The Snake Catcher's Daughter

by Michael Pearce

  Owen found himself warming to the Sheikh.

  “I very much regret any difficulty or embarrassment this has caused you,” he said.

  The Sheikh shrugged and spread his hands.

  “I don’t suppose he intended it,” he said.

  “The very last thing he would have wished would have been to cause offence.”

  “Maybe,” said the Sheikh; “but he was there, wasn’t he?”

  “He was brought there by a trick.”

  “Why would anyone wish to do that?” asked Sheikh Musa. “I could understand if it had been a mosque. There are always those who wish to fan the flames of religious division. But a Zzarr? Why a Zzarr?”

  “Because they knew McPhee would come to it. If it had been a mosque or anything to do with orthodox religious practice he wouldn’t have touched it. He has great, genuine respect for such matters and knows too much about them to be inveigled into doing something that would offend. But a Zzarr, well, a Zzarr would be different. For him it is the past, from the days before there was Islam or even Christianity. That kind of thing fascinates him.”

  “If they knew that about him,” said Sheikh Musa, “then they must have known him well.”

  ***

  He had gone to the Sheikh hoping that he could have put him into touch with people who had been present in the outer courtyard that night and who had seen the whole thing. After considerable hesitation—the Sheikh, like Owen, still had hopes that the whole thing would die away and be quietly forgotten, and had no wish to do anything which might resurrect sleeping embers—he had reluctantly agreed to let Owen meet two suitable members of his flock. They had certainly been present; unfortunately, they had been chosen for their trustworthiness and discretion rather than for their ability to convey their impressions of what they had seen, and he got little out of them.

  Yes, the Bimbashi had been brought out into the outer courtyard and lifted up on a chair so that he could be clearly seen by all who were present. “In the torchlight,” one of them added. “Drunk,” said the other.

  “Not drunk,” said Owen, “drugged.”

  The two remained unconvinced.

  “In a thing like this,” said the Sheikh afterwards, “people believe what is said at the time.”

  Owen asked about the men. They came from outside the Gamaliya. The two were quite sure of this. Most Cairenes, probably wisely, were sure of this sort of fact whenever it fell to their lot to witness a crime. Owen did not insist.

  But what had happened to McPhee at the end, after he had been shown to the assembled population? He had been taken away, the men said vaguely. Who by? The same men? Probably. Couldn’t they remember anything about it? Nothing at all. How many men had there been, Owen asked desperately? Four. Or rather two. Plus one who had led them. Three, then? The men conferred. You might say that; yes, you might say that. What was this other one like? A lowly man, they said with scorn. Lowly? Definitely. A fellah? Worse than that. But was not that strange, a mere fellah, and a leader? Ah, well, he hadn’t exactly been their leader, at least, not like that, more one who had shown them the way. He had known the way, then, himself? Seemed to. And the others had not? Definitely not. They were from outside the Gamaliya. And the other one? The one who had led? Couldn’t see, it was dark, etc., etc.

  So he had come from the Gamaliya. In fact, he must have known the Gamaliya well to have been able to guide the men into a backyard and then to the cistern into which they had dropped McPhee.

  That wasn’t the sort of place you hit on by accident as you were fleeing. McPhee must have been dropped there deliberately, as a kind of cruel joke. Which suggested that the man, the lowly one who had guided them, had known it was there.

  Owen decided to go and see Jalila.

  ***

  The yard was busy now. Semi-finished screens for the large, box-like windows which were a feature of old Cairo were propped up everywhere with men bent over them applying the final touches. Elsewhere, men were working on earlier stages. In one corner they were doing the preliminary sawing, holding the wood in their toes; in another they were turning the pegs with little pigmy-like bows. All the work was being done on the ground, none on benches.

  Owen greeted the men politely and asked for Jalila. You did not usually ask for women by name—in fact, you did not usually ask for women at all—but snake-catchers’ daughters were different. One of the men went to the back of the yard and called up to a window at the top of some wooden stairs. A moment later, Jalila appeared.

  “There’s an Effendi here who wishes to speak with you, Jalila.”

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Jalila, pleased, and came down the stairs.

  “Posh friends our Jalila’s got!” one of the workmen said to another.

  “He’s probably been showing her a snake. Or something,” said the other.

  As Jalila went past the cistern she put her arm down into it and scooped out a snake; which she promptly threw in the direction of the speakers.

  There was pandemonium in the yard as the workmen dropped their work and jumped hastily out of the way. Jalila stood for a moment, hands on hips, enjoying the panic, then walked across, picked up the snake and put it back in the cistern.

  “I hope that one was milked,” said Owen.

  “Maybe,” said Jalila. “Maybe not.”

  “Can we talk?”

  Jalila led him up the stairs and then up another flight round the side of the building and so on to the roof. Some rolled up mattresses suggested that like many Cairo roofs, especially in hot weather, it was used for sleeping.

  “You were not, of course, up here the night the Bimbashi was put in the cistern?”

  “I was at the Zzarr.”

  “Of course. Was—was—” he was not sure of her circumstances—“anyone else up here?”

  “My father was sleeping with Ali Haja’s widow. In another house.”

  “I was wondering if anyone had heard anything. People on other roofs, perhaps.”

  “If they did, no one has said so.”

  “Isn’t that strange? A hot night, in the open. Surely someone must have heard.”

  “No one has said anything. I do not know if that is strange.”

  “It is, of course, possible that no one heard anything. If that were so it would be because the men came quietly. And if that were so, it would be because they knew their way, or at least, one of them did.”

  “Many people know the yard.”

  “And the cistern?”

  “They might if they had come here on business. To see my father.”

  Owen was disappointed. He had hoped he was narrowing things down.

  “Even so,” he said, “it means they must have known the Gamaliya. More, this part of the Gamaliya. And I think that is true, for they knew of the Aalima, and they knew which house was the Copt’s.”

  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 barefaced as well as barefooted. 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 wriggle
d 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 offputting.

  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 Nine

  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.”