The Night of the Dog (14 page)

Zeinab started on another tack.

“She is cunning, that girl.”

“Nonsense.”

“Why is she here? Tell me that.”

“She is here to accompany her uncle. And besides, Egypt is an interesting place to visit.”

“She is here to get a husband. Like the others.”

Zeinab had no high opinion of the scores of English girls who flocked over to Egypt during the Cairo season and flirted with the deprived and well-connected young army officers.

“She is not like them,” said Owen.

“Oh? And how is she not?”

“You can tell it straightaway.”

“Well, tell it then.”

Owen found this unexpectedly difficult.

“She is more modest,” he said lamely, “more shy and retiring.”

“More cunning,” said Zeinab.

“She is a Nonconformist.”

Zeinab was stopped in her tracks.

“What is this? This ‘Nonconformist’?” Under the strain of the occasion Zeinab’s accent was becoming more and more French. “She is Socialiste? Nationaliste? Her? I do not believe you.”

“It is religious.” It suddenly struck him that this was not perhaps the best time to go into the history of the Established Church in England. “A sort of sect.”

“Ah. Like the Copts.”

“No,” said Owen, “not like the Copts.”

“If I were you,” said Zeinab, “I would have nothing to do with Copts. Or Nonconformists.”

Things were indeed hotting up again; and they seemed to Owen to be hotting up chiefly on the Moslem side. Osman had recovered from his put-down and seemed bent on recovering the ground he had lost. There were incidents everywhere, in the bazaars, in the street markets, outside the churches, in the squares. The incidents were beginning to involve more people, too. That took organization; and that took money.

“He’s got more money than I have,” complained Owen after four largeish simultaneous demonstrations had stretched his resources to the utmost. “Where the hell does he get it from?”

“He must have powerful friends,” said Georgiades, who had just limped in off the streets; not injured but footsore. He wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve and looked around hopefully. Nikos took pity on him and went out into the corridor and called for Yussuf. After a very long time Yussuf appeared. Since the débâcle of the wedding/divorce he had become very morose, hardly responding to outside stimuli at all, sunk in his pain and brooding on his wrongs.

“Coffee at once!” said Nikos sharply. He was not one to make allowances.

Yussuf shuffled off and Georgiades waved a grateful hand.

“I thought you had powerful friends too,” he said to Owen. “Where are they?”

“They’ve got problems,” said Owen, “and I’m beginning to wonder whether their problems and our problems are connected.”

He told Nikos and Georgiades as much as he could about the current political log-jam, leaving out the Patros bit.

“You think there’s someone on the Moslem side who’s got an interest in keeping things on the boil?” asked Georgiades.

Owen nodded.

“There’s a lot of money washing around,” said Nikos. “Do you think it could be the Porte?”

Egypt was still in principle a province of the Ottoman Empire; and while the Khedive’s allegiance to the Sultan of the Sublime Porte was in practice nominal, the Turks took a keen interest in Egyptian affairs.

“No real sign of that so far. I think it’s internal.”

“Well, one thing’s for sure,” said Georgiades. “It’s not the Khedive. He hasn’t any money.”

“Not many of them have, at least not on the Moslem side. That’s why I think it could be a group of them acting together. Ministers, perhaps, who don’t like the way things are going.”

“Any evidence of that?”

“Well,” said Owen, “I don’t know if this is evidence, but…

He told them about Mahmoud being put back on the case.

“It must be someone high up,” said Nikos. “The case has been formally closed.”

“The Minister?”

“Could be. He’s new and ambitious.”

“Any money of his own?”

“Not of his own. He might be able to lay his hands on some.”

“Especially if he was doing it with a few friends.”

“It’s a bit out of our range, isn’t it?” asked Georgiades. “I mean, if it’s a minister?”

“The Consul-General’s in this particular political game too,” said Owen, “and I think he would be interested.”

“How do we find out?”

“The only line we’ve got is through Mordecai,” said Nikos.

“The Jew?”

Nikos nodded.

“In any case it would be interesting to find out where the money’s coming from,” said Owen.

“Find out,” said Georgiades, “and stop it. Because if you don’t, there could be big trouble. A few more demonstrations like those last night and the whole place could get going.”

“I think,” said Owen, “it’s time I had a word with Mordecai.”

The workers in gold spilled out of the Goldsmiths’ Bazaar and into the surrounding streets and alleyways. As you approached the bazaar you passed their showcases, full of the flimsy and barbaric workmanship which the native Egyptians admired. There were bracelets and anklets of great weight and solidity made of the purest gold. These were investments and the form in which less-educated Egyptians stored their savings. There were, too, rings and earrings and charms, charms especially, which the Egyptians loved.

Mordecai’s stall was on the very edge of the bazaar. You stepped down into it out of the street. It was lit by candles, and in the soft light the gold in the showcases round the walls shone three-dimensionally, given depth by the shadows. Mordecai himself was so much part of the shadows that at first when you stepped into the shop you did not see him. Then a little move, a little cough, made you aware of his presence.

He led Owen into a recess behind a recess. There was hardly room for the two of them, let alone for Georgiades, who followed them in but had to remain stuck in the doorway. In the confined space Owen was powerfully aware of the heavy smell of body oil which, like many Egyptians, Mordecai used in abundance. As the moments went by he became aware of another smell, that of sweat. For Mordecai was sweating profusely. He was scared.

“You know who I am?”

Mordecai moistened his lips.

“Yes, effendi. The Mamur Zapt.”

“Very well, then. You know what I can do. You need not fear, however. You are only a little player in a game in which there are big players. I am not interested in little players. When you have told me what you know you can go. Provided that you tell me truly.”

“Effendi . . Mordecai hesitated.

“Yes?”

“What of the big players? What will they do to me?”

“I am here. They are not.”

The beads of perspiration streamed down Mordecai’s face.

“They will kill me.”

Owen said nothing. Just waited.

The smell of sweat was overwhelming.

“I will tell you. But…”

“Afterwards?”

Mordecai nodded.

“Do you have friends in another town? Say, Alexandria?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“I will have you taken to them.”

Mordecai looked relieved.

“Afterwards. Provided I am satisfied.”

“Yes, effendi.”

“Very well, then. Now tell me: there is a sheikh who comes to you and you give him money?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“The dervish sheikh?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“How much money have you given him in the last three weeks?”

“One hundred and thirty pounds. Egyptian.”

Owen could sense Georgiades’s astonishment. One hundred and thirty pounds was a lot of money in a country where an average wage was three pounds a month.

“That is a lot of money. It is not yours.”

“No, effendi.”

“Whose is it, then?”

“Effendi, I—I do not know.”

“Come, it is not not here one moment and suddenly here the next. Where does it come from?”

“One brings it.”

“That is better. And who is that one?”

“Effendi, I do not know him. I do not know the name, or from where he comes, or from whom he comes. All I know is that every Friday at a set hour he comes and puts the money into my hands. He never speaks. He merely takes the receipt, then goes.”

“Does he give you no instructions?”

“Never.”

“Then how do you know you are to give it to the Sheikh Osman?”

“It was told me before.”

“When was this?”

“A month ago. A man came and said to me, one will come with money and you will do thus and thus.”

“Who was the man?”

“He was but a bearer.”

“But not the same as the bearer who brings the money?”

“Not the same, effendi. The first one was but a servant. The one who brings the money, well”—Mordecai hesitated—“I do not know what he is but he is not a servant.”

“The one who brings the money: can you tell me something else about him?”

“Only,” said Mordecai, “that he is a Copt.”

“A Copt?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“You are not speaking the truth,” said Owen. “How can he be a Copt and bring money to be given to a Moslem for the Moslem to use against the Copts?”

“I do not know what use he makes of it, effendi,” said Mordecai humbly.

“Are you sure the bringer is a Copt?”

“Yes, effendi.”

Mordecai spoke with certainty; and indeed, it was something which no Cairene would have been uncertain on.

“The other bearer,” said Georgiades, “the first one, the one who was but a servant, was he also a Copt?”

“An Armenian, effendi.”

No help there, and in fact there was little more help to be had from Mordecai at all. They told him to keep his mouth shut and left, not by the way they had come but through another door which led out through the bazaar.

“A Copt?” said Owen. “I can’t understand it.”

“Maybe someone’s just being clever,” said Georgiades.

“I’ve found something new at any rate,” said Mahmoud.

They were sitting at an outside table in one of the corner cafés of the Ataba el-Khadra, out of reach of the traffic but strategically placed so that they could watch not only all the interesting things that went on in the square but also the more sophisticated exchanges which went on between tourist and native in Musky Street. It had been a long, hard day and Owen would have quite liked a whisky. However, in deference to his friend’s Moslem susceptibilities he had stayed with coffee, and certainly Turkish coffee taken mazbout, sweetened, was perfectly to his taste.

“Anything useful?”

“It might be. Someone’s turned up who claims that Zoser had a visitor the night before he killed the Zikr.”

“Why the hell didn’t he turn up before?”

“Because he’s been away. He travels with camels and has just got back. When he got back his sister told him. He stays with her between trips. She lives in the house next to the Zosers. That’s where he was that night. They remembered it because it was so unusual for the Zosers to have a visitor, and because he came so late. They had already put the beds down and had to move them.”

“Why didn’t she say anything?”

“Thought it wasn’t for a woman, etc. She had no man to go for her—her husband was away travelling too—so she waited , for her brother to get back.”

“Does she corroborate?”

“Yes, they both remember.”

“Any details?”

“Not many. Nothing to identify by. It was dark and it was late, so late that the lamps had already been put out, they hardly saw him, you know, all that sort of thing.”

“Real, or are they saying that just to keep out of trouble?”

“If they wanted to keep out of trouble they wouldn’t have bothered to have come to the police station.”

“True. So you’ve nothing to go by?”

“Except that he was a Copt.”

“Even in the dark they would know that.”

“I take it, from the fact that they remarked on it, that they’re not Copt themselves?”

“You take it correctly. They’re Moslem.”

“How did they get on with the Zosers? Friends? Enemies?”

“So-so. Nothing much. Hardly saw each other. The Zosers kept pretty much to themselves. Didn’t have much to do with anybody. That’s why they remembered that night.”

“Hear anything?”

“Nothing they could repeat. Except that he was clearly not a stranger.”

Owen sipped his coffee.

“Pity there’s nothing more,” he said. “It could be significant.”

“Of course there’s someone else who could tell.”

“There is?”

“You’re forgetting Zoser’s wife. She was there.”

“The one with the hand-painting? Yes, I’d forgotten about her.”

“She would know. The only thing is, she’s moved. In fact, that’s what I wanted to ask you. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where I could find her?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Owen, remembering Georgiades’s visit to the funeral, “I think I have.”

They almost missed the man when at last he came. Mordecai had said that he usually approached the shop through the bazaar, and that was the side they had been watching. There were several little alleyways that he might have used and they had a man watching each one; but then in the end he approached from the other side, not through the bazaar at all but along through the streets, the way they themselves had come on that previous visit. Georgiades had a man on that route too, but there was only one of him and when he saw the man coming he did not risk leaving his post to run and tell them but watched the man until he was safely inside the shop.

They had wondered about concealing themselves in the shop itself, in the recess possibly, but had decided not to risk it. The aim, after all, was not to arrest the man but to follow him and see if by that means they could uncover the line which ran back from Mordecai’s shop to the ultimate suppliers of Osman’s money.

Instead, they had taken up position in one of the shops opposite where they were concealed by heavy wooden boarding and from where they could see directly into Mordecai’s shop. They saw the man come in from the street and stand for a moment adjusting to the darkness. They caught a glimpse of his robe in the candlelight, but only a glimpse because then he moved into the shadows and it was only by Mordecai’s gestures that they could tell where he was.