, gathering in fury. “It’s because of this Secret Agreement of yours. Secret Agreement, pah! Which everybody knows about and has been the talk of the bazaars for weeks! Even my hairdresser knows that the Agreement is to be signed on Friday. Friday! The Moslem sabbath! That is a fine day to sign an Agreement on! If that doesn’t bring people onto the streets, nothing will.”

She paused to draw breath.

“The Agreement is a consideration, I admit—”

“ ‘Consideration?’ What are these men’s words when a woman lies dead?”

“But not the only one, of course.”

“No? I am glad to hear it. For I thought for a moment that it was. And if it was, then let me tell you that you are making a great mistake. For if the people are angry because an injustice has been done, then it is no use making Agreements.”

“We don’t know that an injustice has been done,” said Owen, “
I
know,” said Zeinab, “and when I have finished, everyone else will know, too.”

Owen, wisely, kept quiet.

“You can arrest me if you like,” said Zeinab defiantly.

“Good idea!” snapped Owen, and moved onto the divan beside her.

“Keep your hands off.” shouted Zeinab, convinced for the moment that he intended to.

Then—

“Keep your hands off.” she shouted, as she became convinced otherwise.

Owen pulled back, slid down on to the floor and sat comfortably on a cushion at Zeinab’s feet. After a moment he felt Zeinab’s hand ruffling his hair.

“It’s no good,” she said calmly, “it’ll be in all the papers now.”

“Oh, I know that.”

“Hargazy has contacts everywhere. He’s been working night and day.”

“Has he? Why is it so important to him?”

Zeinab withdrew her hand.

“Because he loved Leila. He is not,” she said pointedly, “like some men.”

He found Gamal in his usual café. It was early in the morning and the playwright’s friends had not yet arrived. He was at his usual table, bent over, writing. This was where he did his work.

He looked up vaguely and caught Owen’s eye. Immediately, he dropped his pen and jumped up.

“My friend!
Mon très, très cher ami
!”

“Gamal!”

They embraced.

“
Un apéritif
?”

“
Permettez-moi
!”

They settled down and Gamal pushed his writing pad away. “It’s all right,” he said, “I’ve finished for the day. It wasn’t going well, anyway.”

Owen asked after Gamal’s plays. Gamal shrugged.

“Next time, perhaps,” he said.

He asked what Owen was doing.

“Still working on the Leila business.”

Gamal looked sad.

“That was bad,” he said. “It did not show us in a good light, did it? I have been thinking about it. We did not care, my friend, we did not care enough. She was one of us and we know she was troubled and not one of us thought fit to ask her about herself. That was bad, my friend, that was bad.”

“Was she really one of you?”

“Well…” Gamal hesitated. “Not really. But that again is not good. Was the reason that she was not really one of us the fact that she was a woman? I ask myself this, my friend. Would it have been different in France? I ask myself.”

“You were the only people she could come to,” Owen pointed out, “the only ones who would have her.”

Gamal was pleased at this.

“Yes,” he said, “you are right. We artists have our faults but social narrowness is not among them.”

“It was a pity she did not stay with Suleiman.”

Gamal shook his head.

“He was working on something. It was a big commission and he was worried about it. That, I am afraid,
is
one of our faults. When we are working on something we become preoccupied with it. It takes us over. There is no space for anything. There was no space for Leila.”

“So she took up with Hargazy.”

Gamal pursed his lips.

“Hargazy was not the right man for her.”

“Too bitter?”

Gamal looked at him in surprise.

“Yes,” he said, “you are right. He
is
bitter. But that is not why he was the wrong man for her. He did not love her. She was a plaything, a toy. Something to be used, then cast aside. It could not last.”

Owen remembered something Prince Fahid had said. “You think that it might have already ended by the time she was taken up by Narouz? That that was one of the reasons why she agreed to go with him on the dahabeeyah?”

“Perhaps,” said Gamal. “Who knows?”

An agitated phone call from Mahmoud.

“Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Narouz has gone.”

“What do you mean—‘gone’?”

“Left the country.”

“Left the country?”

“You haven’t heard? He was supposed to turn up at a meeting this morning. It’s to do with that Agreement they’re signing. Anyway, he didn’t arrive. The Khedive wanted to know why. Somebody said he’d left the country.”

“Rumor!” said Owen.

“Yes, but he wasn’t there this morning.”

“I’ll check.”

He went to the Prince’s
appartement
.

“I am afraid, effendi, that His Highness is not at home,” said the servant politely.

“Does that mean he will be in later?”

The servant hesitated. But he had seen Owen at the Prince’s house before, his relations with Narouz were, as far as he knew, friendly, and, besides, Owen was an English effendi. “I don’t think so, effendi,” he said reluctantly.

“Have you any idea where he’s gone?”

“I am afraid not, effendi.”

“His estate, perhaps?”

“I don’t think so, effendi,” said the servant, certain of that at least.

“Cannes, more likely,” said Nikos, picking up the phone. “What are you doing?”

“Checking boats.”

There was one leaving Alexandria the following day. “How do you know it’s Alexandria and not Port Said?”

“Well,” said Nikos, “what do you think?”

Port Said traffic went to India.

“He’s not that desperate,” said Nikos.

“All right, it’s Alexandria. But there’ll be other boats besides that one tomorrow.”

“Two a week go to France. The other one left three days ago.”

“He might have gone to Turkey.”

“Narouz?”

The Egyptian road system remained in a fortunate state of underdevelopment. There was only one road going to Alexandria from Cairo and cars, as opposed to bullocks and donkeys and camels, were so infrequent as to be remarkable. More remarkable still was a touring model painted vivid green. The reports soon came in.

“Oh yes, effendi,” said the peculiarly dreamy policeman at the station on the Alexandria Road, “it flashed by me yesterday evening.”

Admittedly, anything would flash by that particular observer but more reliable accounts came in from other points along the road: places where the drovers watered their camels, where the bullock drivers had their tea.

Above all, the petrol stations, of which there were two between Cairo and Alexandria. They were not properly service stations, of course—the traffic did not justify it—but depots for Army vehicles, whose services were commissioned by the Prince on the grounds that as nephew to the Khedive he was nearly Commander-in-Chief.

The Prince would have reached Alexandria that morning. Nikos anticipated no difficulty in locating him.

“He’s not going to be staying in some flea-ridden place, is he? We’ll find him at the Windsor. The question is: What are you going to do then?”

“Yes,” said Paul, “I had heard. Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. He’ll catch the next boat out of Alexandria.”

“So?”

“He’ll get away.”

“He’s a free man. He can go where he likes. He’s not been charged with anything.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Charging him? Is that something for you to do? Surely not. You’re always telling me that ordinary crime is no business of the Mamur Zapt. This is ordinary crime, isn’t it? Leave it to Mahmoud.”

“He thinks it political.”

“Because we’re talking about a relative of the Khedive? It may be political in his terms but it’s not in ours, surely? Purely Egyptian matter. Leave it to Mahmoud.”

“He won’t be able to get it through.”

“Then should we help him? That
would
make it political, wouldn’t it, interfering with the Khedive’s direction of his own Ministries?”

“Paul, this is political in
our
terms, too. It’s going to be all over the town, and people are not going to like it. They’re not going to like the Khedive, either. And how do you think they’re going to feel about any Agreement he signs?”

“Mutinous, I’d say. Fortunately we have a Mamur Zapt to look after that kind of thing. Privately, Gareth, I’m inclined to agree with you. Publicly, though, I have to tell you we’re so far down the road with this damned Agreement that we can’t let anything stop it now. It’s being signed on Friday.”

“Yes, I know. And that’s another thing. Friday! Hasn’t it occurred to anyone that Friday is a special day to Moslems? Couldn’t you make it another day?”

“Lord, I’d forgotten that! It’s being signed by some bigwig and he wanted to be on his way to London by the weekend. Still, I’ll pass it on to the CG. Well spotted, Gareth! That’s the kind of thing we pay you for. Why don’t you concentrate on that sort of activity for the next day or two?”

By noon even Zeinab’s hairdresser had heard about it. “What are you going to do?” asked Zeinab.

Mr. Hargazy,” said Owen, “I wonder if you can tell me something about the authorship of this article?”

He handed him the pamphlet containing the attack on Narouz.

“It’s the one on the front page.”

Hargazy glanced at it, then handed it back.

“Well written, I would say. A cut above the usual rubbish.”

“Well informed, too?”

“It seems to be.”

“A trifle intemperate in tone, don’t you think?”

“No. I wouldn’t say that. Given the subject.”

“Of course, Leila Sekhmet was known to you, wasn’t she?”

“And to many others, yes. She wasn’t especially close to me.”

“Really? I thought you were very close.”

“I slept with her, if that’s what you mean. But that does not make her close.”

“You surprise me. I had formed the impression you cared for her deeply.”

“You are thinking of the conversation I had with Zeinab? I care about the fact of her death. I care, deeply, about her as an example of the way our country is oppressed by those who rule her. As a symbol, that is, I care for her. But as a person? I would not say she mattered to me very much as a person.”

“And yet you have busied yourself very much on her behalf,” Owen pointed out.

“The symbol is important to me. Our country is a big country, Captain Owen, and it needs something to focus its anger and indignation. The only way I can see that happening is through an individual case which somehow takes on representative qualities, becomes, as I say, a symbol.”

“And that is what Leila Sekhmet means to you?”

“Exactly.”

Hargazy, tieless but jacketed, seemed very much at ease. “You are, of course, an artist,” said Owen, “and like to deal in the symbolic.”

“Well…” Hargazy looked deprecatingly at his shoes. Owen went through the papers on his desk.

“As well as this article, you wrote the other one, didn’t you, the one that appeared in
Al-Liwa
?”

“Was to have appeared.” Hargazy smiled. “I believe you were the one who censored it out?”

“But you were the author?”

“I did not say that.”

“No. I’m saying that.”

“On what basis?”

“Handwriting. I have the original copy for the article which appeared in the pamphlet. It’s in your handwriting.”

“Well,” said Hargazy, “it’s hardly worth bothering, is it? You’re going to hold me anyway, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Certainly for the next few days.”

“Until the Agreement is signed?”

“Yes.”

Hargazy seemed relaxed about it.

“It’s not important now, anyway,” he said. “The news is out. Stories have a momentum of their own.”

“I think you’ll find that momentum can be arrested.”

“You won’t be able to seize
all
the copies,” Hargazy said confidently.

“I’ll be able to seize enough of them. And then I’ll introduce another story which will take over in the headlines.”

There was a flicker of doubt. Then Hargazy recovered.

“It won’t work,” he said.

“Won’t it? Is a woman that important in this country?”

“No, but Narouz is.”

Owen shuffled through his papers again and found the scurrilous pamphlet.

“What have you got against Narouz?” he asked.

“He’s one of
them
.”

“Only that?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Nothing to do with Leila?”

“Why do you keep asking me about Leila? She was something to use, that was all.”

Owen looked at the pamphlet again. And at all the other pamphlets.

“Well,” he said, “you’ve used her very successfully, I must admit. The story is everywhere.”

Hargazy smiled.

Owen closed the file. The constable at the door stirred. “Before you go,” said Owen, “there’s one other thing. I’m trying to find who killed Leila and you might be able to help me. Where did you get your story from?”

“I’m a journalist,” said Hargazy. “I don’t reveal my sources.”

“So you’ve clamped down?” said Garvin.

Owen nodded.

“We’re picking up anybody distributing illegal material.”

“The Ataba will be quiet today,” said Garvin, amused.

“It won’t last, of course. They’ll be back on the streets tomorrow.”

“That might be just long enough. Good,” said Garvin. “Very good.”

Nikos stuck his head in at the door.

“There’s someone to see you.”

“Who is it?”

“He says he’s a watchman. A ghaffir.”

“A ghaffir? What does he want?”

“I don’t know. All he’ll say is that he’s from the Souk Al-Gadira.”

“Ah. In that case, show him in.”

In came a nervous-looking Arab who seemed familiar.

“It is Abu, effendi,” he said hesitantly.

“Abu?”

“You saw me down by the river, effendi. I was the one who found the girl.”

“Ah yes. I remember you, Abu.”

“Effendi, I have something terrible to tell you.”

He plucked at his galabeah nervously.

“You have? What is it, Abu?”

The watchman tried to speak but the words would not come.

“Do not be afraid, Abu, I know that you are a good man.”

The words suddenly came with a rush.

“Effendi, they tricked me! That Ibrahim! And I thought he was such a nice man! A corporal, too!”

“How exactly did he trick you, Abu?”

“That morning, effendi. That morning when I found the body. I went to the Chief and he told me to go back and show Ibrahim the body, that he might mount guard on it. But that false Ibrahim, on the way there he sent me away and while I was away—oh, effendi, you will not believe this— he took a pole and thrust the body off the sandbank. Then, when I came back, he pretended to know nothing. And I—I— the effendi came, and what could I say? The body wasn’t there.”

“I see. And you have just found out about all this?”

“Yes, effendi. And then I could not rest. For, I said, the effendi has been beguiled, and who knows what may befall? And then I thought: Abu, you must tell him. But I did not want to, effendi, because the Bab el Khalk is a great distance and you are a great man. And I may be beaten for my simplicity. But then, effendi, I thought: Abu, you are a ghaffir and it is your duty. And so, effendi, I have come.”

He came to a halt, breathless, and stood, diffident and apologetic, his eyes fixed earnestly on Owen.

Owen, at bottom another simple man, and moreover, Welsh, with all a Welshman’s emotional responsiveness, was touched. He came out from behind his desk and put his arm round Abu.

“You are a good man, Abu. Did I not say so, and have you not shown yourself so to be?”

“You are not going to beat me?” said Abu, a little surprised.

“Certainly not.”

“The Chief will.”

“No, he won’t,” said Owen. “Not after I’ve had a word with him. Besides,” he added, stepping back, “all this is known already.”

Abu’s jaw dropped.

“Known already?”

“Yes. I’ve known it for some time.”

Abu pulled himself together. He shook his head in wonderment.

“The Mamur Zapt knows all,” he said, impressed.

“Not quite all.”

Abu fidgeted.

“Then, then—there was no point in my coming?”

“You did right, Abu, and did your duty. Every man should do his duty,” said Owen sententiously, giving himself a mental kick.

Abu looked pleased.

“And it does not matter, effendi?”

“Not now, no. You see, when Ibrahim went to push the body off with his pole, he found it had already gone. He—”

“Gone!” said Abu, thunderstruck anew.

“Yes, and we know how it went. Two beggars—I expect they are known to you, their names are Libab and Farag—”

“But I know them!” said Abu excitedly.

“Yes, they always work that stretch of the bank. Anyway, they found the body and hid it under a boat.”

“Farag and Libab! I saw them there that morning!”

“Yes.”

A thought suddenly struck him.

“Abu, did you see anyone else that morning? You see, the body was hidden under a boat nearby and later in the day someone came to fetch it.”

Abu shook his head.

“I saw no one with a body,” he said.

“Perhaps not with a body. That is not to be expected. It would have been moved by night. But someone down there. Perhaps talking to the boatman.”

“I saw many people,” said Abu, shaking his head.

“Did you, perhaps, see a fiki?”

“Why, yes,” said Abu, “I did.”

This early in the morning there was still a tinge of freshness in the air, especially so close to the river. Some storks were wading in the shallows. They moved a little further out as Owen and Mahmoud approached but did not fly away.

A little beyond them the boatman was already at work. A small brazier was burning and from it came the pungent smell of boiling tar.

The boatman looked up as they arrived. He recognized Mahmoud but not Owen.

“Effendi,” he said politely.

“Greetings, Mohammed Farkas,” said Mahmoud. He went and stood among the boats drawn up on the bank. “Remind me, Mohammed Farkas,” he said, “which boat was the girl’s body hidden under?”

The boatman’s face fell.

“This one, effendi.” He indicated it with his hand.

“Ah, you’ve moved it.”

“It has been on the water, effendi.”

“Yes, of course.”

Mahmoud sat down on the upturned hull.

“This is my friend,” he said, indicating Owen. “He is the Mamur Zapt.”

“I have told you all I know, effendi,” said the boatman in a low voice.

“Not quite all, I think.”

“What else is it you wish to know, effendi?”

“You told me that after the beggars had spoken to you, you did not go near the boat because you were afraid. And that when you next looked under the boat, two days later, the body was gone.”

“That is true, effendi.”

“Well, yes, but not the whole truth.”

The boatman was silent.

“Tell me, for instance: when did the fiki come?”

“Fiki?” said the boatman, swallowing.

“We could fetch him if you liked. But will that be necessary?”

“No, effendi,” said the boatman sadly.

“When, then?”

“In the afternoon, effendi.”

“He surely did not take the body then?”

“He came to see that it was there. Then he came again in the night.”

“You saw him?”

“Effendi, I—I was sleeping.”

“Where were you sleeping?”

The boatman indicated one of the boats.

“There? Then I think you saw him. Did you not see him, Mohammed Farkas?”

“Yes, effendi,” the boatman said reluctantly.

“Did he speak to you?”

“No, effendi.” The boatman gathered up courage. “And I did not speak to him.”

“The less you knew about it, the better? That was it, was it?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“Well, that was wise of you. And now you are going to be wiser still. For the Mamur Zapt is right beside you. He has heard what you have said, so when I ask you about the fiki again, in the Great Court, you will repeat what you have said and not pretend you did not say it.”

The boatman went pale.

“Effendi,” he pleaded, “he will have me killed.”

“The fiki? I do not think so.”

“No, not the fiki.”

“Who, then?”

Owen had to hurry back to the Bab el Khalk. He had barely settled himself in his chair when Nikos stuck his head in.

“Someone else to see you,” he said. “You’re popular today. Though I don’t think it will last. Prince Narouz.”

“Prince Narouz!” Owen leaped to his feet and hurried to the door, hand outstretched in greeting. “What a relief to see you!”

“Relief?” said Narouz, taken aback.

“I feared—Your Highness, do sit down! I am afraid my office is a little spartan. This chair, for instance—” Owen shook his hand. Then, seeing a goggle-eyed Nikos still at the door: “Coffee! Coffee for His Highness!”

“Coffee!” snapped Nikos, pulling himself together. He disappeared down the corridor. They heard his voice in the distance. “Coffee!”

“Coffee?” said Narouz, bewildered.

Owen took him by the arm, held him at arm’s length and inspected him affectionately.

“You’re all right!” he said fervently.

“Of course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be?”

Owen shook his hand as if he could hardly believe his eyes.

“You’re safe!” he said. “That’s the main thing. Your wellbeing, Prince, must always be my highest consideration.”

“Well, thank you,” said the Prince. “I am, naturally, gratified. But why exactly—?”

Owen returned to his desk and sat down.

“We should have warned you before, Your Highness. I realize that now. We have been watching them for weeks. But we did not wish to alarm you unnecessarily and it was only yesterday that it became clear.”

“
What
became clear?”

“That you were to be the target.”

“Target!”

“And then we heard of your sudden call to Alexandria! I don’t mind telling you, Prince, now, that for a moment I was in despair. I had to act quickly. Not too quickly, I hope?” he said, smiling solicitously.

“I thought for a moment,” said the Prince slightly diffidently, “that I was being—well, arrested.”

“Oh, Prince!” said Owen, shocked. “Surely not!”

“Well, they said I was being held.”

“Held safe. Guarded. Protected,” Owen assured him.

“Well…” The Prince was silent for a moment. “And what, exactly,” he added, “am I being protected from?”

“A terrorist group. We have had our eye on them for some time. But it’s only recently that we have begun to suspect…It’s the Agreement, you see. A last, desperate attempt to stop it being signed.”

“The Agreement? But I’m nothing to do with that.”

“But, Prince, you are! You’ve been party to the discussions, you’ve attended the sessions—”

“Only some of them. And, anyway, I’m only there to make up the numbers on the Khedive’s side. He doesn’t trust anyone else—”

“Well, there you are!” said Owen. “His right-hand man.”

“But—”

“Heir to the throne. What better means of offering a dreadful, horrible warning to the Khedive?”