The Night of the Dog

by Michael Pearce

  But the thought of possible other careers brought him to Jane Postlethwaite. There was no doubt that she would be an asset. Certainly her uncle would. An influential politician would command patronage, although one didn’t like to think of it like that. Jane’s husband would find ways smoothed for him, things open to him. Paul was acute on such matters. Marrying Jane Postlethwaite would be good for his career.

  But what about Jane herself? She had a mind of her own and what she wanted would in the end decide what was done. She might well reject him out of hand. It would be a very sensible thing to do and Jane Postlethwaite was a sensible girl. On the other hand, now he thought about it—that was one of the advantages of taking time out to think things through—there had been occasions when she had looked at him in a special way which made him think that she might not reject him.

  However, evade and evade as he might, in the end he had to come to it: did he love Jane Postlethwaite? Enough to marry her? No, not enough to marry her, that was not it. Love her, full stop. Well, ‘love’ was a strong word, etc., etc. Christ, he was going round in circles.

  He needed some coffee.

  That was another problem. He had to do something about Yussuf. Yussuf had been put in the cells to cool off and Owen had not long before been down to see him. Yussuf had been quite inconsolable.

  ‘I have shamed the Mamur Zapt,’ he said. ‘Release me from your service! I am not worthy.’

  As Owen had not appointed Yussuf to his service in the first place but Yussuf had appointed himself, this seemed beside the point. However, he seemed suitably penitent, so Owen left him there while he tried to work out what to do with him.

  On his way back from the cells one of the bearers had intercepted him. Yussuf’s ex-wife had come to the police station and would not go away. When Owen went out to see her she was squatting in the dust of the yard, her head covered, rocking to and fro in grief.

  ‘My man is in prison, Aiee-e,’ she wailed.

  ‘Be quiet, woman!’ said one of the bearers. ‘You have caused enough trouble.’

  ‘Aiee-e,’ wailed the woman. ‘My husband has wronged the Mamur Zapt. He was bearer to the Mamur Zapt and forgot his place because of his foolish wife.’

  Well, that’s something, at any rate, thought Owen. If Fatima was prepared to admit her foolishness something might yet be saved from the wreckage.

  ‘Have mercy, effendi!’ cried the woman, rocking to and fro. ‘Have mercy and free this foolish man because of his foolish wife.’

  The bearers looked embarrassed and tried to get her to go. The woman shrugged off their hands and remained sitting where she was.

  ‘Have mercy, effendi.’

  ‘I might have mercy,’ said Owen, ‘if I thought there was any point in it.’

  The woman stopped wailing.

  ‘Why should there be no point in it, effendi?’ she asked quietly, in a perfectly normal voice.

  ‘Because his heart would still be troubled.’

  ‘He loves me,’ said the woman, slightly with surprise, slightly with satisfaction.

  ‘He loves you and wants you back. Will you not return to him?’

  The woman dropped the fold from her face and looked up at him seriously.

  ‘I would, effendi,’ she said, troubled. ‘Suleiman is a pig. All he wants is harem business. He keeps on all the time. A little, I don’t mind. It’s good for a woman. But this pig thinks of nothing else.’

  ‘Yussuf is a good man,’ said Owen. ‘He has his faults, but he is a good man.’

  ‘A woman could do worse,’ Fatima conceded, ‘as I have found, unfortunately.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Owen, ‘he might have learnt his lesson.’

  The woman looked up at him. There was a glint in her eye.

  ‘I think he might, effendi,’ she said.

  ‘Then what is to be done?’

  ‘Suleiman will not agree to a divorce,’ Fatima said, ‘unless you give him money. A lot of money. He thinks that because you are a good master you will want Yussuf to be happy and so will pay a lot.’

  ‘She isn’t worth it,’ said one of the bearers firmly.

  ‘Do not let yourself be beguiled, effendi,’ said another of the bearers. ‘Yussuf will be better off without her.’

  ‘Suleiman will tire of her,’ said another, ‘when he has had his fill.’

  ‘The Mamur Zapt has more wisdom than you,’ the woman retorted with spirit.

  ‘I will think about this,’ Owen had said.

  And thinking was what he was doing, without success.

  The trouble at the bottom was money. That was another thing he had to think about. The Curbash Compensation Fund was completely exhausted. He couldn’t pay for Yussuf. He couldn’t pay his agents. And he certainly couldn’t manage any of the substantial bribes on which the Mamur Zapt’s day-to-day management of the city depended. What was he to do? Even if he survived the present crisis with its unusually heavy demands on resources, there were still a few weeks to go before he received his allocation for the next year. He would have to cut back just when spending might be most needed. There was, after all, the Moulid coming up. He would have to pay for the policing of that out of this year’s money. With what?

  If only John Postlethwaite would go away things could return to normal and he might be able to get some money as a special case in view of the emergency and the delicate state of politics. But what with Postlethwaite and the political situation there was absolutely no hope.

  But if John Postlethwaite went he would take Jane Postlethwaite with him. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? He was going to be leaving soon anyway so Owen would have to make up his mind about Jane. Oh Christ, there he was going round in a circle again.

  Lastly, he thought about Andrus. He thought he understood now about Zoser. There had been no plot. Andrus had gone to Zoser and poured out his heart. Zoser, as rigid as Andrus and far less intelligent, had taken it upon himself to put right the wrong which had been done to his friend and his church. He could have learned who had perpetrated the deed either from Andrus or through the ordinary gossip of the bazaars. And once he had learned, for the uncomplicated Zoser there would have been no gap between decision and action.

  Zoser, poor man, had seen to his own punishment. Andrus’s was still to come.

  Over the killing of the Zikr, Andrus, though not blameless, was probably not very guilty. On the other matter, however, inciting unrest in the city which had already led to trouble between Moslem and Copt and might still lead to massacre, Andrus was, if not the prime mover, then definitely a prime mover, and for that he must be made to pay.

  But that was not what Owen was thinking about. Nor was he thinking about who really was the prime mover, for he thought he knew that already. All he was waiting for was confirmation.

  No, the problem which really preoccupied him, which he kept returning to from one direction after another, and one in which he never seemed to make headway, was how to use the information he had to bring the conflict between Copt and Moslem to an end. It had to be soon, it had to be quick, and so far he had seen no way of achieving it.

  Not that he had made much progress on anything else. Even Yussuf, the simplest of the problems. He wished he could speak to Zeinab about it. Zeinab was quite good at that sort of thing. Zeinab—oh God, there he went again.

  Yussuf. Well, at least he had learned his lesson. He would never do that again. He was absolutely ashamed of himself. And as Owen reflected on Yussuf, and on the effects of shame, the glimmerings of an idea began to come to him.

  He became aware of someone in the room. It was Nikos.

  ‘He has come back,’ he said.

  ‘Did he see where Andrus went?’

  ‘Yes.’

  After the interview Andrus, much to his surprise, had been released; but when he left Mahmoud’s office one of Owen’s agents had followed on behind him.

  ‘Who did he go to?’

  ‘Sesostris,’ said Nikos. ‘As you expected.’


  ‘What do you want?’ said Andrus.

  ‘I want you to withdraw all your people from the streets, to send them home and to tell them to stay at home, until at least after the Moulid. You are to instruct them not to respond to Moslem provocation. There won’t be any after tomorrow, but if there is they are not to respond to it. They are to take special pains not to offend Moslem susceptibilities. Above all, they are not to use any violence. If they do, I expect you to tell me their names and I will deal with them.’

  Andrus laughed incredulously.

  ‘Is that all you want?’ he demanded. ‘You must be mad.’

  ‘It’s not quite all,’ said Owen, ‘but it will do for a start.’

  ‘If you think I’m going to do any of these things,’ said Andrus, ‘let alone all of them, you must be crazy.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to do them. Not any of them.’

  ‘Oh, but you are.’

  ‘If you think you can frighten me,’ said Andrus, ‘you are mistaken.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then what makes you think I am going to do them?’

  ‘Because if you don’t,’ said Owen, ‘I shall let it be generally known that Andrus has been giving money to the Moslems for them to use against Copts.’

  ‘No one would believe you,’ said Andrus, but his face went pale.

  ‘Won’t they? Even when they hear the evidence?’

  ‘They will believe it to be a trick.’

  ‘Even when they hear the evidence? Mordecai?’

  ‘Mordecai would never dare.’

  ‘Mordecai has already agreed.’

  ‘But—but it wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Will anyone believe you? Anyone?’

  Andrus licked his lips.

  ‘I cannot,’ he whispered. ‘I cannot.’

  ‘You can,’ said Owen, ‘and will.’

  ‘Take me to prison.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘If I take you to prison,’ said Owen, ‘people will say: There goes Andrus, the enemy of the Moslems. But you are not their enemy. You are their friend. You give money to them to use against Copts. Therefore go free.’

  Andrus looked at him, stunned. He sat like that for a long time. Then he buried his face in his hands.

  ‘Very well,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘Very well. I will do it.’

  He stood up and almost tottered. He had suddenly aged.

  ‘That is not all,’ said Owen.

  ‘Not all?’

  Andrus seemed totally bewildered. His hands trembled.

  ‘Sit down.’

  It was as if Andrus’s legs had given way under him.

  ‘What more do yo want?’ he whispered.

  ‘You are to send a message to Sesostris. You are to tell him that you have to see him urgently. You will tell him that it must be in secret and that it is very, very important. And then you will tell him to come to a place that I will tell you of and at a time that I will tell you. And there you will meet him and say what I tell you.’

  As realization dawned, Andrus blanched.

  ‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘You ask too much.’

  ‘Think of this,’ said Owen, ‘as payment. Payment for the two men who died because of you and the many who might have died.’

  ‘I cannot. I would be ashamed.’

  ‘If you do not, the shame will be not just on you but on your father’s house. “There is Andrus, ” they will say, “the man who gave money to the Moslems to use against the Copts.”’

  Andrus buried his face in his hands again.

  ‘Either way there is shame,’ said Owen, ‘but one way the shame is yours and yours alone. The other way the shame is on your father too.’

  Andrus sat for a long time. Owen let him sit. When at last Andrus looked up, his face was haggard.

  ‘I will do what you wish,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Osman suspiciously.

  ‘I want you to withdraw all your people from the streets, to send them home and to tell them to stay at home. That is, at least until after the Moulid. They are not to let themselves be provoked by the Copts. After today the Copts will be very anxious not to provoke you, but should some foolish man do so then you are to instruct your people not to respond.’

  ‘What?’ said Osman, unbelieving.

  ‘You are to confine yourself to a mosque until after the Moulid. You will not go out in the streets and you will not say anything in public. There are to be no speeches and no sermons. Not until after the Moulid.’

  ‘I shall say what I like and go where I like,’ said Osman. ‘As for the Copts, I will cut their throats and dance in their blood.’

  ‘You will not,’ said Owen, who took an equable view of Arab rhetoric.

  ‘No?’ said Osman belligerently. ‘Why won’t I?’

  ‘Because if you do,’ said Owen, ‘I will tell everyone that you are the man who receives money from Copts.’

  ‘I?’ said Osman. ‘I? I receive no money from Copts.’

  ‘You go to Mordecai, don’t you?’

  ‘He is not a Copt. He is a Jew.’

  ‘And where do you think he gets the money from?’

  ‘Not from Copts?’ said Osman, with a sinking heart.

  ‘He is just the man in the middle. The Copts bring the money and Osman takes it. Every Friday. On the Sabbath.’

  Osman reeled.

  ‘Do you swear this?’ he said thickly.

  ‘On the Book.’

  Osman shook his heavy, turbanned head from side to side as if bemused.

  ‘I did not know it came from them!’ he muttered. ‘How was I to know? A man came to me and said there were friends with money. They wished to keep themselves secret and therefore I was to go to Mordecai. But how can they be Copts? Copts would not give money for use against Copts. Unless—’

  He smashed his great fists on the table.

  ‘They have tricked me. It was a trap. And I fell into it. Fool that I am!’ He buried his head in his arms and rolled about the table in his agony. ‘Fool! Fool!’

  ‘Osman takes money from Copts. So it will be known.’

  ‘Fool! Fool!’ groaned Osman. ‘Oh, the cunning devils! They have beaten me. How shall I show my face? Osman takes Copt money! Oh, the shame of it!’

  ‘If you do as I say,’ said Owen, ‘you will be able to show your face. No one will know about it.’

  ‘The Copts will tell,’ groaned Osman.

  ‘They won’t,’ said Owen.

  Something in his voice made Osman look at him.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I have talked with them.’

  ‘Do not believe them. They are cunning devils.’

  ‘On this occasion,’ said Owen, ‘I think they may be believed.’

  ‘You do not know them like I do,’ said Osman.

  ‘They have no choice,’ said Owen. ‘They are in a trap as deep as yours.’

  ‘A trap?’ Osman began to sound hopeful. ‘Of your devising?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Osman pounded the desk joyfully.

  ‘They are in a trap. The Mamur Zapt has tricked them. They have tricked me but have themselves been tricked.’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘You swear it? On the Book?’

  ‘On the Book.’

  ‘Then I will go happily to prison.’

  ‘You are not going to prison. You are going to take your people off the streets. Remember?’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ said Osman in consternation.

  ‘You must do it. Or I will see to it that everyone in Cairo knows who is the sheikh who takes money from Copts.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘If I do what you ask,’ said Osman, ‘can I be sure that the Copts will do the same?’

  ‘You can be sure.’

  ‘I do not like it.’

  ‘Nor do they.’

  ‘No,’ said
Osman, beginning to smile. ‘Of that one can be confident.’

  He struck his fist on the table.

  ‘I will do it!’ he said.

  ‘At once. Tonight,’ said Owen.

  Osman nodded.

  ‘At once,’ he agreed. ‘So it shall be.’

  He left looking quite pleased. Owen was not sure that whatever lesson Osman had learned had been quite the right one.

  Later in the morning Owen paid one of his infrequent visits to the Ministry of Finance. As he was walking along one of the long, green-painted corridors he ran into John Postlethwaite.

  ‘Hello, lad,’ said John Postlethwaite. ‘What are you doing here? Come for a bit of pocket money?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Owen. ‘Not personally, but for the office.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Not been up to anything. It’s all this trouble between Copts and Moslems. It costs money.’

  ‘Too true. That’s only too true,’ John Postlethwaite agreed enthusiastically. ‘That’s what I’m always saying. However you look at it, it costs money. These colonies are millstones around our necks, as a noble lord of my acquaintance once said. Mind you, he’s a millstone round our necks too, him and all the other lords.’

  Owen thought that Paul might not like the turn the conversation was taking so hastily shifted tack.

  ‘The real problem is the levy,’ he said.

  ‘Levy?’ said John Postlethwaite sharply. ‘I’ve not heard about that.’

  Owen explained.

  ‘A levy is a mistake,’ said John Postlethwaite. ‘It’s bad accounting principle. It’s a one-off business, you see. You do it once and then that’s an end to it. What you want is a charge on something that regularly recurs. You can go on forever then.’

  ‘The Khedive’s insisting on it. He needs the money.’

  ‘What does he need it for?’

  Owen thought he hadn’t better mention Monte Carlo.

  ‘Oh, a special function he has in mind, I think,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘If it’s an unusual item, then maybe the best thing is a straightforward loan,’ said John Postlethwaite. ‘I don’t normally approve of loans, unless I’m lending, of course, but sometimes they’re the answer.’

  At the other end of the corridor Owen saw Ramses come out of a door. He began to edge away.