The Fig Tree Murder (8 page)

But, pardon him, he had made a mistake. They
were
built by Egyptians, by people like those he could see before him in the crowd below. It was Egyptian hands that laid the tracks. But was it Egyptian people who got the money? Was it Egyptian mouths that got the bread? No, it was foreign mouths that got the bread. Only it wasn’t bread they wanted, it was cake! With icing on it! The Egyptians did the work but it was the foreigners who benefited.

And it was hard work! His friends down below him could testify to that. It was hard work, back-breaking work. And now they were about to heap more on weary shoulders! Had they not heard about the straw that broke the camel’s back? And this was no straw that they were piling on. No, indeed.

Their hearts went out to their weary brothers. They would not struggle alone. The country was with them. There was action they could take and if they took it, they would find they were not without friends. No, indeed.

But this time the foreigners had overreached themselves. Not content with oppressing their workers, they seemed determined now to offend everyone else. An insult to religion was an insult to all Egyptians. God’s Day was holy; and Egyptians, he said, raising his voice for the benefit of those gathered on the steps in front of the mosque, were determined to keep it holy!

He waited for the cheers, and indeed they came, but not exactly enthusiastically. The little group before the mosque did not join in. If there was a gap between the Nationalists and the ordinary Cairene, there was an even wider gap between the Nationalists and the Church. The Nationalist Party was predominantly secular. They were a modernizing party and modernizing, for many of them, meant sweeping away much of the influence of the Church.

Which the Church knew very well. The imam would have spotted this tactic a mile off. Even so, thought Owen, it might be worth keeping an eye on how successful the tactic was. Ordinary people might be less discriminating than the imam and if the Nationalists could add religious fervour to popular hostility then they could make a lot of trouble.

The orator, as was the way with Arab orators, continued for another hour or two before bringing his final peroration to a close. His friends helped him to climb down. In the light of the cresset torches Owen could see them clearly. As the party prepared to move off, one of the men talking to the speaker turned and Owen saw his face. It was Wahid. Not the Wahid of the railway line, in skull cap and galabeah, and begrimed with sweat, but a Wahid in the sharp, cheap suit and tasselled tarboosh of the smart, young, Nationalist effendi.

‘Satisfied?’ said Salah-el-Din.

Unexpectedly, Owen received a request from Mahmoud to hold the three brothers for a few days longer. He was rather relieved. The brothers had been on his conscience. It was all very well holding them in their own best interests—he was fairly convinced that if they were released Ibrahim’s family would take a pot-shot at them—but it was hard to justify in terms of law. Something must have turned up for Mahmoud to be making this request.

It meant, too, that Mahmoud must still be working on the village end. Owen had feared, from what Mahmoud had said the last time they had met, that he was about to shift his attention entirely to the Syndicate end—if Syndicate end there was.

Cheered by the thought that things were moving, he rang up Mahmoud to say that of course he would continue to hold the brothers if that was what Mahmoud wanted. Mahmoud, caught off guard by the call, tried to remain distant but found it hard when Owen was being so conciliatory.

‘You’re getting somewhere, then?’

‘Yes.’ Mahmoud hesitated. ‘I think so. Do you need grounds for holding?’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

This, from the point of view of keeping his distance, made matters worse for Mahmoud. What made it even more difficult was that Mahmoud himself had doubts about the strict legality of holding the men further. They were being held under powers special to the Mamur Zapt. Mahmoud, on principle, did not believe the Mamur Zapt should have such powers. They were not assigned him in the Legal Code; and for Mahmoud the Code was Bible—or, possibly, Koran.

However, he was rather glad of the powers on this occasion, for he was not at all sure that holding the brothers could be justified by the normal letter of the law.

‘I ought to give you grounds,’ he said determinedly.

‘Fine!’

Mahmoud hesitated.

‘Unfortunately, it is not quite straightforward.’

‘Like to talk to me about it?’

‘That might be a good idea,’ said Mahmoud, relieved. Not all legal considerations, after all, had to be written down.

They met, as usual, on neutral ground, at a café halfway between the Ministry of Justice and Owen’s office at the Bab-el-Khalk. It was an Arab café and outside it were several little white asses, waiting for their owners. Inside, water-pipes were bubbling. Neither Owen nor Mahmoud, however, were smoking men, Owen from inclination, Mahmoud out of Muslim conviction. Today he felt slightly relieved at his strictness. Any more relaxing of rules would have made him feel very uneasy.

‘Well, what have you found?’ said Owen, sipping his coffee.

‘I need a little more time,’ said Mahmoud, ‘but I think I’ve got it.’

‘Got what?’

‘The connection. You remember,’ he said, ‘that I was looking for a connection with the Syndicate. Well, I think I’ve found it.’

Owen listened with sinking heart. Was Mahmoud still on that tack?

‘I had hoped you had found out something more in the village,’ he said. ‘I mean, if we’re going to justify holding them—’

‘But that’s it,’ said Mahmoud, bending forward earnesdy, ‘that is what I
have
found. A connection between the brothers and the Syndicate. One of the brothers, Ali, his name is, hangs around at the Helwan racetrack a lot. He’s in with a gang there.’

‘Well, that’s interesting. But what has it got to do with—?’

‘The Syndicate’s building a racetrack out at Heliopolis.’

‘Well?’

‘Gambling’s important to them.’

‘I know that. They’ve applied for a licence to open a saloon at the hotel they’re building there.’

‘They’re opening the racetrack very soon. Even before they’ve finished building.’

‘They need the cash, I think.’

‘I think so, too,’ said Mahmoud. ‘I think they need it badly.’

Owen looked at him.

‘You’re not suggesting they need it badly enough to kill a man, are you?’

‘I’m suggesting that it’s pretty important to them to get the railway line to Heliopolis finished as soon as possible.’

Owen could see how from Mahmoud’s point of view it all fitted together. All the same…!

‘Aren’t you jumping the gun a bit? You haven’t even succeeded in connecting the brothers with the killing yet.’

‘I’m working on that.’

‘You need to do that before you start worrying about other connections.’

Mahmoud pursed his lips obstinately.

‘I need to work on both. It’s not just the killing that has to be explained, but the fact that the body was placed on the line.’

‘You’re still on that?’

‘In my view it is the key.’

‘You don’t think it could all be explained simply as a revenge killing?’

He couldn’t keep the exasperation out of his voice. Mahmoud sensed it and reacted strongly.

‘I think it would be very convenient if it were explained as a revenge killing. For some people.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Such as the Syndicate.’

‘For goodness’ sake!’

Owen fought to keep his irritation down.

‘There are so many gaps! Between the brothers and the killing; between the brothers and the Syndicate. You say he hangs out with a gang; well, between the gang and the Syndicate, too. Gaps, gaps! Everywhere!’

‘You see gaps; I see connections. Why was the body placed on the line?’

‘How the hell do I know?’

‘You’re not being very rational.’

‘Me? Not being very rational? Well, at least I’m not prejudiced!’

‘What is this talk of prejudice?’ said Mahmoud furiously.

‘The only reason why you’re involving the Syndicate at all is because they’re foreign!’

‘You think it is just that I am a Nationalist, is that it?’

‘I think the Nationalist involvement in this needs some explaining.’

‘What exactly do you mean by that?-’

‘Wahid—the railwaymen’s leader—is a Nationalist agitator. Why was he put there?’

‘ “Put there”?’

‘He was planted. To make sure that the opportunity was not missed.’

‘What “opportunity”?’

‘To make things difficult for the government. It’s nothing to do with the Syndicate. It’s everything to do with the government—and with the Nationalists!’

Mahmoud rose from the table.

‘You would think that!’ he spat.

The reception at the Heliopolis Racing Club coincided with the opening of their racing programme, and from the big window Owen could look down on the crowd milling at the starting gate. Milling, certainly, because that was what Cairo crowds always did, move round and round in a mass, getting nowhere. Crowd, more doubtfully, since although there were several score at the finishing post, there were only several dozen at the starting gate and in between there was virtually nobody.

‘Promising, though,’ said the Belgian beside him. ‘As soon as we get the railway line finished they’ll come flocking in.’

There was almost more of a crowd upstairs at the reception. The international community had turned out in large numbers. Almost every consulate was represented. The British Consul-General was not there, but Paul, his aide-de-camp and Owen’s tennis partner, was standing in for him. Garvin, the Commandant of Police was there, always a man for the races. Princes and Pashas were there in abundance.

Zeinab had also deigned to come. Not because she was in the slightest interested in horses—she knew they pulled her carriage and that was about it—but because she had decided that Owen could not safely be left alone with ‘that girl’.

And, indeed, Salah-el-Din’s daughter was present, dressed, as always, incongruously to Owen’s eye, in a frock which suggested the little girl but somehow revealed a full womanly figure.

‘Disgusting!’ said Zeinab.

‘A bit bizarre!’ Owen conceded.

‘What do you know about it?’ demanded Zeinab.

Owen knew absolutely nothing about women’s fashion, which he imagined was what Zeinab was talking about, so decided to keep his mouth shut.

Among the Pashas was Zeinab’s father, Nuri, who came up to Owen with a worried look.

‘Do you think she’ll do it?’

‘Do what?’

Nuri jerked his head in the direction of the window where Malik was standing with some of his cronies.

‘Kill him, you mean?’ Owen considered. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ he said.

Salah-el-Din brought his daughter up to Owen.

‘You remember Amina?’

‘Charmed!’

‘Do you race, Captain Owen?’ she asked.

‘I ride a bit.’

‘Ah! So do I. You must ride out in this direction one morning.’

‘I haven’t been doing much riding lately,’ he said hastily.

‘You must take it up again. You used to ride in England?’

‘In India.’

‘You have been to India? Oh, I would like to go to India. It must be very romantic. You have seen the Taj Mahal, yes?’

‘Well, no, actually. I was stationed up in the north.’

‘On the Frontier?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’

‘You were a soldier? You actually fought people?’

‘Well—’

‘And burned villages? And raped the women?’

‘Oh, yes. Every day.’

Amina looked at him wide-eyed.

Across the room Zeinab was talking to Paul. She caught Owen’s eye and ostentatiously turned her back.

Malik came up and Amina moved away.

‘That’s your girlfriend, isn’t it?’ he said, looking at Zeinab.

‘Yes.’

‘She looks a bit Arabic to me. Ever tried a Circassian? I could get you one if you’d like an exchange.’

‘No, thanks,’ said Owen. He made his way over to Paul and Zeinab.

‘Who’s that strange girl you were talking to?’ asked Paul.

‘Salah-el-Din’s daughter. He’s the local mamur.’

‘She seems a bit young,’ said Paul doubtfully.

Zeinab went off in a fury.

Paul looked down at the scanty crowd below.

‘They’ll have to do better than this,’ he said. ‘Of course, it’ll be different when they’ve got the railway finished.’

‘I hadn’t realized how important it was to them.’

‘Oh, it’s important, all right.’

‘How important?’ said Owen.

‘Well, it would make a big difference to their cash flow, which, I understand, is a bit sticky—’

‘Important enough to kill for?’

Paul stared at him.

‘Are you feeling all right? Not been standing out in the sun too long?’

A little later, Owen was talking to one of the undersecretaries when Raoul, the Belgian he had met at Salah-el-Din’s, touched him on the arm.

‘Still on the bubbly? Care for something harder? Oh, and by the way, el-Sayid Ahmad would like a word with you.’

El-Sayid Ahmad was the Minister for Transport. He stretched out his hand.

‘Glad to see you. Impressive, isn’t it? A city arising out of nothing. That’s the modern Egypt for you!’

He took Owen confidentially aside.

‘You know a question has been put down in the Assembly?’

‘By Mr Rabbiki, yes.’

‘Up to his usual tricks. But you don’t have to worry. We’ll fob him off.’

‘He may be calling for a public inquiry.’

‘He won’t get one. We have a safe majority. All the same—’

‘Yes?’

‘He’ll get what he wants. Which is public attention.’

‘There’s not much we can do about that.’

‘Isn’t there? How near an arrest are you?’

Owen hesitated.

‘Faltering?’

‘It’s in the hands of the Parquet.’

‘And they are not pursuing it as zealously as they might? My dear fellow, you don’t have to say a word.’ He took Owen by the arm, as Arabs always did when they wished to move towards intimacy, and drew him close. ‘
Entre nous
, the Khedive is most unhappy. Dragging their feet, he said; that’s what they’re doing! And, of course, that’s just what they
are
doing. Nationalists to a man.’

‘Minister, you’re not suggesting that they could be acting in concert with the Party in the House on this matter?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. But we do have our suspicions. There have been rumours of a big Nationalist move. And it could involve the railway.’

‘Why would that make it big?’

‘Funds, my boy, it’s all to do with funds. Funds from abroad requiring a return on investment, funds for the government—a budget balance, my dear boy, you can’t believe how important that is, to some people, anyway. Funds for the Khedive, although naturally that is a minor consideration. All put in jeopardy if the railway is delayed. Big? My dear fellow, I can’t say how important it is!’

‘Important enough to kill for?’

‘You don’t need to go that far. Arrest will do. Just something to show that action has been taken.’

‘No, no, I wasn’t thinking—I meant on the Nationalist side. Important enough for them to kill for?’

‘Kill? My dear fellow!’

‘I just wondered—’

‘Kill! What can you be thinking of! Our colleagues, the Nationalists? My dear fellow! We’re not savages, you know. We leave killing to the English.’

El-Sayid Ahmad withdrew his arm and turned away. Raoul appeared with a salver on which were several tumblers of whisky.

‘I’ll have one of those,’ said Garvin, standing nearby. He reached out a hand. ‘What was he on about?’ he said to Owen.

‘The railway; he wants me to hurry it along.’

‘Best keep out of it. That’s my advice. Have nothing to do with business. Not in Egypt. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Cheers!’

‘Cheers! I wish I could. But you can’t keep money out of things.’

Garvin peered out of the window.

‘Hello!’ he said. ‘Isn’t that some of my old friends?’

He was looking at a group of singularly rough, tough, battered and scarred individuals.

‘Where do they come from?’ asked Owen.

‘Helwan. I’ve seen them on the racetrack there!’

Garvin had an unrivalled knowledge of all the gangs.

‘What are they doing here?’

‘I don’t know. I’d better find out.’

They were talking to a man in a suit.

‘Who’s that?’

‘One of the stewards, I think,’ said Owen.

‘Already?’ said Garvin. ‘I’ll have to have a word with the managers.’

‘Don’t do that,’ said Owen. ‘Not just yet.’

Garvin moved away to talk to one of the Ministers. Owen decided he had been neglecting Zeinab.

‘She’s over there,’ said Zeinab.

‘Who is?’

Away in a corner Salah-el-Din’s daughter was surrounded by a ring of Pashas.

‘They’re even older than you are,’ said Zeinab.

Owen at last realized what was bothering her.

‘I prefer experience,’ he said.

‘She’s got plenty of that.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘You’re really stupid,’ said Zeinab.

Malik went up to join the group.

‘He made me an offer to exchange you for a Circassian,’ said Owen.

‘Did you accept?’

Nuri, who had been one of the ring of Pashas, detached himself and came across to them, puffing with pleasure.

‘Charming girl!’ he said. ‘I like them fresh.’

Zeinab went off in a huff. Nuri looked after her in bewilderment, then, as Owen was about to set out in pursuit, laid a hand on his arm.

‘My dear boy,’ he said; ‘a word with you!’

‘Yes?’ said Owen, edging after Zeinab.

‘Don’t do it!’

Owen stopped, surprised.

‘Not even for her! Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. There was a time—I cared just as passionately as you. And there was this other man. Well, I said to her—it was Zeinab’s mother, you know—you can have him. If you like cold meat! I meant it, too, you know. I would have killed him. Or perhaps I did kill him? I can’t remember now, it was so long ago. Anyway, it brought us back together again. Passionate women like passion. You English are too—wait a minute, where was I? No, no, I meant it the other way round! My boy,’ said Nuri impressively, ‘you must not kill him!’

‘Kill who?’ asked Owen, totally confused.

‘Malik.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Zeinab, drawn back.

‘Because he’s betrothed, or nearly betrothed, to that charming girl. Abu Hanafi was telling me. His father objects, of course, but—’

‘Is that why you wanted to kill him?’ said Zeinab dangerously.

‘I don’t want to kill anyone!’ protested Owen.

‘He let it slip,’ said Nuri, ‘when he was talking to el-Sayid Ahmad. El-Sayid Ahmad was shocked. “These English!” he said. “They will fall upon you like beasts!” “It’s only instinct,” I said. “He’s young and passionate. I was just the same. He’s not going to let another man step in, is he?” “Yes, but to go so far as to kill him!” said el-Sayid Ahmad. “It is a bit far,” I conceded. So I said I would have a word with you.’

‘Was it when he offered to exchange me for a Circassian?’ said Zeinab fondly.

‘Whisky, sir?’ said the waiter, going past.

‘A double, please,’ said Owen.

‘There is a problem about the Tree,’ said McPhee worriedly.

‘Tree?’

‘The Tree of the Virgin. The French want to take possession of it.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Owen; ‘the French? What the hell’s it got to do with them?’

‘It was given to the Empress Eugenie by the Khedive when she came for the opening of the Suez Canal.’

‘Yes, I know, but—’

‘Along with the Gezira Palace Hotel.’

‘They don’t want the hotel as well, do they?’

‘They haven’t said so. It seems it’s just the Tree they want. Because of the Roman Catholic connections.’

‘
Roman Catholic
?’

‘It’s the balsam, you see.’

‘I thought you told me it was a sycamore? Or a fig?’

‘No, no, it’s the shrubs nearby. They’re balsam—’

‘Where that old goatherd was?’

‘Yes. They used to provide the balsam for nearly all the baptismal services in Egypt. Every Catholic child!’

‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Owen, who was feeling fragile this morning anyway and was still trying to digest everything that had happened to him at the reception. ‘They want the Tree because of the balsam shrubs nearby?’

‘They’d like the shrubs, of course. But, strictly speaking, it was only the Tree of the Virgin that was given them. I think you could make a stand on that.’

‘I’m not making a stand on anything. Certainly not on a bloody tree!’

‘I do think you ought to consult Diplomatic, Owen. The request comes from the Quai d’Orsay.’

‘In Paris? How the hell did they get to know about it?’

‘I think’—McPhee lowered his voice, not wishing to speak ill, or, at least, ill loudly of anybody—‘I think it may have got to them through the Syndicate. The Belgians—or, at least, some of them—are RCs, too, you know.’

‘But why—?’

‘Well, if the Tree was gone, you know, it would be, well, gone. Out of the way. Didn’t you tell me it was in the way of the new railway?’

‘Yes, but—you don’t mean they’d take it away to France?’

‘Well, why not? After all, we’ve taken Cleopatra’s Needle to London.’

‘Yes, but that’s a—I mean, this is a tree! It’s even dead. Do they know it’s dead? It’s fallen down.’

‘That makes it easier to take it away. All they have to do is lift it on to a lorry. In any case, Owen, I don’t think you should assume too readily that it’s dead. I’m sure I saw green shoots. And, even if it were dead, Owen, that’s not the important thing.’

‘No?’

‘No. The thing is, it has symbolic life. It’s very important to RCs, Owen. The Young Mother is said to have rested in its shade. Then she took the Child, hot and weary from the journey, down to the well and bathed it; and instantly the water became fresh and clean. I must say, I do think that is a point we have to consider. I mean, the water
is
strikingly fresh and clean and all the other wells round there are rather salty. How is that to be explained?’

‘Well—’

‘And then, while the Child was capering about, or perhaps just lying there, she washed its clothes. I mean, that’s what they often do, you see them doing that today, then the child can put them on again. But then, do you know, when she wrung the clothes out, wherever the drops of water fell, balsam trees sprang out of the earth! So you see, in fact there
is
a connection between the Virgin Tree and the balsam—’

‘I think that point may be disputed.’

‘The lawyers may well make a meal of it, I know, but symbolically—’

‘Yes. Well. I’m sure. And you say’—grasping at straws—‘that this has come formally from the French Consulate?’

‘Direct from the Ministry in Paris, they said.’