Michael Pearce - The Fig Tree Murder

They were in full, contented flow when Zeinab arrived, brandishing a large gilt-edged card.

‘What is this?’ she demanded.

Nuri took it gingerly.

‘It is an invitation to a reception to mark the formal opening of the Racing Club at Heliopolis,’ he replied.

‘What have I to do with Racing Clubs, what have I to do with jumped-up, parvenu places like Heliopolis?’ she demanded. ‘What, more to the point,’ she said, looking fiercely at Owen, ‘have you to do with them?’

‘Nothing,’ said Owen. ‘I’m just going to the reception, that’s all.’

‘It’s that girl,’ said Zeinab.

‘What girl?’ said Owen, bewildered.

‘That one I saw you with the other day. In Anton’s.’

‘Salah-el-Din’s daughter? She’s just a child.’

‘I know what she is,’ said Zeinab, ‘and it certainly isn’t a child!’

‘Who’s Salah-el-Din?’ asked Nuri, interested.

‘The new mamur at Heliopolis.’

‘And he shops at Anton’s?’

Nuri looked thoughtful.

‘It’s odd that you should have been invited,’ said Owen, puzzled. Egyptian women, even if they were Pasha’s daughters, were hardly ever invited to public events.

Zeinab, however, was in a mood to take umbrage.

‘You don’t want me to be there, is that it?’ she demanded, switching tack.

‘Of course not. I’m just puzzled, that’s all. You’ve never had anything to do with racing. How did they come to pick on you?’

He took the card from Nuri. The names of the Club’s new committee were printed at the bottom.

‘Malik?’ he said. ‘Do you think it could be Malik?’

‘That man I told Anton to throw out?’

‘Malik?’ said Nuri. ‘Which Malik?’

‘Abd-al-Jamal’s son,’ said Owen.

‘You told Anton to throw him out?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Oh, my God!’ said Nuri.

‘He’s a gross pig.’

‘Yes, but Abd-al-Jamal’s son!’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘Abd-al-Jamal’s very powerful. And very rich. Besides-’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve been talking to him recently,’ said Nuri unhappily.

‘So?’

‘Well-’

‘What,’ said Zeinab in sudden fury, ‘have you been talking to him about?’

‘Well-’

‘If,’ said Zeinab ominously, ‘you have been talking to him about marriage-’

‘No, no, no!’ said Nuri hastily. ‘Only in general.’

‘Because if it gets particular-’

‘No question of that. No question at all… he is, of course, very rich.’

Owen could see it all too clearly. Nuri’s finances were permanently straitened; and what better way of relieving them than marrying off his daughter to the son of one of the wealthiest Pashas in Egypt?

‘No!’ shouted Zeinab, stamping her foot. ‘I won’t!’

‘There’s absolutely no question-’

‘I would kill myself first!’

‘No question-’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Zeinab, suddenly stopping.

‘You wouldn’t?’ said Nuri, heart beginning to lift.

‘No. I would kill him. In fact,’ said Zeinab magnificently, ‘I will go and kill him now!’

And swept out.

Nuri and Owen sat for a moment in stunned silence.

‘You don’t think-?’ said Nuri hesitantly.

‘Not immediately,’ said Owen.

‘She is a resolute girl.’

‘It takes a bit of time.’

‘Abd-al-Jamal’s an old friend of mine. I would hate-’

‘I’ll talk to her. I’ll suggest she waits until the contingency arises.’

‘It was only in passing. We were really talking about my investment.’

‘What investment is this?’

‘In the Heliopolis Oasis Scheme.’

‘I thought you hadn’t any money?’

‘I’m hoping this will give me some.’

They wouldn’t give him some for nothing, thought Owen. Nuri was too astute not to know this. So what was he giving them? Zeinab? But surely he must have known what her reaction would be? Even if he hadn’t known that she had already taken a dislike to Malik.

But Zeinab herself had been behaving a little oddly lately. What was she going on about that girl for? If the kid had been a bit older he could have understood it. But she was just a child! He couldn’t make it out at all.

But what he could make out was that someone was trying to involve Nuri in the Heliopolis Scheme. What were they after? Was it Zeinab? Who had the suggestion about the marriage come from? Nuri-or Malik? Did Malik have his eye on Zeinab? He thought it not impossible.

But the attempt to involve Nuri must have emanated from the Syndicate, not Malik, and they surely would not be interested in Zeinab. They would be after something else. And it would not be Nuri, not in himself. Pasha though he was and useful though his name might be on the prospectus, there were Pashas in plenty who would be as good and whose names were already there. No, it was something, or someone, else that they were after. And Owen was beginning to have a feeling that it might be him.

There had been a sharp wind overnight which had blown the sand in from the desert. It lay everywhere; on the slats of the shutters, on the top of Owen’s desk in a thin film, in a neat little pile inside his sun helmet hanging on the back of the door. It had got into the filing cabinet and made the papers gritty to touch; it had, despite the cloth folded lovingly by his orderly over the top of the water jug, got into the water so that it tasted of sand.

Everyone was out of sorts. In the orderly office the bearers were unusually subdued. Cleaners were going around ineffectively trying to sweep up the sand. Nikos, the Mamur Zapt’s austere Official Clerk, was in a fury, pulling open drawers and inspecting the damage, wondering, madly, whether to have all papers retyped to restore their pristine purity.

McPhee, the Deputy Commandant, normally Boy Scoutish in his cheerfulness, stuck his head in at the door dolefully.

‘More to come,’ he said, and went off up the corridor.

Yussef, Owen’s orderly, who could read Owen’s mind but nothing else, padded along the corridor with a fresh pot of coffee. It, too, tasted of sand.

The telephone rang.

‘It’s the Parquet,’ said Nikos, handing Owen the phone.

It was Mahmoud, as Nikos would normally have said. This morning, though, he felt particularly ungiving.

‘The courts are closed,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Sand everywhere. 1 was thinking of going over to Matariya. Like to come?’

Owen would like to be anywhere but in this grit-tasting office.

‘Got to go out,’ he said to McPhee as he passed him in the corridor.

‘Lucky devil!’ said McPhee, bound to his place by duty and, thought Owen, lack of imagination.

He met Mahmoud at the Pont de Limoun. All trains were at a standstill, including those going to Marg, and therefore, Matariya.

‘I’ll see if they’ve got a buggy,’ said Owen. ‘They’ll be sending something out to clear the line.’

The booking clerk now regarded him as an old friend.

‘But certainly, Effendi! At once! Only it has not come back yet.’

‘When will it come back?’

‘Ah, well, Effendi…’

‘ Bokra?’

‘That’s it, Effendi! Tomorrow! Yes, certainly. Tomorrow.’

Mahmoud turned away.

‘Hold on!’ said Owen. ‘This is only the start of the story. Go and check,’ he said to the clerk.

The clerk went happily off. It had been a good morning; he had been able to say ‘no’ to everybody.

‘Just tell him it’s the Mamur Zapt!’ Owen called after him.

A few moments later the clerk came scurrying back.

‘Effendi! It’s just come in!’ he cried joyfully.

‘I’m against all this,’ muttered Mahmoud wrathfully, as he followed Owen up the platform.