The Mamur Zapt and the Night of the Dog

CHAPTER 4

It was safe to assume in Cairo that nothing you did would go unobserved. No matter how private the occasion or how secret the place, someone would be bound to be watching. So it was with the matter of the dog. It was not long before Georgiades, Owen’s agent, had found not one but two witnesses. Not only that; the accounts of the witnesses-and this was definitely unusual in Cairo-roughly corresponded.

The first was an old man, an Arab, who lived in the cemetery. Georgiades showed Owen where he lived. It was in a space between two gravestones beneath the rubble of a collapsed tomb. Peering down between the stones Owen saw a hole about five feet deep and four feet square. It was in there that the old man lived. Apart from a worn rush mat he had no provisions, but the hole at least kept him cool during the hot weather and sheltered him from the wind during the khamsin. He had a short, torn galabeah and thin, bird-like legs. His face was scruffy with grey stubble and his eyes, as they looked up towards the light, were so red with disease that the first question was whether he could have seen what he claimed he had.

During the night, he said, men had come.

Men? Yes, he was adamant. Four or five of them, carrying something. They had stopped some way from the tomb. He could show them. No, he had not gone himself to the place, he had been frightened, thinking that perhaps they were carrying a corpse. The Copts would have been angry with him if they had seen him. They would think he had been observing their secret rites. So he had kept well away from them, hidden among the rubble, but he had definitely seen them, a small group of men in the light of the moon.

Had they gone to the tomb? Did he know which tomb? Yes, he did. It was the tomb of Andrus. He knew Andrus because the Copt had often chided him when he saw him among the tombs; but he had sometimes given him alms, too. He knew the tomb because he had sometimes seen Andrus there, praying. It was a holy place and he, the old man, often liked to sit there, especially when the sun had just moved off the wall, because then he could sit there with his back against the wall and the stone would warm his back. He knew the tomb and he had seen the men going there.

Did they go in? Yes, but not for long. It was a holy place and perhaps they had been frightened. He had heard the door squeak and then they had all come running down the stairs and made off into the rubble.

He had seen the men in the moonlight: what sort of men were they? Bad men. Only bad men would do a thing like that. To come at night to the Place of the Dead! And there to do mischief. Bad men. Bad men.

But what sort of men were they? Were they-and this was the tricky question-were they Copts? Or Moslems? The old man was silent. Owen tried again. How were they dressed? In galabeahs or in trousers? Alas, the old man could not see. He had been far away and it had been dark. Yet he had seen the men in the light of the moon. The old man became confused and fell silent.

Owen tried a different tack. Did they come as men who knew the necropolis, or did they hesitate, wondering which way to go? The old man thought they knew. But then he thought that they had stopped before going to the tomb because perhaps they had not been quite sure which one it was.

His attention began to wander and it soon became apparent that there was no point in questioning him further.

The second witness was a small boy. There were lots of small boys in the necropolis. Not all of them were abandoned orphans. Some of them had loose connections with families in the poor districts which surrounded the cemetery. The families were often unable to sustain too many children and the older ones sometimes drifted away into a kind of semi-independence.

The girls became household servants or prostitutes. The boys made for the wilderness of the necropolis. Like the old man, they sustained themselves by begging from the wealthy Copts and fighting for scraps of food among the garbage tossed out into the cemetery from the more well-to-do Moslem houses along its western side. They moved in gangs, like the packs of dogs of which there were plenty in the necropolis, and with which they had a curious relationship, half-inimical, half-tolerated, sharing a mutual signalling system which alerted them at once to any intruders.

Aware of newcomers though they might be, that did not make them more ready to come forward. Even though they had already made Georgiades’s acquaintance, when he appeared with Owen they remained hidden among the stones, and he had to have recourse to the strategy which had worked before. He settled himself comfortably on the edge of a tomb and began to toss a coin casually into the air.

He went on tossing for about ten minutes, and only then did the first heads begin to appear. Slowly they moved forward until there was a ring of little boys surrounding them, all keeping at safe fleeing distance. At last Georgiades’s contact came out of hiding. Once he had made his move he came boldly forward, but stopped just beyond arm’s length.

“Who is this man?” he said, pointing at Owen.

“He’s a friend of mine,” said Georgiades.

“I know him,” said the boy. “He’s the Mamur Zapt.”

“Like I said. He’s a friend of mine.”

“You have powerful friends.”

“I need them.”

The boy looked doubtful.

“It is dangerous to have powerful friends,” he said.

“Worse to have powerful enemies.”

“He couldn’t touch me.”

“I wouldn’t want to touch you,” said Owen.

The boy seemed more than half-inclined to retreat back among the stones. Georgiades began to toss his coin speculatively.

“Does he pay you?” said the boy suddenly.

“Not enough,” said Georgiades.

That seemed to reassure the child.

“One never gets enough,” he said, with the air of an old man.

“One has to live by one’s wits.”

“Will he pay me, too?”

“I will pay you,” said Owen, “if you tell me what I want to know.”

The boy still did not come forward.

“I am afraid,” he said.

“I shall not hurt you,” said Owen.

“It’s not you I’m afraid of.”

“Who are you afraid of?”

“The big man with his knife. Also the holy one.”

“Which one are you afraid of most?” asked Georgiades.

The boy considered.

“The holy one,” he said at last. “The other, though big, is slow. He would never catch me. The holy one has many men. He might get one I did not know to seize me and hold me so that he could beat me. Also,” he added as an afterthought, “the holy one might call down great curses on me.”

“If you tell me the truth,” said Owen, “I will give you something which will heal both the beatings and the curses.”

“How much?” said the boy practically.

Owen mentioned a sum.

The boy turned away disappointed.

“It is not worth us talking.”

“It is always worth talking,” said Georgiades, flipping his coin in the air.

“Not for that it isn’t.”

“No?”

Georgiades continued to flip.

After a little while the boy said: “For two such coins I might be willing.”

Georgiades was so shocked by the suggestion that he missed his catch, almost, and had to fumble to stop the coin from falling on the ground, where it might have rolled away to join the lost treasures of the pharaohs; but fortunately he recovered.

“Three piastres I might manage,” said Georgiades grudgingly, “if the information is good. The fourth piastre-well, who knows, you might be able to tell me something later on.”

The boy accepted three piastres; one paid in advance, one paid when he came close enough for Georgiades to catch hold of him, and one to be paid after he had given his information. The fourth piastre was to be a bonus depending on the extent and quality of the information.

The story in outline was the same. The men had come into the necropolis late at night and had made their way towards the house of Andrus joking uneasily and talking loudly among themselves. They had quietened down as they approached the tomb and the last part of the journey had been covered in silence. They had stopped when they were some way short of their objective. The boy said it was because several of the men were afraid there might be spirits lingering about the tomb who might be hostile towards them because they weren’t Christian. They had succeeded in infecting the others with their fear and in the end no one had wanted to go on. Then one of them had said that it would be a shame to go back again without having done anything now that they had come so far, and that he was not afraid, especially as the spirits would be bound to be weak ones, being Coptic. He would go by himself if no one would go with him. No one would go with him and the man became angry, saying they were cowards and weaklings and feeble of faith. Still no one would go with him and in the end he had taken the bundle himself. He had gone to the tomb alone.

Alone? Yes, said the boy, alone. Not with the others? No, not with the others. They had watched from afar.

Owen was inclined to believe him. His account was more circumstantial than the old man’s. He reported conversation, too, which suggested that he or his informants had gone closer to the men. It might all be invention, the sort of stuff that he thought the Mamur Zapt would like to hear, but on the whole the account rang true.

What happened then? While the man was delivering the bundle a door had scraped along the stone making a loud, grating sound. The man had come rushing down the steps in a fright and all the men had run off into the darkness. They had scattered and some of them had lost their way and had not been able to get out of the necropolis till morning. The boy reported this with a trace of contempt in his voice, as of a professional speaking about amateurs.

Owen asked the boy if he had seen the nature of the bundle.

The boy said no, but left little doubt that then or later he had learned what it contained. Had he seen the men? Again the boy said no. He hesitated slightly, however, and Owen got the impression he was holding something back. He pressed him but got no response.

The boy tugged at Georgiades’s arm.

“Can I have my money?” he said.

Georgiades fumbled in his pocket and produced the third piastre.

“What you have told us is certainly worth three piastres,” he said. “The question is, is it worth four?”

He looked at Owen.

“In itself it isn’t,” said Owen, “but if we give it him perhaps he will remember us and come to us again.”

Georgiades found a fourth piastre and gave it to the boy.

“This is how I became poor,” he said.

The boy, released, moved a little further off, out of reach, but did not go away. He was looking at Owen.

“I have heard of you,” he said.

“What have you heard?”

The boy did not reply directly.

“My mother’s brother works for you,” he said suddenly.

“His name?”

“Yussuf.”

Yussuf was one of the office bearers.

“I know him well,” said Owen.

“Too well,” added Georgiades.

“How is your mother?” asked Owen politely.

“She is angry with Yussuf.”

“Why?”

“He has put away his wife. Now he has no woman and he expects her to clean for him.”

“I will speak to Yussuf.”

“For God’s sake, don’t add to his problems,” Georgiades counselled, “or the coffee will get even worse.”

“Do not tell him I spoke with you,” said the boy.

Owen promised he wouldn’t.

“It shall be a secret between us,” he said, “as with all else you have told me. And anything further you tell me,” he added, watching the boy.

“I am afraid,” the boy said.

“The holy one?”

The boy did not reply.

“Are you afraid he might punish you if he hears you have spoken with me?”

The boy glanced over his shoulder at the other boys behind him in the stones.

“They need not hear. They need not know.”

“They will tell him that I have spoken with you.”

“He will ask, and you will tell him all that you have told us.”

“That is right,” said the boy.

“And he will not mind because so far you have not told us anything that touches him.”

The boy was silent.

“He need not know,” said Owen, “if you tell us a little more.”

The boy was torn.

“I would tell you-”

“Tell us,” said Owen. “It is a dangerous thing to have powerful friends. But sometimes it is a good thing.”

“They were his men.”

“The holy one’s? The men who came to the Place of the Dead?”

The boy nodded.

“Who is this holy one?” asked Georgiades.

The boy did not reply at once. He seemed to be studying the marks his toe traced in the sand. Owen thought at first that they might be intended as a message, but of course the boy could not write.

Then he lifted his head and looked Owen straight in the eye.

“The Sheikh Osman Rahman.”

“Did he send them?”

The boy pulled away.

“I can say no more. I must go. They will suspect.”

“Very well. You have helped me,” said Owen, “and I shall not forget.”

The boy stepped back towards them.

“Offer me money,” he said to Georgiades.

Georgiades took out another piastre.

“That is not enough. Two.”

Georgiades obliged.

“Not like that,” said the boy impatiently. “As you did.” Georgiades cottoned on. He took the large double piastre coin between forefinger and thumb and showed it to the boy in exaggerated fashion. The boy looked at it as if mesmerized and allowed himself to be drawn slowly forward. Then, as Georgiades reached out a hand for him, he kicked Georgiades smartly on the shin, knocked the coin out of his hand, scooped it up in a flash out of the sand and sprang away laughing.

For a moment he stood there trilling triumphantly. Then he disappeared into the stones with his fellows.

Georgiades rubbed his shin and cursed. Even though the kick had been delivered with the bare foot it had still hurt. “Little sod,” he said. “Smart little sod,” he added admiringly.

“Who is this woman, anyway?” demanded Zeinab.

“I told you. She’s the niece of this MP who’s visiting us.”

“What is she doing here?”

“Keeping him company, I suppose. Having a holiday.”

“She’s come here to get a husband. Like all the others.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so. She’s not like them.”

This was a mistake.

“How is she not like them?” Zeinab asked.

Owen floundered.

“Well, she’s quieter. More retiring.”

“She doesn’t seem to have retired so far,” said Zeinab. “What’s she like? Is she beautiful?”

“No. She’s not beautiful. I don’t know what she’s like, really. Mostly she’s been under that hat.”

“Cunning.”

Owen looked at the memo incredulously. It came from Accounts, and it said:

To the Mamur Zapt:

CAMEL WATERING

We notice there have been two recent transfers of sums from the Camel Watering Account to the Curbash Compensation Fund. We assume these transfers to have been made in error. We remind the Mamur Zapt that he has no capacity to vire.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that you can’t switch money from other accounts into the Curbash Compensation Fund,” said Nikos.

“Why not?”

“Because you have no capacity to vire.”

“What the hell’s that?”

“It means to take money which is under one heading and put it under another. It’s an accounting term.”

“I can’t switch money from one account to another because I can’t switch money from one account to another. Is that it?”

“Exactly.”

“But I’ve always done it.”

“And now they’ve found out.”

“But I need to. The accounts are all wrong otherwise.”

“If I were you,” said Nikos, “I wouldn’t tell them that.”

“Who the hell do they think they are? I can vire if I want to.”

“No,” said Nikos, “you can’t. The restriction on viring was one of Cromer’s first measures. It’s a basic accounting principle. Ask Postlethwaite.”

“Well, I don’t know that I’ll take it up with him-”

“If I were you I wouldn’t take it up. It’s one of the things they’re very hot on.”

“Yes, but we need the money.”

“You’d better talk to Garvin. Though I don’t know that that will do much good.”

“About that hedgehog of yours,” said Cairns-Grant, the forensic pathologist.

“What?” said Owen, startled.

Cairns-Grant chuckled, pleased at the success of his little joke.

“That Zikr. The one with all the spikes in him.”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin and signalled to Owen to take the seat opposite him. He was still at the soup stage and was, indeed, having full Sudani, which was the main reason why Owen went to the Sporting Club for lunch.

“You’ve done the autopsy?”

“Yes. Very straightforward.”

There was a touch of regret, even reproach, in Cairns-Grant’s voice.

“Sorry.”

“Never mind,” said Cairns-Grant comfortingly. “You’re doing very well. It’s not every day you get a Zikr with knives all over. It’s out of the common run. I’ve great hopes of you.”

The waiter, who knew Owen’s preferences, brought him the full Sudani.

“What did you find?”

“First, that it wasn’t one of the blades still sticking in him that killed him. None of them went near a vital place. The Zikr may get carried away,” said Cairns-Grant, “but they’re not daft.”

“They know where to put the blade in?”

“Ay.”

“Even so-”

“I know what you’re thinking. Loss of blood. Well, there’s less of that than you might think. I remember when I first came out here being able to check some Zikr over after they had finished their dance. The Government wanted evidence that it was excessive and dangerous. Well, I knew some of the sheikhs so I got them to let me give their men a checkover. There was very little bleeding and when the blades were retracted the wounds healed very quickly. It took a week or two, of course, but even immediately after the dancing most of them were able to walk around quite normally. I dare say you noticed that yourself?”

“Yes,” said Owen, remembering.

“They’re strong,” Cairns-Grant acknowledged, finishing his soup and putting down his spoon. “They’re big strong laddies and very fit. But there must be another factor. And I don’t know what it is.”

He looked thoughtfully into space. The waiters, on whom he had the same effect as he did on Owen, thought the gaze was meant for them and rushed to bring him his chops.

“Ay, well,” he said, recovering and glancing down at his chops, “that’s another story.”

“How was he killed, then?”

“We found another stab wound. It penetrated the heart.”

“Not one of the blades still sticking in?” said Owen.

“No.”

“Fallen out?”

Cairns-Grant shook his head.

“Unlikely. Very deep. Inserted with considerable force. It would have taken force to pull it out.”

“Removed, then?”

“Yes.”

“Someone else, then. Not self-inflicted.”

“No doubt about it,” said Cairns-Grant. “Inserted from behind.”

Owen nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”

“An upward thrust,” said Cairns-Grant, “delivered by somebody small. About five feet six or five feet eight. I’ve tried it out.”

“He would have died at once, presumably?”

“Yes.”

“It must have been someone in the dance, then.”

“Another Zikr?”

“Someone who joined the dance,” said Owen.

“Got someone who fits?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Cairns-Grant. “Good.” He examined his chops with a view to dissection. “Well, young man,” he said, reaching out for his knife and fork, “you would seem to have a murder on your hands. Yes, definitely.”