The Fig Tree Murder mz-10

by Michael Pearce

  The constables moved in. A man came reeling back, dazed and nursing an arm. Owen caught him by the galabeah and then, as that would tear, by the hair.

  The square was emptying rapidly now, as the crowd fled in panic.

  ‘Not good, though,’ said Owen, as he sat in the bar of the Sporting Club at lunchtime the next day.

  ‘Not good at all,’ Paul agreed. ‘It’s given Mr Rabbiki his publicity triumph on a plate.’

  The veteran politician had not waited long to capitalize on the disaster. Early the next morning he had appeared in Owen’s office, stern but undisguisedly cheerful.

  ‘An outrage!’ he said. ‘We demand a public apology.’

  ‘You can have one from me,’ said Owen. ‘I’m damned annoyed at what happened.’

  ‘Oh, we don’t want one from you,’ said Mr Rabbiki. ‘We want one from the government.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky!’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter,’ said Mr Rabbiki, catching the smell of coffee-all meetings in Cairo, whether adversarial or convivial, required coffee-and relaxing, ‘since we’ve got what we wanted.’

  ‘All went according to plan, did it?’ said Owen sourly. Rabbiki gave him a quick look.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘it did not. We had planned a straightforward demonstration. Large, but peaceful. What happened? Who were those men?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Owen, ‘but I’m damned well going to find out!’

  ‘They weren’t police, I know that.’

  ‘No, I sent the police in afterwards. Once the fighting had started. I wanted to break it all up before it had a chance of spreading.’

  ‘You took a risk,’ said Mr Rabbiki accusingly. ‘With all those people, someone might have got killed.’

  ‘I know that. That’s why I’m so annoyed.’

  ‘I can tell you who the men were,’ said Mr Rabbiki. ‘They were Syndicate men.’

  ‘I doubt that. What would be the point?’

  ‘They know we want to stop the railway from getting to Heliopolis on time. This was intended as a warning.’

  ‘If it was,’ said Owen, ‘then it was a very stupid one.’

  ‘We are dealing with some very stupid people.’

  ‘Are we? I’m not so sure about that.’

  ‘Nor am I, on second thoughts,’ Mr Rabbiki admitted. ‘Stupid, possibly. Ruthless, certainly.’

  ‘Well-’

  ‘As they have shown in the case of that poor man whose body was found on the railway line. I hope, Captain Owen, that while you’re grappling with these wider political issues, you won’t lose sight of what happened to that poor man.’

  ‘If I did, Mr Rabbiki,’ said Owen, smiling, ‘I’m sure you would put down a question. Coffee?’

  ‘But was it wise?’ asked the man from the Syndicate, half an hour or so after Mr Rabbiki had gone.

  ‘Wise?’

  ‘To break up the demonstration so, well, firmly? I know we’ve asked you to take a strong line but, well, frankly, we’d prefer a little more finesse just at the moment, with the line so near completion. Only another couple of weeks to go! You don’t think you could lie low for that period, do you? We really do appreciate your efforts on our behalf, believe me, we know you’re doing your best, but-you couldn’t handle things with a bit more sensitivity, could you?’

  ‘Sensitivity!’ he said to Paul indignantly. ‘Those bastards! Me!’

  ‘They were just having fun,’ said Paul confidendy. ‘Trying to provoke you!’

  ‘No, they weren’t. They meant it!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. That was the message: hold back! Show a bit more sensitivity! Let’s have a bit more finesse! Those brutal sods!’

  ‘Well,’ said Paul, reflecting, ‘I suppose they think they’ve almost got there. Brutality is what you need on the way; sensitivity and finesse is what it’s called once you’ve got there.’

  He signalled to the waiter for another drink.

  ‘But why,’ he said, ‘would they have taken that line if all the time they were behind it?’

  ‘To cover up,’ said Owen.

  ‘You think they were just trying to put you off?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Owen, ‘but I’m going to find out. And when I do, I’ll show them some bloody sensitivity!’

  Most shops in Cairo closed for the afternoon. Most police stations did, too, their inhabitants arguing, reasonably, that if it was too hot for work it was also too hot for crime. Not, however, the police headquarters at the Bab-el-Khalk, where Owen had his office. Some men had been arrested the night before at the demonstration and lodged in the local police station. This morning they had been transferred up, and now Owen meant to interview them himself.

  The first three, however, were ordinary members of the crowd. Not entirely ordinary citizens, perhaps, since they had all been armed and had attempted to use their weapons against the constables, which accounted first for their battered appearance and then for their arrest. Owen, though, was not interested in them. What he wanted was someone from the invading wedge. He remembered the man he had himself arrested and went down to the cells to find him.

  On the way back to his room they passed Garvin, the Commandant, who cast a professional eye over the prisoners.

  ‘Oh, Abbas,’ he said, ‘it’s you, is it?’

  ‘I wasn’t doing anything this time, Effendi,’ protested the man indignantly.

  ‘Got arrested by accident? Well, blow me!’

  ‘What were you doing near the Pont de Limoun, then?’ asked Owen, when he had got the man settled in his room.

  ‘Nothing!’

  Owen pointed to the man’s arm, which was in a rough sort of sling.

  ‘How come you got hit on the arm, then?’

  ‘The fact is, Effendi, I wasn’t looking. At least, not on that side, I’d got this bloke lined up, a big, fat policeman he was, and I thought, Right, my beauty, I’ll have you! And then, damn me, someone comes at me from the side and catches me a crack, I thought it had broke my arm, and then before I could do anything about it, the other one turns round and gives me a crack over the head! I tell you, in future I’m always going to make sure I’m paired up with someone, it’s better that way, one of you can keep a lookout while the other’s doing the hitting. Then you can take turn and turn about. Hosayn’s the man, I think, he’s quite quick and not stupid-’

  He had an attitude to the fighting that was purely technical and Owen soon put him down as a professional heavy, a member of a gang most likely, brought in for occasions.

  Had he been brought in on this occasion?

  Certainly, the man replied with pride. Word had gone round that good men were required and he and several others had put their names forward. They had worked with Figi before- Figi?

  ‘He’s our boss. We don’t work with him all the time, but lately he’s been getting some good contracts-’

  Like?

  ‘Well, this one. Go in and break them up. Very straightforward. And they probably wouldn’t even be armed! Well, I mean-’

  And that was all?

  Well, it was enough, wasn’t it? The reward had to be matched against the risk, after all. In this case there hadn’t seemed to be much risk so they’d settled for something quite low. And then the Mamur Zapt had come along and started shooting!

  ‘You never know,’ said the man philosophically.

  And, indeed, he didn’t know. Not much more than he’d said, anyway. Owen got more out of Garvin, into whose office he dropped after the man had been taken away.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Garvin, ‘I know him. He works the racetracks. Stays with the same gang, mostly.’

  ‘Do they take on other jobs?’

  ‘Occasionally.’

  ‘Political ones?’

  Garvin looked doubtful.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Mostly they stick to the racetracks… They were up at Heliopolis the other day,’ he offered as Owen was on the way out.

/>   Owen stopped.

  ‘The ones we saw?’

  ‘That’s right. They were talking to one of the stewards, if you remember. I’m worried about that, Owen. We don’t want the course to get off to a bad start. You asked me not to take action, but-’

  ‘Hello!’ said Salah-el-Din, coming across the room to greet him. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I was over at Matariya,’ said Owen, ‘so I thought I would pop in.’

  ‘Very nice to see you. Care for a drink?’

  This being Cairo, Owen didn’t ordinarily accept drinks from subordinates; but this was also the bar at the New Heliopolis Racing Club, where things certainly seemed a bit different, so he accepted graciously.

  They sat down in two plushy armchairs near the window, from where they could look down on the racetrack. There being no races today, the track was empty; except for, yes, it was her, Salah-el-Din’s daughter, plus attendant, going for her usual promenade.

  Salah-el-Din followed the direction of Owen’s eyes.

  ‘Yes, it is Amina. We come most days. But she goes for a walk while I come up to the bar!’ He laughed. ‘In case you’re wondering, though, I only have one drink. And I justify my attendance on the grounds that until more of Heliopolis is built, this is where I’m going to meet everybody.’

  The bar was certainly filling up. There was a sprinkling of Syndicate staff, mostly Belgians but a number of-well, not so much effendis, too rich for that-wealthy Egyptian young, all males, of course, from the Pashas’ houses round about. Owen looked for Malik. He wasn’t there, but if Amina was, could Malik be far behind?

  They talked for a while about the new police station that was being built at Heliopolis and about its staffing. This was really Garvin’s pigeon but Salah was anxious that there should be some Mamur Zapt involvement, on the grounds that the international community, bankers and such, would be heavily represented in the New Heliopolis and policing would have to have regard for international treaties.

  Owen offered a return drink, which, however, Salah declined. ‘Since I’ve told you my role, I’d better stick to it,’ he said. ‘However, you can offer it to Amina if you like. I’m just going down to fetch her.’

  ‘I’ll come with you, if I may,’ said Owen. ‘I’d like to look at the track.’

  Some men were laying turf.

  ‘Big staff?’

  ‘Building up,’ said Salah. ‘People don’t realize how many the Club will employ. It will be a very good thing for people hereabouts.’

  ‘And for the gangs.’

  ‘I’ve seen that here already. That’s one of the things I’m going to have to keep an eye on.’

  ‘Do they get at the staff? Try to influence them?’

  ‘It wouldn’t do any good. You’ve got to have safeguards against a thing like that.’

  Owen looked for the man he had seen the other day.

  ‘What happens to the stewards? Are they here all the time?’

  ‘Just for the races.’

  There would be races the following Saturday, Salah said. The Club was anxious to hold them twice a week but at the moment the crowds didn’t justify it.

  ‘It’ll be different when the new railway’s running,’ he said.

  Amina’s eyes, above her veil, brightened when she saw Owen.

  ‘You’ve still not been to see me,’ she said accusingly. ‘I ride every morning, mostly over towards Matariya.’

  ‘I’ve been a bit busy lately. One of these mornings you’ll see me!’

  The horse would have to be wild indeed that got him over to Matariya, he told himself privately.

  ‘About seven,’ she said.

  ‘Lot of people around at that time?’ he said, wondering about Malik.

  ‘Fortunately not,’ she said, meeting his eyes levelly.

  Up in the bar, he bought her a drink. She chose tonic.

  She was the only woman in the room. Owen noticed, however, that they seemed to accept her. Probably they’d got used to her. It wouldn’t do, though, to talk to her all the time. Or would it? This was a different world from any other that he had known in Egypt, not exactly more emancipated, but freer in the way that wealth somehow manages to give itself more elbow room.

  Salah brought someone across to meet him.

  ‘George Zenakis,’ he said. ‘Our Secretary.’

  Our Secretary?

  ‘You must be very busy just now,’ said Owen, ‘with everything starting up.’

  ‘Well, yes. But it’s nothing to what it’s going to be later. Or so they tell me,’ the man said, smiling.

  ‘And do you handle everything? Or is there a General Manager of some sort?’

  ‘I handle everything on behalf of the committee. Membership, for instance.’

  ‘How many members have you?’

  ‘About two hundred, and growing fast. You wouldn’t yourself-?’

  ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to get out here enough. My other commitments-’

  He asked, for politeness’s sake, about the subscription, then mentally reeled back.

  ‘I don’t think I could run to that,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to bother about that,’ said George Zenakis, smiling. ‘We would be glad to waive, for the Mamur Zapt-’

  On the Saturday, Owen was at the races. Not up in the bar this time but down by the track, and not there for long; just long enough to point out to his agents the steward that he and Garvin had seen talking to the gang on the day of the reception.

  ‘His name is Roukoz,’ said Georgiades in Owens office on the following Monday. Georgiades was the plain-clothesman who had put a gun into Owen’s hand at the demonstration. ‘And he has a history of working the racetracks. He was at the Gezira for a little while but they didn’t like him and so he moved on to Helwan.’

  ‘Why didn’t they like him?’ asked Owen.

  ‘He was too friendly with the wrong sort of people.’

  ‘The gang?’

  ‘Gangs. Nothing they could put their finger on, but they didn’t like him.’

  ‘And at Helwan?’

  Georgiades hesitated.

  ‘Nothing you could put your finger on there, either. But again they didn’t like him. This time, though, he had a friend higher up and so he stayed.’

  ‘Do you know the friend?’

  ‘Yes. He’s not at Helwan either now.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Heliopolis.’

  ‘Who moved first?’

  ‘The friend did. Then, when the racetrack opened, Roukoz.’

  ‘What’s the name of the friend?’

  ‘Zenakis.’

  Owen went to see the man from the Syndicate who had rung him up.

  ‘About that demonstration the other night,’ he said. ‘I didn’t break it up.’

  ‘You didn’t? But-who did?’

  ‘You did,’ said Owen.

  ‘Now look here, Owen-’

  ‘You used a gang from the racetracks. I know. I’ve got one of them.’

  ‘If you say it was a gang from the racetracks, OK, it was a gang from the racetracks. But it wasn’t anything to do with us.’

  ‘Well, I think it was. I know the gang, you see, and I’ve seen them at Heliopolis.’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean-’

  ‘Talking to one of the stewards.’

  ‘That’s bad. It must be looked into. But that doesn’t necessarily-’

  ‘He’s a friend of the Club Secretary. A close friend.’

  ‘Zenakis?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I know Zenakis.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Look, Owen-’

  ‘If you’re going to ask me to handle this with sensitivity, you’ll have to try again.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to-Look, you’ve got this all wrong.’

  ‘So have you. So,’ said Owen, ‘have you!’

  ‘I know you’re so
re. I shouldn’t have said what I did the other morning. OK, I’ve got it wrong. But you’ve got it wrong too.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes. It wasn’t your people who broke up the demonstration, I accept that. But’-he took a deep breath-‘it wasn’t ours either. I swear we don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘If for no other reason than that it wouldn’t be in our interest. We’re nearly there, as I said the other morning. All we want to do is to wrap it up and get out. Besides-’

  ‘Keep trying.’

  ‘Zenakis is not the Syndicate. He’s not ours. The Racing Club is quite separate. All that side is. All the gambling bit. They’re clients of ours, customers. It’s a separate organization. It’s nothing to do with us. Honest!’

  Chapter 11

  There was racing the next day at Heliopolis and the gang turned up in force; so, in even greater force, did Owen’s men, and arrested the lot of them.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ they said in injured tones. ‘We haven’t done anything yet!’

  ‘What about breaking up that demonstration on Wednesday?’

  ‘That doesn’t count!’ they protested. ‘That’s not a real crime. People do it all the time. Besides, it was just an extra, not our real line of business at all.’

  ‘We work the racetracks,’ explained someone helpfully.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Owen.

  ‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’ said someone belligerently. ‘You’re not police, we know the police.’

  ‘I am the Mamur Zapt.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Abdul, don’t you think you could shut up?’ counselled one of the older members of the gang worriedly. ‘If he’s the Mamur Zapt, he might do things differently from the police.’

  He certainly might. One of his predecessors, Zeini Barakat, infuriated by just such a gang, had ordered their testicles to be cut off and fed to the hawks that hovered above the Citadel. That had, admittedly, been four hundred years before, but you never knew with Mamur Zapts and the gang was impressed.

  ‘You don’t want to bother with us, Effendi,’ they said conciliatorily. ‘We’re just a small-time gang.’

  ‘It’s true I don’t want to bother with you,’ agreed Owen. ‘I’ve got more important things to do. And therefore I shall release you. Once you’ve told me what I want to know.’