The Fig Tree Murder (11 page)

Certainly, the man replied with pride. Word had gone round that good men were required and he and several others had put their names forward. They had worked with Figi before— Figi?

‘He’s our boss. We don’t work with him all the time, but lately he’s been getting some good contracts—’

Like?

‘Well, this one. Go in and break them up. Very straightforward. And they probably wouldn’t even be armed! Well, I mean—’

And that was all?

Well, it was enough, wasn’t it? The reward had to be matched against the risk, after all. In this case there hadn’t seemed to be much risk so they’d settled for something quite low. And then the Mamur Zapt had come along and started shooting!

‘You never know,’ said the man philosophically.

And, indeed, he didn’t know. Not much more than he’d said, anyway. Owen got more out of Garvin, into whose office he dropped after the man had been taken away.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Garvin, ‘I know him. He works the racetracks. Stays with the same gang, mostly.’

‘Do they take on other jobs?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘Political ones?’

Garvin looked doubtful.

‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Mostly they stick to the racetracks… They were up at Heliopolis the other day,’ he offered as Owen was on the way out.

Owen stopped.

‘The ones we saw?’

‘That’s right. They were talking to one of the stewards, if you remember. I’m worried about that, Owen. We don’t want the course to get off to a bad start. You asked me not to take action, but—’

‘Hello!’ said Salah-el-Din, coming across the room to greet him. ‘What brings you here?’

‘I was over at Matariya,’ said Owen, ‘so I thought I would pop in.’

‘Very nice to see you. Care for a drink?’

This being Cairo, Owen didn’t ordinarily accept drinks from subordinates; but this was also the bar at the New Heliopolis Racing Club, where things certainly seemed a bit different, so he accepted graciously.

They sat down in two plushy armchairs near the window, from where they could look down on the racetrack. There being no races today, the track was empty; except for, yes, it was her, Salah-el-Din’s daughter, plus attendant, going for her usual promenade.

Salah-el-Din followed the direction of Owen’s eyes.

‘Yes, it is Amina. We come most days. But she goes for a walk while I come up to the bar!’ He laughed. ‘In case you’re wondering, though, I only have one drink. And I justify my attendance on the grounds that until more of Heliopolis is built, this is where I’m going to meet everybody.’

The bar was certainly filling up. There was a sprinkling of Syndicate staff, mostly Belgians but a number of—well, not so much effendis, too rich for that—wealthy Egyptian young, all males, of course, from the Pashas’ houses round about. Owen looked for Malik. He wasn’t there, but if Amina was, could Malik be far behind?

They talked for a while about the new police station that was being built at Heliopolis and about its staffing. This was really Garvin’s pigeon but Salah was anxious that there should be some Mamur Zapt involvement, on the grounds that the international community, bankers and such, would be heavily represented in the New Heliopolis and policing would have to have regard for international treaties.

Owen offered a return drink, which, however, Salah declined. ‘Since I’ve told you my role, I’d better stick to it,’ he said. ‘However, you can offer it to Amina if you like. I’m just going down to fetch her.’

‘I’ll come with you, if I may,’ said Owen. ‘I’d like to look at the track.’

Some men were laying turf.

‘Big staff?’

‘Building up,’ said Salah. ‘People don’t realize how many the Club will employ. It will be a very good thing for people hereabouts.’

‘And for the gangs.’

‘I’ve seen that here already. That’s one of the things I’m going to have to keep an eye on.’

‘Do they get at the staff? Try to influence them?’

‘It wouldn’t do any good. You’ve got to have safeguards against a thing like that.’

Owen looked for the man he had seen the other day.

‘What happens to the stewards? Are they here all the time?’

‘Just for the races.’

There would be races the following Saturday, Salah said. The Club was anxious to hold them twice a week but at the moment the crowds didn’t justify it.

‘It’ll be different when the new railway’s running,’ he said.

Amina’s eyes, above her veil, brightened when she saw Owen.

‘You’ve still not been to see me,’ she said accusingly. ‘I ride every morning, mostly over towards Matariya.’

‘I’ve been a bit busy lately. One of these mornings you’ll see me!’

The horse would have to be wild indeed that got him over to Matariya, he told himself privately.

‘About seven,’ she said.

‘Lot of people around at that time?’ he said, wondering about Malik.

‘Fortunately not,’ she said, meeting his eyes levelly.

Up in the bar, he bought her a drink. She chose tonic.

She was the only woman in the room. Owen noticed, however, that they seemed to accept her. Probably they’d got used to her. It wouldn’t do, though, to talk to her all the time. Or would it? This was a different world from any other that he had known in Egypt, not exactly more emancipated, but freer in the way that wealth somehow manages to give itself more elbow room.

Salah brought someone across to meet him.

‘George Zenakis,’ he said. ‘Our Secretary.’

Our
Secretary?

‘You must be very busy just now,’ said Owen, ‘with everything starting up.’

‘Well, yes. But it’s nothing to what it’s going to be later. Or so they tell me,’ the man said, smiling.

‘And do you handle everything? Or is there a General Manager of some sort?’

‘I handle everything on behalf of the committee. Membership, for instance.’

‘How many members have you?’

‘About two hundred, and growing fast. You wouldn’t yourself—?’

‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to get out here enough. My other commitments—’

He asked, for politeness’s sake, about the subscription, then mentally reeled back.

‘I don’t think I could run to that,’ he said.

‘Oh, you don’t have to bother about that,’ said George Zenakis, smiling. ‘We would be glad to waive, for the Mamur Zapt—’

On the Saturday, Owen was at the races. Not up in the bar this time but down by the track, and not there for long; just long enough to point out to his agents the steward that he and Garvin had seen talking to the gang on the day of the reception.

‘His name is Roukoz,’ said Georgiades in Owens office on the following Monday. Georgiades was the plain-clothesman who had put a gun into Owen’s hand at the demonstration. ‘And he has a history of working the racetracks. He was at the Gezira for a little while but they didn’t like him and so he moved on to Helwan.’

‘Why didn’t they like him?’ asked Owen.

‘He was too friendly with the wrong sort of people.’

‘The gang?’

‘Gangs. Nothing they could put their finger on, but they didn’t like him.’

‘And at Helwan?’

Georgiades hesitated.

‘Nothing you could put your finger on there, either. But again they didn’t like him. This time, though, he had a friend higher up and so he stayed.’

‘Do you know the friend?’

‘Yes. He’s not at Helwan either now.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Heliopolis.’

‘Who moved first?’

‘The friend did. Then, when the racetrack opened, Roukoz.’

‘What’s the name of the friend?’

‘Zenakis.’

Owen went to see the man from the Syndicate who had rung him up.

‘About that demonstration the other night,’ he said. ‘I didn’t break it up.’

‘You didn’t? But—who did?’

‘You did,’ said Owen.

‘Now look here, Owen—’

‘You used a gang from the racetracks. I know. I’ve got one of them.’

‘If you say it was a gang from the racetracks, OK, it was a gang from the racetracks. But it wasn’t anything to do with us.’

‘Well, I think it was. I know the gang, you see, and I’ve seen them at Heliopolis.’

‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean—’

‘Talking to one of the stewards.’

‘That’s bad. It must be looked into. But that doesn’t necessarily—’

‘He’s a friend of the Club Secretary. A close friend.’

‘Zenakis?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I know Zenakis.’

‘That’s what I’m saying.’

There was a long silence.

‘Look, Owen—’

‘If you’re going to ask me to handle this with sensitivity, you’ll have to try again.’

‘I wasn’t going to—Look, you’ve got this all wrong.’

‘So have you. So,’ said Owen, ‘have you!’

‘I know you’re sore. I shouldn’t have said what I did the other morning. OK, I’ve got it wrong. But you’ve got it wrong too.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. It wasn’t your people who broke up the demonstration, I accept that. But’—he took a deep breath—‘it wasn’t ours either. I swear we don’t know anything about it.’

‘No?’

‘If for no other reason than that it wouldn’t be in our interest. We’re nearly there, as I said the other morning. All we want to do is to wrap it up and get out. Besides—’

‘Keep trying.’

‘Zenakis is not the Syndicate. He’s not ours. The Racing Club is quite separate. All that side is. All the gambling bit. They’re clients of ours, customers. It’s a separate organization. It’s nothing to do with us. Honest!’

There was racing the next day at Heliopolis and the gang turned up in force; so, in even greater force, did Owen’s men, and arrested the lot of them.

‘What’s all this about?’ they said in injured tones. ‘We haven’t done anything yet!’

‘What about breaking up that demonstration on Wednesday?’

‘That doesn’t count!’ they protested. ‘That’s not a real crime. People do it all the time. Besides, it was just an extra, not our real line of business at all.’

‘We work the racetracks,’ explained someone helpfully.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Owen.

‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’ said someone belligerently. ‘You’re not police, we know the police.’

‘I am the Mamur Zapt.’

‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘Abdul, don’t you think you could shut up?’ counselled one of the older members of the gang worriedly. ‘If he’s the Mamur Zapt, he might do things differently from the police.’

He certainly might. One of his predecessors, Zeini Barakat, infuriated by just such a gang, had ordered their testicles to be cut off and fed to the hawks that hovered above the Citadel. That had, admittedly, been four hundred years before, but you never knew with Mamur Zapts and the gang was impressed.

‘You don’t want to bother with us, Effendi,’ they said conciliatorily. ‘We’re just a small-time gang.’

‘It’s true I don’t want to bother with you,’ agreed Owen. ‘I’ve got more important things to do. And therefore I shall release you. Once you’ve told me what I want to know.’

‘What do you want to know, Effendi?’

‘Who asked you to break up the demonstration.’

The gang consulted among themselves.

‘It came through our boss.’

‘Figi?’

‘Well—’

‘Is Figi here?’

Figi, as is the way with bosses when there is trouble around, was not.

‘No matter. Let Figi know what I want. And meanwhile you stay here.’

No need to inquire too closely into how they would contact Figi. They would probably bribe a prison official. But the message would get through.

‘Stay here? But, Effendi, if we stay here we won’t be able to do any work.’

‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ said Owen.

The point evidently occurred to Figi, too, for that afternoon a message came up from the cells that the gang wished to speak to Owen.

‘Well?’

‘Effendi, it’s not fair. While we’re in the
caracol
we can’t do any work and Figi doesn’t get any money.’

‘True,’ said Owen.

‘He wishes to protest.’

‘All he has to do is give me the name.’

‘He has sent the name. But he wishes to protest.’

‘I note the protest. What is the name?’

‘Roukoz. He works at Heliopolis and—’

‘I know the man,’ said Owen.

‘Roukoz,’ said Owen, ‘here is a bad thing that I have heard: friends tell me that it was you who ordered the attack on the demonstration on Wednesday.’

‘Effendi, your friends lie! Would I do a thing like that? A humble, hard-working, peace-loving father of six? Those who say that are villains!’

‘Would you like to tell them so?’

‘Effendi, outraged by calumny and injustice, I would!’

‘They await you in the
caracol
.’

‘On second thoughts, Effendi—’

‘Who told you to contact the gang?’

‘Effendi, I know no gang.’

‘You have never spoken to them?’

‘Never!’

‘Not the other day at Heliopolis? The day of the grand reception?’

‘Certainly not!’

‘Well, that is strange. For I saw you speak to them myself. And so did the Chief of all the Police.’

Roukoz swallowed.

‘It is easy to make a mistake, Effendi—’

‘So it is,’ Owen agreed. ‘And that’s exactly what you have done. Now tell me: who told you to get the gang to break up the demonstration?’

Zenakis advanced across the room with outstretched hand. ‘The Mamur Zapt again? What a pleasure!’

‘It is indeed!’ agreed Owen. ‘Shall we go into your office?’ Zenakis, once he had taken the measure of the situation, did not seriously attempt to deny responsibility.

‘This is Cairo, after all,’ he said with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Completion of the railway is important to us. And the Nationalist campaign was gathering momentum.’

‘You leave the Nationalists to me!’

‘Ordinarily we would. But we knew your hands were tied.’

‘ “We”?’

Zenakis hesitated.

‘ “I”, I should have said.’

‘You acted on your own responsibility?’

‘Within the broad remit given me by the committee. But I take full responsibility for what happened the other night and if apologies are called for, I apologize.’

‘How far did the committee know what you were doing?’

‘They have given me, as I say, a broad remit.’

‘Who is on the committee?’

Zenakis gave him several names.

‘A strong committee,’ Owen commented.

The list contained several Pashas and relatives of Pashas—Malik was there—and also two members of the Khedive’s own family. Owen could see now why Zenakis appeared so confident.

‘I take full responsibility,’ said Zenakis. ‘If error there was, it was mine. However, it was done with the best intentions. We felt you needed some help. Sometimes,’ he said, eyes twinkling, ‘one would be glad of help but is unable to ask for it.’

‘If I need help,’ said Owen, ‘I’ll ask for it!’

Inwardly, he fumed. There was nothing he could do. Zenakis had admitted responsibility and yet it would be difficult to take action against him. Breaking up a demonstration, in Cairo, was hardly a crime. Even Mahmoud would hesitate about initiating legal proceedings. And where would it get him? In the unlikely event of Zenakis being found guilty, he would be pardoned at once by the Khedive. And was Zenakis the man really responsible anyway? Wasn’t he just covering up for the committee?

Zenakis took him by the arm.

‘Now that’s over, how about a drink? And have you thought again about membership?’

There was trouble at the Tree. So said Salah-el-Din’s cryptic message. It also said that he would hold the fort until Owen got there. But he suggested that he hurry.

At the Tree, Owen found the rival camps bristling. The Copts, truculent, were drawn up on one side, ostentatiously examining their knives; the Sons of Islam, even more truculent, on the other, holding their daggers up to the setting sun and commenting loudly on the way in which it dyed their blades red. In the middle, not at all truculent, but distinctly apprehensive, were Owen’s guards, presided over temporarily by the determined Salah-el-Din. On the outskirts of it all, for some reason that Owen could not fathom, was Salah-el-Din’s daughter, Amina, sitting on a horse.

‘What’s all this about?’ demanded Owen.

‘He’s going to sell the Tree,’ said one of the Sons of Islam, pointing an accusing finger at Daniel, the Copt, skulking behind the other Copts.

‘It’s my property!’ retorted Daniel. ‘I can do with it as I like!’

‘Selling your birthright!’ jeered the Sons of Islam.

‘It’s not your property!’ cried a loud voice from behind Owen. It was Sheikh Isa, hurrying up on his donkey.

‘It
is
my property!’ cried Daniel indignantly, emerging from behind the row of Copts and forgetting to skulk.

‘Blackguard!’ cried Sheikh Isa, swinging a bony leg over his donkey and descending to the ground.

‘Villain!’ cried Daniel, and rushed on him.

The Copt and Muslim lines moved forward.

Owen caught hold of Isa and Daniel and thrust them apart.

‘What is all this nonsense?’ he said. ‘No one is selling the Tree!’

‘Well… ’ said Daniel uncomfortably.

‘Ha!’ cried Sheikh Isa.

‘Actually—’ began Salah-el-Din.

Owen turned on him.

‘Do you know anything about this?’

‘The Syndicate has made him an offer.’

‘Which I am considering,’ said Daniel modestly.

‘The bastard’s accepted!’ cried one of the Sons.

‘It’s not his to accept!’ shouted Sheikh Isa.

‘The question of ownership is in the hands of the courts,’ said Owen. ‘That’s why you’re here. Guarding the Tree until the question is resolved. Which won’t be for years.’

‘Why have they made him an offer, then?’ asked Sheikh Isa.

Owen turned again to Salah.

‘The offer is not, strictly speaking, for the Tree, but for any claims he may have for the Tree. The same offer has been made to the descendents of the Empress Eugenie and, indeed, to anyone else who has claims to the Tree—’

‘It hasn’t been made to me!’ cried Sheikh Isa.

‘Legally, you don’t have—’ began Salah.

‘That’s right!’ Daniel interrupted gleefully. ‘You don’t even have a recognizable claim!’

‘We’re pretty recognizable!’ said the Sons of Islam.

‘The Khedive gave the Tree—’ began Salah-el-Din.

‘Gave?’ said Isa incredulously. ‘The Holy Tree? Something that is the property of Islam? It was not his to give. Who is this Khedive? I don’t recognize
him
!’

‘Death to the Khedive!’ shouted the Sons of Islam.

‘That’s right!’ cried the Copts joyfully. ‘Death to the Khedive!’

The Sons glared at them.

‘And to the Christians!’

‘Who would give away the Tree!’ interrupted Sheikh Isa.

‘Sell it,’ corrected Daniel. ‘Not give it.’

‘Never!’ said Sheikh Isa. ‘Over my dead body!’

‘So be it!’ said Daniel, signalling to the Copts.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ said Owen. ‘Get back, the lot of you! Guards!’

‘Look out!’ cried one of the Sons. ‘He shot down the Faithful in the square the other night!’

‘Shot down the Faithful?’ said Sheikh Isa.

‘Well done!’ chorused the Copts.

Daniel and Isa threw themselves upon one another.

Owen wrestled them apart.

‘Get him away!’ he said to Salah over his shoulder.

Salah hustled Daniel off. Owen caught Sheikh Isa by the folds of his galabeah and heaved him out of earshot of the rival supports. ‘Now you listen to me—’

‘Now you listen to me,’ he said to the assembled company a few minutes later. ‘I have agreed with Sheikh Isa that until the courts have spoken, the Tree cannot be sold.’

Daniel opened his mouth.

‘And have told him that if the Copt takes any action in the meantime I shall confiscate the property on behalf of the Khedive.’

‘I don’t think, actually, that you can—’ began Salah uncomfortably.

Owen silenced him with a baleful look.

‘And I myself will speak with those who would buy the Tree. It may be that they will change their mind. One thing is certain, though: and that is that if I have any more trouble from any of you—’

Copts and Sons listened to the tirade admiringly. Owen made it long to give them time to calm down; and made it funny to restore their good humour. At the end, they stood for a moment or two uncertainly and then sat down.

Daniel came up to Owen and plucked him by the sleeve.

‘Effendi—’

‘And you,’ said Owen, ‘go home.’

‘Go home?’ said Daniel astonished.

‘That’s right. Get on your donkey and go.’

Daniel hesitated, shrugged, then went down among the balsam trees and collected his donkey. They watched him climb on to its back and set off in the direction of Tel-el-Hasan.

‘It’s all right for him,’ said one of the Sons to one of the Copts. ‘You’ve got to stay here.’

‘You know,’ said the Copt, ‘I think that every night when he gets on his donkey and sets off for his comfortable bed.’

‘Comfortable wife, too, I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said the Son of Islam. He looked across at Sheikh Isa. ‘It’s all right for him, too. He just gets on his donkey and off he goes. We’ve got to stay here. And we’ve got wives, too!’

Camaraderie restored, the two sat down happily to grumble together.

‘I will send up chickens for tonight,’ said Owen. ‘Or at least, Heliopolis will.’

He looked at Salah.

‘Definitely!’ promised Salah.

Owen had words for Salah, too.

‘If the Syndicate goes behind my back just once again—’

‘I was going to tell you,’ said Salah hurriedly.

‘What are they after? Trying to buy the Tree? It’s nowhere near the line of the railway.’

‘Malik wants to use the land for training gallops,’ said a voice behind him.

He had forgotten about Amina.

‘You were terrific,’ she said.

‘Thanks. What’s it got to do with him?’

‘The committee has hopes of a training stable. It would have to be on this side because they’re building on the other ones. He’s got an interest of his own, too. He has some land over here which he thinks could be part of it.’

‘Just a minute, it’s the Syndicate that’s buying the land, isn’t it? Not the committee.’

‘The Syndicate’s buying the land
for
the committee.’

Salah cut in quickly, with an annoyed look at his daughter. ‘The Syndicate is developing the site. It builds the facilities and then lets them to clients like the Racing Committee.’

‘Which keeps asking for more and more.’

‘Amina!’ said Salah angrily. ‘It is time you went. Ride on!’ Amina gave Owen a smile as she went.

‘Remember,’ she said, ‘I ride over this way every morning.’

‘On your way, girl!’ shouted Salah furiously. ‘Sometimes I wonder,’ he said to Owen, ‘if I’ve brought her up in quite the right way!’

‘Immodesty upon immodesty!’ cried Sheikh Isa, who had only just seen Amina. ‘Abomination upon abomination! A woman! On a horse!’

‘My fortune is made!’ called the barber as Owen passed. ‘Come and rejoice at my wealth!’

Owen dropped into the little circle around the chair.

‘How is your fortune made?’

‘The Belgians wish to buy my land.’

‘You haven’t got any land,’ one of the circle objected.

‘My cousin has.’

‘It’s only an allotment. Which he shares with Musa.’

‘Land is land. And it’s right in the way of what Malik wants for his gallops. I shall hold out! Whatever he offers me, I shall spurn. “You offer me
that
?” I shall say, “I disdain your puny offer. You’ll have to offer serious money if you want to get anywhere with me!” ’