The Snake Catcher’s Daughter mz-8 Read online

  Jalila wriggled her toes. Not surprisingly, thought Owen. The roof was so hot that even to put your hand on it was painful.

  Jalila was bare-faced as well as bare-footed. Interesting, that. Poor women usually wore a veil. Perhaps snake-catchers’ daughters were so low in the social hierarchy that they fell even below that level.

  Jalila, now he came to consider it, had a pleasant face, not Arab-aquiline like Zeinab’s but broad and round.

  “Where does your father come from, Jalila?” he asked.

  “Here.”

  “And his father?”

  “Here. We have always been here.”

  “It is the face. It does not seem a northern face.”

  “They say we originally came from Suakin.”

  “Ah!”

  A port city. Therefore, probably mixed. He fancied he saw something Somali in her features.

  “You like my face?”

  “Yes. It is a pretty one.”

  Jalila wriggled her toes again.

  “I like this kind of conversation,” she said.

  “Don’t get much of it among the snakes, I suppose.”

  A woman came out on to a roof opposite.

  “That’s your reputation gone!”

  “My father will beat me, perhaps.”

  “Tell him the Mamur Zapt says that would be unwise.”

  “If I tell him that, he will be troubled. He thinks it best to have nothing to do with the great.”

  “A wise man. A wise daughter, too, and that is why I have come to you. Jalila, I need to know what happened in the courtyard the night the Bimbashi came.”

  “He fell asleep.”

  “You drugged him. That I know. It is the next bit that interests me. He was taken from the courtyard. How?”

  “Men came.”

  “Into the yard?”

  “Yes. It is forbidden but they came all the same. The Aalima was very angry.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “Not well. I was on the other side of the courtyard. I had just filled my bowl. I heard the women cry out and I looked up and they were just lifting him, high up on their shoulders. And then they ran through the arch into the other courtyard.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I heard a great shout, and then men were crying out.”

  “You did not see?”

  She shook her head.

  “The Aalima came out at that point. She called us to her and said: ‘What is this?’ And we told her, and she was very angry.”

  “How many men were there?”

  “Five. Two of them were holding the chair. One was telling them what to do. The others-I do not know. Perhaps they were holding the chair, too.”

  “The one who was telling them what to do: was he a lowly man:

  Jalila looked surprised.

  “Lowly? Not especially.”

  Oh, well. It might not have helped much-there were a lot of lowly men in Cairo-but it would have been nice to have had corroboration.

  “Could you describe him to me?”

  Not very well. It had been dark, she had seen them briefly and through a crowd. They had looked, well, ordinary. Big, perhaps. Would she recognize them if she saw them again? She shook her head doubtfully.

  “Jalila, if you do see them-and you may see them, for one at least is from the Gamaliya-and you let me know, it will be to your advantage.”

  “If I see them, I will let you know,” said Jalila, “but it will not be for money.”

  Mahmoud came to Owen’s office that afternoon. It was the afternoon because it was then that the Bab-el-Khalk was empty and there would not be many to witness what Nikos considered his disgrace. He had, of course, demurred but Owen had not given him sufficient time to be able to organize his defences in terms either of a last-ditch appeal to higher authority or of tampering with the files. All he could do was sit and simmer.

  When Mahmoud was shown in, he was distantly polite. There would be no confrontation-that was not Nikos’s way-but there would be no assistance either. If Mahmoud could find what he wanted, well and good, or, rather, ill and bad, but he would have to find it for himself.

  Mahmoud understood the situation perfectly and was courtesy itself. He also understood filing systems, which was something Nikos had not banked on and was particularly exasperating. A few minimal inquiries and he was on his way. Nikos folded his arms and settled down to watch. There was always the chance that Mahmoud would find it off-putting.

  Provokingly, Mahmoud seemed entirely at ease.

  Owen, prudently, left them to it and went away to work in his own office. Some three hours later, Mahmoud appeared in his doorway. A brooding Nikos hovered just behind him.

  Mahmoud came in and put a piece of paper on his desk. It was an official memorandum and came from the Commandant of the Cairo Police. It said:

  This is to confirm our conversation in my office this morning, namely that you are hereby authorized and instructed to conduct an inquiry into the degree and prevalence of corruption in the Cairo City Police Force.

  It was addressed to Mustapha Mir, the Mamur Zapt, and was signed P. Wainwright, Commandant of Police.

  Chapter 9

  Garvin dismissed it contemptuously. “Wainwright was as weak as water. Mustapha Mir could twist him round his little finger. He wrote the memo himself and got Wainwright to sign it.”

  “That may be,” Mahmoud said to Owen later, “but you can’t just dismiss it. On the face of it, it confirms Philipides’s story: there was an investigation going on into the corruption in the Police Force, it was being conducted, quite properly, by the Mamur Zapt, and Philipides might well have been acting as agent provocateur. What evidence there is supports Philipides.”

  “The two were in it together,” said Owen. “Mustapha Mir and Philipides.”

  “Three,” said Mahmoud. “And Wainwright.”

  “Mir could twist him round his little finger.”

  “So Garvin keeps saying. But if he could,” said Mahmoud, “it’s the first case I’ve met of a senior British officer doing what an Egyptian told him.”

  “You’re not saying that Garvin is making this up?”

  “I’m just following normal procedure,” said Mahmoud, “checking the evidence. I’ve checked Philipides’s and I’ve found it corroborated. I’ll try and do the same for Garvin’s. It doesn’t help that he refuses me access to Wainwright’s files.”

  “All you’d find is a copy of the same memo.”

  “I might find more. I might find evidence supporting the case that there was corruption in the Police Force. Independent evidence. Independent, that is, of Mustapha Mir. I might find more detailed instructions from Wainwright. I might find a sketch by Mustapha Mir of how he intended to set about the investigation. It might even include the suggestion of using Philipides as an agent provocateur.”

  “That wouldn’t help Garvin.”

  “I’m not trying to help Garvin. I’m trying to establish the truth. And when I find someone obstructing me from finding out the truth, I ask myself why. One answer is that they do not want me to find out the truth.”

  “There are other answers. Issues of security, for instance.”

  “I am an employee of the Ministry of Justice. Ultimately of the Khedive. As Garvin is. Cannot I be trusted on an issue of security? After all,” said Mahmoud, “it is my country, not Garvin’s.”

  “He’s taken it higher,” said Paul that evening in the bar. “His Minister has formally asked the Khedive to instruct Garvin to release the files.”

  “Much good that will do him,” said Owen.

  “It’s not as simple as that. It’s put the Khedive on the spot. He knows Garvin won’t release the files unless the Consul-General tells him. But if he asks the C-G and the C-G says no, that will be a smack in the face and won’t do him any good with the Nationalists. He is in a considerable dither.”

  “His normal state.”

  “Forgivable, I think, this time. The C-G
is not particularly happy about it, either, however. He doesn’t want to have to say no because he doesn’t want to be seen giving the Khedive a smack in the face. It doesn’t look good to other countries. We’re only supposed to be advisers. He’s on the spot, too. The people back home think it’s bad handling if issues like this are allowed to arise.”

  “Everyone on the spot!” said Owen. “Just because Mahmoud insists on doing his job.”

  “It comes as a bit of a surprise, of course,” said Paul, “when someone starts doing that. No one’s ready for it. However, one result is that they start questioning how other people are doing their jobs. Me. You. You, after all, are supposed to be seeing that nothing awkward arises as a result of this investigation.”

  “I’m not sure it was put quite like that,” protested Owen.

  “We, at least, are not daft enough to write memos about it,” said Paul, “but you know what I mean. Actually,” he said, waving for two more whiskies to sweeten the pill, “there ought to be no question of either of you departing, provided matters are handled with dexterity.”

  A little group of people came out on to the verandah, where Owen and Paul were sitting. Normally, it was cooler out there but tonight the temperature was like that of an oven. “Cooler indoors,” said one of the group. “Let’s go back inside.” As he turned, one of the men saw Owen and Paul.

  “Hello!” he said, dropping into a chair opposite them. “What’s this I hear about Wainwright? Coming back out here to give evidence or something?”

  “Not so far as I know,” said Paul, “not unless he’s completely taken leave of his senses.”

  “You remember Wainwright, of course?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “Before my time. Before yours, too, wasn’t he?” he said to Owen.

  “A couple of years before,” said Owen.

  “Oh! Well, he was Chief of Police. Nice chap. Very active in the Horticultural Society. You should have seen his garden! Envy of all the rest of us, I can tell you. It will be nice to have him back. Pick his brain over my oleander.”

  “I doubt, actually, if he’ll come.”

  “Oh? Pottinger seemed quite certain about it. His missus has had a letter from Wainwright’s missus. She’ll be coming too-the Khedive’s paying, after all-and they’ve asked the Pottingers to put them up.”

  “Kind of them,” said Paul.

  “It’ll be rather nice to have him around,” said his informant happily. “We’ll be able to talk over a thing or two.”

  “It’s a long way to come.”

  “You’d think there was too much happening in the garden.”

  “First thought that came into my head.”

  “Decent chap, Wainwright. You never knew him?”

  “Afraid not. A decent chap, you say?”

  “Oh yes. He was our secretary for, well, it must have been nearly ten years. Everybody liked him. Always willing to do anyone a good turn.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Nice chap. Straightforward.”

  “Straightforward?” said Paul. “Oh!”

  The voice sounded familiar.

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend of Philipides.”

  “Does Philipides wish to speak with me?”

  “No. I wish to speak with you.”

  “What about?”

  “Philipides.”

  He had placed the voice now. It was the girl who had been in his bed.

  “Come to my office.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Philipides would hear.”

  “Will he not hear if I come to your appartement?”

  “It is not my appartement. It belongs to a friend.”

  “If I come, you had better be sure I leave.”

  “I know, I know,” said the voice impatiently. “You will bring men. They will watch the house. You need not worry. There is only me.”

  “Very well. I will come.”

  “This evening, then.”

  He decided to take Selim. Selim was not the brightest but he was the biggest. Selim, spotting another rung on the ladder, was ecstatic.

  “Effendi,” he said, “you can rely on me.”

  “Give me an hour,” said Owen, “and then break in.”

  “Effendi, I will.”

  Selim’s confidence fell a little when he saw the building.

  “Effendi,” he said, in worried tones, “this is a bit high class. Are you sure I am to break in?”

  “After an hour,” said Owen, “you break in. There may be a chain on the door. Do you know how to handle that?”

  “Oh yes, effendi. There was a chain on the door of a House for the Girls we called on last week and that was no problem.”

  “An hour, then.”

  The appartement was on an upper floor and there was a chain. “Leave that,” said Owen, as she made to replace it after letting him in.

  The girl shrugged. She was dressed in the mixed way of many Levantine girls, in a European dress but with a heavy black veil which concealed her hair and the lower part of her face. Owen could not help remembering her as she had been without either.

  She led him into a dark inner room lavishly furnished with rich, thick carpets, on both floor and walls, and not much else apart from a low divan and an even lower table on which were coffee cups. Beside the table was a brazier with a coffee pot nestling in its top. Most of the light in the room came from the brazier but there was a small oil lamp in a niche in the wall.

  The girl sat down at one end of the divan, nearest the brazier, and motioned to Owen to sit at the other. She poured him some coffee. Owen thanked her and put his lips to the cup but did not drink until he had seen her do so.

  “My name is Mariam,” she said.

  “You know my name.”

  “Gareth.”

  “My friends call me that.”

  “Yes, Gareth.”

  Owen was a little taken aback. Their relationship had, indeed, begun on an intimate note; but he was surprised to find that it had already progressed so far.

  “You are also a friend of Philipides,” he said.

  “I am his wife.”

  “But-”

  “Why are you surprised? Do you think it strange that a woman should wish to do what she could for her husband?”

  “No, but I find it a little strange that she should wish to do what she could for someone else as well. Especially a casual stranger.”

  “But you are not a casual stranger. Our lives are bound up.”

  “I must admit that had escaped me up till now.”

  “You are new to Cairo. All our lives are bound together.”

  “Only up to a point.”

  “More than you think. You have power over my husband. You have power over me.”

  “I shall not exercise that power. Unless-”

  “Ah, you see! It is that ‘unless’.”

  “What your husband did is past, paid for. I had nothing to do with it. I wasn’t even here at the time. I only come into it if he does something new.”

  “No,” she said. “No. You have the power to alter the past. You can make things right.”

  “Right?”

  “They say you are a just man. A man of craft, yes, well, perhaps that is right, the Mamur Zapt has to be like that; Mustapha was-”

  “You know Mustapha Mir?”

  “Intimately. But that was in the past. But perhaps for him, too, it has to be put right.”

  “What are you saying? That your husband was unjustly treated? That he was not guilty of the charges of corruption that were brought against him?”

  “He was no more corrupt than anyone else.”

  “That is not the point.”

  “But it is the point. He was trying to change things from the inside. As Mustapha Mir was. It was a difficult position to be in. But he was honest. Corrupt, yes, but also honest. Wainwright Pasha had told Mustapha that things must be cleaned up, and that is what they were t
rying to do. But from the inside. It has to be from the inside if you wish to do anything in Egypt. You Effendis come and you sweep things away and put new things in their places, but the old things had their share of good and the new things do not work. Oh, you think they work, but they do not really. Your new ways only scratch the surface. If you want to get anywhere, you have to begin from within. That is what my husband was trying to do and you put him in prison-”

  “The case is being reinvestigated.”

  “I know. My husband said that you were there. But he said that you looked cold, that you did not understand. You see it through their eyes, the eyes of the Effendis, and not through our eyes, you do not see it as it was.”

  “I will try to see it honestly.”

  “No. That is not enough. You must see it sympathetically.”

  “But that would be to prejudge-”

  He stopped. Hadn’t McPhee said something like this?

  “I shall try to see with sympathy,” he concluded lamely.

  “I hope so. They say you have the gift. But I do not know how that can be,” she said despondently. “You are not part of Egypt.”

  “You speak passionately for your husband.”

  “I love him.”

  “And yet you would have slept with me.”

  “Because I love him.”

  “That is not the way,” Owen reproved her; and he felt he sounded oddly like Garvin.

  Selim was disappointed.

  “I was just getting ready to come in,” he said.

  “It wasn’t necessary.”

  Selim fell in step beside him.

  “They say she’s a beautiful woman,” he said enviously.

  “Who?”

  “Mustapha Mir’s woman.”

  “Not just Mustapha Mir’s,” said Owen.

  As they were walking back to the Bab-el-Khalk, Owen fancied he heard the sound of bagpipes. One of the Scottish regiments, he presumed; but, no, as he drew nearer he realized that it was the Egyptian sort. They turned a corner and saw a small crowd in front of them. The music was coming from the other side of the crowd. He could just see the pipes sticking up above the heads of the people before him. There was a sudden roll of a drum and a man began speaking.

  “It is the Mohabazin,” said Selim delightedly.