The Mark of the Pasha Page 10

  ‘Until now,’ said Owen.

  ***

  Owen was working on the security arrangements for the visit of the Commission. They might be in Egypt for as long as six months, thought Paul Trevelyan.

  ‘Six months!’

  ‘They’ll need to hear submissions from interested parties.’

  ‘Yes, but six months!’

  ‘The longer, the better,’ said Paul. ‘Then everyone will get bored and be ready to listen to our compromise proposals. Which I’ve already drafted.’

  ‘Couldn’t you put them in a bit earlier?’

  ‘Heavens, no! Before people are willing to even entertain the idea of compromise, they have to go down the other route first. That always takes a bit of time. About six months I would say. The other advantage is that everyone else gets bored too. With luck, the whole country will go off the boil.’

  Owen had to admit there was some evidence of this. Fewer people were out on the streets, demonstrations were more half-hearted, there were not so many attacks on people and property. Cairo seemed to be reverting to its normal side, that is, one in which most of the incidents could be attributed to drunken soldiery.

  The fact was, Owen had to concede, the Egyptians were really quite excited at the prospect of the Commission. The newspapers were full of people putting forward their positions. All the political parties were staking out their claims. Even—a master-stroke, this, for which Owen took some of the credit—subversive organisations such as the political clubs had been invited to put forward their ideas and were busy scribbling away. It seemed to be working.

  For the moment. What would happen when the Commission announced the result of its deliberations was another matter. Owen, planning ahead, was beginning to drop hints of need for a suitably timed holiday, even that long-deferred honeymoon, which Zeinab, caught off-guard for once, welcomed enthusiastically.

  Meanwhile, however, there was much to be resolved. Where should the members of the Commission stay, for example? The answer was obvious: the Savoy, which was the most luxurious hotel in Cairo. And where conduct its deliberations? Somewhere safe, clearly. The Barracks, suggested the Army. The High Commissioner didn’t think that would send out quite the right signals. The Commissioner’s Residency itself? But that, too, Owen suggested, might not give quite the message that was desired. The Palace? But that was only for Royal visitors. Was the King of England coming? No, alas: it appeared that he was more interested in going to Paris.

  In the end it was decided that the best thing to do would be to hold the Commission’s sessions in the same hotel as that in which its members were based. It would mean that they wouldn’t have to walk outside in the heat. And make security simpler.

  But—and this was what Owen was working on at the moment—who would be making it secure within? Where would the guards be coming from? The Army? Owen thought not. Keep them out of it at all costs. The Police? Over-stretched, as it was. The Mamur Zapt’s own staff? All three of them? The Police it was going to have to be, and he would have to talk to Garvin.

  Just at that moment he heard a door along the corridor open and close. It was McPhee. He stuck his head in the door.

  ‘Owen, may I have a word?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I would appreciate your advice. It’s that boy. You know, the one who caused the trouble at the race-track. Garvin has asked me to handle it.’

  Owen felt guilty. It was he who had passed the boy over to Garvin when they had got back to the Bab-el-Khalk, and now Garvin had passed him on to McPhee, feeling, no doubt, that he himself had more important things to do.

  ‘I would have thought one of your usual talking-tos—’

  Youths were always being taken to McPhee’s office. Usually it was for stealing dates from a market-stall or something like that. An indignant stall-holder had caught them in the act and called the police. The police, being uncertain what to do, tended to pass them on to McPhee. Both stall-holder and police expected that the offender would receive at least a good thrashing. McPhee, however, a kindly man, didn’t believe in thrashings. He believed that if they were taken to the Bab-el-Khalk and confronted with his own awful majesty, then that would be sufficient. Sometimes it was, too. The boys would emerge weeping—and then, Owen suspected go straight back to doing whatever they had been doing when they were arrested.

  ‘I’ve given him one,’ said McPhee.

  ‘And didn’t it work?’

  ‘He was certainly contrite.’

  ‘Well, then—’

  ‘He says that his sheikh has spoken to him and he won’t do it again.’

  ‘I would have thought that was sufficient—’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that. It’s his general attitude. So intransigent! I don’t know what’s come over the young nowadays.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘I thought perhaps you might like to have a word with him.’

  ‘I would, I would. But—’

  His conscience gave a kick. He had passed the buck in the first place.

  ‘All right,’ he said wearily, ‘I will.’

  ‘Thank you, Owen. I greatly appreciate it. I know you’re very pressed. I would have another go myself but I’ve just been called out. A nasty incident in a hammam.’

  Owen put down his pencil.

  ‘A hammam?’ he said.

  Chapter Seven

  It was the one in Shafik Street which he had been to earlier.

  ‘Do you mind if I come with you?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘The boy can wait. I’ll speak to him later.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Owen put on his tarboosh and they went out together.

  ‘I have an interest in this particular hammam.’

  He told McPhee about the package.

  ‘A bomb!’ said McPhee, aghast. ‘But this is a very respectable hammam!’

  McPhee knew his hammams. He often used them himself. Unmarried and living alone, and slightly eccentric anyway, he had embraced Egyptian culture enthusiastically, eating out in small native cafés most evenings, going to Egyptian theatre, which was not like going to English theatre, and in his spare time pursuing an almost antiquarian interest in traditional Egyptian ritual.

  ‘You must take a look at the maghtas,’ he told Owen now.

  The maghtas were the small hot-water tanks one of which he had seen the lobster-like man emerge from.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think they’re very old. Could be Roman. They remind me of the hot baths of Caracalla.’

  ‘Caracalla?’

  ‘In Rome. Where everyone used to bathe. Including the Emperors. One of them died there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. In the bath.’

  It was just the sort of thing McPhee would know.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. They’re made of stone, you see. Just like the Roman ones. And about the same dimensions.’

  ‘Fascinating!’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ said McPhee enthusiastically. ‘I have a theory—’

  Yes, McPhee would.

  ‘—that the Egyptian hammam owes a great deal to the Roman system.’

  ‘And this incident today?’ Owen gently piloted McPhee back to the mundane present.

  ‘Dreadful! A man murdered! While he was lying there.’

  ‘In the tank? Boiled?’

  McPhee looked at him reproachfully.

  ‘Owen! How could you!’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry! I thought you said while he was lying there?’

  ‘On a liwan, Owen, on a liwan. A couch. Not in the maghta.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I was there today, and it seemed so hot—’

  ‘He was strangled, Owen. I think. Although it’s not entirely clear. But while he was m
assaged on a liwan, Owen. Not while he was in the maghta.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Foolish of me. Strangled, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Accidentally?’

  McPhee stared at him.

  ‘Owen, what are you saying? He was strangled. How could that be accidental?’

  ‘Well, you never know. While he was having his neck massaged, I mean, they’re so vigorous …’

  His voice died away.

  ‘Owen, are you all right? It’s been very hot lately.’

  ‘No, no. It’s just that I saw them at it. And it was so vigorous. They pull the head this way and that way—’

  ‘He was strangled, Owen. That’s a bit different.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course.’

  McPhee continued to look at him from time to time in a puzzled way.

  ***

  The hammam had a towel draped over the door.

  McPhee, a respectable man, stopped.

  The m’allim rushed out.

  ‘It was all I could think of, Effendi. To stop people coming in. I thought you would not wish people to see—’

  ‘No, no,’ said McPhee. ‘Quite right. And…there are no women in there?’

  ‘Absolutely none, Effendi.’

  There was a policeman, however, at the door, in the small reception area. He saluted when he saw them.

  ‘Effendis!’ he said with relief.

  ‘He’s been not letting anyone leave,’ said the m’allim.

  ‘Quite right!’ said McPhee.

  The m’allim plucked at his sleeve.

  ‘They are getting angry, Effendi.’

  A voice from inside said loudly:

  ‘How much longer!’

  McPhee went in. He was the person, in principle, who was in charge. The incident had been reported as an ordinary crime and the initial dealing with that report was the responsibility of the police and not the Mamur Zapt. What they had to do was confirm that there had been a crime and sort out any immediate aftermath. Then they would report it to the Parquet.

  ‘I am sorry, gentlemen, that you should have been detained. You will understand, however, that in these dreadful circumstances—’

  ‘I don’t mind being detained for a bit,’ said someone. ‘But for two hours!’

  It was Owen’s acquaintance of the previous day.

  ‘He’s worried what his wife will say,’ said someone else.

  ‘She won’t believe me,’ said the fat man ruefully.

  ‘We’ll support you, Fehmi!’ the other men chorused. ‘Just refer her to us.’

  ‘She won’t believe you, either,’ said the fat man sadly.

  ‘How much longer do we have to wait here?’ demanded one of the other men.

  ‘Did any of you see anything?’ asked McPhee.

  ‘How could we? We were here, in the meslakh.’

  ‘And the—the—?’

  ‘In the harara, Effendi,’ said the m’allim.

  ‘So none of you actually witnessed—?’

  ‘None of us, Effendi. And this oaf—’

  He looked balefully at the constable, who felt compelled to defend himself.

  ‘I thought I shouldn’t let anyone go, Effendi. Not until you came.’

  ‘Quite right. But now, I think, if you gentlemen are sure you can’t help me… Just let me have your names, please. And where you live or can be contacted. Perhaps you could write them down?’ he said to the constable.

  ‘Well, um, Effendi…’

  The constable could write but very slowly.

  ‘Here,’ said one of the bathers impatiently, ‘let me do it. Abou? Suleiman?’

  Owen went on into the first chamber, the beyt-owwal. It was empty, everyone having come through into the meslakh. He continued into the harara. Towelled, glum forms lay on the couches.

  ‘Police,’ said Owen. ‘Where is he?’

  They pointed across the room to where a still form lay on one of the slabs.

  Owen went across to him. McPhee joined him.

  ‘He’s not been strangled,’ said Owen. ‘He’s had his neck broken.’

  He looked round the room.

  ‘Did any of you see?’

  ‘Effendi, no. We were just lying there being worked on—’

  ‘And he was lying there being worked on—’

  ‘When Darwish said: “Hey! What’s wrong with him?”’

  ‘I thought he’d had a heart attack,’ said Darwish. ‘I jumped up and ran across and thought, this is not a heart attack!’

  ‘Darwish called to me,’ said another of the men, ‘and I took one look and called for the m’allim.’

  ‘And I came running,’ said the m’allim, ‘and saw—’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Him lying there. With the head and the neck—’

  ‘Who had been working on him?’

  ‘Yussef.’

  ‘Where is Yussef?’

  ‘Gone, Effendi. He is not here.’

  ‘Has he left the hammam? Or is he still here?’

  The m’allim hesitated.

  ‘I have not seen him go. And if he had gone, I would have stopped him and said: “What do you think you’re doing, Yussef? Have you joined the ranks of the Pashas or something, that you no longer need to work for a living?” But I did did not see him.’

  ‘Is there a lawingi here?’

  There were two of them, both in loin-cloths, both rather darker than the ordinary Egyptian, coming from the south, probably.

  ‘Right, you come with me.’

  He left McPhee to deal with the body and went through the hammam with the two lawingis, getting them to show him any hiding place that Yussef might be in. When they got to the back of the hammam he saw that it wasn’t necessary, for there was a door at the back which was open.

  ‘This man, Yussef,’ he said. ‘Did you see him?’

  One of the lawingi seemed in a state of shock. He kept opening and closing his mouth, unable, it seemed, even to speak. The other lawingi seemed equally stunned, but he at least managed speech.

  ‘He was at work, Effendi. As usual. Just the other side of the harara.’

  ‘You did not see him do anything to the one he was working on? Anything different?’

  ‘No, Effendi. No!’

  The other lawingi at last managed to speak.

  ‘No, Effendi!’

  ‘And did you see him go? Leave the harara?’

  ‘Effendi, I was working. When you are working, you do not see things.’

  ‘What sort of man was he? This Yussef?’

  ‘I did not know him well. He joined us only last week.’

  Owen took them back into the harara. He led them across to the body.

  ‘You are both lawingi. Men skilled in the arts of the hammam. How easy would it be for a lawingi to break a man’s neck?’

  The two men looked at each other.

  ‘It would not be difficult, Effendi. When you are turning the head, you lift it a little. It would be easy to lift it a little more and give it an extra thrust.’

  ‘But we wouldn’t do that, Effendi,’ broke in the other lawingi, finding his tongue. ‘We know what we can do and what we should not. Each one of us has been taught, and our master would not let us go unless he was satisfied that we would not inadvertently do harm when we practised.’

  ‘But you would know how,’ said Owen, ‘should you wish to do it not inadvertently?’

  ***

  The other bathers, who must have been in the harara for some time now, were being allowed to leave and had gone through into the meslakh to change. The harara was now empty, apart from the two lawingi and the body. The m’allim came back from the meslakh and stood near Owen wringing his hands.

  ‘Eff
endi, what shall I do? Should I close the hammam?’

  ‘You’ll probably have to, at least for the day. The Parquet will be here soon and will tell you what they want.’

  ‘But, Effendi, with that there…’ He looked fearfully over to the side of the room where the body rested.

  ‘It will not have to stay long,’ Owen assured him. ‘The Bimbashi will already have sent for the ambulance. But it must stay here until the Parquet have seen it.’

  He sent the two lawingi off to their room. It was insufferably hot in the harara. He took off his jacket.

  ‘Effendi, it cannot be allowed to stay here long. In the heat—’

  ‘It will be gone long before it starts to smell,’ said Owen.

  He went over to the body. It had been covered with a towel. He pulled the towel off and studied it. It was the body of a man of about thirty, an Egyptian, and an Arab, not a Copt. The hair was neatly trimmed and the nails recently cut. He bent down and looked. Yes, the palms of the hands were slightly reddened from hilba. Hilba, after his previous visit, was still strongly in his mind.

  He bent again and sniffed. Yes, there was a faint trace of the smell.

  There were some contusions about the neck but the bruising was slight. That would not have been the case if the man had been strangled. Perhaps the post-mortem would yield more information.

  He left the harara and went through into the meslakh, where McPhee was still taking names.

  The m’allim followed him, still wringing his hands.

  ‘Who will want to lie on a liwan where a dead man has rested?’ he muttered. ‘It was a beautiful hammam. The birds sang sweetly, the air was fragrant—’

  ‘The birds will still sing sweetly, the air will still be fragrant,’ Owen assured him.

  ‘But men will say: here a man died!’

  ‘In a few days, it will be forgotten.’

  He asked the m’allim to open the locker where the dead man had left his clothes. In the closed space the smell of hilba was stronger.

  And the smell of something else.

  Owen had a very acute sense of smell, which was not always an advantage in Egypt. He stayed there for a moment, with his face pressed down to the locker. There were other smells there, of course, but yes, there it was again.