The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (4 page)

“I
do not know,” said the woman.

“Have
strangers been to the village?”

“No,”
said the omda.

Mahmoud
ignored him.

“Has
a stranger been to your house?”

“No.”

“Has
your husband talked to strangers?”

“I
do not know.”

“Has
he spoken to you of the drug?” “He never speaks to me of the drug,” said the
woman bitterly.

Mahmoud
sat back and regarded the woman for a moment or two without speaking. Then he
suddenly leaned forward.

“Listen
to me,” he said to the woman, speaking slowly and emphatically. “I believe your
husband to be a foolish man and not a bad one. He is a tool in the hands of
others. I promise you I will try to see that his punishment fits foolishness
and not badness. But I need to know whose
are the hands that
hold the tool
. Think about it. Think long and hard.”

He
turned to the omda.

“And
you,” he said, “think, too. Think doubly long and hard. Or else you will find
yourself in trouble.”

A
servant showed them through the house and out into the garden, where Nuri Pasha
was waiting for them.

He
was sitting in the shade of a large eucalyptus tree, a gold-topped cane between
his knees and a rug about his shoulders. His head was resting on the back of
the chair and from a distance it looked as if he was asleep, but as they drew
nearer Owen saw that the apparently closed eyes were watching them carefully.

“Monsieur
le Parquet! And—” the watchful eyes lingered a little on Owen—“le Mamur Zapt!”

Servants
brought up wickerwork chairs.

“I
was,” said Nuri Pasha, “about to have a late tea. Would you care to join me?
Or something stronger perhaps?”

“Thank
you,” said Owen. “Tea would be very welcome.”

He
did not know how strict a Muslim Mahmoud was.

Nuri,
it was clear, was a very Europeanized Egyptian. He spoke English perfectly,
though with a suggestion that he would rather be speaking French. He was
dressed in a dark jacket and light, pin-striped trousers. His shirt was
impeccably white and he wore a grey silk tie fastened with a large gold pin.

“Tea, then.”

Already,
across the lawn servants were bringing a table and tea-things. The table was
spread with an immaculate white cloth. The teapot was silver, the cups of bone
china. One of the servants poured the tea and then retired into the background.

“Good,”
said Nuri, sipping his tea.

He
put the cup back in the saucer.

“And
now, what can I do for you two gentlemen?”

“If it would
not distress you,” said Mahmoud, “I would like to hear your account of what
happened in the Place de l’Opéra.”

“Of course,
dear boy,” said Nuri. “I am only too glad to be able to assist the Parquet.
Especially,” he smiled, “in the circumstances.”

He seemed,
however, to be in no hurry to begin. His eyes wandered across the flowerbeds to
the other side of the lawn. “Beautiful!” he whispered.

Owen
thought at first that he was referring to the freesia or the stocks, or perhaps
to the bougainvillaea in bloom along the wall which surrounded the garden, but
as he followed the direction of Nuri’s gaze he saw that the Pasha was looking
at a young peasant girl who was walking along a raised path just beyond the
wall with a tall jar on her head.

“Beautiful,”
breathed Nuri again.

“If
I was younger,” he said regretfully, “I’d send someone to fetch her. Those
girls, when they are washed, are very good in bed. They regard an orgasm as a
visitation from Allah. When I was young—” He went into graphic detail.

The story
came to an end and Nuri sat for a moment sunk in the memory of past pleasures.

Owen
stretched out a hand towards the cucumber sandwiches. The shadow of a kite hawk
fell on the table and he looked up hurriedly, but the hawk was wheeling far
above. He helped himself to the sandwich. Sometimes, at the Sporting Club, the
hawks would snatch the food out of your very hand.

Mahmoud
ventured a little cough.

“The Place
de l’Opéra,” he murmured.

Nuri
affected a start.

“I
am so sorry,” he said. “Monsieur le Parquet does right to recall us to our
business.” He looked at Mahmoud with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I hope
my reminiscences did not bore you?”

“Oh no,”
protested Mahmoud.
“Not at all.”

“Ah? Well,
in that case perhaps you would like to hear about the peasant girl on one of my
estates. She—”

He stopped
with a grin.

“Or
perhaps not.
You are busy men. And it is not every day that one receives a visit from the
Mamur Zapt.”

“I shall
enjoy reading your memoirs,” said Owen.

“I am
afraid,” said Nuri, with real regret, “that the best bits have to be left out.
Even in Egypt.”

“The Place
de l’Opéra,” murmured Mahmoud doggedly.

“The
Place de l’Opéra,” said Nuri.
“Just so.”

Even
then he shot off at a tangent.

“The
case,” he said. “How is it going?”

“All
right,” said Mahmoud, caught off guard. “We are making progress.”

“Ah?
What have you found out?”

“We are
only at the beginning,” said Mahmoud reluctantly.
“Nothing,
then?”

“We
are holding a man.”

“The fellah?”

“Yes.”

Nuri
waved a dismissive hand.

“A
tool,” he said.

Mahmoud
rallied determinedly.

“A
number of points have emerged from my inquiries,” he said, “some of which
are interesting and which I would like to check.
Against your
account.”

“Oh?”
said Nuri. “What interesting points?”

“That,
I shall not be altogether certain of until I have heard your account,” said
Mahmoud blandly.

Nuri
threw up his hands with a laugh.

“You
have beaten me!” he conceded. It was evidently his way to play games.

He
signalled to one of the servants, who came up and rearranged the rug round the
old man’s shoulders.

“I
will tell you what happened,” said Nuri, “although I am afraid it will be a
very sketchy account.”

“Even that
may help,” said Mahmoud “Yes,” said Nuri sceptically. “It may.”

He
leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

“I
had been meeting colleagues—former colleagues, I should say— in the Hotel
Continental. When the meeting was over I went to find my arabeah. It was not
there, so I went out into the Place to look for it. Suddenly—” his eyes
opened—“I saw a man in front of me raising a gun.”

“How
close?”

“From me to you.
Perhaps
a little more.”

Mahmoud
waited for Nuri to think back.

“And
then?”

Nuri
frowned.

“And
then I don’t know what happened.” “Were you conscious of the gun going off?”

“I
heard a shot. Yes, I certainly heard a shot. And I fell down. Though whether
before or after or at the same time I really cannot remember. Everything is
very hazy.”

“You
may have dazed yourself in falling,” said Mahmoud.

“The
doctor thinks so,” said Nuri. “He claims to detect a bruise on the back of my
head. I must say, I am not conscious of it myself, but then, my livelihood does
not depend on finding bumps on other people.”

“You
did see the man with the gun, though. Could you describe him?”

“Not very well.
I saw him only
fleetingly.”

“Was
he dressed in European clothes?”

Nuri
looked at him. “I have heard the accounts of my would-be assassin,” he said
drily, “and you yourself confirmed that he was a fellah.”

Mahmoud
apologized.

“I
was merely trying to prompt you to recall exactly what you saw,” he said. “Was
he young or old, for instance, what kind of galabeah was he wearing?”

“I
do not,” said Nuri Pasha, “bother to distinguish one fellah from another.”

There
was a little silence.

“In
any case,” said Nuri, “the fellah is not the one that matters. He is merely a
tool.”

“Have
you any idea,” asked Owen, “who might be using him as a tool?”

“I
am afraid not.”

“Can
you think of anyone who would wish to kill you?”

Nuri
looked at Owen with surprise.

“Mon cher
, ”
he said,
“Everybody
wants to kill me.
Tout le monde. ”
“Come,” said Owen, “you have enemies
enough, I am sure, anyone in your position is bound to, but there is a
difference between having an enemy and having an enemy who wants to kill you.”

“You
are right,” said Nuri Pasha, “if a trifle literal. I am plainly guilty of
exaggeration. Let me try to be more accurate. Only half the population of Egypt
wants to kill me. The other half would just be happy to see it happen.” He
laughed, and then put his hand on Owen’s arm. “I joke,
mon
cher,”
he said, “but it is no joke really.” Owen nodded.

The
word “Denshawai” did not need to be spoken.

Nuri’s
eyes wandered away again across the garden. The girl had gone, however.

“The
fellah who tried to shoot you,” said Mahmoud, “had a personal grudge against
you.”

“Oh
yes,” said Nuri.

“It
appears you took a liking to his wife’s sister—a peasant girl, like the one we
saw. Only on that occasion you did send for her.”

“Really?”
said Nuri, without much interest.
“If so, she would have been
well paid.”

“It
is just that it gives a motive,” said Mahmoud, “sufficient in itself. We do not
necessarily have to look for an ulterior one. The affair, that is,” he ended
carefully, “may be merely a private one.”

“Since when,” asked Nuri, “has the Mamur
Zapt been interested in affairs which are merely private?”

“Have
you received any threatening letters?” asked Owen.

Nuri
made a gesture of dismissal.

“Mon
cher
!”
he said, almost
reproachfully.
“Dozens!”

“Recently?
In the last two
weeks?”

“I
expect so,” said Nuri. “It is not the part of my mail to which I give the
greatest attention.”

He
looked at Owen.

“You
would not expect a killer to give warning, surely?”

“It
happens surprisingly often,” said Owen.

Nuri
laughed. “I expect it is the weakness for rhetoric characteristic of those
engaged in politics,” he said.

He
glanced at Mahmoud.

“Especially Egyptian politics.”

“Not
just Egyptian,” said Owen. “However, there is a different explanation. The
terrorist clubs tend to contact their targets first. Especially,” he added,
looking directly at Nuri, “when they are trying to extort money.”

Nuri
shook his head.

“If
they had asked for money I would probably have paid.”

“You
have received a communication, then?”

“I
was speaking generally.”

Nuri
leaned back in his chair and called to one of his servants. The man disappeared
into the house.

“You
must speak to Ahmed,” he said. “He deals with my mail.”

A
sulky young Egyptian came out of the house. He seemed to walk across the lawn
deliberately slowly, placed himself directly in front of Nuri, with his back to
Owen and Mahmoud, and said: “Yes?”

“Mon
cher
,”
said Nuri
reproachfully. “We have guests.”

The
young man deigned to throw them a glance.

“Interesting
guests,” said Nuri.
“Le Parquet et le Mamur Zapt
. ”

The
glance the young man threw now was one of undisguised hostility.

Nuri
sighed.

“Our
guests were asking if I have received any threatening letters
recently?
”

“You
always receive threatening letters,” said the young man harshly.
“Deservedly.”

“I
would like to see,” said Owen, “any that have been received in the last three
weeks.”

The
young man looked at Nuri.