The Cairo Diary (19 page)

“May I ask a service of you, Azim? Until tomorrow morning, we shall not speak further about all this, if you would be so kind.”

Azim took the request like a lash from a whip. It was their work, and Jeremy had expressly demanded to work on this investigation.

The presence of this Jezebel woman in the investigation had something to do with this sudden discomfort, Azim could have sworn to it.

“As you wish,” he replied.

Jeremy poured himself another large glass of wine and drank half of it in a single swallow.

For a second, Azim had the firm conviction that the Englishman was hiding something from him. But as quickly and strongly as it had come, that certainty mutated into doubt, then faded away.

*   *   *

The headquarters of the Keoraz Foundation stood on the long and broad sharia Abbas, where its neighbors were a Catholic church and the building housing the telegraph and telephone company.

It was early morning and there were many vehicles about, zigzagging between the streetcars and filling the still-cool air with the raucous cries of their beautiful machinery.

Once again, Jeremy found the contrast striking.

Between one city to the west, rich and Western, and its eastern—and far more chaotic—counterpart. One was made up of a well-spaced-out network of perpendicular streets, with European architecture, sidewalks planted with decorative shrubs, buildings as tall as they were modern, and shops worthy of Paris, London, or Milan. Whereas the other city spread out under the tents of the bazaars, a sinuous maze, interwoven with as many blind alleys as there were narrow streets, and a place whose dwellings had not changed for several centuries, reflecting the different Muslim cultures that had succeeded one another in Cairo. The first city was clean, had no smell, and was, by contrast, well-to-do; when evening came, the restrained laughter of the young English people mingled with the rowdier mirth of the French and the Italians. The second city was dusty, and smelled of leather, exotic flavors, the sweat of a heaped-up mass of humanity, whereas when night fell, the song of the muezzins brooded from the top of their minarets over a horizon of roofs as jumbled as an angry sea. One was economic and political, the other as mystical as it was historic.

Humphreys, the director of the Keoraz Foundation, greeted the two detectives in his office, on the top floor. He was a forty-year-old Englishman, powerfully built with a bushy beard, and in every respect except his personality, he resembled Professor Challenger, whose exploits the famous Arthur Conan Doyle had recounted in his novels.

Without asking them, and despite the early hour, he poured out two brandies, one for himself and one for Jeremy, while Azim received a glass of water.

“So, tell me, what can I do for you?” he asked, sitting behind his overladen desk.

“As I explained to you yesterday on the telephone, it concerns the children of your foundation.”

“What you have told me is terrible. You mean to say there is a child-killer here, in Cairo? Do you have any leads?”

Jeremy shielded himself with a hand gesture, signifying that he could go no further. “The investigation is under way,” he replied. “Have you found the children's files, as I asked you to do yesterday?”

The director laid a finger upon a slim pile of folders. “Everything is here, all four little ones.”

“You have consulted the files, I should imagine. Have you any remarks to make? We are seeking any link among them, or any unusual detail.”

Humphreys tightened his fingers, which let out a series of sharp cracks. They were deformed by arthritis. “No, nothing. Or at least … a few details, look.”

He slid the cardboard folders toward the English detective.

Humphreys seized his glass and savored the bouquet of his brandy before trickling a mouthful down into his throat. He had swiveled around to face the window, and was now gazing at the bell tower of the church.

“Although we didn't meet at the time, I remember that you were among our volunteers, Detective.”

Jeremy looked up from the files to study the director as he continued: “I … I don't see how to tell you this, but … well, perhaps you don't remember, but those four children whose folders we are examining were all in your classes, Mr. Matheson.”

Azim frowned. He examined his colleague, whose eyes widened more than was necessary.

“Excuse me?” stammered the English detective.

“Yes,” Humphreys went on, “it is as I thought, you had not noticed. They all passed through your hands, when your name was put forward to conduct our reading sessions. I can see that you don't remember; look, I understand, there are so many of them, and to many of us, they all look the same.”

Jeremy opened the folders rather roughly to examine the few typed pages they contained. He passed from one child to the next with growing unease.

“Is it an important detail?” asked the director.

Jeremy straightened up and fixed him with a steady gaze.

“What do you think?” he retorted coldly.

Sweat had inundated his brow in the space of a few seconds.

Azim dragged his chair forward until he could rest his elbows on the edge of the desk, and politely demanded, “Could you draw up a list for us of all the children in Detective Matheson's classes, please?”

Humphreys scrutinized the small, turbaned Egyptian before looking for his English colleague's reaction, awaiting confirmation or a veto. The director visibly had little regard for “locals,” Azim noted. For a man heading a foundation designed to help street children, this was disturbing.
Yet another politician who's accepted a post for the benefit of his own future, rather than for love of the work,
he mused.

Jeremy indicated his approval of Azim's idea with a movement of his index finger.

“Good; I should be able to obtain it for you by Monday or Tuesday. I say, now that I think about it, there could be a link. We—the foundation—reported a burglary back in January. And … the strangest thing is that nothing was stolen. The back door was forced to gain entrance to the premises and the offices. The crook must have expected to find plenty of cash; I remember that a door had been broken down in order to get into the room where our safe is kept.”

“Was much money stolen?” asked Jeremy.

“No, the safe clearly proved to be beyond his means; he didn't even open it! Two broken locks for that!”

“Is there nothing else in that room?” demanded Matheson.

“It's where our archives are kept—our files on the staff and the children.”

“And now you tell me?” raged the English detective.

Azim was starting to worry about his partner's state of mind.

“It could be an important piece of information,” cut in Azim, seeing the director's disconcerted expression. “What do the files on the children contain?”

This time, Humphreys did not hesitate to answer the little Egyptian: “The same thing as I've brought you: the information we need to know about the child; name, date of birth if known, place where the parents can be contacted, medical remarks, and records of schooling. One particular teacher is assigned to each child, and it is he who updates the files regularly on his pupil's progress, along with any remarks about behavior.”

“Medical remarks, you say?” repeated Azim.

“Yes, of course, just in case—you never know. The majority of these children arrive here at the instigation of their parents, who want to give them a chance in life, to acquire knowledge and the skills they need to live. We select children on the basis of an application and an interview. And when they are accepted, our first task is to send them for a medical examination, which is something they have never received before.”

“Where does this take place?”

“At the Lord Kitchener Hospital, which is the best of its kind along with the Anglo-American Hospital, except that the Lord Kitchener is bigger and we know the doctors.”

Azim was surprised. “Lord Kitchener?”

He turned to Jeremy. “What was the name of the doctor who performed the autopsies on the victims?”

“Benjamin Cork.”

“Ah! Dr. Cork!” exclaimed the director. “Of course, he's one of the doctors who examine our children.”

Azim raised his eyebrows in alarm. “We are starting to have a great many coincidences!”

Jeremy, who was as morose as ever, disagreed with a shake of the head. “No, it can all be explained. The Kitchener Hospital specializes in women and children, and Dr. Cork specializes in children, that's why he carried out the autopsies. Nothing abnormal, Azim. English-speaking Cairo is as small as the Arab-speaking one can be immense.”

“Very well,” conceded Azim. “And what about these four child victims? Anything in particular in their files?”

“No, I've checked, nothing more,” Humphreys assured him. “They … they were attentive, two were a little unruly, lacking in seriousness. All were very curious, and they accepted additional lessons. That's all. I shall allow you to take these files, but kindly bring them back to me when the investigation has been concluded.”

“Does your patron have the keys to the building?” asked Jeremy.

“Francis Keoraz? No, it's not necessary, he's the … generous spirit behind the foundation, but as for the rest, I'm responsible for everything here. He drops in to see us from time to time, to say hello to the children, nothing more.”

Jeremy rubbed his earlobe and smiled thinly.

The director picked up his brandy glass and emptied it with a lick of his lips. A few minutes later, the two detectives were in the street.

Azim sounded Jeremy out. “Do you really not remember having those children in your classes?”

Jeremy walked along, gazing into the distance. “No,” he replied evasively.

“You gave reading lessons, didn't you?”

“Yes. More like reading sessions in English. I didn't teach them anything, I'm not qualified for that; I read them stories, which most of them didn't even understand. They didn't have the level of language needed; the best of them could barely stammer a few words of English, but it was an initiation like any other, a way of training the ear. Listen, Azim, we've already talked about this, and I told you I did it for that woman. She's the one who insisted that the foundation must take me on. I didn't derive any pleasure from it, I wasn't interested in the children, so as for remembering their faces.…”

Somewhat embarrassed, Azim smoothed down his mustache. “The thing is … it is becoming very personal,” he said. “First your link with the foundation, and now your link with these four poor children. I think it would be better if you—”

Jeremy halted. “If I what?”

The Englishman's flaming gaze was trained on Azim, who realized it was pointless to insist. However personal the investigation might become, he would never succeed in making Jeremy Matheson see reason. And referring the matter to their superiors would be catastrophic. Matheson knew far too many influential people to be thrown off an investigation he wanted to conduct at any price. The sole consequence would be that he, Azim, would be sidelined from this sinister story. And he wanted to finish what he had started.

“Nothing … nothing.” Azim raised his arms in surrender. Disappointment was written on his face, and this had the effect of calming Jeremy's anger.

When Jeremy spoke again, it was more calmly: “I am sorry, Azim. All of this is becoming very personal, and I have no intention of running away to wait for other detectives to come and tell me what is going on. It is my task to understand, to sort out the problem.”

Azim twitched.
Sort out the problem?
He had spoken as if he already knew what was afoot, the nature of his link to the murders. Azim decided not to pick up on this for the moment; circumstances were not favorable to him. He simply continued the conversation: “The boss asked me to draw up a detailed report for him today, and I cannot hide all of this from him.”

“I know that. He won't drive me off the investigation, whatever happens. I have too many friends who could harm his career. Do your job.”

The two companions continued their walk along the avenue with its intermittent traffic. After a time, Azim changed his approach and announced his deduction out loud: “I think we both agree that the burglary at the foundation, in January, has a direct link with our crimes? I am tempted to think that the killer broke in in order to consult the children's files and—for reasons as yet unknown—he chose children who had been present at your reading sessions. He may also have gained an idea of his future victims' personalities through the report cards written up by the teachers.”

“I agree. He considers their character, their personality, through teachers' records. He knows their basic traits, some of their flaws, and consequently how to manipulate them.”

“Particularly since according to Mr. Humphreys, they were all very curious. By the way, what did you think of the director?”

“I don't like him.”

“I am pleased to hear you say that. I share your opinion. Tell me, I am sorry to return to the subject, but that doctor, Dr. Cork—why didn't he say anything when he did the autopsy on that child? He knew him, did he not? After all, he is one of the doctors who check out the foundation's pupils, so he must have recognized the child, don't you think?”

“I think he did recognize him,” replied Jeremy with a black look. “And in his way, he gave me to understand that. But he is above all a professional.”

Azim gazed at his partner for a good ten seconds, then raised his eyebrows. “What is the plan for this afternoon?” he demanded finally.

Jeremy kept on walking, watching the cars that overtook them. “You write your report; I need a little time alone, to think.”

Azim opened his mouth, but immediately decided to say nothing.