Michael Pearce - The Mingrelian Conspiracy

He should really now be handing this over to the Parquet. They handled all investigations that were purely criminal. They would have little trouble, he thought, with this one. If Ali was well known down by the docks, the chances were that the other members of the gang would be too. Criminal gangs were local not just in their operations but in their recruitment. Their members would all come from the same neighbourhood, probably from within a few streets of each other. They would make little secret of their membership; in fact, rather the reverse. Membership of a notorious gang was a matter of local pride-again, unlike the political clubs. ‘They’ll miss you, Ali,’ he said, ‘down in the Fustat.’

Ali flinched, as if he had received a blow. It was probably the first time that it had come home to him.

‘You should think over what I said, Ali. You’re going to be away for quite some time. So long that when you come out and go back to the Fustat it will be no good going down to the ferry and asking who knows Ali with the scarred face. Because no one will. As for the Black Scorpion-’

‘Black Scorpion?’ said Ali. ‘What have they got to do with it?’

‘That’s your lot, isn’t it?’

‘Is this some kind of trick?’ said Ali. ‘Look, you can’t get me for what someone else has done! That’s not fair! That’s not justice! Look, I’ve got my rights!’

‘If you’re not Black Scorpion,’ said Owen, ‘then who are you?’

‘You know who we are.’

‘Just say!’

‘The Edge of the Knife. Now are you satisfied?’

‘Black Scorpion is what she said,’ insisted Selim afterwards, irate. ‘Look, Effendi, who do you believe? An idle bastard who goes around hitting people on the head; or a woman so virtuous she goes to the mosque every day and won’t let a man put his hands on her?’

‘Are you sure that’s what she said?’

‘Effendi, would I make a mistake on a thing like this? When you had asked me especially?’

‘Well, maybe she made the mistake, then.’

‘Effendi, why waste time? Let me go in and have a talk with that stupid bastard. We’ll soon find out who’s made a mistake. And it’s my guess it’s him. As he’ll bloody soon discover!’

‘Enough! We will go and speak with Mustapha. He’s the one who will know. Maybe his wife got it wrong.’

‘Effendi-’

Selim fumed all the way to the cafe.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said the proprietor unwelcomingly. ‘I didn’t think we’d be seeing you again. I thought they’d about finished you off.’

‘Next time,’ promised Selim, with a flash of white teeth, ‘they’re the ones who are going to be finished off.’

‘You’ll have to make a better job of it then than you did this time.’

‘It was four to one!’ protested Selim indignantly.

‘It was my mistake,’ said Owen. ‘I should have left you more men.’

‘What, drinking my coffee?’ said Mustapha. ‘No thanks!’

‘Shame on you!’ said his wife. ‘When the man was ready to lay down his life for you!’

She went across to Selim and gently touched his bandaged head.

‘How are you?’ she said, concerned. ‘It was a grievous wound.’

‘Pretty grievous,’ Selim acknowledged.

‘And you have walked all this way in the heat?’

‘Well, yes,’ Selim had to admit.

‘Oh, Effendi! The man is still weak from his wounds!’

‘I do feel a bit weak,’ Selim conceded, putting a hand to his head.

‘So do I,’ said Mustapha. ‘Any moment now she’ll be giving him my money.’

The woman flashed him an indignant glance.

‘Come and sit down,’ she said to Selim.

‘I could do with a drink,’ said Selim.

‘Water or coffee?’

‘There you are!’ cried Mustapha. ‘There goes my money!’

‘Coffee, please,’ said Selim.

She led him off into the kitchen.

‘You haven’t got any more men outside, have you?’ asked Mustapha. ‘I mean, I might as well feed the whole Bab-el-Khalk while I’m at it.’

His wife poked her head back into the room.

‘God looks after the hospitable,’ she said reprovingly.

‘Well, I wish He’d make a start, then.’

Mustapha sat down gloomily at a table and motioned to Owen to join him.

‘This is very bad for business, you know. People don’t like to come here if they think there’s a chance of them being knocked on the head.’

‘Custom falling off?’

‘Not so far,’ Mustapha admitted. ‘But I’m having to work extra hard to keep it up. I used to get a storyteller in only on slack days. Now I’m paying for one all the time.’

‘Eats into profits?’

‘Increases the losses. Now there’s a thing. Had a chap in this week offering to insure against losses. A fat Greek.’

Owen winced.

‘Tempting!’ said Mustapha. ‘Especially when you’re in my position. I said, did it include losses caused by standing out against protection? Certainly, he said. Well, I mean, it’s tempting. I mean, we’re not getting far as we are, are we?’

‘Oh, yes, we are,’ said Owen. ‘Getting that man yesterday was a breakthrough. Once you’ve got one member of a gang, it’s generally easy to get the others.’

‘You think so? You really think so?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Well…well, I hope you’re right.’

Mustapha cheered up.

‘How about some coffee? Mekhmet! Where are you, you idle bastard? Some coffee for the Effendi! And for me, too, while you’re at it!’

He looked around the cafe with satisfaction.

‘Soon get things moving again.’

‘I’m sure of that.’

‘And you really reckon things might be coming to an end?’

‘Yes. He’s beginning to talk.’

‘Good. Well, take my advice and kick the bastard’s balls through the back of his ass. Make sure he talks on!’

‘Yes, he’s saying things already,’ said Owen. ‘But one of them has surprised us. I’d just like to check it with you. It’s the name of the gang. What was it you told us?’

‘I didn’t tell you,’ said Mustapha.

‘But we heard all the same. Black Scorpion?’

Mustapha nodded.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Look, Effendi, you don’t make mistakes on things like that. “Oh dear, sorry, paid the wrong gang. Made a mistake!” It’s not like that, Effendi, believe me!’

‘I just wanted to be sure.’

‘They even wrote it down. The first time. Just so as I would know.’

‘Got the note?’

Mustapha heaved himself painfully off his seat and disappeared upstairs. A minute or two later he was back, holding a scruffy piece of paper in his hand.

Owen looked at it.

‘This is puzzling,’ he said.

‘Oh, why? It’s the Black Scorpion, isn’t it? Look, there!’ He pointed with a grubby forefinger.

‘Yes. But the man we’ve got, the men who came yesterday, were not from the Black Scorpion gang. They were from another one.’

Mustapha sat down heavily.

‘ Another one?’

‘So he says. The Edge of the Knife.’

Mustapha was silent for quite some time.

‘Two of them,’ he said at last. ‘ Two of them. God, how many more?’

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried the names as the blind man landed on top of them. The blind man felt the bag with his hands “Got you!” he said triumphantly. There was a long silence, about as long as it takes for a dog to drink a bowl of water, and then one of the names said: “Got who?” “Why, Rice Pudding’s new name, of course!” said the blind man. “Ah, yes, but how will you know which one of us it is?” Well, the blind man thought and thought-’

The storyteller was seated on the stone mastaba, or bench, which ran along the front of the cafe. Around him, some sitting on the mastaba beside him, others on the ground, yet others, detained by the story as they passed by, standing in the street, was a circle of listeners. At the back of the crowd, engrossed, was Selim. Owen edged his way round towards him.