The Night of the Dog (7 page)

“Away with you, woman!” he shouted furiously. “You bring me shame.”

The woman fired up again.

“Yours is the shame,” she said. “Yours was the shame already.”

Yussuf tried to urge her away but she resisted his efforts.

“You bring shame on your family,” she called out, so that everyone could hear. Heads began popping out of windows. The other orderlies watched with delight.

Yussuf caught hold of her and propelled her towards the gate. At the last moment she twisted away from him and ran back towards the orderlies. Yussuf bore down on her in a fury. Afraid that he was going to hit her, Owen intervened.

“Enough of this!” he snapped. “Be quiet, woman!”

The woman fell silent, though she kept darting angry glances at Yussuf.

“Who is this woman?” Owen asked Yussuf. “Your wife?”

“My sister, effendi.”

Owen remembered the boy in the Coptic Place of the Dead.

“I have met your son, I think.” The woman looked startled, then pleased. Then worried.

“He is a good boy, effendi,” she said hastily. “He runs a little wild but there is no harm in him.”

“He is clever beyond his years.”

The woman looked even more worried.

“But he means no harm, effendi,” she insisted.

“He is a good boy,” said Owen reassuringly. He turned to Yussuf, associating him with family merit. “And you have a good nephew, Yussuf. You must come and speak to me about him when he is older.” The remark, with its suggestion of possible patronage at his command, soothed Yussuf’s ruffled pride. It also impressed his sister, who quietened down and looked at him with new respect.

“What is all this about?” Owen addressed himself to Yussuf. When Yussuf made no reply, Owen turned to his sister. “What has brought you here?”

“I wanted him to speak to his wife,” she said in a low voice.

“Indeed? And what about?”

“He has put her away. And now he expects me to clean and cook for him.”

“Our mother is dead,” said Yussuf, “and I have no woman in my house.”

“I have my own to look after,” she protested.

“That is true,” said Owen. “She has her own to look after. Cannot you pay a woman to come in?”

“Why should I pay,” asked Yussuf, “when I have a sister?”

“Why should your sister work for you,” the woman retorted, “when you have a wife?”

“I have no wife.”

“You had one last week.”

“But I haven’t one now!” Yussuf roared.

“What was the difference between you?” Owen asked.

Yussuf did not reply.

“Nothing worth losing a wife over,” his sister said.

Yussuf turned on her in a fury.

“You be quiet, woman!” he shouted. “What do you know about it?”

“I know what all the world knows,” his sister maintained stoutly, “and that is that Fatima has always been a true wife to you.”

Owen was rather relieved to hear this. If she had been unfaithful it would have been tricky to intervene.

“Is her fault so bad that it cannot be overlooked?” he asked. “No doubt she already repents.”

“You might not be so lucky next time,” Yussuf’s sister observed.

Yussuf glared at her.

“He won’t find it so easy to get another wife,” she said to Owen. “They all know what he is like.”

Yussuf boiled over.

“I?” he shouted dramatically. “I? What about her? Is she not to blame? I have given her house, clothes, a good bed. I do not beat her. Much. I give her money—”

“No, you don’t,” his sister said. “That is why she is always onto you.”

Yussuf raised his hand threateningly. His sister, a woman of spirit, squared up to him. One of the orderlies, in defiance of the Prophet, began to lay bets.

Owen stepped in.

“Be off with you!” he said to the woman sternly. “Take this up at another time.”

He ushered her firmly towards the gate.

“I will speak to him,” he said to her when they had got out of earshot, “and see if I cannot resolve this matter.”

She went quietly enough. Owen admired her independence, but felt that reconciliation was more likely to be achieved in her absence.

Georgiades had asked Owen to meet him at a donkey-vous beside the Ezbekiya Gardens.

Owen liked the Ezbekiya, though gardens it was not. What it was was a dirty patch of fenced-off sand with a few straggly trees and occasional tufts of scrawny grass. In a land where, with a little water, anything would grow, and private gardens were a blaze of bougainvillaea and oleander, Cairo’s public gardens remained bits of desert, and the only colour in the Ezbekiya was provided once a week by the uniforms of the incredibly incompetent Egyptian regimental band. The Ezbekiya did indeed have its moments, in the very early morning when there were few people about and the big falcons sailed over it with their unexpectedly musical cries and the Egyptian doves cooed softly in the palm trees, but on the whole what Owen liked was the Ezbekiya’s outside.

All round the gardens were railings. And all along the railings were open-air stands, shops, stalls, restaurants, street-artists and tradesmen. Everything the ordinary Egyptian needed was there. The barber sat on the railings while his customers stood patiently in front of him to have their heads shaved. The tailor hung his creations on the railings. The hat-sellers marked off their territory with towers of tarbooshes, all fitting one on top of the other. The whip-makers plaited their whips through the railings and hung them from the trees.

There were trees all round the Ezbekiya, most of them comparatively young. Circular spaces about a yard wide had been cut in the pavement to receive them. To guard their roots the spaces were covered with gratings except for a few inches round the trunk. In this hole the chestnut-seller lit his fire, and on the gratings he set out his pans of roasted chestnuts. At night the coffee-sellers and the men who sold cups of hot sago brought their wares too; and all through the day there were sweet-sellers and nougat-sellers and nut-sellers and lemonade-sellers and tea-sellers and pie-sellers and cake-sellers—everything the sweet-toothed Egyptian might be persuaded to spend his little money on. Around each stall there were usually people talking, and the place which attracted the most conversationalists, after, perhaps, the pavement restaurants, was the donkey-vous.

This was the donkey-boys’ stand. The donkeys, the little white donkeys of Cairo, lay about in the road and on the pavement among the huge green stacks of berseem brought there for their dinner by forage camels. They were very rarely disturbed, at least by foreigners, since to hire a donkey cost a foreigner as much as a cab and pair of horses. But in their saddles of red brocade and their necklaces of silver thread with blue beads they looked very picturesque and the tourists loved to photograph them. For that, of course, they paid, and that, during the tourist season, was what the donkey-vous was all about. That, and conversation.

There was more than one donkey-vous in the Ezbekiya but Owen knew which one to make for. It was next to a postcard-seller, and to get to it you had to go past a row of very strange postcards stuck on the railings: views of Cairo, oleographs of Levantine saints, scenes of the Massacre of the Marmelukes and from the Great War of Independence, portraits of the Madonna and of St. Catherine, and, of course, hundreds of indecent photographs, very precise in some respects, strangely vague in others. At the end of the row, their backs turned to all these visual riches, was a ring of donkey-boys squatting on the ground. Among them was Georgiades.

He stood up when he saw Owen approaching.

“Here’s my friend,” he said to the donkey-boys. “I’ve got to go.”

He shook hands with several of the boys and exchanged farewell salaams with others.

“I wouldn’t mind a cup of something,” he said to Owen, so that the donkey-boys could hear, “and perhaps a bite or two. Have we got time?”

“Sure,” said Owen. “No hurry.”

They went over to the nearby tea-stall and then, with their glasses of tea, drifted over to one of the trees where a chestnut-seller was just lighting his fire. Georgiades peered into his basket.

“These look good ones,” he said to the man. “How about doing a handful for me and my friend?”

“It will take a moment or two,” the man said, “but it will be well worth the wait.”

Owen and Georgiades went a little way off and squatted down beneath the trees to wait. The sun had set and it was already quite dark in the gardens. Beneath the trees it was darker still.

As they sat there someone came up and, as was not unusual, joined them in their conversation. It was the boy they had talked to in the Coptic Place of the Dead, the one who had given them information—and kicked Georgiades on the shin.

“Kick me again,” said Georgiades, keeping his voice at the gentle, conversational level, “and I will kick your balls so hard that they will fly out of your backside.”

Even in the darkness Owen could see the boy’s teeth flash white in a big grin.

“That was good, wasn’t it?” he said with pride. “They didn’t suspect a thing.”

“It was good,” said Georgiades, “at my expense. However, we need not pursue this now. Ali wanted us to meet here,” he said to Owen, “so that we should not be seen by his little friends.”

“Your name is Ali, is it?” Owen asked the boy.

“Yes, effendi.”

“And your mother is Yussuf’s sister.”

“Yes, effendi,” said the boy, pleased that Owen had remembered. Relationships were important in Egyptian society. They conferred obligations. If a man was lucky enough to get a job it was expected that he would use his position to find jobs for others in his family or village. But they were also a guarantee. When a misdemeanour was committed, it was not the offender alone who was shamed but his whole family.

“Well, Ali,” said Owen, “you have helped us already and I am grateful. Help us again and you will not lose by it.”

“Unless they find out.”

“They will not find out.”

The boy was silent.

“Where do you want to begin?” Georgiades asked Owen.

“Let us go back to the Place of the Dead. That night. You saw the men and you told us whose men they were. What about the man who took the dog into the tomb? Whose man was he?”

“The same.”

“Are you sure?” asked Owen. “My friend”—he meant Georgiades—“he asked among the men and they say he was not one of them.”

“That is so,” said the boy.

“Then—”

“He follows the one I spoke of. But not him alone.”

“He follows another too?”

“He is a Zikr.”

Afterwards a lot of things fell into place. For the moment, though, Owen was so caught by surprise that he could only repeat foolishly: “A Zikr?”

“Yes. Do you not know the Zikr? They are dervishes who call upon the name of God. Also, sometimes, they dance.”

“I know the Zikr,” said Owen, recovering.

“Well, then. This man is a Zikr. But he goes to the holy one’s mosque.”

“Which mosque is that?”

“It is close to the Bab es Zuweyla.”

“The blue one?”

“Yes. The blue one.”

The Blue Mosque, which Owen had seen the previous day on his visit to the bazaars, was a dervish mosque, used almost exclusively by such as the Zikr.

“He dances, then,” said Owen.

“Yes.”

“Did he dance the other night?”

“I do not know. I expect so.”

“If we brought you to where you could see the Zikr, could you pick him out for us?”

“It was dark when I saw him,” said the boy unwillingly.

“We would bring you where you could not be seen. And we would pay you better than well.”

“In that case,” said the boy, “I will come.”

“Do you think you will be able to pick him out?”

“I remember now,” said Ali, “that although it was dark that night, there was also a little moon.”

The chestnut-seller laid out the chestnuts on the grating to cool and then brought them over to Owen and Georgiades. Ali slipped back into the shadows. When they looked round, he had gone.

“Will you be able to find him again?”

“No,” said Georgiades. “But the little bugger can always find me.”

He cradled the chestnuts in his hands, enjoying the warmth.

“What was so special about him being a Zikr?”

“I’ve got something else on with the Zikr.”

He told Georgiades about the killing.

“Sounds as if Mahmoud’s got it sorted out,” Georgiades said.

“Zoser, you mean?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Almost certainly, yes,” said Owen. “Still, it would be nice if it was someone else. Not a Copt.”

“At least you’ve got him. That ought to keep the Moslems happy.”

“What about the Copts?”

“They’ll be happy too,” said Georgiades, “if you get the Moslem who put the dog in Andrus’s tomb.”

“That’s why I’m hoping Ali will be able to pick him out.”

Georgiades skinned a chestnut and popped it into his mouth.

“Have you thought,” he said, “that he might be the one who’s not there to be picked out?”

Owen had been to the Coptic Cathedral before but not to a Coptic church; so he was surprised to find that most of the congregation appeared to be on crutches. Closer inspection revealed that the crutches were in fact walking-sticks; and the need for such support soon became apparent. The service was interminably long and the congregation had to stand throughout.

The men, that was. The women were better provided for and were allowed to sit down. They were, however, segregated in a separate compartment off to the right and screened by a heavy grille, through which, nevertheless, some of the women contrived to allow themselves to be seen. The compartment gave only an oblique view of the altar, which perhaps accounted for the distinct murmur of conversation behind the grille.

Owen had borrowed the wife of a Coptic colleague as a companion for Jane Postlethwaite. The two were now inside the grille together and Mena Iskander had been given strict instructions to try to secure Miss Postlethwaite a seat from which she could see Zoser clearly and if possible his wife as well. A tall order, perhaps, though Mena Iskander was a lady of resource and intrigued by the whole situation. Fortunately, Zoser, who was the more important of the two, was also the most easily seeable.

He stood in the front row of the congregation immediately beneath one of the huge, heavily-ornamented lecterns, and during the readings his rapt, upturned face caught the light from the lectern’s candles. Watching his total absorption in the service and the way in which he hung upon the holy words, Owen could not help feeling a moment of doubt. Had they made a mistake?

However, in his time in Egypt, and before that in India, he had met many men of real devotion who yet had done the most terrible things, often in the name of the religion they served. It might be that Zoser was another such.

Of course it was not certain either that Zoser had done it or that, if he had done it, he had done it for sectarian reasons. But it had all the signs of a sectarian killing. Mahmoud had been unable to uncover anything of a personal nature which might have prompted the attack. Indeed, so far he had not been able to discover any previous relationship at all between Zoser and the Zikr. And, unfortunately, sectarian attacks were not at all uncommon. Cairo was a city of many nationalities and many different systems of belief. There were large communities of Greeks, Armenians, Jews, Turks, Levantines, Italians, French and English, as well as the more indigenous Copts, Arabs, Berbers from the south and Negroes. And each community, Cairo being Cairo, had at least two rival sects. Owen found it hard to keep track of all of them. But keep track he had to, for the sects were always at odds with each other and sometimes their differences spilled over into killings. What one tended to get, too, was not just sect against sect, but a fundamentalist sect of one religion against a fundamentalist sect of another, Christian against Moslem, another Coptic sect against—Zikr?

A sudden crash of cymbals pulled him back to the present. At regular, but otherwise apparently arbitrary points during the service an acolyte would emerge from a recess, face the congregation and clash the cymbals violently together. Then he would retire. Owen suspected that it was to make sure that nobody fell asleep. There was some danger of this since hardly anyone present could understand a word. The service was conducted throughout in traditional Coptic, a language found only in churches and a few schools, and which very few even of the Copts understood. They habitually spoke Egyptian Arabic.

There was another mighty crash and a priest began walking through the congregation swinging a censer and laying his hand on the head of anyone who offered. Among those who offered was Zoser.

People began to stir and Owen got the impression that the service was approaching its end. The priest completed his circuit and disappeared behind the altar screen, leaving in his wake a long trail of incense which gradually mounted into the roof and lost itself among the ostrich eggs and silver censers suspended there. There was a final reading, mercifully brief, and a last clash of cymbals; and then from behind the altar screen came a procession of priests and acolytes and small boys holding lighted tapers and carrying a large picture. They paraded round the church showing the picture to all parts of the congregation. Then they, too, retreated behind the altar screen with a last puff of smoke and the chanting came to an end.

Outside, he joined up with Mahmoud and waited for the two women. They came up the steps with a Coptic woman in a long black gown and veil. As they stepped out into the sunshine Mena Iskander’s reticule slipped and fell on the ground. She walked on without noticing. The Coptic woman hesitated, then picked up the reticule and hurried after Mena. Mena thanked her profusely, taking her impetuously by both hands. The woman’s sleeves fell back and there was the hand-painting.

The ladies parted. The Coptic woman went to one side and stood waiting for her husband, who was delayed in the church. Mena and Jane came towards them.

“Brilliant!” said Owen.

“Mrs. Iskander,” said Mahmoud, “you are remarkable!”

Mena Iskander looked bashfully at the ground. She was not used to receiving compliments from men in public.

“Did you see?” she asked.

Owen looked at Jane Postlethwaite. She nodded.

Zoser came hurrying out of the church and joined his wife. From under her huge hat and the light grey veil she had thoughtfully donned for the occasion Jane Postlethwaite regarded them steadily.

When they had returned Mena Iskander to her amused husband they went with Jane Postlethwaite back to her hotel, where Owen earned unmerited credit for his morning’s occupation.

“Copts,” said John Postlethwaite. “They would be a sort of Nonconformist here, would they?”

“Sort of,” said Owen.

Paul, who had accompanied John Postlethwaite to an Anglican service, gave Owen an approving glance.

“That’s more like it, Gareth. Keep it up. The Pyramids tomorrow. Yes? Please?”

Their credit was increased, in John Postlethwaite’s eyes, when they ordered coffee. Most of the British in the hotel were drinking something stronger. Mahmoud, of course, as a Moslem, did not drink alcohol, and Owen, who habitually took on protective colouring, fell into line without thinking.

They took it on the terrace where there was more air and a slight breeze ruffled Jane Postlethwaite’s sleeves.

“Get what you wanted?” Owen asked.

Mahmoud looked at Jane Postlethwaite.

“She had touched up her hands,” said Jane Postlethwaite, “but the pattern was the same.”

“It was the woman you saw?”

“Yes.”

“You would be prepared to swear to that?”

“I would,” said Jane Postlethwaite firmly.

“And Zoser?”

“He was the man I saw.”

Mahmoud sat back with a little sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Miss Postlethwaite,” he said. “There was always the chance that you might not.”

Jane Postlethwaite sipped her coffee meditatively.

“When so much depends upon it,” she said, “it seems wrong to be so certain.”

“But if you were certain—?”

“I know,” she said, “I should say so. Well, I am prepared to say so.”

“A man’s life was taken,” Mahmoud pointed out.

“Yes. That is why I am prepared to testify.”

Owen felt that things were moving a little too fast.

“That may not be necessary, Miss Postlethwaite,” he said smoothly.

The British community would not be very happy about the involvement of one of its ladies in a public trial. Nor, it occurred to him, in the special circumstances of John Postlethwaite’s visit, was the Consul-General likely to be overjoyed.

Jane Postlethwaite looked puzzled.

“Don’t you want me to give evidence?” she demanded.

“Well, it’s not quite that—”

“Yes,” said Mahmoud.

Jane Postlethwaite looked uncertainly from one to the other.

“It may prove distressing for you, Miss Postlethwaite,” said Owen.

“And you would like to spare me?”

“Of course.”

Jane Postlethwaite looked down into her lap. Then she raised her head.

“Captain Owen,” she said, “do you think that proper?”

“Well…

“When so much is at stake?”

“Well…”

“Captain Owen, why do you wish to spare me?”

“Because… because… he fumbled.

“Because I am a pretty girl?”

There was no answer to that one.

“Or because I am British?”

“Both.”

Jane Postlethwaite rose from the table in a fury.

“That is not right, Captain Owen,” she said icily. “That is not right.”

As she reached the door, she turned.

“If you wish me to give evidence, Mr. el-Zaki,” she said, “I certainly shall.”

“Sorry!” said Mahmoud.

“Christ!” said Owen.

They walked a little way in silence. It was the hottest part of the day, and apart from them there was nothing moving in the streets. Even the donkeys were lying down.

“It’s not much,” said Mahmoud.

“Not much?”

Mahmoud, however, was thinking of the case.

“It’s not much to go on. A positive identification, yes, but only by one person.”

Owen allowed his mind to drain back.

“Any corroborative evidence?”

“Hardly,” Mahmoud admitted.

“It’s not strong,” said Owen.

That was another thing; if it was Jane Postlethwaite’s word against Zoser’s, the court would almost certainly convict. But it would look bad. The word of a European against the word of an Egyptian. It would be OK if there was other evidence. But to convict on her word alone! The Nationalist papers would pick it up. They might make quite a thing of it. They’d do it deliberately to embarrass the Government. And, my God, they would certainly succeed if it came out that she was Postlethwaite’s niece.

“I thought you wanted to wrap it up quickly,” said Mahmoud in injured tones.

“I do,” said Owen. “But it’s got to be watertight. Suppose we don’t clinch it? The Copts will say we tried to put it on him and the Moslems will say we let him off.”

“I could always pull him in for questioning.”

“Think he’d talk?”

“They sometimes do.”

Sectarian killers especially. They usually didn’t even bother to deny the charge. They saw it, rather, as something to boast of.

“Think he would?”

Mahmoud was silent.

“No,” he said. “Not unless I could shake him.”

“And for that you need something to shake him with. Are your men going to come up with anything?”

“At the moment,” said Mahmoud, “there doesn’t seem to be a lot for them to come up with.”

“No previous contact?”

“Apparently not. Zoser keeps himself pretty much to himself. All his contacts seem to be within the Coptic community. Apart from work. And that doesn’t help us much because, so far as we have been able to ascertain, the Zikr doesn’t appear to have bought a bottle of perfume in his life.”

“It’s not the sort of thing he would buy, is it?”

“No, he’s not that sort. And that’s another thing. The two men are as different as chalk and cheese. It’s hard to see how they could ever get to know each other long enough for it to come to this. Zoser’s withdrawn, doesn’t have much to do with people. Religion is everything to him. The Zikr must have been devout too, of course, but he got round a lot more than Zoser, mixed with people, liked crowd and noise and a bit of fun. Something of a character, too. People say he was a bit of a joker.”

“A joker?”

The idea came to him. Or came back to him. Something that Georgiades had said.

“I know,” said Mahmoud. “It’s hard to imagine a Zikr being a bit of a joker, isn’t it? Still, they can’t always be chanting and dancing. They’ve got lives of their own too.”

“It’s not that.”

“No? Well, anyway, my men have been unable to find any connection between the two at all. Which almost certainly makes it a sectarian killing.”

“Yes,” said Owen, “but why him? Him particularly?”

Mahmoud shrugged.

“He was the nearest?” he suggested.

“But he wasn’t, was he? Zoser picked him out.”

“We don’t know that.”

“OK. Put it another way: what made Zoser start picking?”

“He doesn’t like Moslems.”

“Yes. But what made him decide to do something about it? Now?”

“It suddenly came over him?”

“Something triggered it off. What was that something?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“I might,” said Owen. “I might.”

“What the hell’s this?” said Georgiades, staring into his mug unbelievingly.

“Yussuf’s got problems,” said Nikos from his desk.

“I’m going to speak to him,” said Owen.

“For God’s sake speak to him quickly,” said Georgiades. “Otherwise I’ll have problems.”

“I’ve got one for you already,” said Owen.

“Thank you.”

“The problem is this: how do we find out whether the Zikr who put the dog in Andrus’s tomb is also the Zikr who got killed?”

“I see your problem,” said Georgiades, after a moment’s reflection.

“Get that boy to have a look at the body,” said Nikos.

“He’s only a child,” Owen objected.

Nikos shrugged his shoulders and went on with his writing. “Look,” said Georgiades. “I hate to shatter these gentle English illusions—”

“Welsh,” said Owen.

“That’s right,” said Georgiades, “somewhere over there. But that innocent child earns his livelihood robbing corpses.”

“Bloody hell!” said Owen.

Nikoslooked up.

“What else do you expect him to do?” he asked. “He’s living in the graveyard, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s not much of a living. Everybody knows about it so they don’t leave anything valuable on the body.”

“Except Copts,” said Nikos.

“He robs Moslems too,” said Georgiades. “No sectarian prejudice here. No,” he said, turning to Owen, “that’s not the problem.”

“What is?”

“Where’s the body?”

Owen thought for a moment.

“I’d assumed it was in the mortuary. Either still at the lab or somewhere else.”

Georgiades shook his head.