The Bride Box Read online

  ‘I instructed him to tell them that they were to take her home, and her accursed bride box with her.’

  ‘And that was all?’

  The lady was silent again. Then she gave a little shiver. ‘I know what you are thinking. But that was all.’

  As Mahmoud rode back to Denderah, he was not displeased with the way things had gone. He felt that his investigation had advanced. True, there were further questions to be asked. But he felt that the number of people of whom they had to be asked had narrowed down. Admittedly, it was not going to be easy to ask them, since Suleiman was in the Sudan and likely to remain there: and the slavers were who knew where. But Suleiman would in the end be reached, and so, he thought, would be the slavers. They might well be in the same place. Their actual apprehension might have to be left to others. But in the end they would be brought home to the Parquet roost.

  There was, he thought, little more that he could do here. So he was not as depressed, or as angered, as he might have been when he got back to Denderah and found a message recalling him at once to Cairo. Not as angered as he might have been, but nevertheless very surprised.

  TEN

  Owen was surprised, too, and thoughtful. Was this an expression of rivalries inside the Parquet? Of the jealousies of the old? He knew that Mahmoud’s speedy ascent was resented by some inside the Parquet. Mahmoud had told him that some of the senior people there had it in for him because of his political sympathies, that possibly his very assignment to the case had been a means of getting him out of the way. Owen thought that sometimes Mahmoud’s fear was overdone but guessed there might be something in it.

  But what troubled him was the possibility that Mahmoud had been whisked back to Cairo precisely because someone there was worried that he was actually getting somewhere. And didn’t want him to.

  And how far was this connected with the slavery issue? Strictly speaking, that was Owen’s concern and not Mahmoud’s; but the two cases – Soraya’s murder and the revival of slaving – were connected, and perhaps others knew that as well as he did. It was something to be looked into when he returned to Cairo.

  And, fortunately, that was just about to happen. The action had moved on, almost certainly into the Sudan, and there was little point in him staying on here. Apart from anything else, by this time the mountains of papers on his desk would be toppling over and something had to be done about them. Nikos, who, he knew, believed that any time spent out of the office was time ill-spent, wanted him back.

  There were one or two things, however, to be settled before he left. The first was what was to be done about Mustapha. Clearly he had to be formally charged and brought before a court. Owen himself could not do this: all that sort of thing had to be handed over to the Parquet. In fact, formally, it had already been handed over to the Parquet, in the shape of Mahmoud.

  He and Mahmoud discussed the matter. Mahmoud agreed to bring Mustapha before a court. The question, though, was which court. The obvious answer was the one in Cairo. But there were arguments against that. In Cairo the trial could easily become enmeshed in politics and not get anywhere. Denderah was a long way from Cairo. Especially in terms of the urgency with which the legal system would address it. Better somewhere away from Cairo, sophisticated enough to be able to handle the issue, not so sophisticated as to be more interested in playing political games than bringing the issue to a conclusion. They decided that Mahmoud would take him to Luxor. The court there was sufficiently developed to be able to take on the trial and, being closer to the scene of the crime, might even be able to address it more easily.

  So Mahmoud and Mustapha took the train south and Owen the next train north. Owen was the only passenger to get on at Denderah. He looked for Clarke but did not see him. Bibikr, who had come to the station to see Owen off, said he would have gone back to the coast with the gum arabic.

  Owen was a little surprised at this, given Clarke’s previous fussiness over the guns and his insistence on overseeing personally anything to do with guns. No doubt, though, he would have made special arrangements.

  Owen, of course, had also made arrangements.

  ‘I don’t know that I can!’ said Nassir, the warehouse clerk. ‘I’m that busy this morning!’

  ‘Too busy for a cup of coffee?’ said Georgiades, affecting amazement.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Not even one?’

  ‘A quick one!’ stipulated the clerk.

  Which stretched until it was no longer a quick one – but, then, there was a lot to catch up on after the weekend and the latest reckless ventures of Georgiades’ wife.

  ‘But hasn’t she got shopping to do?’

  ‘Tell me about it!’ said the Greek gloomily.

  ‘A man must eat!’

  ‘Oh, I eat all right. She looks after that side well.’

  ‘But not the other side?’ said Nassir hopefully. The Greek was sparing of details but the clerk had gathered the impression that that side was pretty good, too; remarkably so, in fact.

  ‘Take aubergines,’ said the Greek.

  ‘Aubergines?’ said Nassir, disappointed.

  ‘She went down to the market this morning to get some. A few, for lunch. And she came back with two barrow loads! “What’s this?” I said. “Are we feasting the neighbourhood, or something?”

  ‘“That’s an idea!” she said. “We could charge twenty piastres a head. Two hundred and fifty people – I could get more aubergines if I haven’t got enough. That’s five thousand piastres. Cost, definitely less than two. That’s three thousand profit. With that I could buy …”

  ‘“Just stick to aubergines,” I said. “And my lunch!” But there you are, you see: she goes out to buy a simple thing and finishes by buying up the whole market!’

  ‘May Allah preserve us!’ said Nassir. ‘She goes out to buy a few things for your lunch, and in a moment she’s disrupted the whole economy! There’s suddenly a shortage of aubergines!’

  ‘And the trouble about that,’ said the Greek, ‘is that it pushes the price of aubergines up, and then she comes back to the market and makes a killing! And everybody else in the market is going mad!’

  ‘The worries of having a wife!’

  The clerk looked reluctantly at his watch. ‘I have to go. There is much to do today, with Clarke Effendi coming back.’

  ‘He’s coming back, is he?’

  ‘Sent a message.’

  ‘And what about the goods?’

  ‘They’ll be arriving on the train before. I’ve got to get down there and see them off the train. He doesn’t like to have them hanging about by themselves even for a moment.’

  ‘And then you’ve got to move them on, I suppose.’

  ‘First, to the warehouse, and then on from there afterwards. But he likes to see to that himself.’

  ‘Another night job.’

  ‘It could be. It very well could.’

  ‘You’d best be getting along, then. And I’ve got to be getting back to my wife. To stop her.’

  ‘Stop her?’

  ‘She’s thinking of putting the money she makes from the aubergines into night dresses.’

  ‘Night dresses!’ said Nassir, sitting down again.

  ‘She knows a chap who’s got a lot of night dresses on his hands. A shop went bust and left him with a lot of stock to dispose of. She reckons she could get them for two piastres each. Now, four hundred and sixty at two piastres …’

  But, enticing as this prospect was, from more than one point of view, the warehouse clerk was forced to tear himself away.

  The Greek ambled along the street, exchanging greetings with everyone he passed, calling in at the barber’s for a brief word which became several words, and coming to a stop at the broad pan of the pavement restaurant, where he sniffed the air appreciatively.

  ‘It’s different,’ he said.

  ‘Always the same!’ decreed the restaurant owner. ‘We never change.’

  ‘Is it the oil?’

  ‘Just t
he same. It may be slightly different this morning,’ he conceded. ‘We’ve opened a new tin. But the oil is just the same. I get it from Feisal.’

  He dipped a spoon in and tasted it. ‘Well, I think it’s just the same!’ he said. ‘Here, you try.’

  The Greek sipped. ‘I can’t taste any difference,’ he admitted. ‘It was just that, coming down the street this morning, it struck me as different.’

  ‘You’re tasting the newness. The oil is just the same but it’s fresh from the can.’

  ‘That must be it.’

  The Greek squatted down beside the pan.

  ‘Of course, it’s a bit early for lunch …’

  ‘Oh, come on – try a bit!’

  ‘Well, just one. A little kebab.’

  The restaurant owner watched him.

  ‘Delicious!’ the Greek said appreciatively.

  The owner, relaxing, went back to his chopping of vegetables.

  ‘Hello!’ the Greek said, catching sight of his neighbour. ‘It’s Abdul, isn’t it? Nothing on this morning?’

  ‘Just carried a wardrobe.’

  ‘Then you’ll need something to restore you!’

  He signalled to the owner, who dipped some beans into the bowl before Abdul.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten you,’ said the Greek. ‘I’ve got something coming along. It’ll be a rush job.’

  ‘How rush?’

  ‘The next couple of days. It’s on its way. A handy load.’

  ‘If it’s too big, I can’t do it. I’ve got something on.’

  ‘I expect you could fit this one in. It comes in bits. You could do part of it tomorrow, part the next day, and then fit it in. The thing about it is that my friend pays well – over the odds. But it’s got to be fitted in, like I said.’

  ‘When would I know?’

  ‘Soon. It’s worth putting yourself out for. As I say, he pays over the odds. It’s delicate, you see.’

  ‘Perishable?’

  ‘Fragile, rather. You’d have to be very careful with it. That’s why he doesn’t want just anybody. He’s got to be strong, but careful with it.’

  ‘Experienced!’ said the porter.

  ‘As my wife says, a bit of experience goes a long way!’

  ‘She says that, does she?’ said the porter, grinning.

  ‘Tells in my favour,’ said the Greek. ‘And at my age you need something that tells in your favour!’

  ‘You need size, too. And energy!’

  ‘I had the size. But now I’ve lost the energy.’

  ‘Pity!’

  ‘It matters. You see, my wife is younger than I am.’

  ‘That has its advantages.’

  ‘True. But sometimes I worry … The thing is, she’s a bit of a beauty. Was a dancing girl.’

  ‘A dancing girl?’

  ‘Yes. Very supple. You’d be surprised!’

  ‘She can get up to things, can she?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She’s a bit older now than when we first married, but she’s still … well, you know!’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know!’

  ‘She’s still got her figure. A regular Scheherazade!’

  ‘But misses the energy?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Well, that’s not all bad, is it?’

  ‘No, but it’s demanding.’

  ‘You can’t keep up?’

  ‘Not any more. You’d need to be, well, like the Khedive himself. If half of what I’ve heard is true.’

  ‘It’s having so many wives that does it. Keeps you in trim.’

  ‘One’s enough for me!’

  ‘Especially if she’s the way you say she is!’

  ‘The trouble is, I’m out so much.’

  ‘That must be a real worry. In the circumstances.’

  ‘Oh, it is. You see, I can’t keep my eye on her all the time. I’ve got a job to do, after all.’

  ‘Well, yes. Look, I’m around quite a bit of the time. I’ll keep a lookout and tip you the word if I see anything going on.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘No problem at all!’ said Abdul, grinning.

  Abdul was still sitting at the pavement restaurant the next time the Greek went past. He dropped down beside him.

  ‘The work’s not come through yet, then?’

  ‘No. The stuff is coming in by train and it’s not here yet. But Nassir likes me to be right at hand when it does. His boss likes it to be just so. And if it’s not, he kicks Nassir’s backside! When it’s coming up, Nassir gets all edgy.’

  ‘It’s for Nassir, is it? He was telling me about it. He’s got to be here himself, he was saying, and right on the dot!’

  ‘That’s right. And he wants me to stay close while it’s on the boil. That’s why I’m sitting around here. The moment the train gets in I’ve got to get everyone together so that we can go over the moment he gives us the say-so. We’ve not to be on the platform; his boss doesn’t like that. He says it draws attention to the consignment. So we’ve got to be just round the corner and then get round there in a flash. And then it’s pick the boxes up – and they’re bloody heavy, too – and take them round to the warehouse immediately, with Nassir leading the way and his boss right behind us breathing down our necks!’

  ‘Gets you a bit edgy, too, I would think!’ said the Greek sympathetically.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind it,’ said Abdul. ‘The money’s good, and it doesn’t last long. And then we’re off round to the beerhouse the moment after.’

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ said the Greek, laughing.

  ‘I’m not saying that it’s not. Mind you, as I say to Nassir, it’s not the smartest way of doing things. Because we’ve got to move them on again afterwards, and if we did it at the same time and just moved them on straightaway to where they’ve got to go, it would save time and money. But I’m not really complaining. That way he does it makes two jobs out of one, so that’s better for us.’

  ‘Is the second move a big one? Much of a carry?’

  ‘No. It’s just around the corner, to the madrassa. It doesn’t take a moment and it would be easy for us to do the first time.’

  ‘You don’t want to tell him that,’ said the Greek.

  ‘I don’t reckon Nassir wants to tell him that,’ said Abdul. ‘Otherwise it would all have been done in the one job years ago. But I reckon that this way Nassir makes something out of it.’

  ‘That’s the way of the world!’ said the Greek.

  Although he gave no outward sign of it, the moment the porter mentioned the madrassa, Georgiades become alert. Madrassas were schools. Not the new state schools the government was building, but the old, traditional, religious schools. They came in various shapes and sizes. Usually they took the form of pupils gathered around a teacher who would instruct them in the Koran. Instruction meant learning by heart. The leader would read or recite a passage from the Koran and the pupils would repeat it until they were word perfect. There was some explanation of the passage but the main thing was to commit it to heart.

  Often the teaching would take place not in the classroom but beneath pillars of a mosque. The teacher would sit with his back against one of the pillars and the pupils would gather round him. Sometimes the pupils were very young, barely more than toddlers, not even carrying slates. But sometimes they were burly adolescents who used their slates not for writing on but as missiles. You would find them setting the pace in almost any riot.

  Usually the rioting was spontaneous, a bit of adolescent fun, on the whole harmless, as Owen had to frequently point out to his superiors, both Khedivial and British. But sometimes it was not and then, often, it was not fun. The madrassas frequently served as centres for radical movements drawing on the young. Cairo abounded in political societies and many of these were based on or grew out of madrassas.

  Madrassas were the bane of Nikos’s life. They were always causing trouble. He monitored them as best he could; he had a list of them as long as your arm. But they kept coming and going; the
y were essentially fluid and difficult to keep track of. Some were religious in orientation and some were exclusively political; some were reformist and many revolutionary. Some were violent.

  If trouble was coming, it was usually coming from the madrassas.

  So when Georgiades reported back to Nikos what the porter had said, Nikos immediately switched on. He knew from long experience that this was the moment when you could nip potential violence in the bud. It wasn’t a long moment; it could burst into open rioting very quickly, and then it was very difficult to deal with. But, just for a moment, if you could intervene early and decisively, you could stop it in its tracks.

  The important thing was early intelligence, which, he thought, in this case he had acquired. But he had not yet got enough. He sent Georgiades out again. This was their job: to find out what they could. And then present their findings to the Mamur Zapt, who would decide on the necessary action. That was not his concern, for which Nikos thanked God. He knew he wouldn’t be good at it. Fortunately, Owen was returning. And not, Nikos told himself and everyone, before time.

  Georgiades had taken up position in the goods part of the Pont Limoun. From where he was standing, at the very edge of the area, just where it gave on to the main station with its bustling passengers, he could see Nassir waiting nervously. From time to time he walked off agitatedly but he always returned to the spot he had chosen.

  The goods train from Luxor pulled in. Immediately there was a great banging of doors and cries from the porters. Goods were brought down from the wagons on to the platform and porters began taking them away. Nassir, however, did not move.

  He did not move until the bustle had subsided and most of the goods which had been unloaded had been either taken away or stacked on the platform. Then, when everything was quieter, Nassir moved forward.

  The wagon before which he had stationed himself had not so far been opened. Now a man came up and began to unlock it. The door was pulled open and the station porters started to unload. They put the loads, heavy wooden boxes, carefully on the platform. Nassir was standing within a yard of them, so close as almost to get in the porter’s way. When they had finished, he counted the boxes. Then he stuck his head into the wagon to make sure that none had been left behind.