The Donkey-Vous

Chapter 7

"This is where you brought them?” asked Owen.

“Yes, effendi,” said Ali’s uncle humbly.

“If you are playing tricks with me-”

“I am not, effendi. I swear it!” Ali’s uncle protested vigorously.

“You brought them here? To this very spot?”

“Yes, effendi.”

Owen climbed out of the arabeah and looked around him. In the distance he could hear the regular, rhythmic creaking of the water-wheel and then, far away across the cauliflower and maize, the faint singing of peasants at work in the fields. “Did they come here to meet someone?”

“I do not think so, effendi,” said Abdul’s uncle diffidently.

“You saw no one?”

“No, effendi.”

“They just came here and looked around?”

“They talked, effendi.”

“What did they talk about?”

“I do not know, effendi. I did not hear.”

“They just sat and talked?”

“They stood and talked. They descended from the arabeah.”

“And then they went home again?”

“Yes, effendi.”

Owen looked around, completely baffled. There seemed nothing here but garden crops and in the distance fields of berseem, the green fodder which the camels brought in every day across the bridge for the use of the donkey-boys and the arabeah-drivers.

Owen’s heart began to sink.

“Have they tricked us again?” he said to Georgiades, who had come across and was standing beside him.

“They can’t have! They couldn’t have known.”

“They might have done it as a precaution.”

“Just on the off-chance that someone would be trying to check on the journeys they had made?”

“It sounds ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous. No,” said Georgiades, shaking his head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Georgiades walked over to inspect the cauliflowers. They were planted in rows and there were little channels running between them. The channels were hard-caked and smooth. As he watched, a little trickle of water began to run along them.

“The dam,” said Georgiades. “Is it something to do with the dam?”

“Not up here,” Owen objected. “It can’t be, surely.”

The water was coming from the sakiya. It was just reaching the field of cauliflowers. More and more trickles appeared in the channels and in some of them it was now flowing freely.

“Did they walk anywhere?” Georgiades asked Ali’s uncle.

“No, effendi.”

Ali’s uncle seemed daunted by it all. Perhaps it was leaving the city for the great open spaces. But then, Ali’s uncle was easily dauntable.

“I heard them talk of the river,” he volunteered, though, hopefully.

“What did they say?”

“One could travel by river.”

“Who could?”

“I do not know, effendi. I did not hear.”

He had caught the mention of travel by river, though from where and where to and for what reason had passed him by, as did most things in life, Owen uncharitably felt.

He and Georgiades walked down to the water-wheel. A raised, banked-up main channel ran back alongside the path in the general direction of the river. At intervals subsidiary channels took the water off and distributed it through the fields. They could see the water running down the furrows between the plants and suddenly turning the parched soil into soft, fertile mud.

As they neared the river they saw that the water came from the water-wheel. It was a traditional native wooden one, consisting of a heavy horizontal wheel, turned by a buffalo working round it, and connected through cogs to a large vertical wheel at the river’s edge. There were buckets set all ’round the vertical wheel which scooped up the river water as the wheel turned and emptied it into a steep gutter from which it flowed into the distributing channels.

On the top of the buffalo was a small boy.

“That is a big buffalo,” said Georgiades, “for a small boy.”

“It is my father’s buffalo,” the boy said proudly.

“Oh? Then you are not a boy hired for the day but work on the buffalo as your father’s son?”

“That is true,” the boy agreed.

“That is a heavy responsibility for one so young.”

“I am nine,” the boy said.

“Are you?” said Georgiades, affecting surprise. “I would have said thirteen.”

“I am big for my age.”

“That is fine, but it means you get taken for a man when there is work about.”

“I could do a man’s job,” said the boy, “but my father won’t let me. He keeps me on the buffalo.”

“Well, that is important. And hard! I expect you work all day?”

“All day and every day. ”

“And all alone, too. You don’t see many people here.”

“Only the people in the fields.”

“And the occasional stranger.”

“Not many of them.”

“Are there any?”

“There were some the other day. They came like you in an arabeah.”

“And did they come down and talk to you?”

“No. They stayed with the arabeah.”

“It was too hot for them, I expect.”

“It was the afternoon. Still, there was a Sitt with them.”

“A lady? Then she would not want to walk far. I expect she just wanted to see the fields.”

“They are good fields,” said the boy with an air of experience.

“Indeed they are. Lucky the man who owns them. Not your father?”

“No. They belong to Sidky.”

“Does he live in the village?”

“No, no. He’s a rich man. He lives in the city.”

“And doesn’t come down here very often, I expect.”

“He was down here the other day. He came with another man and showed him the fields.”

“They are good fields.”

“Yes. I think the man liked them, because he came again.”

“By himself?”

“No, no. With the others.”

“Others?”

“The man I told you about. There was the Sitt and another man.”

They stood talking with the boy while the buffalo wound ’round and ’round and the sakiya squeaked and the water plopped out from the buckets into the gutter. As the sun began to set, the opal of the sky was reflected in the changing colors of the river, blue then green then yellow then red, and finally white. A man began to come across the fields toward them.

“That is my father,” said the boy.

The man came up, unhitched the buffalo and lifted the boy down. They stood exchanging greetings for a while and then man, boy and buffalo set off back across the fields while Owen and Georgiades went back to the arabeah.

“It is all very beautiful,” said Georgiades, “but I find it hard to believe that Madame Chevenement and Berthelot are interested in taking up market gardening.”

It was only half past three and the terrace was still deserted, but already the keenest vendors were creeping back to take up strategic positions in front of the railings. The choicest positions were those nearest the steps and the vendors here guarded their privileges jealously. Despite the heat, they had already reassumed their pitches but since there were as yet no customers above they had squatted down in the dust and were engaged in desultory conversation.

It was a good moment to catch them. Mahmoud had talked to them all separately, but for that it had been necessary to abstract them from their normal setting and converse in privacy. The artificiality had made them uneasy and he felt they might talk more freely in more natural surroundings. Besides, there were some advantages in them hearing what their neighbors said, as soon became apparent.

Mahmoud was still trying patiently to identify the dragoman who had been on the terrace and soon after he and Owen had joined the squatting circle he brought the topic up. Which of them had the dragoman actually spoken to?

“Farkas,” said the strawberry-seller definitely.

The filthy-postcard-seller at once denied it.

“It wasn’t me,” he said.

“Yes, it was,” the strawberry-seller insisted. “I was hoping his party wanted some strawberries and he was coming to me but he walked right past me. Mush kider — is that not so?” he appealed to the flower-seller beside him.

“No,” said the flower-seller. “He wasn’t coming to you, he was coming to me. I thought perhaps the Sitt wanted some flowers.”

“She wouldn’t have wanted flowers, not if they were going out. She would have had to carry them. On the way in, perhaps.”

“She certainly wouldn’t have wanted strawberries. It would have made her hands too messy and then she would have had to have gone back to her room to wash them.”

“She could have just popped them into her mouth,” said the strawberry-seller.

This kind of batty, circumlocutory conversation ensued whenever you questioned Arab witnesses. When Owen had first come to Egypt it had regularly driven him to fury. It was Garvin, curiously, who had once taken the trouble to explain to him that that was how an Arab conversation worked. On arriving in Egypt and before taking up his duties as Mamur Zapt, Owen had been posted to Alexandria for a spell under Garvin to learn his trade. His duties had involved going round with Garvin to some of the little rural villages along the coast and hearing lawsuits brought by the villagers. Proceedings were always protracted and on one occasion Owen had boiled over.

Afterward Garvin had taken him aside.

“Look,” Garvin had said, “for Arabs, truth is not something you know privately and then describe. It is something you work out together.”

“But, Christ!” said Owen. “If they’re a witness-”

“It’s the same thing. What you saw is ingredients for a picture and it’s not until the ingredients have been put together, and that has to be done socially, that you know what the picture is.”

The apparently circumlocutory nature of the discussion was necessary because it was a way of making sure you had all the pieces of the picture that you wanted to fit together. It also allowed each piece to be weighed and tested against a variety of perspectives so that in the end you got something which everyone could agree was a more or less faithful representation of the facts.

“But it could take hours!”

“Well, yes,” Garvin had admitted. “It does.”

In the villages that was OK. In the cities it sometimes caused problems. Owen had learned the mode and developed patience: but sometimes that patience was put under strain. As now.

He looked at Mahmoud. Mahmoud so far had not turned a hair.

“Great, then,” he said calmly, “was the misfortune for both of you when you found that he went not to you but to Farkas.”

“That was another day,” said the filthy-postcard-seller. “He did not come to me that day.”

“It was that day,” insisted the strawberry-seller. “Don’t you remember? You were showing someone your cards when you dropped them.”

“I didn’t drop them. Somebody jogged my elbow.”

“They fell in the dust and the turkey ate them.”

“It did not eat them. It slightly chewed one of them.”

“It was a bit more than a slight chew, though, wasn’t it?” said the flower-seller. “Don’t you remember? It was that card where she-”

“And this was when the dragoman came over to see you, was it?” Mahmoud intervened.

“No, before then,” said the flower-seller.

“He had just picked them up,” said the strawberry-seller. “That was another day,” insisted the filthy-postcard-seller. “No, it wasn’t!” said the strawberry-seller and the flower-seller firmly, both turning on him.

Farkas was slightly taken aback.

“I didn’t mean that wasn’t the day when the cards fell in the dust,” he protested. “I meant that the day the cards fell in the dust wasn’t the day the dragoman came over and spoke to me.”

“What?” said the strawberry-seller, bewildered.

The flower-seller seemed bemused.

“What day did he come and speak to you?” asked Mahmoud.

“I forget now.”

“And what did he want to speak to you about?”

“I forget.”

The strawberry-seller and the flower-seller both laughed. “He doesn’t want to say.”

“It’s a business secret.”

“Oh?” said Mahmoud.

The flower-seller took it on himself to explain. “Sometimes,” he said, “the customers don’t like to speak to him directly.”

“So they send a dragoman.”

“That’s right. Or the dragoman suggests it. They get a cut, you know.”

“Is that what happened this day?”

“I expect so.

Even Mahmoud could not forbear a sigh.

“Did you actually hear him?” he asked, with only the faintest hint of exasperation in his voice.

“They couldn’t have,” said the filthy-postcard-seller, “because it was another day.”

“Whichever day it was,” said Mahmoud patiently, “did you hear him?”

The strawberry-seller took one of his strawberries, put it in his mouth and then restored it to the pile glistening with moisture. It looked fresher and more tempting that way.

“I can’t remember,” he said. He turned to the flower-seller. “Can you remember?”

“Yes,” said the flower-seller unexpectedly. “But he didn’t really say anything. He just made a sign.”

“What sign was this?”

“It was to ward off the evil eye, I expect,” said the strawberry-seller.

“It wasn’t that sort of sign.”

“Abdul Hafiz always makes the sign of the evil eye when he sees Farkas.”

“So does Osman. You wouldn’t think that, would you?”

“Which of them was it?”

“Abdul?” said the flower-seller.

“Osman?” said the strawberry-seller.

“It was another day,” said the filthy-postcard-seller.

“I remember now,” said the strawberry-seller, popping another strawberry into his mouth for a few seconds.

“Yes?”

“It wasn’t the sign of the evil eye. It was another sort of sign.”

“What sort of sign was it?” asked Mahmoud wearily. “Show me!”

The flower-seller made an unlikely motion with his hand. “And then Farkas went away,” he said.

“Went away?”

“It was another day,” said Farkas faintly, as if he had given up hope of convincing anyone. “My supplier had come. He was just pointing him out.”

“There was no message from the old man on the terrace?”

“What old man?” asked the strawberry-seller and the flower-seller, turning to Mahmoud with surprise.

“Jesus,” said Owen under his breath.

People were coming out on to the terrace above. The vendors gathered their wares.

“Why!” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley’s voice suddenly from above. “There’s Captain Owen sitting in the crowd! You do look comfortable, Captain Owen. Can I come down and join you?”

“For Christ’s sake, no!” said Owen, scrambling hastily to his feet.

“Then come on up and join us! Please do. Mummy is desperate for someone to talk to. Daddy isn’t saying much today and Gerald is having a fit of the sulks.”

The vendors had all resumed their places by the railings. There was no point in going on talking to them now. Business was business.

Owen had got half way up the steps when he remembered Mahmoud and looked around for him. Mahmoud was walking off in the opposite direction.

“And you, too, Mr. El Zaki!” Lucy hailed him.

Mahmoud stopped. He half turned and then saw Naylor and Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley.

“No, thank you,” he said and continued walking.

“Damn cheek,” said Naylor.

“Do be quiet, Gerald!” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley. “He just didn’t want to talk to you, and I can understand anyone who feels like that.”

“Will you have some tea, Captain Owen?” asked her mother. She poured a cup for him. “And how are your investigations getting on?” she inquired.

The tea had the distinctive, insipid taste of tea drunk the English way with milk.

“Slowly, I’m afraid.”

“It seems bewildering,” said Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. “You would have thought-”

“They’re all in it,” said Naylor. “That’s the trouble.”

Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley raised eyebrows at him. He took it not as a sign of reproof but as a request for expansion.

“That’s why it’s hard to get anywhere. They’re all lying through their teeth.”

“All?”

“All. Or pretty damned nearly all. Work it out for yourself. That French chap was out here on the terrace, right? Now if he went back into the hotel the staff on Reception would have seen him. If he went down the steps the drivers would have seen him. And if he stayed where he was but someone came and took him the waiters would have seen it. Whichever way it happened, someone would have seen. But no one saw. That can’t be right. So,” Naylor concluded triumphantly, “they must be lying.”

“All of them?”

“Yes,” said Naylor seriously. “You see, whichever way it happened there was always the risk that someone else would see, someone who wasn’t supposed to, who wasn’t in it. They wouldn’t have risked that. So they must all be in it.”

“Yes, but-”

“Oh, not to the same extent, I grant you. I expect a lot of them were just bribed to keep their mouths shut. But they must all have known about it.”

“I find it hard to believe-”

“That’s because you don’t know these people, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. You haven’t had the advantage of being in this country for-”

“Six months,” said Owen.

“Over a year. Oh, you think they’re charming and friendly and polite and so they are: to your face. But behind your back they’re very different. Very different indeed, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. They resent us being here-”

“So they should,” said Lucy.

“Oh no. That’s-well, I was going to say it’s liberal talk, but it’s just that you haven’t been here for very long. They ought not to resent us, they ought to be well and truly grateful that we are here, for before we came they’d got themselves into a most frightful mess. They had to invite us in to get them out of the mess! Don’t forget that, don’t ever forget that: we’re here by invitation.”

“Yes, but how exactly does that bear upon the present case, Mr. Naylor, the disappearance of this poor Frenchman?”

“Well, it’s just that you can’t trust them. They resent us, you see, they all resent us. You can see it in their faces. Even that Zaki fellow. They’d have us out of Egypt in an instant if they could. Of course they can’t. We’re too strong for them. They don’t have the guts to face us directly. But behind our backs-well, as I was saying, behind our backs it’s a very different matter. Still, as long as they keep it behind our backs I don’t mind. It’s when they do it to our faces that I object. We call it dumb insolence, you know, in the army, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. And we ought to treat it in the same way. If I catch any of my fellows giving me or any of the sergeants a bit of dumb insolence, I give him what-for, I can tell you. And we ought to do the same with these fellows. We’re letting them get out of hand, that’s the trouble. We ought to put them down and keep them down! That’s what I always say.”

“Always?”

“In the Mess.”

“Very rousing, I am sure,” said Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley, who sounded occasionally very like her daughter. “But how exactly would you apply it to poor Monsieur Moulin?”

“Arrest the lot of them,” said Naylor confidently.

“But how exactly would that-”

“They’re all lying, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley, so we’ve got to get the truth out of them. Well, get them in our barracks for a day or two, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley, and I can guarantee we’ll soon have it out of them.”

“But Captain Owen has been working hard, I am sure, and he-”

“It’s the difference between a civil administration and a military administration, Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley. The civilians are too soft. There! I’ve said it! It’s not what some of those at home would like to hear when you’re out on the Frontier-”

“Egypt? The Frontier?” said Owen.

“The trouble with civilians,” said Naylor, nettled and thinking he was being offensive by using the term, “is that they forget the realities of power.”

“Gracious!” said Lucy, resting her elbows on the table. “And what are they?”

“Britain governs Egypt because of her army.”

“So?”

“We ought to be allowed to get on with it.”

It was a staple theme of the Messes, echoed not just by subalterns but by those higher up. The Sudan, to the south, had a purely military administration. There were those who felt that Egypt should have one too.

Not just in the army.

“You should talk to Madame Moulin,” Owen said to Naylor. “She had ideas which are not dissimilar.”

“Madame Moulin?” Lucy looked surprised. “I thought she had-”

“You’re thinking of Madame Chevenement. This is Monsieur Moulin’s wife. An elderly lady, dressed in black. She has only recently arrived. You may not have seen her.”

“Poor woman!”

Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley looked thoughtful. “Lucy, I think perhaps we should leave our cards.”

“We should certainly do something. But how exactly does one leave cards in a hotel? Push them under the door?”

“We will leave them at Reception,” said Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley with dignity. “And we will do it now,” she said, getting up from her chair.

Everyone rose to their feet. Lucy went with her mother. Naylor, after a moment’s hesitation, followed them. Owen was about to depart when Mr. Colthorpe Hartley laid a hand on his sleeve.

“Hold on,” he said. “Want to talk to you.”

They sat down again. Having announced his intention, Mr. Colthorpe Hartley seemed a little at a loss how to proceed.

“It’s this damned dragoman business,” he said at last.

“Yes?”

“Bad,” he said. “Can’t remember.”

“Which one it was?”

Mr. Colthorpe Hartley nodded. “All look alike to me.”

“Perhaps it will come.”

“Been trying. Know it’s important.”

Owen tried some of the usual cues.

“Any distinguishing features? Face? Hands? Marks? Scars, for instance? Personal jewelry? Rings? Clothes?”

“These fellows all dress the same.”

“You saw him walking. Think of him walking.”

Mr. Colthorpe Hartley thought. After a while he shook his head.

“Not that,” he said.

If not that, then something. Owen hardly dared to breathe. “Nearly got it,” said Mr. Colthorpe Hartley after a while. He thought on.

“Gone again,” he said.

“Would it help if you saw them? Would you like me to arrange a parade?”

Colthorpe Hartley shook his head vigorously, possibly remembering Mahmoud’s reconstruction.

“Good God, no!” he said.

“Hello, Daddy,” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley. “Are you helping Captain Owen?”

“Trying to.”

“Good!” said Lucy, sinking into a chair. “I’ve delivered my card. What a sweat! I’ve lost all mine but Mummy had some of mine spare.”

“Not going to get it,” said Mr. Colthorpe Hartley. “Will come tomorrow.”

“If it does, let me know,” said Owen.

“Will do.”

He levered himself out of his chair and went off shaking his head.

“Poor Daddy!” said Lucy, looking after him. “He doesn’t remember so well these days, not since-”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, he’s much better. He’s getting better all the time. And he usually does remember things in the end.”

“We’ll keep hoping.”

The vendors jostled for Lucy’s attention. This time the strawberry-seller won. Lucy stretched out a hand toward the strawberries.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Owen hastily, remembering.

The meeting had already gone on for some time. It was being chaired by Saunders, a Scot from the Ministry of Public Works, who was proceeding painfully slowly through the business, referring meticulously at every stage to a vast sheaf of papers assembled for him by the Coptic clerk to the committee, consulting at every turn the maps and diagrams spread out on the table in front of them. There was also Martin, another Scot, representing, however, the main contractors, Aird and Co., two civil servants from the Ministry, both Copts, Paul from the Consulate-General (what he was doing there Owen could not figure out) and Owen himself.

What he was doing there Paul alone knew. He had rung up Owen the day before saying there was a meeting he would like Owen to attend.

“But I don’t know anything about that sort of thing,” he had said.

“You don’t have to. All you have to do is come in on cue.”

“But I-”

“I’ll tell you when. It will be pretty clear anyway.”

“But what am I supposed to be saying?”

“You’re supporting me. You’re supposed to be the voice of political wisdom.”

“I thought you were?”

“I am. But there are times when it is as well to have an independent voice saying the same thing. I’ll meet you half an hour before the meeting and explain it to you.”

But in the event Paul had been held up at the Consulate-General and there had been no time for him to give the briefing. He had slipped into his chair only the minute before the meeting started (much to Owen’s relief) and had just had time to mutter to Owen “You support me,” before the Chairman opened the meeting.

The subject of the meeting was the issuing of the remaining contracts for the next phase of construction at the Aswan Dam. The main ones had already been issued, mostly going to Aird and Co., but there were some subcontracts still to be placed for ancillary works. The most substantial of these was for the construction of a masonry apron downstream of the dam sluices.

“Of course we could do this at the same time as we’re doing the others,” said the man from Aird and Co.

“Haven’t you got enough on your plate as it is?” asked the Chairman.

“There are advantages in doing the two together. There would be men and equipment already there.”

“Would there be economies, then?” asked one of the civil servants.

“Oh, certainly.”

“Would they be reflected in the tender price?”

“Up to a point, yes.”

“That’s funny,” said Paul, “because the price Aird and Co. are tendering at is quite a bit higher than some of the other tenders we have received.”

“You can always be undercut,” said the man from Aird and Co., “by fly-by-night outfits. If you’ll take my advice you’ll have nothing to do with any of them.”

“Dassin, Laporte et Lebrun are hardly a fly-by-night outfit,” said Paul.

The man from Aird and Co. made a dismissive gesture. “They’ve not been doing too well lately on some of their contracts in Turkey. Anyway, for a job like this it’s experience in Egypt that counts. The Nile can be a tricky river.”

“They’re quite a lot cheaper,” said one of the civil servants.

“Yes, but when you think of price you’ve got to think of quality too.”

“We ought to be able to specify quality.”

“Yes, but if you’re underfunded you might not be able to deliver the quality in the time available. This is an important part of the works. We can’t afford to have a delay in completion.”

“I thought we were already running behind time on the main work?” said Paul.

“Oh, surely not,” said the man from Aird and Co. “Not by much, anyway.”

“Can we check?” asked Paul. “We’ve got the schedules there.”

“I don’t think we need bother,” said the Chairman.

“I think if you give it to Aird and Co. you’ll be pretty satisfied.”

“We’ve certainly been satisfied up to now,” said the Chairman.

“Yes,” said Paul, “but there are other considerations.”

“Really?”

“Political ones.”

“I think you’ll find,” said the man from Aird and Co., “that there’s a lot of support for Aird and Co. back home.”

“I’m sure there is. But we have to take an international view.”

“Do you? I’m not sure a lot of people at home would think that. Wasn’t I reading in The Times just before I came out here that some questions have been asked in the House about the Foreign Office failing to support British industry abroad?”

“I hardly think Aird and Co. are in a position to complain of lack of support when they have landed the lion’s share of the contracts.”

“Ah, well,” said the man from Aird and Co. with a broad smile, “quality will tell.”

Paul smiled too.

“I think it does tell,” he said, “and will go on doing so. All the same, it would be unfortunate if because of its very success Aird and Co. began to suffer through being too- exposed.”

The man from Aird and Co. looked thoughtful.

“You think so?”

“A question of proportion-that is all.”

“But such a small contract-comparatively-”

“Because it is small,” said Paul, “that makes it all the better.”

“Well, yes, that’s certainly true, if you see it that way.”

“You wouldn’t have to give up much. And Aird and Co. might get quite a lot of benefit.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we would wish to take a responsible view-”

“I’m sure you would. And it’s because of that that I’ve brought Captain Owen along this morning. The Mamur Zapt, I should explain, is responsible for law and order in the city. He will be able to tell us about some of the present tensions in Cairo, the political scene, Nationalist pressure-” He paused invitingly.

Owen responded to his cue and talked briefly about the current political scene in Egypt: the growing strength of nationalism, the rise of the Nationalist Party, increasing resentment of foreigners (“Why, only recently they went so far as to kidnap a foreign businessman: a Frenchman, fortunately”), mounting hostility to wealth passing out of the country, as the Egyptians saw it, in the form of lucrative contracts awarded abroad. In this situation it was only too easy for unscrupulous interests, too often, regrettably, easily identifiable with foreign powers (“Shocking!” said Paul, “shocking!”), to stir up trouble.

“And the trouble with that,” said Paul, coming in smoothly, “is that it could so easily have repercussions on agreed programs of development, which would be in no one’s interest.”

“Quite so,” said the man from Aird and Co.

In the circumstances, Paul went on, it was only prudent to head off trouble, not to spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar, to cast a little bread upon the waters, etc., etc. Paul, who despised cliches, was a master of them when he chose and felt the opposition deserved.

“Give the dogs a bone or two to fight over,” said the man from Aird and Co.

“Exactly,” said Paul.

The upshot was that the contract for constructing the masonry apron went to the French firm and another, smaller, contract to an Italian firm.

“Three countries involved, I don’t think anyone can complain about that,” said the Chairman.

“But not Egypt,” said one of the civil servants.

“They’re hardly ready yet,” said the man from Aird and Co. “Give them a year or two, or perhaps a little longer, and they’ll be among the tenderers.”

“There may be an Egyptian tenderer sooner than you think,” said the other civil servant.

“Oh?” The man from Aird and Co. was interested.

“If what I’ve heard is true.”

“What have you heard?”

“There’s a big deal in the offing. Egyptian interests only.”

“I’ve not heard of a big deal,” said the man from Aird and Co. “Are you sure?”

“It may be only talk.”

“It would have to be a private development.”

“I think it is.”

“Public works is where the money is. Still, it would be interesting to know more.”

“If I hear anything I’ll tell you.”

After the meeting Paul and Owen walked out together. “Satisfied?” asked Owen.

“Greedy buggers, aren’t they?” said Paul. “Yes, I’m satisfied. This will keep the French off our backs for a day or two. Want a drink? I’ll buy you one. It will have to be somewhere close because I’ve got something I’m going on to. Shepheard’s?”

In the bar they met the French Charge. He waved to them in friendly fashion and pointed to his glass. “A drink?”

“My turn,” said Owen. “Fortunately, Paul is buying this round.”

“You ought to be buying me a drink,” Paul said to the Charge, “after what I’ve been doing for you this morning.”

“I will buy you a drink,” said the Charge. “What have you been doing?”

“Giving Dassin, Laporte et Lebrun a contract, I hope,” said Paul, waving the barman down.

The Charge looked at him curiously. “Really?”

“Yes,” said Paul. “What’ll you have? The same again?”

“Yes, please. Funny,” said the Charge, “I thought…Well, I thought you were operating against us.”

“Me?” said Paul. “I’m a Francophile at heart. And an Egyptophile. I’m every sort of phile except an Anglophile after a morning like this.”

“You’ve obviously had a hard morning. But productive, I would say,” said the Charge, “and I certainly will buy you a drink when you’ve finished that one.”

“How’s Madame Moulin?” inquired Owen.

The Charge pulled a face and drank deep.

“I’m waiting for her now. In fact, I’m waiting for her all the time. She’s supposed not to move a step without me. But that means I can’t move a step without her. It’s terrible! It’s killing me!”

He looked at Owen.

“I had hopes…” he said. “Look, you’re not hiding Moulin yourself, are you? Because if you are, I beg of you, I plead with you-” he clasped his hands in mock prayer-“let him go, just for my sake, so that she will go away again!”

Paul pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to his eyes. “This is a pretty powerful plea,” he said to Owen. “ Are you holding him?”

“I wish I was,” said Owen. “Then I could release him and we could all go home. I’ll tell you what,” he offered, “since it’s for your sake, I’ll try harder.”

“Thank you,” said the Charge.

“Anyway,” said Paul, “he’s more interested in holding Zeinab.”

“Zeinab!” The Charges eyes lit up. He put his hand on Owen’s sleeve. “You can help me!”

“What, again?”

“I need a woman, an Egyptian woman.”

“Well…”

“No, no. It’s for Madame Moulin. She wants to meet some Egyptian women. How about dinner? You can come too. Tonight? Tomorrow? Please! She’s driving me crazy.”

The Charge had a French cook. Consequently, an invitation to dinner was not something you lightly turned down. Moreover, it was very rare for Owen and Zeinab to be invited anywhere a deux. He was sorely tempted.

“Please!”

Owen made up his mind.

“It would be very nice. Thank you. We would love to come.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you a thousand times!” The Charge drank his glass at a gulp and ordered another round immediately. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

Eventually, Paul definitely had to have gone and he and Owen got up together. As they turned to go the maitre d’hotel ran into the room. He made straight for Owen.

“Monsieur! Oh, Monsieur!”

“What is it?”

“Come quickly!”

“What is it, man?”

“Monsieur Cole-torp ’Artley. He has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Like the other. Oh, Monsieur, a second one!”