The Girl in the Nile (20 page)

“Are you sure?”

“It’s been building up,” said Owen. “We should have spotted it. Your name—”

“My
name
?”

“You’ve seen the newspapers?”

“Yes, but—”

“The radical pamphlets? The illicit handbills?”

“Yes, but—”

“Your name,” said Owen, “everywhere!”

“But surely—”

“You have become identified—in the popular mind—with all that is widely hated in Egypt at the present time, a symbol”—where had he heard this before?—“of all that the revolutionary movement is fighting against.”

“My God!” said the Prince. “Have I?”

“It will blow over. It will take a day or two, a week or two, perhaps, but it will blow over. But meanwhile, for the sake of your own safety—”

“I’ll leave at once,” said the Prince. “I’ll catch the next boat.”

“No! Too dangerous!” said Owen hastily. “For the next few days it’s absolutely vital that you stay where we can protect you.”

“Army Headquarters?”

“I think your own house would do. It will be heavily guarded, I assure you. The one thing, though, that I absolutely insist on is that
you must not go out
.”

“You don’t think France would be better?”

“We couldn’t guard you. No, Prince, you’re safer under our direct protection. In a few days it will all be over.”

“Well,” said the Prince doubtfully, “if you really think so.”

“I do. And now it remains for us to make sure that you get home safely, I have ordered an escort—”

“Oh, good,” said the Prince.

“Mounted.”

“Mounted? On camels? But—”

“There will be guards traveling in your car. Heavily armed guards. You need have no fear.”

“I am not so sure about that,” said Narouz.

For some time Owen had been observing—from a safe distance—the rump of a particularly large, mangy and clearly flea-ridden camel. He stirred restlessly.

“Why,” he asked Georgiades, “have you brought me here?”

“Because,” said Georgiades in injured tones, “this is where it all starts.”

Owen looked round. They were in a large open compound on the edge of the town, just where the quarter gave onto the desert. Scattered around the compound were some two dozen camels, all hobbled by the knees in the desert way. And over beside a wall was a row of about a dozen donkeys, their tails flicking continuously at the flies.

“Here?”

“Here. It was, in fact,” said Georgiades, “the donkeys that gave me the idea.”

“I don’t remember any donkeys,” said Owen cautiously.

“I suggested, if you remember, that what the fiki may have done was to tack a couple of donkeys on the back of the funeral procession and use them to pick up the arms from the kuttub. Well, I checked up on that. And that,” said Georgiades, “brought me here.”

“He picked up the donkeys from here?”

“He picked up the whole funeral procession from here. The fiki has the name in the neighborhood of being a great fixer. If you want anything arranged, be it a wedding or a funeral, a house move or just your latrines emptied, you go to him. And he comes here.”

“He comes here?” said Owen, surprised. Animals, in Egypt, represented capital, and there was a lot of capital here for a humble fiki.

“No. It belongs to a big camel contractor. Camels are his main business. The donkeys are just a sideline. The fiki, though, is his local man-on-the-spot. That is, for his less legitimate business.”

At the far end of the compound some men were sitting on the ground around a brazier drinking tea. Two of them stood up and began to saunter across towards them. Georgiades pulled Owen back into the doorway.

“What is his less legitimate business?” asked Owen.

“Let me tell you about his legitimate business first. He buys camels in Syria and Palestine and then has them driven across the desert to the Canal. He picks them up at Kantara and then brings them here, where he sells them off.”

“For food?”

Camel meat took the place of beef for the poorer Egyptian.

“Yes. That is his legitimate business. But it doesn’t take much imagination to see that if you are regularly bringing camels into the country and across to Cairo, you can also bring other things.”

“Such as arms?”

“And hashish. They put the hashish in little cylinders which they get the camels to swallow. Then when they slaughter them they extricate the cylinders.”

“So the slaughters are part of it?”

“Yes, and the fiki another part. He arranges for the distribution once they get here. You see,” said Georgiades, “that was another thing that struck me. Distribution. Even small parcels of arms are heavy. They’ve got to be carried. Donkeys are the obvious way of carrying them. And that brings us back to here. Donkeys are the clue to it all.”

The two men had reached the camels now and were checking their saddlebags.

“So the fiki gets the arms here,” said Owen, “and then distributes them by donkey. Does he distribute the hashish too?

“The lot. He’s into most things round here.”

“And do you know who he distributes them to?”

“That’s what has taken the time,” said Georgiades. “I had to find a driver I could bribe.”

“But you’ve found one?”

“Yes. It cost a lot.” Georgiades gave Owen a sideways glance. “You’re going to have to square this with Accounts.”

Owen winced.

“It’s audit,” he said. “They send someone over from England. He doesn’t always understand the way we do things here.”

“It’s in a good cause. Anyway, I got a lot of information from him, but of course he didn’t do all the deliveries himself so it took him a bit of time to find out the other ones. However”—Georgiades tapped his pocket—“I have now got a list.”

The two men, having checked the saddlebags, walked away again.

“Let me have a look.”

“It’s just deliveries. They might be arms, they might be hashish or they might be anything else. Even ordinary things like pianos. But mostly its fringe illicit. Radical literature, for example.”

“Pamphlets?”

“And handbills. The lot. Anything bulky that has to be transported around the place.” Georgiades dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “Let me give you some advice. Arrest all the donkeys in town. That’s the way to break the radical press.”

“Thank you.”

“Your friend Hargazy, for instance,” said Georgiades.

“He uses these donkeys?”

“A lot.”

“And the fiki organizes it for him?”

“For him and others. He’s a busy man. As we have noticed.”

He took the list out of his pocket and gave it to Owen.

“There’s one on the back that will interest you.”

Owen turned the page over.

“Narouz!”

“Narouz, question mark.”

“Why ‘question mark’?”

“Because I’m not sure he’s in the same category as the others: someone being delivered something.”

“Then why is he here?”

“The driver reports that one day he was delivering a load with the fiki and they met Narouz. It seemed to be by appointment. He mentioned it because he had been impressed.”

“Where was this?”

“You’ll be surprised.”

The two men approached again. This time they unhobbled two of the camels and goaded them, protesting, to their feet. Then they took them by their lead ropes and headed out of the compound.

Georgiades watched them until they were halfway down the street and then touched Owen’s arm.

“These ones we’ll follow,” he said.

As they threaded their way through the narrow streets, the people sitting in the shade of the open doorways did not give them a second glance. In this part of the city there were camels coming and going all the time, carrying wood, carrying water, carrying green fodder for the cab horses in the center of the town.

At this time of day, too, there were few people about. The sun was at its hottest and most people had retreated inside. The little stalls with their tomatoes and cucumbers and gherkins were deserted, apparently abandoned to whoever cared to pillage them. Only sometimes, underneath the stalls, in the shade, the owner was sleeping.

Following the soft pad of the camels along the sandy street, Owen could feel the sweat running off him. When it was so hot, the slightest motion set the moisture trickling.

They came to narrower, darker streets where the houses were high and kept out the sun. This was a residential area and there were few shops. The houses had their shutters closed. Everyone was indoors at their siesta.

They crossed a broader street which seemed vaguely familiar. Owen looked down it. At the far end it broadened out into a crossroads in which there seemed to be a large market.

“The souk?”

“Al-Gadira,” said Georgiades.

The camels padded on.

And then, as the houses became smaller again and moved further apart, and the shade suddenly dwindled and they became conscious again of the oppression of the sun, they came to an open square.

The camels crossed the square and came to a stop outside a low building on the opposite side which Owen recognized at once.

The Police Station! The station he had come to on that first afternoon when all this business had started, the station from which he had first learned about the body on that sandbank.

“This is it,” said Georgiades.

“It?”

“The place where the fiki met Narouz.”

In the shade in front of the building a man was lying. He stood up as the camel drivers reached him. It was the corporal, Ibrahim, he of the pole. He saw the camels, went up the steps of the building and shouted to someone inside.

After a moment the District Chief emerged. He greeted the drivers and then walked over to the camels.

He stood for a moment looking and then bent down beside one of them. Owen saw him put his hand up under it and begin to palpate the animal’s lower stomach.

The camel, never the most tractable of beasts, stood this for a moment and then began to sit. The Chief ducked nimbly out of the way and said something, smiling, to the camel drivers.

He moved on to the second camel. This was less tolerant and snatched its head back and tried to bite at him. The camel driver cursed and heaved its head round with the rope.

The camel then shied round and the Chief had to dodge swiftly out of the way of its hooves.

He seemed satisfied, however, and waved the camels on round to the rear of the building. Then he went back inside.

Owen followed him.

The Chief, who associated Owen with all that was bad, went pale.

Owen smiled.

“It was there all right, wasn’t it? The hashish?”

The Chief went paler still.

“You have good friends, I see. Suppose you tell me about them?”

“What friends?” said the uncomfortable Chief, perspiring.

“The fiki, for a start.”

The fiki declined a chair and stood composed in the center of the room, his arms folded, looking down on Owen and Mahmoud.

It was late in the morning and the shutters had been closed against the sun. The only light was that which came through the slats of the shutters, so the room was in that strange state of half-light which was the normal light of interior Cairo.

“So you see,” said Owen, “we know all about you. We know how the arms got here, we know how you distributed them, we know to whom they went.”

“Why, then,” asked the fiki, “do you wish to talk to me?”

“There are some other points we would like to clear up. Nothing to do with the arms. More, shall we say, incidental matters. We think you may be able to help us.”

The fiki shrugged.

“The matter, for instance, of what happened to Leila Sekhmet’s body.”

“Sekhmet?”

“You don’t know her name?”

“Why should I know her name?”

“I wondered if you did,” said Owen. “That was all.”

“No.”

“Let me call her something else, then. The girl on the dahabeeyah. The one who was killed.”

“What dahabeeyah was this?”

“The Prince’s.”

The fiki laughed. “I have nothing to do with princes,” he said.

“No? And yet you have had something to do with this one. You met him, for instance. You see,” said Owen, “we really do know all about you.”

The fiki merely shrugged.

“The girl was garotted and her body thrown overboard. It came ashore on a sandbank, where it was found by two beggars, whose names I also know. They had been told to look out for it, because it was known that the body would be coming ashore. They had also been told what to do with it. Hide it nearby.”

The fiki listened impassively.

“They hid it under a boat in a neighboring boatyard. Then, when it became dark, someone else picked it up.”

“So?” said the fiki.

“The someone was you.”

The fiki hesitated just a fraction of a second.

“So you say,” he said.

“So I know. There was a witness. I also know,” said Owen, “what happened after that. But perhaps you can tell me?”

“I do not think I can,” said the fiki.

“No? Well, let me tell you. You took it to the Place of Tombs. And there you hid it. In a tomb that was known to you. Had you used it before, I wonder?”

The fiki watched Owen unblinkingly, like some great fat cat. He said nothing, however.

“You are still not going to help us? Well then, let us go on to the next bit. The occasion when you used it again.”

“I did not use it before. So how could I use it again?”

“It was the occasion of the burial of Ali Marwash’s daughter. That was a busy day indeed! You were, I expect, in the kuttub, hearing the boys’ verses, when you learned that the Mamur Zapt was searching the area, was, perhaps, even then at the end of the street. You had to act quickly. The funeral procession was no doubt already gathering?”

“It was gathering,” said the fiki, “and I was already with it.”

“I do not think so. And nor do the boys in the kuttub.”

“Boys!” said the fiki dismissively.

“They remembered that you had brought the funeral forward.”

“I do not think it was brought forward.”

“I do. And so do Ali Marwash and the Imam.”

The fiki suddenly went still.

“You brought with you two donkeys,” resumed Owen. “You filled their saddlebags with the arms from the kuttub. And then you rejoined the procession and went with it to the Place of Tombs.”

“I went to the Place of Tombs, certainly,” said the fiki.

“And there, afterwards, you hid the arms in the very tomb in which you had just placed Ali Marwash’s daughter.”

“So you say,” muttered the fiki.

“So I know. And so soon will others. And when they do,” said Owen quietly, “I do not think you will have many friends.”

“Still fewer,” said Mahmoud, speaking for the first time, “when they know that you were the one who thrust the girl’s body unfeelingly into that other tomb, the tomb in which you had already placed Leila Sekhmet.”

The fiki stood for some time with his head bowed. Then he raised his eyes.

“Since you know all these things,” he said, “why do you ask me them?”

Mahmoud now took up the questioning.

“There are some things,” he said, “which we would like to hear from your lips.”

“Such as?”

“Who told you to collect Leila Sekhmet’s body?”

“I cannot tell you that.”

“As my friend has already told you, we know the answers to other questions. It was the Man, was it not?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Are you afraid? Afraid of what he might do?”

“I would be foolish if I were not afraid,” said the fiki.

“You are going to prison anyway,” said Owen. “You can tell us, for there you will be safe.”

The fiki looked at him incredulously.

“Safe from the Man?” he said. “In prison?”

Mahmoud considered the point. Then he nodded his head gently, as if in agreement.

“Very well,” he said. “Then tell me one other thing. And this you
can
tell us with safety. It is this. What did you talk about with the Prince Narouz?”

“With the Prince Narouz?” asked the fiki, surprised.

“We know you met him.”

“Well, yes,” said the fiki. “But surely…” He still seemed surprised. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “I offered him the girl’s body,” he said “The Chief had made it known that he would pay handsomely.”

“And that was it?” asked Mahmoud skeptically.

“Yes,” said the fiki. “What else could it be?”

“You tell me,” said Mahmoud. “Or is this another of those things we have to tell you?”

“You can say what you like,” said the fiki, “but I have told you the truth.”

“I just wondered,” said Mahmoud, “if he had paid you your reward?”

“I did not give him the body. That was to come later. Then there would be the reward.”

“Not for the body,” said Mahmoud. “For something else. Something that you had done for him.”

“What had I done for him?” asked the fiki, and seemed genuinely bewildered.

“You tell me.”

“How can I tell you,” asked the fiki, “when I do not know?”

“Was that the first time you had met Narouz?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure that he had not already asked you to do something for him?”

“Such as?”

“Speak to the Man on his behalf?”

“We had not met before and he did not ask me to speak to the Man. I do not understand,” said the fiki. “Why should I speak to the Man on his behalf?”

“To arrange a killing,” said Mahmoud. “To arrange for a professional garotter to go on board the dahabeeyah that night and kill Leila Sekhmet.”

The fiki drew in his breath sharply.

“Did you speak to the Man?” asked Mahmoud.

“No,” said the fiki. “No.”

Mahmoud got up from the desk, crossed the room to the window, pushed open the shutters and looked out. He stood there looking down into the courtyard as if he was searching for something, apparently having forgotten about the fiki entirely.

Owen took up the questioning.

“I believe you,” he said. “I believe you did not talk to the Man.”

“Well?” said the fiki uncertainly.

“I believe you killed the girl yourself.”

“You have said I did not.”

“That is my friend’s story. It is not mine.”

“Well?”

“You were seen with the body. How did that happen, I wonder?”

“You know already. I picked it up.”

“How did you know it was there to pick up?”

“Someone told me.”

“If that is true, give me his name.”

The fiki was silent.

“There! You cannot. That is because there was no one.”

The fiki deliberated on this for a while, then shrugged and looked at Owen.

“I shall have to take what comes,” he said.

“Yes, you will. And I wonder if you know what is to come?”

“Prison,” said the fiki confidently.

“Oh yes. But more. You see, you are about to be charged with being at least an accessory to murder. At least; for my story is that you were seen with the body and that you tried to hide it. These are not the actions of an innocent man. But even if they were, and what you say is true, that still makes you an accessory to murder.”

“I played but a small part,” said the fiki.

“You may think so but the law does not. And so,” said Owen, “you will be punished not for a small part but as an equal in the whole.”

“That cannot be so,” said the fiki, disturbed.

“That is so. And furthermore,” said Owen, “I have the power to make it so.”

The fiki looked round the room as if in search of help. All he saw was Mahmoud’s back.

“If there are no others,” said Owen, “you will go to your fate alone.”

“That is their good fortune,” said the fiki heroically.

“It could be yours,” said Owen, “if you wish.”

The fiki looked at him with sudden interest.

“What do you mean, effendi?”

Owen noticed the “effendi” and smiled.

“You have a choice,” he said. “It is this. You are going to be punished anyway. You will receive a long sentence for the arms smuggling. But eventually even a long sentence comes to an end.”

He paused to let it sink in.

“Now here is the choice. Say nothing, and I swear to you that I shall charge you with being an accessory to murder and will press for the maximum punishment. Say something—and it will depend on how much you say—and I may let the other sentence suffice.”

The fiki stood there for a long time.

“Who are you afraid of” asked Owen.

“You know. He will have me killed.”

“Not if he is himself dead. And that depends on what you tell us. Not alone on that, for there are others. That may help you to decide.”

The fiki’s head drooped. Once or twice he stirred and seemed about to speak, but then his shoulders sagged again.

“Come,” said Owen. “Who ordered the killing?”

The fiki tried to bring himself to speak. Owen waited.

“Come,” he said again.

“The Man,” whispered the fiki at last. “The Man.”

“Good. And do you know the name of the man he sent?”

“Yes.”

“That is good, too. We will come to that later. But first there is a more important question. It is this. Who asked for the girl to be killed?”

The fiki still hesitated.

“Someone approached you,” said Owen, “and asked you to speak to the Man and arrange for the girl to be killed. Who was it?”

He waited.

“Was it Narouz?”

The fiki looked up, puzzled.

“No,” he said. “It was not Narouz. Why—?”

“Who was it, then?”

“Hargazy,” said the fiki.

“I am very relieved,” said Prince Narouz.

And took a drink.

“Very, very relieved.”

He took another.

“To think that all this time this terrible man was plotting my ruin. No, worse than that: my death. I would have been killed, wouldn’t I? I mean, if they had found me guilty of Leila’s death.”

“You have saving graces, Your Highness. You are an heir to the Khedive.”

“I am not sure I like being an heir, if this is the kind of thing that happens to me.”

They were sitting comfortably on divans in the Prince’s
appartement
. In the street below Owen could hear men’s voices.

“I shall, of course, be removing the guard.”

The Prince held up a protesting hand.

“Not so fast, my dear fellow! There’s no need to be in too much of a hurry. These are difficult times. Who knows what other desperate people may be about?”

“I think we have dealt with the threat now.”

“You spoke of a gang, though, didn’t you?” asked Narouz anxiously.

“Er, yes,” said Owen. “I believe I did. Well, of course, I was referring loosely to his associates: the fiki, the Man, Abdul Mirzal—”

“Abdul Mirzal? Who is he?”

“He is the professional garotter. The fiki identified him to us.”

“Behind bars, I trust?”

“Oh yes. Along with the rest of them. In fact, Prince, it has really been very satisfactory. Not only have we solved a crime which was preoccupying the Parquet and, of course, a potential embarrassment to you; we have rounded up a whole network of arms smugglers
and
at last managed to put the Man behind bars.”

“Is behind bars enough?”

“It is only temporarily. Until the trial. Then, I think, he will be on his way to other things.”

“I think,” said Prince Narouz, “that until that actually happens we will retain the guard.”

Owen bowed.

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

At least there would be no complaint from Narouz about what had happened.

Narouz refilled his glass.

“What I cannot understand,” he said, “is why that desperate fellow, Hargazy, should pick on me. I had never met him.”

“You stood for something, Prince. You stood for everything he objected to. Power, privilege, rank, the old order. He wanted to sweep it all away.”

“I’m all for reform myself,” said Narouz, “but does one have to be quite so drastic?”

“I think he felt that it stood in the way of progress. There are,” said Owen diplomatically, “surprisingly many people in Cairo who take that view.”

“As a general point,” said Narouz, “I suppose I can understand that. It is the particular application I object to. Why me?”

“I believe that was accident,” said Owen, “the accident that you had become acquainted with Leila Sekhmet. It offered him, you see, an opportunity. He had made Miss Sekhmet’s acquaintance some time previously but the relationship had lapsed. They met again, however, probably on the occasion of the first night of a friend’s play—”

“Not that dreadful
New Roses in the Garden
?”

“Quite possibly. Anyway, at some point Miss Sekhmet told him about your invitation to her, to accompany you to Luxor on the dahabeeyah. That, I think, was when the idea came to him. Somewhat to her surprise, he encouraged her to go. After that, it was only a case of fixing the details, which he was able to do through the fiki.”

Narouz shuddered.