Death of an Effendi. Michael Pearce
boats were scattered. I know, because I asked the boatmen. If we knew the range, it might help us to establish which boat.’
‘Anyway,’ said the Mudir lamely, ‘there was no ice.’
‘Ice? What’s that got to do with it?’
‘To pack the body in. If we wanted to preserve it for a postmortem. It’s very hot at this time of year and—’
‘But there was plenty of ice! The hotel had lots of it.’
‘Ah, yes, but that was ice for putting in drinks. You couldn’t use that. Not for a foreign effendi. It would be disrespectful.’
‘So what did you do with the body?’
‘I let the effendis have it.’
‘You what?’
‘I let the effendis take it away. They said they would see to all that was necessary. And I said to myself, yes, surely that would be best, for they will know what is proper. Who am I to say what rites should be used for a foreign effendi? You can’t expect a Mudir to know everything.’
‘You let them take it away? Just like that? Without even getting a doctor to sign a death certificate? Have you no notion of procedure, man?’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ protested the Mudir, stung. ‘These were foreign effendis, great and mighty. And, besides, Prince Fuad said if I didn’t get a move on, he would kick my arse.’
‘There is a procedure to be followed,’ lectured Mahmoud, ‘and you, the Mudir, should be seeing that it is followed. No one is above the law. Neither foreign effendis nor Prince Fuad.’
‘You try telling Prince Fuad that!’ said the Mudir.
The tables on the terrace were filling up now for lunch. White tablecloths gleamed, silver serviette rings shone. Ice buckets smoked, ice chinked in glasses. Mahmoud had gone into the hotel to see if he could obtain a list of the people who had been there on the weekend when Tvardovsky was shot. Owen was reading the wine list.
A man came out on to the terrace. He stopped when he saw Owen and then came across to him.
‘Why, Captain Owen,’ he said, ‘what brings you here? Taking a break? Oh, no,’ he smiled, ‘I was forgetting: you will be here on business. This sad Tvardovsky affair!’
Owen did not recognize him.
‘Mirza es-Rahel,’ said the man helpfully. ‘I work for Al-Liwa.’
‘I know your writing, of course,’ said Owen, ‘but the face—’
They shook hands. It was true. He did know his writings. And very scurrilous they were, too. The man seemed to have a knack of unearthing scandalous stories about the royal family and the politicians with whom the Khedive surrounded himself. But the face was unfamiliar.
Which was surprising, for Owen thought he knew most of the important Nationalist journalists who worked in the city.
‘I’m based in Alexandria,’ the Egyptian explained.
That, too, was surprising: for it was Cairo that was the hub of government, the place where the Khedive and his ministers resided, and where one would naturally expect to find journalists of Mr es-Rahel’s ilk. He said as much.
‘But it is Alexandria where the money is,’ said the Egyptian, smiling again, ‘and I have always found the financial connection the most promising of threads to pursue.’
‘Not sex?’
‘That, too,’ Mr es-Rahel conceded. ‘But sex is for pleasure: money is something you take seriously.’ He laughed. ‘Or, at least, the Pashas who rule us do.’
‘And which is it that brings you here, Mr es-Rahel? Business or pleasure?’
‘Pleasure. Though not, I’m afraid, of the sexual kind. Merely taking a break. I was feeling a bit jaded. Alexandria, you know, fills up at this time of year with holiday-makers. I felt a day or two in the quiet by the lake would do me good.’ He looked across to the main building and saw Mahmoud coming out of a door. ‘You are here with Mr El-Zaki?’
‘Yes.’
‘Seeing that he does not find out too much?’
The conciliating laugh took the sting out of his words.
‘Helping him.’
‘I am sure he will need help. With so many obstacles in his way.’
‘Are there?’
‘Well, yes, Captain Owen. You know that as well as I do.’
‘What sort of obstacles?’
‘The usual ones. The ones that always block Egypt’s attempts at freedom.’
‘The Capitulations, you mean?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I am not sure they are relevant here.’
‘No?’
‘In any case,’ said Owen, ‘there’s not a lot I can do about them.’
‘Perhaps not. But, you see, Captain Owen, if you were really helping Mr El-Zaki, it would make his task a great deal easier. That is why I asked what was your role in the case.’
‘Why are you interested in Tvardovsky?’
The journalist spread his hands.
‘The general good, Captain Owen. The general good. This is a sad loss to Egypt.’
‘A sad loss?’
Es-Rahel caught the note of incredulity and stared.
‘Why, yes, Captain Owen. Mr Tvardovsky was a man who might have done a great deal for Egypt.’
‘That was the point of the gathering, certainly.’
‘Ah, yes, but you know how these things go. So many people there who were not really interested in Egypt, interested only in how much money they could make out of it. Mr Tvardovsky was not like that.’
‘You knew Tvardovsky?’
‘Of course.’
‘Of course?’
‘We journalists mix in a variety of circles.’
‘Including that of millionaire financiers?’
‘Well, perhaps not directly,’ the Egyptian admitted. ‘But we do sometimes meet them in other circles.’
‘Such as?’
‘Émigré ones.’ Mr es-Rahel smiled. ‘Radical ones, Captain Owen. But then, the Mamur Zapt wouldn’t know about that sort of circle, would he?’
Mahmoud joined them.
‘Ah, Mr El-Zaki!’ said the journalist warmly. ‘And how are you getting on with your inquiries? Successfully, I hope. Mr Tvardovsky was such a sad loss to us all!’
Mahmoud looked at him distrustfully.
‘Mirza es-Rahel,’ said the journalist, shaking hands.
‘He works for Al-Liwa,’ said Owen.
‘Oh.’
Mahmoud was not on easy terms with the press. Partly it was his natural caution. As a Parquet lawyer, Mahmoud had had too much experience of journalists not to know that anything he said would be taken down and used in evidence against him. But partly, too, it was a slightly puritanical dislike of their overstatement and distortion. Why couldn’t they just put it down straightforwardly and rationally –