The Fig Tree Murder

Chapter 5

The station at Matariya did not amount to much. It was merely a stop in the desert. There was no platform and no building, apart from a water tower. There was normally, however, a ticket collector, who sat on a chair under a solitary acacia tree and took tickets when they were offered.

This morning, though, when Owen climbed down from the train, he was not there. The chair stood in its usual place, unoccupied. Owen, who had been under the impression that the collector was permanently fixed to it, was a little surprised; surprised, too, that at this halt, when normally the only things moving were the little desert sparrows that liked to assemble on the arm that swung out from the water tower, there were people scurrying about.

When the train pulled out he saw what it was all about. On the other side of the track, about a hundred yards away, was a large ostrich pen and this morning it was the scene of considerable commotion. Great birds were running agitatedly about the pen, flapping their huge wings as if attempting to take off. They ran manically, not heeding where they were going, and from time to time one bore down on the fence near the station. Whenever that happened, men working on the fence would rush out and wave their arms and shout and at the last moment the huge bird, about nine feet high and twenty stones in weight, would panic and swerve and head off again across the desert.

It was all very exciting and Owen could see at once why it had attracted a crowd of onlookers, including the ticket collector. He could see now, too, that there was a gap in the fence, which the men were working on.

This side of the fence, near the track, a man was lying on the ground and a small group of people were bending over him. Owen walked across.

The man was holding his neck and groaning.

‘Be of good cheer, Ja’affar,’ said one of the men bending over him. ‘We have sent for the barber.’

‘I don’t need a barber,’ groaned the man on the ground, ‘I need a hakim!

‘The barber is cheaper, Ja’affar,’ advised one of the men. Ja’affar just groaned.

‘Perhaps Zaghlul will send for a hakim,’ suggested another of the men.

‘Zaghlul?’ said the man on the ground. ‘Not if it costs money! He might send for the sheikh to pray for me.’

‘Here is an effendi,’ said one of the men. ‘Perhaps he is a hakim!

‘I am afraid not,’ said Owen. ‘But let a hakim be summoned and I will pay.’

He looked down at the man on the ground.

‘Why, it’s you!’ he said, surprised, recognizing the man he’d spoken to with Asif. ‘Of course! You work at the farm.’

‘That bloody bird! I didn’t see it coming.’

‘It got through the fence, Ja’affar, and ran away.’

‘Did it? Well, old man Zaghlul will be more worried about that than about me!’

‘Owen! Owen! Is that you?’ called a voice.

Owen looked up. There, surprisingly, was Malik, the Pasha’s son; and there, even more surprisingly, for such things had only just come to Egypt, was a shining, brand-new motor car. ‘Come on! Get in!’

Owen walked over.

‘A bird has got out! We’ll have a hunt!’

‘Well, I don’t know-’

‘Come on, man. Get in!’

‘There’s a man who’s been hurt-’

‘A broken collarbone! Nothing!’

Malik took him by the arm and almost dragged him in.

‘Remember! I’ll pay for the hakim,’ Owen called over his shoulder.

‘You don’t need to do that, old boy,’ said Malik. ‘These fellows are pretty hardy. A few days’ rest will put him right. He’ll be back to work in no time.’

‘The air here is very good,’ said one of the other men in the car. ‘Very healthy.’

There were two other men in the car-Egyptians, and very rich. There was also a remarkable array of guns.

‘Grabbed all I had,’ said Malik. ‘I don’t know which one will be best for the job. Never shot an ostrich before.’

‘Do we have to shoot it?’

‘Oh yes. Why not?’

‘Well, it’s…wouldn’t you call it farm stock?’

‘I’d call it game. Or wild fowl. Yes, wild fowl, I think. That would suggest a fowling piece. We have a fowling piece, don’t we, Ahmed? Or perhaps that’s too light. It’s a big bird, after all. Yes, definitely too light. One of the others, then.’

The car bounced over the desert.

‘It’s the only way,’ said Malik.

‘Only way?’

‘To hunt. Tried it on horse but you never get close enough. Not with gazelles, you don’t. An ostrich would be about the same, don’t you think? Pretty fast.’

‘It’s got a small head, Malik,’ said one of the other men.

‘Have to be the body, then. Even that will be tricky. Moving target, moving gun platform. Damned exciting! Exciting, isn’t it, Owen?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Glad I spotted you. We’ll go into the Racing Club afterwards for a bit of lunch. They ought to stand us lunch, you know. After shooting an ostrich. Doing them a favour.’

‘Doing them a favour?’

‘Yes. The damned birds are always getting out and attacking the racehorses.’

‘I don’t think they actually attack them, Malik. It’s just that they scare them.’

‘Same thing, isn’t it? They’re a damned nuisance. Someone ought to speak to that old fool, Zaghlul.’

‘We do. Often.’

‘That farm is a liability.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Malik,’ objected one of the others. ‘It’s very picturesque, don’t you think? Interesting for the tourists.’

‘Well, make it more interesting,’ said Malik. ‘Turn it into a game reserve. Sell shooting rights. God, that’s an idea! I say, I’m quite a businessman, aren’t I? What an idea! Let’s put it to the Syndicate.’

‘Old man Zaghlul will never agree.’

‘Buy him out. I’ll get the Syndicate to buy him out.’

‘I think it’s tried, Malik. It would like the land. But Zaghlul will have none of it.’

‘We’ll have to make him see reason, then.’

Over on the horizon, Owen suddenly saw a group of horsemen.

‘Over there! Over there!’ shouted Ahmed excitedly.

Malik pointed the car towards them and sounded his horn. ‘Tally ho!’ shouted Ahmed. He looked at Owen. ‘That’s what they shout in England, don’t they?’

‘I imagine so.’

They didn’t go in for hunts much in the part of Wales that he came from.

The car bumped crazily across the desert, threatening at every moment to throw them out.

‘Damned exciting, isn’t it?’ said Malik, teeth gleaming.

They came up with the horsemen. An old man in ragged Bedouin dress and with a rifle slung on his back rode over to them and gesticulated angrily.

Malik took no notice.

‘By God, there it is!’ he shouted.

For out in the desert in front of them a solitary ostrich wheeled and scudded.

‘Tally ho!’ cried Malik, leading the car in its direction.

The horsemen scattered. Owen just had time to see the old Bedouin unslinging his gun and then he had to cling on for dear life.

‘Load the gun, Ahmed!’ shouted Malik.

‘Which one?’

‘Any one!’

The ostrich, startled, ran before them.

‘You’re gaining, Malik!’

‘Got the gun?’

But just at that moment the front wheels of the car ran into a deep drift. They all pitched forward. Owen suddenly found himself sprawling across the bonnet.

‘Give me the gun!’ shouted Malik.

Owen hauled himself back.

There was a loud explosion.

Ahead, the ostrich checked, veered and then ran off at right angles.

‘Try another one, Malik!’

But the distance was now too great. Malik, disgustedly, climbed out of the car. Across the desert Owen saw groups of horsemen converging on the ostrich.

It took them nearly an hour to dig themselves out of the drift and to get going again. The car bumped across to where, now, the horsemen seemed to have the ostrich secured.

It was lying on the ground trapped in a huge net. The men had tied its feet together. It lay there, sides heaving. Men were holding its neck. From time to time it reached round and tried to peck at their hands.

Malik sighed.

‘Damned difficult shot!’ he said. ‘It would have been a beauty if I’d brought it off. How about a drink?’

‘Vermin!’ said the man at the bar of the Racing Club. ‘That’s what they are!’

‘Heard my idea?’ said Malik happily. ‘Turn the damned farm into a game reserve. Sell shooting rights. It would be a big attraction.’

‘Ostriches and horses don’t mix,’ said the first man. ‘The ostriches frighten the horses and the horses frighten the ostriches. You’ve got to keep them apart. That farm’s too close to the racetrack.’

‘It’s three miles away!’ objected someone.

‘That’s not far if they’re going to break out. And what about the training gallops?’

‘They’re not going to be breaking out all the time!’

‘I should hope not. They’re damned dangerous beasts. Break a horse’s leg in no time.’

‘Dangerous, are they?’ said one of the Belgians uneasily. ‘We’ll have to watch that. An ostrich farm is one thing-in fact, it could be quite attractive, couldn’t it? An unusual feature-but if they’re dangerous, it’s quite another.’

‘Could you pay the old man to put them down?’

‘How many are there?’

‘Several hundred.’

‘Cost too much. And he might not be willing.’

‘My idea’s better,’ said Malik. ‘Get people to pay to put them down.’

‘I say, Malik, there’s a woman!’

They all scurried across to the window.

‘It’s Salah-el-Din’s girl.’

‘A bit bold, isn’t she?’

‘I’m going over,’ said Malik, making for the door. ‘You coming?’ he said over his shoulder to Owen.

‘I don’t think so. In fact’-he glanced at his watch-‘I ought to be making a move.’

‘Don’t go yet,’ said one of the Belgians. ‘We’d like to have a word with you.’

They led him away into a corner of the barroom and ordered more drinks. From where he was sitting he could see out through the window. Beside the racetrack was a strip of newly planted grass and on it a girl was walking. A servant held a parasol over her head.

‘A little forward, yes?’ said one of the Belgians.

‘All right on the boulevards,’ said Raoul, the one he’d played tennis with. ‘But here?’

‘She’s very young,’ said Owen.

‘Their tastes are different here.’

As he watched, he saw Salah-el-Din come up and join her and then, a moment after, Malik at the run.

‘An ambitious man, Salah,’ said one of the Belgians. ‘He has big plans.’

‘It’s not always a good idea for a district mamur to have big plans,’ said Owen.

‘No. And you yourself: do you have big plans?’

‘It’s not always a good idea for British officials to have big plans, either.’

‘Not in the sense you mean, no. But you must make plans of some sort. You have to retire so early. Then what?’

‘Good question,’ said Owen.

‘Unless your government is very different from ours, the pension is piffling.’

‘I’m some way off drawing a pension yet,’ said Owen.

‘That’s the time to make plans.’

Owen, used to such approaches, was not bothered. The conversation turned to other things. The Belgians said the project was going quite well. Building, with plenty of space and cheap labour, was no problem. The only difficulty, if there was one, was in matching development to cash-income flow.

‘Any building project is a long-term one,’ said Raoul. ‘The trouble is, if it’s too long-term, the people financing it start getting bothered. So what you try to do is get something going quite early on that yields a cash flow.’

‘Like a gambling house?’ said Owen.

Raoul laughed.

‘It would help. But the hotel’s the main thing. Once you start attracting people in, they’ll start spending money.’

‘Building houses and selling them isn’t enough?’

‘It’s all right. In the long run. But in the short run we want more spend. That’s why the racetrack is important. If it’s attractive enough, people will come here even if they don’t live here.’

‘Provided they can get here.’

‘Yes,’ said Raoul, ‘that’s the key. Roads, rail, even trams. We intend to get the tramway system extended out to here.’

‘Out to here?’ said Owen incredulously. ‘That’ll be the day!’

‘You see space,’ said Raoul. ‘We see buildings.’

‘What a horrifying thought!’

‘It’s the future,’ said Raoul.

Down below, Amina came to the end of her perambulating and set off in the direction of home, accompanied by her father, and Malik.

‘And meanwhile,’ said Owen, ‘until the houses get built and the tramway system is extended, how are you getting on with the new railway?’

‘It’s coming along,’ said Raoul. He frowned. ‘But too slowly.’

‘You need it for the cash flow?’

‘We need it for the cash flow. Now that the racecourse has been built, we can’t afford not to have it coming. We were thinking,’ he said, looking at Owen, ‘of getting the men to work on Fridays.’

‘Fridays! But that’s the Muslim Sabbath!’

‘We work on Sundays already, you know.’

‘Yes, but that’s different. This is a Muslim country.’

‘How religious is Egypt?’

‘When it comes to working on the Sabbath, you’ll find it’s pretty religious,’ said Owen.

‘Blasphemy! Sacrilege! Desecration!’ shouted Sheikh Isa.

There was a larger crowd around the tabernacle than usual, including this time a number of younger men, some of whom Owen thought he remembered from the railway.

‘Ordinarily I wouldn’t agree with him,’ said Ja’affar, ‘but this time I think he’s got a point.’

‘It’s all right for you, Ja’affar,’ said one of the men whom Owen thought he remembered from the railway-Abdul was his name? ‘It doesn’t apply to those working at the ostrich farm.’

‘Yet,’ said one of the other labourers.

Ja’affar, shocked, turned on him.

‘You don’t think old man Zaghlul-?’

‘He’s a mean old skinflint. Doesn’t miss a trick. If they get away with it on the railway, he’ll start asking why he can’t introduce it on the farm.’

‘You’re all right for the moment anyway, Ja’affar,’ said the barber. ‘You can’t work with that arm.’

They were sitting on the ground just beyond the outer ring of Sheikh Isa’s listeners, far enough away to demonstrate their independence, yet close enough to hear what was being said. The barber had temporarily moved his shop there; that is, his chair, his bowls and his implements.

And also his cronies. This was a different congregation from Sheikh Isa’s: younger, more dissident, free-thinking. It included, besides the wounded Ja’affar, several of the men who worked on the railway, among them the man who had acted as their spokesman in the confrontation over the removal of Ibrahim’s body. It also included the dead man’s brother.

‘You’re right,’ said the man who had acted as spokesman. Wahid appeared to be his name. ‘Ordinarily I wouldn’t agree with the old sheikh either. But he’s got a point. If this working-on-the-Sabbath idea goes ahead, soon they’ll have us all working on the Sabbath. You, Ja’affar, me, Ismail-not you, though,’ he said, looking at Owen.

Owen had come there to pay his dues. It had turned out, however, that a hakim had not in the end been sent for.

‘He would have had to have come all the way from the city, Effendi,’ explained the barber. ‘Besides, to what end? What is a broken collarbone? I can fix that.’

‘You said it didn’t need fixing,’ said Ja’affar accusingly. ‘You said it would get better of its own accord.’

‘And so it will. The sling is there just to support the arm so that it will not put weight on it. And to show old man Zaghlul that there really is something wrong with you.’

Ja’affar had seemed not just satisfied but mending, so Owen had contented himself with settling the barber’s bill, an action which had endeared him both to Ja’affar and to the barber and his ring of cronies.

‘I work all the time,’ said Owen, smiling.

He had accepted a cup of tea and sat down in the circle with the others; from where he could, conveniently, hear what Sheikh Isa said and at the same time sample local opinion. One thing the issue of Friday-working did appear to have done was to have pushed Ibrahim’s death out of the forefront of men’s minds. If it had, that would help Mahmoud. It would give him more time in which to track down Ibrahim’s killer and prevent the whole thing from turning into a revenge feud. If, of course, the killing was purely a local matter.

But now what was this? Sheikh Isa was connecting the two things.

‘How many more signs does God have to send? First, the Tree; then poor, murdered Ibrahim! Are not the signs there to be read? And is there a man so stupid that he cannot read them? Lust, adultery and death everywhere; discord and disharmony. God piles sign upon sign. Nature revolts. Yesterday, but yesterday, here, yes, here in this very village, an ostrich breaks out and savages a man! What is this but God’s way of showing us that we have gone too far, that if we transgress the bounds of order, so too with Nature! Stop now! Turn back this foolish thing, this monster, this sacrilegious beast! Stop this railway now!’

Wahid, the labourers’ spokesman, stood up and applauded vigorously.

Owen suddenly had trouble at home. It began auspiciously enough with an invitation to dinner from Zeinab’s father, Nuri Pasha. When he arrived, Zeinab, who was coming independently, had not yet got there so Owen took off his shoes and climbed up on the liwan beside Nuri for a good chat. The liwan was a dais at one end of the mandar’ah, or reception room, where the host would lie, on large divans, or cushions, and, if his guests were sufficiently favoured, invite them to recline also.

Nuri was a traditionalist when it came to comforts and beside the liwan was a stand on which he kept his coffee-sets, water-pipes and dishes of Turkish delight and nougat. His comforts extended more widely, too, and on the floor above was a harem-room well stocked with wives and concubines. Nuri, however, was growing older and no longer found the performance of the concubines as satisfactory as he had once done, something which he attributed to the declining standards of the age.

He had never, in any case, found anyone to match Zeinab’s mother, who had once been the most famous courtesan in Cairo. Nuri had loved her dearly and recklessly, proposing marriage to her on a number of occasions. His conduct had been for several years the scandal and glee of Cairo society. Zeinab’s mother, as independent as her daughter, had tactfully refused his proposals, unwilling, she said, to accept the sacrifice of standing and career that such a step would mean for the man she loved. Career, replied Nuri-he had been young then-was transitory; love was permanent. And, indeed, their relationship had lasted for quite a time; until, in fact, Zeinab’s mother died, leaving behind her something less transitory in the shape of Zeinab.

Nuri, a Francophile and, in those days, a modernizer, had decided to bring up his daughter in the Western manner, wanting her to grow up to be as spirited and free-thinking as her mother. Now, having done so, he was not quite so sure that it had been a good idea.

What, for example, about marriage? A match with a wealthy Pasha or Pasha’s son was the obvious thing, but Pashas and sons alike were frankly terrified of her. Besides, the years were going by and she was now twenty-eight. Girls got married at half her age.

Zeinab herself was beginning to be uncomfortably aware of this. Owen, fortunately, was not, and for the time being she intended to make the most of a relationship with someone who thought she was normal.

Nuri poured out these and other woes to Owen as they lay on the liwan, and Owen replied, as he always did, that Zeinab would make up her own mind about these things and that nothing either he or Nuri did would alter this in the slightest.

They were in full, contented flow when Zeinab arrived, brandishing a large gilt-edged card.

‘What is this?’ she demanded.

Nuri took it gingerly.

‘It is an invitation to a reception to mark the formal opening of the Racing Club at Heliopolis,’ he replied.

‘What have I to do with Racing Clubs, what have I to do with jumped-up, parvenu places like Heliopolis?’ she demanded. ‘What, more to the point,’ she said, looking fiercely at Owen, ‘have you to do with them?’

‘Nothing,’ said Owen. ‘I’m just going to the reception, that’s all.’

‘It’s that girl,’ said Zeinab.

‘What girl?’ said Owen, bewildered.

‘That one I saw you with the other day. In Anton’s.’

‘Salah-el-Din’s daughter? She’s just a child.’

‘I know what she is,’ said Zeinab, ‘and it certainly isn’t a child!’

‘Who’s Salah-el-Din?’ asked Nuri, interested.

‘The new mamur at Heliopolis.’

‘And he shops at Anton’s?’

Nuri looked thoughtful.

‘It’s odd that you should have been invited,’ said Owen, puzzled. Egyptian women, even if they were Pasha’s daughters, were hardly ever invited to public events.

Zeinab, however, was in a mood to take umbrage.

‘You don’t want me to be there, is that it?’ she demanded, switching tack.

‘Of course not. I’m just puzzled, that’s all. You’ve never had anything to do with racing. How did they come to pick on you?’

He took the card from Nuri. The names of the Club’s new committee were printed at the bottom.

‘Malik?’ he said. ‘Do you think it could be Malik?’

‘That man I told Anton to throw out?’

‘Malik?’ said Nuri. ‘Which Malik?’

‘Abd-al-Jamal’s son,’ said Owen.

‘You told Anton to throw him out?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Oh, my God!’ said Nuri.

‘He’s a gross pig.’

‘Yes, but Abd-al-Jamal’s son!’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘Abd-al-Jamal’s very powerful. And very rich. Besides-’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve been talking to him recently,’ said Nuri unhappily.

‘So?’

‘Well-’

‘What,’ said Zeinab in sudden fury, ‘have you been talking to him about?’

‘Well-’

‘If,’ said Zeinab ominously, ‘you have been talking to him about marriage-’

‘No, no, no!’ said Nuri hastily. ‘Only in general.’

‘Because if it gets particular-’

‘No question of that. No question at all… he is, of course, very rich.’

Owen could see it all too clearly. Nuri’s finances were permanently straitened; and what better way of relieving them than marrying off his daughter to the son of one of the wealthiest Pashas in Egypt?

‘No!’ shouted Zeinab, stamping her foot. ‘I won’t!’

‘There’s absolutely no question-’

‘I would kill myself first!’

‘No question-’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Zeinab, suddenly stopping.

‘You wouldn’t?’ said Nuri, heart beginning to lift.

‘No. I would kill him. In fact,’ said Zeinab magnificently, ‘I will go and kill him now!’

And swept out.

Nuri and Owen sat for a moment in stunned silence.

‘You don’t think-?’ said Nuri hesitantly.

‘Not immediately,’ said Owen.

‘She is a resolute girl.’

‘It takes a bit of time.’

‘Abd-al-Jamal’s an old friend of mine. I would hate-’

‘I’ll talk to her. I’ll suggest she waits until the contingency arises.’

‘It was only in passing. We were really talking about my investment.’

‘What investment is this?’

‘In the Heliopolis Oasis Scheme.’

‘I thought you hadn’t any money?’

‘I’m hoping this will give me some.’

They wouldn’t give him some for nothing, thought Owen. Nuri was too astute not to know this. So what was he giving them? Zeinab? But surely he must have known what her reaction would be? Even if he hadn’t known that she had already taken a dislike to Malik.

But Zeinab herself had been behaving a little oddly lately. What was she going on about that girl for? If the kid had been a bit older he could have understood it. But she was just a child! He couldn’t make it out at all.

But what he could make out was that someone was trying to involve Nuri in the Heliopolis Scheme. What were they after? Was it Zeinab? Who had the suggestion about the marriage come from? Nuri-or Malik? Did Malik have his eye on Zeinab? He thought it not impossible.

But the attempt to involve Nuri must have emanated from the Syndicate, not Malik, and they surely would not be interested in Zeinab. They would be after something else. And it would not be Nuri, not in himself. Pasha though he was and useful though his name might be on the prospectus, there were Pashas in plenty who would be as good and whose names were already there. No, it was something, or someone, else that they were after. And Owen was beginning to have a feeling that it might be him.