The Fig Tree Murder (4 page)

Owen walked into the most likely shop and stood dazed and uncomprehending among the dresses. When it came to shopping, Zeinab reckoned he was good for lunch and not much else.

Yes, said the assistant, she was in the shop. She was trying on a dress and would be with him shortly.

‘
Monsieur désire une boisson, peut-être
?’ said the assistant.

Yes, Monsieur did
désire une boisson
, and stood sipping it while he waited for Zeinab.

Several other assistants were in the shop, ladies of considerable beauty and indeterminate nationality and all of them dressed in black. Nearly all of them wore veils, in deference to Muslim susceptibilities. Not too much deference; the veils were thin and filmy and suggested as much as they concealed.

There were, however, some women in traditional dress, wearing long, black, shapeless robes which came down to their feet and long veils which covered their head—the hair was a particularly erotic zone for Arabs—and came down to their waists. They stood incongruously among the skimpy and revealing European fashions, apparently as out of place as Owen himself.

One of them had a young girl with her, dressed not, however, in the traditional clothes but in something straight from Paris. The dress suggested youthfulness, childishness, almost, but the figure beneath was far from childish. Owen was still trying to work it out when she turned and looked at him.

Like the other women, she wore a veil, only this was neither the traditional one of her mother nor the usual Parisian one, but a Turkish one which covered the lower part of the face and revealed the eyes. Above the veil her eyes looked at Owen warmly and with recognition.

Salah-el-Din came into view, accompanied by the man he had introduced Owen to the other day, the Pashas son.

‘Captain Owen! What a pleasure! You have met Malik, of course.’

They shook hands.

‘We can go there together,’ said Malik.

Where was it that they might be going? The only other engagement that Owen had that day, so far as he could remember, was a routine meeting about an application for a gambling licence, and the only reason why he remembered it was that, unusually for Cairo, it was being held in the afternoon.

‘My wife; my daughter, whom you met, if you remember.’

The mother muttered a polite greeting in Arabic. The daughter advanced on Owen with outstretched hand.

‘
Enchanté, monsieur
!
C’est un très grand plaisir
—’

‘A charming dress, don’t you think? It’s important to hit the right note—’

‘You could try it a bit shorter,’ said Malik.

Salah laughed, unoffended.

‘You would think that!’ he said.

The mother gave her head a decided shake.

‘How about a drink?’ Malik said to Owen.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Owen, seeing Zeinab, tall, slim and elegant, sweep down the stairs at the back. ‘I’ve a previous engagement.’

‘Don’t blame you,’ said Malik, following the direction of his eyes.

Zeinab came towards them. Owen was jealously pleased that she wore a veil, a French-style one that covered all her face except for the sharp, rather beaky chin. Zeinab’s father always claimed that there was some Bedouin blood in the family, although he was not entirely sure how it got there.

‘Greek?’ said Malik. ‘Not Circassian, anyway. You ought to try Circassian.’

Zeinab walked on past them. Owen caught up with her just as she went through the doors.

‘I don’t like your friends,’ she said.

‘They’re not exactly my friends. One of them’s the new mamur out at Heliopolis.’

‘Who’s the girl?’

‘His daughter. I can’t figure her out,’ admitted Owen.

‘I can!’

Zeinab was silent for a moment. Then she said:

‘How can a mamur afford to shop at Anton’s?’

‘That’s what I’m wondering,’ said Owen.

‘I shall tell Anton that he needs to be more selective in his clientele. He can start by throwing out that other man.’

‘Malik? He’s a Pasha’s son!’

‘Good!’ said Zeinab gleefully. ‘In that case I shall certainly ask Anton to throw him out!’

Owen was a little taken aback when he returned to his office to find that the venue for his meeting had been changed. It was now to be held at the Savoy Hotel, which was roughly where he had just come from. His meetings were not normally held at the Savoy Hotel, but he had hopes that this might create a precedent.

At the meeting were a representative of the Ministry of Justice, McPhee, the Deputy Commandment of Police, two lawyers and Malik appearing for the appellants, and himself, and the subject of the meeting was an application to open new premises under the licensing laws.

Or, rather, not quite an application.

‘A formal application will be made later,’ said one of the lawyers, smiling. ‘At this stage all we are doing is testing the ground. We are seeking to establish whether there would be any objection
in principle
to an application such as ours.’

‘The government’s policy is to restrict the number of gambling houses,’ said McPhee severely.

‘And quite rightly, too. There are far too many low dens where the practices are, frankly, far from commendable. Our application is not of that sort. It relates to the opening of a casino in the Palace Hotel at Heliopolis.’

‘Palace Hotel?’ said McPhee, puzzled. ‘There isn’t one!’

‘It’s being built.’

The man from the Ministry of Justice, an Egyptian, looked at his papers.

‘A casino wasn’t mentioned in the original planning application,’ he said.

‘Well, no. It has only recently come home to us how attractive an additional amenity it would be.’

‘It’s the government’s policy not to allow new premises to be opened,’ said McPhee.

‘But surely that only applies to Cairo proper, where there is already too great an abundance of such places? We are talking about the New Heliopolis, where there isn’t even one at the moment!’

‘It is a general restriction,’ said the man from the Ministry of Justice.

‘But how can it apply to a place like the New Heliopolis, which wasn’t even projected when the legislation was framed?’

‘The legislation covers future development.’

‘I put the question because of the special character of the Heliopolis development. It is to be a City of Pleasure. That was stated explicitly at the stage of the initial planning application. I would suggest that approval of the initial concept implies approach of consequent developments.’

‘I would challenge the view that a casino is a consequent development,’ said Owen. ‘Amenities in general, yes, a casino in particular, no.’

‘But I think you have to have regard to other developments: the racetrack—’

‘God, yes!’ said Malik.

‘—which is an important feature of the new sporting complex. You can hardly have a racetrack without gambling!’

‘God, no!’ said Malik.

‘Thank you, Mr Hosnani. I argue firstly, that implicit in the approval of the racetrack was approval of related gambling facilities—’

‘But they’re not related!’ protested Owen.

‘It’s all the same thing,’ said Malik. ‘What you lose on the swings, you lose on the roundabouts.’

‘A casino is quite different!’

‘Not in character, Captain Owen. And that is really my point: the character of Heliopolis as a City of Pleasure.’

‘I’m all for pleasure,’ said Malik.

‘Thank you, Mr Hosnani. We are not talking about some low, vicious den but about a tasteful, discreet, modest development in a major hotel—’

‘Modest?’ said the man from the Ministry of Justice, studying his papers. ‘It’s gigantic!’

‘There’s another point about character,’ said Owen. ‘Have you thought about the proximity to the gathering place for the Mecca caravan?’

‘Ah, Captain Owen!’ said the lawyer, smiling. ‘I think you’re a little out of date, you know. We all go by train now.’

‘Do we?’ said Malik, startled.

‘No,’ said Owen. ‘Not everyone. There’s still a caravan.’

‘For how long? No, Captain Owen—’ the lawyer smiled and shook his head—‘we must look to the future. And Heliopolis is the future.’

‘I think we have to have regard to local religious feeling,’ said Owen.

The other lawyer intervened.

‘With the greatest respect,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure that the Mamur Zapt is the best interpreter of religious feeling.’

‘No?’ said the man from the Ministry of Justice.

‘No. There is, in fact, very considerable local support for the venture. I would go so far as to say that it has captured the imagination of the local populace. As Mr Hosnani, here, is in a position to testify.’

‘You’re damned right,’ said Malik. ‘We’re all in favour. Can’t wait to get started.’

‘With the greatest respect,’ said Owen, ‘I doubt whether Mr Hosnani
is
in a position to testify; not, at least, as far as the views of the ordinary man are concerned.’

‘I’m a local resident, aren’t I?’ said Malik indignantly.

A few people stood around but, compared with what it would have been in the city, it was nothing. In the city, the crowd would have filled the street. Here, an old man looked up while watering his goats, some women with jugs on their heads paused on their way to the well, men stooping in the fields looked as they straightened their backs for a moment. One or two villagers had come out to see what was going on; and beside the Tree, Daniel, the Copt, stood vigilant, hoping somehow to turn this into a bargain.

The space in front of the Tree was roped off and some men in police tunics and military-style tarbooshes were crouched down examining the ground. Despite the sun, which made the sand so hot that it almost burned the hand, they had bare feet; and although they looked not very different from ordinary city policemen, they were in fact men of the desert. They were the police force’s professional trackers.

Some of their achievements were legendary. On one occasion some goods had been thrown out of a train in the middle of the desert. Accomplices waiting on camels had taken them to Port Said, over a hundred miles away; where the trackers had found them in the market, identifying them by camel track alone.

‘I had thought it might be too late,’ said Mahmoud, ‘and, of course, the ground at the railhead was very disturbed. There had been so many people milling about that first day. But out beyond the disturbed ground they were able to pick up the trail. It was partly the different kinds of sand they found on the body, but then they also found tracks.’

‘And it led back to here?’ said Owen.

‘Yes. This is where he was killed.’

One of the trackers looked up and pointed to a patch of ground.

‘He fell here?’

Owen bent down and looked closely. He didn’t really expect to see anything and he wasn’t disappointed. However, he knew the trackers well enough to believe them. On second thoughts, that might be a slight declivity.

The tracker pointed to one side of it and made smoothing movements with his hand. Yes, you could argue that something had been dragged. He stood up and, beckoning to Owen to follow him, set off across the desert, pointing to the ground.

To him it was as plain as a pikestaff. To Owen it was the next best thing to invisible; only, from time to time, the tracker bent down and showed him marks which he certainly could see. The difficult thing was pulling the marks together to establish the trail as a whole. This was where, presumably, the different types of sand came in. Here again, to Owen the differences were practically indistinguishable. To the trackers they leaped out a mile.

The tracker led him across the desert to the railway, where some of the men he and Mahmoud had talked to the previous day were laying the track. New lengths had been added. The tracker disregarded these and took Owen straight to the place where he had first seen the body.

Owen walked back with him to the Tree.

‘It’s a long way to drag someone.’

The tracker shrugged.

‘Perhaps he didn’t have a donkey,’ he said.

It was a long way. You wouldn’t have done it lightly. It must have been done deliberately, to make, as Mahmoud had suggested, a point.

But then, it
was
a long way and if it had been done deliberately, premeditated, why had not the attacker thought of the carrying? Here, in the heat, almost every little thing was carried on the back of a donkey. True, the attack had been at night, when it had been cool. All the same, it was a long way.

He said this to Mahmoud.

‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud, ‘I’ve been thinking that too.’

‘Why not a donkey?’

‘Because there are other donkeys about. It might have called out.’

‘We’re some way from the village,’ Owen objected.

‘Yes, but there are donkeys about. There’s one over there, for instance, among those trees by the well.’

Owen nodded, accepting.

‘It
had
to be a long way,’ said Mahmoud. ‘The railway track was where he wanted the body to be in the end. But Ibrahim wasn’t going to walk there himself. If he was going to be trapped by a meeting, the meeting would have to be close to the village. Close, but not too close. Here, by the Tree,’ said Mahmoud, looking around him, ‘would be just about right.’

The Copt had been watching the goings-on with interest. Owen walked over to him.

‘Are you here all the time, Daniel?’

‘Certainly,’ said the Copt. ‘It’s my property, isn’t it?’

‘Nights, too?’

‘Well, no. I have a wife to keep warm.’

‘And where do you keep her warm, Daniel?’

‘At Tel-el-Hasan.’

‘Ah, Heliopolis? Where they are building?’

‘Where they are building, unfortunately. I offered them my land but the Khedive got there first.’

‘It’s his land, is it?’

‘Most of it is just desert. But he claimed that it belongs to him.’

‘And you go back there every night?’

‘I do.’

‘Do you walk?’

‘Walk?’ said Daniel, astonished. ‘Walking is for fellahin. I have a donkey.’

‘And at what time is it that you set out from here?’

‘When the sun is two fists above the horizon. Leave it any later and it would be dark when I got home. I wouldn’t want that. There are bad men about,’ he said, looking at the spot where the trackers were crouching. ‘Muslims,’ he added.

‘And when do you return?’

‘At sunrise. Leave it any later and who knows how many may have been carving at the Tree.’

‘And on the night the man was killed you saw nothing untoward as you left?’

‘No.’

‘Nor as you came the next morning?’

‘What might I have seen?’

‘I was just wondering.’

‘The other men have already asked me this,’ said Daniel. ‘Both that one’—pointing at Mahmoud—‘and the other one before.’

Owen, following the point, saw again the donkey among the trees.

‘That donkey over there: is it yours?’

‘It is; and the trees should be mine by rights also. For when the Virgin rested beneath the Tree, she went down to the well for water with which to wash the Child’s garments. And when she threw away the water afterwards, trees of holy balsam sprang up. Those trees. Worth a lot of money. And by rights,’ said Daniel bitterly, ‘they should be mine. For they would not have been there had not the Virgin rested under my Tree.’

‘ Who do they belong to?’

‘There are those in the village who say they are wild trees, that they belong to everyone. But the well isn’t wild, is it? Someone put it there. The same with the trees. Someone planted them. And that someone was the Virgin after she had rested under my Tree. They don’t belong to everyone; they belong to me. And that old bastard over there is letting his goats devour my substance!’

The goats were rising on to their hind legs and tearing at the branches. From where they tore, a strong, sweet, herby smell drifted across to Owen.

‘Fine beasts!’ he said to the old man.

‘Two are milking,’ said the old man.

‘This is a handy place for you,’ said Owen. ‘Both water and food.’

‘They don’t like the leaves all that much,’ said the old man. ‘We might move on soon.’

‘You’ve been here a day or two?’

The old man nodded.

‘What do you do at night? Leave them?’

‘I stay with them,’ said the old man. ‘They’re used to me.’

‘So you were here the other night, the night the man was found?’

He nodded again.

‘And did you hear anything that night?’

‘I heard the doves in the trees.’

‘And then, when it grew dark and the doves settled down, did you hear anything then?’

‘The goats were restless.’

‘They were disturbed, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed the old man.

‘What by?’

The old man considered.

‘People,’ he said at last.

‘Up here? By the Tree?’

‘That’s where they were.’

‘There were more than one of them, then?’

‘That is so.’

‘And what did you hear?’

‘Talking.’

‘Loud talking?’

‘Not very loud.’

‘Were they fierce with one another?’

‘No,’ said the old man, surprised. He considered for a moment. ‘One of them was a woman,’ he volunteered hesitantly.

‘Ah? You heard her talking? And the other was a man? Or perhaps there was more than one man?’

‘Just the one.’

Owen tried, unsuccessfully, to get more out of him, then went and told Mahmoud.

‘She was wrong, then,’ said Owen.

‘She?’

‘Jalila. The woman he had been seeing.’

He told Mahmoud what she had said to Asif.

‘She reckoned it would be no good him seeing another woman after what he had been doing with her! Evidently she was wrong.’

‘Or lying.’

‘I don’t think she was lying,’ said Owen.

‘Probably not. Let us accept, then, that she was wrong. He
was
going out to see another woman.’

‘We can’t be absolutely sure. But it seems very likely.’

‘It would have to have been,’ said Mahmoud, thinking, ‘a woman in the village. In that case someone else in the village will almost certainly know her.’

‘Women in this village are a loose lot!’ said Sheikh Isa fiercely. They had run into him on their way back to Matariya. ‘Well, that’s the way of it!’ said Owen, shaking his head sadly.

‘Is it that they do not listen to their husbands’ words?’ asked Mahmoud sympathetically. ‘Or is it that the husbands do not hear
your
words?’

‘Women are immoral; men are weak,’ said Sheikh Isa.

‘Temptresses, all of them!’ said Owen.

‘That slut Jalila! She should be stoned, for a start!’

‘One bad date infects the others,’ said Mahmoud.

‘They ought to make an example of her! I’ve been saying that for a long time. But will they listen to me?’

‘I expect that’s because too many have been seeing her themselves,’ said Owen naughtily.

Sheikh Isa glared at him.

‘If they have,’ he said fiercely, ‘then they should mend their ways!’

‘Perhaps the fate of Ibrahim will be a lesson to them.’

Sheikh Isa gave him a quick look. He was, for all his vehemence, Owen realized, no fool.

‘Was that it?’ he said.

‘We do not know,’ said Mahmoud, ‘but we wonder. And we wonder especially who was the other woman that he was seeing.’

‘Another?’ Sheikh Isa smote his brow. ‘Another woman, you say? Besides Jalila?’ Mahmoud nodded.

‘Whores!’ shouted Sheikh Isa. ‘All of them! Whores!’

Passers-by in the street looked up with interest.

‘Well, possibly not all of them,’ said Owen. ‘Perhaps, in fact, just one. Apart from Jalila, of course.’

‘A woman was speaking with Ibrahim on the night he was killed,’ said Mahmoud. ‘After he had been to Jalila’s. We would like to know who she was.’

‘It may be, indeed, it is quite likely, that he had seen her before,’ said Owen.

‘In which case,’ said Mahmoud, ‘someone in the village may know her.’ Sheikh Isa looked at him thoughtfully.

‘They may indeed,’ he said. ‘There are people in the village who make it their business to know everyone else’s business. And tell it!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘Gossips, slanderers, spies! Women!’

‘Well—’

‘Come with me!’ shouted Sheikh Isa. ‘I know who will know!’

An old woman came to the door.

‘Tell us!’ shouted Sheikh Isa. ‘Tell us!’

‘Tell you what?’

‘Who he was with. Come on! Out with it! Let’s have the name of the whore!’

‘Which whore?’ asked the old woman. ‘There are plenty of them.’

‘The one who was with Ibrahim that night!’

‘You know who was with him that night.’

‘Not Jalila, you fool. The other one!’

The woman regarded him unabashed.

‘Oh ho!’ she said. ‘You’re waking up, are you?’

‘My eyes have been opened!’

‘Well, about time, too. But I can’t help you.’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Not for certain. But I could have a pretty good guess.’

‘Well then?’

‘Oh, no. I couldn’t tell you.’

‘Why not?’ thundered the sheikh.

‘You told me not to gossip.’

‘This isn’t gossip!’

‘What is it, then?’

‘Why, it’s—it’s simply giving information. That’s all.’

‘But that’s what I was doing last week when you told me not to!’

‘Don’t trifle with me, bitch!’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid,’ said the old woman, greatly enjoying herself. ‘I do know, as a matter of fact, or, at least, I could make a pretty good guess. But I couldn’t tell you. It wouldn’t be right.’

‘Just tell me, you old bitch!’

‘My sheikh told me not to!’

Sheikh Isa raised his stick and the old woman darted back behind the door.

‘Shame on you!’ she said. ‘First you tempt me into vice; then you beat me! I shall go to your prayer meeting tomorrow and I shall call out to all the people: “Sheikh Isa tempted me to vice and then when I wouldn’t succumb, he threatened to beat me!” ’ The stick smashed against the door. Evidently Sheikh Isa was not feared as greatly in the village as Owen had supposed. Mahmoud decided to intervene.

‘You joke, Mother,’ he said sternly, ‘but this is no laughing matter. A man has died.’ The woman opened the door and looked at him.

‘Are you the kadi?’ she asked.

‘I am as the kadi.’

‘You’ve been a long time coming. Justice doesn’t get to this place often.’

‘It has come now. And it seeks your help. When Ibrahim went out that night, after he had left Jalila, he went out to meet another woman. Do you know who she might have been?’

The old woman looked at him for a moment or two without replying. Then she sighed and said:

‘Ibrahim was a fool. He never could leave the women alone. But it’s not right that he should die because of that. That’s not justice, is it? So I will tell you. I don’t know who he went out to see that night. But I know who he had an eye for: Khadija.’

‘Khadija?’ shouted the sheikh. ‘Khadija?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You old bitch! You’re just mischief-making!’

‘Who is Khadija?’ asked Mahmoud.

The woman turned to him.