The Camel of Destruction

by Michael Pearce

  ‘I think you’d better stay with it, Gareth,’ he said.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Asking yourself why Osman Fingari committed suicide. And why Ali Maher and Co. are so interested.’

  There was, then, going to be not one investigation but two. This was, actually, nothing out of the ordinary, for Egypt was a country of parallel processes. There was, for example, not one legal system but four, each with its own courts. Knowledgeable criminals played off one court against another. If they were very knowledgeable, or rich enough to afford a good lawyer, they could often escape conviction altogether.

  A similar parallelity could be observed in Government, though here there were only two Governments and not four. One, the formal one, was that of the Khedive; the other, the real one, was that of the British, who had come into Egypt twenty years before to help the Khedive sort out his finances and were still helping. Every Minister, Egyptian, had an Adviser, British, right beside him. The Prime Minister did not; but found it politic to draw abundantly on the wisdom of the Consul-General before adopting a course of action. The system worked surprisingly well. From the British point of view, of course.

  Mohammed Fehmi, the Parquet lawyer appointed to handle the case, was an experienced hand. The following morning he called on Owen in his office.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Mazboot?’

  Mohammed Fehmi, like most Egyptians, preferred it sweetened.

  ‘About this case now—’

  ‘Sad.’

  ‘Oh yes. Very sad. But straightforward, I would think, wouldn’t you?’

  Mohammed Fehmi’s alert brown eyes watched Owen sharply across the cup.

  ‘Oh yes. Straightforward, I would say.’

  ‘I was wondering—’ Mohammed Fehmi sipped his coffee again—‘I was wondering—the nature of the Mamur Zapt’s interest?’

  ‘General. Oh, very general,’ Owen assured him. ‘I wouldn’t be thinking of taking, um, an active interest—’

  ‘I would always welcome a colleague—’

  ‘Oh no. Quite unnecessary, I assure you. Every confidence—’

  Mohammed Fehmi looked slightly puzzled.

  ‘Then, why, may I ask—?’

  ‘Am I involving myself at all?’ Owen saw no reason why he should not speak the truth. ‘It’s not so much the case itself—that I leave entirely to you—as the possible reaction to it. Politically, I mean.’

  ‘A fonctionnaire? Civil servant?’

  Mohammed Fehmi was still puzzled. However, he shrugged his shoulders. This was evidently political in some strange way and politics was not for him. He was not one of the Parquet’s high fliers.

  He had picked up, however, that Owen was leaving the conduct of the investigation to him, and visibly relaxed.

  ‘After all,’ he said, ‘a simple suicide!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘The post-mortem—quite definite.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘I’ll just have to find out where he got it from. And why he took it, of course.’

  ‘Up to a point.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Mohammed Fehmi assured him swiftly. ‘Only up to a point. Otherwise you find yourself into personal matters, family matters, even social matters, that are best left alone.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘No,’ said Mohammed Fehmi, finishing his cup and sucking up the last mixture of coffee grounds and sugar, the sweet and the bitter, the taste of Egypt, ‘no, the only puzzling thing about it is why the doctor signed the certificate in the first place.’

  ***

  Owen called the doctor in. He was a small, shabby man with worried eyes and a lined, anxious face.

  ‘How did you come to miss it?’

  ‘I didn’t miss it.’

  ‘You wrote the certificate knowingly?’

  The doctor shrugged.

  ‘You know, of course, what this means?’

  The doctor shrugged again. ‘You do it all the time,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Sign certificates you know to be false?’

  ‘It spares the family.’

  ‘You know why we have the system of certification?’

  ‘Of course. To prevent abuses.’

  Egypt was a country of many abuses.

  ‘And you still thought you would sign the certificate?’

  ‘The parents are old. He was their only son. The shock of that was enough without the other.’

  ‘The other?’

  ‘Suicide.’

  ‘Are you sure it was suicide?’

  ‘What else could it be?’

  ***

  ‘The Under-Secretary,’ said Nikos. ‘The Ministry of Agriculture.’

  Owen picked up the phone.

  ‘Captain Owen? I understand you’re handling the Fingari case?’

  ‘Well, of course, the Parquet—’

  ‘Quite so, quite so. But—I understand you’re taking an interest?’

  ‘Ye-es, in a general way.’

  ‘Quite so. I was wondering—the circumstances—a bit unfortunate, you know.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The Office. The Ministry.’

  ‘I don’t quite—’

  ‘Bad for the Department. A bit of a reflection, you know.’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘I was wondering—just wondering—if it could be moved. Out of the office, I mean.’

  ‘Surely it has been moved?’ said Owen, startled. ‘It was taken for post-mortem. And before that, the funeral. I saw it myself—’

  ‘No, no. I don’t mean that. Not the body. The—the incident, rather.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow—’

  ‘Moved. Out of the Ministry altogether. Somewhere else. Into the street, perhaps. Or at any rate another Ministry. Public Works, perhaps.’

  ‘Finance?’

  ‘Yes. No, on second thoughts. The follow-up could be, well, unfortunate. No, no. Public Works would be better.’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘You will? Oh, thank you.’

  ***

  ‘An apéritif, perhaps?’

  He had met them, as they had suggested, in the bar at the Hotel Continentale. There was an Egyptian, who must be Abdul Khalil, a Greek, Zokosis, presumably, and someone harder to place but definitely a Levantine of sorts, who would be Kifouri.

  The waiter brought the drinks: sweet Cyprus wine for Zokosis and Kifouri, a dry sherry for Owen and coffee for Abdul Khalil.

  ‘As I mentioned over the phone, Captain Owen, we’re businessmen who have quite a lot of dealings with Government Departments. I think you’ll find that Mr. Stephens would be prepared to vouch for us—’ Stephens was the Adviser at the Ministry of Finance—‘and I think it is a mark of our standing that the Minister invited us to join the Board. I mention this so that you will know we are bona fide and also that we are not the sort of men who would want to waste the time of a busy man like yourself.’

  Owen bowed acknowledgement.

  ‘In any case, our concern is, what shall I say, marginal, peripheral, which is why we thought it best to meet informally rather than call on you at your office.’

  Owen muttered something suitably noncommittal.

  ‘You are, we understand, taking an interest in a recent sad case of suicide. A man in one of the Departments.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, now, we naturally wouldn’t wish to interfere in any way, believe me, in any way, with your conduct of the investigation—that would be quite improper—and our interest is, as I have said, marginal. However, we knew Mr. Fingari and quite recently have been having a number of dealings with him—’

  ‘Dealings?’

  ‘A businessman’s way of talking. Conversatio
ns, rather. Yes, conversations. Mr. Fingari, you see, represented the Ministry on the Board. And naturally, in view of recent developments—’

  ‘Yes, recent developments,’ echoed the others.

  ‘That, actually, is why we wanted to have an informal word with you. You see, negotiations are at a critical stage—’

  ‘And it’s important to carry the community with us. The business community, that is.’

  ‘And with confidence so low—’

  ‘It is really a very inopportune moment for him to die.’

  ‘Most difficult.’

  ‘Now if only he could have died a day or two later—’

  ‘You don’t think that could be arranged by any chance, Captain Owen? After all, it makes no real difference. He’s dead anyway, isn’t he?’

  ‘The family—’ Owen began.

  ‘Leave that to us. I’m sure that could be arranged. We’ll talk to them, Captain Owen.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look at it like this; it’s actually giving the poor chap a few extra days of life. Don’t be hardhearted, Captain Owen. Don’t deny him that! Think of the poor fellow, think of his family—’

  ‘You want me to alter the date of his death?’

  ‘Well, that would be most kind of you, Captain Owen. Most kind.’

  ***

  ‘It’s the family, you see.’

  ‘Distressed, naturally.’

  ‘It is a very respectable family,’ said Ali Hazurat earnestly. ‘Otherwise Mr. Hemdi would not wish his daughter to marry into it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘The arrangements were all made. The wedding contract was about to be signed. My nephew was looking forward—’

  ‘A dowry?’

  ‘Considerable. It was a great opportunity for my nephew. And now, alas—’

  ‘But surely the wedding can go ahead? After a suitable period, of course. Your nephew was not that closely related to Osman Fingari.’

  ‘It reflects on the family, you see. It’s making Mr. Hemdi think again.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry about that, but—’

  ‘It’s the shame, you see. Suicide! No one will want to marry into a family with suicides.’

  ‘I’m afraid I really don’t see what I can do—’

  ‘Couldn’t you,’ pleaded Ali Hazwat, ‘just call it something else? An accident, perhaps?’

  ‘He took prussic acid.’

  ‘By mistake! Couldn’t it be by mistake? He thought it was something else. The wrong bottle—’

  ***

  ‘Well, at least there’s going to be no doubt about the circumstances,’ said Paul.

  ‘No?’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Alone? Certainly not!’ Mr. Istaq was shocked.

  ‘I do not wish to trouble Mr. Fingari, you see.’

  ‘Well, no, there’s been enough trouble as it is.’

  ‘And he’s very frail, so I thought—’

  ‘Well, yes, but—alone! What can you be thinking of, effendi? She is a decent Muslim girl.’

  ‘It was just that in the circumstances—’

  ‘Why do you want to see her, anyway, effendi? What can a woman know? Why not ask me? I will do what I can to help you.’

  ‘Well, thank you, it is very kind of you, Mr. Istaq. But then, you see, you would not be able to help me in quite the same way. After all, though a relative, you did not actually live in the house and therefore would not know—’

  ‘Yes, but alone! With a man! No, really, effendi—’

  Mr. Istaq, hot, bothered and worried in equal proportions, took some time to be persuaded. He was, when all was said and done, the relative who had shown Owen the body and felt that he bore some responsibility for the consequences.

  But then, he was also the closest and most senior male relative and, given old Mr. Fingari’s frailty, it all devolved on him anyway. He was a simple journeyman tailor and all this was a bit much for him.

  He knew, however, what was proper. And it was not proper to let his niece talk to strange men. Aisha was inclined to be headstrong, anyway. His brother had always given her too much scope. That was all very well, things were not, perhaps, what they used to be, but who would want to marry a woman used to having her own way? And it was likely to be him, Istaq, who would be left with the problem of marrying her off.

  In the end a compromise was reached. Owen was allowed to interview her but in Mr. Istaq’s presence.

  Owen had always known this was the most likely outcome. It was customary in Egypt for female witnesses to be interviewed through their father or husband or a near male relative. He had, however, hoped to avoid it in this case.

  The girl appeared, heavily veiled and dressed from head to foot in decent, shapeless black. All that could be seen of her was her eyes, which were suitably cast down.

  ‘Miss Fingari, I am sorry to trouble you further in such sad circumstances but there are one or two things I would like to ask you.’

  The girl moved slightly and Mr. Istaq cleared his throat.

  ‘You saw your brother every day, of course?’

  Mr. Istaq looked at Aisha, hesitated and then reluctantly admitted that this was so.

  ‘Had you noticed a change of spirits in him lately?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr. Istaq confidently.

  ‘Had he seemed at all worried?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps a little depressed occasionally?’

  ‘No.’

  The girl had not yet spoken.

  ‘I ask,’ said Owen, ‘because I am wondering what could have brought him to this sad state of mind?’

  He put it as a question and then waited, looking inquiringly directly at the girl.

  She did not reply. Mr. Istaq, not quite sure how to respond, muttered uncertainly: ‘No sad state.’

  ‘Had he ever talked to you about problems at work?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ said Mr. Istaq, shocked.

  ‘Or problems not at work. Not at home, of course, but in his private life?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr. Istaq firmly.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Owen, ‘if there had been any changes lately in his way of life?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr. Istaq.

  ‘But that is not true, Miss Fingari,’ said Owen, still addressing himself to the girl although she had not yet spoken. ‘Everyone knows that there had been changes in his way of life. He had had a lot done to the house, for a start.’

  ‘No changes!’ snapped Mr. Istaq, caught off balance.

  ‘But there had been!’ said Owen, wide-eyed. ‘The mandar’ah—new marble! And I think the better of him for it. So often people rise in the world and forget their family. But was Osman Fingari like that?’

  ‘No,’ said the girl firmly.

  ‘No,’ echoed Mr. Istaq.

  ‘Everyone says he loved his parents.’

  ‘He did,’ said the girl.

  ‘He did,’ said Mr. Istaq.

  ‘But they were old, Miss Fingari, and he would not have wanted to trouble them. So did he discuss his problems with you, I wonder?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr. Istaq.

  The girl said nothing. Her eyes, though, were now raised and she was looking at Owen directly.

  ‘You see, when men are brought to such a desperate pass, when they are in a state so desperate that they can contemplate a thing like this, it is often because they feel themselves quite alone. Did Osman Fingari feel himself so alone, I ask myself.’

  The girl’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Was there no one he could turn to? No one in the whole wide world?’

  ‘Why do you ask these things,’ the girl suddenly burst out. ‘What business is it of yours? What do you care about my brother?’

  ‘Aisha!’ cried Mr. Ist
aq, scandalized. ‘Be quiet, girl! You have said enough, more than enough!’

  Things were worse even than he had feared. The girl had no idea how to behave.

  ‘You do not address your elders like that!’

  The girl dissolved in a flood of tears.

  Both men were at a loss.

  ‘Now, now!’ said Mr. Istaq, chiding but at bottom kind-hearted. He had overdone it. The girl wasn’t used to being corrected. ‘It’s all right! I think we had better stop,’ he said to Owen.

  ‘Of course!’ Owen could have kicked himself. ‘I am sorry, Miss Fingari. I have no wish to distress you. I have to ask these things. You see, sometimes it is something inside a person that makes them do a thing like this and sometimes it is something outside—’

  ‘I think we had better stop,’ said Mr. Istaq.

  ***

  Owen, dissatisfied with himself, stopped for a coffee round the corner. He was sitting at a table sipping it when a small boy touched him on the arm. Automatically he felt in his pocket.

  ‘No, no, effendi!’ protested the small boy. ‘Not that! At least, not just that. Perhaps afterwards—when you have heard my message.’

  ‘You have a message for me?’

  ‘Yes, effendi, though I must say, I’m a bit surprised at it, because she’s not been that way before.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Owen. ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Aisha.’

  ‘Miss Fingari?’

  ‘That’s right. Only we call her Aisha.’

  ‘What’s the message?’

  The little boy reflected. ‘I ought to bargain with you—’

  ‘Twenty milliemes?’

  ‘Say, twenty-five.’

  ‘Twenty-five it is.’

  ‘Right, then. She wants to see you. Not with her uncle.’

  ‘Does she say where?’

  ‘She does. But, effendi, she does not know much about this sort of thing and I do not think that what she proposes is a good idea. She says she will go to the souk and you can meet her on the way. But, effendi, that is not the way to do it.’

  ‘What is the way to do it?’

  ‘For that, effendi, I would need the full half piastre.’

  ‘A fee which fits your talents. For a suitable place no doubt I could find such a sum, exorbitant though it be.’

  ‘In this world one has to strike hard bargains,’ said the small boy sententiously.