The Donkey-Vous

Chapter 4

At the end of the street was a large, ruined mosque. It was solid and fortresslike, possessing the grandeur but lacking the grace of the other great Cairo mosques. Everything about it was square and formidable. Even its minarets were not true minarets but mabkharas, structures like the pylons of the ancient Egyptian temples. It grew out of Saladin’s old city walls, sharing with them secret rooms and hidden defensive passages. It was the mosque of El Hakim, the fourth oldest of all the mosques of Cairo, one of the few remaining from the former city of El Kahira.

Although it was ruined it was not deserted. The ordinary poor had come to live in it, and now wherever there was an arch intact or a few bricks to give a patch of shade an assembly of cooking utensils and a fire announced the hearth of a household.

There were even, among the ruins, workshops and small factories. Space was scarce in Cairo and enterprising entrepreneurs took it where they could find it.

The Egyptologists, thought Owen, spoke of Egypt’s traditional preoccupation with death and pointed to the Pyramids. But the Pyramids had been built by workmen from the villages roundabout and from those villages also had come generations of grave robbers who had not been afraid to pillage the tombs. The Egyptologists spoke of the Pyramids and not of the grave robbers; but it was the grave robbers with their need and their greed, with their anarchic rejection of the dead hand of authority and with their obstinate instinct for life, who were in the end characteristic of Egyptian society.

It was typical of Egyptians to take over something dead and make it a place for living. The mosque might have been an empty shell; instead, it hummed with life. Even now at night there were pinpricks of light beneath its arches.

Sadiq led them toward one of these, threading his way through a grove of still intact pillars, some of them still supporting arches. They were going through the liwan, the deep central space or room which served as the sanctuary. In the old days, when El Hakim was still functioning as a mosque, the faithful would have gathered round the pillars in the shade of the arches to hear the Holy Word expounded. At the far end of the pillars there was a light.

Sadiq stopped. A second figure appeared beside him. The two figures merged together for a moment and then the second figure detached itself and came across to Owen.

“He is still there, effendi,” a voice whispered in his ear. “No one has come. He sits with the watchman. He has a case with him.”

He put his hand on Owen’s arm and guided him forward. Ahead of him was a deeper darkness, something screening off the light, a wall perhaps.

Abou brought him up to the wall and then stopped. There was a gap through which Owen could see. In front of him two Arabs were sitting on the ground with an oil lamp between them. One of them was an old man in a torn, dirty galabeah, the night watchman presumably. The other was a suffragi in a spruce gown. Owen thought he recognized one of the attendants from the cloakroom. On the ground beside him was Berthelot’s case.

Owen shifted his position and something flashed in his eyes, dazzling him. Involuntarily he jerked his head back and was dazzled again. For a moment he could not work out what was happening. Then he realized. There was some glass opposite him which was catching the light from the oil lamp. Several bits of glass, because as he moved there were different flashes.

He looked more closely. At first he could not make out what it was. Then he saw and could not believe his eyes. The space in front of him was piled deep with lanterns. That was what the “wall” consisted of: lanterns, hundreds of them. They stood in heaps and piles all around this part of the liwan, bright, colored lanterns with gaudy paper and flashy dangling beads.

Then he remembered. The mosque was used to store the lanterns used on feast days to decorate the city’s streets and squares.

The two Arabs went on talking quietly. From time to time the watchman looked at the case. The other man did not stir.

At one point the watchman got to his feet and shuffled off into the night. Owen tensed expectantly but the suffragi did not move nor did anyone come. Eventually the watchman shuffled back, this time with a dirty black can. He produced two small enamel cups from the folds of his galabeah, set them on the ground and filled them from the can. The suffragi drank with appropriately polite smacking of lips.

They resumed their conversation. Owen could follow it only in parts. It was purely trivial in nature. They were just passing the time. Owen felt sure the suffragi was waiting for somebody.

Georgiades had slipped away. Owen knew what he was doing. He was making his way ’round to the other side to cut off possible escape routes.

If the man was coming, though, it would have to be soon. The sky was beginning to lighten.

The watchman produced some bread and an onion and offered to share it with the suffragi. The suffragi refused politely.

Owen was beginning to get bothered now. It was getting light so quickly that a man coming through the liwan would be able to see the watchers. He signalled to Abou, who was standing beside him and they moved in front of two pillars to be less visible from behind.

Still no one came.

In the strange gray light that came before the dawn in Egypt things stood out as clearly as if it were day but with a gentle softness which lacked the harsh clarity of the sun. Owen always woke early. He would be awaking now if this were an ordinary day.

Any moment now the sun would come over the horizon. The watchman leaned forward and extinguished the lamp.

The suffragi rose from his squat and picked up the case. He bade the watchman the usual extended, ceremonious, Arab farewell and then walked off down the colonnaded arcade.

Abou looked at Owen questioningly.

Owen nodded and the tracker slipped off through the pillars. Owen followed a long way behind. Tracking by daylight, when it was so much easier to be seen, was far harder than tracking by night. It was best left to those who knew how to do it.

He could not see Sadiq. Georgiades, he knew, would be doing the same as he was.

They followed the line of the old city wall. The houses in this poor quarter were made of mud. Every year when the heavy rain came it washed away some of the mud and left the houses slightly shapeless, their corners blurred. Then the sun came and dried the mud until it cracked. Little by little it would crumble and then be washed away when the rain came again. Many of the houses were little better than ruins.

The suffragi went into one of the most ruined of these. There was not even a proper door, just a gap in the wall.

The trackers waited at a discreet distance. Georgiades and Owen came up with them. Georgiades looked at Owen and made a face.

“Nothing else for it!” Owen said resignedly. He waved the trackers in.

They were holding the suffragi when Owen stepped into the room. The suffragi was putting up no resistance; indeed, there was a smile on his face.

Owen went across to the case and snapped it open.

It was empty.

“It was a decoy,” said Owen bitterly, “just a decoy.”

“And you fell for it,” said Garvin, with a certain grim satisfaction.

“You’ve got the man, though,” said McPhee, loyal to the last.

“Yes, but I can’t hold him. What’s he done?”

“He has deceived us,” said McPhee stiffly.

“The way you’re conducting this investigation, that’ll be true of half the population by the time you’ve finished,” said Garvin.

“Anyway, that doesn’t constitute a crime.”

“Stolen a case.”

“He’s not stolen a case,” said Owen. “It’s his case.”

“Not Berthelot’s?”

“No. Like Berthelot’s. Exactly like.”

“What absolute nonsense! What is a suffragi doing with a case like that?”

“He says he uses it to take his supper to the club. Anton won’t give him any food, so he has to take his own. He used to take it wrapped in a newspaper but Anton didn’t like that. He said it lowered the tone. So now he takes it in a posh case.”

“Just like Berthelot’s?”

“Just like Berthelot’s. Pure coincidence.”

“Coincidence!” McPhee fumed.

“And meanwhile the real case went somewhere else, I suppose,” said Garvin.

“No. It’s still in the cloakroom, where Berthelot left it. The attendant says he can’t give it to us unless we produce a receipt.”

“Oh really!”

Garvin laughed. “I take it the money is no longer in it?” he said.

“There never was any money in it. According to Berthelot.”

“Just a case, which he properly left in the cloakroom?”

“And the cloakroom has properly looked after it.”

“Well,” said Garvin, “they’re certainly running rings around you.”

“They’re just laughing at us,” said Owen. “Everyone’s laughing at us. The donkey-boys are laughing, the bazaar’s laughing, even you’re laughing.”

“I’m not laughing,” said Garvin, “not any more. The French-”

“Ah yes,” said Owen uncomfortably.

“-are not laughing either. They’re hopping mad. They say it’s all our fault. If we’d not messed things up the exchange would have gone ahead as planned and Moulin would now be a free man.”

“It’s hardly fair-”

“Isn’t it?” Garvin cut in. “You were at Anton’s, weren’t you? Well…”

He tossed a piece of paper on the table in front of them. Owen read:

Because you’ve broken your side of the agreement and told the Mamur Zapt, we are breaking our side of the agreement.”

“When they got to the address Berthelot was given,” said Garvin, “they found the house empty. There was just this note left on a table.”

“No Moulin?”

“No Moulin,” said Garvin.

Owen poured out his troubles to Mahmoud, who listened sympathetically and then took him out for a coffee to restore him. They chose a cafe in one of the small streets opposite Shepheard’s: the Wagh el Birket, in fact. It was just after midday, however, and the ladies of the night were still sleeping off the effects of their labors. The shuttered doors on the balconies were closed, the cheap bands in the arcade opposite stilled. Only a few of the cafes were open and these were the traditional Arab ones which catered for the humble local clientele. They picked a table outside one of these and sat down in the shade.

Mahmoud had problems too. He had only just finished questioning all potential witnesses. The list had been a long one, including as it did the staff of the hotel, guests who had been on the terrace, and an assortment of donkey-boys, arabeah-drivers, street-vendors, and general bystanders, of whom, as was usual in Cairo, there were a lot. These latter were especially eager to contribute their impressions and it was only after much patient sifting that Mahmoud was able to establish whether they had actually been present on the day or not.

An additional difficulty was the fact that the incident had been the main topic of conversation in the neighborhood ever since Monsieur Moulin had been reported missing. Whatever may have been the original perceptions, by the time they were reported they had long been confused by a mass of eager embroidering, ill-informed conjecture and plain fantasy. By the end Mahmoud was in despair.

“I’ve got to find a way of going back to the beginning,” he said. “This is hopeless.”

Owen commiserated.

“How about a reconstruction?” he suggested.

Mahmoud at once brightened. The Parquet, French-trained and French in style, adhered to French methods of investigation, of which the “reconstruction” of the crime was usually part.

“That’s a good idea!” he said enthusiastically. “I might try that.”

Owen, whose own training was limited to a brief exposure to English police methods while serving under Garvin at Alexandria, was less convinced in general of the value of “reconstructing.” How could one re-enact an event as fluid as Moulin’s disappearance, with so many holes and loopholes? He could, however, see a case for it on this occasion. Seeing even a crude dramatization of the incident might jog the memories of people as inclined to the dramatic as most Egyptians were.

Mahmoud, happy now, could turn back to Owen’s problems. He sipped the iced water which came with the coffee and thought hard.

“Anton’s,” he said after a while. “Why did it happen there?”

“No special reason. That’s just where it happened to happen.”

“It’s a surprising place for it to happen to happen.”

“Why?”

“If they’ve Senussi connections, as Nikos thought. That sort of Islamic fundamentalist wouldn’t go near a gambling salon. He wouldn’t even have heard of Anton’s.”

“There’s no real evidence that they have Senussi connections. It was just the name that suggested it to Nikos-‘Zawia’.”

“‘Zawia’ can mean a lot of things.”

“I thought it might be Nationalist. You know, ‘turning-point,’ that sort of thing.”

Mahmoud, who was himself a member of the Nationalist Party, laughed.

“You see Nationalist influence in all sorts of funny places,” he said drily.

“I know. There’s nothing much to suggest it in this case. Except that it was aimed at foreigners.”

“They kidnapped a foreigner,” said Mahmoud, “on this particular occasion. That doesn’t mean their target is foreigners in general. Next time it could be an Egyptian.”

“Even if it was an Egyptian, there could still be a Nationalist group behind it. Most of the kidnapping in Cairo is done to raise money for political purposes.”

“So they say.”

Owen sensed he had better move off the topic. Mahmoud and he got on very well together but there were some issues it was best to steer clear of. The Egyptian Nationalist movement was one.

“I agree with you,” he said. “If they’re Senussi, Anton’s is a funny place to use.”

“If they’re fundamentalist at all it’s a funny place to use. It’s not just they’d avoid it, it’s that they wouldn’t know enough about it to be able to use it.”

“Maybe it’s not a fundamentalist group.”

“There’s another thing. You said that in their note they didn’t tell Berthelot how to get to Anton’s. They knew he already knew. How did they know that?”

“Seen him go there.”

“What strikes me,” said Mahmoud, “is how remarkably well informed they are on the habits of guests at Shepheard’s.”

“It must be an inside job, you mean?”

“Or else they’ve got a very good contact there. Now if you put the two together, Shepheard’s and Anton’s, you get a picture of a group with a background of knowledge very different from that of the usual group. It could hardly be a fundamentalist group. It’s most unlikely, I would have thought, to be one of the student groups at El Azhar. They wouldn’t have the money for a start and it’s all a bit sophisticated for them. Too Western. It’s even a bit Western for the Nationalists.”

“I’ve seen Nationalists at Shepheard’s,” Owen could not forbear saying.

“And I’ve seen Nationalists at places like Anton’s. But on the whole they’re not the sort of places where you would expect to find them. The Nationalists you do find there are-”

Mahmoud stopped.

“Successful politicians?” suggested Owen.

Mahmoud was reluctant to say anything which might yield a later opportunity for criticism of the Nationalist Party.

“They are not always very good Nationalists,” he said unwillingly. “They are a bit too fond of Western ways.”

He closed his lips firmly. You knew he would rather bite off his tongue than say any more.

“Not the sort of people to go in for kidnapping,” said Owen helpfully.

“Not the sort of people at all.”

Mahmoud arranged his reconstruction for the following afternoon. When Owen got there he was having trouble: the usual trouble. It was not that, Europeans apart, people were unwilling to cooperate. On the contrary: they were only too willing; indeed, could not be dissuaded from cooperating. Every waiter in the hotel, whether he had been there on the day or not, stood beaming on the terrace. The waiter who had actually served Monsieur Moulin, distinguishable from the others by the fact that a certain apprehensiveness was mixed with his bursting pride, had only to take a step with a tray for a dozen other waiters to rush forward to help him. Much the same thing went for all the other participants.

On the terrace, apart from the waiters, things were not too bad. Generally speaking, when guests came out of the doors of the hotel and saw what was going on, they recoiled in horror and went to the other end of the terrace. A number of those who had been near the table on the day in question were prevailed upon to stay and sit, stiff and awkward, at neighboring tables. Their general sentiments were expressed most clearly by Mr. Colthorpe Hartley, held back lurking in the hotel on instructions from Mahmoud. “God, how embarrassing!” he kept saying. His wife, doing her duty, was out on the terrace, accompanied by Lucy, the only one who actually appeared to be enjoying herself. She caught sight of Owen in the throng below and gave him a delighted wave. A difficult cast to direct, reflected Owen, but on the whole they were playing their parts.

The real trouble was down below. At the bottom of the steps things were threatening to get out of hand. The vendors who normally lined the front of the terrace had gathered that something special was going on, a wedding, perhaps, or the arrival of a new boatload of tourists, and flocked to that end of the terrace. The space in front of the hotel steps, normally under pressure anyway from encroaching beggars, performers, artists and street sellers, and kept free only by the extreme vigilance of two policemen posted there for that purpose, was now completely taken over by the crowd. So great was the pressure that more sellers were forced up the steps, a situation they immediately turned to commercial advantage, and soon no one could move at all, either up or down.

Assisted by McPhee, who rather enjoyed this sort of thing-it was, after all, very like a football scrum-Mahmoud formed his constables into a wedge and drove straight down the steps, pushing everyone off them and forcing the crowd to give ground. In an instant the constables opened out into a ring, creating a small space at the foot of the steps in which the play was to be played.

The snake charmer, unhappy, and the snake, disdainful, took up their positions. Mahmoud mounted the steps to get a better look, nodded with satisfaction and gave the signal to begin. A small figure, hobbling with gusto, came out of the hotel entrance and began to make his way painfully across the terrace. A posse of waiters descended upon him at once, one taking one arm, another the other, despite the small figure’s vigorous attempts to shake them off. Two waiters ran in front of him, pulling back chairs to clear a passage. Another was so carried away that he crouched down in front of the pretend Monsieur Moulin and tried to flick specks of dust from his shoes as he stumbled forward.

“For goodness’ sake!” said McPhee.

Mahmoud shrugged and carried on.

“Monsieur Moulin” was escorted to his table and allowed, eventually, to sit down. The waiters gave vigorous final polishings to the table, chair, and anything else that came within reach and then stood proudly by. Mahmoud waved them away. At first they affected not to notice; then, hurt, they reluctantly withdrew. Mahmoud’s sigh of relief was audible even where Owen was standing.

Lucy Colthorpe Hartley jumped up.

“This isn’t right!” she said.

“Why not?” asked Mahmoud.

“He was already out here when we came out. Come on, Mummy!”

Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley rose reluctantly from her chair and went back with Lucy to the hotel entrance.

“God, how embarrassing!” said Mr. Colthorpe Hartley.

Lucy and her mother came briskly back across the terrace, hesitated for a moment, and then sat down at the table they had previously occupied.

Lucy leaned across to the pretend Monsieur Moulin, a Greek clerk borrowed for the occasion by Mahmoud from the Parquet offices.

“Go on!” she said. “Look around! As if you were expecting someone.”

Entering into his part with spirit, Monsieur Moulin did so, craning backwards over his chair the better to see the length of the terrace.

“Waiter!” shouted Mahmoud.

Five sprang forward.

“One of you!” shouted Mahmoud. “Abdul!”

Four fell back wounded. Abdul advanced on the table with flourishes.

“ Voulez-vous prendre du the, Monsieur? ”

Like most of the terrace waiters, Abdul spoke some French. The clerk didn’t and looked puzzled; then guessed and nodded his head. Abdul gave a deep bow and walked slowly off the terrace; very slowly, dragging out his part, greatly to the envy of all the other waiters.

Mr. Colthorpe Hartley emerged from the hotel and walked determinedly across to join his wife and daughter. As he passed Monsieur Moulin he nodded very deliberately. Monsieur Moulin gave a start and then nodded back. Mr. Colthorpe Hartley sat down, stretched his legs and said loudly: “I’d like some tea, my dear.” He took the cup and settled back. “Hot, this afternoon,” he said.

“Golly, Daddy, you are good,” Lucy whispered.

Mr. Colthorpe Hartley meditated over his tea for some time, then looked again very deliberately at Monsieur Moulin. He looked away and then looked back. Something was troubling him. He leaned across, put his hand in front of his mouth, and whispered confidentially: “Fidget!” The Greek looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Come on!” said Mr. Colthorpe Hartley urgently: “You know.” He demonstrated with a violent twitch of his body. The Greek looked even more baffled. Mr. Colthorpe Hartley repeated his demonstration. The Greek caught on and responded with a violent jerk. Mr. Colthorpe Hartley gave him an encouraging nod.

The Greek, evidently concluding that Monsieur Moulin had suffered a fit of some kind, racked his body with violent spasms. “That’ll do, old boy,” said Mr. Colthorpe Hartley. “Mustn’t overdo it, you know.” The waiters watched spellbound.

Mr. Colthorpe Hartley went back to his tea. Another actor stepped on to the stage. This was one of the hotel dragomans dressed for the occasion in a splendid robe and great curving red slippers. He bent impressively over Monsieur Moulin for a few seconds and then stalked across to the terrace railings and looked imperiously down into the crowd. The vendors lining the railings fell back uneasily. Spotting his chance, another vendor rushed forward and thrust a bunch of flowers up at the dragoman. Indignantly the other vendors pushed him out of the way. The dragoman watched the melee impassively. Then he turned and stalked back to Monsieur Moulin. He bowed down so that his long, drooping moustaches were dangling almost in Monsieur Moulin’s face, muttered something to him and then strode majestically into the hotel.

The little Greek clerk seemed rather overcome by his encounter and huddled deeper into his chair. Mr. Colthorpe Hartley glanced up, glanced away again and sipped his tea. A moment later he looked again. This time he frowned. Again the confidential whisper: “I say, old chap, it’s time you went. Imshi!” The Greek shot out of his chair, then stopped and looked to Mahmoud for instructions. Mahmoud came up the steps.

So far, so-moderately-good. It was what came next that was tricky, for now Mahmoud had nothing definite to guide him and was dealing only in possibilities. He had worked out three alternative scenarios. In the first one Monsieur Moulin was to rise from his table and simply walk back indoors. The second envisaged him walking down the terrace steps; and the third saw him being forcibly taken down the steps.

The first one was soon played and was indeed a bit of an anticlimax. The Greek stand-in got up suddenly and walked off and that was that. The spectators clearly wanted more. Mahmoud asked the residents on the terrace whether they had seen anything like this and they said no. He tried the waiters. They were divided. Some claimed to have seen him and described what they had seen in great and implausible detail. Others, equally definite, had seen nothing. The hotel reception was just inside the doors and if Monsieur Moulin had re-entered the hotel he would have passed in front of their counter. They were fairly sure they hadn’t seen him. On the day in question McPhee had checked with them virtually as soon as Moulin had been reported missing and they had said the same thing. One of the receptionists was Nikos’s informant and Nikos had said he could be trusted.

The second option had envisaged Moulin walking down the steps. Everyone acknowledged that this was a possibility but no one had actually seen him do it. But if Moulin had done that, what had he done when he reached the bottom? The arabeah-drivers and the donkey-boys were adamant that he had not approached them; they were even more confident that no one else would have picked him up-they guarded their rights too jealously for that. Of course, he could simply have walked off into the crowd. But walking was anything but simple for Monsieur Moulin and although it could have been easy for him to disappear into the crowd, he would have found it hard going to make his way through the crush and reach some harbor on the far side. No witness had seen him doing that. Mahmoud tried the tumblers and vendors, some of whom were sharp, observant men, but they had no recollection of an elderly man trying to push his way past them. The snake charmer was so bemused that he could hardly be brought to say a word.

By now Mahmoud’s arrangements were coming under severe strain. The crowd had grown still more and now stretched right across the street, blocking it in both directions. A few stranded arabeahs stood out above the sea of curious faces. Some way up the street a wedding procession had come to a complete halt. It was evidently a rich man’s wedding for there were musicians mounted on camels as well as the palanquin for the bride. There were probably jesters and mirror-bearers but they were lost in the crowd; although, as Owen watched, he caught the occasional flash of glass sparkling in the sun. This bride, thought Owen, was one who was definitely going to be late for her wedding.

The defensive ring of constables had already given way once or twice under the pressure of the crowd but each time, under the instructions of McPhee, had managed to reassert itself. It had lost ground each time, however, and one more cave-in would see the space at the foot of the steps disappear altogether.

Mahmoud evidently thought the same thing, for he hurried on with the third scenario. This envisaged Monsieur Moulin somehow being compelled down the steps. This sounded unlikely and proved so in practice. The pretending Monsieur Moulin had been allowed a little resistance and in fact he struggled so vigorously that his would-be kidnappers couldn’t get hold of him at all until one of them, a constable carried away by his role, tapped him on the head with his truncheon. The little clerk collapsed into immobility. Even so, the kidnapping party found it hard to carry him off down the steps without causing so much commotion that even those people at the far end of the terrace who were not in on the plot looked up to see what was going on. Mahmoud had initially tried two kidnappers only but as the difficulties multiplied had been obliged to add a third. Eventually they got the “body” down the steps; but what then?

Mahmoud had had several possibilities in mind. First, he tried to get an arabeah to the foot of the steps. This proved quite impossible, given the crowd. Indeed, for some time no arabeah had been able to leave its rank at all and the arabeah-drivers were complaining loudly. Then he had envisaged the kidnapped Moulin being smuggled away through the crowd somehow bundled up in a cloak. The little clerk recovered at this point and struck out feebly with his arms, which made wrapping him up difficult. The constable produced his truncheon again but was restrained by McPhee, to the detriment, however, of the realism of the scenario. Eventually the protesting form was concealed but then another problem presented itself. So tightly packed was the crowd that the kidnappers were wedged in, quite unable to move. After a few abortive efforts they stood there looking blankly at Mahmoud.

Mahmoud came down the steps and tried to force open a path for them. As fast as two people were prised apart, however, someone else stepped into the breach. The kidnappers left Monsieur Moulin standing and joined their efforts to Mahmoud’s. Unsupported and unable to see, Monsieur Moulin slowly toppled over. One of the kidnappers made a despairing effort to save him and was pulled over on top of him as he fell.

“Don’t remember this bit at all,” said the donkey-boys, straightfaced.

One of the constables abandoned his part in the defensive ring and came to help. Immediately, the ring caved in. The people who had been leaning against it fell into the space too on top of the kidnappers. One of the more public-spirited of them, finding himself up against one of the kidnappers and believing the whole incident to be real, not simulated, grappled with him in an attempt to prevent his escaping. Fighting broke out.

In the middle of all this the outrunners of the wedding, who had been patiently forcing their way through the crowd, arrived at the foot of the steps.

“Make way for the wedding!” the donkey-boys called ironically to the mass of people struggling on the ground in front of the steps. The leading camel of the palanquin broke through the crowd and sniffed, astonished, at the recumbent forms. The little Greek clerk, who had all this time been struggling to free himself from the wrappings which enveloped him, at last succeeded. As his head emerged he found himself gazing straight into the eyes of the camel. He gave a scream and burrowed back beneath the wrappings. The camel, startled, retreated with a loud jingle of bells. “By God!” said the snake charmer. “That’s it!”

The palanquin threatened to capsize and the bride joined her screams to the general uproar.

Owen suddenly became aware that Lucy’s captive subaltern, Gerald Naylor, was standing beside him. He was watching with fascinated disgust.

“What a shambles!” he said. “What a shambles!”