“It’s not political.”
“If it’s a Frenchman,” said Garvin, “then it is political.”
***
“Zawia?” said Nikos. “That’s a new one. It’s not the usual sort of name, either.”
Most of the kidnappings in Cairo were carried out by political “clubs,” extremist in character and therefore banned, therefore secret. It was a standard way of raising money for political purposes. The “clubs” tended to have names like “The Black Hand,” “The Cobra Group,” or “The Red Dagger.” Owen sometimes found the political underworld of Cairo disconcertingly similar to the pages of the Boy’s Own Paper. There was in fact a reason for the similarity. Many of the “clubs” were based on the great El Azhar university, where the students tended to be younger than in European universities. In England, indeed, they would have been still at school, a fact which did not stop them from kidnapping, garrotting, and demanding money with menaces but which led them to express their demands in a luridly melodramatic way.
“Zawia?” said Owen. “I don’t know that word. What does it mean?”
“A place for disciples. A—I think you would call it—a convent.”
“A place for women?”
“Certainly not!” said Nikos, astonished yet again at the ignorance of his masters. Nikos was the Mamur Zapt’s Official Secretary, a post of considerable power, which Nikos relished, and much potential for patronage, which Nikos had so far, to the best of Owen’s knowledge, not thought fit to use. “It is a Senussi term.”
The Senussi were an Islamic order, not strong in Egypt, but strong everywhere else in North Africa.
“It also means corner, junction, turning point.”
“Turning point?” said Owen, alert to all the shades of significance of revolutionary rhetoric. “I’m not sure I like that.”
“I’m not sure I like it if it’s a convent,” said Nikos. “Particularly if it’s a Senussi one.”
***
Midway through the morning Nikos put a phone call through to him. It was one of the Consul-General’s aides. Since the British Consul-General was the man who really ran Egypt Owen paid attention. Anyway, the aide was a friend of his.
“It’s about Octave Moulin,” his friend said.
“Moulin?”
“The one who was kidnapped. I take it you’re involved?”
“On the fringe.”
“If I were you I’d move off the fringe pretty quickly and get into the center.”
“Because he’s a Frenchman?”
“Because of the sort of Frenchman he is. His wife is a cousin of the French President’s wife.”
“The French Chargé was ’round pretty quickly.”
“He would be. They know Moulin at the Consulate, of course.”
“Because of his wife?”
“And other things. You know what he’s doing here, don’t you?”
“Business interests?”
“The Aswan Dam. He represents a consortium of French interests who are tendering for the next phase.”
“I thought it had gone to Aird and Co.?”
“Well, it has, and the French are not too happy about that. They say that all the contracts have gone to British firms and they wonder why.”
“Cheaper?”
“Dearer, actually.”
“Better engineers?”
“We say so, naturally. The French have a different view. They say it’s to do with who awards the contracts.”
“The Ministry of Public Works. Egyptians.”
“And with a British Adviser at the head.”
Most of the great ministries had British Advisers. It was one of the ways in which the Consul-General’s power was exercised. In theory Egypt was still a province of the Ottoman Empire and the Khedive, its nominal ruler, owed allegiance to the Sultan at Istanbul. Earlier in the last century, however, a strong Khedive had effectively declared himself independent of Istanbul. Weaker successors had run the country into debt and exchanged dependence on Turkey for dependence on European bankers. In order to retrieve the tottering Khedivial finances, and recover their loans, the British had moved in; and had not moved out. For twenty-five years Egypt had been “guided” by the British Consul-General: first by Cromer’s strong hand, more recently by the less certain Gorst.
“There’s a lot of money involved.”
“That’s what the French think. They’ve made a Diplomatic protest.”
“And got nowhere, I presume.”
“It’s a bit embarrassing all the same. So we might give them something to shut them up. There’s a subcontract to go out for constructing a masonry apron downstream of the dam sluices to protect the rock. We might let them have that. That’s where Moulin comes in. At least we think so. There are a lot of French interests jostling for the contract.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Find him.”
“That’s a bit of a tall order.”
“And quickly. Before the contract is awarded. You see, the French think we might have had a hand in it!”
“In what?”
“The kidnapping.”
“They think we kidnapped him? That’s ridiculous!”
“It’s too well organized for us to be behind it, you mean? I tried that argument on the Old Man but he doesn’t like it.”
“Why would we want to kidnap him?”
“To affect the bidding. The French think we are still determined to influence the result. They have an inflated regard for our duplicity.”
“That’s because they are so duplicitous themselves they can’t believe anyone else would act straight.”
“I’ll try that one on him too.”
“However,” said Owen, “I wasn’t really planning to get involved in this one.”
“I think you ought to revise your plans. The French are holding us responsible for Moulin’s safety.”
“In a general way, of course…”
“In a particular way. They say that the Mamur Zapt is responsible for law and order in Cairo. The kidnapping of a French citizen is a matter of law and order. Therefore the Mamur Zapt is responsible for Monsieur Moulin. Personally responsible.”
“Ridiculous!”
“They think you’ve got you, boyo. If I were you I wouldn’t stay on the fringe.”
***
The Press had asked for a conference.
“They’ll just be wanting a briefing. You handle it,” Garvin had said.
Owen, whose duties included Press censorship, was used to the Press. But that was the Egyptian Press. The conference included representatives of the European Press and he was not used to them.
“Would the Mamur Zapt show the same lack of urgency if Monsieur Moulin were a British subject?” asked the man from Paris-Soir.
“I am not showing a lack of urgency. I am treating the matter with extreme seriousness.”
“Then why haven’t you been to the Hotel today? Surely the investigation is not complete?”
“The investigation is being carried out, as is usual in Egypt, by the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, the Parquet. It is in the capable hands of my colleague, Mr. El Zaki, who, I am sure, is giving it all his attention.”
“Are you treating this as a routine criminal investigation?”
“Yes.”
“Is it routine for someone to be kidnapped from the terrace at Shepheard’s?”
“No.”
“Would the Mamur Zapt agree that security is lax when a prominent foreign visitor is kidnapped from the terrace of one of the world’s most famous hotels?”
No, the Mamur Zapt would not agree.
“Are you worried about the effect on tourism?” asked an American correspondent.
“No. Tourists are quite safe pro
vided that they don’t do anything stupidly reckless.”
“Like having tea on the terrace at Shepheard’s?” asked the man from Paris-Soir.
Owen saw Garvin standing at the back of the room. When the conference was over he came forward.
“Political enough for you?” he asked unkindly.
***
The waiters had provided a list of guests who had been in that part of the terrace at the time Monsieur Moulin disappeared and Mahmoud had spent the whole morning working through it. He had just reached an English family when Owen arrived. It consisted of a mother and daughter, and a young man with straight back and ultra-smart clothes whom Owen at once identified as an army officer.
“An elderly gentleman?” the mother was saying. “No, I don’t think so.”
“He always sat at the same table, the one at the top of the stairs.”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Of course you do, Mummy!” the daughter said sharply. “You pointed him out to me yourself. An old man with droopy moustaches and sticks.”
“‘A gentleman’ I think Mr.—ahem, the Inspector, said.”
“Well, he was a gentleman of sorts. Foreign, of course.”
“Not much of one,” the young man put in heavily. “It’s my belief that he took that table so that he could ogle all the girls as they went in and out.”
“Oh, come on, Gerald!” the girl said, laughing. “He’s about ninety-five! Mind you,” she added, “that didn’t stop him pressing up against me in the foyer the other evening.”
“Did he really?” The young man’s neck turned red with anger.
“I was encouraging him, of course.”
“Lucy! That is quite enough! I think Mr.—ahem, Inspector, you have had your answer. We have no knowledge of this, ah, person. Gentleman or not.”
“But, Madame, your daughter—”
“Thank you. And now, Lucy, I am afraid it is time for us to prepare for lunch.” She gathered her things and began to get up.
Mahmoud half rose and then sat down again determinedly.
“I am afraid I have not quite finished, Madame. A moment or two longer, je vous en prie.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said the young man, jutting his jaw.
Mahmoud looked at him coldly.
“This is a criminal investigation, Mr. Naylor. Would you mind leaving us?”
The young man stared at him unbelievingly. “What did you say?”
“I said would you mind leaving us.”
The young man’s face flushed crimson.
“Gerald!” said the mother warningly.
Gerald leaped to his feet. “I’m not putting up with this,” he said. “Not from a bloody Egyptian!”
“Gerald!” said the woman very sharply.
The young man turned to her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley,” he said, “but there’s really no reason why you should be exposed to this sort of thing. This fellow—”
“Excuse me,” said Owen.
The woman looked up. He addressed himself to her rather than to the man.
“Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley?” He put out his hand. “Captain Owen.” He seemed to be always using his rank these days. Perhaps it was something to do with Shepheard’s. “I am afraid Mr. El Zaki is quite right. It is rather important. Although—” he smiled—“perhaps not so important as to risk sacrificing your lunch. I wonder, though, whether your daughter could spare us a moment? It won’t be longer, I promise you. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind, would you, Miss Colthorpe Hartley?”
“Well, no, of course,” said the girl, slightly flustered. “I haven’t met you at any of the balls, have I?” she asked, recovering.
“Not yet,” said Owen, piloting her firmly away into another alcove and leaving mother and young man floundering. He sat her down on a divan and pulled up a chair for himself leaving the one opposite for Mahmoud.
“Mr. El Zaki is an old friend of mine.”
“Is he? You speak English jolly well,” she said to Mahmoud.
“And French too,” said Owen.
“I wish I could,” said Lucy. “The people here speak French, don’t they? As much as English, I mean.”
“It’s a great mixture.”
“Have you been in Egypt long?” she asked Owen.
“Two or three years.”
“You look so brown!”
“I was in India before that.”
“Were you? Gosh, I’d like to go to India. Only Daddy says it is too expensive.”
“Where is your father?” said Owen, looking ’round.
“Having a drink, I expect. He can’t bear to come shopping with us.”
“Was he on the terrace too?” asked Mahmoud.
“He joined us out there.”
“About what time was that?”
“Four o’clockish. Mummy always likes her tea about then.”
“That was when your father joined you?”
“Yes. He was a bit behind us, as usual. He always takes ages over his shower.”
“When you came out on to the terrace was Monsieur Moulin already there?”
“You mean that old man with sticks?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I sort of noticed him, I think, though I couldn’t swear to it. Wait a minute, yes, I did notice him. He was looking around. I thought perhaps he’d lost that girl of his.”
“What girl of his?”
“You know, that girl who’s always hanging around him. His bit of fluff.”
“Bit of fluff?” said Mahmoud, completely lost.
“Yes.” Lucy frowned in concentration. “His petite amie. That’s what you would say, isn’t it?” She smiled at Mahmoud.
“Well, maybe,” said Owen. “That would depend on the circumstances. Can you tell us about this lady, Miss Colthorpe Hartley?”
“Well, she’s—well, first of all, I think my mother would say she’s not a lady. Not just foreign, I mean, but definitely not a lady.”
“She’s French, is she?”
“Yes, I think so. She’s blonde, not dark like they usually are, and it’s real blonde too, not dyed. Although she’s common, she’s also quite sophisticated, if you know what I mean, at least that’s how she strikes me. She’s terribly well dressed. It must have cost a fortune. If only Daddy would let me spend that amount of money! That’s sugar-daddy sort of money, not daddy sort of money. I say, that’s pretty good, isn’t it! I must tell Gerald that.”
“Would he understand?” asked Owen.
Lucy laughed merrily. “He’s not as stupid as all that,” she protested. “Well, not quite as stupid. You don’t like Gerald much, do you, Captain Owen?”
“Not much.”
Why was he saying that? This was supposed to be a formal investigation, not party chit-chat. He must have caught it from her.
“But are you sure she’s Monsieur Moulin’s petite amie and not Monsieur Berthelot’s?” Mahmoud intervened.
“Monsieur—?”
“Berthelot. The young man who accompanied Monsieur Moulin. His nephew.”
“Oh, I know the one you mean. The one with the bulging eyes. Well, no, I don’t think so, though you often see them together.”
“Does she come out on the terrace too?”
“Only in the evening. I expect,” said Lucy acidly, “that she doesn’t have time. It takes her so long to make up.”
“Then why,” asked Mahmoud, “when you came out on to the terrace yesterday afternoon and saw Monsieur Moulin looking around, did you think he had lost her?”
“My goodness!” said Lucy. “You are sharp! He’s caught me out, hasn’t he?” she appealed to Owen.
“He has.”
“I don’t know why I said that. It’s my silly tongue running away
with me again. What did I mean?” She thought hard.
“Well, it’s true,” she said after a moment, “or it might have been true. She’s always hanging around him. It’s so blatant. I should think he jolly well might have felt lost when she wasn’t there for once.”
“And she wasn’t there?”
“No. And it is true that you don’t usually see her on the terrace in the afternoons. Not till later. I think,” said Lucy, giggling, “that she finds it hard to get up. Perhaps she’s worn out!”
Lucy shrieked with laughter. Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley, sitting obediently outside the alcove but not abandoning her post, looked at her disapprovingly. The young man beside her stirred unhappily.
“So she definitely wasn’t on the terrace yesterday afternoon but he definitely was?”
“Yes, that’s right. You’ve got it.”
“And you’re sure about that? About him being there, I mean?”
Lucy thought again. “Yes, I’m pretty sure.” She tossed her head. “No, I’m definitely sure.”
“And that would have been about fourish. You’re not able to place the time more precisely?”
“About five to four. We’re always on the terrace by four.”
“And then you had tea. Was Monsieur Moulin having tea?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“He was just sitting at the table?”
“Yes.”
“Looking around for someone? As if he was expecting them?”
“Yes. Of course, now I think about it, it might have been her.”
“And then what?”
“Well, then we finished our tea.”
“And did you notice Monsieur Moulin any more? Did you see him leave his table, for instance?”
“No.”
“Go down the steps?”
“He might have been ogling me,” said Lucy with a toss of her curls, “but I wasn’t ogling him.”
“You stayed on the terrace for about how long?”
“About an hour.”
“And when you left, was Monsieur Moulin still at his table?”
“No,” said Lucy.
“That’s definite, is it?”
“Yes, because I can remember seeing the tea things on the table and wondering why the waiters hadn’t cleared them. They’re very good here, you know.”
The Donkey-Vous Page 3
